‘But the fact is, I need him. It’s hard to do business as a woman on my own. It’d be different if my Charlie were still alive. But the banks and the printers and the tailors – they want to know there’s a man of the house before they’ll trade with us.’
‘It’s not fair,’ said Tig.
‘It’s not,’ said Eliza, sadly. ‘But here we are anyway. Go on, get your work finished while Edgar is out.’
‘One more thing,’ said Tig. ‘I saw the ghost. Cold Annie. And Nelson always says she only appears when a show is going to fail…’
Eliza’s eyes widened and the colour drained from her face. ‘But… that’s just a superstition.’
‘No, really, I saw her, close up. She only had one eye and—’
‘I’ve got to finish counting up, Tig. I’ve no time for your stories tonight.’
‘Nelson saw her too. Do you know who she was?’ Tig continued. It was hard to let go of the thought now it was in her head, burrowing deeper and deeper into her brain.
Eliza cleared her throat. Slowly and carefully, she set down her pen on the desk. Her fingers were trembling. Tig had never seen her look nervous before. She knew something.
‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’ Tig pressed.
‘Perhaps. I… I’m not sure.’
‘Who is she? Please tell me.’ Surely Tig had a right to know who was haunting her.
‘There was an accident here, a long time ago. And if there is a ghost—’
‘There is.’
‘If there is a ghost, she might be something to do with that. But the rest of it is just nonsense. Superstition, theatre talk. Don’t worry yourself over it.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘It was very upsetting. I don’t want to talk about it and you don’t need to know. Can I trust you not to ask me any more questions?’
Tig nodded. Seeing Eliza upset was unpleasant. She had been angry before, but never… frightened. She wouldn’t ask Eliza any more about Cold Annie, but she was more determined than ever to find out the real story.
Blackout
The show was just as bad as it had been the night before. Tig couldn’t bear to watch the whole thing, as the awkward silences and uncomfortable shifting of the audience made her bones ache in sympathy and embarrassment. At one point a man shouted an insult which the audience seemed to enjoy more than the show itself. Poor Professor Faber. To lift his spirits, Tig snuck out a few minutes before the end to buy him a decent supper – a hot potato, which surely nobody could object to? Her belly growled at the smell but she reminded herself that she had a good meal of her own coming very soon.
As soon as the show was over, she delivered the food to Faber, wrapped in paper, along with a knife and fork from Eliza’s apartment. He didn’t fully open the door, just pressed his face to the crack.
‘Did you touch the food?’
‘No.’
‘And the seller, did they touch it with their hands?’
‘No, they used tongs to lift it out of the oven.’
He stuck a hand out for the food. ‘What about the fork?’
‘It’s from downstairs.’
‘When was it washed?’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘Never mind. I’ll wash it myself.’ He closed the door, without so much as a ‘thank you’.
Why were all the adults in this place such hard work?
The theatre lights were still burning – of course Gus had gone home without putting them out. Tig scaled the ladder, annoyed that she was already getting dusty marks on her new clothes. Slowly and carefully, she crossed the beam to the far side of the stage and twisted the knob to turn off the gas. The first set of lights went out. Again she cautiously edged across the beam, trying very hard not to think about how close she had come to falling last time.
‘If you’re there, Annie, please don’t startle me until I’m back on solid ground.’
With a twist, the second set of lamps were off, and the auditorium was a cauldron of darkness.
‘Idiot,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Should’ve lit the oil lamp first.’ Now she’d have to climb down in the dark.
A deep groaning noise came from the stage beneath. Euphonia was speaking.
‘Follow…’ it began in its sluggish, heavy way.
Tig froze at the top of the ladder in surprise. She hadn’t heard Faber emerge from his room. ‘Professor?’ she called.
‘…the rabbit…’
‘Professor? Sorry, I didn’t know you were there.’ She skittered down the ladder as fast as she dared in the darkness. ‘I’ll bring you a lamp.’
But Faber didn’t answer.
‘…through the…’
She hopped down from the third step and ran blindly back to the workshop door. ‘Just a moment!’ It was lucky she knew the old building well and was used to finding her way around in the dark.
‘…flames.’
Flames? Surely she’d heard wrong.
The professor still hadn’t responded to her and a purplish feeling of something-isn’t-right settled between her shoulder blades. Why would he be playing Euphonia in the dark? Why would he ignore Tig? And why would he make it say something so strange?
As if in answer, the machine began to repeat itself.
‘Follow the rabbit…’
She found the oil lamp but fumbled with the match – her fingers were shaking and wouldn’t co-operate. At last she got a spark and lit the lamp, the light bringing some relief to her fears. She put the glass globe in place over the flame and headed back out to the stage.
‘…through the flames.’
‘Here you go, professor!’
But he wasn’t there. The stage was empty.
Apart from Euphonia.
Theatre Critics
Something strange, and maybe sinister, was going on with the professor’s talking machine. Tig had heard it speaking without anyone pressing the keys – something which the professor, and her own common sense, told her was impossible.
At least, she thought that’s what she’d heard. In the bright light of a new morning, it suddenly seemed very silly. After all, she couldn’t actually see the machine while it was talking, on account of the stage being dark. So perhaps Faber had been at the controls, and stepped out of sight before she returned with the lamp.
