Skylark

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘You are Theodore Larkendale’s father?’ he asks.

  Jack looks, frowning, at Lily, who laughs and tosses it off. ‘His stage name, Jack. We all take a stage name, as you very well know.’ She addresses Mr Pollard. ‘He is Theodore Lacey in real life and this is his father, Mr Jack Lacey, a well-known horse-breeder in these parts. Didn’t our Teddy do a fine job tonight?’

  Mr Pollard nods, hardly as effusive as Lily would hope. Final night, in the middle of striking the set, is not the best time for the great man’s good humour. He beckons to his son. Mr Jim hurries across the stage, shuffling through sheets of music for Teddy’s new contract.

  ‘Mr Lacey,’ says Mr James Pollard, ‘I did not appreciate being misled over parentage. But your son is a rare talent, and if you are willing to sign, we will continue his education and training, pay you four pounds a week for his services, and return him at our expense when the current tour ends.’

  ‘Which would be when?’ Jack is used to signing contracts, familiar with business practice. The terms are favourable when compared with Bert’s apprenticeship at the blacksmith’s, but that’s to be expected with a talent like Teddy’s.

  ‘Possibly in two years’ time, possibly shorter. I am in negotiations for a tour which may include Singapore.’ Mr Pollard, distracted by the activity around him, thrusts the paper rather brusquely at Jack. Jack, not one to be rushed into a contract, reads carefully. He points to a line. ‘There’s a mistake here.’

  The younger Mr Pollard frowns, and reaches for the paper.

  ‘My son,’ says Jack, ‘will be thirteen next month. It says here eleven years old.’

  Both Pollards react sharply. Both turn to stare at Lily, whose smile has frozen. The older Pollard’s ruddy face turns an even deeper red. ‘Thirteen years old? A second lie? Madame Larkendale, what have you to say to this?’

  Lily swallows. Her legendary beaded purse sways back and forth, sending showers of coloured reflections over the little group. ‘James …’ she tries.

  ‘Mr Pollard!’ thunders Mr Pollard.

  ‘My dear Mr Pollard, Theodore is very small and young for his age. One takes him for an eleven-year-old. One forgets, you see …’

  ‘One does not forget,’ shouts the entrepreneur, quite carried away with rage, ‘when one is signing a contract. We do not sign on thirteen-year-old boys!’

  Mr Jim lays a calming hand on his father’s sleeve. ‘I will deal with it, Father. The boy’s voice has shown signs of breaking. The contract is void.’

  By now all the children and stage crew are watching. Old Mr Pollard has a reputation for towering rages. This one is as entertaining as a melodrama. His face is purple; his hands circle around his head like a pair of crows; his voice reaches the back of the auditorium. ‘Void indeed! Give me that!’ Snatching the contract from Jack’s astonished hands, he tears it into tiny pieces, flinging them high into the air. ‘I consider our obligations towards the boy’s training and care over. Over! He may leave the company forthwith!’

  Teddy has heard it all. White-faced, he runs towards the little group. ‘No! No! Please give me a chance, Mr Pollard!’ His despairing cry cracks on the last word, the bass croak a fatal giveaway. Mr Tom Pollard, who has been listening in the wings, takes the stricken boy gently by the arm and leads him away, talking quietly. At a distance, he turns and speaks, his own rich voice full of accusation. ‘I’ll take Teddy back to the hotel to be with his friends and collect his belongings. You may find him there in the morning, Mrs … Larkendale, and take him home.’

  The journey back in the train is stormy in every sense of the word. Great gusts of wind and rain drive in from the sea; waves crash over the bar and rush upriver, delaying the departure of the Lilliputian company. The train, however, leaves on time, with a very subdued Lacey family aboard. Maud holds Teddy’s limp hand for the full two hours. Lydia and Lysander chatter, their voices brittle with effort, about his wonderful performance. One by one all the children try to cheer Teddy up. Bert tells a terrible joke. Phoebe tells him about a school play she has written with a part ‘just perfect’ for Teddy. When little Oberon pulls a funny face, Teddy shouts at them all to go away and leave him alone. In the end the children withdraw, all except constant Maud, who holds on grimly as great tears roll down Teddy’s cheeks and drip onto his coat. Lily and Jack sit side by side and silent. Jack, embarrassed to have been placed in the position of dissembler, stares out of the streaming window. Lily, stricken to the bone by the cruel turn of events, for once can think of no useful response.

