The Newgate Jig

by Ann Featherstone

  'It cannot be!' cried Susan.

  'Yes! Yes!' Will returned. 'Close your eyes, Susan, and trust the beating of your heart as it answers mine!'

  Miss Jacques did just that, causing a ripple of laughter around the company. Everyone knew that she had her heart set upon Will Lovegrove, and it was a matter of some amusement that she would insist upon rehearsing, more than once, their passionate embraces. The laughter broke the order, and Mr Carrier seized the opportunity to quickly bring the reading to an end. He had few comments (none of them written down), but they were all to the mark.

  'Ladies and gentlemen of the company - my customary remark at this point in the year. You will be, of course, by next rehearsal, as my provincial colleagues express it so prosaically, DLP: Dead Letter Perfect. Now to the leads. Pay more attention to your articulation, Mr Lovegrove, and try not to over-reach yourself. Miss Jacques - more charm, less archness, if you please. We are the virtuous heroine, not the comedy chambermaid. Mr Pettifer - I pay you to be comic, Mr Pettifer, not bucolic.' And so on.

  The cast were not at all put out (except Miss Jacques, who bit her lip and tapped her foot) and allowed themselves a smile. They were to reassemble, concluded Mr Carrier, and work upon the ballets with Mons. Villechamps, and there would be costume fittings for the principals. Attend, if you please, at 2 o'clock.'

  And then he turned to me. Brutus, Nero and I had sat patiently by the side of the stage, listening, I have to confess, with great interest to Trim's dramatic work. I had been party to the ebbs and flows of his dramatic temperament as the piece was revised and rewritten, and felt that I knew it thoroughly already. But hearing it performed, as it were, in its entirety for the first time and, even more, hearing Mr Carrier say, 'And here there will be business for Brutus and Nero' and 'At this point, Mr Chapman's dogs will bound upon the stage and seize the villain by the throat,' made it suddenly leap into life.

  'Now, Mr Chapman,' he said, 'you will have, by the end of the day, a finished copy of your cues from Mr Pocock, and we will this afternoon finalize the detail of your pieces. If there is anything you require, anything at all, see Mr Pocock. I am sure you and your fine animals will be a great success. Good day to you, sir.'

  And he shook my hand, and greeted both my lads with a pat upon the head and hurried away, pulling on his gloves and signalling to Mr Lombard. I felt as important a fellow as any upon that stage! Mr Pocock, busily scribbling at his little table, was copying my cues. Mr Pettifer was admiring my dogs and looking them over as if he was a judge at a show. And Will Lovegrove, who is my friend and received many admiring glances from the company, strode over and clapped me upon the shoulder saying, There you are, Bob. Didn't I tell you! Now, let's find ourselves a decent pie-shop for our dinners!' and steered me towards the stage steps down into the auditorium, with Brutus and Nero in train. What larks, indeed!

  I had never seen the stage of the great Pavilion theatre 'undressed', as it were. Like most folks, I was used to seeing it set with scenery and occupied by actors, but to stand in the great central aisle and see the massive stage in a shambles, with properties for the evening performance covered over with cloths and with a London street scene half-suspended from the gridiron, and hear not the dramatic tones of actors' voices, but a chorus of clatters, thuds and hallooing, was strange. The half-dropped scene flew, as if by necromancy, into the rafters and was replaced by another (showing a blue sea and sky and a golden sandy shore) which rushed down from the heights of the flies and stopped, with inches to spare, above the stage floor. Palm trees made of lath and plaster appeared, and sandy-coloured hillocks, and from behind them appeared Mr Lombard, the scenery manager, with his hat clamped tight to his head, barking orders left and right. An asthmatic wheeze announced Mr Parry, the rehearsal musician, with his fiddle and a roll of music, and poor, overworked Mr Pocock was forced to relinquish his table, chair and corner of the stage and shift to the front row of the auditorium.

  'Bob, my old friend,' said Will, gently, 'I have been calling you these last five minutes! I fear you are bewitched by the stage, so I will consign you to its magic, and your noble Romans shall accompany me whilst I fetch us two mutton pies and a large jug.'

  I could not argue with him, for I was indeed entranced by the noise and activity, and besides, this was something of a holiday for me. I had even put up a sign in the Aquarium - 'Chapman's Sagacious Canines - gone to the Pavilion Theatre' - just as General Tom Thumb did when he visited the Queen at Windsor! - though I was cautious to add in small letters at the bottom, 'Back later.' And after the anxieties of the last few days, I persuaded myself that I deserved a brief ticket-of- leave, so I shifted a seat cover and settled down to watch as if I had paid my sixpence and bought my ticket.

