Jack was in better spirits as he stood outside the theatre the next day. He was admiring the billboard, which proclaimed the evening’s entertainment. It was not HAMLET, nor the musical interlude, nor even the promise of THUNDEROUS EFFECTS that caught his eye. In bold letters across the middle ran the words: MR. FLYFORD, RECENTLY FROM THE NEW CONCERT HALL, EDINBURGH, MAKES HIS DEBUT. He, Jack, was a leading attraction! That would make Digges laugh. In fact, the letter he had penned to Digges last night would, he was sure, bring much merriment to the roguish actor. Bessie had made her usual appearance and had soon found ways to banish thoughts of Catherine Balmore from his mind. After she retired to her room, Jack had felt inspired to write to his mentor about all that had befallen him since his hasty departure from Edinburgh. His description of how he had duped Acorn, Bowser and the rest of the company with his Garrick tale would particularly delight Digges. Before leaving the house, he had given the letter to Hilda to send on the midday coach. Digges would receive it within the next few days. Jack would eagerly await the reply.
‘I had better watch my back.’ Jack swung round to see Tyler Courtney standing behind him. ‘And I thought I was the reason why the public flock to this theatre.’ Courtney was a lot taller than Jack, which helped to create a presence on stage. He still kept his youthful looks, which made a mockery of his thirty-nine years. And he was always immaculately attired in fashionable clothes and an expensive and dashing array of wigs. In fact, the antithesis of Jack.
‘Oh, of course you are, sir. I am sure this is only Mr Acorn’s way of making the company sound even grander.’
‘Mr Thomas Acorn is very adept at drumming up business whatever it takes.’ The smile had no warmth. ‘Are you nervous about tonight, young man?’
Jack shrugged his shoulders like an old trouper. ‘Not at all. I am confident I can play my part boldly.’ The truth was that he was petrified every time he stepped onto the stage yet, in this case, so much had happened to distract him since his arrival in Newcastle that he had hardly had time to worry about the opening night.
Courtney gave him a quizzical look. ‘You are the most fortunate of actors, for I always go through the most terrible agonies. I believe that without fear beforehand, I could not perform as superbly as I do.’
‘I suppose I do feel the occasional pang of worry,’ Jack conceded.
Courtney clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I am relieved to hear that you are mortal after all. I am sure that even your great friend Garrick has had a few moments of fear. Now, you had better come and ready yourself for your debut and I will do my utmost to live up to the standards you have come to expect from Garrick and Digges.’ Jack glanced up at the handsome face to see if he was jesting. There was no mischievous twinkle in the eyes. It only confirmed the opinion that Jack had already formed over the last few days: that Tyler Courtney was a fine actor, a pleasant, if egocentric, man, but exceedingly serious. Boring even. He reminded Jack of a beautifully gilded clock. Wind him up before an audience and he would stun the senses. Yet off stage, it was as though the inner workings had been removed. It still looked wonderful, but there was nothing of any interest inside.
Jack changed quickly and fled from his chattering fellow actors to seek a quiet spot in the wings. He wanted to be alone, to collect his thoughts and run through Horatio’s words in his head. He tried to fight the familiar loosening of the bowels and the trembling emptiness in the stomach. If he did not concentrate, nerves would get the better of him. He reminded himself of the unfortunate time he went on stage at the New Concert Hall and his entrance line disappeared from his head without a trace. Seeking inspiration from Digges, who was awaiting his cue, Jack had looked appealingly at the great man. All he received in return was a furious scowl. This only fuelled a wilder panic – the bone-dry mouth, the manically staring eyes and the uncontrollable wobbling of the legs. Suddenly, the embarrassing silence was ripped asunder by a rumbustious fart from the audience. The laughter that erupted gave Digges enough time to loudly whisper Jack’s words, and when the jollity subsided, the play continued as though nothing had happened.
Much was riding on tonight. A spirited performance would further bolster Acorn’s exaggerated faith in him. A poor one, and Acorn might start to question the credibility of his story. The “thunderous effects” would also add to his prestige.
