Layton had a hard time imagining Mrs. Hodges as a contortionist. These were acrobats whose bodies seemed to be made of India rubber; they could be bent and stretched into incredible positions. There were back benders and front benders, and Layton had seen many perform in the Dorchester Place of Varieties while growing up.
In contrast, Mrs. Hodges must have weighed three hundred pounds. She boasted that she’d once been a back bender; she could bend over at the waist until she looked like the letter U and even extend her head under her crotch. A great crowd-pleaser, she chortled. As she wheezed up the staircase, she stopped to show him her photo on the wall. He wouldn’t have known it was her. The girl in the picture was skinny as a rail, painted head to toe in silver paint and wearing a turban.
“My stage name was Alethea. Had good notices in the Music Hall and Theatre Review.” Mrs. Hodges recited proudly: “Alethea, a beautiful and faultlessly developed girl, is a contortionist whose poses never offend modesty or humanity. All she does is graceful and picturesque.”
They continued up, Layton shaking his head quietly at the ravages of time. He was a little worried she’d lose her balance, fall backward, and roll down the stairs like a boulder, crushing him.
“Now, Mr. Owen,” Mrs. Hodges gasped over her shoulder. “I like letting rooms to scene painters. They’re a rum bunch; don’t make no trouble and don’t drink.”
The last part of the sentence jerked Layton’s head up as if it had been pulled by a string. He didn’t know if he could stay sober in Nottingham. There were at least two pubs on every block. Already, on the way to Mrs. Hodges’s, he’d stood Roy a drink as a gesture of friendship—the boy had turned out to be the nephew of Roger’s mate. He just had one pint, but his mouth watered for another.
“Besides stage craftsmen, my house lets only to first-rate artistes.” Mrs. Hodges spoke with great pride, as though King Edward VII himself roomed there.
Layton nodded, recognizing the term. Roy had begun to give him a primer on theatre etiquette. Always call the performers artistes, never actors or actresses—those terms were an insult. Always flatter them and kiss their arses, Roy added, for they had fragile, sensitive egos.
“Here we are,” gasped Mrs. Hodges, pushing open a door. The room was charming. Theatre bills and photos, most of them of Mrs. Hodges in her prime, covered the walls. “You’ll be next door to Spring & Spring, the Champion Acrobatic Barrel Jumpers. They’re just back from an engagement at the Gaiety in Birmingham. If ye hear some thumping around, it’s them trying out a new routine.”
The room held a bed with an orange-and-blue quilt, an upholstered easy chair in front of the fireplace grate, and a tall window overlooking a garden.
“Yes,” Layton said softly. “This is very jolly, Mrs. Hodges. This will do fine indeed.”
She handed him a key and turned to the door, trailing a finger over an old photo of herself. The girl in the photo smiled up at the camera, a saucy gleam in her eye. “Mr. Owen, that review wasn’t quite correct about my modesty. With all the positions I could bend into, I was a favorite of the gentlemen, if you know what I mean.” She cackled and slit her eyes at him slyly. “I’d put a pound to a shilling you’re a bit naughty too.”
“No, not the least bit.”
“I believe you… Millions wouldn’t. Come down for a cup of tea after you’ve settled in.” She left.
Layton set down his suitcase, stretched out on the bed, and rubbed his hands over his face.
“Owen,” he intoned softly to himself. “My name is Frank Owen. My name is Frank Owen.”
• • •
The sidewalks along Merton and Ward Streets throbbed with people, all illuminated beneath the lights of the Grand’s marquee. Men in top hats and evening dress, escorting women in great finery, mixed with working-class men and women in the shabbiest of clothes. Constables stood at the curbs to ensure the crowd was orderly, while beggars and prostitutes worked the perimeter of the throng. Carriage after carriage pulled up to discharge its passengers; “cab glimmers,” little boys who opened carriage doors and helped the ladies out for a few coppers, ran up to them in packs.
Layton threaded his way through the mob to the gleaming doors. This was probably the only time he’d ever use them, he thought ruefully. Inside, he stood in the entry foyer and looked up. A beautiful railing of bronze metalwork bordered the dramatic circular cutout in the ceiling. The space was sumptuous, with red granite floors and a wide, white marble staircase that swept up to the dress circle, the first balcony level.
From designing the Britannia, Layton knew that designing a theatre was a class-conscious exercise. While the social classes deigned to mingle on the sidewalk, inside, the strictest of class divisions were maintained. Only those men and women sitting in the best upholstered seats in the house—the stalls at the front of the auditorium and the dress circle—were allowed through the sparkling foyer. The other patrons had their own entrances and exits, designed in such a way that the classes need never meet. Even the toilets and bars were separate.