  The stage hands, having cleared away the chairs under Mr Lombard's watchful eye, were set to their tasks - one reattaching a palm leaf to its trunk, another adding a dab of paint here and there to a boulder. A man with a face bound up with a large piece of dirty flannel, was crouching over the floats, collecting the dust and straw which caused so much trouble to Mr Pilcher when the gas was lit. Another swept and watered the floor and brushed the curtains. Everywhere I looked someone was hammering, painting, moving a property bush or hillock, all to the tune of Mr Parry, who was sawing away on his fiddle and practising his churchyard cough. Then, from the wings, appeared Mons. Villechamps, the dancing master, who clapped twice and summoned the children's ballet and their mothers, hundreds, it seemed, like a swarm of buzzing insects, all come from far and wide for examination and selection. With a whistle, Mr Lombard called off his men and they left with much muttering and shaking of heads. Now Mr Parry shifted himself to within eyeshot of Mons. Villechamps and the trials began.

  The children were tried, some in twos and threes, some singly. The good Monsieur was an exacting man and went about everything with a great deal of energy, racing across the stage, even standing in the aisle of the auditorium, and talking to himself in a Frenchy-English sort of way, putting his head first on this side and then the other. 'Theese leetle one? Peut-être.' And then some Frenchy nonsense followed when he seemed to persuade himself and then nodded. 'Oui. Yes. Bon. She ees good, this leetle one.' The 'leetle one' was a mite of perhaps four or five years with a round, a very round, pink face and golden curls like curd, tied up with a broad blue ribbon. She had no particular talent, but looked well, and her mama was mightily pleased and unable to suppress a grim smile when Monsieur said, 'You - maman- come and see me at finis. We will discuss, oui?'

  And so it continued. Monsieur liked to arrange his diminutive charges across the stage to ensure that there were no rank weeds amongst the daisies and violets. Some little ones were pointed at and summarily dismissed, with a 'You, cheveuxjustes, oui, number three. You must go. Too grosse, not 'andsome.'

  Whereupon the child - small, thin, dark-eyed - looked around her, counted, gazed at Monsieur, saw him staring at her, realized that she was found wanting and, with head hanging low and tears already pricking her eyes, scurried away to the stage side and her mama's skirts, with ten dozen pairs of eyes watching her. Her mother, a narrow-lipped, hard-faced woman, with a baby bound to her breast, and another clinging to her side, was inclined to argue with the Monsieur, but she had no more chance of bettering him than a cat in hell without claws. Her Billingsgate was no match for his Frenchy- squashing, which was given fast and loud with many 'pah's and 'foh's and good dollop of 'yagh's for emphasis.

  'She eees no gooood,' spat he. 'She eeees like elephant. So—' He stomped about the stage with his knees bent and his legs apart, his long arms dangling by his side. It was amusing, but nothing like the little creature who, though it had danced without any skill or grace, certainly did not lumber so grotesquely. And I thought it cruel to so shame the child who had tried her best, but was no coryphee. She wept as he mimicked her pathetic efforts, and the chorus of mothers and children sniggered, out of relief, I suppose, that he had not lit upon them. Finally, the mother gave up her protest, grab
bed the child by her wrist and marched her away.

  'Alors,' said the Monsieur, straightening his coat and smoothing his goatee, 'now we are rid of de animale de zoo, we can co-mmence. Les papillons, les oiseaux tropicaux, les insectes, if you pleeese.'

  Some fairies, butterflies, tropical birds and insects were very small indeed, and as the examination progressed, they became weary, and crept onto their mothers' laps and fell asleep for it was a long and tiring business.

  'Cheeldren,' Monsieur began with the new cohort, 'I would la-ike you to show me your most bee-u-ti-fool pirouette. Not like ze elephant - so.' He aped a lumbering circle of heavy steps. 'But la-ike de papillons. Now, and now, and now, and now, and now,' and drumming time with his cane whilst the mites staggered and spun like dizzy insects to the rollicking tune of Mr Parry's fiddle. At first, of course, it was a game, but soon little legs became tired and little arms cold, and there was no end to Monsieur's demands - 'be a leetle flow-er', 'make a leetle curtsey'. They were weary and fretful and it was only the iron will of their mothers (accompanied by fierce threats) which kept them there.

