‘Rejoice, my fellow devotees of thespian delights, for the law now permits us to enjoy the same amusements as those lucky inhabitants of London, Bath, Liverpool, Manchester, or Bristol! For naturally, in the past fifty years, we have not enjoyed any such entertainments in our great town on a regular basis, every June to October, Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, at the hour of six o’clock.’
J.W.F. Hendon, The Wells Chronicler, 1788
It should be raining. It felt...wrong for the sun to shine as brightly as it did, barely any clouds marring the pristine cerulean sky. It felt wrong for the temperature to be so perfect, neither too warm, nor too cold; a pleasant breeze carrying away any unpleasantness. Birds sang, trees rustled delicately all around them. Flowers popped up in bright swathes despite the care of the minders of this place to keep it somewhat reverently bleak.
It doesn’t set the scene properly.
Ruth knew life wasn’t... Well, that life didn’t follow the rules, or precepts that ruled life onstage. She was a grown woman, not a girl—despite rarely truly feeling the former—though even as a girl, she’d known that much. Perhaps it was one of the first lessons life—Father—had taught her in fact.
Still, it felt...insulting, that on this day, of all days, Life, the Creator, the gods—whoever it was ruling the Universe—couldn’t see to it that an exception was made. That there couldn’t be a bit of atmosphere, a scene set, to honour a man whose entire life had been devoted to the theatre.
To any of us who have.
A scene such as this, a sad, sorry scene, full of grief, woe, and pain, should not be set to glorious sunshine and beauty. Ruth knew from experience such a scene should be set to shuddering thunder, and apocalyptic rain. It should be grey, and lamentable, and...mournful. In their world, anyone who attempted to discard such rules of dramaturgy would be ruthlessly mocked and summarily cast far from any place of theatrical endeavour.
Father would’ve laughed.
In fact, he would’ve been happy—might be, up there, laughing at us all—that it wasn’t so sad, and sorry, but joyful. He would’ve said that he’d specifically asked for this to be a celebration of his life, not a sad goodbye, and the Heavens were merely granting his wish. Only, Ruth wanted a sad goodbye. She wanted the world—or at the very least, this corner of it—to feel as gloomy as she did. She wanted them to know today was a sad day, not a good day.
And not solely for me.
Lifting her head slightly, she cast her eyes around the gathered crowd—which couldn’t even be considered a crowd, barely a troupe—all heads bowed in silent contemplation and prayer as the man dressed in black and white droned on with the words from his mighty book.
You’d think he’d know his lines better by now. He looks to be as old as this church.
That was another thing which sat uncomfortably with Ruth. Not the vicar’s lack of memorisation, or even his generally bored and unemotive countenance, but the fact that there was a vicar involved to begin with. That they were in a churchyard, burying Father all good and proper, when his life had been anything but, and when her father hadn’t even been a believer. In the One True God and all that. Her father, like her, and others of their ilk, was a pagan of sorts, who worshipped the old gods of theatre.
Yet apparently her father’s wishes had been unmistakably clear on the matter. The note he’d scrawled in his final days, and slipped to his solicitor, had read something along the lines of:
Suppose ’tis better to be safe than sorry. I was baptised in the faith, and should therefore exit the world according to its rites—if only for poetic symmetry. Having my body interred beneath my theatre would be most inconvenient and impractical.
Poetic symmetry indeed.
Hmph.
However, beyond the fact that she supposed there weren’t many alternatives to this particular spectacle—not like we could give him some Norse funeral—it was what Father had wanted, and therefore Ruth was here, respecting his wishes. Father had always been a slightly incomprehensible man to her, and this all was just further fodder for that fire; but then on the other hand, Ruth knew that like most of those who chose a life such as they did, he danced to his own singular tune.
Even at the end it seems.
The others didn’t seem so bothered by all this pomp and circumstance, so she supposed she shouldn’t be either. Only it had taken half a lifetime for her and Father to become...father and daughter, therefore she couldn’t really help feeling cheated in a sense, that this whole spectacle wasn’t quite...right.
Glancing at the gathered bunch of them, she took some comfort and peace in their steady presence. Some years ago, or perhaps, if they’d been in London, there might’ve been more. Perhaps the church might’ve been full, and this graveyard too, but now...
There are only those few of us who remain.
Thomas, sweet, lovely Thomas; her best friend since childhood. Looking uncharacteristically sombre, his tall, lanky form bent over, as if folding itself into his ill-fitting suit—three inches too short on the sleeves and legs, having surely not worn it since his own mother’s funeral many years ago.
Montague, in all his ghastly, sharp-featured, early middle-aged handsomeness, looking strangely at home in the graveyard.
Laurie, the Beau of the Boards as the papers—and audiences—sometimes called him, dashing as ever, his gaze seemingly worlds away as he stared into the trees across from her father’s resting place.
