The man beside Tig nodded in agreement. Only the lips moved on the machine’s face; its expression remained calm and blank as it stared over the heads of the audience.
As Faber pressed the keys, the brass rods twitched and glinted.
Tig looked around at the audience. Most shared a look of horror, some were shifting uneasily in their seats. Tig’s excitement was quickly replaced by dark blue disappointment. They didn’t care if it was miraculous – they hated it.
‘I met the King of Bavaria,’ said the machine.
Nelson was right. Brilliant or not, the voice was creepy, and Faber himself was no performer. What on earth had made Snell choose such a disastrous act? He had seen it in London and wittered on and on about how it was the perfect show for the Royale. She risked another glance over the balcony railings, expecting to see him looking grumpy and frustrated with the professor’s poor show. But, as far as she could see in the dim light, he and his friend were whispering together, and laughing. Perhaps he just had terrible taste.
* * *
Though the performance wasn’t as long as a regular play, it seemed to drag on for ever. Faber rounded off the show with a rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’, which sounded more like a curse on Her Majesty than a blessing. Then the professor took an awkward bow before walking rapidly off stage, leaving the audience to limply applaud an empty theatre.
‘I never thought I’d live to see such a thing,’ said one lady to her companion as they rose to leave. ‘And I hope I never see it again.’
‘Ghastly,’ said someone else. ‘Unnatural and unpleasant. I have half a mind to demand my money back.’
‘The man is a terrible bore,’ said a third. ‘Whoever decided to let him on stage?’
The show was clearly doomed.
* * *
After the audience had left and the theatre was empty, Nelson headed home. Tig went about her usual evening duties, alert for any unusual happenings or more ghostly visitations.
After locking the back doors, she climbed the ladder at the edge of the stage to extinguish the gas lamps. Euphonia stood solemn and silent centre stage – the professor, it seemed, had already retreated to his quarters. After their unfortunate introduction that morning, she didn’t fancy knocking on the Green Room door and asking if she could come through to put out the lights, so once again, she carefully made her away across the beams above the stage. Her heart beat harder as she reached the other side, half expecting Cold Annie to be waiting for her, but she found herself completely alone.
Before she left, Tig set a small oil lamp, safely positioned on a metal tray, towards the front of the stage. It was bad luck to leave the theatre in complete darkness. A light must be left shining for the ghosts. There was some debate over whether the light was for scaring them away, or to allow them to act out their own performances in the night. Either way, luck was important in the theatre, and Tig took this task as seriously as any other.
Besides, she would need the light later, when she returned for her secret mission to replace Euphonia’s broken eye.
At the front of the stage, tucked away behind the curtain, was a small doorway into a narrow passageway, eight steps long, and barely wider than Tig’s shoulders. It was totally black inside, but Tig had no problem dashing through it to the doorway on the other side. The short cut emerged behind the royal boxes, onto a long corridor leading back towards the lobby.
As she pushed on the door, she heard voices. All the audience members should be long gone by now. Snell usually saw any stragglers out personally before locking the big front doors.
The voice laughed, a reedy, unpleasant laugh the colour of tapioca pudding.
It was Snell.
‘…every bit as awful as you promised, Mr Snell,’ said the other voice. ‘Mad professor is correct!’
Tig froze. Something told her she shouldn’t walk into the middle of this conversation.
‘Quite something, isn’t he?’ replied Snell. ‘Appalling. I saw him six weeks ago on my trip to London. I knew he was the one to pick.’
What on earth? Snell had known the professor would be awful, and hired him anyway? Tig crouched down to look through the tiny keyhole, but she could make out nothing but the men’s legs, Snell’s in pinstripe and the other man’s in brown trousers. It was the mill owner, again, Albion.
‘How long is his run?’ he asked.
‘He’s booked for a month, but you’ve seen the man, he’s a wreck. He’ll last a week. Two at most.’
‘Wonderful. The sooner the better. There’s room for nearly two dozen looms in there, once we rip out the stage.’
