Newcastle may still have looked medieval, but this was a modern, prosperous city. Sloping steeply upwards from the River Tyne, from which much of its wealth was generated, it was learning to assert itself. The surrounding area was rich in coal, a priceless commodity that was ruthlessly exploited for the betterment of the few and at great human cost to the many. The black gold passed down the Tyne to keep the fires of London burning and, in turn, fuelled a roaring reciprocal trade in indigo, tallow, spices, corn, victuals, and much besides. The ships that came and went up and down the river were growing in number, and trading links were being extended ever further afield.
The merchant classes were beginning to move from the teeming, overcrowded, filthy, narrow streets down by the quayside up the hill to more elegant residences. Some, like Lazarus Bowser, had actually moved beyond the stout, encircling town walls. The defences that had for centuries protected the tightly packed community against invasions from north of the border were now being breached from within by the new men of business who saw no barriers to the commercial possibilities that a truly united kingdom offered them. Not even the war and the spectre of invasion by the French seemed to dent the confidence of the more enterprising.
Thomas Acorn had gone out of his way to make an impression on the society he was going to entertain. And to show he was more than a mere actor-manager, he had taken a large, three-storeyed house on the edge of Nuns Field, the site of the former St. Bartholomew Nunnery. The house fronted a cobbled street of similarly extravagant merchants’ homes. The expense was crippling, but Acorn calculated that it was worth it. It gave him credibility, and credibility had given him the backing of Lazarus Bowser. Also, the location was ideal for his theatre, which was on the south side of Nuns Field. Attached to a tavern, it bordered on the busy Bigg Market, a popular destination for the type of patrons he was trying to attract.
It was on the front door of Acorn’s house that Jack rapped hard to gain attention. After some minutes, the door was opened by a thin, exceedingly plain servant girl – the only one that Acorn could afford besides the cook – who, on seeing a young man standing without, put on her best smile. Her blackened teeth did not increase her allure, thought Jack uncharitably. She eyed Jack up. The man standing before her was squat and thick-set, though not fat. His dark hair was scraped back and tied with a black bow. The firm jaw and slightly large nose prevented him from being conventionally handsome. Yet the boyish smile, with dimpled chin, and twinkling, mischievous blue eyes could be called attractively disarming. Unlike Digges, he did not cut a dashing figure that immediately caught the eye but, once noticed, he was not easily forgotten.
‘Does Mr Acorn live within?’ Jack asked in the deepest voice he could muster. Frighten her with a sense of authority and she would not bar his way to Acorn and possibly his next source of much-needed income.
‘He does.’ She smiled again.
‘Good. I have come to see him.’
‘Is he expectin’ you, like?’
‘Well, no.’
‘So what’s your business?’
‘None of yours for a start,’ Jack snapped in annoyance. He did not like the thought of having to explain everything to this unprepossessing maid servant – and he didn’t think he could keep up the ridiculously deep voice for much longer.
The smile disappeared instantly. ‘It’s me duty to ask,’ she said sulkily. ‘I have orders from him. Nobody comes in wi’oot statin’ their business.’ She tried to slam the door shut. Jack instinctively jammed his foot into the disappearing gap. Hiding the pain that shot up his leg, he flashed his brightest smile.
‘I beg your pardon. I have been on a long journey and I am weary. Please forgive me.’ The door was half opened. ‘I have a letter of introduction.’ He showed it to the girl.
She looked at the letter for a few moments before taking it. She still hadn’t forgiven Jack, and was about to shut the door on him and leave him waiting outside. ‘Now a pretty girl like you with such a warm heart would not leave a young man stranded out in the cold night air.’ The grisly smile returned and she beckoned him inside.
When he was ushered into the warmth of the parlour, Jack wasn’t sure which of the two men sitting by the fire was Acorn until he noticed that one had West Digges’ letter in his hand. The man rose in one smooth movement and stood before him. He was taller than Jack. And thinner, Jack noted with a touch of envy. This helped to create the impression of grace which Jack himself was trying hard to cultivate. The aquiline face was handsome and the brown eyes piercing and shrewd. They were at that moment taking in the visitor. Jack felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Suddenly, Acorn spoke. The greeting was cool. ‘Mr Flyford. Take a seat. This is my good friend, Mr Bowser.’ Acorn indicated his companion with a flourish of the hand.
