Authors: Jenny Pattrick
Skylark (32 page)
Oh, what a cheering and dancing that brought on! Sarah’s fine apple pie was completely forgotten. While Jack received the shower of hugs and pats, Lily came and sat quietly by me.
‘Can you manage the trip, do you think, Mattie?’
Of course I had to say yes, but the thought filled me with dread.
[Archivist’s Note: This is the last entry made by Mattie. She did add the recipe for Sarah’s apple pie, which I have not included. It is similar to modern recipes. Also pasted in is a cutting from the
Wanganui Chronicle
giving the train timetable both ‘up’ and ‘down’: i.e. Whanganui to Waverley and back. In 1881 the journey from Waitotara to Whanganui, with five stations between, took two hours. E. de M.]
[Archivist’s Note: Written directly into the journal in the hand of Lily Alouette. E. de M.]
It has been agreed that I shall write this scene — this chapter. An honour as well as a burden. You will listen solemnly as I read, waiting to catch me out, yet also wanting to hear the story. Needing to hear it and understand. Ah, my dears, listen then.
On the morning before the last Whanganui performance of
H.M.S. Pinafore
, Teddy nervously leaves his sword practice and walks across the stage. In the orchestra pit, Mr Jim Pollard, musical director, is arranging music stands and laying out music. Teddy, like all the children, is a little afraid of Mr Jim. He is not as genial as his father or his brother Charles. Mr Jim will not tolerate any ‘tomfoolery’ during singing rehearsals, while Mr Derbyshire, who teaches their steps and gestures, and often performs with them, loves to joke and tease and goad his cast into silly antics.
Mr Jim Pollard looks up at the boy who stands on the edge of the stage. He frowns. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your practice?’
‘Yes, Mr Pollard, but …’ Teddy clears his throat and tries again. ‘Would you not let me play Rackstraw tonight, please, Sir?’
‘I think we’ll let May sing the part tonight, Teddy, I thought you understood that.’
Teddy wants to burst out angrily: the Pollard girls get all the good parts anyway. May doesn’t need to sing Ralph Rackstraw. Last night she had three encores for her ‘Queen’s Navee’ solo and Olive was allowed to play two violin pieces in the middle of
Ralph Rackstaw’s scene. The Pollard girls are always favoured.
Trembling slightly, but determined, Teddy continues. ‘It’s just that my family is coming tonight, Sir. They were hoping … that I …’ Teddy turns away to hide the tears he can’t control.
Jim Pollard clears his throat, puts a pile of music on the piano, drums his fingers on its polished wood. ‘Teddy,’ he says, more kindly, ‘last night you cracked on your high note. I think your voice needs a rest.’
‘Oh no, Sir, that was just a crumb in my throat. I shouldn’t have eaten that biscuit, Sir. I won’t crack again …’ Teddy curses the wretched catch in his throat which has happened three times now in rehearsal.
‘Your voice was not as clear as usual this morning, I noticed, which is why I think May should sing Rackstraw tonight.’
Teddy can see he is losing the battle. ‘Please give me a chance, Sir, please.’ But Mr Jim has turned back to his music.
Suddenly a voice booms out from the back of the auditorium. ‘Mr Pollard, I wonder if I might have a word?’ Teddy is overjoyed to see his mother, dressed splendidly in dark red silk and a great pile of a hat, gliding down the aisle out of the gloom and into a pool of sunshine, where she pauses, aware of the effect. Her beaded purse, catching the sun, sends dancing flashes of emerald and ruby over the dark walls and ceiling of the theatre.
Jim Pollard smiles to see her. ‘Madame Larkendale! Welcome!’ Lily, who performed recently with J.C. Williamson’s company in Wellington, was well known there not only for her splendid comic performances in the farces, but also for her support of the Pollard company. Lily gives Mr Pollard a regal hand to hold, blows a kiss to Teddy and waves to the rest of the boys who have stopped their fight-moves to stare.
Teddy wants to cheer out loud. His mother will save the day, surely?
‘All Whanganui,’ says Lily, in a voice that reaches Mr James Pollard Senior at the back of the theatre, ‘is looking forward to hearing Theodore tonight. He is one of a performing family, well known in this town.’ She smiles grandly. ‘Trained by me, of course.’
Teddy wonders if his mother is overdoing it, but Mr Pollard Senior steps forward to take Lily’s silken arm. ‘Well then, my dear, we don’t want to disappoint a good audience, do we?’ He cocks an eyebrow at his son. ‘Shall we let the local prodigy sing for his family and friends?’
