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PHANTASM BY FOOTLIGHT

Part One of Two

Tangential to the accustomed rhythm of our chaotic household, the Whetstone family had decided, on this evening, to put on airs and graces. There was no special occasion we were raising cheer to, as far as I was aware, but our father, prone to fits of gay whimsy, announced that very morning that we would all be venturing out to the opera. For a banker, who I assumed were a sober breed, Barnabas Whetstone III was akin to a circus ringleader - large, loud, bearded, and always well attired. Life seemed to enticingly blaze in front of him, like a candle to a moth, igniting an enthusiasm for just about everything, an attitude which most of the genteel around him found exhausting. Personally, he amused me, although even I required solitude from his inane positivity at times. He gesticulated with his hands more often than not, on occasions knocking over complete strangers in the street, for which action he would scribble out a cheque that would change the assaulted pedestrian’s life.

Fortunately for this overgrown child of a man, he was always accompanied by my mother, Lilian, who had learned how to wrangle her husband’s unbridled energy many years ago. She did, however, fail to wrangle them in bed, as I am the eldest of six children, four girls and two boys, all of which my father appeared only occasionally aware of. This was no mean feat either, as the Whetstone children were experts in creating havoc around our Idwick house.

Idwick, an affluent suburb of Bradbury Gate, lay on a hill north of the Broad River and west of Bradbury Town. The latter, being the metropolitan hub of Bradbury Gate at lage, was separated from Idwick by Tamfort Vale, which was becoming something of an industrial complex, much to our neighbours’ dismay. Our home, Iedereen House, was two streets away from a late-medieval castle, from which the suburb takes its name.

As was commonly the habit when our whole family took to the road, our resident driver, Styles, had hastily puffed on some foreign herbs before cranking up the touring car’s engine, a ritual I had begun to join in with as the rest of the Whetstone crowd readied themselves upstairs.

“Gonna be a long one, master Edward.” Styles had said, staring up at the half-moon. “You might wanna take two puffs.”

I had nodded sagely as I coughed with herbal inexperience. I knew Styles was not talking about the so-billed operatic performance, which I had decided to escape from after the first act. Having flipped casually through the playbook, I found myself alarmed to learn that there were seven more to come. Needless to say, not one of my seven aisle mates noticed my departure from the auditorium.

The wide vomitory, that encircled our level of the building, was conspicuously empty. I could not even find an attendant. I availed myself of the toilet facilities, then shuffled idly along looking at the cheap paintings of vintage performances and photographs of notable thespians that lined the walls. I soon came across a service cupboard that was slightly ajar. I gingerly peered in, seeing only piles of napkins, brass polish, assorted crockery, and the obligatory mop and bucket that was to be found in most service establishments. Of greater importance, there was a well-worn stool, surely placed their for harassed attendants to steal an unscheduled break. I took leave of the vomitory and availed myself of the stool, pulling the door back until a mere crack of light was allowed in.

Able to experience the music from the auditorium away from the teeming sea of snoring gentility allowed me to appreciate it more, so I leaned back against the uneven shelving and sighed deeply with relief.

After what felt like fifteen minutes, as my eyelids began to sag, a figure became visible, passing just outside the cupboard. It was a short fellow, wearing a pompadour wig and an antiquated pageboy’s uniform. The figure stopped, adjusted the positioning of his head to improve acoustic resonance, then turned to peek in at my cowering form.

“I thought I heard something!” Said the form, in a whisper.

He then slipped into the cupboard and sat crossed-legged at my feet.

“Please tell me you work here.” I said, believing the apparition to be a figment of my herbal intake.

“Yes,” it said, adjusting his pompadour, “I’m in the cast!”

Having being crowbarred back from the edge of sleep, I was now able to examine the form closer. It was a small boy, surely no older than seven, decked indeed in an eighteenth century-style servant’s uniform, with accompanying mop of powdered white horsehair upon his head. The boy grinned conspiratorially and mirrored my relaxed demeanour against the shelving.

“I have a nonspeaking walk-on part that only pops up every half hour or so.” He said, with the sort of common tongue I had not expected within such prestigious surroundings. “Can’t be arsed to spend the time in between adjusting women’s bustiers for them. Dirty old hags!”

I let out a chuckle, just a little too loudly for my comfort.

“I assume we’re not allowed in here.” I said, scoping out the vomitory for any authoritarian attendees hovering about.

“No idea,” said the boy, picking at the laces on my shoes, “I don’t usually perform somewhere this fancy.”

I frowned as he fidgeted about at my feet, unsure as to the boy’s intentions.

“Don’t do that.” I said, as gently as I could. “I’m not very good at lacing them back up.”

