Page 12 of The Songbird of Wychwood
PERCY
I awoke from a glorious dream of twirling, twirling, twirling, with an orchestral accompaniment and a glorious boy in my arms. I liked this feeling very much and I wanted to stay here with my beau and follow the feelings of arousal in my groin. But, with the sharp repetitive knocking on my room door, the day had other ideas. I was glad the head butler respected my wishes that he should not enter my room without permission.
“Good morning, Bentley. What do you want?” I called resignedly, my throat a little hoarse.
“Your mother wishes to know if you’ll be joining her for church this morning.”
Gods, I’d forgotten that I was expected to escort mother to the Sunday morning service. Since my grandfather died, she had worn black and become ever more devout in her beliefs. She’d expected me to follow suit. I did not agree with going to church every morning, nor did I believe that grandfather Theo would have wanted me to mourn him so obsessively. I knew for a fact he wanted me to live my life as I saw fit and love whoever I wanted to love. Father now had the responsibility of Harcourt Press, and he worked all hours, and so mother was left with her ladies’ maid, Miss Grieves for daily companionship. I wish she’d have had a daughter to carry out these kinds of mind-numbing family duties, because all I wanted to do was write and find other enjoyable pursuits to fill my days away from the office.
At Wychwood, the muse had come to me like a lightning strike and even though I’d left under a cloud, when I got home in the early hours all I could think to do was write, write, write. I didn’t know if anything I’d written was any good, for I was inebriated and full of the fever of unfulfilled desire. But Miss Georgette made lyrical words pour from me like ambrosia of the Gods.
I didn’t move a muscle, but hollered my response towards the closed door. “I have stomach flu and will stay in bed today. Send mother my apologies and tell her to go with Miss Grieves.”
“Very good sir. Please let me know if you require any assistance,” the butler called back.
“Actually, Bentley, after mother’s left for church could you send up a tray of breakfast? I’m rather famished and in the mood for a good hearty meal.”
“Of course, sir,” he said sardonically.
****
As the only son of the owner of Harcourt Press, after finishing university, I’d had my pick of which publication I worked on. I chose The Archaeological Journal because the subject of archaeology had always fascinated me. I edited articles sent in by academics and archeologists, and I advised on the contents of each issue of the periodical. The work was enjoyable and it kept me on my toes. I liked to be among the first to be informed about new archaeological discoveries. The job was generally solitary, so it also allowed me moments to pen lines of poetry that came to me during the day. I must confess, in the two weeks since I’d spent the evening at Wychwood with Miss Georgette inspiration had taken flight. I’d poured out my heart onto the pages of a newly purchased notebook which I’d devoted to my thoughts and feelings from that evening. I would love to see Miss Georgette again, and yet, part of me thought that maybe our meeting was one of those perfect moments in time when souls collide in recognition and then go their separate ways. Could I have been drawn to the idea of her, rather than the reality? I wondered if, instead of feeling lovelorn and wistful I should take the brief meeting as a gift from the muses to lift my poetry to a higher plane.
A knock on my office door made me look up from the page I was correcting. “Yes,” I said as a timid man by the name of Oliver Simmons stepped in. The legal department was made up of an odd bunch of fellows and I recognized him as one of the lawyers. The legal department rarely interacted with other employees unless an error had been discovered in print, and there were legal ramifications. And so, I was surprised to see Simmons in my office at all.
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Harcourt, sir,” he said in a simpering tone.
“Ah, Mr. Simmons, what can I do for you?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Jonty Edwards is getting married this Sunday, and so we’re going to take him out tonight for a bachelors celebration.”
I vaguely recalled that Jonty Edwards was the head clerk in the legal department. I don’t think we’d shared more than two words in my three years here.
“Oh, no, I hadn’t heard. Please send him my congratulations.”
“Um…Well, we were wondering if you’d like to join us…for the celebrations, sir. We’re planning a drink at the Dog and Duck next door, and then we’ll go onto a music hall in town for supper and a show.”
I was rather surprised by the invitation. During my three years as editor of the Archaeological Journal, the fellows in the legal department had never invited me to socialize with them. I did socialize with the staff journalists and illustrators, a couple of whom I considered good friends.
“How many staff are going?” I enquired.
“Not quite sure, I’ve had a lot of maybes, but I guess we’ll see the numbers at the Dog and Duck after work and go from there.”
Ah, now I understood the reason for the invitation. This poor man was worried that no one would show up for his friend’s bachelor party because the lawyers were not the sociable type. He was desperate to have someone as influential as me to join the party so that it would encourage others to come along. What could I say? I couldn’t allow this Jonty Edwards to have a disappointing last outing before marriage. Oh no, I would do what I could to ensure there was a suitable number of colleagues to wish him well.
“I’d be delighted to attend,” I said heartily. “And I’ll send a note down to Alf at the Dog and Duck to say that drinks for Edward’s party will be paid for by Harcourt’s.”
