By then the leading lady’s understudy was back with rouge, lipstick and a handglass.
‘This is all there’s time for. Thank goodness you’ve long, dark eyelashes.’
She put the rouge on for me, then held the glass while I did my lips. Brice Marton had the iron door open again, listening.
‘Come on, now,’ he said, and held the door for me.
‘All the luck in the world,’ said the leading lady’s understudy.
There was still a minute or two before my entrance. Brice Marton stood with me, and to my surprise, put his arm round my shoulders. I said, ‘Poor Mr Crossway, I suppose he doesn’t know what’s going to happen.’
‘There’s no way of letting him. But you can count on him. He’s always wonderful in any emergency. If you forget your lines he’ll cover up for you until you hear the prompt.’
‘I’m not going to forget them. I’ve wanted to play this part ever since I came to that audition – remember? And I’ve played it in my mind dozens of times.’
‘Concentrate, now. Your cue’s coming. Good luck.’
I walked on through the arch. The lights were far more brilliant than at the audition or than any I had faced in amateur theatricals, and the auditorium was not merely dark; it seemed to me utterly black. And the blackness was alive with whispers. I knew that all over the theatre people must be saying to each other that I was a different girl, an understudy. The thought of the audience was so distracting that every word of the part vanished from my mind and I had a moment of absolute panic. Then Mr Crossway smiled at me and spoke. I answered – and instantly felt supremely confident. But confident is too calm a word. Standing in the wings I had felt excited (never nervous). Now the excitement had become elation. I was experiencing, for the first time in my life, something near to pure joy.
At the back of my mind I remembered Mr Crossway had said the part must not be funny, and I did not try to be funny. But soon the audience showed a tendency to laugh – and the laughs came in places where I thought they ought to come. I found this so intoxicating that I could not resist trying for any laugh I could get. And feeling a certain line warranted it, I put in a little pirouette which the audience loved – someone actually clapped. Then I got a laugh when I did not try for it. I had to say to Mr Crossway, ‘But can’t you see that we’re perfectly matched?’ As we were standing close together and the top of my head was barely level with his chest, we couldn’t have been less well matched, and the audience certainly got the point.
However, I didn’t think it mattered and it led to what I thought was a valuable idea. We were now nearing my big speech, in which I would implore Mr Crossway to leave his faithless wife for me. I had every intention of delivering this most seriously, and I could see I should be at a disadvantage if I had to look up at him – or, alternatively, talk to his chest. Brice Marton had said the speech was now spoken from further upstage, which might help me a bit, but surely it would be unprofessional to upstage Mr Crossway? I thought about this while he made a fairly long speech. How far up dare I go?
And then I noticed a conveniently placed footstool. If I stood on that, I thought, my head would be level with Mr Crossway’s and I need not go upstage at all. And it seemed to me quite in character to use a footstool, if one was a small girl trying to make an impression on a tall man.
The first line of my long speech was: ‘Now you listen to me.’ Should I say it before I got on the footstool or after? Before, I decided. My cue came. I said the line and jumped on the stool. Unfortunately I had miscalculated and it raised me some inches higher than Mr Crossway. The audience gave quite a howl of delight. I waited for the laugh to die and then held up my finger at Mr Crossway, as if lecturing a child – this winning idea just came to me. The audience gave another happy howl. I was afraid it would not fully quieten down for my speech so I said loudly, ‘Please, please, listen!’ – to Mr Crossway, of course, but it did quieten the audience. I then said the speech with intense feeling.
Its end was the leading lady’s cue to come out on a staircase in time to see an embrace. Realising that embracing would be difficult while I was on the footstool I jumped down, which must have given the impression that I was pouncing on Mr Crossway. The happy audience laughed again, all the time the leading lady was coming downstairs. I then had to say to her: ‘Oh, don’t think I’m sorry! You should take better care of your property.’ The tall girl always said this coldly and walked off with dignity. It seemed more in character, for me, to speak mischievously; so I did, and went off to an enthusiastic round of applause. To this day I remain convinced that the audience adored me.
