“No one?”
Barker set down his cup and smiled at Cissie.
“We’ve known each other for more than twenty years, Cis. I remember your first day as a secretary. You were a bright young thing; everyone could see that.”
“You’re ever so kind, Harry,” Cissie said, covering his hand with hers and smiling up at him. “You always were.”
“So, between two old friends, what’s your game, girl?”
For a man in his seventies, Layton thought, Barker’s mind was sharp as a twenty-five-year-old’s. He didn’t miss a thing.
“Who helped us out, Harry, when no one would give us tuppence?” Cissie asked matter-of-factly.
“Let’s just say it was a rather unconventional lender. He gave the circuit what the Yanks call a ‘bridge loan.’”
“Hugh Rice?”
The old man smiled, set down his tea cup, and gently shooed the calico cat away. Standing, he walked over to his parlor window and stared down at the street.
“Never met him, thank goodness, but it was an act of God he died that night. A miracle. He was bleeding us dry with those interest rates. We were under his bloody thumb. And if we were ever late on a payment, well…” Barker shook his head. “Remember when Mr. Clifton was convalescing, Cissie? That broken leg wasn’t from a carriage accident.”
27
Electric trams were another new invention that had occurred during Layton’s holiday in Mulcaster. Loaded with riders and their sides plastered with advertisements hawking Lipton Tea and Gordon’s Gin, they now crisscrossed all of London, especially in the West End. It was an ingenious invention, thought Layton, in how it replaced teams of horses, making the city streets a much cleaner place. The hems of ladies’ dresses wouldn’t be dragged in so much shit. Just two iron rails set in the street and an overhead electrical wire. Everything today was electric. What progress in the world! They’d even invented a wireless telegraphy; an Italian named Marconi could send words through thin air. Still, in Layton’s opinion, the aeroplane was the most amazing invention.
Layton and Daniel Harker watched the trams squeal by as they walked home from watching the first show at the London Alhambra. Once in a while, Layton went to one of the circuit’s other theatres to see what their cloths looked like. The ones he saw tonight were damn good, he thought. When Layton was an architect, he always believed in giving praise where deserved, unlike a lot of architects who always degraded a competitor’s work. He’d invited Daniel to come along.
“Do you have time for a pint, Danny?”
“That would be a bit of all right. I don’t have to be back until eleven,” replied Daniel. On their one night off per week, servants had a strict curfew.
“There’s a place off Piccadilly that’s never crowded.” Layton pointed in the direction with his arm.
Most people who meet up after a long absence say they will stay in touch from then on but never do. But Layton had met Daniel for a drink every two weeks since he found out about Shirley Finney. He eagerly looked forward to their meetings because of their Dorset friendship, but they still had dual purpose—Layton wanted more information about Clifton, but he had to probe for it with surgical skill without arousing suspicion.
After chatting about tonight’s performances for a while, Layton tried to ease in a question.
“Bloody small world isn’t it, you and me working for the same bloke.”
“’Tis, Sir John being our boss,” said Daniel with that wide smile of his.
Although the separations between social classes in England were as solid as steel boiler plate, there was one fissure. The lady maids and valets who personally attended their mistresses and masters were of the servant class but often formed close bonds with their superiors that almost bordered on friendship. “Don’t get too familiar with servants” was what Edwina always crowed. But Layton knew his ex-wife had grown very close to her personal maid, Valerie. They exchanged the closest confidences like old school chums. Layton had often come into Edwina’s dressing room while they were chattering away like magpies, and they went silent at his presence. Maybe Daniel had a similar relationship with Clifton and knew some secrets.
“Talk about a small world, mate, I think I had some clients who knew Sir John… Ted Hardy, I believe was one of them.”
Daniel furrowed his brow. “No, don’t recall that name.”
Layton had to tread carefully, in case Daniel remembered the names on the list that he’d shown him at their first meeting.
