An immersive historical debut which tells the story of a mixed-race woman who plays a freak on the stage in Victorian London and finds herself caught in a reckoning with her own identity.
I
The African in the Audience
"Go to the theatre much? No, nor me. At least not before I became an actress. I know what you’re thinking. Actress, eh? But you can keep your dirty- minded thoughts to yourself. I trod the boards and no more. Doesn’t mean I don’t have a story or two to tell, mind. Would you be kind enough to indulge me if I talked about the old days? Hard as it was back then, I can’t say that if I had my time again I’d change it.
That feeling you get before the show starts. Whether you’ve been up Drury Lane once, twice or ten times, I reckon you’ll know it. It comes up on you as the lights go down. The fi zzing in your belly conjured by cheap gin and jellied eels at a farthing a pot. Keep your eyes hard fi xed on the curtain in front of you. Those red velvet folds, with their heavy gold trim. You’re so eager at the thought of the performance to come, you tell yourself you saw it move. But if you really want first peek it’s best to look to the left of the stage. Time it right and you might just see the actors looking out at you.
Not at Crillick’s Variety Theatre, though. Back in the late forties, if you’d have found yourself sitting in the stalls you would have looked in vain. Doesn’t mean we weren’t there, just that you didn’t see us: red-headed Ellen and right alongside her with the wild black curls? That would be me, Zillah. I know it’s strange to think that we watched you before you watched us, but both of us had our reasons. Each night, Ellen searched the audience for a scout, someone with the power to pluck her from the Crillick’s stage and take her to the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. She fancied herself a soprano. I was more concerned about seeing what mood the punters were in – if they were at the stage of drink where they would join in a sing-song or so far gone they’d turn violent and throw things at us. Every crowd was different but there was one September night, the year the Queen was delivered of her daughter Louise, when one man in particular caught my eye.
The first thing I noticed was his hat. It stood out a mile among the flat caps and bowlers, and he had the frock coat to match. It’s not often you get a man in a topper at Crillick’s. Don’t mistake me, Marcus Crillick’s show is more than a few rungs up from a penny gaff, but the quality don’t like variety. They prefer to keep things pure. So straight away I was suspicious. Then I clocked the colour of him.
‘Him over there. What do you make of him?’ I said to Ellen.
She squinted in the direction of my pointed finger.
‘The African, you mean? Don’t often get one of yours in.’
He sat on the benches, three rows back, his right leg stretched out on the aisle. Even from here, peeking out behind the curtain, I could see that he was handsome and broad in the shoulders. Around him sat our usual regulars, the shop boys and navvies already half-cut and impatient for the show to start. The sour tang of their sweat was sharp on the air. Beyond them were the tables for the better sort, the clerks with women worth the price of dinner and a show. The ushers weaved around them touting trinkets and sweetmeats, competing for the pennies in their pockets. Up above, the box where our proprietor often sat was in darkness. Crillick liked to keep an eye on what was happening in his theatre but for the time being he was away on business in France.
“When I entered a room, they sniggered behind their hands. Just a drop or two of colour was enough to make me an outcast in their eyes.”
Ellen, satisfied that she had the measure of the African, delivered her verdict. ‘Selfish bastard, I reckon. Getting above himself. No call to be wearing a hat three minutes before the curtain.’
I was glad she was talking to me again. Things had been frosty between us for a couple of weeks ever since Crillick had made me the headline act and cut Ellen’s solo from the bill to give me more stage time. It wasn’t my fault, of course, and she knew it, but that didn’t stop her being miffed. I suppose I would’ve been too, in her position, seeing as how green I’d been when I started.
I’d joined Crillick’s company nine months earlier, at new year. Ellen had been one of the first people I’d met backstage. She was the only one to welcome me, to pass the time of day while I got to know my act. Straight away the others hated me, and didn’t trouble to hide it. When I entered a room, they sniggered behind their hands. Just a drop or two of colour was enough to make me an outcast in their eyes. But Ellen, coming from Galway as she did, knew just enough of what it was to be different to see that we could be allies. She’d been kind and all she’d got in return for her troubles was to be demoted. She could ill afford it too, what with all her money being sent back home. I did my best to be nice as I could, let her know I wasn’t trying to displace her. We’d always had a laugh together. I didn’t want us to feel like rivals.
All this time Ellen had been straining her eyes to look at the African.
‘You recognise him?’ she said.
‘No, why would I?’
‘I only asked.’
I shouldn’t have snapped. It felt like all the Irish people in town knew one another so she probably meant nothing by it. But I didn’t know him, had never seen him before in my life. He wasn’t ‘one of mine’ like she’d said. I had no one.
But I didn’t want me and Ellen to be on the outs any more. I had enough battles to fight so I squeezed her shoulder to say sorry.
