The Incredible Talking Machine
Page 7
‘No,’ said Nelson. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘Come on,’ she nudged his shoulder playfully. ‘I don’t tell fibs, you know I don’t.’ Usually she was in trouble for the opposite – telling the truth when it wasn’t wanted. ‘When I was putting out the lights last night, Euphonia started speaking. And I was all alone!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Not completely,’ she admitted. ‘It was dark. But I called for the professor and he didn’t answer, and I’d seen him inside the Green Room not two minutes before. There was no one there. And it started talking.’
‘Impossible,’ said Nelson. ‘It can’t even open its mouth without someone pressing the right switch.’
‘I know.’
‘And it doesn’t have a brain, so how could it even think of something to say?’
‘Exactly! It’s a mystery. We need to find out what’s going on.’
‘Hmmm…’
‘You do believe me, right?’ A carriage clattered past too close to the pavement and they both jumped back to avoid the splash of dirty gutter water.
‘I believe that you believe it,’ said Nelson. ‘Did you ask the professor about it? Maybe there’s a simple explanation.’
‘Not yet,’ said Tig. ‘I haven’t had chance because – oh, that’s the other thing! Snell wants Faber’s show to fail, so the theatre runs out of money.’
‘He can’t!’
‘He wants to force Eliza to sell the building. I heard him talking to that horrible Mr Albion about it.’
‘No, no, we can’t lose the theatre! I don’t want to go and work in Albion’s mill.’ She tugged Nelson’s sleeve. ‘If we can make the professor’s show a huge success, he won’t be able to do it. I’ve got a plan. Will you help me?’
‘Course I will.’
‘Good.’ Tig squeezed his hand. ‘Friends again?’
‘Always,’ said Nelson.
A trip to the chemist was always a pleasant diversion. It was full of good smells and interesting packages and potions. Mr Becker, the chemist, was always experimenting with a new recipe, and the row of signs outside his shop advertised everything from fireworks to toffee, baby teething powder to Pontefract cakes.
‘Wait.’ Nelson checked his reflection in the window, patting the back of his curly hair and straightening his jacket. ‘Ready.’
The bell over the door rang as they went inside.
‘Hullo!’ Matilde smiled and glided across the polished floor towards them. She was a year older than Tig, always smart and poised and ladylike. Tig was the opposite – her clothes were always smudged with oil or paint, and she was more handy with a spanner than a sewing needle. Although they were so different, Tig often thought they’d be friends, if Mr Becker wasn’t always so disapproving. Tig had to stop by once a month to pick up Snell’s hair tonic and indigestion pills. If she timed her visits just right, sometimes she could talk to Matilde for ten minutes while her father was out on errands.
‘Morning, Tig! And Nelson – how are you?’
Nelson made a mmmnpf sort of noise and nodded. Tig watched him out of the corner of her eye. This was new.
‘Matilde is working,’ warned Mr Becker, looking up from the boxes he was stacking on the counter. ‘She has no time for idle gossip.’
‘We’re not here to gossip, sir,’ said Tig.
‘You’re always here to gossip,’ he replied. ‘Haven’t you got work of your own to do?’
‘That’s why we’re here. I’ve been sent to buy some tonics, by my…’ What was Faber? She supposed he was her master, since she was his assistant, though it felt more like she was his nanny. ‘My boss.’
Mr Becker put down the boxes and bustled over, shooing his daughter out of the way.
‘Tonics, is it? What does Mr Snell have in mind?’
‘Oh, it’s not Mr Snell this time, it’s Professor Faber. Our performer. He’s here showing his talking machine at the Royale. He has a bad throat from the exertion of the show last night.’
‘Bad throat, I have the very thing. Robinson’s Pastelles. Dissolve in the mouth four times a day. Or, a tonic of my own devising, based on an old remedy of my wife’s family, in India.’ He moved lightly on his feet between shelves and tables, picking up a small rectangular box and slim green glass bottle. ‘Which do you think your professor would prefer?’
‘We’ll take both,’ said Tig. ‘He is concerned about his health in general.’
