“Then why don’t we go and find somewhere with a roof garden or a terrace, and have a quiet dinner together?”
“I’d like that,” said Jane.
“I’ll call Helen and tell her I’m not coming back…”
“In that case…” She stood up. “I shall go and have a shower and change. I shan’t be long.”
“There isn’t any hurry.”
“Make yourself at home … get yourself another drink. There are cigarettes here, and an evening paper somewhere if you care to look for it…”
She went up the stair. He heard her moving about, high heels tapping on the polished floor. She sang under her breath, slightly out of tune. He put down his glass and went into her living-room, and ran her telephone to earth at last, beneath a bundle of flowered chintzes, and called Helen to say he would not be home for dinner. Then he went back to pour the third drink of the evening, and loosened his tie, and flopped once more on the sofa.
The whisky had revived him slightly, and beneath its clean cold bite, his tiredness had changed from end-of-the-day fatigue to a pleasant lassitude. The paper protruded from beneath a cushion, and he pulled it out, and then saw that it was not the Evening Standard, but The Stage.
“Jane.”
“Hello!”
“I didn’t know you took The Stage.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, it’s here.”
“Is it?” She didn’t sound particularly interested. “Dinah Burnett must have left it behind. You know, she’s the actress who needs the bulldozer.”
He opened it aimlessly. “Wanted. One All Round Girl Dancer.” Why does she have to be all round? Why can’t she be all square?
Search me.
He turned to the Repertory page. They were doing Shakespeare at Birmingham, a restoration revival at Manchester, and at Brookford, staging the premiere of a new play …
Brookford.
The name leapt at him from the page like a bullet. Brookford. He sat up, slapped the paper into shape, and read the whole item.
Brookford Rep’s summer season opens this week with the world premiere of Daisies on the Grass, a comedy in three acts by local writer Phyllis Jason. This light but well-knit play stars actress Charmian Vaughan in the lead role of Stella. Other parts are supplementary, but John Rigger, Sophie Lambart and Christopher Ferris all help to bring the mirthful suspense to its climax, and Sara Rutherford is charmingly natural as the bride. Tommy Childers’ production is fast and furious, and the set, by scenic artist Brian Dare, evoked a spontaneous applause from the enthusiastic first-night audience.
Christopher Ferris.
He laid the paper carefully down, and reached for a cigarette, and lit it. Christopher Ferris. He had forgotten Christopher.
But now, out of a jumble of memories, he heard Emma’s voice again, that first day, when he had given her lunch at Marcello’s.
Did you know about Christopher? Quite by chance Christopher and I met up again in Paris. And he came this very morning and saw me off at Le Bourget.
And he remembered—facing her across the table—being suddenly wise, and knowing the reason for her smile and the bloom of her skin and the brightness of her eyes.
And later, in the draughty studio at Porthkerris, the subject of Christopher had, fleetingly, come up again, sandwiched between other more important items of discussion. “He’ll be at Brookford by now,” Emma had said. “In the thick of rehearsals.”
He stood up and went to the foot of the stairs.
“Jane.”
“Hello!”
“How nearly ready are you?”
“I’m just doing my face.”
“Where’s Brookford?”
“In Surrey.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“Brookford? Oh, about forty-five, fifty minutes.”
He glanced at his watch. “If we leave right away, or as near as we can … we shouldn’t be too late.”
Jane appeared at the head of the stairs, with a mirror in one hand and an eyeliner brush in the other.
“Late for what?”
“We’re going to the theatre.”
“I thought we were going out for dinner.”
“Later, perhaps we will. But first we’re going to Brookford, to see a well-knit comedy called Daisies on the Grass …”
“Have you gone out of your mind?”
“… By local writer Phyllis Jason.”
“You have gone out of your mind.”
“I’ll explain on the way down. Be a darling and hurry.”
As they roared down the M.4 Jane said, “You mean that nobody knows about this young man except you.”
“Emma didn’t tell Ben, because he’d never liked Christopher anyway—Helen says he was jealous of the boy.”
“And Emma didn’t tell Marcus Bernstein.”
“I don’t think so.”
“But she told you.”
“Yes, she told me. She told me that very first day. And why the devil I didn’t think of him before I cannot imagine.”
“Is she in love with him?”
“I wouldn’t know. She’s certainly very fond of him.”
“Do you think we’ll find her at Brookford?”
“If we don’t, then I’ll bet even money that Christopher Ferris will know where she is.” Jane did not reply. After a little, he added, his eyes still fixed on the speeding road, “I’m sorry about this. I promised the subject wasn’t to be raised again, and here I am whisking you off to the wilds of darkest Surrey.”
“Why,” asked Jane, “are you so anxious to find Emma?”
“Because of Marcus. I should like to set Marcus’ mind at rest.”
“I see.”
“Because if Marcus’ mind is at rest, then Helen will relax and life will be a great deal more comfortable for all of us.”
“Well, that’s fair enough … Look, I think we should turn off here.”
The Brookford Repertory Theatre took some finding. They cruised up and down the High Street, then asked directions from a tired-looking policeman in shirt sleeves. He sent them a half a mile from the centre of town, and, off a back street, up a cul-de-sac, they found the large brick edifice, looking more like a Mission hall than anything else, but the word THEATRE written above the door in neon letters, deadened by the hot evening light.
