Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A s far as Jack could tell, rehearsals for the pantomime were going well. Wilbur Bowman had done a nice article for the Gazette – ‘Grace Treadwell steps in to save the day’ – and Grace herself was coming home every evening looking happy and distracted. Jack was still dealing with the transformation in his own life Mis Chisholm had brought about. In an indecently short period of time, he had gone from being exceptionally busy – constantly dashing from one crisis to another – to having leisure to think. He was now in danger of getting bored.

He sought out Lillian in her office and they talked about the sorts of shows they wanted to see at The Empire in the coming year; then, pleased to find they were very much in agreement, they talked about the new productions in London and their favourite mutual topic – the brilliance of Grace.

‘You were right, Lillian,’ Jack conceded. ‘She’s doing a brilliant job. And she’s so much happier than when she was writing the play.’ His mother, elegant as ever behind her desk, with its neat pile of plays and basket of correspondence, only smiled, but looked pleased. Jack realised he owed her a more grand and extravagant gesture of thanks. He offered the best gift he could by adding, ‘And I understand Nikolai has been helpful.’

‘I’m very glad,’ she said, and Jack could tell she was. Lillian was a superb actress, but there was a certain gleam in her eye which only appeared when she was sincere. ‘You know, he thinks almost as highly of Grace as we do.’

That was certainly a point in Nikolai’s favour.

Lillian returned to her play and papers and, his hands in his pockets, Jack wandered the corridors, dreaming, until it occurred to him he hadn’t seen anything of Dixon Wells for some time. He enquired of Little Sam, and was told Dixon had been provided with a cupboard next to the carpentry shop below the auditorium, and was apparently very happy there.

As Jack approached the half-open door, he could hear Dixon whispering to himself, accompanied by the little metallic clicks Jack had come to associate with delicate tools and the mercurial power of the electron.

He knocked on the door and Dixon looked round guiltily. He had made himself quite at home. His disreputable coat hung on the back of the door and a leather roll of tools was laid out in front of him. He appeared to be in the process of rewiring a small lamp from the prompt box.

‘Jack! I’ve been meaning to come and ask you about setting up in here. I’m not in the way, am I?’

‘Not at all, Dixon. You seem very comfortable. Where are you sleeping?’

When Jack first arrived at The Empire, he had used a camp bed in the lobby, which was now Danny’s domain. He couldn’t really criticise, then, if Dixon had found a place to sleep in the theatre itself, but he had a vague idea it shouldn’t be encouraged.

‘At the Metropole,’ Dixon replied.’ Jack’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I should get a room in a boarding house, I suppose, but the Metropole is very convenient.’

Jack blinked. Dixon was moving in a rather odd fashion, leaning over the desk in an exaggerated way that made Jack think he was hiding something.

‘What’s that behind you, Dixon?’

Dixon, not very casually, propped up a copy of the newspaper behind him and stretched in the most obviously fake yawn Jack had ever seen. ‘Oh, nothing.’

Jack raised his eyebrows and, while Dixon looked increasingly miserable, leant over and plucked away the paper. It was hiding a small wooden box which had been lined with straw and a thick square of tartan cloth, not unlike Ollie’s old blanket.

‘What on earth?’ Then Jack noticed, on a small tray next to the box, a tub of cold cream.

‘Dixon! What is the meaning of this?’

‘Meaning of what? The cold air of the season can dry one’s skin terribly, you know.’

Jack was not convinced.

‘Dixon Wells, you are harbouring Harry! You are giving succour to the enemy!’

‘Harry’s a very nice rat,’ Dixon replied stoutly. ‘And I bought the cold cream myself.’

Jack wondered if he should be firm, but there was something about the way Dixon was sticking out his chin which made Jack feel oddly fond of him.

‘As long as Harry behaves himself, I suppose . . .’ He leant up against the table, which was scattered with all manner of lengths and spirals of copper and mysterious coils. ‘Dixon, it’s jolly having you here, but I should know a little more about you. How come you ended up in Highbridge? You must be a man of means if you can stay at the Metropole.’

Dixon stared at the table top. ‘My father controls all my money. He says I’m not fit to look after it.’ He glanced up quickly at Jack, then picked up one of the tiny screwdrivers from his roll of tools and twisted it round his fingers. ‘But I’ve saved a lot from my allowance. I’m not causing any trouble, am I?’

‘My dear chap, you’re doing the most fantastic work. Things that flickered have given a steady light. What was too bright has subtly dimmed, what was turgid now sparkles. There’s no question that we’re very glad to have you, but we really should be paying you . . .’

Dixon’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, I don’t want to be paid , Jack. I’ve been having such fun. Ruben on the lighting is a very nice man, and Mr Poole keeps giving me macaroons.’

A man resistant to be being paid for his labour was somewhat out of Jack’s experience. He cast around for an explanation. ‘Are you a fan of the theatre?’

Dixon moved some of the coils around on his desk. ‘Yes . . . well, to a degree. I like music very much. I’ve even designed some of my own microphones, you know, for gramophone records. The theatre’s a bit . . . too much for me on occasion, but I enjoy being down here.’

Jack studied the man. The theatre did attract all sorts: people of talent and ambition, like Lillian; people who were born or adopted into it, like Grace; people who stumbled in and fell in love with the whole business, like Jack himself. Then there were the occasional waifs and strays who couldn’t find their place in the world in general, or found they were living at an odd angle to their peers, who found a snug gap somewhere between all the make-believe, grand personalities, stress and drama, and were suddenly completely at home.

Jack certainly didn’t want to drive Dixon away, and something about the way he had made himself comfortable and bonded with Mr Poole, Ruben – and even Harry the rat – made him feel oddly protective.

‘As long as you’re happy, Dixon.’

‘I am. I saw your picture,’ Dixon went on. ‘In the newspaper with Lady Lassiter and Nikolai. I thought you looked kind.’

Could that be all it was? Jack wondered.

Dixon glanced back up at him again with that peculiar smile.

‘And you take in all sorts here, don’t you?’ Dixon went on as if he had heard Jack’s own thoughts. ‘There’s Danny and me, and that man who sits in the upper circle in old-fashioned clothes. Well, I’ve only seen him once, yesterday, but he looked very at home.’

Jack straightened up at once. ‘Did he have a sort of floppy cravat on? And a surprisingly long nose?’

Dixon nodded, then blinked in surprise as Jack whooped and punched the air. ‘Dixon, that’s marvellous news. That’s the theatre ghost. The pantomime will be a hit. I’ll just go and tell Grace and the cast. And remember, it’s the Christmas Eve party at Lassiter Court tomorrow. Do join the charabanc and come along.’

Dixon nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

Jack strolled out and wound his way up staircases and along corridors to the stage, to share the joyous news of the ghost’s appearance with Grace and the cast.