I rather expected people would be in the wings, waiting to congratulate me, but nobody was. Then Brice Marton came from the prompt corner, where he had stood with Tom during my scene. He said, ‘Bravo! Got to see if the doctor’s come,’ as he passed me. Well, at least he had said ‘Bravo!’
Knowing I should have to go on for the curtain call I stayed, listening to the last scene of the play. The faithless wife had to show her intention of reforming; the husband pretended he had never known she was faithless, merely thought her indiscreet. She had to realise he was pretending but see she must accept the pretence. And she had to win back the sympathy she had lost earlier. The husband helped her by pointing out how happy she had made him in spite of her ‘indiscretions’. Mr Crossway and his leading lady played the scene very quietly. On the first night, and whenever I had watched through the spy-hole, I had noticed how completely the audience was held.
Tonight, after only a few minutes, I knew something was wrong. There was a slight laugh on a line not meant to be funny. Soon after, the leading lady had to refer to me as ‘that humour less beanpole of a girl’. This got a really loud laugh. Then things went on all right for a while, except that Mr Crossway played more forcefully than usual, which made the scene seem less real. Just before the end the leading lady had to refer to me again, by saying: ‘She was something of a surprise.’ The audience then laughed its head off.
By the time the curtain fell, the whole cast was waiting for the call. A nice old character-actor took me on with him and put me in the right place; then brought me off. While Mr Crossway and his leading lady went on taking calls, the actress who played Aunt Caroline whispered to me, ‘I hear you got through splendidly, not a single prompt.’ The old actor said, ‘Most remarkable. And what a pretty dress!’ Then they talked about the girl who had fainted; she was believed to have acute appendicitis and had been taken to a hospital. ‘Dreadful, dreadful,’ said the old actor. ‘But you saw us through, my dear.’ And other people came and congratulated me.
Then the curtain fell for the last time and I heard the leading lady shout ‘Rex!’ in a tone of outrage. Everyone near me moved quickly away except Aunt Caroline, who said, ‘Come and sit in my dressing-room, dear,’ and hastily steered me off the stage – but not before I had heard the leading lady say: ‘How in God’s name did it happen? Who let that little oddity loose on us?’
I knew it was no use trying to speak to Mr Crossway until the leading lady had finished complaining, so I went with Aunt Caroline, who told me, in considerable detail, about an occasion in her own youth when she played some large part at a moment’s notice. I listened for about five minutes and then said I must go to the office. Actually, I went straight back to the stage.
Already most of the lights had been turned off. I wondered if Mr Crossway had gone back to his dressing-room. Then I heard him and also heard Brice Marton. They were quite close to me but hidden by the backing to the archway, and they were beginning a really furious row, using words I had never heard before. It took me several seconds to realise these must be bad language. I remember thinking they sounded idiotic.
The gist of the row was that Mr Crossway was angry because I had been allowed to play. Asked if he would have preferred to have the part read by a middle-aged woman in tweeds and spectacles, he said the occasion shouldn’t have arisen. It was a stage manager’s job to have a reli
able understudy ready. Brice Marton pointed out that he had asked permission to engage an additional understudy, who would have ‘double-covered’ for the understudy who was away. He had not been allowed to. And by the grace of God there had been a reliable understudy ready, who was word perfect and beautifully dressed – and how was he to know the effect I would have on the audience? This conversation took some time, mainly because the bad language held things up so.
At last Brice Marton said: ‘Well, what happens tomorrow?’
‘The understudy plays, of course – you say you’re sure she’ll be back. And you find yourself a safe cover for her. Why consult me about understudies? You know I’ve got a kink about paying them. From now on, engage them on your own. And never again speak to me as you’ve spoken tonight.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t guarantee not to,’ said Brice Marton. ‘So I shall take it that you’ll release me from my contract.’
‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ said Mr Crossway.
They came out from behind the backing – and saw me. Mr Crossway said, ‘Oh, my God! What am I to say to this child?’
‘You might start by thanking her for keeping your curtain up,’ said Brice Marton. ‘I’m going to.’
‘No, leave it to me,’ said Mr Crossway.
He put his arm round my shoulders and took me off the stage to his dressing-room. Here he pushed me into an armchair and told me to wait while his dresser helped him to change. They went into a part of the room that was curtained off; and in a few minutes came out again, Mr Crossway now in a dressing-gown. He told the dresser that would be all for tonight; and as soon as the door closed behind the man, turned a chair to face me and sat looking at me with a helpless kind of expression. Then he smiled and said:
‘Brice is right, of course. I should start by thanking you and I do. And I can honestly tell you that I admire your courage and your quite astounding confidence. Also, you look very nice; I’d no idea you could look so pretty. But – well, surely with your intelligence, you must know it was a dreadful thing to do?’
‘You mean, to get laughs? I didn’t try to. But once they started it seemed best to … to develop the characterisation that suited my personality.’
‘What a marvellous phrase! The truth is that you’re still dead sure you’re in the right, aren’t you?’
‘Not right for the play. I realise now that I spoilt the end of it. But I was right for me. I felt right. Though I can see I made mistakes. I shouldn’t have jumped on that footstool. But if I could have a lower stool—’
‘Good God, do you think I shall ever let you loose in that part again?’
I raised my voice protestingly. ‘But you can’t judge me by tonight. I haven’t had one rehearsal. I’ll do exactly what you tell me.’
He said he doubted that. ‘And even if you did, it would make no difference. You’re incurably comic – it’s partly due to your tinyness; tinyness combined with cock-sureness is always funny. Were you, as a child, taken to many music halls?’
‘Certainly not. I don’t like music halls.’
‘All the same, you have a single-turn mentality. You might conceivably make a success in Variety.’
‘Like Little Tich, no doubt,’ I said indignantly.
He laughed. ‘Exactly. I shall call you Tich from now on. No, you’re not a grotesque. You’re more like the first-turn soubrettes who come on swinging their stiff skirts. And in my grandfather’s day you might have done well in melodrama what was called a singing chamber-maid.’
‘Do you mean I’m old-fashioned?’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’ He got up and mopped his forehead where the perspiration was coming through his greasepaint; then sat down facing me again. ‘Now try to under stand that I shouldn’t say this to you if I didn’t like you very much and want to help you. What you did tonight simply wasn’t acting, in a professional sense of the word. It was … charades, a child pretending to “be” someone, at best a kind of reciting. And don’t imagine I’m judging you only by tonight. I could have told you all this after you crashed into that audition and gave me your one-woman performance of The School for Scandal. My dear, delightful, highly intelligent child, you cannot act and I don’t believe you’ll ever be able to – not in a way that’s acceptable in a present-day West End production.’
Not one word of this was I going to accept. ‘But the audience liked me,’ I told him doggedly. ‘I could feel they did.’
‘They also like performing seals. Besides, audiences don’t work things out. You were just a gallant little understudy in a pretty dress who was giving everyone a good laugh. And at what a cost! I seriously doubt if my leading lady will play tomorrow.’
For a moment I felt contrite. ‘And I’ve lost you a good stage manager.’
‘Brice? Oh, that will all blow over. I shall apologise.’
‘You will?’
‘Of course. I was in the wrong. And I’d grovel to Brice rather than lose him – for quite a number of reasons.’
It astonished me that he should feel like that about a mere stage manager, and such a young one. I said, ‘You’re a very un-grand man, aren’t you – for such a great actor?’
‘How nice of you to pay me such a double compliment, and when I’ve been so cruel to you. But I do sincerely want to save you from bitter disappointment, which I swear will come your way if you don’t give up this idea of acting. Couldn’t you settle down in the office? Eve Lester feels a real affection for you – just as I do. And you were a real help at rehearsals, not to mention a constant source of amusement, which is worth untold gold to me during a time of strain. I positively long for my next production with you sitting beside me.’
