“Where the hell do you think you’re going, you little brat?”
Ronald jumped back, shocked. The old man sat directly inside the stage door, in a tiny room with a low counter at its front. In all the time Ronald had watched people go in and out of the Queen’s, he’d never seen him. Now, fear coursed through his body. He tried to speak, but no words came out.
The stage doorman took his pipe out of his mouth and started jabbing the air with it as he spoke. His teeth were a horror to Ronald: crooked and yellow-colored like an animal’s.
“If you want to see the actors, wait in the alley like the rest of ’em, boy. Now on your bike, and don’t let me catch your arse in here again,” he snarled.
Ronald didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted down the alley. But after twenty yards, he stopped and looked back. The doorman hadn’t chased after him. Slowly, he walked back toward the stage door and leaned against the brick wall directly across from it. When a group of five adults approached, Ronald trailed behind them.
They stopped in front of the old man, who began passing out keys.
“When am I going to get a better dressing room?” groused a skinny man with greasy hair and a hawk-like nose.
“When you get your name in bigger type on the bill,” answered the old man.
“And more talent,” said another, which made the others laugh uproariously.
With the crowd blocking him from view, Ronald snuck past and down the interior corridor. He was a bit confused; this part of the theatre was very different from what he’d seen when he and his nanny had attended the show. It was very plain and reminded him of the downstairs where the servants worked in his home in London and his grandfather’s house in the country.
With his back to the wall, he slunk down the narrow, winding brick corridor. So far, there was no one else around. Far off in the distance, he heard the plinking of a piano.
Up ahead, two men turned a bend in the hall. Ronald ducked into a doorway, which was partially open. The men passed without noticing him. Inside the room, he could hear a woman’s voice giving someone a rollicking.
“You bloody nancy boy, you get eight minutes for your turn, not a second more or less. Last night, you went over by twenty seconds telling that extra joke! I’ll have your guts for garters if you pull that again.”
The man she was berating tried to answer, but the woman cut him off.
“Don’t argue with me, Cyril.”
“I wouldn’t dream of arguing with you, Cissie. I’m just explaining why I’m right.”
Straining to hear more, Ronald leaned too far forward and bumped the door. To his horror, it swung open. Inside, he saw a woman standing next to two men in dresses, the sight of which really bewildered him.
“What is it, lad? Do you have a delivery?” asked the woman in a stern voice.
Tongue-tied, Ronald nodded his head.
“Then don’t just stand there like a dolt. Who’s it for?”
“Layton” was the only word he could think of at the moment.
“Dearie, there’s no one here by that name,” said one of the men.
The woman was about to say something more. But then she stopped and looked down at the frightened little boy.
“Leave the poor child alone, Cissie,” the other man said. “He looks as though he’s about to piss himself.”
“Shut your gob, Cyril,” the woman said.
“Here, sweetie.” The man in the dress gestured Ronald forward, holding out a battered chocolate box. “Have a caramel crème from your old Auntie Cyril.”
“Yes, she’ll be your fairy godmother,” smirked the other man.
Ronald politely took the candy and mumbled a thank-you. The woman drew near and examined him carefully; as she did, her scowl melted into a smile.
“Come along, lad. I think I can help you.” She took Ronald gently by the shoulder and eased him out into the corridor. But as she left the room, she twisted her body and shouted, “Remember what I told you, you daft poof!”
In the corridor, she said, “My name is Cissie. What do they call you?”
“Ronald,” said the boy, trying to sound confident.
“Ever been in a variety theatre?”
He looked up at her, smiled, and nodded.
“Lovely. But I’ll wager you’ve never been backstage before!”
They had reached the stage, where the Randolphs, Football & Fun on Unicycles, were rehearsing. Eight men on unicycles played football, with four to a team, including the goalie. They moved the ball expertly, bumping it off the wheels of the unicycles like regular football players on a pitch.
Ronald’s eyes widened. It was more like a real match than an act; each side was intent on winning. They watched for five or so minutes, and then Cissie gestured at one of the cyclists. He rode up to them, panting slightly.
“Freddie, take my mate Ronald for a whirl,” she commanded and lifted the boy up under his armpits, handing him to the man.
Freddie perched Ronald on his shoulders as if the boy weighed no more than a feather and took off across the stage. Ronald squealed with delight as the unicycle made wide circles around the football game. Finally, Cissie waved them over and took Ronald off the cyclist’s shoulders.
“Let’s have our tea,” she said. Taking Ronald by the hand, she led him through the door into the auditorium and up the side aisle to the stalls bar. There, she nodded to the barman, who disappeared into a rear room and emerged a few minutes later with tea.
“Milk and sugar?” Cissie asked.
“Yes, please,” Ronald said politely.
Cissie pushed a plate of lemon bars and biscuits toward him, but the boy lifted the plate, offering her first pick.
“You have ever so nice manners, Ronald,” said Cissie, pouring his tea.
“My mother said manners show a man is well-bred.”
“And she’s absolutely right.”
As they took their tea, Cissie asked Ronald the usual questions: how was school; what was his favorite food; did he prefer football or cricket? At last, she looked at the little watch pinned to her shirtwaist.
“Well, I think it’s time. Come with me, young man.”
