“Come on, luv. How ’bouts some more yellow to match me new frock?”
Layton stood in front of the new cloth he was painting for Mrs. Eddington & Mrs. Freddington, Two Upper Crust Girls. The duo weren’t actually women but female impersonators, a very popular type of act. There were also male impersonators, women who dressed and acted convincingly like men; Vesta Tilley was the most famous.
“At the Brixton Empire, they obliged me. Won’t you, you handsome sweetie?” Mrs. Eddington, who was actually Cyril Slough, ran his fingers through Layton’s hair and put his arm around his waist.
Layton squirmed, his stomach clenching; he didn’t want his hair dye to come off on Cyril’s fingers, and he also didn’t like being cuddled by a poof. Thoughts of prison and its sodomites beat at his brain. With an effort, he pushed them back.
“Leave him be, you old tart. Let him paint what he wants. He’s not interested in your tatty frock,” said Mrs. Freddington, or Neville Philpott.
“Thank you, Neville,” said Layton. He continued his work on the cloth, which depicted the entrance hall of Chiswick House. Eddington and Freddington were two dim-witted upper-class matrons, and the largely lower middle-class and working-class audiences loved watching them make fools of themselves. On the stage, inferiors could insult their superiors without fear of repercussions.
Both middle-aged men were absolutely convincing as women. With their makeup, hair, and costumes, they could have gone shopping at Harrods and not raised an eyebrow.
“You bleedin’ cow, mind your business. A little more yellow wouldn’t hurt.”
“And keep your hands off the man!” Neville squawked. “Next, you’ll be travelin’ up his bum.”
“All right, girls, pull in your claws, and get back to your dressing room.” It was Mrs. Mapes, approaching with Elwyn Thomas, the stage manager. Both stepped back to look at the cloth.
“Your scenes are so realistic, Frank,” said Mrs. Mapes. “Really, top drawer. You Dorset lads know how to draw.”
Thomas nodded in agreement, and Layton dipped his head in a gracious nod, feeling the praise warm his insides. “Thank you, Cissie,” he said.
He’d been on the job for more than a month and was doing the cloths for the next week’s turns. In variety theatre, most acts changed weekly, which meant constant designing and painting of backdrops. Sometimes, an old cloth would be reused, but regulars in the audience who could attend two or three times a week would recognize them if they appeared too many times.
From the very first week, he’d found comfort in this fantasy world that revolved around artifice and illusion. People he’d never have associated with in his former life populated the theatre: magicians, acrobats, singers, comics, contortionists, jugglers. They seemed like aliens from another planet. Being backstage with them was completely different from being an architect. In his old job, one had to deal with reality, with the pressure of constructing a building that cost thousands of pounds. Here, everything was make-believe. All that mattered was the unashamed pursuit of delight.
Charlie, the stage doorman, stuck his head in the doorway of the scene shop.
“Mrs. Mapes, them natives are here.”
“Wonderful. Bring them out to the stage, please.” She turned to Layton and smiled. “Frank, I’m giving you a special job. Come with me.”
Onstage, Layton stopped in his tracks. Before him stood five tiny black people wrapped in blankets. He blinked rapidly, realizing they weren’t children but adults. Each was just over four feet in height and barefoot. One carried a spear. A white man in a greatcoat and derby towered over them, and Mrs. Mapes went to him with open arms.
“Professor Evans, how good to see you again. And Mangogo, welcome, sir.”
The professor shook her hand; the black fellow smiled, clacked his teeth, and stamped his spear. Stagehands and acts in rehearsal stopped to watch in fascination.
“Frank, Professor Evans & His Pygmies will be with us for a special one-month engagement. We’ll need two very realistic backcloths.”
“They are hunter-gatherers from Central Africa, so a scene of a rain forest will be appropriate.” The professor had a refined Cambridge accent and a lecturing tone.
“Maybe some lions and rhinos thrown in,” added Mrs. Mapes.
“I’ll go to the library to look up some photos,” Layton said. He couldn’t stop staring at the bony little people. Beneath their blankets, they wore only loincloths. The two women looked like the men but had shriveled, prune-like breasts.
“These people use a toilet, right? They won’t go shitting on me floor?” growled Elwyn.
“Well, that has been a problem,” the professor said. “In the rain forest, they can squat and go wherever they like. But I’ve instructed them on the use of modern toilet facilities, including toilet paper. It took some doing, but they’re jolly good at it now.”