Jack gave a half bow. ‘Sir.’ Bowser grudgingly returned the gesture but said nothing, and took a loud swig from his wine glass. Jack pulled up a chair. After freezing in the coach, the reassuring crackle of the fire was a blessing. He took courage from it despite the indifferent reception.
‘Mr Digges refers to you in glowing terms. And we must heed his word, for his reputation has reached us in Newcastle.’ Which one? thought Jack. Actor, lecher or debtor? ‘He says that your diction is clear, your stagecraft is excellent, and you bring out great drama in the tragedies and wit and charm in the comedies. There seems no role that you cannot play,’ said Acorn unsmilingly. Typical of Digges to go too far. Made him sound like bloody Garrick! The sarcasm was still in Acorn’s voice when he continued. ‘There is one thing that puzzles me, Mr Flyford. If you are an actor with such bounteous gifts, why have you left Mr Digges’ theatre near the beginning of the season to come and join our humble group of players?’ It puzzled Jack too. It was a nasty little question to which he had not had the foresight to prepare an answer. For a few moments, he stared blankly at Acorn. Then the supercilious grimace on Acorn’s face galvanised him into action. What the hell – do what West Digges would do. Lie. But lie extravagantly.
‘Well, sirs,’ Jack said slowly and deliberately, ‘I have Mr David Garrick to blame for this.’ The name of the most famous thespian in the land acted like a thunderbolt from the heavens. Acorn looked astonished. Bowser sat upright in his chair. Right, that has got their attention, thought Jack as he frantically wondered how he could plausibly follow up such a dramatic statement.
‘You know, of course, that David…’ – clever touch this, thought Jack – ‘…was educated in Lichfield.’ This was common knowledge and the one fact from which he could launch into a world of total fiction. Jack waited for his audience to nod agreement. Acorn did. Bowser did not, though his interest was intense. ‘My father, before becoming a prebendary at Worcester Cathedral, held a living in Lichfield. David, as a boy and in his early manhood, attended my father’s church. Of course, he left for London, and the theatre captured his heart, leading to fame and fortune, but he has never forgotten to correspond with my father or failed to pay visits, irregular though they became because of his commitments, to our home in Worcester.’ Jack paused and tentatively looked round to see if his tale was falling on receptive ears. The enthusiastic gleam in the eyes of his audience was ample confirmation. This gave Jack the confidence to embroider even more stunning colours into the fabric of his creation.
‘On the last visit, I took advantage of a walk by the riverside with David to consult him on a seed that had been sown in my mind some months previously. I remember well the waters of the River Severn glinting in the early evening sunlight.’ At this point Jack stood and began to walk around the room. He found it easier to be expansive on his feet, and while he wandered, it gave him more time to think by painting a few irrelevant mental pictures.
‘The water lapped against the bank as a rough-hewn boat rowed past us and the great cathedral bell tolled the hour. Yet in such peaceful surroundings, I found it hard to broach the matter which was troubling me so. David must have sensed it. Don’t you think this is a gift great men possess?’ Jack glanced at Acorn in the confident knowledge that he had never met a great man in his life. For the first time, Acorn averted his eyes. This was a contest that Jack was starting to win with ease.
‘David put his arm about my shoulder and asked gently if there was anything that was worrying me. It was then that I confided in him that I, too, would like to tread the boards. He turned me round, his hands upon my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. “Jack, my boy, I will do what I can to help you.”’ God, even Digges would find it hard to better this performance. ‘“But first you must serve an apprenticeship. Travel the length and breadth of this land and learn your craft in the theatres of the provinces for two years. Then I will call you to London and you will act upon the stage at Drury Lane, and society will have another name to laud.”’ The last sentence was delivered like the climax of an epic Shakespearean speech. A dismissive wave of the hand, and Jack quietly took his seat once more. ‘The rest of my tale is simply told. David gave me a letter of introduction to Mr Digges in Edinburgh, and now I have come to your door in the hope that you, Mr Acorn, will help me further my education.’ The modest end and the touch of flattery were equally brilliant, Jack decided. Acorn would have no choice but to employ him.
There was a pause as Acorn and Bowser exchanged delighted glances before Acorn spoke. ‘Mr Flyford, we would be more than pleased for you to join our company. It may not match that of Drury Lane, but we give of our best.’ There was no trace of cynicism in his voice now. Grovelling sincerity had taken over.
‘Thank you, sir. I am sure that David… that Mr Garrick will remember your kindness to me when I pass on the good news.’
