They went into the foyer and sat in an alcove which faced the glass doors. Jill listened patiently but she knew from the outset what she was going to say. And the more Peter talked, the more sure was she that, though he was right in wanting to change his direction of the play, Miles was right in thinking the job could only be done by degrees, during the coming week.
Peter was saying, ‘How could I have been so fooled by that television performance? But wasn’t everybody? Didn’t you think Cyril – Doug – was brilliant?’
She said, ‘The trouble is, dear Peter, that you despise television. You won’t direct it and you hardly ever watch it, so when you do see good television you’ve no idea what makes it tick – or why it won’t tick the same way in the theatre.’
‘You’re telling me. The boy can’t even project his voice. He can’t be heard unless he shouts.’
‘He didn’t have to project it on television. He didn’t have to act, he just had to be. Still, he must at least have some imagination to be as good as he was.’
‘Go on, tell me he was better directed.’
‘He was directed by a television director, for television. The same director couldn’t get a stage performance out of him. Peter, darling, you know all this, really.’
He nodded glumly. ‘I also know the play stinks. As a rule, when one’s involved with a play, one digs deeper and gets to believe in it more and more. But I believe in this less and less.’
‘Have you never been wrong about plays you believed in?
He grinned. ‘Two of them closed in a week.’
‘Well, you may be equally wrong about this one.’
‘I doubt it. Have you tried summing the plot up, without trimmings? This is what you get: Into the lives of a childless married couple there erupts a boy who claims to be the illegitimate son of the husband by a dead mistress. He’s accepted and pampered – only to disclose that he’s an imposter, whose father was some other lover of his mother’s. She isn’t dead at all but has primed the kid with facts and documents, and she’s all set for a big scene in Act III. Could anything be more bogus?’
Jill laughed. ‘Well, put like that … But it’s not without interest, how a man reacts when he finds the son he’s come to care for isn’t his son. And the women’s parts are well written. How are the women?’
‘Pretty fair but nothing matters but Miles. He’s so good that he just might carry the play to success, but only if it’s treated as a vehicle for him, with the boy merely a supporting character.’
She said, with truth, that she agreed; and then proceeded to hand on Miles’s proposition as if it were her own, concluding by saying, ‘Look, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll leave things the way they are until after Monday night, I’ll persuade Miles to let you do what you want before the London opening. I’ll point out that you’ll be making various changes during the week, so Cyril won’t feel so specially insulted. And, honestly, Peter, the boy couldn’t cope with vast changes at the dress rehearsal.’
‘I only meant to change the end of Act II. He could cope with that on his head if he were a real professional.’
‘Well, he isn’t. And what he needs at tomorrow’s dress rehearsal is to be praised and encouraged and given confidence for Monday night. Anyway, is it a bargain?’
‘I suppose so, if you really will persuade Miles.’ He looked at her anxiously, his red eyebrows drawn together in a harassed frown.
‘I promise. And you’ll be specially nice to Cyril tomorrow? Oh, Peter, look!’
Through the glass doors of the foyer, a boy wearing grey flannel trousers and a striped blazer was to be seen. He was standing beyond the pillars of the portico and looking up at the theatre.
‘The soul’s awakening,’ said Peter. ‘That’s a new outfit – I suppose he thinks he looks like a boy from a good Prep school. Why can’t he dress like a normal teenager?’
‘Poor love, he isn’t a normal anything. I hope he sees his photograph – yes, he’s going to it. Come on, Peter, let’s start the good work. Encourage him.’
‘Oh, not tonight, Jill – please!’ But he let himself be steered through the foyer doors and said, pleasantly enough, ‘Hello, Doug.’
The boy turned quickly. ‘I’m not Doug yet, Mr Hesper – look, it says “Cyril Digby” under my photo and it’ll be on the programme here. And we can’t have my hair dyed this week, can we? Not with that fair photo here.’
‘Maybe not.’ Peter had switched on a charming smile. ‘Well see how the audiences here like you fair.’
Jill, who had met the boy on the train, always gave herself a dispensation regarding lies spoken to actors in need of encouragement. She said now, ‘I know you’re going to be splendid.’
