Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

J ack hung up the telephone receiver and picked up his own copy of the newspaper, then hissed between his teeth. Poor Stella. It made her sound like a monster.

Jack whistled.

‘Well, I’ll be b—’

‘Marcus!’ A call came up from the street, and Jack recognised Mr Poole’s voice. ‘The bloody ‘ I has gone now! Fetch the stepladder, pronto!’

The last time Mr Poole had tried, in an ecstasy of frustration, to deal with the wayward signage himself, he had ended up dangling from the art nouveau ironwork extending over the balcony. Jack threw up the window, and leant out.

‘Mr Poole! Hold hard! Let me come and have a look.’

He bounced down the stairs and by the time he reached the pavement, Marcus had positioned the ladder under the I , and was waiting for him with an expression of wide-eyed respect on his sharp little face that Jack was beginning to think was satirical.

‘Right then, you hold the bottom, Marcus,’ Jack said, and looked up. The chilly wind which ruffled his blond hair smelt of damp coal, then around the corner came a young man, a suitcase in his hand, wearing a shabby coat and a rather battered fedora. Jack turned and found the man gazing at him with frank curiosity – the sort of frank curiosity which seems to necessitate some sort of response.

‘Our I is gone,’ Jack said, waving upwards.

The young man approached. He was clean-shaven, and looked to be about Jack’s own age, with very dark eyes, pale skin and a slightly sunken look. He smiled, and the sudden warmth it gave to his features made Jack blink. The man set down his suitcase on the pavement and looked upwards.

‘Would you like me to take a look?’

Jack was dubious that this stranger could tangle with the strange complexities of the sign which had so befuddled Turnbull, the electrician, for years now, but Miss Chisholm had restored, to some degree, his faith in humanity.

‘Be my guest, Mr . . .’

‘Wells – I’m Dixon Wells,’ the young man said vaguely as he looked upwards, rubbing his hand over his chin. ‘Are you Jack Treadwell?’

‘Yes, I am,’ Jack supplied, and the young man abandoned his chin to shake his hand.

‘I saw your picture in the newspaper.’ He looked at Jack for a long moment, frowning, then seemed to shake himself out of his reverie. ‘I’ll need a spanner, and probably access to the area behind the sign.’

‘Of course,’ Jack said. ‘But are you sure you know what you’re doing? It’s not a pleasant day to be scampering up ladders, either.’

‘Oh, yes. I know about wires and current at any rate. Generally, I’m a little bit more at sea.’ Dixon looked up at Jack with a searching gaze. ‘I don’t mind the cold, and I’d be very happy to help you.’

Jack knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, and the state of the sign couldn’t get a lot worse, so, with an admonition to Marcus to keep a close and solicitous eye on their new friend, he retreated out of the cold.

Jack didn’t want to go too far while the stranger guddled around in the electrics, so he bought a box of macaroons from the bakery and idled in the lobby, catching up with Poole and hearing about the achievements of his brood of daughters, then discoursing on the virtues of Miss Chisholm, whose mix of good sense and sass was making Jack’s days considerably brighter even as the evenings drew in. Their pleasant discussion was only occasionally interrupted by muffled banging coming from above their heads. Having an assistant who actually assisted was a revelation for Jack. He felt as if, after years of trial, he was becoming imbued with almost godlike powers. Every morning he arrived at The Empire and found a neat summary of his diary, calls he should make and ‘matters arising’ on his desk, correspondence to read and check – often with a suitable reply typed out and attached with a paper clip to the original.

The feeling he had had for the last two years – of being constantly on the back foot while vaguely aware there was something absolutely crucial he had forgotten – lifted, and he felt as if he were floating. There was time to think. Time to be inspired.

The staff of The Empire, both front of house and backstage, had also embraced Miss Chisholm, but were slightly afraid of her, as were the theatre’s suppliers. It was a marvel. Rather than making Mrs Briggs rely on the new plunger, Miss Chisholm had discovered the name of the original plumbers, and an insurance policy on the works which resulted in the stalls smelling sweeter than summer meadows without causing further damage to the bank account.

Jack and Mr Poole had hardly began to rehearse the many wonders of Miss Chisholm when they were interrupted by the reappearance of Dixon Wells.

‘The I is working,’ he announced.

‘That’s marvellous, Mr Wells,’ Jack said, and introduced the two men, but Mr Poole smiled with world-weary sadness.

‘Indeed, Mr Wells,’ he said. ‘I do appreciate your efforts, but I’m afraid your success will be short-lived. The minute the I is back on, the M goes. It’s a hellish cycle.’

