New Albion by Dwayne Brenna

blank expression on Mr. Wilton’s face intimated that Mr. Farquhar Pratt had just been talking about something far beyond his comprehension or that there was some other enormity which had disrupted his focus. “Why, your fee is three pounds per play. Your fee was in fact raised to three pounds a month ago, sir, and three pounds will continue to be your fee for the foreseeable future.”
    Pratty’s face was that of a pale grey bulldog. “The pantomime, as you have maintained, is a veritable pot of gold. I see no reason why I, as stock playwright for this theatre, should not share in the wealth produced. In addition to that,” Mr. Farquhar Pratt added, with a withering glance at Mr. Tyrone, “I now have the responsibility of educating my asinine friend here.”
    The apprentice leaned forward in his chair. “What’s he mean by tha?” he inquired. “Is it a good thing he’s accusin me of?” He eyed Pratty as a stray dog eyes a rabbit.
    “Pay no attention to that,” said Mr. Wilton, waving his hand dismissively.
    Mr. Tyrone stood up quickly. “Is this sally old bastard insultin me now?”
    “Pay no heed,” Mr. Wilton fairly shouted. “Mr. Farquhar Pratt, are you now attempting to renegotiate your contract?”
    “I am.”
    “And what terms do you seek?” Mr. Wilton’s voice was low and steady.
    “Five pounds for the pantomime.”
    I could see the veins bulge in Mr. Wilton’s forehead. “Five pounds?” was his incredulous response. “That is highway robbery, sir.”
    “And,” said Mr. Farquhar Pratt, his spine still cracking straight, “the playwright shall retain sole rights to the piece.”
    “Sole rights?” repeated Mr. Wilton, as if he, and not Pratty, were the laudanum-zombie. “That is preposterous, sir, and it establishes a dangerous precedent. No theatre proprietor that I know of allows his stock playwright to retain the rights to commissioned plays.”
    “Well, you have my terms.” The old man slowly revolved in the office doorway as if to take his leave yet again.
    “Wait,” said Mr. Wilton, his face drained of blood. “You see that you have me over a barrel. I will accede to your demands. But,” he added, “I will ask that you maintain the schedule which Phillips has set down for you.”
    “I will have it in writing,” said Pratty.
    “Yes,” responded Mr. Wilton in a low voice, “you shall have a contract in writing by tomorrow morning at this time.”
    “Very good, then,” said Mr. Farquhar Pratt. With a disdain ful glance at the rest of us, he took his leave.
    There was silence in Mr. Wilton’s office for a full two minutes after Pratty’s departure. Finally, young Mr. Tyrone broke the tension. “You shouldna let that old bastard talk to you like tha, sar” he said to Mr. Wilton. “Say the word and I’ll break his arms for ya.”

* Chapter Six *
    Thursday, 17 October 1850
    Much gossip of late about Mr. Simpson’s runaway wife, Suzy. Nobody knows exactly where she is, but rumour has it that she and the wily Bancroft have made their way to Liverpool and, possibly, to Dublin. In the meantime, Fanny Hardwick and the Parisian Phenomenon have replaced Suzy Simpson in her customary roles.
    There have been no further recriminations between Mr. Hicks and Mr. Watts over the last three days, largely owing to the lucky circumstance that they did not again perform together in David Hunt until tonight. Neville Watts has been retiring to the Green Room after performances, and Mr. Hicks has quietly poured brandy down his throat moments before going on. George Simpson was standing in the wings with Mr. Watts tonight before the latter made his entrance, and they remarked between themselves how much under the influence of the bottle Mr. Hicks was. “If that man drops another cue-line tonight,” Neville Watts said to Mr. Simpson, “I will do more than politely shove him.”
    When Mr. Hicks forgot his first cue-line, Neville Watts could not hide his wrath. His face, assiduously made