The highest balcony was the gallery, and its tickets were the cheapest: one bob to sit on wooden benches. Called “the gods” because the seats were closer to heaven than the stage, it had its own plain staircase for the long climb up.
Standing next to the staircase, the house manager, Oswald Black, wore white tie and tails and greeted the upper-class patrons with a toothy smile and hearty handshake. When he spotted Layton, he motioned to a uniformed usher, who gestured Layton forward with a white-gloved hand. To his surprise, Layton was led to the expensive stalls at the front of theatre and given a program and an aisle seat in the fifth row. Of course, he thought; as a scenic artist, he needed a close-up view of the backcloths.
Out of professional habit, Layton craned his neck, trying to take in the complexities of the space. With the house lights on, the plasterwork on the faces of the balconies and boxes exuded a creamy golden glow, which contrasted wonderfully with the royal-blue velvet of the seats. He took in all the details—automatic tip-up seats, bronze light sconces inside the boxes, the beautiful ornamentation of the great proscenium arch framing the matching royal-blue tabs of the main curtain. Matcham was indeed a genius. He could take an immense space and make it into a cozy and intimate world of fun, a welcome escape on a rainy, damp night.
Rising to take off his coat, Layton looked behind him at the pit. This section of bench seats, located under the balcony, on the other side of the low wooden wall behind the stalls, was already packed to capacity with working-class types and a few toffs in top hats slumming with their inferiors. Their seats were the next cheapest in the house. Although they were on the main level, they were far from the stage and had terrible sight lines.
At five minutes to six, the orchestra emerged from a passage beneath the stage. Mr. Broadchurch appeared next, in elegant evening dress, and smiled at the people in the stalls. To the left of the proscenium arch, in a square opening in the stage wall, was a white card with a red number corresponding to the numbered acts on the program. First was the overture. The orchestra started the evening with a lively John Philip Sousa march.
A gentle ripple of applause greeted the end of the piece, and the number board changed from 1 to 2. Then the curtains pulled away, and with a crashing of cymbals, the orchestra broke into a loud, stirring piece. A beautiful white horse galloped onto the stage, ridden by a woman the program described as “Agnes Krembser, Incredible Female Equestrian Juggler.” She was lovely, with flowing brown hair, and wore a red foxhunting habit with a black top hat. A set of gold hoops looped over her shoulder. She smiled and waved to the crowd, which cheered wildly. Then, letting go of the reins, she began juggling the hoops as the horse galloped in widening circles on the stage. Five hoops flew higher and higher; it was an amazing feat, and even Layton started cheering.
He was so caught up in the performance that he almost forgot to look at the backcloth. Displayed before him was a country scene, mimicking a foxhunt on a great estate. The art was passable, Layton thought, though he would have put a mansion on the hill, overlooking the hunt.
Agnes rose to stand upon the horse like a bareback rider in the circus. Without losing a beat, she continued to juggle. The audience went mad. From this close up, Layton could see the intense concentration on her face. Her assistant stood to the side; he passed her bowling pins to juggle, then flaming torches. The audience roared in delight as, sitting forward astride the horse, she juggled the sticks of fire. Finally, she brought the horse to a halt, leapt off, and bowed. The horse lowered his head and bowed too. The tabs closed, and—to the audience’s delight—the horse poked his head through for a final ovation.
The number board changed to 3, and the tabs pulled back. A new cloth had descended. Out from stage left came Perky O’Shea, the “Irish Jester,” a diminutive comic in a red-and-white-checked suit. “Hello, Nottingham ninnies!”
“Hello, Perky!” the audience screamed back.
The comic pointed to a man in the stalls a few seats away from Layton.
“You, sir, with the flesh-colored hair. Don’t look at the program. Me name’s Perky O’Shea. Oh, the man doesn’t believe I’m Perky O’Shea. If I’m not Perky O’Shea, then I’m havin’ a hell of a good time with his wife.”
The audience roared with laughter.
“Speaking of wives, me mate was sitting in a restaurant with his, and there was this bloke, roaring drunk, at a nearby table. He says to his wife, ‘Why do you keep staring at that man? Do you know him?’ ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That’s my ex-husband. He’s been drinking like that since I left him seven years ago.’ Me mate says, ‘That’s amazing. I didn’t think anyone could celebrate that long.’”
