Free Skylark by Jenny Pattrick

farce which followed. What was it? The King’s Gardener, or, Nipped in the Bud , I fancy. Not a great piece. Crude and rude. But popular with the mechanicals who made up the bulk of our audience. My task was to shake out Mrs Foley’s wardrobe, heat the flat-iron and smooth the worst of the wrinkles, bring her flask of ‘cordial’ to her in between acts, and perform whenever she was short.
    I should have hated it. I could have run away — or at least hopped! Truth to tell (once the pain in my ankle became bearable) I loved every madcap, rowdy, terrifying minute.
    The Royal Victoria in Willis Street was a large room behind the Ship Hotel. It had served on and off as a theatre for nearly a decade, and showed it: the paint peeling off the walls, the gas lamps lacking glass here and there, the benches and seats stained and chipped. But once a new backdrop was painted and the actors gaudily strode over the raised stage, all the drab was forgotten as the audience was transported to grand halls of England, bright Turkish tents or a leafy English countryside.
    Mr Marriott, who owned the theatre, was a marvel. What couldn’t that man do or make? He had built the theatre, ran a clock-making business, and acted the villain or the hero with enormous dash. He could recite whole scenes from Shakespeare without glancing at any book or calling for a prompt. He designed the billboards and had them printed, and often painted the flats. His English manor scenery was truly beautiful. It always received applause, even though he said he had painted it years ago. The two big flats ran together from each side of the stage to make a marvellous whole, and then drew back again in a trice — some mechanical magic that I could not fathom — to reveal a flat behind, painted most realistically to show all the finery of a duke’s grand parlour! That wonderful scenery transformed all on stage; suddenly we adopted all the airs and graces of lords and ladies. Oh, it was wonderful!
    In those days Mrs W.H. Foley was famous throughout the length and breadth of the country (and Australia and California too, if the lady herself were to be believed) but to my mind Mr Marriott deserved plaudits and bouquets just as numerous. His wife, they said, was back in England with several of his children, but that did not deter Mrs Foley from casting her eyes (and other parts of her anatomy) in his direction. She was a terrible woman for luring men away from their wives. For all that, Mr Marriott did not appear to fall for her wiles and she had to make do with one of the gentleman amateurs for escort.
    When the settlement of Wellington was still an infant, Mr Marriott had built this theatre, and persuaded people to come and enjoy themselves at a time when most minds were fixed on hammering nails, laying bricks and clearing bush. Mr Marriott had the foresight to see that ‘man cannot live by hard work alone’ (if I have got the saying correct).
    â€˜We all need the release of a good cry and a guffaw, not to mention a fright or two,’ he would say in his lovely golden voice. ‘We may be rough pioneers, set down in a wild and trying clime, but we are members of the human race all the same.’
    How true. A sentiment I have often repeated to Jack.
    After we’d been performing several weeks and I was able to walk after a fashion, Mrs Foley decided I must have a stage name. ‘Nothing too fussy,’ she boomed. ‘Short enough to fit on the programme.’ She studied me, pursed her lips, muttered to herself.
    â€˜My name is Lily,’ I offered, at which she frowned.
    â€˜No, no, no, we have a Lily. Rosie will suit. Miss Rosie Short.’
    And that was that. I hated the name, so ugly and dull. But in truth I didn’t often play under my stage name. In that first year I was dogsbody. Understudy to everyone. Whenever an amateur lady was indisposed with her monthly, or a pregnancy, I was charged with learning