II
Cathedral cities, market towns, ports forgotten by the sea, spas long out of fashion, all these can decay beautifully, and often their charm increases as the life ebbs out of them. Industrial towns, like steam engines, are only even tolerable if they are in working order and puffing away. Tewborough was like an engine with a burst boiler lying on the side of a road; it was a moneymaking machine that had almost stopped working, for only a wheel here and there shakily revolved or a pulley gave a groan or two; it was a factory that could now show you nothing but broken windows and litter and mouldering ledgers and a mumbling caretaker; it was nothing but an old cashbox containing only dust and cobwebs and a few forgotten pence. Trade in Tewborough had nearly disappeared altogether, and it was quite obvious that it would never come back again, would always prefer other and pleasanter places. It was a town of dwindling incomes, terrifying overdrafts, of shopkeepers who lived by stretching one another‚Äôs credit, of working men who were rapidly becoming nothing but waiting men, their chief occupation being to hang about the doors of buildings that were known‚ÅÝ‚Äîwith a fine irony‚ÅÝ‚Äîas Labour Exchanges. Tewborough had always been one of the ugliest towns in the Midlands, and now it was easily the most depressed and depressing. Its wealth had long ceased to accumulate but its men still decayed. The days when Tewborough‚Äôs coal and lace-curtains and tin-tacks were in brisk demand everywhere, when many a local man who still liked his tea in a pint pot could ‚Äúbuy up‚Äù the county‚Äôs Lord Lieutenant and was known to have shaken Gladstone himself by the hand, these days had gone and had left nothing behind them but a few public buildings in a bad Gothic style, two bewhiskered and blackened statues, some slag heaps, disused factories and sidings, a rotting canal, a large slum area, a generous supply of dirt, rickets, bow legs, and bad teeth‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the Theatre Royal.
When Mr.¬ÝOakroyd brought out his verdict on the place, he and Miss Trant had not spent a whole day there, but their roseate visions had long faded and vanished. It was impossible to like the town, though they had both tried hard and had perhaps succeeded in concealing a little of their dislike for it from one another. Miss Trant told herself she had never imagined that any town could be so hideous and depressing: she wanted to run away at once and never even think of it again. Sitting in the dingy coffee-room of the hotel, with a plate of congealing mutton fat in front of her, she had felt she was ready to cry at any moment. She knew already that Tewborough could not be amused by their show or any other show. When the man at the hotel had heard she had taken the Theatre Royal, he had stared at her and then given a short and disconcerting laugh. ‚ÄúHaving a pop at it, are you?‚Äù he had said. ‚ÄúWell, I suppose there‚Äôs nothing like trying. You‚Äôre not the first, and I dare say you won‚Äôt be the last, even yet. I thought old Droke was looking pleased with himself, last time I saw him. Met him yet? He‚Äôs a queer old stick, if you like, as rum as they make ‚Äôem round here‚ÅÝ‚Äîand rummer. Well, well, well!‚Äù And Miss Trant did not like the sound of this at all.
Early on Monday morning she made the acquaintance of Mr.¬ÝDroke, and though she did not spend much time in his company, it left her in no doubt that Mr.¬ÝDroke certainly was as rum as they made them. He was a very little old man, with an immense head and quite tiny legs and feet, so that he looked like a dirty and dingy gnome. His senile voice came whistling through his browny-white moustache and beard, and he had a horrible trick of coming quite close and punctuating his jerky statements with vigorous upward nudges of his elbow. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs a good theatre,‚Äù he would say. ‚ÄúIsn‚Äôt better round here, go where you like.‚Äù Nudge. ‚ÄúBeen some famous actors there, they tell me. I don‚Äôt know ‚Äôcos I wasn‚Äôt here then, I wasn‚Äôt.‚Äù Nudge. ‚ÄúHad a shop in Liverpool then. Sold it and came back here. Got a shop here now.‚Äù Another nudge. Miss Trant in retreat and Mr.¬ÝDroke in close pursuit, ready for the next nudge. ‚ÄúBelonged to my brother, this theatre did, and he left it to me. I don‚Äôt bother with it much, too busy, and don‚Äôt care about theatres. They used to be always wanting me to be doing this and doing that to it, but I couldn‚Äôt be bothered, d‚Äôyou see, and having my shop too and trade being so bad. Nothing wrong with it, though, nothing at all.‚Äù Nudge. ‚ÄúA good theatre still. All fads, that‚Äôs all. Nothing wrong with it. You‚Äôre not faddy, are you?‚Äù More nudges. ‚ÄúWell then, it‚Äôll suit you all right, very cheap at the price, very cheap. Too many faddy people now, aren‚Äôt there? Don‚Äôt know what they want.‚Äù
