The Devil and His Boy (8 page)

“Look out!”

With his eyes fixed on the stage, Tom had collided with a young man who had been carrying a sheaf of papers. Now the papers fell out of his hands and cascaded to the floor, some of them carried by the breeze into the very muddiest of puddles. Every page was covered with writing and Tom was horrified to see the words blur and then disappear in a black haze as they came into contact with the water.

“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry…”

Tom did his best to scoop the pages out of the puddle and hand them back to the man.

“Why couldn’t you look where you were going?”

“I was looking at the stage. I’m sorry.” Tom straightened up, feeling wretched. Here he was in his brand new clothes and already he had made a complete idiot of himself.

The man glanced at him and softened. “It’s all right,” he said. “I wasn’t looking either. I was thinking about my new play.”

Tom looked at the man more carefully. He was in his late twenties, dressed in a black velvet tunic with a high white collar. The man had an unusually intelligent face. His deep brown eyes seemed to look right into you; through you and at you at the same time. His hair, also brown, hung almost down to his neck at the back and sides, but he was already going bald on top.

“A new play?” Tom realized what the man had just said. “Are you a writer?”

“Yes. I suppose I am. As a matter of fact, it’s my play they’re about to perform here.” Tom had picked up the last of the pages and the man wiped it clean using his sleeve and added it to the pile. “My name is Shakespeare,” he said. “Bill Shakespeare. Or Will Shakespeare if you like. Or Bill…”

Tom was confused. “Is that with a B or not a B?” he asked.

“B or not a B. B or not a B!” Shakespeare’s eyes brightened and he suddenly produced a quill and scribbled something down on one of the pages. “That’s rather good,” he said. “I might use that.”

“What’s your play about?” Tom asked, changing the subject. Behind them, the second actor had just been dismissed as brutally as the first. A third actor was taking his place.

“Oh. It’s about a Roman general called Titus Andronicus,” Shakespeare said. “Actually, it’s rather violent. But that’s what they want…” He pointed at the two men on the stage. “That’s Philip Henslowe. He owns the theatre. The other man is Lord Strange … and what’s really strange is that we work for him at all because between you and me he’s a complete idiot. All he ever wants is clowns and acrobats.” He sighed, then glanced at Tom. “Are you here to audition?” he asked, suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Oh, I see.” Shakespeare grimaced. “Actually, I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t think they’re looking for girls.”

“I’m not a girl!” Tom said indignantly.

“No, no, no!” Shakespeare laughed.“That’s not what I meant. Didn’t you know? We don’t have girls in the theatre. All the girls’ parts are played by boys.”

This was something Tom had never known. “Why?” he asked.

“They just are.” Shakespeare searched through the pages. “But like I say, there are only two girls in the play and they’ve both been cast.”

“Oh.” Tom was disappointed.

“Why do you want to be an actor anyway?” Shakespeare asked. “Have you acted before?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been to a play.”

“Only once.” Suddenly Tom found himself telling Shakespeare about the play he had seen at the Red Lion. As he started to describe the plot, he saw Shakespeare smile and a moment later the playwright laughed and slapped him on the back. “There’s no need to tell me about the play,” he said. “It was
The Comedy of Errors
. I wrote it.”

Tom gaped. “You’re a great writer,” he said.

“No, no, no!” Shakespeare blushed. “I’m only just starting out really. But one day … who knows?”

Despite his meeting with Shakespeare, Tom was feeling lost and dejected as he left the theatre. The visit had been a complete failure. There were no parts for him in the play. He had nowhere to go, no money and no possessions except the clothes he was wearing.

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice someone slipping out of the theatre behind him. But as he walked down the road the man hurried after him and caught up.

“Excuse me, young sir.” The speaker was short and very dark, with narrow, glinting eyes. He was quite bald, apart from two patches of black hair, one above each ear. He also had a moustache, the hairs curling round on each side of his nose. He was dressed exotically in a rich, multi-coloured tunic with a bright red sash across his chest and a matching red plume in his hat. His trousers were mauve, ballooning out above the knee where they were tied tightly with two black ribbons. His stockings were also red. His feet, which were extremely small, were encased in brightly polished black shoes. “I noticed you in the theatre just now,” the man went on. There was something foreign about him. Although his English was perfect, there was the trace of an accent, distant and unrecognizable. “You were hoping to perform in a play?”