“Elwyn, you show them around the place,” Mrs. Mapes instructed. “They’ll have dressing room six to themselves. Don’t see them sharing a space off the bat,” she added with a laugh.
Elwyn was clearly reluctant but did as he was told. “Let’s go, you bloody savages.”
“Come on, Frank,” Mrs. Mapes said, tossing him a smile. “I’ll stand you a lager at the Admiral Benbow.”
• • •
In the pub, the publican greeted Cissie warmly and gave them their drinks for free. They sat at a table in the corner. The widow Cissie Mapes, Layton had learned, was a powerful woman with a fearsome reputation. She booked the acts for the MacMillan Empire chain, the most prestigious theatre circuit in the United Kingdom. She and she alone decided who would perform, and thus she possessed incredible power. Cissie ran the circuit like a general, ordering people about and severely dressing them down for any infraction. She was particularly harsh about the artistes ad-libbing and extending their allocated time onstage. It was an ironclad rule that the show had to stay on schedule.
Twenty years earlier, music halls had been built and owned by one person. Now, at the beginning of the twentieth century, the new huge variety halls were all owned by syndicates; their investors owned chains of theatres and could put up the half a million pounds required for construction. It was likely, Layton thought, gazing across the table at Cissie, that no other woman in England wielded so much influence in big business. The care of her invalid mother and spinster sister required she be based in her hometown of Nottingham, but Cissie traveled to the Great Empire Theatre of Varieties in London’s West End once a week to see new acts.
This was the third time Layton had shared a drink alone with Cissie. She did most of the talking, telling stories of her years in the theatre—she had started out at sixteen as a magician’s assistant—and gossiping hilariously about the latest acts. Somewhere in her past was a regrettable marriage to a comedian, hence the Mrs. Mapes.
Cissie had a beautiful smile and a charming, high-pitched giggle. Independent, funny, and fierce, the total opposite of an English society lady, she was like no woman Layton had ever met. Cissie didn’t need a man to support her; she took care of herself and was proud of it. She was a hard-nosed businesswoman, and he liked that.
Layton couldn’t help thinking how different Cissie was from his ex-wife. Both were strikingly attractive, and he had loved Edwina to death, but he had to admit that she was like a helpless child. She couldn’t do anything for herself. It was because she had grown up with servants around to do everything, for her entire life. They even made sure her bath temperature was always exactly 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Her mother, the late Lady Elizabeth, raised her the way her mother had done, which meant being totally dependent on and completely subservient to a man. Even when they were married, the housekeeper and cook managed their household, although Edwina always arranged the flowers.
But the main difference between the two women was that Cissie came up the hard way and knew the value of a quid. He really admired Cissie’s practical nature when it came to money. Edwina, who had unlimited access to her father’s fortune, never had to pay for anything out of her own pocket and thus knew nothing about money. When a person never has to worry about what something costs, money has no value. Growing up in Dorset, Layton had been taught that money doesn’t grow on trees and should be spent wisely or, better yet, saved. He had wanted to instill that important value in Ronald when he was older but never got the chance. Taking him to a confectioner’s shop and teaching him how to pay for sweets and count his change was something he had looked forward to. It saddened him to think that his son would inherit his mother’s ignorance of money matters.
Whenever they talked, Layton was careful not to reveal anything about his history to Cissie. He knew he seemed evasive and eventually fabricated a story about working for an engraver in Dorset, where he’d developed his artistic talent. Whenever she started to ask too many questions, he’d veer the conversation toward her.
“You’re what they call a ‘liberated woman,’” he said gingerly. “She does what she wants and doesn’t need a man.”
“Bollocks!” Cissie gave a howl of laughter. “You’re bloody right I’m a businesswoman, and a tough one at that. But I’m no unfeminine, unsexed man-hater. Do I dress like a man, wear my hair short, and sport a mustache? No! Do you think I’m feminine, Frank?”
The swiftness of her reply caught Layton off guard. “Why, yes! The moment I first saw you in Black’s office, I thought how beautiful you were,” he blurted.
Cissie smiled at him. “Well, well. Coming from a good-lookin’ bloke like you, that’s a bloody big compliment.”
Layton smiled shyly into his pint of lager. Then he looked her straight in her large, blue eyes, and added, “It’s not just your beauty. It’s your independence and confidence. You’re a woman of substance.”
“You’re dead-on there, m’boy.” She sat back in her seat, taking in the crowd around them. “Most women aren’t, especially these society ladies. All fur coat and no knickers.”
