Skylark (30 page)

Teddy the Lilliputian

[Archivist’s Note: This section is written in the hand of Lily Alouette. One might question the fact that Lily has such detailed knowledge of Pollard’s Lilliputian Opera Company. My editor is one such. My theory is that in the time Lily spent banished from her family, she performed in a theatrical company in Wellington and perhaps also entered the employ of James Pollard as a tutor. Surely that entrepreneur had need of extra tutors for his little stars, many of whom were his own progeny? Be that as it may, it might be prudent to read this chapter with a grain of scepticism: Lily, in trying to exonerate herself from guilt, may be casting Teddy’s time with the company in a rather rosy light. E. de M.]

Theodore Valentin Lacey was the sort of boy who always stood out in a crowd. You might see twenty young fellows sitting in a classroom, all dressed alike, all more or less the same size, and your eyes would go straight to Teddy. A small twitch of the head, a quick grin, a wink and he had his audience. Mr Tom Pollard (who was not really a Pollard, it turned out, but an Irish O’Sullivan, who took his employer’s name) saw that quality in Teddy Lacey at that first audition in Wellington.

‘That boy will go far; we must have him,’ he muttered to Jim Pollard (born Pollard and the eldest of all the sons). Jim nodded. He had been impressed at how quickly the lad had responded to his own fast tempo when he’d accompanied the boy’s ambitious solo piece. Both Pollards had noticed the way the other aspiring performers had applauded despite themselves. When Fred Derbyshire had shown the lad a few steps, Teddy had imitated them flawlessly. To be a good mimic was essential in any Lilliputian. No doubt about it: young Theodore must be signed to the company.

‘I’ll take him down to Christchurch with me,’ said Jim. ‘I’m not sure the boy’s mother was quite truthful with us. Perhaps there’s an angry father in the wings after all.’

So while Tom Pollard stayed in Wellington to train the local children in chorus parts, Jim Pollard and Teddy (signed to the company by his mother as Theodore Larkendale) sailed back to Christchurch where the company would perform for the rest of the season. It was a rough trip, the swell through Cook’s Strait causing the steamer to heave and roll as if the ship itself were in agony, not the just the passengers aboard. Teddy, who was not used to sea travel, became green, then threw up, again and again, until they reached the calm waters of Lyttelton Harbour. Not the best start for a stage career.

But oh, the wonder of his introduction, next morning, to the Lilliputian Opera Company! So many children — thirty or forty, surely — girls and boys together, all spooning their porridge, the sound of their chatter ringing in Teddy’s ears. As Mr Jim and Teddy entered the room, a large lady rang a bell and a sort of scuffling silence descended.

‘This is a new recruit, Theodore Larkendale,’ said Jim. ‘We will call him Teddy. He will sing the part of Ralph Rackstraw when Cornelius is unwell or in need of a rest.’

Jim Pollard stood very straight and spoke firmly, even severely. Teddy thought Fred Derbyshire and Mr Tom Pollard had been more fun. The other children also seemed a little in fear of Mr Jim.

A boy at the back of the large dining room raised his hand and then stood up.

‘Yes, Cornelius?’

‘Could we hear the new recruit sing then, Sir? If he is to take my part.’

The large lady put down her sewing, frowning a little. ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that poor Teddy has been sick all the way from Wellington to Christchurch. Perhaps we should leave performances until later. Eat up your breakfasts, children.’

Teddy saw the mocking look Cornelius gave him. ‘But I don’t
mind,’ he said, and without even thinking, stepped up onto the little platform beside the lady, tapped out a rhythm, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, and sang the only song he knew from
H.M.S. Pinafore
: ‘When I Was a Lad’. He sang it strutting back and forth, as his mother had taught him, puffing out his little front and putting on what he thought was an upper-class sort of accent. Someone started tapping a mug on the table. Another laughed at his antics. When he got to the chorus: ‘He polished up the brass so meticulously/that now he is the ruler of the Queen’s Navee’ everyone joined in with such gusto that Teddy stopped in astonishment and everyone burst into laughter. A tall girl stood up, clapping.

‘That’s my part,’ she said, ‘so don’t you dare do it any better!’