On and on the little comic went. Layton’s eyes drifted to the cloth at his back; this was a front cloth, which dropped directly behind the tabs, giving the stagehands time to arrange the set upstage for the next act. Someone had painted a large caricature of Perky, along with shamrocks and musical notes.
“We Irishmen aren’t great song writers,” Perky continued. “We can never get past the first two bars. But we can sing and dance a bit.”
From the gallery high above, a belligerent voice screamed, “I’m Irish, and me brother once wrote a song, you bastard.” The speaker hurled a bag of fish and chips along with his comment, which landed at Perky’s feet. The comic picked up the bag and took a bite of a chip.
“Delicious, but needs a lot more salt and a little more vinegar.” The orchestra struck up a tune, and Perky danced around the stage with admirable skill, eating the fish and chips as he capered about.
For the fourth turn, the tabs parted to reveal a man in a beret and smock next to an easel. The backdrop for Professor Armand, Artist Extraordinaire, was painted to look like a typical Parisian attic garret with a large skylight. Holding a palette, the performer bowed to the audience and proceeded to paint with great rapidity a still life of a bowl of fruit next to a vase of red roses. The orchestra played a soft minuet; the audience sat in silence, transfixed by this artistic feat. Layton thought the painting damn good, especially for less than ten minutes’ worth of work. The man must have been an academically trained painter and could have done a much better cloth than the one behind him.
An all-white cloth came down then, and the footlights turned off. A beam of white light projected onto the cloth from somewhere in the back of the auditorium. A title card appeared on the cloth: THE LATEST WAR PICTURES FROM ASIA. Blurry black-and-white moving images played out a sea battle in the recent Russo-Japanese War. A battleship’s guns blasted away. Between pictures were title cards describing the action. The orchestra played a loud, stirring martial tune to accompany the exciting images.
Layton was amazed. He’d heard of such moving pictures but had never seen them in person. It was an amazing sight, like he was in the midst of a great battle on the deck of a ship. Russian officers on the bridge gave commands to their sailors. Returning shell fire from the Japanese ships crashed into the sea, sending up explosions of water. It was like a photograph had magically sprung to life.
Another title card appeared, announcing, A TRIP THROUGH SWITZERLAND. Taken from the front of a moving locomotive, the film showed views of mountain scenery in the Alps; it ended when the train entered a great tunnel cut through a mountainside. DAMASCUS TO JERUSALEM was the last segment, showing the Holy Land, real Arabs, camels, and an oasis in the desert. For that segment, a mysterious, haunting French horn solo was played.
Layton sat, astounded. He felt as if he’d been lifted out of his body and transported around the world in the blink of an eye. He didn’t want the films to end.
The last turn before the interval, called the bottom of the bill, was the second most important act. Here were Nellie, Kellie, and the Two Gents. Just as Albert Stone had said, Nellie was a saucy little number, a sweet soprano and delightful on her feet. The group performed in front of a garden scene with a great fountain. Both Nellie and Kellie showed a lot of ankle onstage.
Perhaps two minutes into their turn, chaos erupted. Two well-dressed women in the dress circle leapt to their feet and started screaming, “Votes for women!”
Layton blinked, shocked. In prison, he’d heard about suffragettes. But to see them in person! The ushers dragged them from their seats, the audience booing and cursing on all sides. The women continued to bellow at the top of their lungs as they were carted off.
“Shut your gobs, you screaming monkeys,” yelled a man in the gallery.
“A woman’s smaller brain makes her incapable of voting,” a man two rows behind Layton said smugly to his companion.
“What would you do with the vote, you bleedin’ cow?” another man shouted.
“Same as you,” shouted one of the women.
Instead of stopping, Nellie and her troupe kept singing, ignoring the protesters. The crowd admired their determination, and they closed to thunderous applause.
At the interval, the orchestra played, and patrons went to the bathroom or to one of the bars. Alcohol sales were one of the theatre’s primary sources of income. For the stalls, the bar, a magnificent wood-carved edifice with scarlet carpeting and a huge marble fireplace, was behind a glass wall off the front foyer.
While Layton sipped a Glenfiddich, he was surprised to see so many women laughing and drinking in the bar. When he’d designed the Britannia, no respectable woman would have been expected to use the bar. Times had certainly changed while he was in prison. The vote for women! Layton had read in the paper there was a group called United Against the Corset. He smiled at the thought. Edwina would never join them. What decent woman does not wear a corset?
