Skylark

by Jenny Pattrick

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF SAMUEL LACEY

  Recollections of Jack Lacey (1)

  A proposal spurned!

  [Archivist’s Note: An excerpt from Samuel’s introductory description of his father. E. de M.]

  My father will never write his own story. He says he is a man of deeds not words. But, in this cold, sad winter, while he is stuck indoors with his injury, unable to ride, he is happy enough to talk. He will never criticise Mother. Never. But I hope that in writing down his story I will uncover some home truths. Already I am beginning to hear a different version.

  My father, Jack Lacey, is a strong and upright man. He stands five foot nine in his stockinged feet, and at forty-three years of age he still has hair as black and luxuriant as when he was a lad. He breeds horses and breaks them in for the domestic market. His nature is sunny, which is fortunate in the circumstances. He possesses a laugh that rings throughout the house; it cannot be resisted. All declare that he is handsome. Teddy used to laugh and say he was a dandy — that he could be on the stage just like Mother. But dressing carefully in high boots, smart coat-tails and white cravat is simply part of his nature: he is a horseman and desires the world to know it.

  When Father travels down the valley to the horse bazaar in Whanganui, it is a marvel to see. His string of horses — all bays or blacks — walk obediently behind him, while he rides on Sylvan or Orlando. (Mother always names his mounts.) All his horses are strong-limbed, their coats glistening with good health: before the sale they are fed for a week on good oats and oaten hay to bring up the spirit in them. He is well known at the bazaar; Lacey mounts will always fetch the best price.

  I love to go to the bazaar with him; he is a different man there, as spirited as his horses, tipping his hat to the ladies and enjoying the banter and rivalry among the men.

  Though in recent times there has not been so much to celebrate. He is desperately lonely when Mother is not at home.

  [Archivist’s Note: The following is a later excerpt from Samuel’s Journal. E. de M.]

  […] At this time my father was quite besotted with the circus performer Miss Tornear [sic throughout]. He disregarded the security of a permanent job. (He was a well-regarded groom. He could break in a horse and gentle it until the beast was suitable for the most timid of lady riders.) He followed the circus wherever it travelled, picking up work here and there. Once, in his home town of Whanganui, he rescued Miss Tornear from a dangerous fall. Her horse bolted on Castlecliff Beach. Riding alongside, he managed to bring the steed to a halt, but not before she tumbled to the ground and suffered a broken bone. Quickly he carried her to the home of Doctor Horatio Ingram, whom he served as groom. That good doctor splinted the limb, and my father asked Doctor Ingram to take the cost from his own wages.

  On returning the lady to the circus, my father learned that her position as bareback rider and high-wire artiste was in jeopardy. Mr Foley (proprietor) was understandably unwilling to employ a cripple. Without a moment’s hesitation, and in front of the assembled circus folk, my father leaped from his horse, plunged to one knee and proposed marriage to Miss Tornear.

  ‘I will give you a fine and upright life and am able to earn a good enough wage to support us both,’ he cried.

  Miss Tornear appeared thoughtful at this offer of rescue, but before she had chance to reply, the wife of the proprietor, a dominating and self-opinionated lady, spoke directly to her, completely ignoring my father, who remained on his knees.

  ‘I have a use for you in the theatre,’ she boomed. ‘You will come with me to Wellington to be my assistant. Possibly,’ she added, ‘my understudy.’

  It seemed that Foley and his wife were parting ways. Whanganui gossip suggested unfaithfulness on the part of both husband and wife. The circus would continue north without Mrs Foley who intended, she said, to star in a new theatrical company in Wellington. Miss Tornear would apparently be useful in rehearsing that woman’s lines and acting as general dogsbody. Hardly a prospect to compete with a respectable life as wife of my father.

  Alas, Miss Tornear, the love of my father’s life, was tempted by the dubious carrot Mrs W.H. Foley offered. Throughout her life, theatrical performance acted as a lure from the more seemly womanly duties of wife and mother.

  Undeterred, my father left the employ of Doctor Horatio Ingram, mounted Domino and set off on the long, dusty track towards Wellington.

  [Archivist’s Note: At this place in Samuel’s journal the reader will notice a distinct change in style. Perhaps his mother’s admonishments (see page 64) have borne fruit. E. de M.]

