In the small snatches between taking an empty glass and filling another, William thought of his father, who loved to invite strangers home. Though it wasn’t a wealthy house, he enjoyed offering his whisky and adding bacon to the evening gruel, even if the family might go a little short in the following days. His father loved to talk and loved to listen, and would freely offer a bed by the fire. There was always laughter, along with the whisky. These strangers often talked to the children. He remembered one making a corn husk dolly for Eliza, another telling him bloodthirsty tales of the Scottish clans.
William could almost feel his father’s presence here. He imagined showing his father his new bar room, with its flagged floor, the spirits in their bottles, the long sweep of cedar bar, the men laughing, joking and telling tales. In his letters, Father had spoken of the whole family emigrating, but after Robert’s marriage, the talk had been more of William coming home. He thought guiltily of his promise to his mother to return home after six years, but he could not leave his fine new hotel.
Even with his problems – the dray stuck in mud on the Geelong road, the cook needing another scullery maid, the back bedrooms made do with rough timbers – it felt the most natural and most wonderful thing to be running his very own hotel with William McCrae, all brand new with its proud red, white and blue sign. This was in addition to seeing the money come across the counter, and have the men who worked his claim sitting at the bar and telling him the new shaft was finally looking promising.
The Star was only one of a number of new hotels hotly competing for trade. As the wealth of Ballarat was dug up, Main Street had become a place of wonder – dirty, dusty, prone to floods and collapse, but where there was fine food, drink, accommodation, entertainment, clothes, household goods of the finest quality, tobacconists, barbers, stables, grocers, undertakers and whorehouses. With ready money, there was a lust for the newest and the finest, the best and the brightest. The drays lumbered endlessly along the road from Geelong, bringing everything the diggers might want or need. Every night, the shops, hotels and theatres were open, and on Saturday nights, the street was packed with revellers, unwinding after the week’s work.
The Star Concert Hall opened on such a Saturday night, two weeks after the hotel itself. William felt most uneasy. A hotel was a straightforward business, one that every man understood. The theatre was an unfamiliar matter of illusion, of smoke and mirrors. The potential for failure seemed large indeed.
He engaged a pianist and then had the trouble of finding a piano. McCrae had suggested an organ, which was an indication to William that McCrae knew little of the theatrical side of things, although William himself knew very little. An agent from Melbourne promised him a troupe and a play and some comical sketches, but had disappeared. William finally secured the piano, then the pianist dropped out to work for the Charlie Napier Hotel. He found another agent, who got him a commendable little orchestra of two violins, a cornet, a flute and another pianist, but they were merely an introduction to an evening’s entertainment which did not yet exist. Another agent approached him, claiming intimacy with the greats of the London stage.
‘I have a fine Shakespearean actor – Kemble – a relative of the great Kemble, the most tragic tragedian, a very class act, and one which would see the patrons pouring in, Mr Irwin.’
William had never heard of the great Kemble; in fact, he hardly knew the occupation of tragedian existed.
The agent also proposed four dancing girls, who did a spectacular dance ending with a tableau, which required they assemble on a revolving table.
‘A tableau?’ asked William. ‘What are you meaning by a “tableau”?’
‘Also known as a “pose plastique”.’
William was none the wiser.
‘They are there on the table top, Mr Irwin, completely still. The girls at this particular point are perhaps showing a little more of themselves than when they are moving, but it is completely decent because it is completely still. They are covered with a diaphanous material, which gives an effect of a high-quality oil painting. They is posed, with painted signs indicating what they represent. The signs they provide themselves. The orchestra plays, and the table is slowly revolved, so all of the girls may be seen.’
‘We run a respectable house.’
‘It’s been done in the best places in London. I happen to know the Charlie Napier Hotel has booked one in a few weeks. You’ll have the better of them if you take these ladies.’
William agreed to all the agent suggested, but when he met Kemble, he thought he looked like a tragedy himself.
‘He’s one of those men, all wisp and wan,’ he told Bridget. ‘But the agent tells me he does a fine monologue. A fine monologue to have the audience on their feet. I told him our audience is on their feet anyway, on account of having no seating, but he told me they’d be shouting and cheering. And the dancing girls are very pretty, although the cost of getting this revolving table made up is considerable.’
‘You can give me a spin on it sometime,’ said Bridget. ‘It’s probably more fun than watching those girls.’
‘It’s a treat to be watching them.’ William could see that the pretty dancing girls made her a little jealous, which was pleasing, but he couldn’t savour the pleasure, because he carried the fear of failure of the entire enterprise. Ballarat entertainment varied from the brash to the most sophisticated. He wanted to avoid the most vulgar without going too highbrow, to find a point that would have his audience feeling mightily cheered, to be talking of it afterwards, to laugh and to be warmed. He wasn’t at all sure he had the right combination.