The boy laughed and tipped his wig as if it were a peaked cap.

“A boy who can’t tie his own shoelaces!” He said, with an acusing smirk. “You must be posh!”

I leaned down and did the best job I could at lacing, but I knew I was doing it incorrectly, and I knew the pompadour knew also. Becoming frustrated with my unschooled attempts to dress myself, the boy patted my hands away and took over.

“I’m only teasing.” He said, eventually holding out his hand. “I’m Lewis.”

I shook his hand, which was alarmingly cold in the heat of the gas-lamp illuminated opera house.

“Oh golly!” I said, searching about in my pockets. “I shall lend you my gloves, you’re freezing!”

Lewis pressed his hands to my arms in a gesture of remittance.

“No need, I’m okay.“ He said, giving a little cough and vigorously rubbing his hands together. “I’ve had worse.”

I ceased my search and sat on my own hands to stop my own fidgeting.

“I’m Edward.” I said, although the boy did not appear to take any notice.

“So why are you out here? Are you bored?“ He said, now blowing into his cupped little hands.

“No, it’s good music, I just don’t like having to sit still in this horrid suit for two hours.” I said, being mindful of my language so as not to corrupt the youth.

Lewis nodded and yanked his costume down to fit his slight torso better.

“You should try wearing this nonsense!” He said, winking.

“It’s a very handsome outfit.” I said, digging around for conversation subjects. “It befits your face.”

The boy raised an eyebrow.

“That sounds like an insult, but I’ll let it go.“ He said, wiping his dripping nose. “How old are you then?”

“Thirteen.” I said, attempting some sort of mature postire.

“I’m eleven.” The clearly-malnourished boy said, exceeding my estimate significantly. “I usually work at the Old Canal Lock Theatre on Radish Street.”

“Where on Earth is that?!”

“Down in Rossmitre.” He said, his mouth crinkling apologetically.

I had only heard alarming stories about the place, a den of urban squalor, thievery, and unsolved prostitute murders. According to rumour, the police knew whereof all the criminals were, but were either too under-staffed or too over-bribed enough to arrest them. Styles the driver was always careful to navigate around the district, with a wry “Mind your pocketbook, young master!” is we gazed down at the crumbling tenements and discarded newborns.

“Sounds nice.” I said, feigning ignorance.

Lewis just nodded.

“How very generous of you.” He said, unfolding his legs and leaping to his feet without a breath, as only eleven-year-olds can do.

“I best get backstage for my grand entrance!” He said, straightening his costume. “You should come down to the Old Canal Lock and see what we do, it’s better than this shit.”

I laughed involuntarily at the boy’s gutter vocabulary. Apparently he had already been corrupted amidst the streets of Rossmitre.

“When are you next down there?” I said, checking the boy had not mischievously bound my feet together.

He had.

“We meet tomorrow around ten in the morning, they’re an informal bunch.“ He said, pushing the cupboard door open fully and slipping out. “I’ll be hanging around outside waiting for the bitch with the key.”

And with that slice of everyday life, Lewis vanished to whatever lay beyond the admittance of paying customers.

At this point, it will not surprise the reader to learn that the eventual burst of energy from my five siblings after being freed from the rigid confins of the auditorium became the talk of the town for weeks to come. While I attempted to wriggle sa best I could into the lining of the touring car’s lining, I was still made to suffer kicks and deafening screams as we rode home. Every now and then, Styles would make eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, at which point we both rolled our eyes and took a long, deep, calming breath.

Styles was a good man.

My father, ever the hyperbole enthusiast, rose his arms as high as the vehicle would allow him.

“A triumph!” He said, silencing the rest of the family instantly. “What voices! What words! What drama! What melodies!”

The reader should accustom themselves to the amount of exclamation marks in his dialogue now.

“I have experienced the very penmanship of the gods this evening!” He roared, a euphoric glaze passing over his eyes. “We must make immediate arrangements to attend again! Each day! Each week! Each…”

My mother placed a calming hand on the man’s knee.

“But, darling, you have work in the morning, and you know how miserly you get at the bank when you’ve been up every night.” She said, flipping through her mental rulebook of how to cope with the man.

My father lowered his alms and clasped his hands over hers.

“You are right, my dearest!” He said, relaxing back into his seat. “You are the sensible wind against my tempestuous sea!”

While she knew his analogy missed the mark somewhat, my mother nodded.

