CHAPTER 10
Three weeks remaining.
Plaster dust falls like snow over the stage of the Liberty Theatre, situated just a ten minute stroll from the Assembly Rooms in the centre of Leeds. In readiness for the Duke’s visit, the theatre is undergoing extensive restoration in order to ensure that it is in perfect condition to welcome its exalted guests, and frame Augustine’s new masterpiece within the grandeur that it deserves.
Work on the commission by Julius Thompson, the Liberty Troupe’s resident artist, also continues apace. Although great secrecy surrounds the exact nature of the piece and how it will fit in the exhibition, this reporter can reveal that the likely theme is that of Narcissus. In what manner Thompson will choose to portray this theme is as secret as the subject of Augustine’s work. Thompson is known to favour oils and has previously exhibited in several London galleries. Those with an interest in art can see smaller pieces in various galleries around the Yorkshire region, although all pieces produced within the past ten years have been purchased and are in the private collection of the Fitzroy family. Applications to view any of this collection must be made by writing to the editors of this newspaper and will be considered by the family in due course.
With Thompson’s pieces demanding increasingly higher prices and the scarcity of all but his earliest work in public viewing spaces, his is sure to be one of the key attractions in the exhibition. Other artists of note include Tristan Lovett, of Lincolnshire, famous for his countryside scenes, Colin Christopher, whose still lives grace the walls of the Houses of Parliament, and Lindsey Elliot, whose most notable works are his series of scenes from Shakespeare. Anticipation grows as art lovers across the country grow eager to view such a proliferation of masterpieces under one roof.
I think that, secretly, Parker likes it when all is chaos and disruption. He likes to stand in corners, deep lines covering his brow and his lip sunk deep between his teeth. He enjoys the pacing, the worry, the nervousness. He likes to exclaim about the cost, the lack of sleep he’s getting, the many ways he bested whatever tradesman he thought wanted to con him out of his hard inherited wealth.
Every year he begins some new project to repair or enhance various parts of the building. He refers to it as “scrubbing up”, and generally his efforts are focussed on the endless improvements Mother demands to her dressing room, bedroom, sitting room, and very occasionally, the stage or auditorium. And now, Parker was in fine fettle as he oversaw the beginnings of what looked set to be a massive overhaul of any and all public spaces.
I was pleased, overall. I have been hinting and suggesting and downright asking for the auditorium seats to be re-covered, the walls to be repainted, and for any other maintenance work that wasn’t purely cosmetic, for months to no avail. We had got new curtains a few weeks earlier, however, as Mother refused to be “framed by those damning rags”. But now we were inviting in the highest (almost) in the land, Parker was convinced they would see beyond our painted façade to the crumbling foundations beneath. I hoped the same wasn’t true of what would happen when they saw the troupe perform.
I was pleased, yes, but only for the most part. I was feeling decidedly the opposite as I skipped over tools and around ladders, dodging paint pots and burly men. There were men everywhere. Annie had been in heaven, surrounded by strapping workmen, quite a few of whom were tall enough to meet her requirements. Yet after engaging in a large amount of gentle flirting, she resigned herself once more to a loveless future. Although some were highly skilled craftsmen, they still didn’t make nearly enough money. Not even the prettiest was handsome or tall enough to overcome that hurdle. Yet she carried on flirting, because, as she put it, “it isn’t as though I’m going to run out of ‘flirt’, is it?”
Which was true, and all well and good, and frankly, rather funny, but this influx of men was playing havoc with my preparations. Annie was flirting rather than working on the costumes with Mother. Mother in her turn was spending all of her time reclining on various upholstered objects with a damp cloth on her forehead. Parker enjoyed this, too, as he liked to fuss over her and fan the flames of her feelings of ill use with such unhelpful comments as “that was far too loud, wasn’t it my dear?’ or ‘I swear I felt the windows rattle then – it’s a wonder the ceilings haven’t caved in on us yet.’ In her element amid all his fussing, Mother was failing to learn her lines. Narrator she may be, but I was damned if she was going to have her script on stage with her.
‘It can’t do us any good, can it, breathing in all this dust. Don’t you think, Liberty darling?’