“Oh, oh that’s so very kind of you, sir. We’ll be heading down after five. It’s going to be a smashing night I’m sure,” he beamed.
Oliver Simmons left my office with a spring in his step, and before I forgot and lost myself in the article I was editing, I wrote three notes. One to Alf explaining that I would cover the cost of drinks for Edward’s bachelor’s party, another to the Henry Latimer in the art department, and the third to the Oscar Rhodes a journalist who worked one floor down. These two men were dear friends and never said no to a night of frivolity, and so what better excuse. They were well connected and would also ensure that word of free drinks at the Dog and Duck would get around! I pressed the bell and my secretary came in to take the notes and send them on their way with a runner. Now with only five hours of the work day remaining, I decided I’d leave early and change before stepping out for the evening.
****
The Dog and Duck in Wapping was a rowdy affair, with patrons coming from the print works, and offices as well as sailors and laborer’s working at the docks. With it being a Friday and payday for many, the pub was packed with sweaty bodies of working men, but for Harcourt’s men, the drinks were on me! My influence had garnered a group of around fifteen for this impromptu bachelor’s party, and it pleased me to see Jonty Edwards beaming with pride that so many had turned up.
As expected, my friends Henry and Oscar took advantage of the free bar. Both of them worked on the Archaeological Journal. Henry illustrated new finds, ruins, and landscapes while Oscar interviewed academics and archeologists at digs to get up-to-date information on investigative research that would then be published in the journal.
Oscar puffed on his pipe between sips of cider.
“How are things shaping up with this month’s edition?” he asked.
“It’s rather slow this month. I’m still awaiting Forbes, and Jessop to send in their essays. They’re both two weeks past their deadlines.”
“Bloody amateurs,” Oscar barked derisively. “If you’re caught between a rock and a hard place, I’m currently working on the account of my visit to the Ethnological Society and their talk about the discoveries in the Roman ruins of Wroxeter. It’s quite fascinating.” He paused to puff on his pipe. “They recovered skulls that they believe, by the shape of the crania, pre-date the Romans and Celts who once lived on the land. I have the bones of the article…pun intended,” he snickered, “and if you’d like to bring the publication date for it forward to this month’s journal, I can finish it next week.”
“I’ve given Forbes and Jessop until Monday to submit their work and if they miss that deadline then I’ll consider the alternatives. An ethnological essay would fit nicely,” I mused.
Henry spoke up then. “Ah yes, I attended that dig in Wroxeter for a couple of days. If memory serves I have several illustrations of the skulls in situ that will be suitable to accompany the piece.”
I nodded in consideration. “Now, enough about work, we’re here to celebrate Edwards final nights of freedom.” I stood up, “A toast!” I declared, and there were murmurs of agreement from tables of Harcourt staff. It was then I realized I had no idea of Edwards’ fiancés name. Simmons and Edwards were sitting at another table with a group of mole-like bespectacled law colleagues.
“I say, Oliver,” I called. The timid fellow turned then leaned closer to my table. I whispered into his ear, “I don’t suppose you know the name of Edwards intended?”
“It’s Mabel, sir. Mabel Atkins.”
I stood then, “A toast, gentlemen, to our Jonty Edwards, who marries the beautiful Mabel Atkins on Sunday. All at Harcourt Press wish you the greatest of happiness. To the happy couple!” I raised my glass.
“The happy couple!” our party parroted; their pints of beer held aloft. Edwards looked rather embarrassed by the attention, which was the whole point of a boy’s night out before marriage! We remained at the Dog and Duck for one more round and then Simmons organized three carriages to take us into Covent Garden.
****
The Middlesex Music Hall on Drury Lane was a popular theater attended by all classes. There was a bar, and supper was on offer for sixpence each. We arrived early enough to get two of the large round tables on the ground floor with a decent view of the stage for our party. The chamber orchestra of eight musicians began to play and the music elevated my mood. The show was due to begin at 8 p.m. It was now 7:30 p.m. so I purchased a playbill from one of the serving girls to see who would be appearing tonight. There were comedians, singers, a troupe of Can-Can dancers from Paris, a contortionist, a juggler, and a magician.
My friends Henry Latimer and Oscar Rhodes sat either side of me while our other colleagues formed their own cliques of workmates. The beer flowed and platters of bread, meats, and cheeses were delivered for both tables and both of my chums were in high spirits.
“I say old boy,” Rhodes said puffing on his pipe. “I’m rather intrigued by the fact you’ve invited us to socialize with law clerks as we’ve never done so before.”
“Yes, what gives? Does a Harcourt actually have a heart?” Latimer agreed.
“Ha ha,” I mocked. I gripped my beer flagon and took a gulp, and then I spoke for the ears of my friends only. “You know full-well that the legal fellows keep themselves to themselves. In all honesty, I’d felt sorry for the fellow as there weren’t many takers at first. It was my duty to ensure Edwards had a good night.”