  The stationmaster at Waitotara is bent almost double in an effort to stand against the driving wind. The Laceys huddle miserably in the lee of the station building while Jack brings the wagonette around. The trip up the valley is going to be wet and difficult. But that struggle — coaxing the wagonette up the muddy valley road — is almost a welcome diversion. Jack walks at the horse’s head, while Samuel and Lysander push from behind (Bert’s solid shoulders are not there to help as he has stayed in Waitotara at the blacksmith’s). The rest huddle in the wagon, beneath a tarpaulin too small to protect them all from the horizontal rain and whipping wind. At one stage, where there is a slip blocking most of the road, all must walk. Teddy will not dismount, but sits there in the rain, a stubborn black rock, as the wheels tilt this way and that over the piling mud.

  Suddenly a shouted curse comes from the front. The wagonette judders to a stop and one of the horses rears in its traces. Jack has slipped in the mud and fallen under the hooves. The horse, in its panic, stamps again, and again comes the cry — more of a scream this time. Samuel, racing forward in the blinding rain, drags his moaning father away. Jack’s arm is damaged. Lily and the children huddle together, shivering. Should they go forward to the warmth of home or set off back again to the doctor? Jack can think of nothing but the pain.

  ‘We’ll go forward, Sam,’ says Lily. ‘Home is closer. If Jack needs the doctor we’ll deal with that tomorrow.’

  Jack is helped aboard. He sits next to Teddy, who is no comfort: the stony-eyed boy stares ahead as if he is alone in all this raging night.

  ‘Look after Father!’ shouts Phoebe, as she struggles on foot through the claggy mud, ‘He’s the one needs to ride, not you!’

  Everyone feels the same: it’s time Teddy stopped sulking.

  At last they see the lamplight glowing from the front-room window. Sarah has lit it to guide them. And there she is at the door, sleeves rolled up, hands floury, and beaming. Inside the fire crackles; the big room is filled with the smell of a rich stew bubbling on the stove. As the family pull off their sodden coats and boots, Sarah guides Jack to his chair and rubs him down. She announces that Mattie is greatly improved, that the bleeding has stopped; that the peace and quiet over the last few days have been just the tonic she needed. And there she is, dear Mother Mattie, rosy-cheeked again, smiling by the fire. The children rush to her, laughing and babbling, Teddy’s woes forgotten. A relief, perhaps, to ignore them at last.

  For several days life returns to normal — or almost normal. Jack’s arm is broken. When the weather clears he is driven in to Waitotara where old Doctor Ingram scolds him for attempting the road in such a storm, and then binds the break. Mattie, though slower and more easily tired, presides in the kitchen again, though she cannot persuade Teddy to touch his food. Nor, it seems, is he able to sleep. Frank complains that Teddy tosses all night and keeps him awake.

  The children return to school, Teddy, pale and listless, dragging along behind them. Samuel and old Matiu attend to the horses: several are about to foal. Lily, riding down to the little school to rehearse the play, sings in the fresh morning air. Teddy, though silent still, will surely soon emerge from his misery. To tell the truth, everyone is a little sick of Teddy’s sulks.

  Then, a week after their return, Maud, coming down early — a premonition, or simply a call of nature? — walks barefoot in her nightgown across the frosty grass, glances towards the old totara tree and sees a white sheet hangin
g there. When she peers again she sees not a sheet, but Teddy in his Lilliputian costume: the sailor’s white trousers and striped jacket hanging limp and still, his jaunty cap fallen to the ground, his sailor’s lanyard and whistle tied to the branch above, then stretching down, taut around his neck, bruising, silencing the treacherous — the breaking — voice.