I leaned against the door frame, having first checked that it was both still attached to the wall and not covered in wet paint. One could never be too careful these days. Mother was reclining in her throne with exquisite grace. She leaned to one side, like a grieving, widowed queen, with one hand over her eyes, shielding her from the glare of death. The other was cradled with great adoration by Parker. One would think he was holding the Magna Carta, such was his reverence.
‘Oh, I do hope you’ll be well enough for the first rehearsal tomorrow,’ I said, my faux-concern shattering the tableau.
‘We all hope so.’ Parker looked at the little hand encased in his own with great sorrow. ‘And to think – my renovations have caused this malady. Forgive me, dearest Liberty. I only wanted a theatre fit to showcase your gift to the great and good.’
‘With life come trials, Parker dear. The road to recognition is never an easy one but remember this – all shall pass, in time.’
She sounded so mournful that any passer-by might have thought she was referring to her own mortality. Not I. I had heard this far too many times before.
‘We can only hope for the best, Mother. I do hope you will be feeling more yourself tomorrow. Michael said he would attend the first rehearsal, and it should be his largest column yet. I should hate it if he had to devote precious inches to fears about your health.’
‘Do you know, that might not be such a bad idea.’ Mother, suddenly invigorated with an idea, swung upright and leaped from her chair. ‘Imagine – he could build it up as the weeks go by, will Liberty make it to opening night? Will Liberty’s frail health keep her from performing?’ She began to pace, clearly taken with the idea. ‘And then, on the opening night, when even the Duke himself fears he may see an understudy, I rise, like a phoenix from the ashes, to give the performance of a lifetime.’
‘You don’t have an understudy,’ I said, wanting to inject at least a little realism into the conversation.
‘Not the point. Oh, do say you’ll suggest it to him darling. Only, not openly, you know. Make him think it’s his idea. Unless you think he’d like to be in on it? Can we trust him?’
‘Perhaps. Oh, and since you now seem quite recovered, I’ll leave you to learning your lines.’
I turned tail and set off in search of less flamboyant company. Still, I heard as I walked away-
‘But think of how dramatic it would look were I to swoon and drop my papers. They’d scatter, like leaves on the wind!’
Luckily I was too far away for her to hear me cursing. I dodged beneath a ladder carried by two boys, and almost fell into an open cupboard, most of which was covered with a sheet. Then I heard a voice I seemed to recognise, and peered out carefully. Below, Father and another man climbed the staircase to his studio. It was the man from before, the strange one, now in a sea of strangers, who I had seen leaving the studio a week earlier.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asked, so quietly that I could barely hear him above the clatter of workmen around us.
‘They’re both coming on well,’ Father said quickly, nodding. ‘They should be ready in time.’
They stepped into the studio and Father closed the door behind them. I waited only a few seconds before bounding down the stairs. I hovered by the door but couldn’t hear anything. If only I could press my ear to the door or peep through the keyhole. If only I wasn’t surrounded by people, who would look at me suspiciously and draw attention to my attempts at subterfuge. If only I wasn’t surrounded by people, making so much noise that I couldn’t eavesdrop.
I couldn’t understand why he’d said “both”. If Father had received another commission, he would have told me. Not least because it would take him away from his important work on the piece for the exhibition. As it was he was already working on another piece against my better judgement – the one of Mother. Three pieces was the most he had ever worked on at one time before, and all of them had taken him over a year to finish. I couldn’t see him having the Narcissus ready in time for the exhibition – it would have been a stretch if it was all he was working on.
I was almost ready to march down to his studio and find out what was going on. Almost. We hadn’t really spoken after he had banished me from his studio several days earlier. Perhaps I would later, when the strange man had gone. Perhaps I would do all sorts of things in the future, when future Evelyn felt capable of it. Perhaps I would let him go hang. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Instead I made my way on to the props room, where I had arranged to meet with Michael. Even though almost every room in the theatre was scattered with props, there was one central hub from which the prop creeper grew. The closer one got to the room, the higher the density of props became. Others may call it a junk room – everything did seem to get stored in there once it had passed its best, rather than be thrown away. We hardly ever threw anything away. I could hear some noise coming from the room already, and wondered what he was up to. I poked my head round the door.