Cissie led Ronald to a huge room behind the stage. Two men were there, painting pictures on enormous canvases. One was doing a forest scene; the other, a full moon over the ocean. Cissie called out to the man painting the forest, “I have a delivery for you now that you’re back from lunch.”
The man turned and smiled. Then a puzzled look came over him.
Slowly, he put his long paintbrush aside and wiped his hands with a rag. He walked forward, his puzzled look giving way to one of astonishment. Reaching Ronald, he stooped down on his knees, so his eyes were in line with the boy’s.
“Ronnie, it’s so good to see you,” Layton whispered, his eyes welling with tears. “You’re so grown-up! But I still recognized you.”
• • •
Layton reached out to grasp his son’s shoulders, then pulled him forward and hugged him fiercely. He held the embrace for over a minute, savoring every second. He hadn’t dared believe this could ever happen. He had thought his son lost forever. All those years of hoping to reunite, and it actually came true. Still on his knees, Layton leaned back and looked the boy straight into his clear-as-crystal blue eyes. He looked so much like Edwina.
“Father, I rode atop a unicycle, and we played football. It was most thrilling!” Ronald was so excited that the words emerged as a near-shout.
“I’m glad you liked the Randolphs, Ronnie. Audiences love them too.”
“Can I stay backstage with you, to see the acts close-up? I especially love the animal acts.”
“Why, of course,” Layton said enthusiastically.
“I’d like to see the acrobats too.” Ronald was practically vibrating with excitement.
“And you shall.”
Cissie stroked the boy’s sandy-colored hair. “You chaps have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll see you later.”
She made to leave, but before she could go, Layton looked up at her and mouthed a silent thank you. Then he turned back to his son and asked, “Your mother doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”
“No, but Nanny Hawkins does. She helped me find you,” Ronald said in a low, conspiratorial tone.
“Nanny’s a spiffing person.”
“I’m supposed to be at the park now with Cedric Hardwicke, but he covers for me—two bob each time.”
“I’ll be sure to reimburse you. I’m so glad you’re here, Ronnie. We have so much to talk about. You must tell me every single detail about yourself. And don’t leave a single thing out.” Again, Layton bent forward and took Ronald in his arms. He felt as if his body could not contain the enormity of his joy; his heart was going to burst right out of his rib cage.
“Father, are you an artist in the theatre here?”
“Yes, I paint the pictures you see behind the performers,” Layton said, waving his arm toward the cloth he’d been working on.
“I say,” Ronald said, blinking in amazement. “You’re talented.”
Countless times, Layton had wondered what his son was like now. Was he still the amiable, outgoing boy he’d shared story time with? Meeting the boy in person, he was not disappointed. As the grandson of Lord Litton, Ronald would of course have been taught manners; politeness was the way of English gentlemen. He would have been learning to shoot, to ride and play cricket—the thought made Layton’s throat catch. All these were things he had imagined teaching his son.
But he could plainly see that the boy had an innate basic kindness that exceeded mere manners. That pleased him. Layton had wanted to guide his son into becoming a good person with the set of values he had learned from his own dad growing up in Dorset, not in Mayfair. During his elaborate masquerade among the upper classes, he’d always felt that he’d been better brought up than those who were supposed to be his betters. He was amazed to find so many shallow, selfish people in the smart set. Rarely did he meet a good, decent human being. Daniel Harker was a better man than ten toffs put together.
In his absence, Edwina had no doubt left the child-rearing to her father, just as she had left mothering to Nanny Hawkins. She had always cared for her son in the way of society ladies: small doses of affection, given intermittently. In the upper-class world, the needs and desires of parents came first.
Layton knew his son was probably on holiday from his boarding school; this was why he’d had time to seek out his absent father. He wasn’t surprised that Nanny had set him on her search. Like all nannies, she was the true mother of his son.
A boy should know his father, he thought, looking down at Ronald. Even though he was a convicted murderer.
“Where do you go to school?” he asked.
“Stansbury. When I’m thirteen, I’ll go to Eton.”
“I’m sure your grandfather will insist on it,” Layton said, forcing a smile. “Now, what time do you have to be back this afternoon?”
“By four thirty.”
“I’ll walk you back to Hyde Park, and we can talk. Then you can come visit me again.”
“Tomorrow?” Ronald asked eagerly.
“Yes, indeed. Tomorrow won’t be soon enough for me,” Layton said with a laugh. “When you come to the stage door, ask Simon for Frank Owen and he’ll come get me. A confused look came over Ronald’s face. Layton had known that, sooner or later, this question would arise.
“Everyone in the variety theatre has a stage name, Ronnie. Raymondo the Great was born Gus Cobb. And my pretend name is Frank Owen.”
Ronnie nodded, satisfied.
To Layton’s delight, there was no awkwardness or long spans of silence on the walk to the park. They chatted as though they had seen each other only the day before. Both asked questions of the other and took genuine interest in the answers. Ronald was most interested in his father’s life in the music hall and in such matters as whether the Great Cosmo really swallowed razor blades.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ronnie. And here’s ten bob for Cedric’s kind cooperation.”
All too soon, Layton waved goodbye, waiting and watching his son disappear into the park. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep in his anticipation of tomorrow.