The next day, I took leave of Styles’ offer of taxying me abroad and instead walked down the hill towards Rossmitre. On the way, I passed through the pleasant estate of Claremontt,  over the tributary running from Tamfort Lough, and over a series of main roads that kept the haves from the have-nots. The wall of workhouses at Rossmitre rose before me like a dour mountain range, taking me almost half-an-hour to locate a way through to the rest of the district.

Radish Street was just off the main thoroughfare, neither of which put me at ease. I had attempted to dress down as best I could, so as not to attract the attention of pickpockets or confidence tricksters. I did receive the odd leer, however, as surely my very demeanour gave off a whiff of money. I nevertheless strengthened my resolve and found The Old Canal Lock Theatre, which was merely a converted warehouse still adorned in fixings for loading and offloading whatever foul merchandise the property had passing through it.

“Can I help you, honey?” Said one of the gaggle of persons loitering at the side entrance down a narrow alley.

“I’m looking for Lewis.” I said, wafting away the smoke from cigarettes that every last one of the loiterers clung to as if for dear life.

“Round back.” Said another, passing wind as if to stand his ground.

I nodded respectfully.

“Thank you.” I said, continuing the the rear of the theatre.

There, facing an errant brick wall that must have once served a meaningful purpose, was Lewis, urinating absentmindedly.

“No pompadour today then?” I said, as the boy tucked himself away.

“You!” He said, his face lighting up. “I didn’t think for a second you would actually come down.”

I took my cap off and shook his hand.

“I just wanted to give my thanks for keeping me company last night, it was a strenuous ordeal being out with my family.” I said, sitting down on an empty crate.

“It’s just me and my dad at home.” Said Lewis, mirroring my cap doffing.

“You’re lucky.” I said, then got the sense the boy was waiting for me to confirm my identity. “It’s Edward, by the way. I get the feeling you meet a lot of people in your comings and goings.”

Lewis snorted, modestly.

“I’m just a wallflower offstage.” He said. “I’ll go ask if you can sit and watch us rehearse, if you like.”

“That would be wonderful.” I said.

The boy disappeared to the side alley. I sat and took in my surroundings, which would break anybody’s heart. The sound of couples arguing, dogs barking, and babies wailing washed over the property like a tidal wave. I suddenly found myself less critical of my relatively-tranquil home at Idwick.

“Yeah, you can come in.” Said Lewis, as he returned. “You’ll see me in makeup though, which isn’t a pretty sight.”

I smiled and took the boy’s had as he guided me through to the quant little auditorium. The company was a plucky bunch, full of spirit and guile, but lacking in budget and the desire to flatter. They all seemed to adore Lewis, however, and treated him like their own child.

After an hour of staccato line readings and clumsy dance routines, I had a chance to sit down with Lewis, who was now painted quite elegantly.

“Do I look just ghastly?!” The boy said, hiding his face behind his eyes.

I pulled his arms down and ruffled his hair.

“You look great!” I said, the chair creaking under even my light frame.

“It makes my face feel greasy, but I’m getting used to it.” Said Lewis, angling his face so that the dim lighting would hit it better.

“Who does it for you?”

“One of the ladies, but I’m learning to do it myself.” He said, touching his lips to make sure he had not smeared himself.

“Do you want to go for a walk once you’re done here?” I said, rubbing a smudge of the boy’s eyeliner that had ran a little.

A woman, whom I had guessed was the mistress of the company, entered with a couple of books in hand and stood between me and Lewis.

“I know you’ve only got a small part in this one, honey,“ she said, dismissing my existence. “but we’re going to decide on our next play soon, and we want you to have a main part!”

The boy leaped for joy and clung to the woman like a monkey to a palm tree.

“Yay!” He said, tears in his eyes. “When do I audition?!”

“No need, honey,” she said, handing Lewis the two books, “we know you’ll be right for whichever one we go for.”

Lewis took the books and scanned the covers.

“How exciting!” He said. then hurled them over to me. “Take a look!”

I read the titles, the first “Tales of Warburton”, threatened to be a minimalist piece infused with politically-charged nihilism, while the second, “A Phantasm by Footlight, a far more tantalising romp about a promiscuous music hall dancer, murdered backstage by her jealous husband.

“There are parts in both that would be perfect for you!” Said the woman, not caring for my being privy to the theatre’s behind the scenes goings on.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep it a secret.” I said, with something of a sneer in my voice.

The woman hugged Lewis again and stomped out of the cluttered back room.

Two streets away, Lewis led me to a bustling commercial lane, strewn with taverns, cafes, food stands, and an alarming amount of halfway houses and funeral homes. This area of Rossmitre appeared conveniently planned to cater for all a person’s life-to-death needs. I was eventually pulled into a bakery teetering on the edge of a terrace.

