Authors: Alan J. Wright
‘What did your missus say, Jimmy?’
‘Reckoned I’d took her there for nefarious reasons.’
‘What? The Public Hall?’
‘She said I’d only taken her ’cos I wanted to give her the screamin’ hab-dabs. I said don’t be daft, woman, you’ve got them already!’
The others laughed. The youngest of them, Constable Turner, gave him a playful nudge. ‘So did you get a cuddle late on, Jim? You know, “Ooh, Jimmy, put yer arms round me an’
make me feel safe.”’
Bowery frowned. ‘Now then, Paintbrush,’ he said. ‘I reckon that’s oversteppin’ the mark.’
‘Aye,’ murmured one. ‘He’s right there, Paintbrush.’
‘What goes on between man an’ wife shouldn’t be made a subject o’ mirth, Paintbrush,’ opined another, whose grave tones were accompanied by a sly wink to the
others.
Constable Turner, whose rank and surname had rendered his soubriquet inevitable, gave a shrug and gazed into his mug of tea.
‘So why did you take her, then?’ another of the constables asked. ‘I mean, if you knew it was that bad . . . These magic lanterns are not called magic for nowt.’
Bowery smiled. ‘Well, tell the truth, lads, I did know it was goin’ to be bad, on account of what I’d heard by the way. I’d had to move Clapper along t’other day,
rantin’ an’ ravin’ outside the hall, sayin’ it was the work of the Devil and yellin’ for all he was worth at the poor sods leavin’ the hall. I was just about to
drag him down here for a night in the cells when they all said how right he was. Said if I didn’t believe ’im, why didn’t I see for meself? So I let Clapper off with a crack round
his thick skull and bought two tickets there and then.’
They all nodded sagaciously. They knew Clapper, alias Enoch Platt. Most people in Wigan knew him, and most people in Wigan avoided him as if he were contaminated with cholera.
‘Besides, between us, like, she’d been havin’ a go these last few weeks. Reckoned I never took her out any more. You know what they’re like, women, eh?’
They all concurred, including Constable Turner, though he was as yet unfamiliar with the wiles and ways of the female of the species.
‘So I thought if I took her there and scared her to kingdom come, well, then, Bob’s your uncle!’
The man with the newspaper folded it slowly, placed it under his arm and strolled over to the table. He gazed down at Bowery and shook his head.
‘Sergeant?’ said the constable.
Detective Sergeant Samuel Slevin reached for the newspaper, a sudden movement that caused Constable Bowery to raise an arm for protection. But the newcomer smiled and carefully opened the
newspaper, pointing at the main article.
‘See that, Constable?’
Bowery leaned forward and squinted at the small print. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘What does it say?’
For a few seconds the constable’s lips moved soundlessly.
‘Aloud,’ said Slevin.
In a hesitant monotone, Bowery read: ‘There is widespread speculation that the new Blackpool Tower, now nearing completion, may well become the victim of powerful winds and collapse into
the town. However, the firm of Heenan and Froude, a highly respectable company responsible for the Tower’s construction, say that its main supporting legs will be resolutely encased in
concrete, ensuring complete safety, and that the project is on schedule for the coming Whitsuntide.’ Bowery looked up. ‘I don’t get it.’
Slevin rolled the newspaper and tapped him on the head. ‘Magic lantern nonsense? Phantoms and witches? If you want to impress Mrs Bowery, and render her terrified and speechless into the
bargain, then I suggest you take her to the grand opening of the Tower in May – escort her to its very top, all five hundred feet of it, in one of its two hydraulic lifts and let her admire
the view. That would at least be real, genuine fear, wouldn’t it? And not this lurid display of tomfoolery. It would also give her the added advantage of seeing how small we really are. Show
her the future, man. Then Bob would indeed be your uncle.’
With that, the detective left the room.
‘What the ’ell does ’is lordship know?’ grumbled Bowery when the door had closed. ‘’E wasn’t there.’
There were sympathetic mutterings of ‘Take no notice, Jem,’ and ‘Too big for his bloody boots, yon mon.’
Only Paintbrush kept quiet. It made a change, someone else getting it in the neck.