‘Well, Maud, dear,’ said the lady, ‘you will have to look to your laurels, then.’ She turned to Teddy. ‘I am Mrs Pollard. You may call me Auntie. That cheeky miss is my daughter, Maud, who plays Sir Joseph. You will meet my other children and the entire company soon enough. But now …’ Auntie rose, clapped her hands for silence and delivered a string of instructions: which children would practice piano with Mr Jim; which group would have a violin lesson with Mr Tom; who would practise singing or flute. Two boys were to spend time with Mr Derbyshire until their steps were perfect.

Teddy’s head was reeling. He was tired, hungry, his feet still shifted queasily in the rhythm of the sea, but above all he felt an eagerness to become part of this theatrical activity. Here was his new home.

‘Auntie’ sat down with him while he ate a plate of porridge with brown sugar and a handful of raisins. ‘Jim says you are a quick learner and a good mimic,’ she said.

Teddy nodded, trying to smile through his mouthful.

‘Well, we will see. Show me your belongings.’

Teddy opened the small bundle his mother had hastily assembled: a clean shirt, a cap and a warm vest. Also two apples. Mrs Pollard was surprised, and perhaps suspicious, to find the lad so destitute, but said nothing. She showed Teddy to a large room where rows of beds lined the wall.

‘The boys’ bedroom. Here is a bed for you. Robert has just left us …’ this said with a frown, ‘but I trust you will be happier and will fit into the company with more grace than young Robert.’

There was no question that Teddy might need a rest after his long voyage. All morning he practised steps and gestures with Fred Derbyshire, then, after lunch, he walked down to the Theatre Royal where he and the other boys were issued with wooden swords and instructed in swordplay. Cornelius Osmond made a beeline for Teddy.

‘Come on then, little song bird, can you fight?’

Teddy shook his head, smiling his willingness to learn.

‘Ha!’ cried the lanky Cornelius, slashing with the sword right and left. ‘Ha! Ha! Take that, Sir! And that!’

The other boys were larking about but Cornelius seemed in earnest. Teddy dodged a vicious swipe, tried to parry as the other boys were doing, then dodged again, quicker on his feet than his taller opponent. He glanced over at another pair, hoping to see how it was done, and in that moment Cornelius caught him on the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Mr Fred was at his side in a flash, grasping Cornelius’s sword in one hand and Teddy’s arm in the other.

‘Poor play,’ he said sternly to Cornelius. ‘You know better than that. Take the dunce’s seat on the side.’

‘It was an accident,’ said the lad, smiling at his tutor. ‘Sorry, Sir.’

‘No such word as accident in the theatre, you know that. Off you go.’

Teddy expected disobedience, or at least some retort from this young star, but Cornelius hung his head and nodded, padding away on his stockinged feet to a chair in the wings.

After swordplay, the whole company assembled on stage to rehearse one of the songs from a new opera they were preparing. This was fun! Teddy, in the back row of the chorus, copied the movements, and tried to follow the music. Cornelius and one of the Pollard girls led the song, looking so like a miniature married couple that Teddy had to stifle his laughter. Then back
they marched, two by two, for an hour’s rest at the hotel. Teddy fell asleep immediately. It was Cornelius who shook him awake.

‘Time for tea. Come on then.’ He made no mention of the sword fight, but as they ran down the stairs to the big dining room, he abruptly asked Teddy what age he was.

Teddy coughed. His mother had said eleven, though he was many months past twelve. It was a mystery to him why Lily might make him seem younger, but perhaps it was important.

‘Eleven,’ he said. ‘What about you?’

‘Thirteen, nearly fourteen,’ said Cornelius gloomily. ‘You’re bloody lucky.’

Again Teddy didn’t understand why the boy should be so grim about his age, but was glad that the animosity seemed to have disappeared. They sat side by side on the long benches and ate their bread and jam. Then it was off to the theatre where their costumes would be waiting. This was clearly the part the children loved best. They chattered like a flock of magpies as they walked down to the theatre. Teddy was to sit with the audience and watch. No costume or make-up for him.

Christchurch came out in full that night. ‘Standing room only!’ boomed the front-of-house manager, and yet people crowded in, willing to stand at the back, elbowing their way to good vantage positions, as the orchestra — Pollards every one of them — tuned up.