“This is my dad!” Said Lewis, planting me tentatively in front of the counter.

I doffed my cap again and nodded to the stocky gentleman lifting a tray of sausage rolls out of a steaming oven. His bold handlebar moustache defied his thinning hair, while his bushy arms did well to further promote his unbridled masculinity.

“Who’s this, son?” He said, perhaps having seen one too many new faces dragged in by the boy.

“This is Edward, he was at the opera house last night.” Said Lewis, presenting me like a prize won at a fairground.

“Nice to meet you, Edward.” Said the man, throwing Lewis a washcloth. “You’ve still got your theatre face on, son, you don’t want to get your arse kicked by folk around here.”

As Lewis wiped the makeup off his face and began coughing again, his father shovelled two freshly baked sausage rolls onto a sheet of newspaper and handed them over the counter to me. The hot pastry grease made the printed ink run and smear onto my fingers.

“Thank you, sir!” I said, offering one down to Lewis, who had finally managed to stop coughing.

The baker eyed me carefully, his square shoulders casting a shadow upon me, even though there was no light source behind him.

“You’re not from around here, are you? He said, know his local scamps from his foreign agents.

“No, sir.” I said, shuffling my feet with shame. “I’m an Idwick boy.”

The man snorted derisively, then took a broom out from a dark corner to begin sweeping crumbs from the floor.

“I’ll do that for you, dad!” Said Lewis, folding the rest of the sausage roll into his mouth and scurrying behind the counter.

“You go play with your friend, son, it’s a quiet afternoon anyway.” Said the boy’s father, the queue forming behind us betraying his assertion.

I suddenly fell upon a plan to endear myself to the gruff fellow.

“Oh, my family is having a garden party next week, would you care to provide us with fresh bread for the occasion?” I said, hoping there would not be too many follow-up questions.

The ceased brushing the floor and rested his head on the handly.

“How many people will be there?”

I hazarded an estimae.

“Twenty.” I said, then noticed the hot food cart pushed into a corner. “Why doesn’t Lewis bring your cart up and serve from there.”

The baker thought for awhile. As he was seemingly about to say “No”, I took out my pocketbook and swiftly wrote out a cheque.

Here’s ten pounds in advance. You’ll have a five on the day for travel expenses, then another ten at the end of the day.”

The baker took the cheque and placed it next to his till.

“Alright then, young man.” He said.

While the man’s stoic demeanour gave off the required air of passive indifference, I knew I had just given him enough money to pay his rent for three months. Lewis clapped his hands together in anticipation.

“Oh, this’ll be fun!” He said, doing a little twirl.

The baker and I exchanged knowing glances.

As I finished off my own sausage roll, Lewis walked me around to the building where he and his father lived. The homes within wre less apartments and more expanded hotel rooms. The two had a kitchen or bathroom themselves, having to share communal facilities the floor below. There were two rooms in their home - a living room and a bedroom, neither of which emitted a cosy ambience.

“We have to share a bed.” Said Lewis, fishing out a box of his toys from under a side-table. “But most night’s dad falls asleep in the armchair.”

The boy referred to the only seat besides two stools at the dinner table. The armchair was pot-marked with torn fabric and exposed springs. The overall room was stained with mould and smelled like only men spent any time there.

Lewis dug around in his toy box, which, on face value, appeared to be filled with the usual items a boy would have - a ball, a wooden sword, a biplane, and a small bear. Right at the bottom, seemingly hidden there on purpose, was a doll made into the likeness of a young girl. It was the only thing in the home that was not tattered and worn, as the boy had clearly taken good care of it.

“This is Molly.” Lewis said, giving the doll a loving embrace. “She’s my best friend!”

I knelt down next to the two of them and stroked Molly’s well-combed hair.

“She’s great.” I said, really examining the boy’s faithful adoration for the girl. “How long have you had her?”

“I don’t remember, I rescued her from behind the theatre.” He said, a dark cloud then passing over his face. “Someone had just left her there all alone!”

I smiled and gave Lewis a hug.

“Well, she has you now, so everything’s going to be alright.” I said.

The boy gave a little cough.

“We’re going to be together forever!” He said, embracing the doll again. “Dad won’t like her though, which is why I keep her at the bottom.”

“I think you’ll be surprised,” I said, resting a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder, “I rekon he’s more easy-going than you might expect.”

Lewis nodded and delicately placed the doll at the bottom of the toybox, then gingerly replaced the more conventional toys on top of it.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your house!” He said, the hypnotic affect of the doll subsiding.

“You’ll really like it, I’ll give you a guided-tour.”

“Lovely! Right, I best get back to the bakery to help out dad, then the theatre will need me back to sweet up and take the costumes to the washer woman.”