*
The Royal Court Theatre in King Street was a matter of yards from the Wigan Borough Police Station, and yet in aesthetic terms it was a thousand leagues distant. The
deceptively small foyer entrance, with its staircase hidden behind musty drapes, gave an impression of stuntedness, inspiring a lowering of spirits and expectation that was not improved by the
sight of the glass-fronted cubicle that served as the ticket office. It was barely a foot wide, and the person normally found inside serving tickets and programmes to an eager audience was
appointed not for her sales acumen or approachable countenance, but simply because of the width of her shoulders: the narrower the better.
Yet once the paying customers stepped beyond the deep velvet drapes and mounted the grand sweep of staircase to the main body of the theatre, their world was instantly transformed. The first
thing to enchant the eye was, of course, the stage itself – or rather, the heavy curtains that suggested the marvel of what lay beyond – and the splendid curves of the proscenium arch,
its tall golden columns edged with the most elaborate floral designs. But it was the splendid array of gilded boxes, richly decorated in gold and red, that confirmed the impression of opulence, and
forced the more modest patrons in the stalls to glance upwards throughout the performance and marvel at the glamour that surrounded them.
From one such box – the one reserved for the mayor of Wigan and his especial guests later that day – Benjamin Morgan-Drew took little notice of the grandeur of the auditorium; he
watched with studied impatience as the technical rehearsal was limping to its conclusion. That was the problem with touring. You were inevitably relying on the unreliable: where the script called
for ‘the sound of torrential rain’, the effects on offer (a wooden box filled with dried peas and shaken slowly) produced something akin to a light summer drizzle or the snoring of
gnats; the changes of scenery were taking far too long and were in danger of destroying the dramatic tension; and the theatre’s gas lighting seemed to have a mind – and a voice –
of its own. In his long and distinguished career, he had occasionally been subjected to the hiss of a dissatisfied audience, but for the footlights themselves to create such an audible sound of
disapprobation might encourage some of the lower orders to take up the call and turn the stalls into a giant snake pit.
As he surveyed the painted scene at the rear of the stage, he sighed and thought of the Lyceum in London, where the
mise en scène
had no equal: the marvellous effects produced by a
subtle blending of colours and lighting could create the misery and the danger of a winter storm in one moment and the dazzling possibilities of a lark-filled sky in another. But Mr Craven,
Irving’s genius of scenic artistry, was hundreds of miles away. Benjamin had to make do with coarse approximations of the play’s dramatic backdrops.
He privately gave thanks that the abominable display of childishly projected phantoms in the Public Hall across the street would almost certainly draw an audience comprised in the main of
miners, foundrymen, mill-girls and their kind. The so-called
Phantasmagoria
had been laughably described in the local newspaper, the
Wigan Observer
, as a ‘powerful source of
rivalry for the famous London touring company, and it is the opinion of this newspaper that such diversity of choice can only serve to enrich the cultural diet of the borough.’
Cultural diet! He had thought such fantastic demonstrations of hocus-pocus had long since died a natural death, and was surprised there was still a profit to be made from projecting ghostly
figures onto a screen with the express intention of alarming an audience, albeit a gullible one.
‘Tragedy or disaster?’
Benjamin wheeled around, startled by the disembodied voice behind him. ‘Jonathan! What the blazes are you doing? I could have had an apoplectic fit.’
‘Sorry. I saw you from below. Your frown was quite expressive.’
Jonathan Keele was the oldest member of the company. He had been an actor for more years than he would care either to remember or admit, and he had agreed to accompany the tour as a special
favour to Benjamin, of whom he was rather paternally fond. Some members of the company relished his reflective moments, when he would regale them with tales of Macready, whom he first saw play
Othello in Bath in ’35 and who was responsible for infecting him with the curse of Thespis, or of working with the Bancrofts at the Prince of Wales Theatre in Tottenham Street.
It had been the kindest of gestures from his old friend that the final performance of
The Silver King
should be given over to his benefit, and Jonathan had been genuinely touched by this
demonstration of affection.
Benjamin sighed and gazed back down towards the stage. Three or four of the footlights which had begun to flicker suddenly gave up the ghost. ‘Is it any wonder?’
