‘Did you not speak to it?’ Tyler Courtney as Hamlet enquired.
‘My lord, I did, but answer made it none…’ Jack spoke the lines with an excited nervousness. As he had wandered aimlessly round the cold, filthy, noisy streets of Newcastle that day, he had had time to contemplate his immediate future. The wheels of his thespian career had fallen off and he had been thrown into a ditch from which he could see no way of clambering out. He could not return home. His father had disowned him and, like most good Christians, he would not welcome a repenting sinner returning to the fold unless he could gloatingly remind Jack of the heinous errors of his ways. Besides, Jack was damned if he was going to admit defeat. So where was he to head the next day? Edinburgh was out of the question, too. Anyway, he swore he never wanted to see that man Digges again. ‘…yet once, methought, it lifted up its head, and did address itself to motion, like as it would speak…’ Eventually, he had decided to go where the first coach out of town the next morning took him. Fate would have its head. Barnard Castle. He had never heard of the wretched place. That was the last time he would trust to fate! At least he would be safer, if poorer. His one regret on leaving Newcastle was that he would never get the chance to persuade the fair and desirable Catherine that his charms were worth succumbing to.
During the play, the only thing that had kept him going was the thought of the potentially dangerous liaison with Bessie. What delights did she have in store for their final romp? ‘…but, even then, the morning cock crew loud…’ Despite standing in front of this large gathering, he was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress the hardness that was imperceptibly expanding in his nether regions. ‘…and at the sound it shrunk in haste away, and vanished from our sight.’ Jack blushed a touch. Bessie had said something similar to him last night, though not phrased so poetically.
Hamlet looked doubtful. ‘’Tis very strange.’
Not half as strange as the day I have just spent, thought Jack, as he launched into his next speech. After leaving Acorn’s house, he had gone to great lengths to avoid anyone who might know him, and had arrived at the theatre only minutes before the performance began. At the entrance, he noticed that the billboard had various deletions. Scrubbed out were THUNDEROUS EFFECTS and MR FLYFORD, RECENTLY FROM THE NEW CONCERT HALL, EDINBURGH. A short career, indeed.
Having successfully negotiated the rest of Scene Two without any further sexual thoughts, Horatio, along with Marcellous and Barnado, was about to take his leave of Hamlet when a voice from the audience proclaimed loudly, ‘What a travesty!’ The distraction had an immediate effect. Instead of the three actors saying in unison ‘Our duty to your honour’, the words came out like cracks of erratic musket fire.
‘The Bard will be turning in his grave.’ This was the voice from the audience again. Jack could not help the feeling of déjà vu.
Unlike Digges in a similar situation, Courtney stopped. Jesus Christ, all he has to do is utter one more line and Jack and the others can get off the stage. Instead, they just stood around like unwanted guests at a wedding.
‘This is not high tragedy, this is low melodrama.’ Through the semi-darkness, across the candlelit edge of the stage, Jack could make out, standing on the benches, a stocky man in a fashionable powdered wig, long dark coat and a lighter coloured, knee-length waistcoat. As Jack’s eyes grew accustomed to the dim light beyond, he noticed the man’s most distinctive feature: ridiculously thick eyebrows, which almost met above the bridge of his nose. And the voice; as clear and resonant as a church bell tolling in a quiet village. He was certainly no stranger to speaking in public.
At last, Courtney spoke. ‘The only low thing I can see in here, sir, is you.’ This brought some appreciative laughter from the benches and round the gallery. Tonight’s audience had not yet consumed enough ale to be obstreperous. ‘The only theatre where you may witness a performance to equal this one is Drury Lane. Therefore, I suggest you take the next coach to London.’
‘I have no need, Mr Courtney. And neither do the good citizens of Newcastle. If they will just make the short journey down to the Moot Hall, they will see the true quality of Shakespeare. Our performance of MacBeth will commence in but half an hour.’
Jack had never seen Crichton Thirsk, but now he did not need anyone to tell him that it was the rival theatre manager standing behind the candles. For damnable cheek, this performance took some beating. The crowd around Thirsk moved uneasily. At that moment, Jack was brusquely pushed to one side. Acorn strode to the front of the stage. It was plain that he was seething. ‘Get out of my theatre!’
‘Ah, what character is this? Such a black rage. Methinks Othello has wandered into the wrong play.’ This time the laughter was on Thirsk’s side.
‘Thirsk, you are a charlatan, a liar and a blackguard! If you do not leave my theatre this instant, I will throw you out myself.’
Jack could not believe that he was seeing Acorn’s emotions so out of control. Gone was the cool, supercilious, calculating man who had ruthlessly dissected him that morning. The Acorn that stood in front of him now was literally quivering with fury. And the audience was loving every minute of this confrontation. For sheer drama and entertainment, Hamlet could not compete.
Thirsk remained totally unruffled. ‘I will leave peacefully.’ There was a groan of disappointment. The crowd wanted more. ‘First, however, I would like it to be made known to the gentlemen and ladies present that the admission price for my production of MacBeth at the Moot Hall is only a shilling.’ An appreciative murmur rippled along the benches. ‘I believe that to be half the cost that many of you have paid to witness this rubbish.’
Even in his extremely agitated state, Acorn could see that this could lead to the disappearance of his audience, his backer and his theatre. ‘Ninepence! Everyone who has paid more will receive the excess monies back at the end of the play.’ This produced cheers.
Thirsk stroked his chin with a stubby hand. ‘Sixpence.’ A gasp this time. Like a branch that has reached breaking point in a strong wind, Acorn snapped. He leapt from the stage and clattered his way through the seating to where Thirsk was standing. Accompanied by cries of ‘A fight, a fight!’, Acorn grabbed his tormentor and dragged him towards the entrance door at the back of the theatre. From his vantage point on stage, Jack could see the early scuffling. As the spectators rose from their seats to get a better view, he lost sight of the warring managers. Judging by the noise, Thirsk was starting to defend himself. The door burst open and the protagonists and much of the audience spilled out into the darkness. The actors were left stranded on the stage. They were now the spectators.
It was Acorn who emerged the victor. He strode back into the theatre, his coat dishevelled, and acknowledged the cheers of those who followed him in from outside. The “hurrahs” were taken up by the ones who had remained behind. Flushed with triumph and more composed than a few minutes before, Acorn mounted the stage. He let the applause continue and then made great play of calling for quiet. When silence was finally achieved, he paused, then spoke. ‘Dear patrons, you certainly receive your money’s worth at the Theatre in the Bigg Market.’ Loud cheering and laughter. ‘The sport that you have just witnessed, though not mentioned in tonight’s programme, is gratis.’ More raucous laughter. ‘I will make good my promise. All those who paid over ninepence will be reimbursed.’ Cheering. ‘What is more, I will pay for a drink for every person gathered here now.’ The cacophony that greeted this offer was deafening. To prove the point, he pulled out a bag of coins from his coat pocket and dangled it above his head.
When peace was restored: ‘With your permission, I will change the order of tonight’s entertainment. First, we will quench our thirsts, then we will have our musical interlude before continuing with the second half of Hamlet.’ No one seemed concerned that leaving out a quarter of the play might ruin the story. Certainly not Jack. He was out of the theatre more quickly than a hound that’s picked up a bitch’s scent.