  Jack Lacey rides into Wellington on a blustery cold day, no money in his pocket, no feed for his horse, no promise of shelter for man or beast. Waves, driven by the stormy wind, break over the road, drenching him. He draws alongside a heavily laden cart, its load protected beneath an old tarpaulin. The carter, huddled under a sacking coat, raises a hand in greeting.

  ‘Where’s our summer gone, then?’ he grumbles. ‘One miserable storm after another.’

  Jack nods. ‘Would you know of work for a groom or stable-hand in these parts?’

  The carter chews on his moustache for a bit. ‘You looking for fancy work? There’s a few big houses now with their own stables.’

  Jack shrugs. ‘I worked for a doctor up north. It wasn’t too fancy. Grooming is hard work, fancy or rough. I was thinking maybe a hotel. Somewhere in town.’

  ‘Ah well, take your pick. The place is growing like a mushroom. We’ve got celebrations in a week or two — fifteen years since the first settlers arrived. They’ll be riding or coaching in from all around, I reckon. Experienced grooms will be in short supply. Try the Shamrock. Or Baron’s. The Baron has a big two-storey place. Von Alzdorf runs a decent inn. Try him.’

  Jack nods. ‘Have you heard of theatrical performances in town?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.

  The carter gives him a stern look. ‘You want to stay away from that sort. You would never want to groom for them. They’d as like take your services and then scarper before any money left their wallets. Rough trade, theatre folk.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jack wants to hear more. ‘You’ve met theatre folk?’

  ‘Once was enough,’ growls the carter. ‘Picked up three trunks full of costumes from the jetty, they come south on the coastal steamer. Delivered same to Barry’s Ship Hotel.’ He spits. ‘Now there’s an establishment I would not recommend. The fancy lady what owned the trunks seemed to think a free ticket to the evening show would be a fit payment! One ticket to a godless entertainment good only for the lowest mechanicals. And drunkards.’ He wraps his sacking cape more tightly around his broad shoulders. ‘No lad, stay away from that nest of Satan. Any preacher will tell you.’

  Jack can think of nothing to say. What has his Miss Tournear got herself into? The circus seemed a fine skilful occupation, though perhaps not best suited to a young lady. Whatever can theatrical performances be like? Mrs Foley seemed to consider the theatre to be a cut above circus. Can the carter be right? If so, his love will need a speedy rescue from a life of sin. He nods grimly. No time to be lost.

  The carter gives directions to the Baron’s on Willis Street. Jack urges tired Domino into a trot. Soon they are surrounded by rows of wooden buildings. Simple homes and shacks give way to established stores, churches, a big two-storey bank, wharf sheds and hotels. In the harbour, five large ships lie at anchor, while two others are tied up at the jetties. Two Maori women collect shellfish, their ankles deep in mud at the water’s edge. Seagulls circle above them, crying.

  Willis Street is wider and cleaner than the narrow, winding Lambton Quay down which he has travelled. Carts and drays are delivering or taking away supplies; a smart carriage clops past; in front of a barber’s shop a knot of men are chatting, their pipes creating a little tobacco cloud above their heads. And surely this is the Baron himself, standing in the doorway of his hotel, wide moustaches waxed and shining in the morning sun, his generous belly crossed by gold watch-chain
. The Baron raises his topper to a passing gentleman, who responds in like manner. Jack watches them standing, discoursing at their ease, and wishes for the same confidence, the same air of wealth. The Baron slaps his thigh and laughs hugely. Jack dismounts, ties Domino to the hitching rail and waits until this imposing man is free.

  ‘Well, now.’ Baron Alzdorf turns to Jack with a nod. The topper is not lifted this time. ‘Welcome, Sir, to the Baron. Are you after a room? A nice hot meal?’

  Jack takes a deep breath, stands tall. ‘I would gladly take both, Sir, but am out of pocket. I’m told you have a good stable.’

  The Baron nods slowly, eyeing Jack.

  ‘Well, Sir, I am a good groom. Or, if necessary,’ he adds, noticing the Baron’s frown, ‘a useful stable-hand.’

  The Baron steps over to Domino, who turns his dark head to blow at the newcomer. The big man runs his hands over Domino’s flanks, lifts the saddle-flap.

  ‘We’ve come a long way,’ says Jack, nervous at this scrutiny. ‘She’s not in the best condition …’

  ‘Experience?’ asks the Baron, satisfied now, it seems, with his inspection.