St John, the tiny ferret of a fellow with a heart of pure gold, sliding his hands incessantly along the brim of his hat, looking the most uncomfortable. Still young—barely two years out of his apprenticeship—perhaps he’d been spared until now the grim realities of death, and grief.
Madeleine was here too, looking as a graceful, gorgeous widow might—though she wasn’t anything of the sort. Well. Graceful and gorgeous, yes, but a widow, she most certainly was not.
If anyone might lay claim to such a title in this case, it would be Rose, the theatre’s seamstress and costumier, who had been Father’s companion since his return from London some ten years ago. Rose had been a second mother to Ruth, and had the steely strength and beauty of an ancient chieftainess, but the softness and warmth of a bright summer’s eve.
Guy was here too—their builder, effects genius, and painter extraordinaire—and Fanny, their stage manager. The apprentices, the workers, the musicians, the whole lot of them—which came to barely more than twenty, including Ruth. They ran a small, tight ship—not that we have much choice—but all of Father’s true friends were here.
Which is all that matters, here, at the end.
Vaguely, Ruth registered the vicar’s droning had ceased, and her eyes focused properly on the people she’d been examining. She found they were all staring at her expectantly, some offering encouraging smiles, and she realised this was...the moment.
It...hit her harder than she expected.
Glancing at her father’s plain coffin, there, beside the hole in the earth which would hold him for ever, she felt...the weight of the grief. Of what her life would be without him.
The weight of the goodbye.
Pushing back tears, she glanced up at the vicar, and nodded.
Men came, and slowly lowered the coffin into the ground.
Rose sobbed.
The breeze felt colder, seeping through Ruth’s threadbare gloves.
Thomas watched her.
Ruth kept her eyes on a robin perched on an ancient, leaning gravestone just behind the vicar’s right arm. The robin quirked its head, and watched her, and Ruth felt...
Lost. Alone. Strange.
Her father lay at the bottom of his grave, and she took the first handful of dirt to toss upon him, and commit him to the earth.
The others followed suit, and she kept her distance from them, wondering why she did so. Not seeking Thomas’s hand, or Rose’s embrace. Even a pat on the head from Montague, or a cheeky smile from Laurie.
Instead she stood slightly apart from them whilst they too committed her father to the earth, and glanced down at the dirt marring her glove. She wondered if it would be disrespectful to wipe it off. To toss the glove. Perhaps she should’ve taken it off to begin with.
She glanced to the robin to see if he had any wisdom to share on the matter.
He didn’t.
He did sing his little song before flying off, and Ruth stood there, in the sunshine, and perfect breeze which didn’t suit the occasion, and quietly cursed Life, God, the Universe, or the gods for taking her father from her.
Then, she silently did as one was meant to do in such a place, on such an occasion.
Goodbye, Father. I love you.
Oh, Father, how could you do this to us? How could you not tell me? And how did you ever manage to hide this from me?
Objectively, Ruth supposed she shouldn’t be so surprised. Not after the plans to buy a second theatre on the coast were abandoned the year before last. Not after the loss of some of their best touring engagements. Not after the loss of over half their company. Not considering she saw just as well as anyone else how many people came to watch their shows.
Still, she’d thought...
That all the reasons you gave me, Father, were true. That all these ‘sacrifices’ as you called them had been worth it.
Turns out, wrong is what you thought, Ruthie.
Sighing, she tried to expel some of the anger, and fear from herself, and it helped, somewhat. Well, not really, but then, right now, she doubted much would help unknot everything that had been knotted within her by the solicitor’s words.
‘Six weeks, Miss Connell. There will be nothing to hold the creditors back past then...’
Stomping her foot, and shaking her head, Ruth began walking away from the man’s office, down through the whole of town, past the rocks, the common, the lodges and hotels, back to the theatre which lay just off the ever celebrated and famous Parade. Though she wished to walk briskly, to potentially expend some of the excess terror and frustration, she forced herself to walk calmly, lest she arrive too quickly, with no idea what to say to them all.
How do you tell your family something such as this? People who’ve shown loyalty, care, and friendship. Who have believed in your dream, that...
The dream might die a quick death all too soon.
Before the season even ends.
If she’d had it in her to cry any more, that thought might’ve brought more tears to her eyes, only she’d expended them all since Father had slipped away to his next life. Losing him had been hard enough, but she’d consoled herself in some way with the idea that he would always live on in the theatre he’d built. He’d live on through what they’d all create together, only now, that too, that last vestige of him, her heritage, their somewhat guaranteed livelihoods, their haven...it would be taken from her—them all—too.
How do I tell them?
How could you not tell me, Father, that things were so dire? We’d have found a solution together...