Outside, by the pavement, were parked a couple of cars, and alongside them, with their feet in the gutter, sat two small girls playing with a broken perambulator.
There were posters.
WORLD PREMIERE
DAISIES ON THE GRASS
by PHYLLIS JASON
A comedy in Three Acts
Produced by
TOMMY CHILDERS
Jane stood, taking in this unauspicious façade. “So much for the living theatre.”
Robert put his hand under her elbow … “Come along now.”
They went up a flight of stone steps, and into a small foyer, with a cigarette kiosk on one side, and a box office on the other. In the box office a girl sat knitting.
“I’m afraid the show’s started,” she said, as Robert and Jane appeared on the other side of the glass.
“Yes, we thought it would have. But we’ll have a couple of tickets anyway.”
“What price?”
“Oh … well—stalls.”
“That’s fifteen shillings, please. But you’ll have to wait till the second act.”
“Is there anywhere we could get a drink?”
“The bar’s upstairs.”
“Thank you very much.” He took the tickets and his change. “I expect you know all the people who work here.”
“Well, yes…”
“Christopher Ferris…”
“Oh, is he a friend of yours?”
“Well, a friend of a friend. The thing is, I wondered if he has his sister here … at least, she’s his step-sister. Emma Litton.”
“Emma’s working here.”
“She’s working here.
In the theatre?”
“That’s right. As A.S.M.—Assistant Stage Manager. Our last girl suddenly went off ill with an appendix, and Emma said she’d come and help out. Of course,” her voice became professional … “Mr. Childers usually likes someone in the job who’s had a bit of stage training, you know, RADA, or a bit of experience somewhere, so that they double up in small parts. But as she was here, and didn’t have anything to do, he let her have the job. Just until the regular girl’s better.”
“I see. Do you think we’d be able to see her?”
“Well, after the show, yes. But Mr. Childers won’t have anyone back stage until it’s over.”
“That’s all right. We can wait. Thank you very much.”
“Not at all. It’s a pleasure.”
* * *
They went upstairs to a second, larger foyer with a bar in the corner, and sat there, drinking lager and talking to the barman until a light spatter of applause announced the end of the first act. The lights went up, the doors opened, and a small stream of people emerged for refreshment. Jane and Robert waited until the first curtain bell, and then went into the auditorium themselves, buying a couple of programmes on their way, and being shown to their seats by an eager young girl in a nylon overall. Attendance that night was certainly sparse, and Jane and Robert were the only two people sitting in the third row. Jane looked about her with a professional eye.
“I think it was once a mission hall,” she decided. “Nobody would have built anything so ugly as a theatre. But I must say, they have done it up quite imaginatively, and the lighting and the colours are good. What a shame they don’t get better audiences…”
The curtain at last went up on the second act. “The lounge hall of Mrs. Edbury’s house in Gloucestershire” said the programme note, and there it was, complete with french windows, staircase, settee, table with drinks, table with telephone, low table with magazines (for leading lady to pick up and idly flick through in moments when she did not know what to do with her hands?) and three doors.
“Draughty house,” murmured Jane.
“It’s better when they shut the french windows.”
But the french window had to be open, for in bounced the ingénue (Sara Rutherford is charmingly natural as the bride), flung herself on the settee and burst into tears. Jane’s profile was alert with delighted disbelief. Robert settled more deeply into his seat.
It was a terrible play. Even if they had seen the first act, and so been able to unravel the tangled skein of the plot, it would still have been a terrible play. It bristled with clichés, with stock characters (there was even a comic charlady), with contrived exits and entrances, and with telephone calls. There were eight of these in the course of the second act alone.
When the curtain came down, Robert said, “Let’s go and have another drink. I could do with a double brandy after that.”
“I’m not going to move,” said Jane. “I’m not going to break the spell. I haven’t seen a play like this since I was seven. And the set makes me positively nostalgic. But there’s one thing, Robert, that sticks out like a sore thumb.”
“What’s that?”
“Christopher Ferris is very, very good…”
He was, too. When he had shambled on stage, as the vague young university student who was eventually to win the heroine from her stockbroker fiancé, Daisies on the Grass showed its first, faint spark of life. His lines were not better than anyone else’s, but his timing was impeccable, and he managed to make them funny or sad, or wryly charming. For the part he wore corduroys, a sagging sweater and horn-rimmed spectacles, but even these could not disguise his elegance and his good looks and the natural long-legged grace with which he moved.
“… and he’s not merely very good, he’s very attractive,” Jane went on. “I can see why his step-sister was so pleased to bump into him again in Paris. I wouldn’t mind bumping into him myself.”
The third act had the same set, but now it was night. Blue moonlight shone through the open window, and down the stairs came the little bride, carrying a suitcase, tiptoeing, all ready to run away or elope or whatever it was she’d spent the last hour in deciding to do. Robert couldn’t remember. He was waiting for Christopher to come back on stage. When he did, Robert simply watched him the entire time, detachedly, absorbed and full of admiration. By now, he had the audience, small as it was, in the palm of his hand. As Robert watched, so they watched. Christopher scratched the back of his head and they laughed. He took off his spectacles to kiss the girl, and they laughed again. He put them back on to say good-bye for ever, and there was silence, and then people began to blow their noses. And when it was all over, and the cast lined up for the curtain call, the applause was long, and real, and it was all for Christopher.