But why? It didn’t make sense for him to come out of the Green Room in the dark, to say one strange and cryptic sentence, without answering any of Tig’s calls. It was the sort of thing Gus would do to scare her, but Gus wouldn’t have the skills to play Euphonia, and Professor Faber didn’t seem the type for pranks.
Once she’d gone downstairs to turn the gas stopcock off, she’d crept back into the theatre. She waited in the dark for what felt like hours, pulling the curtains round her shoulders for warmth, to see if the machine would speak again. But it didn’t, and nor did the professor come out of his room. Eventually she was so tired she could barely stand, and had to give up and go to bed.
She wouldn’t really know what she believed until she had the chance to speak to Nelson about it. He was sure to say something sensible to set her mind at rest. In any case, for now, the mystery would have to wait. There were bigger problems to deal with. They were running out of time to save the Royale, and it seemed Tig was the one to do it. She had woken that morning with a new determination. Snell was against them, Eliza wouldn’t listen, and the professor was definitely a difficult man. But she hadn’t lost the battle yet. She had to make Faber’s show a success. Today she was going to convince him to let her help.
She bought him a slice of fruitcake with the last of Eliza’s money, and knocked on the Green Room door. There was a moment’s silence, then a scrape and a thud. ‘Come in,’ he said, and held the door open for her.
The table was covered with papers. A detailed diagram of Euphonia was spread out there, with inkwells and a ruler weighing down the corners to stop it from rolling up. Beside it sat a notebook with more diagrams and num
bers, and writing in what must be German. The handwriting matched its creator – all sharp angles and hard edges. She nudged the book aside to make room for his breakfast, took a deep breath and launched into a persuasive speech she had been planning all morning.
‘Professor, good news—’
‘They hated it,’ he stated, throwing the newspaper at her feet.
‘Where did you get this?’ said Tig.
‘That man brought it. The small annoying one, with the red face.’
‘Mr Snell,’ said Tig.
He sank down into a chair, like a marionette whose puppeteer had dropped the strings.
She picked up the paper. It was folded to a column entitled:
A review. Surprising. Tig knew the reporters who usually visited the theatre, and she was certain neither of them had seen Faber’s performance yet.
The article began by describing the machine. Everyone was satisfied that there was no hoax, it read.
‘This is good,’ said Tig. ‘Everyone believed you.’
‘He says Euphonia is Frankenstein’s monster,’ said the professor.
‘Well,’ said Tig, ‘he probably means she’s a human form put together from many pieces.’
‘No. He means she is monstrous.’
‘People like Frankenstein’s monster,’ said Tig.
‘Keep going.’
She read aloud, ‘The voice was so melancholy and strange, so awful, the audience could easily imagine a half-human creature, imprisoned inside the machine and forced to speak against its will.’ She looked up. ‘That’s… not ideal.’
‘A complete failure. I should never have come to England. It was just as bad in London. Disaster.’
‘But Mr Snell said…’ Tig stopped herself. Snell had said the show was spectacular, and everyone loved it. Yet Faber himself admitted it went badly. Snell had booked Professor Faber precisely because he knew it would be a bad performance.
Clearly he’d been working on this plan to close the theatre for a long time.
Tig glanced at the end of the article.
‘To finish, the head sang “God save the Queen”, which made one think, God save the inventor.’
And God save the Royale, if we don’t fix things, thought Tig.
The article wasn’t wrong. Euphonia’s voice did have a spooky quality to it, and Faber himself looked haunted. Nevertheless, disappointment settled over her shoulders like a shawl. This wasn’t going to help matters. The success of shows relied on their reviews and this was as bad as it got.
Dropping the paper, Tig watched Faber tentatively nibble the tiniest corner of the fruitcake. She noticed the remains of the previous two meals sitting on the dressing table. The bread had been half eaten, the potato merely picked at. Both sausages lay untouched. A terrible waste.
‘You didn’t like the sausages?’
‘I’m a…’ He screwed up his face in concentration. ‘What’s the word for a person who eats no meat?’
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ said Tig.
‘I don’t like street sellers,’ he said. ‘You never know if they’re clean.’
‘Hundreds of people eat from that stall every week. Even Nelson and me. And it’s never made us sick.’ She swallowed down her rising irritation. Half the workers in Manchester could only dream of such a good breakfast. Some days Tig could only stretch her wages to some bread and butter, and a pint of coffee for herself. If it wasn’t for Eliza letting her make the odd bit of porridge, or drink in the apartment kitchen, Tig would be half-starved. ‘You must be hungry. You haven’t eaten since you got here.’
He shook his head. What a difficult man.
‘I hope you’re not coming down with something,’ Tig said, trying to hide the frustration in her voice.
‘Coming down with something?’ said Faber. ‘I don’t know this expression.’
‘Getting poorly,’ said Tig. ‘Ill. Anyway, I need to talk to you about—’
‘Do you think I look ill?’ Professor Faber interrupted.
‘No,’ said Tig but Faber was already up and looking at himself in the mirror.