  ‘Groom for Doctor Horatio Ingram of Whanganui. Charged to keep four big riding horses fit and ready for distance runs; and a pony for his wife’s dog-cart.’

  The Baron smiles at last. ‘I like your horse, Sir. He’s a credit to you. And I need a groom. What say you to fifteen shillings a week and board?’

  Jack dares to smile back. ‘And stabling for Domino?’

  The Baron laughs out loud. ‘Cheeky fellow! The stables are for paying guests. And my own hire horses. Do you want me to hire out your Domino?’

  ‘No, Sir. Domino is for me only.’

  ‘I have two acres out on Te Aro Flat. If guests are in town for a week, I graze their mounts out there. Domino can join them. Are we agreed?’

  Jack wants to say that he earned sixteen shillings from Doctor Ingram, but he can’t get the words out.

  ‘Jack Lacey,’ he says, offering a hand.

  The Baron crushes it. ‘Welcome to Baron’s. The safest hotel in town.’ He pats the solid wall proudly. ‘My first establishment, she come down in forty-eight. Big quake. This establishment here is double wall, lathe and plaster: top storey braced with timber. Chimney braced with iron. My safe castle. My dear wife, she loves this hotel.’

  Jack is intrigued to see a tear in the big man’s eye. Perhaps his dear wife was frightened by the last earthquake, and he has built this imposing building to reassure her.

  He leads Domino up the alley, stepping through horse-droppings and garbage, to find the stables. Miss Tornear, he thinks, never fear. I have come to rescue you.

  ACT THREE:

  Theatrical Life

  THE JOURNAL OF LILY ALOUETTE CONTINUES …

  SCENE: The Royal Victoria Theatre, Wellington

  I am introduced to the dramatic arts

  I never understood, until I entered theatrical employ, what an uncompromising, driving monster of a woman was Mrs W.H. Foley. Not three days in Wellington and she had me on stage, playing a cripple in The Hunchback! Well, the part was small and not really a cripple, but Mrs Foley was short of an actress, so she thrust me into the part.

  ‘Hold your head up! Up, up, up!’ she cried, as I tried to keep the broom under my armpit steady while I hopped across the stage to deliver a letter to her.

  ‘Oh dear God, that voice will not carry past the two-shilling seats! Louder! And smile prettily, a pout will never win hearts.’

  And so on. My ankle was a raging pit of fire; I missed Maria, Tommy and the circus family; I was hungry, tired and ready to fall in a heap of tears. But Mrs Foley drove me on. Drove the whole company. We had five days to prepare not only The Hunchback! but the farce which followed. What was it? The King’s Gardener, or, Nipped in the Bud, I fancy. Not a great piece. Crude and rude. But popular with the mechanicals who made up the bulk of our audience. My task was to shake out Mrs Foley’s wardrobe, heat the flat-iron and smooth the worst of the wrinkles, bring her flask of ‘cordial’ to her in between acts, and perform whenever she was short.

  I should have hated it. I could have run away — or at least hopped! Truth to tell (once the pain in my ankle became bearable) I loved every madcap, rowdy, terrifying minute.

  The Royal Victoria in Willis Street was a large room behind the Ship Hotel. It had served on and off as a theatre for nearly a decade, and showed it: the paint peeling off the walls, the gas lamps lacking glass here and there, the benches and seats stained and chipped. But once a new backdrop was painted and the actors gaudily strode over the raised stage, all the drab was forgotten as the audience was transported to grand halls of England, bright Turkish tents or a leafy English countryside.

  Mr Marriott, who owned the theatre, was a marvel. What couldn’t that man do or make? He had built the theatre, ran a clock-making business, and acted the villain or the hero with enormous dash. He could recite whole scenes from Shakespeare without glancing at any book or calling for a prompt. He designed the billboards and had them printed, and often painted the flats. His English manor scenery was truly beautiful. It always received applause, even though he said he had painted it years ago. The two big flats ran together from each side of the stage to make a marvellous whole, and then drew back again in a trice — some mechanical magic that I could not fathom — to reveal a flat behind, painted most realistically to show all the finery of a duke’s grand parlour! That wonderful scenery transformed all on stage; suddenly we adopted all the airs and graces of lords and ladies. Oh, it was wonderful!

