THE PALACE of WONDER by Jonny Magnanti & Jason Quinn
Total Page:16
File Type:pdf, Size:1020Kb
THE PALACE OF WONDER by Jonny Magnanti & Jason Quinn 31 Balgowan Road Beckenham BR3 4HJ Kent United Kingdom Tel: 0208 650 0215 Email: [email protected] [email protected] PAVING THE WAY TO GREATNESS Whitechapel, London. August 1888 Some said it was the worst street in London, but at least the rent was cheap in Dorset Street. That was the most important thing. The Palace of Wonder was neither a palace, nor wonderful, but Stan Garrideb always believed that from small acorns, oak trees grow. According to the sellers, this particular acorn had once been home to a rich dynasty of coffee merchants, but Stan didn't believe them. When he bought it, it was a doss house, filthy and crawling with vermin. He had ripped down walls, turning the warren of ground floor rooms into one large open space, with an office and two modern WC's, complete with running water. He had then installed a bar and a stage, and spent a fortune on new gas fittings. The lights could even be dimmed or raised depending on the effects needed. With the upstairs he had been even more ambitious, he had removed the floor and created a gallery, with a grand view of the stage and another bar. You don't open up a new business in a place like Dorset Street without making sure your doors are strong and your locks sound. It pays to be safe. Stan agreed with these sentiments but was just beginning to realise that security comes at a price; and the price at this moment was his bladder. He was bursting. Should he open up again? He'd never make it. Too many bloody locks. Putting the keys in his waistcoat pocket, he turned into the alley at the side of the Palace, and facing the wall unbuttoned his breeches. Lost in relief, he whistled softly as he urinated. Someone coughed behind him and he jumped, piss drenching the bottom of his trousers and splashing his shoes. He wheeled around, still pissing and choked back a cry of terror. 1 A giant loomed out of the shadows. Hairless, the head white and shiny as an egg, the eyes large and glittering. Was it a golem, sent by an unknown enemy, jealous of Stan's new business venture? Was he going to die with his jewels in his hand? How had he not seen the brute lurking in the shadows? "Mister Garrideb?" The giant spoke, his voice smooth as oysters and champagne. "Maybe." Stan was too wise to admit to anything unless he had to. The two men stared at each other in silence. At length the giant said gently, "I think you've finished now." Stan looked down and nodded. The stranger was right. He gave it a shake just to make sure and buttoned himself up. He swallowed. It wasn't a golem. It wasn't even a giant. It was just a big, fat, bald man. "If you are Mister Garrideb, I'd like a word, if I may. I won’t shake your hand though if that’s all the same to you." The man who wasn't a golem smiled. It was a pleasant smile. The smile of a child, or an idiot. Thunder rumbled not so far away. Stan looked up into the night sky. A single drop of rain landed on his forehead warm as sweat. "Make it quick." "I want to be in show business." Clutched in the fat man's hand was one of the circulars Stan had printed up. 'Acts Wanted For A New East End Music Hall,' it read. The sight of it sparked Stan's curiosity. Earlier in the week he had spent the day up West leaving them backstage at some of the more exclusive Music Halls and watering holes. In other words, no riff-raff or bob-tails to waste his time. So, the fat man wasn't a local. That much was in his favour. "So, what do you do, son? Juggle cakes?" 2 The fat man smiled again. His eyes seemed to apologise for his size. "No. Do people do that?" "Not in my theatre they don’t." "I sing." Stan began walking, composure regained. He'd heard enough. "I've singers comin' out my arse, son. I've got the Lambeth Lark, the Stepney Songbird, the Hackney Hummers and the Poplar Parrot. They've all got one thing in common too." The fat man raised his invisible eyebrows. "Titties. And I'm not talkin' about fat man's paps neither. I'm talking milk jugs. The public love 'em." Stan did a mime show with his hands to indicate the size and quality of the delights his singers had to offer. "But can they sing?" Stan began to wonder if the stranger really was simple. "Who cares?" "I can sing." "Good for you." Stan quickened his pace, watching his step, hopping over the steaming shit, and piss that flowed like wine. When would this storm come and wash all this filth away? The fat man didn't try to follow. "All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all..." Stan Garrideb stopped. It was like listening to an angel sing. He turned back to face the singer. He felt like Moses speaking with God. He wanted to say something profound and spiritual. 3 "You sound like a dolly. Yer not a dolly are yer?" "No, sir." "You sure?" Stan hoped the fat man wasn't a woman. He was a businessman but he had a heart. Bad enough to be fat and bald, but to be a fat bald woman who looked like a man. Could there be anything worse? "Hymns don't go down well in a music hall. Can yer do 'The Boy I Love Is Up In The Gallery'?" "I can do anything." "Prove it." "The boy I love is up in the gallery, The boy I love is looking now at me, There he is, can't you see, waving his handkerchief, As merry as a robin that sings on a tree." Stan was stunned. The boy had a voice alright. The best voice he had ever heard. It had the purity of a young girl. If you closed your eyes you'd fall in love with the singer. If you opened them, you'd run a mile. "Yer sound better than Marie Lloyd." "I know I do." "How d'yer do it?" "I just sing." "Yeh, but how d'yer manage ter sound like a girly?" "I'm a..." His voice so clear up until now became a whisper, drowned out by another rumble of thunder. "Eh?" 4 The singer's big hairless face had grown red and slick with sweat. He looked around to check they were alone. No such luck. A dollymop was walking up behind Stan. She looked at them and hurried past, not caring whether they wanted a good time or not. "Well?" said Stan. He was interested now. There were possibilities here. Endless possibilities. "I'm a eunuch." A flash of lightning charged the atmosphere. A dramatic gesture, orchestrated by mother nature to add weight to the fat man’s statement. "You're a gelding?" "Shhhh!" The fat man's fingers went to his lips. His eyes pleading, begging. "Yer've lost yer porker?" He shook his head. "No. It's the other... the other things." Stan shuddered. "Fancy a drink?" "That'd be nice." There was another rumble of thunder as they left Dorset Street. The rain was holding off though. Just the odd drop, warm and dirty. They didn't speak until they were inside Mrs. Evans' pub in Spitalfields. Stan wanted to talk but the subject matter was delicate. It would be better to wait and phrase his questions correctly. The pub was full of judies and their cash carriers. Mrs. Evans herself had quite a history and could usually be relied on to provide a clean service to gentlemen in need. "What'll you have?" asked Stan, taking his place at the bar. "Wine?" said the fat man. "You'll be lucky." Mrs. Evans gave them two glasses of gin and a friendly wink. "This'll give your tonsils a work-out," said Stan, raising his glass. 5 The fat man sipped it and tried not to grimace. It tasted like poison. "Mmm. Nice." "Yeh. Nectar. So, how'd it happen?" "What?" "Yer plums. How'd yer lose 'em? If yer don't mind me askin'?" There was no nice way of putting it. Thunder. This time huge, with a crack to it that shook the windows of the pub, rattling them dramatically. "My father." "Eh?” Stan had momentarily lost the thread of the conversation, distracted by the sudden downpour that had started in the street outside. He looked out of the windows at the people rushing for shelter and smiled. "At last." He turned his attention back to the fat man, "Sorry. Go on. Your old man?" "He's in the nut house now." "Thank fuck for that." The fat man pondered the justice of this and nodded. "Mmm. Probably the best place for him. Poor soul." "But why?" "He was a choir master and I was his star singer. The Sepulchre's Boys Choir. Maybe you've heard of us?" "No. Sorry. I'm Jewish." "Oh. No matter. Some of my best friends are Jewish." "Are they?" The fat man frowned. "No. I don't know any.