‘As we all should be!’ He scurried round to the end of his counter, picked up a tiny tin and shook it, the contents rattling. ‘Our patented pick-me-up pills will be just the thing for keeping a person in rude health. Good for the circulation. Promotes restful sleep.’
Tig nodded. Mr Becker was a strong salesman. He began making a neat pile of purchases on the counter.
‘It’s an amazing show, Mr Becker,’ said Tig loudly, hoping to catch the attention of two women who were browsing the scented soaps. ‘I hope you’ll come. You’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Are you enjoying the show, Nelson?’ asked Matilde, beginning to wrap their purchases in paper.
‘It’s, er… extremely superb,’ said Nelson, awkwardly.
Tig did her best not to laugh. He obviously wanted to impress Matilde, and she didn’t want to embarrass him. ‘You should see the painting Nelson is working on, too. He’s so clever.’
Matilde smiled. ‘I’d like to see it.’
‘It’s nothing special.’
‘He’s just being modest,’ said Tig.
As soon as Matilde stepped away to get some string Nelson elbowed Tig in the ribs and whispered, ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m talking you up! You’re sweet on her, I can tell.’
‘Is it that obvious?’
Mr Becker was excitedly looking around the shop. ‘Does he need any shaving balms? Cologne? Pomade?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘He shouldn’t use that rubbish from the market. A gentleman in the public eye needs the finest grooming products.’ Mr Becker was an excellent advertisement for his own products, having both a thick head of hair and a great deal of energy.
‘I’ll tell him, sir.’
‘Master Nelson?’ said Mr Becker sharply. ‘Have you never seen a young lady before?’
Nelson, who had been gazing adoringly at Matilde, straightened up, mortified at being caught. ‘I wasn’t staring. I was looking at the shelf beside her, I think we might need…’ He trailed off.
Matilde laughed and picked up a box from the shelf to show him. It was labelled ‘Ladies’ tinted lip salve – rose pink’. ‘I’m not sure it’s your colour.’
Tig couldn’t help but giggle at Nelson’s horrified expression. He put his head down as if looking for a hole in the floor he could fall into.
‘Yes, yes, enough merriment,’ said Mr Becker. ‘Does the professor need anything else?’
‘He was a little worried about…’ Tig felt foolish saying it. ‘He is worried about catching malaria.’
‘In Manchester?’ said Mr Becker. ‘Malaria comes from miasma off the marshes. There’s no fear of malaria here.’
Tig smiled and shrugged. ‘He’s a cautious man.’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Becker. ‘I will throw in some vapour oils, with my compliments. He should smell them whenever he feels an attack of the nerves coming on.’
He tallied up the total. Four shillings and eight pence. Matilde wrapped the last of the parcels, tucking two sticks of liquorice between the layers of paper with a wink to Nelson.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tig, and they picked up the neatly wrapped parcels between them.
‘Let me get the door for you,’ said Matilde.
‘You’ve got work to do, Matilde,’ called Mr Becker as he retreated into his back room. ‘Don’t dilly-dally!’
‘It was nice to see you, however briefly,’ said Matilde. ‘I hope to come to the theatre next week with Mama, and see the talking machine.’
‘You should,’ said Tig.
‘It’s marvellous,’ added Nelson.
‘Matilde!’ commanded Mr Becker’s voice from within.
‘See you soon!’ said Matilde. ‘Bye, Nelson.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Nelson once they were a little way down the street. ‘Say it.’
‘Say what?’ Tig stopped and rested her package on a railing to pull out the liquorice sticks. She bit into the smaller one and handed the other to Nelson.
‘That I made a right spoon of myself in there. I suddenly forgot how to talk like a normal person.’ He slapped his palms against his cheeks. ‘What will she think of me?’
‘Nooo,’ said Tig. ‘You were fine.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly,’ said Tig. ‘You were extremely superb.’
Special Effects
When Tig and Nelson arrived back at the theatre, all their problems were waiting for them. As they walked across the foyer Tig’s body felt heavy, the weight of her task pressing down on her.
‘We’ve got to save this place, Nelson. How could we go on without it?’
