feel he’d been take advantage of. Old Jowitt, for instance, had been eager enough to ask him to come here and he’d willingly accepted because he owed him a lot. But he hadn’t forgotten how ten years ago Jowitt, having given him the chance, was willing to abandon him at the first sign of difficulties from the Shadwell Mob of the day. Nettie had saved him, darling Nettie.
The stage manager self-importantly popped his head round the door. ‘Board’s going up, Mr Lamb.’
Will heard the roar of the audience, he heard Yapp’s voice . . . ‘The lion lies down with the lamb at the Old King Cole. You’ve had the lion, the Great Brodie, now for the Great Lamb.’ How he loved it. It wasn’t that his vanity needed to be fed, it was more than it propelled him into that queer fantasy world of his, into which he leapt when the real one presented problems, both nice and nasty. Like now.
By the time he reached the stage he was beaming, oblivious of anything save his audience and the need to make them happy. He checked his stage dagger was correctly dancing on is wires in the flies. That dagger had travelled a long way with him. He launched himself at the stage, waiting to be swallowed up in the warmth he was giving and receiving, rushed to the footlights, towards
them
, his public; he took them into his confidence and his heart. ‘So I met this bard, and he said, why not come along? I’ve got a part for you. A part of what, I asked . . .’
From the front, seated importantly near her husband, Evangeline watched as her beloved Will leapt on to thestage. He was playing for
her
alone. She knew it. What an artiste he was. He needed her loving care though, that was obvious. So far she had had no chance of purveying this important news to him, since someone or other always seemed to be hanging round his dressing-room. With some pleasure she suspected Thomas might be arranging this, since naturally he was jealous of her affection for Will. She was almost sure it was his voice she’d overheard talking to Will. She watched proudly and proprietorially as Will tumbled and twisted, the patter never faltering. It was never the same patter twice, but it always came back to the fixed point of the
Macbeth
speech. They were both artistes. Oh, how she understood the problems and triumphs of the artiste in a way Thomas could never appreciate.
‘Thomas,’ she hissed. ‘I am going backstage.’
‘Keep away from Will Lamb,’ he pleaded desperately. Even Percy Jowitt had warned him to keep her here, and the chairman could hardly abandon his post to dash out of the hall after his wife.
But he was looking at an empty space, the large empty space where his wife had been sitting. He decided to try not to worry. After all, Will had seemed pleased to see him, and they’d had a nice talk. Furthermore, there was nothing he could do to avert any catastrophe that might fall, so he tried bravely to smile in the face of disaster, however fast it might be rushing towards them.
Leaving the capable (in her own inimitable way) Lizzie in charge, Auguste hurried back to his post to greetWill as he came offstage. How much he would have preferred to stay tutoring his raw assistant than to pursue a probably imaginary death threat, or hunt a wild-goose in the form of a probably non-present missing cross.
He reached the dressing-room only to be physically swept aside at the door by a large lady in crimson whom he identified as Evangeline Yapp.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said coldly. ‘I believe I was here first.’
In fact, it was merely her corseted bosom and outstretched arm that had arrived first but in any case both were immaterial.
‘I beg your pardon, madam, but I must be present.’ He gently pushed the arm aside and opened the door.
Alarm leapt into Will’s face as he saw who was behind his guardian. ‘No,’ he cried, leaping up and backing away.
‘I regret, madam—’ Auguste turned to Mrs Yapp.
‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly,
The stage manager self-importantly popped his head round the door. ‘Board’s going up, Mr Lamb.’
Will heard the roar of the audience, he heard Yapp’s voice . . . ‘The lion lies down with the lamb at the Old King Cole. You’ve had the lion, the Great Brodie, now for the Great Lamb.’ How he loved it. It wasn’t that his vanity needed to be fed, it was more than it propelled him into that queer fantasy world of his, into which he leapt when the real one presented problems, both nice and nasty. Like now.
By the time he reached the stage he was beaming, oblivious of anything save his audience and the need to make them happy. He checked his stage dagger was correctly dancing on is wires in the flies. That dagger had travelled a long way with him. He launched himself at the stage, waiting to be swallowed up in the warmth he was giving and receiving, rushed to the footlights, towards
them
, his public; he took them into his confidence and his heart. ‘So I met this bard, and he said, why not come along? I’ve got a part for you. A part of what, I asked . . .’
From the front, seated importantly near her husband, Evangeline watched as her beloved Will leapt on to thestage. He was playing for
her
alone. She knew it. What an artiste he was. He needed her loving care though, that was obvious. So far she had had no chance of purveying this important news to him, since someone or other always seemed to be hanging round his dressing-room. With some pleasure she suspected Thomas might be arranging this, since naturally he was jealous of her affection for Will. She was almost sure it was his voice she’d overheard talking to Will. She watched proudly and proprietorially as Will tumbled and twisted, the patter never faltering. It was never the same patter twice, but it always came back to the fixed point of the
Macbeth
speech. They were both artistes. Oh, how she understood the problems and triumphs of the artiste in a way Thomas could never appreciate.
‘Thomas,’ she hissed. ‘I am going backstage.’
‘Keep away from Will Lamb,’ he pleaded desperately. Even Percy Jowitt had warned him to keep her here, and the chairman could hardly abandon his post to dash out of the hall after his wife.
But he was looking at an empty space, the large empty space where his wife had been sitting. He decided to try not to worry. After all, Will had seemed pleased to see him, and they’d had a nice talk. Furthermore, there was nothing he could do to avert any catastrophe that might fall, so he tried bravely to smile in the face of disaster, however fast it might be rushing towards them.
Leaving the capable (in her own inimitable way) Lizzie in charge, Auguste hurried back to his post to greetWill as he came offstage. How much he would have preferred to stay tutoring his raw assistant than to pursue a probably imaginary death threat, or hunt a wild-goose in the form of a probably non-present missing cross.
He reached the dressing-room only to be physically swept aside at the door by a large lady in crimson whom he identified as Evangeline Yapp.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said coldly. ‘I believe I was here first.’
In fact, it was merely her corseted bosom and outstretched arm that had arrived first but in any case both were immaterial.
‘I beg your pardon, madam, but I must be present.’ He gently pushed the arm aside and opened the door.
Alarm leapt into Will’s face as he saw who was behind his guardian. ‘No,’ he cried, leaping up and backing away.
‘I regret, madam—’ Auguste turned to Mrs Yapp.
‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly,
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