“There was another fellow… Mmm… Rice, yes, a Hugh Rice.”
Daniel crinkled his brow and started to shake his head, then broke into a smile.
“Hold on… Yes, I do…remember that name,” said Daniel with a chuckle. “Every time that fellow rang up, Sir John told the staff to say he was not at home. He even came to the house in Devon and was turned away.”
“Really? I…remember Rice saying he had a good enough voice to go onstage,” exclaimed Layton. “Maybe he wanted Sir John to hear him sing.”
“Oh, yes, you’d be bloody amazed, Doug, to know how many people pester Sir John about getting into the music hall. Once, a Turkish chap came up to him in a restaurant and began juggling cricket balls.”
“But you recall Rice?”
“Yes, because he came to Devon right before Sir John broke his leg in the carriage accident. I’m sure of it.”
Along the curb at Shaftesbury, a group of people waited for the next tram to pull up, four deep, like they were watching a parade. Layton and Daniel had to squeeze through them to get across the street. Worming their way to the front, he and Daniel got separated. At the curbstone, Layton saw the tram rumbling toward its stop, its steel wheels giving off an ear-piercing squeal and the power rods connected to the overhead wires throwing off showers of sparks into the damp night air. Layton looked up at the tiny, yellowish specks of light and smiled. It reminded of the shooting stars he’d seen in the night sky over the countryside of Dorset near his home in Puddletown. It had been a mesmerizing sight to him as a boy. He turned to tell Daniel, but he wasn’t there. Directly behind him, he thought he heard someone say “Fuckin’ gobshite,” and suddenly, he was falling forward into the street.
As he fell, he looked up and saw a terrified look in the eyes of the tram’s motorman, just a few feet away. When he slammed down onto the wet cobblestones of the street, there was a deafening screech of metal, then complete silence.
When Layton opened his eyes, he was looking at the undercarriage of the tram. It looked like a maze of steel beams. The acrid smell of burning metal shot up his nostrils, making his eyes water. There was shouting and great commotion all around him, and hands grabbed at his overcoat and began to drag him out from under the tram. Layton was flat on his back. Above him was a great circle of faces of every description that stared and shouted at him.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is he still alive?” shouted a voice.
“Poor bugger.”
“Did the wheels cut off his legs?”
“He looks in one piece, thank God,” screeched an elderly lady.
“I bet he’s sozzled.”
Daniel’s face now appeared above his.
“Christ, Doug, it’s a bloody miracle you’re still alive,” Daniel cried out. “I lost track of you in the crowd.”
The motorman in his uniform was now directly above him, shaking him by the shoulders. He was joined by the conductor.
“Tell me you’re still alive, mate. I’ll lose me job if you ain’t,” pleaded the motorman. When he saw Layton was all right, he breathed a sigh of relief, then turned cross. “You’re a right Charlie, falling flat on your face and stopping me tram. Damn you, I’ve got a schedule to keep.” The conductor also looked mad.
“Leave the man alone,” shouted Daniel. “Can’t you see it was an accident?”
The onlookers now pulled L
ayton to his feet. A woman in a boa handed him his spectacles. They steadied him as he got his bearings.
“Feel better, mate?”
“That was a damn close call.”
A bobby in a cape bulled his way through the crowd.
“What’s all this now?” he shouted.
“Man fell in front of the Number 11 to St. Pancras.”
The officer eyed Layton up and down. “Aren’t sozzled, are ya?”
“No, sir, I must have lost my balance. I’m sorry for all the hubbub,” said Layton in a contrite tone of voice.
“Well, if you’re not injured, off you go then,” commanded the bobby. “Get back on the curb, all of you!”
The motorman and conductor climbed back onto the tram, and the passengers crammed on behind. Daniel guided a trembling Layton across Piccadilly, then leaned him against the doorway of a fish and chips shop. Layton calmed down and examined himself to see if he had torn his greatcoat or his trousers. He winced, an excruciating pain radiating from the middle of his back.