“You definitely have knickers,” Layton said. A second later, his blundered reply dawned on him, and he blushed.
Across the table, Cissie howled with laughter. Layton joined in, his head bobbing to and fro. He hadn’t laughed so hard in more than five years.
“Indeed I do, Frank, and many a man has wanted me to drop ’em.” She waved her glass in the air. “Jackie, another round for me and my gentleman friend.”
She turned back to him. A sudden intensity galvanized her face; it was as if electricity were running through her bones, giving her energy.
“My Pygmies are going to make a packet, Frank. They’ve played to full houses, and now I’ve got them under a long-term contract. I’m going to do the same thing with some of the other real popular acts.”
“But what do they do?”
“Stand up there and sing and dance while Evans gives a lecture. People love it. They’ve never seen anything like them before. You see, Frank, there’s no shame in an act being nonsensical as long as it has appeal.”
“They seem very scrawny,” Layton ventured.
“That’s how all of them are.” Cissie wrinkled her nose. “The problem is keeping ’em warm. They’re not used to the English weather. I may have to buy them coats and shoes.”
“I’ll do some realistic backgrounds for them. They’ll feel like they’re back home in the jungle. Might make them feel warmer.”
“I know you will. I’m glad you’ve taken to our little world of make-believe, Frank,” Cissie said, patting his hand. “What’s your favorite act so far?”
“Oh, it’s so difficult to say. So many of them are great.” He wasn’t saying this to curry favor, Layton realized as the words left his lips. He meant it. “The animal acts are very funny, especially Handley’s Monkeys. I was really impressed by Agnes, the Equestrian Juggler.”
“She’s bloody amazing,” Cissie said, rapping her knuckles on the table for emphasis. “The sole purpose of variety theatre, Frank, is popular entertainment for the common people. We give ’em a magical place to go, and just for a night, they can forget about their dull jobs, their awful lives.”
“You know,” Layton said slowly, feeling like an excited child, “I still can’t get over the flickers—the moving pictures. Like the one showing the palace of Versailles last week. You felt as if you were really there. What an incredible invention.”
“Cost us five quid for just that one film.” Cissie paused, assessing him. “You’ve never been up in the projection booth, have you? What about meeting me up there in the gallery after the second show, luv?”
• • •
“Run him out. Run him out,” screamed a man in a derby.
It was sheer bedlam. The crowd in the gallery had gone berserk, standing atop the wooden benches, cheering their heads off.
“Keep running!” yelled another man.
The object of the gallery’s attention was a cricket match on the stage. The batsman had just struck the ball and was running between the wickets. Normally, this wouldn’t have caused much excitement; cricket was everyday recreation in Britain. But this was no ordinary match. It was being played by four baby elephants—De Gracia’s Pachyderm Performers.
Layton had climbed up to the gallery to see how the backcloth he’d painted looked from “the gods.” Now he found himself caught up in the excitement and cheering on the elephant batsman, who was slowly lumbering along. The two elephant fielders were having trouble retrieving the ball. The batsman crossed the batting crease; the fielder rolled the ball back to the bowler, who snatched it off the ground with its trunk.
His cloth, Layton thought, looked very convincing. He’d based it on the Royal Cricket Grounds, adding spectators and a scoring board. But it was the oversize cricket caps and white jackets the elephants wore that made the act so funny. For elephants, they played damn well.
The audience in the gallery was made up of the poorest of the poor: common laborers, sweatshop workers, clerks, barmaids, and the unemployed. All of them were going crazy with laughter. Each day, Layton thought, this sorry lot fought to survive. Tonight, for eighty minutes, they forgot their troubles, just as Cissie had said. He felt sorry for the acts that had to follow the elephants, which included the top of the bill, Bonnie Bill McGregor, the Flying Scotsman of Laughter.
The show ended with a final turn by Monsieur Slippere, who did a magnificent trick playing on the piano with his toes. The gallery audience filed out quickly; they had to catch the last trams at ten thirty. Layton stayed on his bench, looking around the auditorium. He’d never spent any time up in the gallery. Unlike the rest of the theatre, this section had almost no decoration. The walls and ceiling were plain painted plaster, divided by panels with simple wood moldings. The stage seemed to be miles below.
In the solitude, Layton could admire the entirety of Matcham’s exquisite design. He started from the left sidewall of the gallery, taking a 180-degree view to the right. His eyes lingered on the great proscenium arch, then darted back to the right sidewall. He looked to the left again.