‘I do feel hot,’ he said, putting his hand to his forehead. ‘Look at my eyes, the inside of the lids.’ He moved close to her and bent his knees until their eyes were level. ‘What colour do you see?’
‘Red?’ said Tig, slightly alarmed.
‘How red?’
‘Um… the usual amount of red?’ said Tig. So as well as sharp-tongued, grumpy and picky, the professor was a hypochondriac.
‘And the tongue?’ He stuck his tongue out.
‘Pink,’ said Tig.
‘One can’t be too careful. You are not yourself sick, are you?’
‘No,’ said Tig, ‘I’m fine.’
‘No coughing, sneezing, headaches? No temperature?’
‘Nothing,’ said Tig, getting quite frustrated now. ‘About the review—’
‘The crowds, they bring all sorts of nastiness with them. My throat is sore.’
‘Probably from straining your voice in the theatre,’ said Tig.
‘Or influenza,’ he countered. ‘There’s a lot of it about. What are the symptoms of malaria?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I read about it. Big problem in swampy areas.’
‘There aren’t any swamps in Manchester!’ Tig replied, a little too sharply. This was getting ridiculous. Faber was supposed to be a man of science – he should know better than all this nonsense.
‘But there are rivers. Lots of water. That could wash it up this way.’ He went back to looking down his own throat in the mirror. ‘Maybe we should cancel today’s performance, just in case.’
Tig felt a rising panic. The show had been advertised, some tickets had already been sold and turning people away at the door was terrible for business. Even with the bad review, some people would come, and they couldn’t afford to miss a night’s takings. If she couldn’t steer him away from these thoughts, she would have to ease them instead. ‘There’s a chemist shop across the way. I could get you some sort of tonic, for your sore throat?’
Faber looked interested. ‘Tonic. Yes, here.’ He rummaged through the pocket of his threadbare jacket and produced a handful of coins. Tig was surprised. She assumed, from the way Faber dressed, that he was a man of very little means, but the coins he pressed into her hands were more money than Tig made in six weeks. Snell must be paying him extremely well. ‘Throat tonic and… and something to ward off sickness.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Get everything you can.’
Supporting Cast
Tig made her way out through the workshop, hoping to find Nelson. Her mind was so crowded with thoughts, she felt it might burst open if she didn’t speak to him soon. He was kneeling on the floor, painting a picture of the talking machine on a wooden board with oil paints.
‘Nelson! That’s brilliant.’
‘Thanks.’ He sat back onto his heels and looked up at her. ‘But what’s happened?’
‘What have you heard?’ Nelson couldn’t possibly know about the machine talking already.
‘Last night?’
‘You mean with the machine?’
He raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief. ‘I mean you leaving me in the lurch for pie day!’
‘Ohhh…’ Tig pressed her fist to her forehead.
‘I waited ages for you! I had to eat the pie myself. And it was cold by then.’
‘I’m sorry, Nelson. I completely forgot!’
‘How could you forget pie day?’ He stood up, brushing sawdust from his knees.
‘It was all the excitement with the professor and the machine, and then, something amazing happened. Or I think it did… probably. You’re not going to believe—’
‘You’re doing it again.’ He pointed his paintbrush at her in an accusatory way.
‘Doing what?’
‘That thing you always do. As soon as you get something new and interesting to focus
on you forget that anything else exists.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said, but her words were accompanied by the stomach-punch realization that it was true.
‘Yes, you do. Remember when that magician was here and for a whole month all you wanted to talk about was how to build your own magic tricks?’
Tig folded her arms and looked down at her feet. It wasn’t often Nelson got cross and she couldn’t stand it. Especially since he was right.
‘And you’re doing it again with the talking machine. You’re the professor’s assistant for two days and you forget about something we’ve done every week for two years. You forgot about me!’
‘You’re right,’ said Tig. ‘I’m sorry. Really sorry. Does it help that I had a really good reason?’
‘You always think you have a good reason.’ He sighed, but he was already softening. It wasn’t in his nature to stay angry for long. ‘Go on, then, what is it?’
Tig grabbed his arm. ‘Can’t say it here. I’m going to the chemist for the professor. He’s feeling a bit all-overish. Come with me.’
‘I’ve got work to do,’ he protested. ‘If Snell catches me skiving…’
‘We’ll tell him that you…’ Tig snatched the paintbrush from Nelson’s fingers and threw it. It bounced off the wall and rolled beneath the workbench. ‘Lost your paintbrush and needed to get another one.’
‘Tig!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But it’s really important.’
She waited until they were across the street from the theatre. Gus had disturbingly good hearing, and she wasn’t about to include him in her mystery.
‘I have so much to tell you. Firstly, the talking machine can talk.’
Nelson raised one eyebrow. ‘I know. That’s the whole point.’
‘No, I mean, I think it can talk. When Faber plays it, it makes the sound he tells it to, like playing the piano, right?’
‘Right.’ Nelson jumped up onto the doorstep of the milliner’s to avoid a man pushing a dustcart.
‘But last night I saw it – heard it – talking, without anyone pressing any keys. It was speaking on its own.’
The Incredible Talking Machine Page 6