What I didn’t say was that I’d also needed a night out too. I feared I was losing myself to obsession. In the two weeks since meeting Miss Georgette the muse came to me at the most inopportune times. I kept a notebook in my pocket filled with poems of love and longing. I’d never felt so inspired in my whole life. But in following the muse I’d also become rather detached from my social circle. The friends with whom I would usually attend recitals each week were unhappy with me for begging off. I didn’t know how long the muse would be with me, and so I’d sought to take full advantage. Mother believed me to be a busy man about town, following my same social routines, and yet I’d secretly remained out of the house and my club because I’d gone to Regents Park, or to the British library, or to a tea room where I could sit in peace with my vision of Miss Georgette and write to her.
****
The first three performers were a comedian, a juggler, and magician who were entertaining enough. By the fourth act the crowd was well and truly warmed up. I was feeling relaxed, surrounded by music, colour and good friends with a flagon of beer at hand. The oily proprietor a Mr. Alfred Grayson stepped on stage to introduce the next act.
“Now my lovelies, are you ‘avin’ a good time?” he called, his booming voice quieting the rabble. The patrons roared back a resounding ‘Yes’.
“We’ll I’m glad to hear it, cos have we got a treat for you!” The crowd roared. “Our next act is one of our brave boys who’s just come back from the war. So please give a warm round of applause for…Captain Rimmer!”
The orchestra struck up a military tune as a soldier in full uniform marched on to the stage. The crowd applauded and whooped, as if they were familiar with this act. The soldier had a short brown beard and wore a dashing red tailcoat uniform with a white sword sash and a high neck collar. Shiny brass buttons glinted in the limelight, and gold fringed epaulettes swayed as he marched. His blue pillbox hat had a white pom-pom, and his navy trousers bore a military red stripe. He marched around the stage as if it was the parade ground, and he made for a striking sight with his, between you and I, rather lovely arse. Things were looking up! I clapped and hollered along with the boisterous audience.
The music stopped and Captain Rimmer stood to attention in the center of the stage where he saluted. He spoke in a cultured resonant voice and told a fanciful and, honestly, quite filthy story of his experiences as a soldier, which had the patrons howling. Then he told a tale of his old Brigadier father and the advice he gave to him on joining up. Captain Rimmer then launched into a song. It began as a sober story of an elderly Brigadier on his deathbed, the subject drawing the punters in, and when he sang the chorus, like the rest of the crowd, I teared up with laughter, because the innuendos in the lyrics were oh so clever.
My curiosity piqued, I stood up. My colleagues were far too engaged with the performance to notice me leaving. I strode through the smoky low-lit auditorium and down a side aisle to get a closer look at this Captain Rimmer. He had a fine figure and he mimed lewd gestures with his song that seemed familiar, as did the voice, which was rich and resonated in the auditorium, accompanied by the orchestra. The audience seemed to adore him and they sang along each time he reached the chorus.
Always look after your Privates
And your Privates will look out for you.
Each man starts at the bottom,
And though that is rotten,
Keep going and we’ll pull you through!
Don’t get sad, don’t get bitter,
Though war is the shitter,
And fightin’s what you’re paid to do.
So, always look after your Privates,
And your Privates will look out for you!
A serving girl was swaying along with the song. I stood beside her and leaned in.
“Forgive the intrusion Miss, but who is he?”
“Oh, that’s our George, wonderful isn’t he,” she sighed.
“George?”
“George Dancie. He’s a regular; does all kinds of characters. The punters love ‘im.”
I looked at Captain Rimmer anew and my heart leaped. He was…marvelous, holding the audience in the palm of his hand, playing them as a conductor with his orchestra. My heart thudded in recognition. I had become so fixated on Miss Georgette, in her pretty dress, bodice, and blond ringlets that I hadn’t imagined what else she—HE could be. But now I understood she was one of many characters of an actor by the name of George Dancie. I knew that George’s secret preference was the same as mine and we’d shared a moment at Wychwood. I wanted to know if he’d felt the same attraction as I did, or if that moment was all we would share.
“I say, is there any way to get a note to Mr. Dancie?” I asked the girl.
“There’s always a way, sir, for a price.”
“Of course,” I removed the notebook and a pencil from my inner breast pocket. I found a page where a few lines of poetry were jotted, and I hurriedly added a note, then carefully tore the page out, folded it, passed it to the serving girl.
“I’m sitting at that table over there,” I said directing to the table of my work colleagues, who were singing the catchy chorus once more.
“Give him this and wait for a reply.” I then showed her a silver sixpence coin, which is probably more than she was earning from waiting tables tonight. “You’ll get this when you come back with the reply.” The girl nodded eagerly and when George had finished his song to riotous applause she moved off, vanishing through a staff only door that I supposed went back stage.
I returned to my seat, where my friends and colleagues raved about the wonderful, entertaining Captain Rimmer.
****