I said I couldn’t think why he found me funny.
‘Neither can I, really, which makes it all the funnier. But I don’t think you’re funny now and I’m desperately sorry if I’ve hurt you. And remember, I could be wrong about your acting.’
‘You are wrong,’ I said fiercely.
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I adore you for saying that. Now come and sit beside me while I take my make-up off and then I’ll drive you home.’
I moved to a chair by his dressing-table and watched him cover his face with thick white grease. I had, of course, been distressed by what he said about my acting but the distress had not lasted. I now felt cheerful; in fact, very much more than cheerful. I genuinely did not believe him; also I was still buoyed up by the exhilaration of facing an audience. But there was more to it than that. Ever since he had mentioned the rehearsals I had become conscious of a great contentment and a most pleasurable feeling of physical well-being. And as I sat watching him, I remembered that I had never felt … somehow right since rehearsals ended. I had put this down to the loss of interest, the loss of being connected with the play. Now I knew that, far more, I had felt the loss of being with him.
He towelled his face; then, noticing he had not taken off his toupee, said he ought to have done that first. ‘Now I’ve got grease on it. Well, here goes. You can watch me grow older.’
I said, ‘Did you ever see a play called Lady Frederick?’
‘Yes, I saw the original production, the year Maugham had three plays running together. But I doubt if you were born then. Surely you don’t know the play?’
‘I saw it done by amateurs. Watching you made me think of the scene where Lady Frederick gets her young admirer to watch her put her make-up on, to disillusion him.’
‘And I’m taking my make-up off – that’s the acme of disillusion.’
‘Only it seems to work in reverse. I’ve just discovered how much I love you.’
He gave me a startled look; then laughed, but not quite naturally.
I said, ‘That wasn’t a joke.’
‘I had a hideous suspicion it might not be. How exactly like you! Oh, not to fall in love with me – that’s unlike your intelligent self – but to break the glad tidings to me without an instant’s reflection.’
‘I gather you
don’t find them glad tidings.’
‘How can I, when they’re liable to mean unhappiness for you? And do you think I want my valued little friend turned into a mooning schoolgirl?’
I said, ‘I won’t moon. And I won’t even mention it again if you don’t want me to. And I certainly won’t be unhappy. I’m getting happier and happier every minute.’
‘Good God! Come here.’ He stretched out his hand and pulled me towards him. ‘Now stand behind me and look in the glass. You’re a child – and you look a real child, not a girl of eighteen. And I’m a middle-aged man. You can’t be in love with a man who looks like I do at this moment.’
I said seriously, ‘You do look your worst, don’t you? Your face is still so greasy. But it makes no difference to me, particularly as I’ve never admired your looks.’
‘You haven’t?’ He sounded a trifle surprised.
‘Oh, I did when you played Charles Surface. But I was horribly disillusioned when I met you in the flesh.’
We were still staring not at our real selves but at our reflections in the glass. I saw his lips twitch. Then he said, ‘Don’t make me laugh now. Just listen. I’m a hopelessly susceptible man, also very fond of you. If you persist in this foolishness, no doubt I shall succumb and make love to you – only very limited love, I trust, but even that will be enough to spoil our friendship when I come to my senses, as I quickly shall. Now will you make a real effort to cure yourself? And let’s not see each other alone for at least a month.’
The only part of this speech that interested me was the bit that told me I could get him to make love to me. I went down on my knees beside his chair and butted my head against his chest. He said quietly, ‘Well, I gather this is your answer. I might have known I was wasting my first effort to resist temptation. What thick soft hair you have! Most women’s hair, nowadays, is as stiffly waved as corrugated iron. And I’m glad you don’t shave your neck. The nape of a woman’s neck is not a place one cares to find bristles.’