Miss Trant was not sure that she knew what she wanted but as soon as she saw the outside of the building, she knew at once that she certainly did not want the Tewborough Theatre Royal. Her heart sank. Its position was bad, for it was down a dark side-street; and its appearance was worse. Missing panes of glass, unpainted and rotting woodwork, dirt and litter, everywhere. The only things that were bright and new there were their own playbills, and they looked pathetic, so young and hopeful, so utterly out of place. The inside was worse than the outside. It was smaller than most old-fashioned theatres, but it was built on the usual plan, with stalls, pit, dress circle, and separate gallery. The seats in the gallery were narrow wooden benches, and those in the pit were similar benches with backs to them, and both pit and gallery stank abominably. The stalls and dress circle had the usual plush chairs, but they were all old and worn and stained. At one time the place may have made a pretty show of gilt, but now the dust and grime were so thick on the gilding that it returned no answering gleam to the lights. On the ceiling and the proscenium were some cracked nymphs and peeling cupids. Such carpets as there were on the corridors were threadbare. Old playbills lined the greasy walls: Are You a Mason? The Girl from Kay‚Äôs; the Tewborough and District Amateur Operatic Company in Dorothy; The Face at the Window; Dr.¬ÝFaustein in his Great Mesmeric, Thought-Reading, and Mystical Oriental Entertainment; and here and there were yellowing photographs of heroic actors in togas or bag wigs, bewhiskered old ‚Äúheavies,‚Äù and simpering leading ladies of the Nineties, all of them catching her eye as she passed and whispering: ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre dead and gone.‚Äù She peered through a dirty glass door labelled Saloon Bar and saw a counter and a few bottles all thick with dust.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs shut up now,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝFinnegan. ‚ÄúWe ‚Äôad the licence taken away. ‚ÄôArd on a management, very ‚Äôard!‚Äù This Mr.¬ÝFinnegan, to whom she had been handed over by Mr.¬ÝDroke, was called the manager, but he was obviously a general factotum in receipt of a mere pittance. He was old, shabby, and gently steeped in liquor, and such a pitiful figure that at any other time Miss Trant would have felt sorry for him, but now, as he shuffled down these grimy corridors with her, she could only regard him with distaste. When they returned to the auditorium, its atmosphere seemed more unpleasant and oppressive than ever: it was like walking into a drawer full of old rubbish that had not been turned out for twenty years. Miss Trant shuddered.
‚ÄúOh, but it‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs awful!‚Äù she cried. ‚ÄúAll so dirty and depressing.‚Äù
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝFinnegan mumbled, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt say it wouldn‚Äôt do with a cleanup, but‚ÅÝ‚Äîbless yer‚ÅÝ‚Äîit‚Äôs a prince to some. You‚Äôre new to it, aren‚Äôt yer? Thought so; tell it in a minute. Wants tidying a bit, I dare say, but wouldn‚Äôt be worth it just now. And theatres is all alike when you come in during the day and they‚Äôre all empty, all alike they are: put you off if you don‚Äôt know ‚Äôem. I‚Äôve seen this place packed to the roof‚ÅÝ‚Äîeverybody here‚ÅÝ‚Äîmayor and corporation, everybody! When Wilson Barrett opened ‚Äôere with his ‚ÄòSign o‚Äô the Cross,‚Äô there was over a nundred pounds in the youse, over a nundred pounds, Monday night, and that was when a quid was a quid, when you could buy something with it. Can‚Äôt do that now, of course. There isn‚Äôt the money in the town.‚Äù He shook his head mournfully.
The faded crimson curtain began shaking too. It gave a creak, then finally parted and rose. Two figures in shirtsleeves walked on to the stage, and Miss Trant, approaching, discovered that one of them was Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. When she drew near, she saw that he was very gloomy and disgusted.
“Eh, Miss Trant,” he cried, “it is a mucky noil at t’back here. You nivver saw such a muddle. We’ll have some trade on getting this right, we shall an’ all. Come and have a look at it.”
Miss Trant went round, looked at the stage, peeped in a dressing-room or two, sent for Mr.¬ÝFinnegan (who could not be found), telephoned to Mr.¬ÝDroke (who did not reply), and went in search of two charwomen to assist Mr.¬ÝOakroyd and his shirt-sleeved colleague, who had a glassy stare and a perpetually open mouth.