Rip out the stage and replace it with weaving looms? But that meant… was Snell trying to sell the theatre? Eliza would never allow that.
‘And you’re sure Mrs Lincoln won’t give us any bother?’ said Albion, as though he could hear Tig’s thoughts.
Snell scoffed. ‘I can handle my sister. She won’t have any choice but to sell when this show fails. The place has been hanging on by a thread – there won’t be enough money for another show. Even a woman could understand that.’
Even a woman?! Tig thumped the wooden wall in irritation.
‘What was that?’ said Albion.
Tig held her breath. She shouldn’t have done that.
‘Probably the professor doing something to his machine,’ said Snell, unconcerned. ‘He’s quite obsessed. Anyway, let me show you the office…’
Their voices faded with their footsteps as they headed towards the front of the building.
So Snell had known the professor would be a terrible act, and had hired him on purpose so the Royale would lose money. The theatre was already struggling – if Faber’s show failed, he’d be able to force Eliza into selling the building. And it seemed he already had a buyer lined up and ready.
Tig had to warn Eliza.
Noises Off
As soon as she was sure that Snell and Albion were out of the way, Tig emerged from the passageway and headed to the Minshull Gallery. Here, partly concealed behind a display case of stuffed game birds, was a staircase leading down to the basement apartment shared by Snell and Eliza.
At the bottom of the stairs, Tig paused to turn off the gas stopcock. They did this for safety, every night after turning out all the lamps, as it stopped the gas coming into the building at all, so protecting them from leaks or fires. Then she knocked on the apartment door.
‘Come in,’ came Eliza’s voice from within.
The apartment was a strange but comfortable one. The main room was a kitchen and parlour, and Eliza and Snell each had a private bedroom off it. Being beneath the theatre, the ceilings were low and there were no windows, but it was comfortable and cosy.
Eliza sat at the table, counting up the night’s takings by candlelight.
‘Tig!’ She smiled broadly on seeing her. ‘How was the show?’ Although Snell forbade the stagehands from watching the performances, Eliza had never minded. She understood the irresistible pull of the spectacle.
‘It was…’ She paused, looking for the right word. Eliza often reminded Tig that it wasn’t always wise or polite to say exactly what you were thinking, even if you were asked. She said that Tig needed to learn to be tactful, and think before she spoke, if she was to get ahead in the world. Sometimes Tig remembered her advice. ‘I was very impressed with the invention. He’s a genius. But…’
‘But?’
‘I don’t think the audience liked it very much. Professor Faber, he’s… he’s not very good.’
‘Oh dear.’ Eliza pushed a stack of coins aside, and wrote down a number in her ledger book. ‘First night nerves, most likely. I’m sure he’ll do better tomorrow, after some rest and a good meal. Speaking of which—’ She counted out a shilling and sixpence and slid it across the table towards Tig. ‘For the professor’s meals, since you’ll be the one taking care of him.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tig, dropping the coins into her pocket. ‘Mrs Lincoln… I need to tell you som
ething.’
‘Try to make a good impression, after what happened this morning, won’t you, love?’
‘I will,’ said Tig. ‘But listen. It’s about Mr Snell. I think he wants the professor to do badly.’
Eliza set down her pen and closed the book. ‘Silly girl, now why would he want that?’
‘Because he wants the theatre to run out of money.’
Eliza laughed. ‘My dear, if there’s one thing my brother loves, it’s money. You don’t need to worry about that.’
‘I overheard him talking. He said—’
The apartment door opened and Snell entered. Tig shut her mouth fast.
‘Good evening, little sister,’ said Snell, unusually jolly. He paused when he saw Tig. ‘Yes, girl? Can I help you?’
‘I was just going, Mr Snell,’ said Tig. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Lincoln.’ She darted for the door.
‘Yes, away with you.’ Snell unpinned his cravat. ‘That child, Eliza, honestly, I don’t know why you—’
‘Edgar, not this again.’
