Rivers of London (Rivers of London #1)(82)
The music hit me first in a great gloomy wave, followed by the scale of the theatre. A great horseshoe rose up in tiers of gilt and red velvet. Ahead of me a sea of heads swept down to the orchestra pit and beyond them to the stage. The set depicted the back end of a sailing ship, although the scale was exaggerated to the point where the gunwales towered over the singers. Everything was painted in cool shades of blue, grey and dirty white – a ship adrift in a bitter ocean. The music was equally sombre, and could really have done with a back-beat or, failing that, a girl in a miniskirt. Men in uniforms and tricorn hats were singing at each other while a blond guy in a white shirt looked on with doe eyes. I had a funny feeling that it wasn’t going to end well for the blond guy, or the audience, for that matter. I’d just worked out that the tenor was playing the captain when the bass, playing the villain of the piece, faltered. I thought at first that this was part of the performance, but the murmur that ran through the audience made it clear it was a mistake. The singer tried to recover, but was having trouble remembering his part. The tenor stepped up to ad lib, but faltered himself, and with an expression of pure panic looked off the stage towards the wings. The audience was starting to drown out the orchestra who, having finally twigged that something was up, crashed to a stop.
I started down the aisle towards the orchestra pit, although I had no idea how I was going to get to the stage. A few of the audience had stood up and were craning their necks to see what was going on. I reached the edge of the pit and glanced down to see that the musicians were still poised over their instruments. I was close enough to touch a lead violinist. He was trembling and his eyes were glazed. The conductor tapped his baton on his music stand and the musicians started playing again. I recognised the music as the first tune sung by Mr Punch in the Piccini script, it was Malbrough s’en va-t-en guerre, an old French folk song, but in the English speaking world it was For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.
The tenor playing the captain picked up the refrain first:
Mr Punch is a jolly good fellow,
His dress is all scarlet and yellow.
The bass and baritone joined in in quick succession, followed by the company, singing as if they had the song sheet before them.
And if now and then he gets mellow,
It’s only among good friends.
The singers stamped their feet to the beat of the music. The audience seemed stuck in their seats; I couldn’t tell if they were confused, mesmerised or just too appalled to move. Then the front row of the stalls took up the beat with hands and feet. I could feel the compulsion myself, a wash of beer and skittles and pork pies and dancing and not caring a fig for the opinions of others.
With the girls he’s a rogue and rover;
He lives, while he can, upon clover;
The clapping and stamping spread back, row by row, from the front of the stalls. In the good acoustics of the Opera House the stamping was louder than a Highbury crowd, and just as contagious. I had to lock my knees to stop my feet from moving.
When he dies it’s only all over:
And there Punch’s comedy ends.
Lesley stepped onto the stage and, bold as brass, walked up the steps that took her to the exaggerated poop deck and turned to face the audience. I saw then that in her left hand she carried a silver-topped cane. I recognised it – the bastard had stolen it from Nightingale. A spotlight stabbed out of the darkness and bathed her in harsh white light. The music and the singing stopped and the stamping trailed away.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ called Lesley, ‘boys and girls. I present to you today the most tragical comedy and comical tragedy of Mr Punch, as related to that great talent and impresario Mr Henry Pyke.’ She waited for applause, and when it didn’t come she muttered under her breath and made a curt gesture with the cane. I felt the compulsion roll over me, while behind me the audience broke into applause.
Lesley bowed graciously. ‘Lovely to be here,’ she said. ‘My, but this theatre is much enlarged since my day. Is anyone else here from the 1790s?’
A solitary whoop floated down from the gods, just to prove that there’s always one in every crowd.
‘Not that I don’t believe you, sir, but you’re a bloody liar,’ said Lesley. ‘The old ham will be here by and by.’ She looked out past the lights into the stalls, searching for something. ‘I know you’re out there, you black Irish dog.’
She shook her head. ‘I’d just like to say, it’s good to be here in the twenty-first century,’ she said suddenly. ‘Lots of things to be grateful for: indoor plumbing, horseless carriages – a decent life expectancy.’
There was no obvious way to get from the stalls to the stage. The orchestra pit was two metres deep, and the lip of the stage opposite was higher than a man could reach.
‘Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, for your entertainment, I give you my rendition of that lamentable scene from the story of Mr Punch,’ said Lesley. ‘I refer of course to his incarceration and, alas, impending execution.’
‘No,’ I yelled. I’d read the script. I knew what was coming next.
Lesley looked straight at me and smiled. ‘But of course,’ she said. ‘The play’s the thing.’ There was a crack of breaking bone, and her face changed. As her nose became a hooked blade, her voice rose to a piercing, warbling shriek.