Dixon removed his damp and shabby hat, and held it in front of his chest. ‘No, no, I think it should be good now. The original wiring was rather bodged, I’m afraid. A pigeon looking at it funny would have been enough to set something off, but it’s happy now.’ He sounded apologetic. ‘If you want to try it out, you can step out on the pavement and check. I can flick the sign on and off a few times.’

Jack and Mr Poole exchanged glances, then skirted the ticket booth and stepped out onto the pavement together, as suggested. They stared up at the sign, and Jack gave Mr Poole the nod.

‘On!’ he called.

The sign flickered into life – complete, constant, and somehow rather brighter than it had ever been before. Mr Poole gasped.

‘Off!’ Jack said.

The sign blinked off.

‘Now is the real test,’ Poole said, his voice trembling with anticipation. ‘On!’

A moment of suspense, then the empire shone out in all its glory.

‘Oh!’ Mr Poole pressed his palms together, and Jack laughed. ‘Oh, my goodness! Off! On! Off! On!’

The sign obeyed. They hurried back into the lobby and took turns at shaking Mr Wells’s hand very hard.

‘You’re a miracle worker!’ Jack said. ‘A saint among men!’

‘Are you a Highbridge man?’ Mr Poole said eagerly. ‘I do not think I’ve seen you at the theatre, but you do seem a little familiar.’

Dixon scratched the back of his neck. ‘I’ve just arrived in Highbridge.’

His face went slightly pink. Jack had taken some time to settle back into life after the war, and wondered if this man was in a similar sort of position – though how he had washed up in Highbridge was a question for the Fates.

‘Are you in need of work, Mr Wells?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure Turnbull would give his right arm to have a man of your skills on his staff. Though I’m not sure we shouldn’t just hire you ourselves.’

‘I don’t need work, but I’ve always thought a job would be nice,’ Dixon said, and offered up that remarkable smile. ‘I’d like to spend some time here, if I may.’

Jack blinked, and he looked the man over again. The battered hat and coat suggested abject poverty, but perhaps they were, in fact, actually the strange shabbiness sometimes affected by those who were very wealthy indeed.

‘Then a job you shall have. Go over every wire in the place. Mr Poole will grant you access and introduce you to our lighting people.’

‘But first, Mr Wells,’ Mr Poole said, his voice heavy with emotion, ‘I insist on you having a macaroon.’

Jack went out once more to admire the glow of the sign in the hazy afternoon then returned to his office to find Miss Chisholm sorting through yet more piles of paper. Her concentrated efficiency gladdened his heart.

‘The sign is working,’ he declared.

‘How marvellous,’ she replied with genuine pleasure. ‘Did Mr Turnbull—?’

‘No, we’ve had another stroke of luck. An itinerant electrician has appeared like a fairy godmother, waved his spanner as a wand, and we’re all aglow. Appropriate with panto season almost upon us,’ he replied, tossing his hat and feeling a performer’s pleasure as it landed neatly on the prescribed hook. ‘His name is Dixon Wells.’

‘Where did he come from?’

‘Fairyland, obviously. I’ve told Mr Poole to let him loose on the whole building. You’ll see him about.’

He sat down on the chair in front of her desk and crossed his long legs.

‘Shall we have a run-through, Miss Chisholm?’ She nodded and picked up her pad. ‘ Ladies of Grasmere closes this week, then we have a show that’s having its pre-London try-out next week while the rehearsals for the panto get into gear, then we go dark to prepare for the show. Technical rehearsals and set building till Christmas Eve, then the first show will be on Boxing Day. By the way, Lillian will be having a party at Lassiter Court on Christmas Eve. Can you arrange for a charabanc to bring the cast and crew up from the theatre? I do hope you’ll be joining us as well.’

‘I should be delighted.’

‘And Stella Stanmore is staying with us. Seems there has been some sort of bother in London. We’d rather keep it out of the papers, so if anyone calls and enquires . . .’

‘The Empire has no comment on the whereabouts of our dear friend, and we join with all of the theatre world in mourning the tragic death of the young lady in question . . .?’

‘Exactly. So you’ve read the newspaper, then?’

‘Of course I have.’

The telephone rang and Jack watched with a sense of blissful ease as Miss Chisholm picked it up.

‘The Empire Theatre, Mr Treadwell’s office,’ she said, in a voice which exuded calm and efficiency. Then a tiny frown appeared between her brows. ‘I’m sorry, you have lost whom? Of course I know who that is – he’s due to start rehearsals for the panto next week.’