Nelson nodded solemnly, his mouth full of the chewy black sweet. Noises echoed through the building – the muffled sound of Euphonia’s voice coming from the stage. They headed through the stalls door and into the auditorium.
Faber was kneeling by the machine, adjusting one of its metal rods with a spanner. As the children walked down the aisle towards the stage, Euphonia’s mouth opened and it began to speak.
‘An…’ The sounds were as slow and laboured as always, somewhere between a sad song and a cry of pain. But Faber wasn’t pressing the keys. No doubt about it this time.
‘ti…’
Faber sat back on his heels, looking up at the machine’s face in awe. Half a second later, he noticed Tig, who was now running in his direction, and jumped to his feet.
‘go… ne.’
Faber slammed his hands down on the keyboard, his hands spread to press lots of keys at once. The machine’s words, if there were any more, jumbled into a strained, mechanical groan.
As Tig reached the front row he eased his fingers off the keys. The machine ceased its bizarre screaming.
‘It’s true!’ yelled Nelson, coming up beside her. ‘Did it… but you weren’t…’
‘What did it say?’ said Tig, though deep down she knew exactly what it had said, and she didn’t like it at all. Antigone.
‘Nothing.’ The professor wiped his face with his sleeve, his movements twitchy like those of someone who was either very distressed or very excited. Perhaps both. ‘I was just testing it. Did you get me some tonic for my throat?’
Tig edged around the orchestra pit and put her packages down on the side of the stage. She began unwrapping the paper from around the tonic, but never took her eyes off Faber. Something very mysterious was going on here. Something eerie, and real. She had to know what it was.
‘It was talking without you playing it,’ said Tig. ‘We both heard it, right, Nelson?’
She looked to Nelson for confirmation, and he gave a wide-eyed nod in response.
The professor took the tonic from Tig. He stared intently at the label, mouthing the words as he read the instructions.
‘Professor?’ said Tig. ‘How did it do that?’
Faber yanked out the stopper and drank the medicine straight from the bottle. Shakily, he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the stage.
‘It can’t talk on its own.’ The professor sighed. ‘There are bellows—’
‘I know about the bellows,’ pressed Tig. ‘You weren’t touching the bellows.’
‘Tig,’ said Nelson, his gentle voice speaking like her conscience. He didn’t need to say anything else, as she knew what he meant; shut up now, before you make the professor angry, before he leaves this place and takes all our hopes of saving the Royale along with him.
But she couldn’t stop herself. ‘Professor. How can it make a noise without anything touching the bellows?’
‘You were mistaken,’ said Faber sharply, glancing back over his shoulder at the machine. But Tig knew they weren’t mistaken, and there was something in the professor’s eyes that looked almost like glee. If he was happy the machine had spoken, why was he being so secretive now?
‘But it said… It said “Antigone”.’
‘No, you were mistaken.’
‘I heard it. Why would it say “Antigone”?’ Tig demanded. ‘That’s my name.’
‘You what?’ laughed Nelson. ‘You never told me that.’
‘Yes, well…’ Suddenly she felt overwhelmed. Tugging at her collar, even her skin felt tight. ‘No one ’cept Dad ever called me that. How could the machine know my name?’
‘No, it didn’t. Of course not,’ said Faber, but he looked surprised by this revelation too. ‘Show me what else you bought from the chemist.’
Tig unpacked the various tins and pills, and repeated what the chemist had said about each one as Faber nodded along. All the while the word ‘Antigone’ circled inside her brain. No one knew her as Antigone at the theatre. Even if she was mistaken about the machine talking alone – even if Faber had been pressing the keys – what was the chance of him using that word? Her thoughts were sea-storm purple and grey as she tried to unpick all the different feelings. There was some sort of magic in play here, and she was attracted and repulsed by it at the same time.
‘Here’s your change,’ said Nelson, and set the coins down on the stage.
‘Oh.’ Faber took a throat pastille from the packet. ‘Miss Rabbit. Master… ummm.’
‘Nelson.’
‘Whatever you think you saw… it’s best that no one else hears about it. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Nelson nodded. ‘I don’t think I could tell anyone if I wanted to.’