  Two wet noses at my hand and an odour of gravy in my nostrils signalled the return of Brutus, Nero and Will, the latter bearing two mutton pies ('Handmade by Mrs Lovett, Bob!') and a stone jar of ale. He settled in beside me, putting his long legs up on the back of the seat in front and munching vigorously on the warm pie.

  'So, my good friend, the joys of the stage, eh!' he said, between bites. 'Once you are stung by apis histrionicus, you are itching for life.' The theatre was dark, but I could hear in his voice the seriousness of his expression. 'Be careful, Bob. In the theatre, as in life, things are not always as they seem. We are magicians, illusion is our trade and for a few hours each night this little wooden platform, these foolish actors become whatever we - and you - desire them to be. But when Pilcher turns down the gas and Lombard rings down the curtain, this is no longer a sunny island and we are no longer pirates and heroes. It is just a put-together world, Bob, and not ever what it seems to be.'

  What, I wondered, had brought about this seriousness? But he said no more on the subject and turned his attention to the poor children and how they appeared 'half starved and tired to the bone', and how their mothers attended more to the shillings than to their welfare. I have a fellow feeling with Will, for like me he is given to dark moods as well as gay ones.

  I put it down to his profession: a man cannot be so pressed and agonised each night by the heroes he represents without some effect upon his spirit. So we ate our pies in silence after that, and the spell was broken.

  Once the stage emptied of children and began filling up again with the company, Mr Carrier reappeared. Miss Fleete, the keeper of the costume store, had been summoned, with her assistant, to measure the whole cast of principals for their dresses and to discuss with him (for he liked to be consulted about everything) their design and colour.

  'Ladies and gentlemen,' he began, addressing the chattering company, 'let me beg your indulgence for but half an hour whilst our excellent Miss F works her necromancy upon our wardrobe for which, as you know, the Pavilion Theatre is deservedly well known. This year will be her crowning success.' He cast a critical eye over the company and then looked about him. 'Where is Mr Chapman? And his excellent canines? Has he left?'

  Will took me by the arm and propelled me towards the stage!

  'Here he is, sir,' as we climbed the steps. 'Ship-shape and Bristol fashion - or soon to be when the divine Miss F has worked her wonders.'

  (For the second time today, I am included in the company!)

  All eyes turned as Miss Fleete approached, small and hunchbacked, with a short right leg and, because of her distortion, permanently bowing. But crooked or no, she was the mistress of her craft and created the finest, most extravagant dresses and costumes from the most unpromising materials. She had no measuring tape nor pins as she made the rounds of our company, but could eye up a leg or waist or sleeve and, quick as a Barnaby, would call, 'Mr Corben, 32 with a little,' or 'Miss Vickers, a nippy 18 but allow for activity,' to her assistant who stood quietly at her side with a pencil and notebook. That assistant is Emily Pikemartin, the daughter of Alf Pikemartin, our Aquarium doorkeeper.

  I think I am in love with Em. To see her hurrying along the street or stopping to look in a shop window, to hear her light step upon the stairs and smell the faint fragrance of linen and cotton which surrounds her, gives me joy immeasurable. And I am fortunate that I see her often, for she helps her father in the Aquarium of an evening when she has finished her day's work with Miss Fleete, and though her eyes must be sore with the close work she has been doing and her shoulders stiff with sitting all day, I have never heard her complain. She always has time for Brutus and Nero, sitting upon the stairs with a golden and black devotee on either side, talking sweetly and quietly whilst they listen and, now and again, lick her hand or put their head upon her lap. I would it were me! I would gladly kneel at her feet and listen to her soft voice and kiss her hand and never want for anything in the world ever again. But I have seen the looks she gives Will Lovegrove, secretly, from downcast eyes, and if he chances to look in her direction, she blushes very prettily and pretends to examine the hem of her dress. And he does glance often at her, and quite often it is more than a glance. When he comes to the Aquarium, he follows her about like a puppy whilst she is sweeping the floor or dusting the waxworks, and recently I have seen them walking and talking together. Of course, I tell myself that Em would love me, if she had not already fixed her heart upon Will.