Perhaps the most frightening thought of all was that Ruth didn’t think she had it in her. The strength, the intelligence, the...wherewithal to do what it would take to save their apparently crumbling little enterprise. She’d thought... Father had trusted her more these past years. He’d taken time to teach her so much, and yet now, she realised, she’d never fully carried any weight. She had no actual idea of what...saving the theatre would take. In that moment, she felt as if she’d learned nothing at all.
In what world am I, Ruth Connell, a theatre manager?
All she could truly say that she did know with any certainty right then, was that saving the theatre would take more than what they were already doing—obviously—because this theatre was all they had. Those few local businesses who were their patrons...had already given what they would; even if they could be called upon to contribute further, it would never be enough to save them. Besides, she couldn’t rightly go to them, and in essence, ask them to invest further in an enterprise which was apparently so indebted. She might not know much, but she knew that wasn’t very good business.
So no, there was nothing else, no other way to find such funds as she now required. No homes, no art, no money, merely that last building, and their craft, so they needed something new, and exciting, to bring in those audiences, again, and again, and—
Blast.
Walking slowly had not prevented her from arriving back at the theatre too quickly.
There it stood in all its...subdued, if not glory, then steadiness. Unassuming though it might be from here—plain white stone, squat somewhat, four stories, with large ground-level windows behind and beside a simple oak door—fading into its surroundings, all neatly renovated and unified nearly two centuries before, it was...
Like the thieves’ den in Ali Baba. Full of treasure, and wonders, hidden behind plainness, which one could access with the magic words; in this case: one ticket, please.
Ruth stood before it, the sight, the welcome of it, and the potential hidden inside, swelling and twisting within her, inspiring yet terrifying at once.
I can’t lose it.
I can’t lose what family I have left, and if the theatre closes, they will scatter in the wind.
Even Thomas.
And I...
Have no idea what or who I’ll become, but I don’t think it will be...me.
Bittersweetness invading her heart and veins, Ruth pondered for a moment walking further, perhaps going up to the common to properly take some time to think this all through, but instead, she forced herself to head around the building towards the stage door.
It might hurt to have to tell the others everything, but perhaps they could help. Perhaps they could help her unknot this. Perhaps they could think of some clever solution or perhaps...
They will abandon me. Leave now, to find something surer.
Go to join the hungry wolves who have been circling us for...some time.
One of the other companies in the environs, such as Mr Warlington’s, who’d been trying to get their hands on the licence to perform here for years.
I have to risk it.
A large portion of the anger she now felt towards Father was born from the fact that he’d kept their dire situation from her. That he’d purported to be sharing everything with her, including how to run the theatre in time, but never mentioned anything about debts this significant, or the true scale of the dwindling receipts. The few occasions she’d tried to question him on their rather small audiences, and waning bookings of other entertainment—famous singers, composers, dance troupes, even jugglers, or contortionists and so on—he’d shrugged, and pushed away her concerns, saying everything was just fine.
That they were just fine. Even just before he became ill, she’d questioned their schedule for this summer season, and wondered at how they’d manage, and he’d just said: ‘It will be fine.’
Well, it isn’t fine, is it?
Why couldn’t you tell me, Father? Why...?
It was the question which had been running incessantly through her head since the solicitor had told her of the situation, and which continued to plague her as she made her way into the building, and through the dark, sparse, empty labyrinth of tiny corridors towards the stage. Most everyone would be there, rehearsing and preparing for their summer programme, set to open at the end of the week. Typically, they would’ve rehearsed, and finished everything by now, however, because of Father’s illness and passing, there had been some delays.
The loss of their captain, so to speak, had left Ruth at the helm, and though others, stronger of mind and heart might’ve continued on without flinching, Ruth had taken some time to...find her sea legs.
I am still unsteady upon them even now.
Though recently, Ruth had to admit she had been finding work to be most distracting and useful, and would’ve much preferred to be—as she would normally—rehearsing with them, and not at the damned solicitor’s meeting.
It is done. Now you must find a solution.
Right.
Like a prisoner being led to the gallows, Ruth made her way up the steps leading backstage, nodding at the one or two workers and apprentices, buzzing about as they tried to finish the sets, props, effects, and everything else.
Reaching the wings, she concealed herself in the darkness for a moment, leaning against the thick, dusty red curtain hovering hidden at the edge of the proscenium arch.
Taking a breath, and trying to screw her courage tight, she watched them all. Her friends, all the family she had left, making their way through scenes in little groups—far downstage so as not to hamper the others’ work—as behind and around them, the sets were assembled, final painting was done, rigging was adjusted, and props were taken or given. It was a cacophony of noise and rhythm, of industry, and if not creativity, then passion.
Their main new play for the season was The Revenge of Captain Marshall, written by a talented, but derivative writer whose name, truth be told, Ruth couldn’t even recall. It was the best of the stack of ‘new’ plays Father had brought back from London on his last trip before his illness—their licence here only permitting performances of what was or would be produced at one of the licensed or patent theatres in Westminster, unless of course, they wished to submit something to the Lord Chamberlain.