“Yes.” Tom kept on walking.

The man hurried to keep up, almost dancing on his tiny feet. “Then permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Dr Mobius. You’ve heard of me? No? No matter…” He coughed delicately. “The truth is that I myself have a theatrical company.”

That stopped Tom in his tracks. The man smiled at him. He was wearing some sort of perfume and smelled of flowers and musk. “We call ourselves the Garden Players.” He waved a set of fingers heavy with rings. “We have a play we wish to perform and I came to the Rose because I’m looking for a boy.”

“What sort of play is it?” Tom’s mind was reeling and it was the first thing he could think to ask.

Dr Mobius tweaked his moustache. “It’s a comedy,” he explained. “A very comical comedy in my opinion. But then, I wrote it. It’s called
The Devil and his Boy
. You see? I play the devil. But, due to an unfortunate accident, I find myself in need of a boy.”

“And you think…?” Tom tried to make sense of his thoughts. “What makes you think I’d be right for the part?” he asked.

Dr Mobius simpered. “I am intuitive,” he said. “That is, I am a very sensitive person. I can sense talent in a young man like yourself. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak. Of course…” He whipped out a handkerchief and brushed an imaginary tear from his eye, “…if you are not interested…”

“I’m interested!” Tom exclaimed.

“How interesting! Good!” Suddenly he was businesslike. “It will be three weeks’ work. We will pay you six shillings when the job is done. You will live with us, with the Garden Players, and you will receive all food and board.” He paused for breath. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Tom. Tom Falconer.”

“You are alone in London?”

Tom was about to mention Moll, then thought better of it. She wasn’t part of this life. “Yes,” he said.

“Then do we have a deal?”

Tom hesitated for a moment. Somewhere, deep inside him, Tom knew something was wrong, that this was simply too good to be true. After all, the last time he had been offered work, it had nearly cost him both his legs. But at the same time, it was a job. A roof over his head. Food. And he would be acting in a play!

“It’s a deal,” he said.

Dr Mobius stretched out his arm to shake hands and it was then that it happened. He must have lost a button because, for a moment, his sleeve fell away from his arm. Looking down, Tom saw the man’s dark skin and there, just above the wrist, a strange mark. It was an eye with a cross in it. And it hadn’t been drawn there. It had been burned into his flesh.

The man glanced at Tom, then down to his exposed arm. For a moment his eyes flared and he opened his mouth in what was almost a snarl. But then, he forced the smile back on to his face and pulled the sleeve back down. “My sleeve,” he said. “These London tailors don’t know what they’re doing!” He brought his hand back up in front of Tom. “So, Tom Falconer. I am the devil. Are you going to be my boy? If so, let’s shake.”

Tom reached out.

They shook.

There
were eight men in the company known as the Garden Players, but with Tom that figure was brought up to nine.

Tom had followed Dr Mobius back up the south bank of the river. The sun was still shining brightly but Tom couldn’t help but notice something rather strange. Mobius preferred the shadows. Whenever the street widened out – when they crossed Long Southwark, for example – his beady eyes searched for darkened alleyways and hidden entrances. If he saw people coming towards him, he chose another way. And so they barely saw anyone as they followed the Thames, heading east, past London Bridge and on to Bermondsey.

They finally arrived at the river itself and Dr Mobius stopped, blinking in the light. It was snowing now and Tom could see the surface of the Thames beginning to ice over. He wondered how long it would be before he was able to cross it on foot.

“Here we are,” Mobius panted, speaking for the first time since they had set off. He waved a hand. “We are here.”

“Where…?” Tom began.

The river was lapping at a derelict wooden jetty in front of them. A single ship was moored there, obviously no longer seaworthy. The sails hung in rags from its four masts and there was a gaping hole in its side where the wood seemed to have mouldered away. But there were no buildings close by; no taverns and certainly no theatres.