Mr Jim looks steadily at his father. For a moment it seems as if he will argue, but then he nods curtly.
Teddy breaks into a smile as bright as the spring sunshine outside; can’t help dancing a little jig of joy; then quickly runs back to join his friends, waving his wooden sword in triumph.
Back on the floor, Lily draws Mr Pollard Senior away for a confidential word. Her hand rests on his sleeve. ‘Now, James, I fear I must make a confession.’ Her smile manages to be both rueful and charming. It suggests that the misdemeanour will be slight.
James Pollard smiles back, all attention.
‘I’m afraid I misled you back in Wellington, on the matter of Theodore’s father. Teddy does, in fact, have a father, Jack Lacey, who will be here tonight to see his son. The Lacey family is — how can I put it — a little unconventional, but nevertheless respected in this part of the country for their musical and theatrical ability.’
The entrepreneur fingers his moustache, frowning.
‘Not a patch,’ Lily hastens to add, ‘on the Pollard family prodigies, of course, but …’ She spreads her be-ringed hands and shrugs in her most appealing manner.
Mr James Pollard is only half won-over. ‘I am most particular about …’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Lily hurries on. ‘The contract. The father’s signature. But you see, Teddy has such talent! I could not let it be stifled! And also …’ Lily lowers her voice to speak into Mr Pollard’s well-groomed ear. ‘Teddy is not legitimate. Strictly speaking, I am not married to Mr Lacey.’ Lily sighs, lowers her eyelashes demurely.
For a long moment, James Pollard is silent. Lily imagines he is weighing up matters: the boy’s value to the company; the risk of another court case from an angry parent; the slur of having
an illegitimate child among the peerless Lilliputians. When he speaks, his voice is brisk again. Businesslike. ‘Mr Lacey will attend the performance tonight?’
‘He will,’ says Lily. ‘If he sees his son in a leading role I am certain that he will withdraw any reservations he might have had.’
‘Then I will require a new contract, signed by Mr Lacey.’
‘That will be no problem,’ says Lily brightly, although she is not sure at all. ‘We look forward to the performance tonight.’
Lily gives a last wave to her son and sweeps out of the theatre.
That evening begins as the happiest of Teddy’s life. Backstage, all is quiet concentration as make up is applied and costumes are donned. Teddy inhales the wonderful, rich smell of greasepaint and face-powder, as he stares at himself in the dressing-room mirror. The face that stares back is ruddy-cheeked, the eyebrows darkened, a small dot of carmine in the corner of each eye, as he has been taught. His golden hair shines with oil. Tonight he will show his family how right it is that he should stay with the Lilliputians. Tomorrow he will sail with them to Auckland and then to Australia. After that, maybe even to the Orient, Mr Pollard says! Teddy hums the opening bars of his solo.
Cornelius is standing behind him, watching as Teddy dabs powder over the greasepaint. ‘I tell you what,’ he says. ‘When that high note is coming up, take a good sharp breath and hold your air really steady.’
‘I won’t crack tonight,’ says Teddy, annoyed that Cornelius has mentioned the problem.
Cornelius nods. ‘Well, that’s what I do. My voice is doing the same. But if you’re only eleven it won’t be breaking yet.’
‘Breaking?’ Teddy laughs. ‘My voice won’t ever break!’
Cornelius snorts. ‘Of course it will. Why do you think Mr James has signed on those two new boys from Thames? My replacements, that’s why. My voice is breaking. Auckland will be my last performances.’
Teddy doesn’t want to hear such nonsense. He walks away, looking for his costume.
The show is a triumph. Whanganui claps and cheers. The Lacey family (minus Mattie who is, after all, too weak to travel, and Sarah who stayed to see to her) stand in a solid phalanx at the end of Teddy’s solo, throwing roses and kisses. Teddy is almost brought to tears to see his father is there, cheering too. Teddy’s performance has been flawless, his clear voice floating over the orchestra. Mr Jim allows him an encore. This time his voice falters for a moment but recovers quickly. Teddy hopes no one has noticed, especially not Mr Jim.
Afterwards Lily brings them all backstage. His brothers and sisters crowd around him, touching his costume, praising his singing.
Phoebe kisses him. ‘You were wonderful! I’m so proud.’
