Page 14 of The Songbird of Wychwood

PERCY

I watched the final act, the outrageously named Dixie Normus. The name alone had the fellows at my table crying into their beer with laughter. I wondered where George got his character names from. This female character wore cowboy boots, a knee length blue and white gingham dress with petticoats, a leather waistcoat, and a low-slung belt with two guns, which of course were stage props. Beneath a pale Stetson hat was a wig of red ringlets. She sang in an exaggerated American drawl. The song was a ballad about a lonely cowgirl who met a cowboy on the plains, and discovered he was unable to get her in the family way. It was the kind of bawdy song that this drunken crowd loved.

I considered for a moment how my mother and her friends would react to the vulgar lyrics if they were here. I supposed fainting and pearl clutching would ensue. The thought of it made me smile. The daring, unconventional nature of George’s act tickled me. I found I enjoyed the risqué double entendres, and the universal subject matters of love, relationships, loss, and longing. The songs I’d heard George sing in his many guises appealed to the common man as well as the upper classes. I too ended up singing along to the chorus of Dixie’s wistful saucy song.

When my cowboy’s gun ain’t firin’’

Maybe I should try ridin’ you!

Dixie pointed out men in the audience as she sang the last line in the chorus, which led to much tomfoolery, and wolf whistling. George closed the show to a standing ovation and I clapped until my hands hurt. My innards twisted with excitement and anxiety that soon enough I would be able to converse with the real George Dancie and hopefully get to know him as he is, and not as one of his characters.

Following the crowd of patrons, our band of very merry Harcourt’s men piled out onto Drury Lane. It had rained when the show was on but blessedly, the downpour was now over. Standing outside the Middlesex Music Hall with the men from Harcourt’s Press, I felt proud of our camaraderie and that the fellows in our party had enjoyed the night. I slapped Edwards on the back, and wished him a happy wedding day. The smiling clerk appeared so inebriated and contented he could barely stand, so I was glad when his friend Oliver Simmons said he would take him home. Our other colleagues began to disperse, and my friend Henry asked me to join him and Oscar on a jaunt to a gaming club in Chinatown that we’d visited a time or two. But, tonight I had to beg off, for I had other plans!

After my friends hailed hansoms and we said our farewells I strode to the side alley of the theater and down to the stage door. The rain-soaked pavements glistened, reflecting the shimmer of gaslights from windows above. I was feeling a little queasy, what with the scents of dampness, decay, and piss in the alley, along with the curl of excitement and anxiety about the impending meeting. But despite the vile stench, the alley to the stage door was packed with people. A crowd was assembled around the door waiting to get their playbill signed as the performers left. I did notice several rough looking fellows who I was sure were up to no good; other patrons were vying for the attention of the showgirls when they stepped out. One girl was leaning against the wall with a fellow in a sailor uniform pressed to her. I pulled my greatcoat tight in the chill of the night and waited in a shadowed alcove for George to come out.

Twenty minutes later the crowds around the stage door had thinned as revelers went off arm-in-arm to find a pub, or a private place. I wished I’d brought a hat to fend off the cold. The remaining gents skulked away following the contortionist girl, Miss Eloise Fields, like a pack of hounds. She was an exotic pretty young thing and it made me smile that she ignored the catcalls of the men as she walked arm linked with another girl. The two women paused in front of me, and Miss Eloise gave me an up and down look and then winked before she left with her admirers in tow. An older, burly man in a flat cap and a heavy coat exited through the stage door and locked it up behind himself. He gave me a piteous look as he passed by but said nothing. Finally, it was just me in a cold, dark alley, biting my lip, feeling like a ninny, and wondering whether George had changed his mind and left through the front-of-house to avoid me. After the jollity of the evening, that thought made me feel a little crestfallen.