Ha. That’ll be the day.
So yes, they were left with whatever they could find which trickled down from the legitimate houses. It wasn’t all bad, but neither was it...
New. Exciting. Challenging. Intriguing.
The Revenge, for instance, wasn’t terrible. There were some good things hidden within the sentiment, and cheap spectacle, really, there were. Only, it wasn’t...
Anything which will keep people coming.
Even the cheap spectacle and sentiment weren’t quite enough to truly capture the audience’s fancy. It was the sort of play which reinforced people’s thoughts that theatre—at least in this country—had lost its...soul, heart, and beauty. That all which remained now—because of the assault and rise of illegitimate theatre and the utter demise of morals and taste—was vulgar, cheap, and unnoteworthy. Usually derived from those lesser artists on the Continent, according to some.
Yet vulgar, cheap, and unnoteworthy is found first and foremost in those seemingly grand houses now; true innovation remains the province of those on the fringes...
Not that they could afford to risk such innovation here—whether by law, or lest they risk their audience, who always wanted the latest from London.
That wasn’t to say all they could potentially perform was unnoteworthy, that there truly was no good theatre left in Britain as some posited—even be it adaptations of Continental work or great novels—only that... Well, on top of all the rest, if there was something truly good, and interesting, and noteworthy—at least in Ruth’s opinion—some other company managed to snatch it up before they did. And Father would never deign to—or now Ruth wondered, risk—putting on what another company within fifty miles was.
So it was such as The Revenge for them. Its pairing with Lady Lily’s Lesson, and The Black Beast’s Return, along with the usual light entertainments—songs, dances, and music, all provided by themselves, since anyone else worth booking was, according to Father, otherwise engaged—was solid enough, but it wouldn’t...excite anyone.
What Ruth wouldn’t give to be able to produce something...
Extraordinary.
Really, she just wanted to be able to produce something. Something new, and challenging, which reflected the tumultuous and changing times they were living in. She wanted to be able to engage a dramatist, and create, not just reproduce or emulate or borrow.
Hell, at this point she’d even settle for a Shakespeare, or a Molière, which they themselves could properly play with.
Though truthfully, no one here wants Shakespeare or Molière, unless it’s a star of the London stage playing Hamlet or Tartuffe or Lady Macbeth...
And unfortunately, such stars were certainly out of Ruth’s reach.
Even further out of reach than those in the Heavens.
As so much seems out of our reach just now.
A sense of deep melancholy and uncertainty filled her heart as she continued watching them all onstage for a time, their business somewhat soothing. Until finally, her heart twisted with a pang of sudden, sharp grief, as on came the man who’d taken over the patriarch’s role usually played by her father—William, a retired London actor, and old friend of Father’s who had retired to Sevenoaks, but happily agreed to grace the boards again, his time, as he put it, not quite over yet.
And neither is ours.
Resignation more than courage pushing her onwards, she stepped into the light, and made her way downstage, so she could face all those gathered. She might’ve called them to attention, but instead she just stood there, as everyone slowly halted their work, and turned to face her.
Many she knew, could see the grimness in her; though she was onstage, she wasn’t acting, and even if she’d tried to, she wouldn’t have had the heart to be any good. They gathered around her, tension in them from whatever terrible news she would bring, assembling in a close, but not tight half-circle—Fanny behind in the pit, leaning on the stage.
Drawing in a breath, she made to open her mouth, however both her courage and her voice deserted her suddenly, even though her mind raced.
Something new.
Something good.
Something exciting.
Something unmissable.
A rousing, popular and critical success.
The thing actors’ dreams are made of.
Actors...
William...the retired actor living nearby...
A star of the London stage...
‘As you all know, I’ve just had my meeting with Father’s solicitor,’ she said, her attention on those present slipping, as her mind began to form, if not a plan, then...an idea. ‘Apparently...there are debts.’ Everyone’s faces fell, some nodding, some shaking their head, as the meaning of what she’d said took no time to solidify in them. ‘We have six weeks before the theatre is lost. But,’ she added, before the open mouths of some could produce sound, objections, questions, or anger. ‘I have a plan. If you all... If you stay, I will save this place. I promise.’
Questions, objections, anger, confusion, and exclamations sounded at once then, any restraint gone.
Yet they seemed to fade away, merely music to underscore the moment, as Ruth stood there, smiling, confidence trickling into her heart. She met Thomas’s eyes, and the smile in them boosted it even further.
I can save it. I will.
Because if nothing else, a solemn oath proclaimed on the boards, before her family, her gods, and the ghosts living here—could not be undone.
I have a plan.
Copyright © 2024 by Victorine Brown-Cattelain