The twins, Lydia and Lysander, vow that they will soon be Lilliputians too. Even solemn Samuel is grinning, and Bert presses a shilling into his hand — ‘for luck’.
On one side of the stage, Mr Pollard Senior is supervising the lowering of the painted backdrops and the dismantling of the flats and rostra, preparing them for loading onto the steamer tomorrow, bound for Napier and then Auckland. Stage hands are bustling here and there, while the other Lilliputians are being herded off to bed by Auntie Pollard. The only still group in all this activity is the knot of Laceys, watching as their father walks over to the entrepreneur. Lily hurries after him, skirts swirling, silk scarf trailing, ready to smooth any ruffled feelings on behalf of either of these two forceful men. Teddy holds Bert’s lucky shilling, digging it into the palm of his hand.
Mr Pollard, red-faced and sweating from all the exertion, eyes the immaculate Jack Lacey: his shining boots, his dark red cravat, his twirled moustaches and gleaming watch-chain. Jack offers a hand and a word of congratulation. Mr Pollard accepts both rather curtly.
‘You are Theodore Larkendale’s father?’ he asks.
Jack looks, frowning, at Lily, who laughs and tosses it off. ‘His stage name, Jack. We all take a stage name, as you very well know.’
She addresses Mr Pollard. ‘He is Theodore Lacey in real life and this is his father, Mr Jack Lacey, a well-known horse-breeder in these parts. Didn’t our Teddy do a fine job tonight?’
Mr Pollard nods, hardly as effusive as Lily would hope. Final night, in the middle of striking the set, is not the best time for the great man’s good humour. He beckons to his son. Mr Jim hurries across the stage, shuffling through sheets of music for Teddy’s new contract.
‘Mr Lacey,’ says Mr James Pollard, ‘I did not appreciate being misled over parentage. But your son is a rare talent, and if you are willing to sign, we will continue his education and training, pay you four pounds a week for his services, and return him at our expense when the current tour ends.’
‘Which would be when?’ Jack is used to signing contracts, familiar with business practice. The terms are favourable when compared with Bert’s apprenticeship at the blacksmith’s, but that’s to be expected with a talent like Teddy’s.
‘Possibly in two years’ time, possibly shorter. I am in
negotiations
for a tour which may include Singapore.’ Mr Pollard, distracted by the activity around him, thrusts the paper rather brusquely at Jack. Jack, not one to be rushed into a contract, reads carefully. He points to a line. ‘There’s a mistake here.’
The younger Mr Pollard frowns, and reaches for the paper.
‘My son,’ says Jack, ‘will be thirteen next month. It says here eleven years old.’
Both Pollards react sharply. Both turn to stare at Lily, whose smile has frozen. The older Pollard’s ruddy face turns an even deeper red. ‘Thirteen years old? A second lie? Madame Larkendale, what have you to say to this?’
Lily swallows. Her legendary beaded purse sways back and forth, sending showers of coloured reflections over the little group. ‘James …’ she tries.
‘Mr Pollard!’ thunders Mr Pollard.
‘My
dear
Mr Pollard, Theodore is
very
small and young for his age. One takes him for an eleven-year-old. One forgets, you see …’
‘One does not forget,’ shouts the entrepreneur, quite carried
away with rage, ‘when one is signing a contract. We do not sign on thirteen-year-old boys!’
Mr Jim lays a calming hand on his father’s sleeve. ‘I will deal with it, Father. The boy’s voice has shown signs of breaking. The contract is void.’
By now all the children and stage crew are watching. Old Mr Pollard has a reputation for towering rages. This one is as entertaining as a melodrama. His face is purple; his hands circle around his head like a pair of crows; his voice reaches the back of the auditorium. ‘Void indeed! Give me that!’ Snatching the contract from Jack’s astonished hands, he tears it into tiny pieces, flinging them high into the air. ‘I consider our obligations towards the boy’s training and care over. Over! He may leave the company forthwith!’
Teddy has heard it all. White-faced, he runs towards the little group. ‘No! No! Please give me a chance, Mr Pollard!’ His despairing cry cracks on the last word, the bass croak a fatal giveaway. Mr Tom Pollard, who has been listening in the wings, takes the stricken boy gently by the arm and leads him away, talking quietly. At a distance, he turns and speaks, his own rich voice full of accusation. ‘I’ll take Teddy back to the hotel to be with his friends and collect his belongings. You may find him there in the morning, Mrs … Larkendale, and take him home.’