his horrified eye, tough steaks and tired herrings destined for the gridirons. He reflected on the nearness of Smithfield Market with relief. Here was one instant improvement he could make. Whoever was responsible for the provision of these horrors would be subjected to a series of lectures on the art of choosing meat and fish. Huge canisters of pease pudding stood steaming on the range, side by side with dishes of saveloys and fish. Fresh fish, kippers and herrings, with a dish of something that might conceivably in the siege of Paris have passed for batter, stood by a heap of dull grey haddock. He eyed them unenthusiastically. There was, he gathered, a fishmarket at nearby Shadwell. Sturgeon was in season, oysters – like Alexis Soyer he, Auguste Didier, would make a contribution to the noble cause of spreading knowledge of food, no matter what the pocket that sought it. A stirring of something that might possibly be professional interest replaced the queasiness in his stomach.
At five to seven the faces pressed to the glass began to disappear, as each straightened up on its body to prepare itself for the grand charge ahead. It was, Auguste realised with dread in his heart, time for his first customers. An aged gentleman who had apparently crept from the hearthside of one of Mr Dickens’ novels, judging by his attire, had now taken his place at the bar – presumably the ‘old Jacob’ to whom Jowitt had referred. It was conceivable, Auguste supposed, that he might move with lightning dexterity when customers appeared, but improbable. There would be fewer now than later, he understood, for it was more important to secure and defend one’s place than to feed one’s stomach for those who had paid their shilling for a
fauteuil
or ninepenny seat in the circle. And at any moment from now, he realised to his horror, Will Lamb might be arriving at the stage door, where he could be greeted by a crazed assassin or by the ghost of William Terriss. The fever pitch of excitement in the queue communicated itself to him through the window: his stomach now lurched again with something he did not at first recognise. When he identified it, he would not fully acknowledge it, but he recognised it as fear.
Thomas Yapp prepared to haul himself from his slouchedposition over the bar at the back of the grand circle, and to face up to his responsibilities as chairman of the evening’s festivities. He pushed the second brandy aside. He needed all his wits about him tonight. It would be a full house, and keeping order was hard enough in the Old King Cole at the best of times. Audiences knew what they liked – and what they didn’t like, and were far from shy about letting the artistes know their opinions. This happened frequently for Jowitt couldn’t afford to pay the good acts, and had to rely on old stagers like Our Pickles and Max Hill – and, Thomas faced facts, his own wife Evangeline. Their one regular asset, Horace, the Great Brodie, had just told Jowitt he was going up West to the Alhambra. That was the last they’d see of him, even though it was the Old King Cole had made him. That was the way things went. One song caught the popular fancy, and the singer thought he was made. Horace had struck lucky with ‘Don’t Wait Up’, so off he’d trot on the golden path of West End audiences, publication, agents, pantomime work, and he’d never look back. Or would he? He was a good sort at heart. Like Nettie Turner and Will Lamb: they started here and now
they
were coming back – though not for long, thank goodness. He slumped over the bar again. Perhaps he needed a drink after all. The thought of Will Lamb and Evangeline would make anyone turn to drink.
Not to mention the Shadwell Mob!
Panic-stricken, he drained the brandy at one gulp, as Evangeline swept through the door.
‘Ah, Thomas, I’ve decided to render “I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls”.’ She trilled happily anduntunefully, her bosom heaving in passion.