‘Don’t worry. These things have a delightful habit of coming together. Rather like a broken bone setting, eh?’
‘Well, the simile is apt, at any rate. At least as far as the pain and the damage are concerned.’ He gave his old mentor a rueful look. ‘Worry is what I do. Worry is what pays
our way, Jonathan. Do you know how long it took those imbeciles to change the flats?’
The veteran of the stage shook his head.
‘Fourteen minutes! We had the curtain drop for fourteen unconscionable minutes! I mean, what is the audience going to do for nigh on a quarter-hour? Play I-Spy? They said it was an
impediment in the grooves and they could solve it with a drop of oil. Oil? I ask you! And we’ve got the full dress rehearsal to follow. Our
tragedy
, as you say, will be just that.
Thank the good Lord we’re on King Street, Wigan, and not Charing Cross Road! I shudder to think what
The Era
would make of us.’
It was Benjamin’s turn to shake his head. From the darkness behind him, Jonathan smiled, but placed a hand gently on the manager’s shoulder.
‘You take too much on yourself, Benjamin. All the weight of the world on your shoulders.’
‘No. Not that bad.’ He gave a smile that was hidden in the darkness.
‘Benjamin . . .’
‘Yes?’
He turned and saw the old actor bite his lip and stroke his narrow chin as if in contemplation of saying something that was perhaps quite difficult. But he merely stood there, his face
half-covered by the shadows.
‘What is it, Jonathan?’
But the moment had evidently passed, for Jonathan Keele smiled and said, ‘No matter. It will keep, I dare say,’ before turning around and disappearing through the velvet
curtains.
*
Georgina Throstle stood at the window of the Royal Hotel and felt the pain begin. It invariably began with a pricking sensation behind the eyes, as if a hypodermic syringe were
piercing her eyeballs from the inside. The metaphorical needle would then slide its way down the side of her face, rendering her cheekbones raw and indescribably tender, the only analgesic for
which was the external application of oil of peppermint and her own particular prescription from their local doctor. Yet they had forgotten to bring both the salve and the compound from Leeds, and
although Richard had shown admirable concern and a brisk determination to seek out the nearest pharmacy, when she observed him leaving the hotel he was actually sauntering along the street with his
hands in his pockets as if he were off to watch the races. It was insupportable! He had been gone an agonising half-hour and there was still no sign of his return.
Down in the street below, the fog, which had been a mere ground mist earlier in the day, had thickened alarmingly, and she watched an assortment of shoppers and street-hawkers, every one of whom
was blithely unaware of her misery and going about their business with a vulgar nonchalance as they appeared and disappeared like wraiths. God, she despised this town!
These ghostly figures somehow put her in mind of her brother Edward. She gave an involuntary shudder and turned her mind to more pleasing thoughts. If Richard’s plans bore fruit, why, they
could soon become the foremost proponents of the magic lantern in the entire country, and he would be able to purchase the latest projection equipment, perhaps buy a small theatre of their own,
somewhere in the West Riding, where they could establish a more permanent home for his presentations. After that, who knows? A grand tour of demonstrations in France, and Belgium, and perhaps even
Venice. How she would love to visit Venice!
But she had to convince him first. He had to give up the
dark business
, as she tactfully described it. There could be no more of that if they were to achieve the sort of respectability
and renown that she craved so much.
Suddenly, through the fog, she caught sight of Richard’s casual, unhurried gait. He was strolling past the Legs of Man public house on the other side of the street, when a man, dressed
quite respectably in dark coat and tall hat, emerged from the entrance and, evidently recognising her husband, approached him and extended his hand. Richard spoke at length to the stranger until
finally, bowing low to whisper some confidence in the man’s ear, he shook hands and they parted company.
By now her face was a raging torrent of spasm. The physician had told her the name of her condition –
tic douloureux
– and it was her sole consolation that she was the victim
of an affliction elevated to Parisian grandeur by its exotic, romantic-sounding name.
She had to wait an age before she heard Richard’s boots clacking along the wooden boards outside their second-floor room.
‘I’m afraid they’ve sold out of peppermint oil,’ were his first words as he ostentatiously extended his empty hands.
‘What?’ Georgina rushed from the window towards her tormentor.