CHAPTER 6
The Liberty Troupe is housed in the large and imposing Liberty Theatre on Woodhouse Lane, situated close to the top of Briggate, in Leeds, and very close to the Corn Exchange. Currently serving as both a studio and workshop for Julius Thompson, it is also the venue where the troupe rehearses and performs.
In what will likely be the Duke’s first visit to this gem of Yorkshire, the theatre will serve further as the host of Augustine’s exhibition and the associated soiree. A charming neoclassical building, decorated with an eye-catching ancient Greek “key” design, the Duke could surely not wish for a more apt setting in which to witness the unveiling of Augustine’s newest masterpiece.
Jackson surfaced later that afternoon. My little study had proved too stuffy for work, and I set up camp instead in the upstairs sitting room, the large windows of which were high enough above street level to cut out most of the smells and noises of the people and horses below. There was nowhere to escape the noises and the smells of the people within the theatre, however, and I had barely ten minutes of solitude in which to work before Jackson dragged himself in.
The door swung open and glanced off the wall behind it, removing another layer of dust from the hole that was already there. Jackson, or perhaps a man who once resembled Jackson, but had since traversed the pits of hell in order to rescue a loved one, slowly entered the room with a low moan. Once out from the shadow of the door frame, he paused, squinting and screwing his eyes up against the feeble light.
‘I thought you were dead,’ I said conversationally. ‘It appears I was right.’
A low groan was all the response I got.
‘You’ve been gone five days,’ I continued. ‘So I presume this is your first day sober?’
Jackson groaned again and lowered himself gently – like an elderly person into a bath – into one of the big armchairs. Luckily, in his haze of pain, he had chosen one of the few rickety chairs that would support his enormous bulk. Six foot two inches tall and mostly composed of muscle – although at this point a large percentage was alcohol – Jackson was a test for most of our furniture and he usually chose with more care. It was disappointing, but he had got lucky this time.
‘And in those five days, I note that you didn’t see fit to take any sort of bath.’
Jackson groaned again, and although I rolled my eyes, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He was like a big youth, for all that he was into his early thirties. He never learned, and I daresay he never would.
‘A bath would make you feel better. And me, too. Oh, Jackie. Have some water.’ I poured him a glass from the jug I had brought in for myself and took it over. He didn’t look up as I approached, but extended a giant, limp hand for it. I smoothed his hair gently. ‘You’ll feel better once you’ve had dinner.’
‘God, don’t.’ Jackson slowly curled himself inwards at the very thought of food. ‘Why did I do this?’
‘Hamlet,’ I said. ‘Your ghost wasn’t that well received. There were boos.’
Jackson groaned again.
‘Hell, I remember. But that was just some boys from the army. I punched three after.’ He flexed the fingers on his right hand and inspected his knuckles with delicate interest. ‘You should have seen the state of them, Evey.’
Unfortunately for Jackson, Andrew chose that moment to enter the room.
‘Doubt they look much worse than you do. And that was four days ago. Their bruises will have healed by now.’
He cuffed Jackson playfully on the back of the head as he walked by, and Jackson yelped before curling up into an even tighter ball.
‘Oh, don’t,’ I chastised. ‘Jackie’s suffering.’
Andrew rolled his eyes and picked up the newspaper.
‘When does the next article come out about us?’
‘Next Friday I think. We’re weekly for the next five weeks. Why?’
Andrew shrugged. ‘Just wanted to see what your paramour has been writing about us.’
‘Whoziss?’ Jackson rumbled, emerging slightly from his tightly coiled ball.
‘Journalist,’ Andrew said, his wicked smile gleaming in the dusk. ‘That one who’s writing up about the preparations for the Duke. Evey’s got a thing for him.’
‘I’m merely ensuring we have a good write-up,’ I countered lightly. ‘And don’t worry Jackie, he’s too short for Annie.’
Jackson grunted his approval and returned into his cocoon of self.
‘Here, have you seen this?’ Andrew dropped his mocking tone and was suddenly serious. ‘That fellow from Lincoln – Tristan Lovett – he’s had his studio broken into. Wasn’t he on the list for this one?’
I frowned.
‘I haven’t read it yet. What does it say?’
Andrew disappeared behind the paper.
‘He says he’s lost a small canvas, but that seems to be about it. Not even a particularly good one if I remember rightly. He says it was a Madonna and child.’
‘I don’t think I ever saw that one,’ I said, trying to remember. You see so many Madonna and child pictures these days. They seem to be every other painting. ‘I’ve not heard much of him for the past few months. Word is he’s working on something huge. Surprised he’d even bother with our exhibition, he’s already got patrons in high places.’
‘Perhaps that’s what happens when you become successful,’ Andrew said, with a wink in my direction. ‘People steal your bad work so you don’t even have to try and sell it.’
‘A blessed existence indeed.’
‘Do you need to talk so loudly?’ Jackson’s voice was muffled by his own expanse of back. ‘My brain, it’s far too big for my head. When did my brain become so large?’
Andrew’s laugh couldn’t have made him feel any better.
‘I need you to sober up, sweetheart,’ I said conversationally. ‘So you and Andrew can have a read through for me. Unless you want to split out parts now? I need an Ariel-‘
‘The Tempest?’ Jackson asked, raising his head slightly to look at me with horror. ‘I don’t want to do any more Shakespeare. You can’t make me. I’ll leave.’
‘And join the circus?’ I rolled my eyes at him. ‘It’s Ariel or the Baron. Rape of the Lock, Jackson, which you’d know if you hadn’t been heaven knows where for the last four days.’
Much though I had a soft spot for him, the giant lug that he was, I was a little annoyed. The nicest of men when sober, he simply could not be counted on for anything. Apart from womanizing. That I could count on him for.
He mumbled something which could have been an apology. Andrew sighed behind his paper and carried on reading. I stared at Canto number two and tried to visualise it on stage. Apparently I needed at least 50 sylphs. So how to give the impression of 50 with two, possibly three actors? I felt cold on my forehead and the back of my neck, and my eyes were hard and hot.
‘It’s become clear that all of this has been a terrible mistake. I’m going to write to the Duke and tell him he can’t come. The whole thing is off.’
‘Jackie can be Baron,’ Andrew lowered his paper and smiled at me. ‘Less lines, I’d imagine? I’ll be Ariel and fuss around Liberty. That agreeable for you, Jackie?’
Jackson gave a surprisingly shrill whistle, as though he was deflating.
‘You know, you don’t have to do this on your own, Evey,’ Andrew said quietly. ‘I can help you.’
And it was true, he was one of the only people I’d trust to. And he would, too, but not until I’d worked this poem into something vaguely resembling a play. I rose, gathered my books together and left, dropping a kiss onto Andrew’s forehead as I passed him.
‘I’m going to my room. Please don’t let anybody disturb me for the next three hours. And please be nice to Jackie.’
Andrew gave a mock salute and I felt confident that I would remain undisturbed. I was going to finish this damned poem if it killed me. It felt like it might.