‘Is this a real skeleton?’
Michael reached for its hand and waved it at me. No matter how many times we had done that ourselves – and it was many – it never failed to make me laugh. Chuckling, I swatted the hand away.
‘Treat Benny with more respect, if you please. I’ll have you know he’s one of our leading men, and no stranger to treading the boards. Although his last performance didn’t get such good reviews.’
‘He was Yorick?’
‘Alas poor Benny, we knew him well.’
Michael examined him closely, setting the bones rattling from where he was hanging on his stand.
‘Where on earth did you get him?’
‘Oh, Mother and I like to go grave robbing in our free time.’
Michael gave me a look, and made Benny shake his finger at me.
‘Well,’ I said, spreading my hands with a shrug. ‘What else are we to conduct our illegal medical experiments on?’
‘You’re lucky I don’t put that in my article just to spite you.’
‘It’d never make it past the editor. Would it?’
Michael tapped his nose with Benny’s finger.
‘You’ll just have to wait and see. Now, where is he from? Is he a critic your mother took exception to?’
‘I’m shocked you could even consider such a thing. Now, stop playing about, we’ve got things to find.’
I gestured over the piles of props which surrounded us.
‘I’m quite certain we have a snuff box in here. And a cane.’ I put my hands on my hips and surveyed the mountains of mess. ‘I’m going to have to tie my hair back.’
Michael leaned on a whatnot and drew swirls in the dust which graced its surface, all the while watching me as I twisted my hair into a long rope, and wound it into a bun on the top of my head, securing it with a ribbon and the pins I always carried in my pocket.
‘Very impressive. And all without a mirror.’
I curtseyed playfully.
‘What I lack in acting ability, I more than make up for in blind hairdressing skills. Do I look a fright?’
Michael smiled.
‘I think you know that you don’t. I’m not sure you could.’
I smiled back.
‘Are you flirting with me?’
‘I’m merely being honest.’
‘Oh.’ I didn’t quite know what to say to that, and felt a little uncomfortable. Which was irritating. I was supposed to be carrying this seduction. ‘Thank you. Although I fear you may wish to take that sentiment back by the time we’ve sorted through this mess.’
Michael continued lazily tracing shapes on the top shelf of the whatnot.
‘I’m not sure where you get this “we’ve” idea from. I’m merely here in a viewing capacity. I spectate.’
‘I’m not even sure that’s a real word.’
He helped me anyway, as I knew he would, and after a few minutes we were both knee deep in hats, artificial flowers and old, cracked tableware.
‘We really should throw most of this away,’ I said, as I frowned at half a serving dish. ‘But you know, as soon as we do, we’ll need it for something.’
‘What could you possibly need this for?’ Michael held up a broken puppet, a little wooden boy who hung only by one string. It looked heart-breakingly forlorn, and not a little bit disturbing.
‘Perfect! Andrew was asking about these and I’d completely forgotten. It’s for some of the more difficult imagery in the final canto,’ I said as Michael looked at me as though I was mad. ‘The battles of epic proportions, that sort of thing.’
‘Ah.’ He carefully laid the puppet to one side. ‘I was wondering how you’d manage those. There aren’t that many of you to go to war.’
‘It’s Andrew.’ I picked up and discarded a splintered picture frame. ‘He’s absolutely marvellous at this sort of thing. We decided to do it as shadow puppets, and he’s building a frame and a very clever rig which will make it look like there’s a backdrop of hoards while the main action goes on at the front. Sometimes I think it’s a shame that he doesn’t get more credit for what he does, because it’s such artistry.’
‘That sounds marvellous.’ Michael looked at the mangled puppet with more respect. ‘I’d be interested to see some more about that – how it works and all that. I think it’d be a good topic for one of the articles.’
‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ I said, pulling out the snuff box with a shout of triumph. ‘Andrew and Father will be setting the screen up later to try a few things out. You’re welcome to watch.’
‘Thank you. I will.’
‘Only – please don’t put too much detail in,’ I turned to him, very serious. ‘There’s a troupe in Sheffield who have been trying to poach Andrew from us for months. We don’t want them getting our secrets.’