“Psst!” I turned in the direction of the sound and saw a side gate was open and in the shadowed darkness a fellow was standing. It was George. My mood brightened immediately. He beckoned me to him and I hurried through the gate, which he latched behind me. The theaters in the area all emptied onto Drury Lane, and the nightlife remained raucous in the Covent Garden district with men singing, shouting and brawling and women cackling with laughter followed by the jarring smash of breaking glass and the alarmed barking of dogs. The cacophony was a distraction until George took my hand and led me past the stinking discarded scenery, props, and detritus at the rear of the theater. The buildings along Drury Lane were packed in like sardines and gaslight illuminated the upper windows of the dwellings around us. I had no idea where George was taking me, but at that moment with his hand in mine, I was so very in awe of him and I didn’t care. He paused at the bottom of an iron fire escape and looked back at me. In the low light I saw the ghost of a smile. Together we hurried up the staircase, our clanging footfalls echoing. When we reached the top George opened a heavy door and we stepped into a dimly lit corridor, George let go of my hand and locked the door behind us.

“Everyone’s gone home. It’s only you and me, is that okay?” he said in a low husky voice.

His words thrilled me. “Yes, y…yes, that’s okay.” Then George led me along a tenebrous hallway that smelled musty and sweaty. I couldn’t make out the details of the framed posters and playbills on the walls. As George came upon a wall lamp, he turned the gas off and the flame spluttered out plunging us into pure darkness. My breath hitched with fear as I wasn’t too fond of the dark, but within a few steps George opened a door and I followed him into a large low-lit room. George turned to face me then and our gazes collided for the first time, as we are, men with no secret setting or character between us. It was then that I got a good look at him, without costumes, wigs, or greasepaint to change his features. He had waves of mousy brown hair in a side parting, close cropped at the sides and long on top. His eyes were warm autumnal brown, like watered down whisky, and his features, handsome and pretty at the same time. He was mercurial; a creature of beauty and graceful movement as he locked the door and turned away, stepping further into the room. It was then I noticed my surroundings. This was one large room and drapes divided the space into bedroom, sitting room, and cooking area. The walls were plastered with playbills and posters for not only the Middlesex, but for other theaters in the district too. An upright piano sat against one wall with a window that at a guess overlooked the back alley. There was a makeshift kitchen area against the opposite wall comprising of a one plate cast iron gas stove unit that also heated the room. There was a sink, a pantry cupboard, pots and pans on wall hooks, and a worn pine table with two chairs. Off center, a three-seater couch was draped with colourful fabrics, matched with a battered steamer trunk that George used as a table. Behind the crimson velvet curtain, I guessed there was a bed. I hoped to find out if I was right.

The room was warm, stiflingly so. Maybe the intense heat I felt was just me? I removed my white kidskin gloves and stuffed them into my coat pocket. The air smelled of greasepaint, fragrant oil and the sweat of him, I guess, because it appeared George Dancie live here alone.

George turned back to look at me again with those huge warm autumnal eyes. He bit his plump lower lip, “What’s your name?” his voice was merely a whisper.

“Percy…Percy Harcourt, it’s a pleasure to finally meet the real you, George Dancie,” I grinned and his responding smile outshone the sun.

“I suppose Doris told you my name. Thank you for the note. It was uh…well received.” His true voice, if this was his true voice, was mellifluous, smooth, and musical. He tried to cover a cockney accent with precise articulation. The saucy grin that accompanied his comment made me forget my words. All I could think to say was, “Good,” as I offered my hand to be shaken. I was shocked and delighted when George stepped closer, took my hand, turned it over, and while he gazed up to meet my eyes he kissed my palm, mirroring what I had done at to Miss Georgette at Wychwood. My groin ached with desire.

“Well met, Mr. Percy Harcourt. Welcome to my boudoir. It ain’t much, but its home,” he gestured with a theatrical swipe of his arm.

“It’s, um, very cozy,” I said, still finding it difficult to string words together.

“Would you care for a drink Percy Harcourt?”

Oh, I think I could grow to love my name on his lips.

“Yes, yes, indeed I would.”

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