‘If anyone respected my authority around here…’
Their voices were already getting louder, and Tig was relieved to leave them behind.
She ran up the stairs, through the gallery and the workshop, and up again to the dressing rooms, her brain on fire with everything that had happened that day.
Snell couldn’t sell the Royale, he just couldn’t. The thought of her beloved theatre ripped apart, the beautiful backdrops and velvet curtains replaced by noisy, soulless machinery, becoming just another of Manchester’s treacherous mills – it hurt her chest to imagine.
And what would become of her? And Nelson, for that matter? They’d probably end up as mill workers themselves. The mills were where most of the poor children in Manchester spent long hours tending the loud, dangerous machines. They caught sickness in the lungs from breathing in the cotton fibres day after day. They lost their hearing from the constant noise and got injured in the machines. Nelson’s own mother had succumbed to a terrible cough she caught from years spinning cotton, and his uncle had lost two of his fingers in a weaving loom.
She wouldn’t let it happen.
If Snell’s whole plan depended on Professor Faber’s show being a failure, then Tig would make sure it was a success. As his assistant, and someone who had seen all manner of performances during her time at the Royale, she could help him. Some new scenery, a decent costume, a bit of practice at talking to an audience. The machine was amazing; there was nothing else like it in the whole world. People would love it. Tig would make sure of that. They would start work tomorrow, and by the end of the week the show would be the best thing the Royale had ever seen.
She needed to win the professor over, and make up for causing the earlier damage to his precious creation, otherwise he’d never trust her.
Reaching into her pocket, her hand tightened around the glass eye. It was time.
Quick Change
Tig waited as long as her patience would allow. The professor should be fast asleep by this time – it was better that he didn’t catch her in the act, or he might stop her before she had chance to prove herself.
Passing through the workshop, she filled her pockets with a few useful items – a spanner, a small pair of pliers, some glue, some wire and a small can of oil. She wasn’t sure what she might need.
The world outside was fairly quiet, though the stillness of night was punctuated by the occasional beat of a horse’s hooves, and the gentle, distant hum of the mill machinery running at all hours. A city as big as Manchester never really slept, but this was as close to silence as it got. Then she crept out into the backstage area, listening intently for any sound that might suggest the professor was awake. She didn’t want him to see what she was doing, as he obviously wouldn’t want her to touch his invention. Best he didn’t find out until she had finished, then he couldn’t possibly be cross.
She was out on the stage now. The oil lamp was still burning, bathing the machine in soft, warm light. Euphonia seemed to watch her enquiringly.
‘Don’t worry,’ Tig whispered. ‘I’m a friend. I’m going to repair your broken eye.’
Gently, she touched Euphonia’s face. It was cool, the rubber mask surprisingly soft.
She felt around the edges of the hair, behind the ears, and found a clip on each side, holding the wig in place. She snapped them open, and lifted the curls away in one piece, setting them down carefully on the stage.
Now she could see the top and sides of Euphonia’s skull, curved sheets of brass held in place by tiny rivets. Small gaps at the sides of her head revealed the workings inside, dozens of tiny wheels and cogs and springs, more complicated than the mechanism of a clock. Tig wanted to examine them more closely but that would have to wait.
The edges of the rubber face were clearly visible now. Tig tugged in several spots, trying to figure out where it might catch, or if there was any sort of pin holding it in place. Once she was satisfied there was not, she held onto the rubber above the forehead, and began to peel it down.
There was resistance, a suction between the rubber and the metal that made Tig feel a little queasy. The face was so realistic, it felt as though she were eye-to-eye with a real woman, peeling back her skin to reveal a mechanical impostor beneath. The mask pulled away from the eyes. Rubber eyelids became limp, dark holes, misshapen now there was nothing to fill them. The naked glass eyes beneath gleamed in the candlelight.