‘On my honour,’ Michael said, raising his hand in solemn oath. ‘Are you sure he won’t leave you though? Surely everyone can be bought with the right inducement.’
‘Oh no, not Andrew. He’s my friend.’
I turned back to my pile and began rummaging again. After a few moments I cast a sly look in Michael’s direction and was pleased to note that he looked very thoughtful.
We worked on for a while in a silence which was broken only by my exclaiming over some rediscovered treasure or Michael asking if he had found what we were looking for. He invariably hadn’t. It must have been about half an hour later when we heard voices outside. It was Father and his visitor. I raised my head to try and listen. Michael noticed, and followed me as I rose quickly and made my way over to the door.
I opened it just a little, and peered out, towards the staircase. The cupboard I had fallen in to earlier blocked the view, and I crept out to hide behind it.
‘What are we doing?’
Michael had followed me. I shushed him with a touch on his hand, and pulled him behind the open door with me. The workmen were still making noise, but if I really strained my ears, I could just about make out their words. Michael leaned over my shoulder towards the stairs.
‘Who are we looking at?’ he breathed in my ear.
‘I don’t know.’
After a moment, they came into view. Their voices were still a murmur, but I could see that Father looked worried. The deep lines on his brow were deeper than ever, and his wrinkly eyes looked like jet beads. The man turned to leave, without shaking Father’s hand. He left him saying something brief and sharp sounding, and a decisive nod of the head and a stern look. Father remained in the hallway for a few long seconds, looking worried. He only moved when he had to step back out of the way of one of the workmen, and then he retreated back into his studio and shut the door.
I turned to Michael, not quite knowing how to explain, and realised that I was still holding his hand. When I tried to let go, he held on and gently pulled me back into the props room, where he released me only once he had shut the door.
‘Do you know what he was doing here?’ he asked. His tone was light, but he seemed serious, beneath it all.
‘That man? No. I mean, I think he’s something to do with Julia Fitzroy. She bought all of Father’s back catalogue a week or so ago, and that man arranged it.’
‘Did he now?’ Michael leaned against the door frame and pressed his forefinger against his nose. ‘I wouldn’t have expected that.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘You don’t?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you ask your father?’
I wrinkled my brow, trying to remember his exact words.
‘He didn’t say. Just that Mrs Fitzroy had bought everything. He was in shock. We both were.’
‘I see. His name is Brendan Fitzroy. He’s Julia Fitzroy’s husband.’
I remembered the young man with the cavalier beard.
‘I thought she was older. I saw her once, when I was little and she first started taking an interest in Father’s work. She was at least thirty then.’
‘He’s something of a younger man.’
‘Oh. Good for Mrs Fitzroy.’
Michael looked amused.
‘I might have guessed you’d focus on that.’
‘So he does her business for her? I suppose that makes sense. If she is – what, nearly fifty?’ I thought about it for a moment. ‘Actually, that’s not that old, is it? Is she ill?’
‘Not that I’ve heard. And he’s never actually done her business for her, as far as I’m aware. He doesn’t get involved with that sort of thing. Far too busy with his parliamentary aspirations.’
‘Oh.’ I didn’t understand. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I work for the newspaper owned by the Fitzroy twins. It’s always good to know what’s going on with your employer. Why were you spying on them?’
‘Hmm?’ I widened my eyes and looked as adorably simple as I possibly could. I wasn’t ready to undermine my father in front of this man I barely knew. And a newspaper man, no less. He blinked twice, and I parted my lips slightly, moistening them with the tip of my tongue. His blue eyes were locked with my brown ones, and I tilted my head slightly, trying to draw him in. We were both still then, as long seconds ticked by, each locked in one another’s gaze. I should have moved. I should have pressed the issue.
He’d have come to me, I’m sure of it. Given a little longer he’d have kissed me, and I’d have left it at that, for then. Probably. But time was not on our side, as we were shaken from our deep inspection of one another’s pupils by a loud bang.
Jackson had fallen into the cupboard.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was a lot funnier when he did it than when I almost had. I might have been gravely injured. In this instance, it was the safety of the cupboard which was in question.