Acorn’s face lit up. He raised a hand. ‘No need, sir.’ Which translated as “tell him as soon as possible”. ‘Knowing that I am helping a fresh talent on the way to success is reward enough.’
‘Give the young man a drink.’ This was the first time that Bowser had spoken since Jack had entered the room.
‘I am a poor host indeed.’ Acorn was now all excited fluster. He shakingly poured a glass of wine and hastily pressed it into Jack’s hand. ‘Have you had any sustenance since arriving in Newcastle, Mr Flyford?’
‘I am afraid not, sir. I thought after I had made myself known to your good self that I would find a tavern and then seek lodgings for the night.’
‘I will not hear of it after your arduous journey. You will sup here and stay under my roof until suitable lodgings can be found. Unfortunately, Mr Bowser and myself must leave shortly to attend the theatre. I will fetch my daughter, Bessie. She will see to your every need.’
It was hard to ignore her bosom, teasingly squeezed up by her dress, as she leant over to replenish his glass. In fact, everything about Bessie Acorn was hard to ignore. She was no over-pretty Rubens nymph; taller and thinner for a start. Her face was chubbier than her father’s, the hair lighter brown, her mouth that bit fuller, though the green eyes had all his sharpness. In front of Acorn, she had been demure in her round-eared cap. But she was fashionably attired with panniers supporting a white linen dress with floral design, and she had an air of knowing it suited her well. Jack had hoped that in her father’s absence, she would be more forthcoming and flirtatious. Most young women of her age – Jack reckoned she was about seventeen – tended to be, once he had put them at their ease. Well, the ones he had met in Edinburgh anyway. But Bessie seemed different. Even his obvious peek at her breasts had elicited no response. He could not fault her politeness, though it was cooler than he would have cared for. His tales of Edinburgh produced disinterested smiles. In desperation, he retold his Garrick story. The enthusiasm shown by her father was not repeated.
At length, she suggested that he must be tired and that she would show him to his room, which Hilda, the servant girl, had prepared. The candle she held aloft cast shadowy figures about the darkened stairway. Jack followed obediently, his eyes mesmerised by the swaying of Bessie’s skirts. On the landing, there were four doors. She led him to the one at the far end.
Without ceremony, Bessie left him in a comfortable-looking room. A recently lit fire was blazing, though the warmth had not had time to spread. After standing by the fireplace for a few minutes contemplating his success with Acorn, he quickly disrobed and slipped into bed. Clean sheets! Jack could not remember the last time he had slept in any. Certainly not since leaving Oxford. By the candlelight, he read a few verses from the bible that his sister had given him when he had first gone up to university. In her last letter, Rachel had implored him to read it every night. He had always found it difficult to refuse Rachel anything and he had periodically complied with her wish. Though spiritually the Bible did very little for him now, he still enjoyed the Old Testament stories and knew where to find most of the “begatting” bits.
He must have dozed off for he was awakened by a light tapping on the door. The fire had burned down, as had the candle, and the bible had dropped to the floor. The door opened slowly, and Bessie stepped silently in. Jack blinked, his eyes not yet accustomed to the dim light. Bessie closed the door behind her. The dress she had worn earlier was gone, replaced by a long, flowing nightgown. At first Jack was somewhat alarmed. ‘Miss Acorn, what are you doing here?’
‘I thought you might be cold. This room has not been slept in since the summer.’
‘No. No, I am warm under these sheets.’
Without a moment’s hesitation, Bessie reached down to the hem of her nightgown, lifted it over her head and let it flutter to the floor. Jack audibly gulped. She was totally naked. Her young breasts thrust out confidently. Jack was used to fashionably plumper bodies, but there was still enough to get one’s teeth into here. ‘But I am cold. If your bed is warm, that is where I should be.’ Digges had warned him that it was impossible to fathom the workings of a woman’s mind. He had told him that they ran up flags like a sea captain sending a message from his ship. Sometimes you interpreted them wrongly, and a slap in the face was the penalty. But this? No flags. Now no clothes. What could Jack do? He did what any gentleman would do when seeing a lady in such a predicament – he pulled back the sheets and made room for her.
It was only when she started to cry out that it suddenly occurred to Jack that it might not be a good idea if Acorn found his daughter naked and sitting astride his newly arrived guest. He stopped in mid-thrust and breathlessly asked if her father might not hear them. In an aggressive pant, she assured him her father would not be back until early morning. He happily let her push him violently back down and decided that maybe Newcastle was not such a bad place to spend a few weeks in after all.