Champagne Charlie and the Amazing Gladys

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Theatrical drama – an ultimatum – Michael’s tale – turnabout – the wand

The door to Gladys’s little dressing room swung open. Mr Sminkins, the Imperial’s owner/manager popped his bald head in.

“Bloody hell!” Gladys shouted. “Don’t knock, will you! Waste of bloody time, knocking. I might have been in the nuddy, but don’t bloody knock.”

Sminkins dismissed her objection wish a wave of the hand. “You’ve nothing I’ve not seen before. Where’s that Welsh prat?”

“Fetching our breakfast.”

“You’re a bloody liar,” Sminkins said. “I told him I wanted to see both of you this morning, and he’s crawled into another bottle. That’s the second time this week, and don’t tell me it isn’t. I told him I wanted to talk at ten o’clock. It’s five to ten, now. If he’s not here at ten sharp, he’s fired.”

“You can’t do that,” Gladys said.

“Can’t I? I believe I can. I believe I can, by God, and what’s more, I believe I will!”

Sminkins took a moment to master himself. He tried to run a hand through his hair, but his fingers met nothing but the smooth skin of his scalp. He flinched in surprise. He had been bald for longer than Gladys had known him, yet he never seemed to remember his baldness. It always came as a shock.

“Gladys, love, I like you,” he said. “I was friends with your old dad—God rest him—before he left for Sydney. I even like that old reprobate Gruffydd, to a point. But this is business. I have children to feed. A choice between performers I like and performers that are reliable is no choice at all.”

“Mr Sminkins,” Gladys began. Her tone was ingratiating, but that just angered the impresario.

“Don’t beg, Gladys,” he said. You never used to beg when it was just you, solo. It’s that so-and-so you work for that makes you do it. Don’t let him drag you down.”

“All right,” Gladys said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. “A last chance, then. As a favour.”

“Ten minutes,” Sminkins said. “I want to speak to Gruffydd within the next ten minutes. If he does not present himself, sober and correct, then he can pack up and sod off. And good luck to him in finding a job in any hall south of the Mersey.”

He slammed the door as he left. There was no clock in the room, but Gladys didn’t need one. Might as well start packing now, for all the chance of Gruffydd coming. She sighed and started folding her costumes. What now? What now?

A few minutes later, there came a polite knock. It was Michael, worry written all over his pale features.

“Have you no seen Mr Pritchard?” he asked.

“You call him Mr Pritchard?” Gladys asked. Michael’s blush returned, and she rolled her eyes. “Never mind. He wasn’t with you?”

“He was supposed to meet me after the show last night, but…”

Gladys sank into a chair.

“Do ye think he’s all right?” Michael asked.

“I dunno. I’ll have to look around the hospitals and police stations. See what they know. For now, I have to talk a man into letting us keep our jobs.”

“Hospitals! Police!”

Gladys patted his shoulder. “You’ve a soft heart, ain’t you?” she asked. “How did you get into your line of work?”

“‘Tis no much of a story,” Michael said. “I’m a sign painter by trade. Journeyman. I was offered a position in London and I spent my savings on the trip. I was no here for long when my employer went bankrupt and I could no find another position. Another fellow in my lodging house knew some men, who paid him… It… Ah, it’s no the best job, but it’s no the worst, and it keeps a roof above my head.”

“Well, that’s what matters. How old are you?”

“Seventeen, miss.”

“Liar.”

“Twenty,” he admitted. “Some gentlemen pay more if you tell them you’re younger.”

“Well I bloody don’t.”

The door opened again, sweeping Michael into a corner between the wall and the dressing table.

“That’s ten minutes,” Mr Sminkins said, inching through the doorway. “Well?”

“I can take Gruffydd’s place,” Gladys said. “‘Til we find him and get him off the grog. I can’t do the apport myself without a trained partner, but I can do the other tricks as well as Gruffydd.”

“Gladys, you could do them better,” Sminkins said with a sad shake of his head. “But it won’t do, love. There’s rules. You know the crowd won’t go for a woman magician! Let alone one who drops her aitches doesn’t know her me-s from her my-s. Magicians have to be posh, or else foreign—and no, Australia does not count as foreign. Nothing magic about New South bloody Wales. I’ve some space in the cellar where you can stow your gear for now, but I’m taking you off the bill.”

Turning to go, Sminkins finally noticed Michael, his slender form wedged haplessly behind the door. “Who’s this? One of Gruffydd’s fancies?”

Michael began to answer, but Gladys cut him off. “He’s Michael, from Scotland. He’s a sign writer, by trade.”

Sminkins closed the door and let Michael breathe, casting a searching glance over the lad as he did so. “It happens we need a scenery painter. Reckon you can manage?”

“Aye, I reckon,” Michael said. “How’s the pay?”

“I always like talking to Scots,” Sminkins said. “All business! Ten bob a week to start. Do a good job and maybe we can stretch to twelve. Can you start today?”

Michael turned, beaming, to Gladys. His face fell a little. “Ah, no, I’ve some, ah, some matters that need winding up,” he said. “How’s tomorrow?”

“Done. Tomorrow, first thing. Bring your kit,” Sminkins said, shaking Michael’s hand. “There, all settled in a minute flat! If I only ever had to do business with Scots, I fancy I’d still have my hair.”

He exited, leaving Gladys and Michael in a dressing room that smelled of greasepaint, gin, and rabbits.

Gladys was never one for despair. It cost too much. It was a luxury for those who could afford it. She resolved not to look at the situation as a disaster, but as a series of immediate practical problems. Where to start? Sminkins was probably telling the truth about storing the equipment, so she didn’t have to waste any more time packing.

“Police stations and hospitals,” Gladys said. “We’ll start here and spiral outward.” Michael nodded. He seemed to have gotten over his initial shock. Perhaps his new job had buoyed his spirits.

At the door to the room, she stopped in her tracks. How could she be so foolish? Gladys went to the dressing table. Gruffydd had the key to the table’s drawers, so she had to spring the lock with a nail file. Inside was a pile of oddments—half-decks of cards, tangled strings of flags, broken mechanisms awaiting repair. Atop the pile was the wand. Gladys transferred it to her handbag.

“Now we can get going,” she said.

Michael did not ask why she had stopped, or the significance of the wand. But then, Gladys thought, in his former career, he had probably learned not to ask too many questions.