‘I don’t believe you two have been formally introduced,’ I said, trying not to laugh. ‘Michael, this is Jackson. He’s absolutely splendid at entrances.’
Jackson scowled at me as Michael helped him up.
‘I saw you at the rehearsal,’ he said. ‘Michael Bailey. I’m doing the articles for The Yorkshire Advocate.’
Jackson brightened, and straightened his shoulders.
‘Did you like my Baron? In the rehearsal?’
‘Oh yes.’ Michael nodded, and the springy waves of hair over his brow bounced. Even though Jackson was a good head taller than him and built like a load-bearing wall, Michael seemed to hold his own. He certainly didn’t look weak, like a lot of men did (my father and Parker very much included) when compared to The Liberty Troupe’s resident Atlas.
‘I’ve asked her to rewrite a bit of it,’ he confided to Michael, bowing his head a little to speak while casting me mutinous looks. ‘I want him to be a bit more brutish. Like a war hero. Like Mars. That’s neoclassical, isn’t it? God of war?’
‘Isn’t he Roman? We’re doing Greek, Jackie.’
‘Ares is your man then.’ Michael clapped Jackie on the back before turning to me. ‘Is this one of the suggestions you decided to take on board?’
‘As a matter of fact, I did. Which Jackson would know, if he had read the revised script I gave him two days ago.’
Jackie had the good grace to look sheepish, and mumbled some excuse under his breath. I forgave him instantly, as I always did when he looked adorable. He was like a big, stupid horse. You couldn’t be angry with a big, stupid horse.
‘You know, I almost forgot. Andrew sent me to find you and your father. He’s been rigging some things up for the shadow effects. Wants your opinion and your father’s help.’
‘What perfect timing,’ I said. ‘Would you still like to watch, Michael?’
‘It would be an honour.’
‘He’ll be on the stage then, I take it?’
Jackson nodded.
‘Very well. Jackie, please will you show Mr Bailey the way, and I’ll go collect Father.’
Michael looked as though he was about to protest, but was propelled forward by Jackson with an arm so strong it could not be resisted.
Once Jackie and Michael had cleared the stairs, I tapped tentatively on Father’s door. There was no answer, but I could hear frantic noises from inside. I knocked again, more loudly this time, and pushed the door open.
‘Father?’
At first the room looked empty, but I could still hear rustling noises, so I knew he had to be in there; him or a giant rodent – which was sadly not an impossibility. He was always leaving half eaten plates of food around, and every few weeks I’d come across a new sort of fur growing on some crockery I vaguely recognised. Those plates, once washed thoroughly with boiling water, inevitably made their way to the props room. We had a lot of plates in there.
‘Who’s there?’ His head popped up from behind a large pile of books, which stood beside a half-empty bookcase that he seemed to have pulled slightly away from the wall. ‘Oh, Evey. It’s you.’
‘Is everything quite all right?’ I moved forward tentatively, stepping carefully around the scattered papers and rags which littered the floor.
Father looked at me for a moment. He looked crosser than I’ve ever seen him, and his hair stood up wildly around his head.
‘It’s my damned sketchbook. I can’t work without it, Evey, I just can’t.’ He ran a hand through his hair again, restyling it into a slightly different sort of wild. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, too. It’s been missing for days.’ He stopped and stood, kicking over the pile of books in front of him. ‘I could have made so much progress now, but instead I’m falling further and further behind.’
I didn’t know what to suggest. I wanted to go to him, but given the state he was in, I wasn’t sure how he’d respond to an embrace. He didn’t seem much like my father at that moment. My father had never treated his books like that.
Then he sank back to the floor, looking so utterly miserable that, within only a few strides, I was over by his side, and holding him.
‘What’s wrong, Papa?’
He held me too, then, but didn’t reply immediately.
‘I think it’s the pressure. The stress. The deadlines.’
‘What did that man want?’
Father scowled and his face was like a ball of screwed up paper.
‘Irritating man, always asking me questions and distracting me. Doesn’t he know I’ve an exhibition to prepare for?’
‘Do you want to show me where you are with it?’ I asked. ‘You know I’m good at spotting any mistakes.’
There was a pause again before Father replied.