He employed a man to post bills along Main Street, advertising the attractions of the girls and the wonders of the tragical Kemble. On the opening night, he had a man outside playing a fiddle and a small boy giving out handbills. Gradually the theatre filled with a crowd which was noisy and in the mood for a good time. There were boxes at the side, of which he’d sold a few and given the rest to friends. There were a few benches he’d had made that day, for the hall was long and narrow, being the only shape that would fit the site, and he worried those at the back would find it hard to see unless he could seat those at the front.
He felt as anxious as being down a shaft where the timbers weren’t holding. He told the orchestra to start playing. The pianist, who had a fine baritone, sang a few songs. The crowd was impatient for the dancing girls, and the rowdies at the back began shouting for them. The pianist finished and announced the dancers with a fine flourish. The lights went down and the three dancing girls emerged. There were supposed to have been four, but one took sick just before the performance. As they started their dance, it seemed to William that he could see the place where the fourth one should be. They were pretty, but William felt they should have been rather more polished in their movements. They looked not so different from ordinary girls.
The audience were satisfied, but not struck dumb, although the room got quieter as the girls climbed onto the table, showing more leg and more bosom than before. The cornet player obligingly threw chiffon over each of the three and put their names in front of them: ‘Truth’, ‘Beauty’ and ‘Goodness’ – ‘Sagacity’ being upstairs eating a convalescent flummery in one of the hotel’s best rooms. The lights dimmed and the pianist played a tune used to denote excitement, but then calmed it as the table revolved. The effect, William thought, was not quite up to the oil painting he’d been promised. At the end, the three girls got off the table and bowed to applause that was polite rather than enthused. William now had all his hopes in Kemble.
‘I’m hoping that one isn’t completely overcome with goodness,’ Danny Phelan was heard to remark as ‘Goodness’ left the stage. ‘She looks the sort of girl that might enjoy some fun.’
The scenery for Kemble looked as if it had been quickly and cheaply painted, which it had. William had thought the stage light would be forgiving, but it tended to emphasise where the carpenter had joined the painted column in the middle, and the
crack running down the painted flower garden. The lighting was supposed to work so that when Kemble came on as Othello, the audience would only see that half of his face which was painted up as the Moor and that part of the costume which was Moorish. But from part of the floor it could be clearly seen that half his face was made up black, the other white, and that he wore half the costume of the Moor, half of a nobleman. With the black side of his face to the audience, he began, ‘Her father loved me, oft invited me . . .’
‘Two dinner guests for the price of one,’ came a voice from the audience.
‘Still questioned me the story of my life . . .’ Kemble’s stage voice had a lisp that hadn’t been noticeable in ordinary life. William winced.
‘From year to year – the battles, sieges, fortunes that I have passed . . .’
‘Youeth wouldn’t see them if you twipped over them!’ called a heckler, mimicking the lisp.
Kemble stumbled through Othello’s soliloquy. There was a short roll of dramatic music from the piano, and he flicked his head and turned so the white side of his profile and the other half of his costume were on display. There were groans from the audience.
‘Iago,’ announced the pianist, with another flourish.
‘Othello seeks to hide the grisly news . . .’ began Kemble.
‘You are the grisly news!’ came a shout from the audience.
William could not bear it.
‘Grisly? He’s limp!’
Someone in the audience threw a flummery which landed on the actor’s head, and this perfect hit encouraged a shower of other missiles. Kemble slunk off to a chorus of shouts and groans.
‘Start playing,’ said William to the pianist. He ran out to the dressing rooms, where Truth, Beauty and Goodness were changing. ‘Girls, an extra ten shillings each. I want you to do something a little more spirited.’ He noticed Bridget standing to the side of the hall with her father. He was convinced she would scorn him for this ignominious failure.
He found Danny Phelan. ‘What was that song young Harry was singing the other night?’ Harry was one of their digging party who had a musical bent. ‘The one about the traps. Can you find him?’ And although Danny had been one of the chief stirrers and groaners, he found Harry, got him a necktie and coat, and pushed him up on stage, just as the pianist was finishing his repertoire.
‘The tune of “Wearing of the Green”,’ said William to the pianist. ‘You may need to help him along a bit.’ Young Harry looked stunned, but as the tune began, it seemed to William he took on the aspect of a performer with which he had often entertained them around the campfire. He looked out into the audience with an engaging smile and started singing loud and clear.
Oh! Paddy dear and did you hear,
The news that’s going round,
The traps are going out again
Upon Eureka ground.
The licence fee they hunt us for
And chain men to a log.
They take the fine and all the rest
And spend it on their grog.
A cheer went up from the assembled crowd, all of whom were diggers, many from the Eureka lead. The orchestra began playing, the violins in the style of Irish fiddlers, which upped the pace and had the audience tapping.
Oh! I met with Mickey Riley
And he took me by the hand.
He said, ‘I have designs for you
That will protect our gang.
You take my wifey’s dresses
And you change behind that tree
The troopers will have no idea
A digger that you be.’