Swirling the golden liquid in his glass, he wondered what else was different in this new world he had rejoined.
“I hope you’re paying close attention to the cloths, Mr. Owen.”
It took Layton a moment too long to realize this comment was addressed to him. He cursed himself mentally; he had to learn to respond when someone addressed him as Owen. Turning, he saw Mrs. Mapes, dressed in a beautiful lavender gown trimmed with white lace. He was so taken by her looks that, at first, he couldn’t reply.
“It’s been very difficult,” he finally stammered. “You book some wonderful acts, Mrs. Mapes, so I’m tempted to look at them, not the cloths.”
This pleased her. She took a sip of her drink and smiled.
“Each turn is a separate production unto itself, Mr. Owen. The trick is to make a balanced bill. Each act has to play its part in building the show to a climax.” Her eyes twinkled. “I have to do that each and every week…for the entire circuit.”
“You do a fine job of it,” Layton said. “I have never enjoyed the music hall as much as I have tonight.”
“Thank you.” She waggled her drink at him and said, “Oh, and it’s called ‘variety theatre’ nowadays. Variety is respectable and meant for families, not like the rough stuff in the old music halls. No drunks and whores allowed.”
“I look forward to the second half.”
“You don’t seem like a theatrical type, Mr. Owen.” Mrs. Mapes held him in her steady gaze; he could see the quick intelligence in her vivid eyes.
“Just a country boy from Dorset,” Layton said easily.
“By way of Eton?” She arched an eyebrow.
Layton laughed nervously. “Grammar school boy, Mrs. Mapes, grammar school boy.”
“Is that where you learned to draw?”
The house lights started blinking; the second half was about to begin. Saved from having to evade the question, Layton smiled, said good night to Mrs. Mapes, and finished his drink. The whiskey tasted magnificent and warming, and he had hoped to order one more before the end of the interval. It was probably a fortunate thing to run into Mrs. Mapes to stop him, for he knew he was playing with fire each time he drank. If he wasn’t careful, it would ignite a craving he couldn’t control, and he’d find himself back at the pub, then passed out in the gutter like in Wragby.
The second half of the show was equally entertaining. A magician named Shang Hi appeared in front of a cloth depicting the Great Wall of China, and a very funny ventriloquist performed with a dummy called the Duke of Idiocy—who looked like the king. Then the Flying Donatellos, including Gino whom he’d seen this morning at band call, took the stage. Three muscular Italian acrobats in white tights used a teeterboard to launch a petite girl into the air; she somersaulted gracefully before landing on their shoulders. Her pink tights showed off her lithe body, and the mouths of the men in the stalls all but watered at the sight. With proper British women dressed in puffy blouses and long skirts, the variety theatre was the only acceptable place to see what a woman’s body looked like almost naked.
Great applause greeted the Scottish soprano, Jennie Malone. She was top of the bill—the most important act. Logically, the biggest star would be the very last act, but instead of being the last performer of the night, she was the second to last. It was a time-honored bit of scheduling in the British music halls to follow the star act with a specialty turn, to stop the audience from getting up and leaving during the bill-topper’s performance. This was especially important for the second show, when customers wanted to leave early to catch the last tram by 10:30 p.m.
She wore a dark-blue evening gown and stood before a cloth depicting a manor house drawing room with a huge fireplace roaring with an imaginary fire. Her beautiful voice filled the auditorium, and the usually rowdy occupants of the gallery sat quietly, in awe of her talent. The final turn was the El Dorados, whip-crackers who snapped long bullwhips at objects. Their big trick was snapping increasingly short cigarettes from one another’s lips.
At last, the first show ended, and the orchestra played as the audience filed out. A second show would start at 8:20, so the house had to empty in ten minutes—2,233 out, 2,233 in.
Layton was in high spirits. After watching the show, he was confident that he could paint cloths better than the ones he’d seen, and he looked forward to starting the job.
“Topping show, don’t you think?” said a stout man in evening dress in the row behind his. “Say, didn’t I meet you at Lord Cheltham’s house party in Kent?” He squinted at Layton, knitting his brow.
“No, I don’t know Lord Cheltham. Sorry, old chap,” mumbled Layton. A lightning bolt of panic surged through his body, and he became disoriented, almost losing his balance. He grabbed a seatback to steady himself, then rushed out of the aisle and shoved through the crowd filing out into the street. At the Cat & Hare, Layton downed his third tumbler of Glenfiddich and motioned for the barmaid to fetch a fourth. He had met Stephen Madding at Lord Cheltham’s.