Page 13 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)
He definitely wanted to know if he was meant to also play the role of a father to an actual infant as part of this job. That would be far too much to ask. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good with kids. It was just that an infant wasn’t a prop and oughtn’t be part of something like this.
“Mr. and Mrs. Ivers’ baby,” the boy said. “Lives with they, don’t him?”
The couple portraying the lighthouse keeper were, in fact, a couple and had their own child, who was here with them. That was a much more acceptable arrangement.
But this boy was an odd choice to be part of the cast.
“What’s your name?” Kip asked.
“I’m Mick.”
They had a Mick, and they had a Mrs. Jagger.
That couldn’t have been a coincidence. And it also helped explain why the housekeeper was so quick to deny that she was Mick’s mom.
That was something a new tourist might very well joke about, and the cast would have canned responses to it.
If nothing else, Kip’s confusion had confirmed to them the setup of that joke was going to work.
Mick led him along the curve of the path, which deposited him directly in front of a small stone building that looked absolutely perfect for a tradesman’s shed from two hundred years earlier. It probably was a tradesman’s shed two hundred years ago.
Dare he hope there was actual electricity in there? Once he could get out to the village, he would replace his phone. But he had to have somewhere to charge it.
He stepped into the shed and had a quick look around.
Absolutely stupidly accurate. It was filled with the tools a person saw in a museum, not in an actual workshop.
If this wasn’t specifically a stop for the tourists, it was just a waste of time and effort to make the actor doing the carpentry actually do it authentically.
“You seem too Quality to be here doing work,” Mick said.
“Well, needs must, as the saying goes.”
“Needs must what?” Mick tossed back.
That apparently wasn’t an old enough expression that he could get away with it. “Guilford needs work done. But there are only eight of us and a baby, and I seem to be the only one who knows how to do this kind of work. So, my being Quality doesn’t overly matter, does it?”
Mick shrugged. “Suppose not.”
“How old are you, Mick?”
The boy stood even taller, chest puffed out. “Eleven.”
Too young to be working a full-time job. And child actors had limits on the time they could spend on the clock, among other restrictions. “Where are your parents?”
“Bottom of the ocean, I suppose.” The boy shrugged. “Been down there ages.”
It was a morbid way to reveal his character’s backstory. “They drowned?”
Mick nodded. “This here area of the Channel has more drownings than any other. Far and away more. From here to the other side of Loftstone, people are always being swept off ships and piers and beaches. Down them go. No one sees they again.”
It was an effective speech. The tourists would be appropriately creeped out when they were told about the history of the area.
“Truthfully, though,” Kip said, “where are your parents?”
Mick’s expression grew angry. “Them’s dead, sir. Why would a fellow lie about a thing like that?”
Perhaps the actor really had lost his parents in an ocean accident. To make him then portray someone who had experienced the same thing was pretty heartless. And for him to be on a job like this without any kind of adult guardian was illegal.
Mick must have had someone somewhere looking out for him, but like everyone else in this place, he was completely stuck on the idea of never breaking character. Kip could respect his process even if it was ridiculously extreme.
“Who is in charge here at Guilford?” Kip asked.
Could Mick find a way to answer that question in character?
He did. “Miss Archibald.”
Kip knew that she was portraying the mistress of the estate and, in historical context, was, essentially, in charge.
“But who oversees her?” He felt he could ask that because he’d gotten the impression during his five seasons on The Beau that ladies back in the day weren’t generally given free rein of anything without someone looking over their shoulder.
“Her uncle and her granddad’s solicitor come and check on things now and then. Them was here only a few days ago.”
Finally, Kip was getting some information. This uncle and solicitor were likely the people who ran the place but were given those “roles” in order to keep the authenticity going.
“Do we know when they’re likely to return?” Kip asked.
“Miss Archibald says probably another two weeks. Them don’t give none of we any warning, just arrive, look around, and decide what’s being done right and what’s being done wrong.”
That could explain everyone never breaking character. If the people who owned this place were demanding about it being a fully immersive experience and no one ever knew when they were lurking around corners, being ridiculously method was the best approach.
Things were finally starting to make sense but in a way that was starting to give him a headache.
“Any other place on the island you’ve been trying to find?” Mick asked. “I know this place better than anywho.”
Kip shook his head. “I need to take stock of what’s in here and what to do with it. But if I have other questions ...”
“I’m always about,” he said.
“Before you go,” Kip said, stopping Mick midturn. “Is there a place where the cast relaxes?”
Once again, Kip was treated to a look of such complete confusion that he began to wonder if this odd, out-of-the-way historical site managed to employ some of the most secretly talented actors in all of England. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“Never mind. I’ll find a phone.”
“A phone?” Mick shook his head when he repeated the word, as if he’d never heard it before.
Always in character.
“Never mind.”
Mick went on his way. Kip leaned a shoulder against a wall, looking around at all the manual tools that, while appearing fully authentic, did not have nearly the rust or wear they ought to have after a couple of centuries. Again, unnecessarily perfect replicas.
The journal entry had indicated that he was supposed to find this place odd and confusing. That was not going to take any acting.