The audience were laughing now. They laughed harder as the girl Truth appeared and tied a skirt round Harry’s waist and a shawl round his shoulders, reaching up sweetly to put a bonnet on his head. Beauty came on, wearing a trooper’s hat and the sword worn by poor Kemble’s Iago. It seemed to go to young Harry’s head, for he started to sing high, in a parody of a woman’s voice, and to mince across the stage.
Oh! I said I was uncertain,
This is something that I fear,
That I’ll be mocked in women’s clothes,
To keep the troopers clear.
Our claim is very dear to me
And I don’t have a shilling.
I said to any lengths I’d go
I’m not so sure I’m willing.
The crowd was clapping and cheering and stamping.
‘They got their Irish up,’ said Danny Phelan.
Goodness was on stage now, dressed as a digger – very fetchingly, William thought. The girls seemed more real in this drama than on their revolving table. Beauty the trooper looked lovingly at Harry and was given groans from the audience. Goodness kept popping her head up, as if she was coming out of a shaft. ‘Traps! Traps!’ she called.
Oh! Mickey did persuade me though
And togged up nice I was,
And then the troopers all came down
But one fell straight in love,
He looked me in the eye and said,
‘I fancy you my lass,’
I looked him up and down and said,
‘I don’t walk out with traps.’
William caught Bridget’s eye. She smiled across at him, seeming proud that he had made it happen.
We had no trouble from thereon
With that there licence fee,
But how that trooper courted,
Now he wants to marry me
He says I have most lovely eyes
And perfect rosy skin,
He bought me ribbons for my hat
And next a wedding ring.
Harry and the girls took a bow and the audience cheered and shouted until the song was sung again, and then all joined in the usual version of ‘The Wearing of the Green’. Then the orchestra played an Irish jig, and Danny Phelan, who was a big man, boasting fourteen stone in weight, danced it on the stage, surprisingly light and fast on his feet and an enchantment to his audience, this talent of his being previously unknown to them. Others got up and sang songs from their own parts of the world, an Italian giving a very pathetic melody which brought tears to the eyes though no-one understood it. There were some English songs too, but mostly the Irish ballads. The people seemed to have forgotten they’d paid to see a Shakespearean monologue and were most satisfied with the evening, especially Harry, who from that time onward was more interested in singing and songwriting than he ever had been in digging.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Bridget, ‘my Daddy’s wanting to go back to Geelong, and I’m not wanting to go, so I might come and work for you at this fine hotel.’
‘And will you marry me?’
‘Don’t get confused between the notion of work and marriage,’ said Bridget. ‘I’ll help you with the theatre and in the bar, and write notices for the paper and take the grouch off McCrae’s face. I think you’d find that more useful than a wife.’
William didn’t agree, but he found she had a talent for booking good acts and that she wrote the advertisements they placed in the paper with a fine turn of phrase – ‘To lovers of wit, humour and harmony, over a cheering glass of the best liqueurs in Ballarat’ or those ‘addicted to an hour’s lounge – not without cigars or cognac’. It was her way of putting it, William said, that made people want to come.
She booked a troupe of Lilliputian actors (‘That’s midgets, Billy’) against William’s better judgment. They enjoyed a good run, able to make comedy out of any tragedy. ‘Comedy is always better,’ Bridget said, because she loved to laugh herself. Next she booked a one-legged Irish gymnast. ‘As remarkable for his fund of jokes as his dexterity with his missing limb’, she wrote on the bill.
‘I didn’t lose the leg,’ the gymnast explained to the audience, ‘it was stolen from me, by another gymnast – that one what bills himself as the three-legged Irish gymnast.’
The audience roared.
‘However,’ he went on, ‘the leg pines for me, and at times he finds his way back to me. And though we a
re now forever separated, we have a drink or two to celebrate being together again. Truth is, both having sorrows, we rather like to drown them. We have the habit, my leg and myself, both to drink until we’re legless.’ Upon which he would do a little somersault, and come up with another story.
‘We’re Irish as Irish,’ Bridget said, ‘that’s what you seem best at, Billy.’ It was true: even when he deserted the Irish comicalities and low-comedy effusions for the high-class acts such as soprano Catherine Hayes, he could proudly and truthfully advertise her as world-renowned, and Irish too.
* * *
August 23, 1854
Dear son William,
I was going to take Elisey to a Doctor Brown. Her eyes has beat all the Doctors in our country. I have spared no expence with poor Elisey, but all is in vain as yet. I got a cord in the back of hir neck 18 months ago and she was as well as ever. She was to June last and then she went to the moss to lift turf, and with the stress of liftin one day, the eye strings was hurt.
So from that to this, she is labouring under great pain. I got another cord in her neck in the month of August, but found no relief.
I have nothing of importance to write to you, but the whole cry is the potates will leave the nation, and oh, what will the poor do? We see it in the faces of the poor at present. Your old schoolfelo was at home all summer, James Galwaly, but has got a school at last, at a place called Glass Logh at 25 pounds a year.
I forgot to let you know that Cull is going to lay all his money in mail and I have the thought that he will duble his money in so doing. If you were here now, I wood advise you to do the same. You might live a genteelmany life all your days . . .
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