Rounding the corner of the nose, the rubber fell away in Tig’s hands. Euphonia’s mouth, without the lips, looked like a vice from the woodworking shop, square and sharp, and it fell open as though in surprise. Tig yanked her hand back as the rubber tongue flopped out. She shivered.
It’s just a machine she told herself. Nothing to be scared of. She had met an actual ghost today, and yet somehow the machine was creepier in its stillness, even without a face. As she held the empty rubber mask in her hands, the features were ugly and unfamiliar without the metal skull to hold it in shape. She set it down beside the wig.
It wasn’t difficult to remove the damaged eye from its socket. Tig picked at one piece of the broken glass with her fingernail and when it came loose, so did the rest, small white chips scattering onto the stage like hailstones. Nothing on earth would make all those tiny pieces fit back together into the eye socket.
Hot panic swept over her. What if the new eye didn’t fit? She should have checked before she began, and now it was too late.
Hurriedly, she pulled it out of her pocket. It looked about right and she wriggled it into place until she felt a click beneath the metal eyelid. Withdrawing her hands carefully, she stepped back to look at it.
Perfect.
Well, not quite perfect. The old eye had been a cool blue. This was a warm brown, and the pupil was smaller. Perhaps not what the very particular professor would have chosen, but a hundred times better than the shattered glass. In fact, Tig thought the contrasting colours looked quite magical.
She folded her arms and smiled. She had done it. Easy!
Just then she heard a creak, and whipped round, staring into the darkness, but was met with only silence. She took a deep breath and steadied her nerves, carefully picking up the mask.
It had come off so easily, but Tig couldn’t quite figure out how to put it back on. She tried lining up the top of the mask with the skull, but it wouldn’t stretch enough to tug down over the jaw. Next she hooked the bottom of the mask over the chin and pulled upwards, but it wouldn’t stay in place.
There was another creaking sound, like feet pacing on floorboards. The professor must be awake in the Green Room!
Immediately the whole catastrophe played out in Tig’s head. The professor would find her here, the machine partially disassembled, and assume she was back to cause more damage. He’d wake Snell, already angry from the earlier incident, and she’d be in for it. Possibly even fired. And if she wasn’t fired, the professor might be so angry that he packed up and left the Royale entir
ely. Then Snell’s wish would come true, as they’d be out of money and have to close!
All this flashed through Tig’s mind in half a second. She gritted her teeth and decided to try one more time to put the mask in place. If she still couldn’t do it, she would drop it and run, and hope the professor thought it had fallen off on its own.
Why hadn’t she listened to Nelson? She should know by now: always listen to Nelson.
She pulled and stretched and – relief! The mask snapped back into position. A quick glance over her shoulder told her the professor was still inside his room. She snatched up the wig and quickly clipped it back into place. There. Almost as good as new.
Tig heard the faint click of a door opening.
Trying not to make a sound, she ran as fast as she dared, retreating to the dark of the backstage before racing upstairs and along the corridor.
She had done it! The professor was going to be so impressed with her.
Duologue
As soon as the first light spilled through her window, Tig was up and dressed. It had been a strange unsettled night, full of dreadful dreams and frequent waking.
In her nightmares she followed ghostly figures into the open jaws of a great mechanical face, only to realize that she was a ghost too. Trapped inside a vast clockwork maze, she searched for an escape route and found herself falling, tumbling, plummeting towards the stage, then woke with a jerk, breathless and terrified. Several times she swore she heard the machine talking, down on the stage: eerie, groaning words, muffled by distance and the thick theatre walls.
Was the voice part of the dream, too? Or perhaps the restless professor couldn’t sleep, and had been practising for the next show.
The next morning, with Eliza’s money in her pocket, she raced out to buy the professor some breakfast. Tig wasn’t sure what people ate in Austria, so she bought him the best breakfast she could think of. Two sausages, and two slices of bread and butter, all wrapped in paper, and coffee in a mug from the kitchen. She carried it very carefully back to the auditorium, headed backstage and knocked on the Green Room door.
The Incredible Talking Machine Page 4