Something was amiss. A wood molding toward the bottom of the wall looked crooked. Instead of being laid completely flat, it had a slight but noticeable bulge. Layton saw why—the plaster on the wall itself had a bulge, which meant the brick wall behind it wasn’t laid plumb. He was surprised that Matcham would allow such sloppy work. He was well known for his attention to workmanship. Layton started to walk toward it to take a closer look. In his own buildings, he had hated anything out of kilter, even a light shade that wasn’t straight.
“There you are,” trilled a warm voice. Cissie, standing at the very top of the gallery.
Layton bounded up the steep stairs and stood by her side, facing the auditorium. “There’s a loneliness in an empty theatre,” he said.
“Or you can hear the echoes of the cheering and laughter. Depends on how you look at life, ducks.” Cissie motioned for him to follow. In the back wall along the gallery’s rear aisle was a door, which she opened with a key. “This is where the flickers come from,” she said, turning on the light.
A wooden box with a crank on its side sat before Layton. A kind of telescope stuck out of its end and was positioned in a small circular opening in the wall.
“It’s called a Pathé cinematograph,” Cissie said. “It projects light through spools of film onto the screen onstage.”
Layton ran his hands over the wooden box, smiling. “This is bloody amazing.”
“Next month, we’re getting a film of a big fire in a warehouse in Lambeth. You see the whole building collapse,” Cissie said with great pride.
Layton could see how glad she was to have impressed him.
“They have films showing whole stories now. The Yanks did one called The Great Train Robbery. I’m trying to get the circuit to rent it.”
The projection booth was tiny, like a telephone call box. Layton and Cissie were crammed together, not quite touching. He had never been so close to her before, and he could smell the scent of her face powder, which was almost intoxicating. He hadn’t been this close to a woman since before prison. Being much taller, he looked down into Cissie’s face. Her eyes seemed just inches away, but he maintained his decorum, as if they were sitting apart from one another, having tea in a parlor.
Cissie was avidly discussing the different films the circuit would show. One theatre owner, she told him, had abandoned live acts to show only flickers. This, she thought, was nonsense.
“People like the personal contact with a variety act. There’s an intimate connection between a performer and the audience. You can’t get that anywhere else.”
Layton wholeheartedly agreed. Shifting his weight, he bumped Cissie’s shoulder.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, getting red in the face.
“My, aren’t we the proper gentleman?” Cissie said with a great smile. “Don’t you get yourself into a lather. You didn’t rip my dress off, you know. And you look very nice when you blush.”
Layton laughed nervously. Cissie didn’t seem at all uncomfortable. His ex-wife Edwina, he thought, would have fainted dead away. Not from the actual contact, but from the thought of the scandal such a situation could cause.
“Yes, I’m being silly.” He had averted his eyes, but now they locked onto hers and stayed there. It was a pleasant sensation. They seemed to draw together like two opposite poles of a magnet, but at the last minute, he pulled back. He didn’t want to, but he also didn’t want to seem improper, especially with someone who was essentially his boss. An important part of his training as a pretend English gentleman was being a paragon of honorable behavior.
“Well, thank you for showing me the projection booth. I always wanted to see where that beam of light came from. Isn’t it odd that a ray of light can transform itself into those wonderful images on the cloth?”
“You have the deepest blue eyes,” Cissie said, still gazing up at Layton. “I never noticed that before.”
“We’ve never been so close to each other, I guess.” Layton fought to keep his breathing steady. “I inherited them from my mother. She had wonderful eyes. Could put you at ease just by looking at you.”
“Mrs. Owen did a jolly good job raising her little boy. He turned out a right nice bloke.”
Layton smiled at Cissie, then inched around her to get to the door. Together, they walked down the gallery exit stair to the first floor.
“The elephant cricket turn was smashing,” said Layton rather awkwardly.
“Oh my, yes.” Cissie seemed unperturbed. “I thought DeGracia was balmy when he told me he’d trained elephants to play cricket, but damn if he didn’t. Next, they’ll be playing for the national team against New Zealand.”
“Will the circuit be keeping them on?”
“Oh, you can be sure of that, luv. Remember, the owners only respect performers who can put people in seats. Those pachyderms pack them in,” she exclaimed, pleased with her play on words.
Out in the street, which was now deserted, they turned and faced each other. A few seconds passed in silence.
“Well, I have to get home to bed for a good night’s rest. I have a show to put on tomorrow—and so do you, Frank.”
“Good night to you, Cissie. Sweet dreams.”