“The ship, Tom!” Mobius pressed his fingers together. “We hired a ship. A little economy, you understand. We live there. We work – the deck is a perfect stage. We are, if you like, a family afloat. Yes, I like that. The family that floats. And now you are part of our family, Tom. A very welcome part. Please! This way…”

Dr Mobius walked up a half-rotten gangplank and Tom followed.

“This way!” Mobius pointed at a door and a set of steps leading down inside the ship and disappeared. Tom stood for a moment, feeling the deck moving underneath his feet. He had never been on a ship before and had no idea how so much wood and rigging could possibly float when even the smallest stone would sink instantly. But this was no time for such questions. Nervous now, he crossed the deck and went through the door.

There were seven men, sitting in chairs or lying in hammocks around a coal brazier. The room was full of smoke both from the fire and the candles that lit it. Mobius had removed his hat and was helping himself to a glass of sherry from a small wooden cask. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Our new boy! Yes! His name is Tom.”

The men nodded at Tom and one or two of them smiled. The first thing that Tom noticed was that, like Dr Mobius, they were all rather dark. The oldest of them must have been about forty, the youngest (playing a woman, as it turned out) only a few years older than Tom himself. They were dressed in leather trousers, thick shirts and boots. Sitting there, in the cramped and smoky cabin, they looked more like sailors or soldiers than actors.

Mobius introduced them. “This is Ferdinand. Frederick. Philip. Florian. Francis with an ‘i’. Frances with an ‘e’. And Fynes.” Tom promptly forgot each man’s name as he was told it and wondered how he would manage when it came to learning his lines. He was beginning to feel more and more uncomfortable. It wasn’t that the men were unfriendly. It was just the way they were looking at him … soft and secretive. He had thought actors would be more cheerful than this.

“We must start work!” Mobius exclaimed. “Ferdinand – a script for our new friend.”

The men swung off their bunks and moved to sit round a low table in the middle of the cabin. They each had a great bundle of paper and one of them produced a copy which he handed to Tom. It was the moment Tom had been dreading. He turned to Mobius, the blood rushing to his face. “I can’t read,” he said.

But to his surprise, Mobius merely laughed. “It’s no problem! We will help you to learn the lines. And when you have learned the lines you won’t need to read.”

The youngest actor – Florian – a boy with long, fair hair and sad eyes – sat down next to Tom and took his script. “I will read the lines for you,” he said. Like Mobius, he spoke with a slightly foreign accent.

For the next ninety minutes, Tom listened as Mobius and the Garden Players read
The Devil and his Boy
.

The play was, as Mobius had said, a comedy. It was about a man called Lucio (played by Dr Mobius) who had just arrived in the city of Venice and who dressed up as the devil in order to win a bet. Very quickly, though, things got out of hand as the people of Venice came to believe that he was the real devil. There was a comical merchant with a beautiful daughter, Isabella, (played by Florian), a comical priest and a comical duke. In fact, everyone in the play was meant to be comical in one way or another. The play ended with the duke and two soldiers, all of them armed with muskets, chasing Lucio and his boy off the stage.

The boy, of course, was Tom’s part. He played Antonio, Lucio’s servant, but as it turned out this wasn’t such a big part after all. Tom appeared in the first three acts and once at the end. His main job was to provide a sort of commentary on the action. “Methinks my master is a scurvy knave” – that sort of thing. But of course he didn’t complain. Listening to the actors reading the play, he still found it hard to believe that he was one of them. It did trouble him a little that the play didn’t seem to be very good. And it also occurred to him – although of course he couldn’t be sure – that not one of these actors could actually act. They all had that strange, very faint foreign accent. And they seemed to be reading their parts with no interest or enthusiasm whatsoever. But it was a start. The Garden Players today. The Rose Theatre tomorrow. At least, that was what Tom told himself.

They reached the end of the fifth act. Florian turned over the last page. There was a moment’s pause but nobody applauded or said anything to break the silence.

“So, are there any questions?” Mobius asked.

Tom waited but still nobody spoke. There had been a question he had been meaning to ask from the very start, something that had puzzled him. But for the moment it was out of his mind and he asked instead, “When are we going to perform the play?”

“Soon.” Mobius sipped his sherry. “I still have a few little arrangements that have to be, you know, arranged.”