Edward Marston - The Wanton Angel

‘What?’

‘Fell to the ground in a faint. He had to recover me.’

‘Poor child!’

‘I felt so alone . So completely alone.’

‘Not any more.’ Sybil held her more tightly and felt some of her daughter’s resistance fading. It was time to exploit the unusual moment of closeness. ‘We are here for you, Rose. Your father and I will always be here. You were so right to tell us when you did.’ She stroked Rose’s hair. ‘Does he know about the child yet?’

‘He?’

‘The father.’

‘No.’

‘Why not? He has responsibilities.’

‘He is not able to discharge them, mother.’

‘Nevertheless, he has a right to know.’

‘That is true,’ murmured Rose.

‘Is he so heartless that he would cast you off?’

‘No, no, he is the kindest man in the universe.’

‘Then why is he not here to help you through your time of trial?’ asked Sybil. ‘I see no hint of kindness in him.’

‘That is because you do not know him.’

‘Tell me his name and I will.’

‘No.’

‘I am your mother, Rose. Would you deny me this?’

‘I must.’

Sybil squeezed her even tighter. ‘You have never hidden anything from me before. Do not betray me now, child.’ She deposited a token kiss on Rose’s head. ‘I love you.’

The declaration fell so awkwardly and unconvincingly from her lips that it put Rose immediately on the defensive. She gritted her teeth and shrunk back slightly from the embrace. Abandoning the gentler strategy, Sybil reverted to a direct assault, taking her by the shoulders to shake her hard.

‘I’ll beat the name out of you!’ she threatened.

‘You’re hurting me!’

‘This is only the start, you ungrateful girl!’

‘I will never tell you who he is.’

‘Why?’ challenged her mother, releasing her. ‘Are you so afraid to admit his name. Are you so ashamed of him that you pretend to forget all about him?’

A curious serenity seemed to fall on Rose. She smiled.

‘I will never forget him,’ she vowed dreamily, ‘and I am certainly not ashamed of him. This baby was unlooked for, mother, I swear it, but I will tell you this. It was conceived in love with a man I worship. I will be proud to bear his child.’

‘Not if I have anything to do with it!’

Rose was checked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This child has no business making its way into the world. I was not able to prevent it from being conceived,’ she said with asperity, ‘but there may be a way to stop it from being born!’

The performance of Mirth and Madness that afternoon bordered on disaster. While not sinking to the depths they plumbed during the rehearsal, Westfield’s Men waged a losing battle against fatigue, indifference and lack of concentration. A hilarious comedy produced scant hilarity. What mirth there was arose largely from the errors with which the performance was littered. Nobody entirely avoided them. Actors collided, cues were missed, lines were forgotten, weapons were mislaid, tankards were dropped and the wrong music was played at the wrong time on three glaringly obvious occasions. Even Barnaby Gill disappointed, stubbing his toe during one of his celebrated comic jigs and hopping off the stage on one foot to blame everyone in sight for his mishap.

Madness, too, was in short supply. The audience saw almost none that was called for in the play. It was reserved for the tiring-house where Lawrence Firethorn, guilty at his own merely adequate performance and frothing at his company’s untypical incompetence, ran mad and scolded his colleagues in the most florid language. Nicholas Bracewell did his best to restore an element of calm but his was a lone voice. Mirth and Madness was a doomed ship which sailed on to certain calamity with its crew clinging to its bulwarks with an air of resignation.

It was left to George Dart to provoke the most mirth. The smallest and least talented member of the company, he was its natural scapegoat. He was a willing assistant stagekeeper who could work well behind the scenes under supervision but, as soon as he stepped out onto a stage, Dart was always prone to misadventure. His duties in Act Four were relatively simple. Dressed as a forester, he had to carry on the five miniature trees which Nathan Curtis, the carpenter, had made and painted to indicate a woodland setting. The trees were crude but vital properties since they allowed characters to hide behind them and eavesdrop in what was felt to be the funniest scene in the play. George Dart rewrote it in his own unique way.

When he placed the last tree in position, his coat became entwined in its branches and he sought to disentangle it, only managing to get himself more caught up than ever. In an effort to get free, he pulled so hard that he sent the tree hurtling into its neighbour which, in turn, buffeted its own neighbour and so on. All five trees went crashing to the ground like a set of skittles, exposing the young lovers who had been hiding behind them to instant ridicule. In a blind panic, Dart tried to flee but his coat was still snared and it was torn noisily in two by the urgent movement. In the space of a few seconds, he had felled the entire wood, deprived the lovers of their hiding place, ruined his coat and utterly destroyed the scene. When Dart came charging in terror into the tiring-house, Firethorn had to be held back from trying to strangle him.

Yet, oddly, it had a beneficial effect. The woodland scene was their nadir and sheer embarrassment made the company wish to atone for it. Though the last act was still strewn with mistakes, it was a vast improvement on what went before it and partially helped to redeem Westfield’s Men. Firethorn led the revival and George Dart was banned from setting any further foot on the stage. Tepid applause greeted them when they came out to take their undeserved bow. Their poor performance severely disappointed their devotees and won them no new admirers. It was an afternoon of sustained blunders.

A grim silence fell on the tiring-house. Players were usually exhilarated by a performance, tumbling off the stage in a mood of excitement which carried them all the way to the taproom. Regret and remorse now prevailed. They were all to blame and they knew it. Lawrence Firethorn, the first to upbraid them for any falling off from their high standards, was too depressed to even address the company. When most of them had changed out of their costumes and drifted away, he confided in Nicholas Bracewell.

‘That was atrocious, Nick!’

‘I have seen better performances of the play.’

‘A worse one is hardly conceivable. We left the piece in absolute tatters. Everyone — and I include myself — was quite disgraceful. Why? What came over us?’

‘We do not feel secure,’ said Nicholas. ‘Yesterday, on the verge of signing a new contract, the company was at its best. Today, with the threat of eviction hanging over us, our fellows lost heart and walked through a play that demanded a fast pace and concerted action.’

‘Yes!’ moaned Firethorn. ‘The only concerted action the audience saw was when that pea-brained George Dart knocked down five trees simultaneously. Had a rope been to hand, I’d have hanged the idiot from the upper gallery.’

‘Do not single George out. All were at fault.’

‘Too true, Nick.’

‘We must put this afternoon behind us.’

‘If we can,’ said Firethorn. ‘I begin to wonder if the landlord has put a curse on us. Nothing went right.’

‘Lack of spirit was to blame. It is a trusty old play but their hearts were not in it. Tomorrow, it will be different.’

‘Will it?’

‘Westfield’s Men will be on their mettle.’