  [Archivist’s Note: After this sad entry only three items remain in Mattie’s journal: a letter from Maria Foley; tucked inside the cover, a little booklet made of thirteen sheets of paper, lovingly sewn together with darning wool, and entitled simply Theodore Valentin Lacey; and what might be called a short epilogue written by Lily, directly into the journal. I include them here in that order. It seems likely that the letter and the little booklet were written soon after Teddy’s suicide: that is, before all the storytelling of Lily’s life in the three journals, but I have held them back until now in the interests of dramatic effect. Lily would approve, I’m sure! I have inserted the children’s ages at the time of their entries in the little booklet. E. de M.]

  A letter from Maria

  Dear Mattie,

  Please forgive me if this letter sounds too blunt; I am not much of a one for writing.

  I am sending Lily back to you. She has run here to us at the circus in a fright — or despair I might say — but any healing must be done in your household and I have told her so.

  I am so sorry about that talented little boy, Teddy. But we have all lost children — what mother has not? — and must now look to the living.

  Lily is one of those living. Mattie, I feel you are the one to find a way of healing the rift in your family over Teddy’s death. Lily can be impetuous and demanding but she is also our dear friend, who has brought unforgettable and surprising pleasure into our lives.

  I have comforted her as best I can, but it is you and Jack and the children she needs. Lily may go on about how she is a tough ‘artiste’, but in many ways she is as fragile as a child herself.

  Do see what you can do.

  Your friend,

  Maria Foley

  THE LITTLE

  BOOKLET:

  Theodore Valentin Lacey

  1869–81

  Sarah

  [AGED 15]

  Mother has said we must all write something about Teddy. She says it will help us come back to some sort of normal life. I think she is worried about Mother Lily. We all hate her and blame her. Mother Lily hates it when we are cross with her. I wish she had stayed away, not come back here. All she does is hide in her room or go on long rides by herself.

  Well, Teddy. I suppose he was the spoiled one of us. That might be why he did such a dreadful thing. It was easy to spoil Teddy because he was, almost always, so lovable. So sunny natured. His smile would split his face when you gave him a taste of the baking or a ripe apple from the barrel. And he delighted so much in his singing and acting and dancing. He just shone. It was impossible not to clap and laugh and forgive him if he was lazy with his chores.

  I think we made him selfish by being so soft on him. That was a hateful, selfish thing he did, to hang himself in front of us all. How could he be so cruel to his own family that loved him? It’s Teddy I hate, maybe Mother Lily, too, for encouraging him, but mainly Teddy. There, I’ve said it.

  Sarah

  Samuel

  [AGED 17]

  Teddy would have grown up a splendid fellow if only he’d got over that setback. He could ride a horse as well as Father and me and would argue any subject under the sun, but in a good-natured way. Being older, I didn’t know him like the younger ones, I suppose, but of course I liked Teddy. Surely we all did. Mother pushed him too hard, that’s the truth of it. She wanted him to follow in her footsteps. I think she wanted to live her performing life all over again through him. That was a mistake. Mother has made plenty of mistakes, but you can’t help forgiving her in the end. She’s like Teddy in that way — a charmer. I hope I’ve inherited some of those charms, but I’d never take my own life. Never.

  Sam

  Phoebe

  [AGED 14]

  I can’t stop thinking about how I lost my confidence at the audition and cried and carried on. Perhaps if I’d got into the Lilliputians I could have helped Teddy, or understood what he was feeling. He must have been so miserable to have done such a terrible thing. Teddy was just about my best friend — and a rival too, I suppose. We both wanted the best parts in the plays and the solos in the songs. I was better than him at the emotional parts — the sad or melodramatic bits, but he was better than me at the high notes and the dancing.

  Teddy was very handsome for a thirteen-year-old — his eyes were dark and large and his mouth as red and sweet as a girl’s. He had golden hair which was unfair because mine is dark with no shine to it and a girl needs bright and shining hair more than a boy.