  In those days Mrs W.H. Foley was famous throughout the length and breadth of the country (and Australia and California too, if the lady herself were to be believed) but to my mind Mr Marriott deserved plaudits and bouquets just as numerous. His wife, they said, was back in England with several of his children, but that did not deter Mrs Foley from casting her eyes (and other parts of her anatomy) in his direction. She was a terrible woman for luring men away from their wives. For all that, Mr Marriott did not appear to fall for her wiles and she had to make do with one of the gentleman amateurs for escort.

  When the settlement of Wellington was still an infant, Mr Marriott had built this theatre, and persuaded people to come and enjoy themselves at a time when most minds were fixed on hammering nails, laying bricks and clearing bush. Mr Marriott had the foresight to see that ‘man cannot live by hard work alone’ (if I have got the saying correct).

  ‘We all need the release of a good cry and a guffaw, not to mention a fright or two,’ he would say in his lovely golden voice. ‘We may be rough pioneers, set down in a wild and trying clime, but we are members of the human race all the same.’

  How true. A sentiment I have often repeated to Jack.

  After we’d been performing several weeks and I was able to walk after a fashion, Mrs Foley decided I must have a stage name. ‘Nothing too fussy,’ she boomed. ‘Short enough to fit on the programme.’ She studied me, pursed her lips, muttered to herself.

  ‘My name is Lily,’ I offered, at which she frowned.

  ‘No, no, no, we have a Lily. Rosie will suit. Miss Rosie Short.’

  And that was that. I hated the name, so ugly and dull. But in truth I didn’t often play under my stage name. In that first year I was dogsbody. Understudy to everyone. Whenever an amateur lady was indisposed with her monthly, or a pregnancy, I was charged with learning the lines quickly and imitating as best I could the style of the actress in question. So I played dying heiresses, surly country wenches, haughty countesses and sometimes raggedy young boys, all under the name of whoever had fallen ill. To change the name on the programme would have been too much bother for the busy Mrs Foley.

  Audiences loved her. Her name on the billboards and in the newspaper advertisements was always writ bold and large. She was cheered as she made her grand entrance on stage, no matter if it was a tense dramatic moment, requiring the rest of the cast to wait mid-declamation. Often she would hold up the d
rama to sing a favourite song, quite unsuitable for the sense. The audience loved it all.

  Once, I recall, a rough fellow brought his dog into the two-shilling benches. The man was clearly drunk and the dog in a frenzy of yipping and growling. Of course we were used to rowdy audiences and drunkenness, but this was more than Mrs Foley could accept. She broke off in the middle of a dramatic scene, where she was about to be abducted by the villain, played by Mr Marriott. One moment her hand was to her forehead as she fell into a screaming faint, the next she was fully recovered and striding down to the footlights.

  ‘This play will not go on,’ she projected in her most ominous tones, ‘until that lewd fellow and his dog are removed from My Theatre!’

  The crowd, made restless by the rude antics of the man and the noisy dog, fell silent immediately. All eyes turned to the fellow, who wagged his silly head, but sat down again. Mrs Foley waited. The crowd began to growl. Slowly the fellow staggered out, aided none too gently by several of the audience. Even then Mrs Foley would not continue. She strode from the stage, stating grandly that she was too upset to continue.

  Mr Marriot appealed for calm. He was a real gentleman, James Marriott, quietly spoken, very handsome and wonderful in dramatic roles. I saw him do a whole evening of Shakespearean characters once; he had me in tears from start to finish. Well, he rushed Mr Ackroyd on stage to do a couple of his comic songs, while backstage Mr Marriot sweet-talked the bad mood out of the lady. Finally, the celebrated Mrs Foley consented to finish the melodrama. Oh, yes, my dears, she was Queen of the Theatre, no doubting that.

  About a month after we had arrived, near Christmas I think it was, Jack turned up, bright as a penny, sitting in the three-shilling seats and clapping and cheering, just as he’d done at the circus. I was struggling with a Scottish accent, playing Mrs Heskitt in the Highlander’s Revenge, or, the Fatal Prophet! One of the lady amateurs had fallen ill at the last moment. It was not a big part, but Jack cheered me on and off stage, to Mrs Foley’s annoyance. Naturally she played Martha McAlpine, though she was far too old for the heroine. In the interlude Jack called for a song from the ‘Lady Amateur’, as my part was billed. Mr Marriott gave me the nod: Mrs Foley was backstage having her ‘nip’. So I sang ‘The Lost Child’ for Jack, as sweetly as I could. His admiring face was a pleasure after all Mrs Foley’s frowns.