“They make you do all that?!” I said, rather taken aback.

“No, I volunteered. I love doing whatever I can to help out.” He said, pushing the toybox back under the side-table. “I just want to be in theatre, whatever the role!”

After telegramming Styles to bring the car down to Rossmitre and pick me up, I sat through a now-distasteful barrage of jokes about the district’s poverty. As soon as I was driven back up the hill and we parked up outside Iedereen House, I raced to my father’s study and carelessly interrupted his running of a large, nationwide bank.

“We need to throw a garden party!” I said, my mother following me inside to moderate the drama.

“My dear boy!” Said my father, throwing his spectacles down onto his decadently-sized desk. “What the devil has gotten into you?!:

“We need to throw a party!” I said again, gesticulating wildly. “I’ve made a new friend, but his father doesn’t approve that I’m from money, so I’ve hired his bakery to come cater for us!”

My father slapped his desk and rose, bear-like, to his feet.

“By the gods!” He roared. “So you’ve met a boy and wish to impress the in-laws, hey?1”

“Well…”

“I must admit, I’d been expecting this from one of your sisters, but a good businessman must be prepared for the unexpected and manage non-negotiable  changes with rigour!”

“It doesn’t have to be an extravagant affair.” I said, trying to imitate my mother’s ability to calm the man. “My new friend will do the actual serving.”

“Are there wedding bells on the horizon?!” He said, marching about the room and clasping a phantom military sabre that once hung diligently by his side.

“I’m only thirteen, father, and a boy.”

“By the gods, yes, you are!” Said my father, taking a book of natural history from his bookshelf. “I tell you what, I shall take the boy’s father hunting in the Orient!”

“Just a little shindig out back will do.” I said, making darting glances to my pondering mother.

My father began flipping pages illuminated with drawings of great beasts uncommon to our side of the planet.

“But a great tiger pelt would surely soften the heart of any gentleman worth his salt!” He said, presenting one toothy-page in particular.

My mother raced over to her husband and disarmed him of the leather-bound tome of mass-extinction.

“Settle, darling, a simple garden party will satisfy our modest son.” She said, leading Barnabas Whetstone III back to his desk. “Does the boy need anything from the kitchen, Edward?”

“No, mother, he has his own gas-heated cart.”

My father clapped his hands together and gazed into the near-future.

“Then I shall alert the gate-lodge to expect this hot cart-boy of yours!” He said, an inspired grin widening across his bearded face.

 I cleared my throat, respectfully.

“We don’t have a gate-lodge, father, and you put the hyphen in the wrong place. I believe you meant ‘hot-cart boy’.”

The man slapped a stunned palm to his forehead.

“Did I?! By the gods! Do accept my sincerest apologies, my sweet child!” He said, unravelling a plan of the grounds. “Now, where is the best spot for a jolly-good romp?!”

This went on awhile. Fortunately, my mother dismissed me and sat with her husband to plan the event together, which would mean it would actually take place. There had been numerous instances of guests turned up at Iedereen House for a get together which my father had only imagined planning in his head whilst taking a nap.

Much to my surprise and joy, the garden party did take place. A gaggle of local family members, from cunning to eccentric to insane, descended on our home with a mix of excitement and bored obligation. Events livened up once the wine was brought up from the cellar, and the kitchen provided light hors d'oeuvres for the inbred hoard to snack on. There was no cart from the bakery as early as I had expected, however, which concerned me. Lewis’ father did not seem like the type to welch on an agreement, so I feared something had gone awry.

By noon, there was a deep rolling sound as the baker pushed his cart through the gares and began setting up his wares. I rush over to him, looking around for his diminutive assistant.

“Is Lewis on the way?” I said, hungrily eyeing the various pastries.

“Afraid not, lad, the boy’s sick in bed.” He said, somehwat dispationately.

“Oh golly!” I said, taking a step back. “What’s wrong with him?!”

The baker shook his head as he began lighting the cart’s gas burners.

“Doctor can’t tell for sure, maybe exhaustion. Been running around too much. The neighbour’s found him collapsed in the hallway outside our flat.” He said, still no emotion cracking through his hard shell.

I thrust out an open hand so close to the man that he flinched back.

“A key! Now! I must go to him!” I said, my tone insinuating that I would not accept a negative response.

“Now look here…”

“Now, you heartless devil!” I said, my eyes wild with fury.

The baker appeared to respect my forthrightness and so indeed handed over the rusted key to his home.

“You’re a good man.” He said, as I took to my heels and sprinted with haste out the gates.

TO BE CONTINUED