‚ÄúHe‚Äôs not all there, isn‚Äôt Charlie,‚Äù whispered Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs his name‚ÅÝ‚ÄîCharlie. He‚Äôs a bit soft but he‚Äôll ha‚Äô to do. If he were right, he wouldn‚Äôt be working here. If this is a the‚Äëater, give me them pavilions and kursals ivvery time. This is nowt but a ragbag. It‚Äôll cap me, Miss Trant; if we do much here. Town‚Äôs got a bit of a miserable look about it.‚Äù
“It has,” replied Miss Trant emphatically. “And I never saw a miserabler.”
‚ÄúNo more did I,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôve nobbut been here a two-three hours, you might say, and it might improve a bit on acquaintance, but so far it‚Äôs a right poor do.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, as we know, was not difficult to please. No man can live in Bruddersford for over forty years and be hypercritical; your Bruddersfordian is never one of those sensitive creatures who are entirely at the mercy of their surroundings. But already Tewborough had been too much even for Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. Before meeting the others at the station, he returned to his lodgings, thus making further acquaintance with the town and disliking it more. His terse comment to Inigo summed up his view of the whole situation, the theatre, the town, the lodgings, everything. After making that comment, he walked away, partly because he had to see to the baggage but also because he had a good sense of the dramatic. After a few minutes he returned to Inigo‚Äôs side.
“You and me has to share rooms,” he announced.
“Oh, how’s that?” Inigo asked. “Is the town full?”
“Nay, there’s nowt on here at all. But they won’t let. We’d a right job getting lodgings and they’ve all got to share. It’s allus alike. Less brass fowk’s makking, less they want to mak. If you go to a place where they’re as throng as they can be, they’re allus ready to mak’ a bit more. You come to a place like this here, where all town’s on t’dole and they’re all pining, and you can’t get ’em to let you have a room or two and sell you a bite and a sup o’ summat. Fowk’s so badly off, they won’t be bothered.”
“Reluctant as I am, Master Oakroyd, to break in upon this deep philosophical strain,” said Inigo, “I must put a question. What are the digs like?”
‚ÄúWell, you‚Äôll see for yersen in a minute,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs plenty o‚Äô room, I will say that. We‚Äôve getten a big bedroom, with a gurt double bed in and one o‚Äô these little uns, campbeds. It‚Äôs number nine, Billing Street, and it‚Äôs right handy for t‚Äôthe‚Äëater. But by gow!‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI don‚Äôt know whether I‚Äôm not feeling up to t‚Äômark or what‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut there‚Äôs summat about this place that seems to tak‚Äô t‚Äôheart right out o‚Äô me. I hope you don‚Äôt mind being wi‚Äô me, lad,‚Äù he added shyly.
“Of course I don’t,” said Inigo, who didn’t.
“ ’Cos I’ll be right glad of a bit o’ company i’ yond place,” he concluded.
There was certainly something very cheerless about Billing Street. It was narrow and dark, and had far more than its share of listless ailing women and children with grey faces and reddened eyes. It had two or three little warehouses with broken windows; a greengrocer‚Äôs that seemed to have nothing but potatoes and paper bananas for sale; a chip-and-fish shop that smelt of tallow; a tiny grocer‚Äôs that apparently specialized in black lead and sardines; a furtive little newsagent‚Äôs, full of announcements about special wires and tips from the course; an undertaker‚Äôs, with a specimen brass plate and a blackening wreath in the window; a herbalist‚Äôs establishment, adorned with a large placard that said Your Stomach Wants Watching, a number of mysterious green packets, and a highly coloured drawing that had some reference to skin diseases; a secondhand shop filled with bamboo tables, flatirons, and rolls of oilcloth; and two of the dingiest and dreariest-looking little public-houses that Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, a man of experience, ever remembered encountering. Just behind the street was a building with a fantastic tower, a sinister conglomeration of pipes and ladders and tanks, and this, it appeared, was a sulphuric-acid works. Nobody seemed to knew whether it was still making acid or not, but if its pipes and vats were idle, their smell was not, for it descended into the street in sudden and sickening gusts.
Number 9 was the largest house in the street, and it looked the gloomiest. You could only imagine it existing in a perpetual series of dark Novembers. No sooner had Inigo set foot in it than he thanked God that he was not there alone. No wonder Mr.¬ÝOakroyd had talked about ‚Äúa bit o‚Äô company.‚Äù The bedroom was quite large enough for two of them and it seemed reasonably clean, but there was something strangely chill and depressing about it.
Inigo sniffed. “What is this queer smell? I’ve met it before. Wait a minute. I know. It’s just like the smell of old magazines. When I was a kid, I used to dig out ancient copies of the English Illustrated Magazine from the lumber-room, and they had a smell just like this. Odd, very odd!” He looked about him. “Not very jovial, is it? I feel as if there were a body in the next room.”