‘Narcissus? Yes. Yes, I can show you Narcissus.’
He scrambled to his feet and loped across the room to his easel. I followed him, and noticed another two canvases covered with cloth and stacked against the wall.
‘What are those?’
It seemed as good a time as any to ask. He’d hardly made any effort to hide them.
‘Spares,’ Father said, stepping in front of them and waving towards his easel. ‘This could all go wrong at any time, couldn’t it?’
The painting was on a large wooden panel, about four feet high and three wide. The board had been painted with white gesso and showed the rough figure of Jackson, kneeling with his back to the viewer. He was hunched over the water, and the scene was shown looking down on him from above. Over his shoulder, I could see the reflection, pencilled into where the water would be.
‘I like your composition,’ I said, and it really was striking.
Father brightened a little.
‘They all do him from straight on, don’t they? From opposite, hunching over the water. And do you know why that is, Evey? It’s because it’s the easy way to draw it. They concentrate on having two faces, and they never look identical, but nobody – not even the critics ever point that out. This, with the difficult perspective, is the way it’ll work best. Look how close he is to the water – he’s just about to fall in, but you can still see almost his whole face.’
‘I love it. When are you going to start with the paint?’
‘Soon. Tomorrow. I’m thinking about colour. I need weeds and things in the water. But my studies, Evey.’ He turned to me, at once frantic again. ‘I have a book full of studies of ponds – from when I was painting the sirens a few years ago.’
‘And they all looked like Mother.’ I said with a smile. ‘The water was lovely on those – even that gentleman from Germany said so, and they said he was very important.’
Father brightened again, as he always did under praise.
‘Still, though. There are only three weeks left, and there’s still so much to do.’ He ran his hand through his hair again. ‘And Jackson won’t keep still. I’d start on the figure but he’s always disappearing.’
I put my arm through his and propelled him towards the door.
‘I know where he is. Now, how about you come with me. Andrew’s been setting up the shadow screen. He’s asked you to help.’
Father started to protest but I cut him off firmly.
‘You take your mind off it for an hour or two, then you can have Jackson at the end of it. And I’ll think about what we can do about your sketchbook, what do you think?’
He finally agreed, and seemed much relieved that I had taken on some of his responsibility. I was convinced we wouldn’t find the book. Father lost things all the time and they never seemed to appear until after the need for them had passed. Such was the way of things, but it meant that it was probably best to provide Father with something else to work from in the short time allowed.
We found the three boys in high spirits on the stage. A large white sheet had been strung taut on a wooden frame, four metres high and six metres wide. Behind the frame were three or four more identical frames, equipped for suspending puppets, or sets, or anything necessary for the shadow effect. Clearly Andrew had been busy, and while the screen itself was pristine, the stage around it was strewn with piles of wood and cardboard shapes.
Michael turned when he heard us approach, and jumped down from the stage, bounding towards us between the seats like a big Labrador.
‘It’s marvellous, Evey, so clever. Oh, and good afternoon, Mr Thompson.’
If Father thought anything of him using my given name, he didn’t mention it. He was probably still too worried about the painting to notice. I was careful to never let Father know about my rendezvous – he was concerned I’d go the same way as Mother.
‘They haven’t shown me it with the lights on yet, but I’m sure it’s going to impressive.’ Michael took my arm and led Father and I to the stage. ‘There are hills and trees which frame the front and sides, and cover up all the levers and pulleys behind it.’
‘He’s recycled the Midsummer Night’s Dream backdrop for that, I think. Is there a Greek looking building on one of those hills? Like a little temple?’
‘Yes, although Andrew wanted to get rid of it. Said it was too much of a good thing, but I think it looks very impressive.’
He was so pleased with the shadow set that it was infectious, and I was excited to see it again myself, even though we had used it several times before.
‘Look, he’s made all of these cardboard figures, and when you shake them the limbs move like they’re running. It’s so clever.’ He leaned closer towards me and continued in hushed tones. ‘No wonder you don’t want to lose him to Sheffield.’
For a moment I was caught in his eyes again, so much more powerful when they were full of excitement and pleasure. Then I blinked, and because I was the one who was in charge of this seduction, said-
‘And he?