‘He’s unsettled me is all.’
‘Then tell the boys to kick him out,’ Ellen said.
‘I couldn’t.’
I didn’t know what it was about the African that threw me off but I didn’t want to see his evening spoilt, not on my account. Especially as I knew it must be my act that he’d come to see. Not just him, mind. When I’d started off at Crillick’s I’d been bottom of the bill but now I was the main draw. Over time I’d seen off Aldous the magician and Guillame the mime artist and now the Great Amazonia was the headline act. I’d even been reviewed in the Illustrated London News – ‘a savage spectacular’ they’d said. ‘Here is one Amazon that has carried all before her.’ I looked out at the African in the audience. If I performed well enough to fool him, Amazonia might remind him of his homeland. If he’d ventured into Crillick’s on his own, he must’ve wanted to see her very badly. I felt an urge not to disappoint him. I wanted him to like my performance. To like me.
I didn’t know where it came from, this sudden feeling of kinship. There had been other Blacks in the crowd before, of course, but this was the first time I’d felt drawn to one. I was half-caste, white as well as Black. Moreover, I was London born and bred, while most of the other Blacks – and mainly they were men – were from somewhere else. The soldiers at the palace who played the drums at the Changing of the Guard were brought in from Africa for their musical talents. I was nothing like them, their smart uniforms bright against their dark skin. Nor was I like the sailors and former slaves that hung around the docks. Buckled and broken down, they had mostly arrived from America. Unlike them, I’d always been free.
“It was rare that a whole night at Crillick’s passed without a fight breaking out in the audience.”
‘Here now, what’s this?’ Ellen said.
We watched as one of the ushers approached the African, leaning down to whisper in his ear. The African nodded as he spoke but the look on his face was grim. The usher put a hand on his shoulder and I tensed, waiting for a shout, or a punch to be thrown, but then the African turned back towards the stage and removed his hat. Underneath, his hair was cut close and the tight curls smoothed with a shiny pomade.
‘I thought it was about to get tasty there. He’s definitely not one of the regulars,’ Ellen said. She was right; it was rare that a whole night at Crillick’s passed without a fight breaking out in the audience.
‘You should tell Barky if you’re worried,’ Ellen said. Or stop your whining she could have added, but didn’t.
‘Let him be. You can tell he’s not in the market for any trouble.’
Barky was the stage manager. He’d never talked behind my back like I knew Ellen sometimes did and, though he was careful not to show me any favouritism, of all the people at Crillick’s I trusted him the most. There was no reason for him to look out for me, but I was glad that he did. Lean and mysterious like a shadow, his greying dark hair cut convict-short, Barky took seriously his job to look after the performers. He moved quiet as a cat. I was never sure how long he had been somewhere before he announced himself. He saw himself as an uncle and liked to call us his family. I suppose we were in a way. All families row and fight and secretly hate one another, don’t they? That’s what it was like at Crillick’s. All those performers with their own high pride and jealousies. Barky always checked up on us before a show so we did not miss our cue.
Now, right on cue himself, he appeared behind us in the wings and tutted to see Ellen and me in dressing gowns and drawers.
‘Come on, girls, you should be in costume by now. You know who’ll get the rollicking if you’re late.’
He made his usual noise, something between a cough and a snort. It came out when we annoyed him, which was often. The strange sound had led to his nickname but he didn’t seem to mind that that’s what we called him. It never occurred to me back then to wonder what his real name was.
‘There’s a man . . .’ Ellen began but trailed off when I shook my head. It felt wrong to bring the African to Barky’s attention. The stranger may have rattled me but he had done nothing wrong, and it was reassuring that he hadn’t caught Barky’s eye. If there had been anything untoward in the crowd, I knew Barky would have spotted
‘No more dallying then,’ Barky said and clapped his hands to shoo us along.
Ellen jumped to it but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the African. His head was bent over his programme now. He traced a finger down the page, studying the acts to come. Ballerinas, acrobats, a magician and then: the Great Amazonia. Barky’s arm stole round my shoulder. From another man the gesture would have made me cringe, but all the girls felt safe with Barky. He was the only man among the theatre workers that never made lewd remarks, nor lingered while we girls got changed.
‘What’s got you spooked, girl?’
I desperately wanted to tell him, but I barely understood it myself. Back then I didn’t realise that the impression this African had made on me would be the start of something lasting, that it would change the way I lived my life and how I saw myself.
‘Nothing wrong with a spot of nerves,’ Barky said.
He gave me a searching look, but didn’t push it. After a moment, he steered me round and gave me a gentle shove in the direction of the steps that led backstage. Ellen hadn’t bothered to wait for me.”
Extracted from Theatre of Marvels by Lianne Dillsworth, out now.
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