‚ÄúThere is,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd grimly.
“What!” Inigo jumped.
‚ÄúWell, it‚Äôs as good as one,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd went on. ‚ÄúT‚Äôland-lady‚Äôs owd mother‚Äôs i‚Äô there, ower eighty and bedridden. You‚Äôll hear her coughing. I only hope she‚Äôll last t‚Äôweek out. They‚Äôve all gotten summat wrong with ‚Äôem here. It‚Äôs war ner an infirmary. Mrs.¬ÝMord‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs t‚Äôlandlady‚ÅÝ‚Äîher you‚Äôve just seen‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe‚Äôs not ower-strong‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“A bit blue about the face, certainly,” said Inigo gloomily. “I don’t know that I want to hear any more.”
‚ÄúYou might as well nar we‚Äôve started. Her husband‚Äôs been off his work a long time‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe wor a clurk in one o‚Äô them warehouses‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I don‚Äôt know fairly what‚Äôs he‚Äôs got, but I‚Äôve nivver seen a feller so swelled up, all purple he is and puffed up; it taks him five minutes to do owt for hissen and he can hardly talk. Eh, he‚Äôs in a bad way. You‚Äôll be seeing him soon.‚Äù
“I won’t.”
‚ÄúAnd you haven‚Äôt to excite him‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs what t‚Äôlandlady says‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe hasn‚Äôt to be excited‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt want to excite him. I don‚Äôt want to set eyes on him. I‚Äôm sorry for him, very sorry for him‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe sounds like a human fungus‚ÅÝ‚ÄîHello!‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat‚Äôs that?‚Äù
“That’s only t’owd lady coughing.”
Inigo breathed hard and looked thoughtfully at the things he was unpacking.
‚ÄúAy, they‚Äôre a rum lot here,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝOakroyd continued. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs a sort o‚Äô young woman. I haven‚Äôt had a proper look at her, and Mrs.¬ÝMord says nowt about her, and I don‚Äôt know who she is.‚Äù
“For the love of Mike,” cried Inigo, “don’t tell me there’s something wrong with her too! It’ll finish me, absolutely.”
‚ÄúWell, all I knaw is she doesn‚Äôt seem to do owt and there‚Äôs summat funny about her. When you‚Äôre going up and down t‚Äôsteps or along t‚Äôpassage, you suddenly see her face peeping out from nowhere and then she lets out a sort o‚Äô laugh and next minute you hear her scampering away as if somebody wor after her. I‚Äôve seen her three times nar and I‚Äôm getting a bit used to it‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
Inigo had stopped unpacking. He was now sitting down and staring at his companion. “She sounds as mad as a hatter,” he said despairingly.
“Ay, I fancy she must be a bit soft. They seem to run to it here. There’s a feller at the the‑ater called Charlie and he’s not quite all there. No harm in him, yer know; just hasn’t got twenty shilling to t’pound.”
Inigo stood up. “I’m going,” he announced.
“Nay, lad, stick it, stick it! It’s best we can get. And I only got in here ’cos I said there’d be two of us.”
“There must be an hotel. I shall go to an hotel. You can come too.”
“Nay, I’m going to no hotel. I’ve takken these lodgings and I’m staying here. They’ve gone to a lot o’ bother to get it right for us. It’s all nowt. Stick it, nar you’re here.”
“All right,” Inigo replied gloomily. “I shall spend most of my time at the theatre. That’s the only thing to do. No wonder you said it was bloody awful. The adjective was justified, absolutely.”
‚ÄúEh, I wasn‚Äôt talking about this place,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd.
Inigo looked at him with horror. “What were you talking about then?”
“Well, t’general carry on. Town itself, to begin wi’, and t’the‑ater.”
“Theatre?” Inigo’s voice almost rose to a scream. “Don’t tell me there’s anything wrong with that!”
But Mr.¬ÝOakroyd insisted upon telling him what was wrong with the theatre, and they were halfway through tea before he had done. ‚ÄúThis Tewborough do‚Äôs a washaht,‚Äù he concluded, ‚Äúand you can mak‚Äô up your mind about that. We shall do nowt here.‚Äù
“This is where we look sick,” Inigo groaned. “I told you about last night, didn’t I? And everybody’s half dead today. All the way we’ve been saying that only a good week here will pull us together. Tewborough or death has been our motto, absolutely. Lord help us!”
It certainly looked, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd admitted, as he took out his pipe and packet of Old Salt, as if they were in for it.