Edward Marston - The Roaring Boy

‘I did not desert you!’ howled the other man as the pain flared up once more. ‘I was unfit for service. Felled by some malign devil.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Leave we my condition until another time. Ben Skeat must now be our prime concern. What was the cause of his death? Who has examined the body? Where is it now? Have his relatives yet been informed? How stands it, Barnaby?’

‘I left all that to Nicholas Bracewell,’ said Gill with evident boredom. ‘Cleaning up a mess is the one thing at which he has some moderate skill. My task was to ride post-haste to Shoreditch to put you in possession of the full facts. We have lost one of our sharers, Lawrence.’

‘The best and sweetest of men.’

‘I’ll say “Amen” to that,’ said Margery soulfully.

‘When I was a raw beginner,’ continued Firethorn in nostalgic vein, ‘it was Ben Skeat who helped me, advised me and taught me all I know about the craft of acting. He let me feed on his long experience. There was not an ounce of selfishness in that dear creature. Ben was a rock on which we all built our performances.’

‘Yes,’ said Gill with heavy sarcasm. ‘Ben was a rock. But this afternoon-like a rock-he could neither move nor speak. If it had not been for my sterling courage in the face of mortal danger…’

But his hosts were not listening. Margery Firethorn was too busy recalling a thousand and one pleasant memories of an actor who had served Westfield’s Men with honour since the inception of the company, and who had always been a most welcome visitor to the house in Old Street. Her husband was concentrating on practicalities. Ben Skeat was a sharer, one of the ranked players who were named in the patent for Westfield’s Men and who were thus entitled to a portion of such profits as it might make. Sharers also took all the major roles in any play. They had real status and a qualified security. To become a sharer with one of the London companies was to join an exclusive brotherhood. Ben Skeat had just resigned from that charmed circle.

Lawrence Firethorn weighed all the implications.

‘Ben must be mourned,’ he decreed, ‘then replaced.’

‘You are too hasty,’ said Gill. ‘One less sharer and the rest of us have a slightly larger slice of the pie.’

‘Fresh blood is needed in the company.’

‘I beg to differ, Lawrence.’

‘When do you do otherwise?’

Gill tensed. ‘I am entitled to my opinion.’

‘No question but that you are, Barnaby,’ said the actor-manager with light irony. ‘I value that opinion. I shall, of course, ignore it as usual but I can still respect it. The matter is decided. As one Ben Skeat leaves us, another must be found to take his place.’

‘The issue has not even been discussed.’

‘We just discussed it-did we not, Margery?’

‘What more debate is needed?’ she said.

‘Much more,’ argued Gill, irritated that she should be brought into their deliberations. ‘Edmund has a voice here. When he hears reason, he will side with me.’

‘Reason will incline him to my persuasion.’

Lawrence Firethorn had no doubt on that score. He could invariably win the resident playwright around to his point of view. All the sharers had a nominal voice in company policy but it was effectively decided by its three leading personalities. Of these, Barnaby Gill and Edmund Hoode were allowed only the illusion of control. It was Firethorn whose guiding hand was really on the tiller.

‘Think back, Barnaby,’ he counselled. ‘When Old Cuthbert retired from the company, what did we do? We promoted from within. Owen Elias rose from the hired men to become our new sharer and he has been a credit to us ever since.’

‘You bitterly opposed his selection,’ reminded Gill.

‘That is all in the past.’

‘You hated Owen because he joined our sworn enemies.’

‘We have put the incident behind us.’

‘It was the one time when you were overruled.’

Firethorn breathed in deeply through his nose and tried to remain calm. Owen Elias’s elevation from hired man to sharer had taken place in exceptional circumstances and was largely the work of Nicholas Bracewell. The book holder’s astute stage management of the situation had overcome Firethorn’s serious qualms about the Welshman. Although Owen Elias was now an established player of the first rank in Westfield’s Men, the recollection of his promotion was not untinged with bitterness for Firethorn.

‘We will look outside the company,’ he said firmly.

‘Why look at all?’ countered Gill.

‘A new sharer would invest money in Westfield’s Men.’

‘Owen Elias did not.’

‘Forget Owen. He has no place in this argument.’

‘I believe that he does.’

‘So do I,’ said Margery.

The men stared at her. Ordinarily, she would have no right to be present-let alone involved-in the dispute. Acting was a male prerogative. No woman was permitted to take part in a play, still less to assist in the running of one of the companies, but Margery Firethorn had a habit of breaking rules that hindered her. Gill was patently annoyed by an intrusion he had no power to stop, while a weakened Firethorn was unable to assert himself over his wife. Margery stated her case with blunt clarity.

‘Choose the best possible man,’ she said.

‘Why, so we will,’ consented her husband.

‘Then turn to Owen Elias.’

‘We cannot make him a sharer for the second time.’

‘Take him as your example, Lawrence,’ she said. ‘You looked with Westfield’s Men and the right choice came.’

‘More or less.’

‘Do the self-same thing again.’

‘How so?’

‘Nominate the only person fit for the honour.’

‘And who might that be, my dove?’ he wondered.

‘Who else but Nicholas Bracewell?’

‘ Anyone else!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I forbid it!’

Firethorn pondered. ‘Margery guides us along the path of logic,’ he said. ‘Nick Bracewell is the obvious choice.’

‘Where would you be without him?’ she said.

‘Consigned to oblivion.’

‘No!’ said Gill with outrage. ‘This is madness. He is just one more hired man. You cannot turn a mere book holder into a sharer. Who is to be next in line? Hugh Wegges, the tireman? Nathan Curtis, the carpenter? George Dart, that shivering idiot of an assistant stagekeeper? You make a mockery of our standing.’

Margery’s eye kindled dangerously. ‘Nick Bracewell is as good a man as any in the company.’ She shot a meaningful glance at Gill. ‘Far better than some I could name, who stand much lower in my esteem. I’ll not hear a carping word against Nick. It is high time that his worth was fully appreciated.’

Gill curled a lip in scorn. ‘Oh, it is, it is. We took his measure this afternoon.’

‘What say you?’ asked Firethorn.

‘Your precious Nicholas Bracewell was at last revealed in his true light. He is not the paragon of virtue you take him for, Lawrence.’ Gill was working himself up into a mild rage. ‘He not only let us down in our hour of need, he committed the most foul assault on my person.’

‘With good reason, I dare swear.’

‘He attacked me, Lawrence!’

‘I have often thought of doing so myself.’

‘Violent hands were laid upon me.’

‘How I envy him!’

‘Our book holder became a vicious animal.’

‘Never!’ said Margery. ‘Nick is as gentle as a lamb.’

‘Your opinion was not sought,’ snapped Gill.

‘I offered it gratis .’

‘Please keep out of this discussion.’

‘Do not bandy words with my wife, sir!’ said Firethorn.

‘Then ask her to withdraw from our conference.’

‘Will you be assaulted again!’ she threatened.