• • •
“Crikey, Frank, you didn’t lose your balance,” exclaimed Cissie as she lifted the back of his shirt up. “There’s a welt the size of a bloody potato. Like someone rammed a rod in your back to push you in front of the tram!”
28
“Where the hell do you think you’re going, you little brat?”
Ronald jumped back, shocked. The old man sat directly inside the stage door, in a tiny room with a low counter at its front. In all the time Ronald had watched people go in and out of the Queen’s, he’d never seen him. Now, fear coursed through his body. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
The stage doorman took his pipe out of his mouth and started jabbing the air with it as he spoke. His teeth were a horror to Ronald: crooked and yellow-colored like an animal’s.
“If you want to see the actors, wait in the alley like the rest of ’em, boy. Now on your bike, and don’t let me catch your arse in here again,” he snarled.
Ronald didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted down the alley. But after twenty yards, he stopped and looked back. The doorman hadn’t chased after him. Slowly, he walked back toward the stage door and leaned against the brick wall directly across from it. When a group of five adults approached, Ronald trailed behind them.
They stopped in front of the old man, who began passing out keys.
“When am I going to get a better dressing room?” groused a skinny man with greasy hair and a hawk-like nose.
“When you get your name in bigger type on the bill,” answered the old man.
“And more talent,” said another, which made the others laugh uproariously.
With the crowd blocking him from view, Ronald snuck past and down the interior corridor. He was a bit confused; this part of the theatre was very different from what he’d seen when he and his nanny had attended the show. It was very plain and reminded him of the downstairs where the servants worked in his home in London and his grandfather’s house in the country.
With his back to the wall, he slunk down the narrow, winding brick corridor. So far, there was no one else around. Far off in the distance, he heard the plinking of a piano.
Up ahead, two men turned a bend in the hall. Ronald ducked into a doorway, which was partially open. The men passed without noticing him. Inside the room, he could hear a woman’s voice giving someone a rollicking.
“You bloody nancy boy, you get eight minutes for your turn, not a second more or less. Last night, you went over by twenty seconds telling that extra joke! I’ll have your guts for garters if you pull that again.”
The man she was berating tried to answer, but the woman cut him off.
“Don’t argue with me, Cyril.”
“I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, Cissie. I’m just explaining why I’m right.”
Straining to hear more, Ronald leaned too far forward and bumped the door. To his horror, it swung open. Inside, he saw a woman standing next to two men in dresses, the sight of which really bewildered him.
“What is it, lad? Do you have a delivery?” asked the woman in a stern voice.
Tongue-tied, Ronald nodded his head.
“Then don’t just stand there like a dolt. Who’s it for?”
“Layton” was the only word he could think of at the moment.
“Dearie, there’s no one here by that name,” said one of the men.
The woman was about to say something more. But then she stopped and looked down at the frightened little boy.
“Leave the poor child alone, Cissie,” the other man said. “He looks as though he’s about to piss himself.”
“Shut your gob, Cyril,” the woman said.
“Here, sweetie.” The man in the dress gestured Ronald forward, holding out a battered chocolate box. “Have a caramel crème from your old Auntie Cyril.”
“Yes, she’ll be your fairy godmother,” smirked the other man.
Ronald politely took the candy and mumbled a thank-you. The woman drew near and examined him carefully; as she did, her scowl melted into a smile.
“Come along, lad. I think I can help you.” She took Ronald gently by the shoulder and eased him out into the corridor. But as she left the room, she twisted her body and shouted, “Remember what I told you, you daft poof!”
In the corridor, she said, “My name is Cissie. What do they call you?”
“Ronald,” said the boy, trying to sound confident.
“Ever been in a variety theatre?”
He looked up at her, smiled, and nodded.
“Lovely. But I’ll wager you’ve never been backstage before!”