  I thought Teddy performed Ralph Rackstraw really well. He made me cry. I think they must have good teachers at the Lilliputian Company because Teddy was not so good at the love parts before. And his song was marvellous, so I’m going to remember that, not the horrible sight of him hanging like a rag on that wretched wicked lanyard that should have broken under his weight but didn’t. I wonder if he hoped it would break and just give us a fright, not kill him.

  Goodbye, dear brother Teddy. I blow you a kiss and throw a rose in my thoughts.

  Phoebe

  Albert

  [AGED 15]

  I would kick Teddy up the backside if he was alive, but he’s dead, the silly bugger. We were all on his side — I gave him my lucky shilling — and he would of got over the acting thing in a month or two. I have to put up with all sorts at the blacksmith’s but do I think of topping myself? Course not. Mother Lily shouldn’t have encouraged him, that’s the truth of it. I mean he was good, very good, but she made him think like he was up there with the angels, on God’s right hand. Which maybe he is now, come to think of it, though I’m not sure about suicides. Teddy’s not buried in the churchyard that’s for sure.

  Teddy never learned to roll with the knocks, because no one ever knocked him. He was Mister Sunshine.

  Anyway, I loved him of course, that’s why I’m so angry. Every day I’m howling over the bellows. Good thing the roar of the furnace hides the sound or I’d be getting more beatings than usual.

  Rest in peace, Teddy, little squirt. I hope the lucky shilling is bringing you luck in the next life.

  Bert

  Maud

  [AGED 14]

  I don’t want to do this but Mother says we must and it will make us feel better. It only makes me feel worse, thinking about Teddy. Every night I dream about him hanging there and he’s waiting for me to save him but I run and run and can’t get there, ever.

  It’s all my fault. I knew he was sad and I knew he liked me to give him a hug or hold his hand but I got tired of him always so sulky and anyway there was school and my tasks to do, so I left him alone. I think he did that horrid thing because he wanted me to notice him again. I wish, wish, wish I had got up a bit earlier, then I could have saved him.

  I loved Teddy. He was so bright and shining, not like me at all. But he loved me too. I think he loved me best. We’d often sit in the apple tree and talk about what we would be and who we would marry and who was being horrible at school. We loved to play duets together on the piano. I played the slower parts on the bass and he did the trills and sparkling high bits. We always knew when the other one wanted to pause or slow down.

  Maybe some stranger came past that night and saw him in the apple tree and hanged him to make it look like it was Teddy did it. That’s what I hope. Because Teddy would know how terrible it would be for me to find him. He wouldn’t want me to have these awful dreams. I am afraid even to shut my eyes because then I see it all over again.

  Mother Lily should have known it would ruin Teddy. She should have known his voice would break and they wouldn’t need him any more. Why didn’t Mother Lily think of that? I’m never going to speak to her again.

 
; Maud

  Lydia and Lysander

  [TWINS, 9 YEARS OLD]

  Let us sing a mournful song

  Our dear Teddy’s gone

  We will sing it all day long

  Teddy Lacey’s gone

  Teddy’s feet could dance and tap

  Teddy’s hands could clap, clap, clap

  Teddy’s smile was wide as the sea

  But he took his life, why did he?

  We had good fun with Teddy

  His songs were always ready

  He learned his lines as quick as a flash

  Teddy was full of style and dash

  Who will sing our solos now?

  Teddy always showed us how

  Now we sing a sadder song

  We will sing it all day long

  Teddy Lacey’s gone.

  Liddie and Sando

  Elsie

  [AGED 11]

  I’m older than the twins. I should have been asked to write something before they wrote their show-off poem, so now I’m not going to write anything.

  Elsie

  Frank

  [AGED 10]

  I’m older than the twins too. They should have waited their turn.

  Teddy was my brother. He was faster at running than me but sometimes let me win.

  He was Mother Lily’s favourite. She liked Teddy better than the twins, ha ha.

  Sometimes Teddy was a show-off, but mostly he made you laugh so I didn’t mind.

  Frank