‘Oot me way,’ said a gruff voice. Jack stood aside and let Tunkle, the theatre handyman, who was pushing a large wooden wheelbarrow, pass. In it were balls of lead shot. ‘Bloody stupid,’ the man muttered. Tunkle was always miserable, a state of mind which he had been born with some fifty years before. Every task he was given was carried out with copious quantities of ill grace. Why Acorn had chosen Tunkle to push the wheelbarrow was beyond Jack. Tunkle was small and scrawny, the wheelbarrow big and cumbersome. With much sighing and huffing, Tunkle positioned the wheelbarrow behind the back curtain, where several planks had been fixed at intervals across the width of the stage. Jack hoped the cracking of the effects would be loud enough to drown out Tunkle’s gasps and curses.
Turning from Tunkle, Jack saw Catherine Balmore approaching. Her high lace collar accentuated the plunge to the top of the low-cut bodice. With so much cleavage on display, it would take a very stony-hearted Hamlet not to fall for this particular Ophelia’s charms. Jack’s heart certainly gave a little flutter at seeing her again, though he felt some trepidation as she might still be angry. He was immediately reassured by the smile she flashed at him.
‘Miss Balmore.’ Jack spoke her name hesitantly. How could he put into words how sorry he felt for his behaviour?
She could see that he was struggling and she raised a dainty hand. ‘There is no need to say anything, Mr Flyford. I can see regret written all over your face. Let us say that it was the fault of strong drink.’
‘Yes, let us,’ Jack said gratefully.
‘Good. There is no more to be said.’
Though his smile of relief was genuine, he was finding it difficult to look contrite while his eyes kept slipping down to those wonderfully rounded breasts. It was to be his last pleasant experience of the night.
Jack made his entrance with Marcellus, played by young Mr Bright. They were joined by Francisco, the far-too-old and limping Mr Whitlock; and Barnardo, the deaf but amiable Mr Thrapp, who was forever missing his cues because he failed to hear his fellow actors. Jack’s heart was still thumping, and he croaked his first line. Someone from the audience shouted for him to speak up. By the time the conversation had turned to the subject of the Ghost, he had managed to find his full voice. It was to be at each appearance of the Ghost – Mr Whitlock’s nephew, Septimus Spong, wearing a long nightshirt and nightcap, the significance of which was lost on everyone save Acorn – that Tunkle was to push his barrow. The Ghost entered at the right moment. Marcellus called out, ‘Peace, break thee off. Look, where it comes again.’ Barnardo did not hear Marcellus, and in the silence that followed, the only sound that could be heard were Tunkle’s blasphemies behind the curtain (on which was painted the castle battlement) as he tried to push the barrow over the initial wooden plank. First came a low thud, followed by two more, and then, as Tunkle gathered pace, cracks of realistic thunder reverberated round the theatre. The applause and shouts of wonder from the audience were spontaneous. Tunkle, panting loudly, came back again after some enthusiastic prompting from Acorn. The noise was deafening, which meant the actors had to yell their words above the din and, because they couldn’t hear each other, they all spoke at the same time.
That was when the perspiring Tunkle tripped. He and the wheelbarrow careered headlong into the backdrop and succeeded in pulling the entire curtain down. His momentum carried him straight towards Mr Whitlock, who hadn’t the agility to move out of harm’s way, and was bumped off the front of the stage into the orchestra pit. The interior of Elsinor crashed to the ground as the barrow veered through the flimsy structure before tipping over and emptying its contents. The lead shot rolled noisily about the stage while more alert members of the troupe rushed around frantically trying to pick it up before any further damage could be caused.
As the pandemonium spread, Jack saw, out of the corner of his eye, Acorn stand on an unseen ball of shot and his legs swing unceremoniously roofwards. At that moment, amid the chaos on stage and bellows of laughter from the highly entertained audience off it, the only thought that came to Jack was that maybe Newcastle wasn’t such a good place to be after all. This impression was later given further credence when, the disastrous performance preying on his mind, he had failed miserably to rise to the occasion when Bessie had made her regular visit to his bedroom. She had left in frustrated high dudgeon.