They had reached the stage, where the Randolphs, Football & Fun on Unicycles, were rehearsing. Eight men on unicycles played football, with four to a team, including the goalie. They moved the ball expertly, bumping it off the wheels of the unicycles like regular football players on a pitch.
Ronald’s eyes widened. It was more like a real match than an act; each side was intent on winning. They watched for five or so minutes, and then Cissie gestured at one of the cyclists. He rode up to them, panting slightly.
“Freddie, take my mate Ronald for a whirl,” she commanded and lifted the boy up under his armpits, handing him to the man.
Freddie perched Ronald on his shoulders as if the boy weighed no more than a feather and took off across the stage. Ronald squealed with delight as the unicycle made wide circles around the football game. Finally, Cissie waved them over and took Ronald off the cyclist’s shoulders.
“Let’s have our tea,” she said. Taking Ronald by the hand, she led him through the door into the auditorium and up the side aisle to the stalls bar. There, she nodded to the barman, who disappeared into a rear room and emerged a few minutes later with tea.
“Milk and sugar?” Cissie asked.
“Yes, please,” Ronald said politely.
Cissie pushed a plate of lemon bars and biscuits toward him, but the boy lifted the plate, offering her first pick.
“You have ever so nice manners, Ronald,” said Cissie, pouring his tea.
“My mother said manners show a man is well-bred.”
“And she’s absolutely right.”
As they took their tea, Cissie asked Ronald the usual questions: how was school; what was his favorite food; did he prefer football or cricket? At last, she looked at the little watch pinned to her shirtwaist.
“Well, I think it’s time. Come with me, young man.”
Cissie led Ronald to a huge room behind the stage. Two men were there, painting pictures on enormous canvases. One was doing a forest scene; the other, a full moon over the ocean. Cissie called out to the man painting the forest, “I have a delivery for you now that you’re back from lunch.”
The man turned and smiled. Then a puzzled look came over him.
&nb
sp; Slowly, he put his long paintbrush aside and wiped his hands with a rag. He walked forward, his puzzled look giving way to one of astonishment. Reaching Ronald, he stooped down on his knees, so his eyes were in line with the boy’s.
“Ronnie, it’s so good to see you,” Layton whispered, his eyes welling with tears. “You’re so grown-up! But I still recognized you.”
• • •
Layton reached out to grasp his son’s shoulders, then pulled him forward and hugged him fiercely. He held the embrace for over a minute, savoring every second. He hadn’t dared believe this could ever happen. He had thought his son lost forever. All those years of hoping to reunite, and it actually came true. Still on his knees, Layton leaned back and looked the boy straight into his clear-as-crystal blue eyes. He looked so much like Edwina.
“Father, I rode atop a unicycle, and we played football. It was most thrilling!” Ronald was so excited that the words emerged as a near-shout.
“I’m glad you liked the Randolphs, Ronnie. Audiences love them too.”
“Can I stay backstage with you, to see the acts close-up? I especially love the animal acts.”
“Why, of course,” Layton said enthusiastically.
“I’d like to see the acrobats too.” Ronald was practically vibrating with excitement.
“And you shall.”
Cissie stroked the boy’s sandy-colored hair. “You chaps have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll see you later.”
She made to leave, but before she could go, Layton looked up at her and mouthed a silent thank you. Then he turned back to his son and asked, “Your mother doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”
“No, but Nanny Hawkins does. She helped me find you,” Ronald said in a low, conspiratorial tone.
“Nanny’s a spiffing person.”
“I’m supposed to be at the park now with Cedric Hardwicke, but he covers for me—two bob each time.”
“I’ll be sure to reimburse you. I’m so glad you’re here, Ronnie. We have so much to talk about. You must tell me every single detail about yourself. And don’t leave a single thing out.” Again, Layton bent forward and took Ronald in his arms. He felt as if his body could not contain the enormity of his joy; his heart was going to burst right out of his rib cage.
The Fallen Architect Page 18