‘Good,’ said Faber. ‘Are we clear, Miss Rabbit?’
‘But—’ Tig began.
‘No.’ He held up one finger in warning. ‘Nothing happened here. You were mistaken. If you do not agree, then you can no longer be my assistant.’
There was a long silence as Tig sized him up. She wanted desperately to understand what was happening with the machine, but if the professor wasn’t going to be honest with her, the next best thing was to stay on his good side. She still needed him to trust her and accept her help, if they were going to save the theatre.
She could feel Nelson’s gaze on her face, begging her not to make more trouble.
‘I was mistaken,’ she said at last.
* * *
The moment they stepped out of the auditorium, Tig grabbed Nelson’s shoulder.
‘See! I told you!’
‘You were right.’ He began scrambling under the workbench to retrieve the paintbrush Tig had thrown earlier. ‘But I don’t understand what it means. How did it know your name?’
‘No idea,’ said Tig. ‘No one has called me that in forever.’
‘Ugh. It’s all dusty.’ He stood up, pulling away a bit of fluff that was stuck to the bristles of his brush. ‘What did the machine say last night?’
‘It said… “follow the rabbit through the flames”.’
‘Flames! Tig, this is scary. Why don’t you seem scared?’
‘If it is magic – really magic – wouldn’t that be wonderful? We’d be famous then! Everyone would want to see it. We could buy a hundred theatres with the money!’
‘I don’t like it, Tig.’ He unstoppered a bottle marked ‘Poison: not to be taken’ and sloshed an inch of turpentine into an empty jar. The liquid turned sapphire blue as he swirled his brush around it. ‘Even if it is magic, that doesn’t mean it’s good magic. It could be cursed, or, or a bad omen or something. Don’t rush into anything.’
This was a good point. Tig’s dad would’ve said curses and omens were nonsense, but two years amongst the superstitious theatre-folk had taught Tig a healthy respect for such things. A cursed machine seemed no harder to credit than a ghost appearing in the dressing rooms.
‘Rabbit!’ Snell’s booming voice came echoing from the other side of the building. It must be time for his midday tea and he didn’t like to be kept waiting.
‘We’ll talk later,’ said Tig, heading for the door. ‘I need to investigate more.’
‘Promise you won’t do anything stupid?’
‘I will not.’
‘Will not do anything stupid, or will not promise?’ Nelson shouted after her. ‘Tig? Which one?’
Both Snell and Eliza were downstairs in the apartment. Neither were early risers – theatre hours were long and late – so Tig was usually summoned to wait on them at around lunchtime.
‘About time.’ Snell spoke with his mouth full. ‘I’ve been waiting so long I had to start my own meal.’ Several dollops of damson jam were turning the white tablecloth purplish from his sloppy efforts.
‘Just a light breakfast for me, please, Tig,’ said Eliza.
‘And me,’ said Snell. ‘Four eggs. Poached. More toast. And some of the boiled bacon from last night, if there’s any left.’
‘Yes, Mr Snell.’ Tig stepped on a little wooden bench to reach the pans hanging from the wall.
‘A little porridge will do me, pet.’ Eliza yawned, covering her mouth with her handkerchief.
‘I’ll make some for Professor Faber too, if you don’t mind,’ said Tig, scooping the oats from the dented round tin. ‘He’s a bit picky about the street food.’
‘That’s my girl,’ said Eliza. ‘Always thinking of others.’
‘About that, sister. Clearly Mr Faber’s performance isn’t working,’ said Snell. ‘We should dismiss him.’
Tig’s ears pricked up. She stood at the stove stirring the porridge and pretending not to pay attention.
‘You chose this show, Edgar,’ said Eliza, spooning sugar into her teacup. ‘People will come. Word will start to spread. It’s always the way when you show something a bit different.’ She sounded very calm and casual, but Tig knew she was seriously worried.
‘Different,’ scoffed Snell. He bit into a piece of toast, spraying sticky, jam-covered crumbs as he spoke. ‘He’s terrible – a complete disaster. We can’t be paying his fees if he’s not bringing in the audiences.’