“What do we do now?” asked Jane.
“It’s not closing time for another ten minutes. Let’s go and find a drink.”
They went back to the bar. The barman said, “Well, how did you enjoy the show, sir?”
“Well, I don’t know … I…”
Jane was braver. “We thought it was terrible,” she said, but quite politely. “And I’ve fallen in love with Christopher Ferris.”
The barman grinned. “Quite something, isn’t he? Pity you had to come to-night, when the audience was so thin on the ground as it were. Mr. Childers did hope, Miss Jason being local and all that jazz, that this play would bring them in. But you can’t fight a heat wave.”
“Do you usually have good houses?” Jane wanted to know.
“They go up and down. Now, last show we did was Present Laughter … that fairly filled the place up.”
“It’s a good play,” said Robert.
“What part did Christopher Ferris have?” asked Jane.
“Now, let me see. Oh, I know, he was the young playwright. You know, the one that bounces round on the chairs and eats biscuits. Ronald Maule he’s called in the play. Oh, very funny, Christopher Ferris was in that part. Brought the house down, he did…” Wiping away at his tumblers, he glanced up at the clock. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to drink up, sir … closing time…”
“Yes, of course. By the way, how do we get back stage? We want to see Emma Litton.”
“You can just go down the auditorium, sir, go through the door at the right of the stage. But watch out for Mr. Collins the Stage Manager. He doesn’t exactly relish visitors.”
“Thanks,” said Robert. “And good-night.”
They went back into the theatre. The curtains had been drawn back, and the stage was revealed once more, but without footlights the set looked less inspiring than ever. On stage a young boy was struggling with the sofa, trying to heave it to one side, and someone, somewhere had left a door open, so that the whole theatre was swept with a stuffy draught of used-up air. The programme girl was going round, slapping up the empty seats and collecting empty chocolate boxes and cigarette cartons in a trash can.
“There is nothing,” said Jane, “so depressing as an empty theatre.”
They started to walk down towards the stage. As they approached, Robert realised that it was not a boy who struggled, single-handed with the heavy sofa, but a girl, dressed in an old blue sweater and jeans.
When he was close enough, he said, “I wonder if you can help me…?”
She turned to look at him, and Robert, with the shock of sheer disbelief, found himself face to face with Emma Litton.
8
After a second’s gaping silence, Emma stopped trying to move the sofa, and straightened up. He thought that she seemed much taller and thinner, the cold stage light was not flattering, her wrists hung like sticks from her rolled-up sleeves. But the worst thing was her hair. She had cut off her hair, and now her head seemed small and vulnerable, furred like the pelt of an animal.
There was the animal feel of watchfulness about her, too. A scarey look as though she waited for him to make the first move, to say the first word, before she knew which way to jump. He slid his hands into his poc
kets, in a deliberate attempt to both look and feel casual, and he said, “Hello, Emma.”
She gave the ghost of a smile. She said, “This sofa feels as though it’s been stuffed with lead and lost its castors in the process.”
“Isn’t there anyone who can help you?” He came forward to the edge of his side of the stage, so that he was looking up at her. “It looks very heavy.”
“Yes, there’ll be someone in a moment.” She did not seem to know what to do with her hands. She rubbed them on the seat of her jeans as though they were dirty, and then folded her arms. It was a curiously defensive movement, and made her shoulder-bones jut forward beneath the thin cotton of her shirt. “What are you doing here?”
“We came down to see Daisies in the Grass … We drove down from town. This is Jane Marshall. Jane, this is Emma.”
They smiled, nodded at each other, murmured how do you do? Emma turned back to Robert. “Did … did you know I was here?”
“No, but I knew Christopher was, and I thought you might be.”
“I’ve been working for a couple of weeks. It gives me something to do.”
Robert made no comment on this, and, perhaps disconcerted by his silence, Emma suddenly sat down on the sofa that she was meant to be shifting. Her hands hung listlessly between her knees. After a little, she said, “Did Marcus send you?”
“No. We just came to call. Make sure you’re all right…”
“I’m all right.”
“What time are you finished here…?”
“I’ll be about half-an-hour. I have to clear the stage for rehearsal to-morrow morning. Why?”
“I thought we might have all gone to some hotel or other, for a sandwich and a drink. Jane and I haven’t had any dinner…”
“Oh, how kind!” She did not sound enthusiastic. “Well … the thing is … that I usually leave something in the oven at the flat … a casserole or something. Johnny and Chris never eat anything otherwise. We’ll have to go back or it’ll burn.”
“Johnny?”
“Johnny Rigger. He was the fiancé. You know, the other man. He lives with Christo … and me.”
“I see.”
There was another silence. Emma, discomfited, struggled with her more hospitable instincts. “I would ask you to come back, if you’d like to, but there’s nothing but a few cans of beer…”