Page 16 of The Songbird of Wychwood

Oscar puffed on his pipe between sips of cider.

“How are things shaping up with this month’s edition?” he asked.

“It’s rather slow this month. I’m still awaiting Forbes, and Jessop to send in their essays. They’re both two weeks past their deadlines.”

“Bloody amateurs,” Oscar barked derisively. “If you’re caught between a rock and a hard place, I’m currently working on the account of my visit to the Ethnological Society and their talk about the discoveries in the Roman ruins of Wroxeter. It’s quite fascinating.” He paused to puff on his pipe. “They recovered skulls that they believe, by the shape of the crania, pre-date the Romans and Celts who once lived on the land. I have the bones of the article…pun intended,” he snickered, “and if you’d like to bring the publication date for it forward to this month’s journal, I can finish it next week.”

“I’ve given Forbes and Jessop until Monday to submit their work and if they miss that deadline then I’ll consider the alternatives. An ethnological essay would fit nicely,” I mused.

Henry spoke up then. “Ah yes, I attended that dig in Wroxeter for a couple of days. If memory serves I have several illustrations of the skulls in situ that will be suitable to accompany the piece.”

I nodded in consideration. “Now, enough about work, we’re here to celebrate Edwards final nights of freedom.” I stood up, “A toast!” I declared, and there were murmurs of agreement from tables of Harcourt staff. It was then I realized I had no idea of Edwards’ fiancés name. Simmons and Edwards were sitting at another table with a group of mole-like bespectacled law colleagues.

“I say, Oliver,” I called. The timid fellow turned then leaned closer to my table. I whispered into his ear, “I don’t suppose you know the name of Edwards intended?”

“It’s Mabel, sir. Mabel Atkins.”

I stood then, “A toast, gentlemen, to our Jonty Edwards, who marries the beautiful Mabel Atkins on Sunday. All at Harcourt Press wish you the greatest of happiness. To the happy couple!” I raised my glass.

“The happy couple!” our party parroted; their pints of beer held aloft. Edwards looked rather embarrassed by the attention, which was the whole point of a boy’s night out before marriage! We remained at the Dog and Duck for one more round and then Simmons organized three carriages to take us into Covent Garden.

****

The Middlesex Music Hall on Drury Lane was a popular theater attended by all classes. There was a bar, and supper was on offer for sixpence each. We arrived early enough to get two of the large round tables on the ground floor with a decent view of the stage for our party. The chamber orchestra of eight musicians began to play and the music elevated my mood. The show was due to begin at 8 p.m. It was now 7:30 p.m. so I purchased a playbill from one of the serving girls to see who would be appearing tonight. There were comedians, singers, a troupe of Can-Can dancers from Paris, a contortionist, a juggler, and a magician.

My friends Henry Latimer and Oscar Rhodes sat either side of me while our other colleagues formed their own cliques of workmates. The beer flowed and platters of bread, meats, and cheeses were delivered for both tables and both of my chums were in high spirits.

“I say old boy,” Rhodes said puffing on his pipe. “I’m rather intrigued by the fact you’ve invited us to socialize with law clerks as we’ve never done so before.”

“Yes, what gives? Does a Harcourt actually have a heart?” Latimer agreed.

“Ha ha,” I mocked. I gripped my beer flagon and took a gulp, and then I spoke for the ears of my friends only. “You know full-well that the legal fellows keep themselves to themselves. In all honesty, I’d felt sorry for the fellow as there weren’t many takers at first. It was my duty to ensure Edwards had a good night.”

What I didn’t say was that I’d also needed a night out too. I feared I was losing myself to obsession. In the two weeks since meeting Miss Georgette the muse came to me at the most inopportune times. I kept a notebook in my pocket filled with poems of love and longing. I’d never felt so inspired in my whole life. But in following the muse I’d also become rather detached from my social circle. The friends with whom I would usually attend recitals each week were unhappy with me for begging off. I didn’t know how long the muse would be with me, and so I’d sought to take full advantage. Mother believed me to be a busy man about town, following my same social routines, and yet I’d secretly remained out of the house and my club because I’d gone to Regents Park, or to the British library, or to a tea room where I could sit in peace with my vision of Miss Georgette and write to her.

****

The first three performers were a comedian, a juggler, and magician who were entertaining enough. By the fourth act the crowd was well and truly warmed up. I was feeling relaxed, surrounded by music, colour and good friends with a flagon of beer at hand. The oily proprietor a Mr. Alfred Grayson stepped on stage to introduce the next act.

“Now my lovelies, are you ‘avin’ a good time?” he called, his booming voice quieting the rabble. The patrons roared back a resounding ‘Yes’.

“We’ll I’m glad to hear it, cos have we got a treat for you!” The crowd roared. “Our next act is one of our brave boys who’s just come back from the war. So please give a warm round of applause for…Captain Rimmer!”

The orchestra struck up a military tune as a soldier in full uniform marched on to the stage. The crowd applauded and whooped, as if they were familiar with this act. The soldier had a short brown beard and wore a dashing red tailcoat uniform with a white sword sash and a high neck collar. Shiny brass buttons glinted in the limelight, and gold fringed epaulettes swayed as he marched. His blue pillbox hat had a white pom-pom, and his navy trousers bore a military red stripe. He marched around the stage as if it was the parade ground, and he made for a striking sight with his, between you and I, rather lovely arse. Things were looking up! I clapped and hollered along with the boisterous audience.

The music stopped and Captain Rimmer stood to attention in the center of the stage where he saluted. He spoke in a cultured resonant voice and told a fanciful and, honestly, quite filthy story of his experiences as a soldier, which had the patrons howling. Then he told a tale of his old Brigadier father and the advice he gave to him on joining up. Captain Rimmer then launched into a song. It began as a sober story of an elderly Brigadier on his deathbed, the subject drawing the punters in, and when he sang the chorus, like the rest of the crowd, I teared up with laughter, because the innuendos in the lyrics were oh so clever.

My curiosity piqued, I stood up. My colleagues were far too engaged with the performance to notice me leaving. I strode through the smoky low-lit auditorium and down a side aisle to get a closer look at this Captain Rimmer. He had a fine figure and he mimed lewd gestures with his song that seemed familiar, as did the voice, which was rich and resonated in the auditorium, accompanied by the orchestra. The audience seemed to adore him and they sang along each time he reached the chorus.

Always look after your Privates

And your Privates will look out for you.

Each man starts at the bottom,

And though that is rotten,

Keep going and we’ll pull you through!