  Having greeted Will (who, of course, bowed and took her hand and kissed it) and said, 'Ah, Mr Lovegrove, a fine leg, chest - well, manly - let us hazard, shall we Emily?', Miss Fleete is in a little fluster, and must smooth her dress and adjust her hairpins before she could finally make anything of me. 'Ah yes, Mr Chapman,' she said, 'shoulders 40, a short sleeve, a belt I think, Emily, if we can find one.' Emily and Will catch each other's eye and I saw, not for the first time, a rare expression upon my friend's handsome face. One that was more serious than ironic, and it made me wonder. Em bent to her notebook and scribbled hard but, I think, smiled under the amber gaslight.

  'Hello, Bob,' she whispered, and then greeted Brutus and Nero with a familiar fondness. Will was watching her, and continued to watch as she followed Miss F from the stage and opened the door for her. Then he examined his boots, and glanced at me, and muttered, 'She is a lovely girl, Bob, and dash my rags if I am not completely devoted to her.'

  I could not look at him.

  Finally, when I had spent my holiday in watching and wonder, Mr Carrier called me and my fine fellows to perform, and there was much interest in it, for most of the company lingered when they could have made tracks to the Bell and Leper. Instead, they decamped to the pit or the stage side and settled down to hear Mr Carrier describe Trim's 'dog pieces'. I had to concentrate upon Mr Carrier, for Mr Pocock's newly copied pieces were not yet to hand, and I learned that my boys must run onto a sandy shore, leap over rocks, bark at a pirate hiding in a tree, hunt out treasure buried beneath the sand (in fact, beneath the trap door in the stage), fell the villainous pirate chief to the ground and have him by the throat ('the seize', a trick all performing dogs should do, but at which many fail), open gates and carry lanterns and, finally, accompany the hero and heroine and the children's ballet in a grand and triumphal procession through the village, each dog carrying the flag of St George in his mouth! We went through much of it easily, and received appreciative applause. But there were some tricks, such as hunting out the treasure and appearing to dig for it, which would need practice. Nevertheless, I was pleased with it all, and had Brutus and Nero bark and lift their paws in acknowledgement, which was universally admired. As the company dispersed, Mr Carrier clapped me upon the shoulder.

  'Marvellous, marvellous, Mr Chapman. A remarkable display of training and obedience. I think we have a success here. We will far outshine Mr Hennessey and his pyrotechnics! When Gouffe,
our man-monkey arrives, we are complete, but you and your remarkable animals will be the stars in the Pavilion's firmament!'

  I was so proud, I felt I should burst! I was given my own parts (copied cues and the ink still wet) to take with me, and Mr Carrier shook me by the hand and then departed, talking earnestly to Mr Pocock. I thought I heard Mr Carrier say, 'Excellent, excellent, Pocock,' and imagined he was talking about me.

  The great black mouth of the theatre was now fallen silent, for there had been a wholesale exodus to refreshment houses and nearby lodgings, and the stage labourers were at their rest before the evening performances began. Only Mr Lombard and a handful of scene-shifters stomped about, dragging off the makeshift scenery my boys and I had used, and dragging on the rocks and boulders necessary for Perilous and Drear that evening. They were soon done, having turned down the gas and lowered the great chandelier in readiness for Mr Pilcher to test it. But I could have stood on the stage until the first customers wandered in, and would have done had not Mr Lombard shouted to me, 'You! Dog-man! Mind yourself!' and dropped the curtain with a heavy 'whoosh'.

  And with that, the magic was gone.

  Outside, the winter afternoon was transforming, like Mr Lombard's scenery, into evening, and with it dropped that bone-chilling cold which settles in streets and alleyways. I had not thought that the theatre passage would still be populated, but it was crowded with chattering ballet-girls and young women, hopeful of catching Mons. Villechamps and begging him to 'consider me, sir, if you have any opportunities'. Little children were there also, stamping their tiny feet and rubbing their hands and arms and waiting, waiting. There were little pockets of mothers, all wrapped against the cold, and they turned to look at me, at anyone leaving the theatre, and then turned back. I was a dog-man, of no consequence. It was as I passed the last clutch of mothers and their shivering offspring, that I thought I heard a familiar voice, and stopped to look. And saw - but surely I was mistaken - Mrs Gifford amongst them. It could not be her! And yet her tall, spare shape was unmistakeable, despite turning her back into the shadows. Trying not to be seen. But perhaps I was mistaken, for when I reached the road and looked back, I saw only the dark shapes of the waiting mothers and wisps of shadow clutching their skirts.