Jim Pollard, the conductor, brought Teddy in with him, guiding the boy to a special seat on the side, near the front. ‘Watch and learn,’ he said sternly. Teddy almost took a bow himself, so excited he was, but then blushed to realise that the applause was greeting the conductor. He quickly transformed his bow into deference towards Mr Jim, proud to be noticed with the famous man. But what magic as the curtain was pulled back to reveal a wonderful painted backdrop! There was the mast of a sailing ship, the rigging painted in every detail; railings; a poop deck with real steps up to it; and there, on ‘deck’, his new friends sluicing and scrubbing and shouting directions in their piping little voices. Again the audience applauded and cheered to see
such a lively scene. Teddy’s eyes were popping. This was a very different matter from the plays and pageants and concerts in the Waitotara school hall!

The orchestra played an introduction, the whole chorus burst into ‘We Sail the Ocean Blue’ and Teddy was lost. This was as close to heaven as he ever wanted to be. He listened and watched, no doubt his mouth hanging open, eyes alight with excitement. When Cornelius, as Ralph Rackstraw, sang his first solo, ‘The Nightingale’, tears sprang into Teddy’s eyes. Could he ever sing so well? The audience wept with Teddy when Rackstraw sang of his hopeless love for Josephine (May Pollard); sang along with ‘the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee’ (Maud Pollard); sighed with ‘Poor Little Buttercup’ (Olive Pollard). They cheered, stamped and demanded encores when little Walter Pollard, his face blacked like a minstrel singer, came on in the interlude with a song and dance that had nothing to do with Gilbert and Sullivan. Oh those Pollards! Oh the darling Lilliputians! Christchurch was in love with them. Teddy too.

At the end of the week Teddy was allowed to sing in the back of the chorus. By the time they headed to Wellington, he was promised one night singing Ralph Rackstraw. His heart thumped in his chest at the news. Could he bring tears to the audience’s eyes, like Cornelius? Would his voice reach the back of the hall?

‘Of course it will, my darling,’ said his mother, who was in Wellington performing a season in a different theatre, ‘and I will be proudly sitting watching you.’ Teddy’s feet would not stand still. He flew over the sand on Wellington’s Oriental Bay, then back to where his mother stood, parasol lifted against the sun, handsome in her tight, ruffled jacket and swinging skirt.

‘I’m going to be better than Cornelius! I’ll be their best singer and dancer, see if I’m not! Better even than Maud Pollard! See if I don’t sing Sir Joseph one day!’

His mother laughed. ‘Learn your trade first, Teddy. These Pollards have plenty to teach you.’ She winked. ‘But I think you
will
show them all, my darling boy. Theodore Larkendale’s name
will be on all the posters, I know it.’

That night a proud Lily came to the show. Outside the theatre a chill wind blew. A man protesting child slavery tried to control his handwritten placard. Lily berated him.

‘What do you know of the life of these children? They are being trained in the finest profession.’

‘In Satan’s arts more like,’ replied the man stoutly. ‘It is exploitation of the very worst and against God’s Rule.’

Lily wanted to argue but the crowd was pushing her forward. She left the rude fellow to his marching and entered Wellington’s Theatre Royal. Chandeliers of splendid gas lights illuminated the auditorium. The air buzzed with excited chatter. Perhaps the entertainment might have been better patronised — a rival company had just performed
H.M.S. Pinafore
— but Lily was in no mood to find fault. Mr James Pollard had reserved her a front row seat for Teddy’s solo debut.
[Archivist’s Note: An interesting comment which tends to support my claim that Lily was working with the company. E. de M.]
Oh, how she wanted Jack, and all the children, to be there beside her. Lily allowed herself a moment of sadness, thinking of her banishment, but was soon swept up with the spectacle. When her Teddy stepped on stage in his white sailor’s trousers, striped jacket and jaunty cap, she could have swooned with pride. Her Teddy taking a lead role among all these talented little Australian children! After Teddy’s third solo she threw him a rose, which was picked up and kissed prettily by May Pollard, who was clearly more accustomed than Teddy to receive accolades. Lily made a note to teach Teddy the art of extracting favours from the audience.