‘I ought to be, to act with such a wonderful actor as Mr Quentin. And with such a wonderful director. Do you think I’ll be all right, Mr Hesper?’
‘Of course you will.’ Peter managed it fairly convincingly.
‘Honest, Mr Hesper? You had me worried this last week.’
‘Well, we often get worried towards the end of rehearsals. Now cut along and get a good night’s sleep. Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll be as good as you were on television.’
‘Came out all right there, didn’t I? Thank you for your faith in me, Mr Hesper. You know I’ll do just anything to please you, change my name, dye my hair – though I feel right, fair.’
‘Well, we’ll see. Now be in the theatre by one o’clock tomorrow and I’ll help you with your make-up.’
‘I got all the stuff you told me to.’ He turned to Jill. ‘You don’t have to do your own make-up on television.’
‘You’ll soon learn how to. Good night, Cyril.’
‘Good night, Doug,’ said Peter, firmly.
‘Good night, Mrs Quentin. Good night, Mr Hesper. Thanks ever so for cheering me up.’
Jill, as they went back into the foyer, said, ‘Don’t tell me that boy’s eighteen.’
‘He is. I’ve seen his birth certificate. It’s his dwarfishness that’s put me off him.’
‘But, Peter, his voice is young, too. He’s got an ugly accent, hasn’t he? Simply choked with glottal stop. But I suppose that’s good for the part.’
‘It would be, if he’d stick to it. He’s now starting to imitate Miles – oh, not all the time; just every now and then, when the fancy strikes him. I haven’t the heart to tell him the part’s that of a gutter-snipe and he just needs to be himself.’
‘I should hope not, poor kid. Come on, your sandwiches will have arrived.’
Back in the stalls, she reported to Miles. He thought she had done well and was particularly pleased that Peter had been kind to Cyril. ‘What with that and seeing his photograph displayed, he should be feeling much better.’
‘I found him more than a bit pathetic. Is anyone looking after him?’
‘No one has to, specially, as he isn’t a child, but I did make enquiries,’ said Miles. ‘He’s sharing rooms with his understudy who’s got his Mum with him. Cyril’s an orphan.’
‘Wouldn’t you guess it? Tell me he’s all alone in the world.’
‘No, I gather he lives with a brother. What he needs most is an agent. I was wondering if Tom Albion would take him on.’
‘Rather small beer for Tom, isn’t he? Look, Peter’s beginning to light.’
‘Let’s stay and watch for a bit.’
They stayed until the first act had been lit. Jill knew enough about lighting to enjoy watching it being done but by eleven-thirty she felt they ought to leave; with a dress rehearsal next day, Miles needed a long night. They congratulated Peter warmly, and sincerely, on some highly dramatic effects he had achieved, and then left him, a solitary figure, in the blue and white auditorium which contrasted so oddly with the unrealistic, unrealistically lit, set in front of him.
‘Is he going on all night?’ said Jill, as they made their way to the foyer.
‘If so, he’ll ruin the management with overtime. No one could call our Peter ec
onomical. But I do admire him.’
Outside there was a full moon. Jill said, ‘That’s a better effect than Peter will achieve with any amount of overtime. How lovely Spa Street looks. I’ve just remembered. Twelve years ago I went up to look at Queen’s Crescent by moonlight.’
‘Who with?’
‘No one. That’s why I went. I had an idea beauty might be soothing. Like hell it was. But when one’s miserable there’s something to be said for wallowing in it. And at least I’ve never forgotten how beautiful the Crescent looked.’
‘Is it far? Could we go now?’
‘As late as this? But it might be rather fun. It’s up at the back of the theatre. There’s a short cut up an enormous flight of steps. This way, I think.’
They found the steps a little further along Spa Street.
‘Well, they’ll help to keep my weight down,’ said Miles, looking up them. ‘There must be quite a hundred.’
‘But they’re not steep.’
Still, they were both of them a trifle breathless when they reached the top. Then they only had a little way to walk, mercifully over level ground, to the terrace.
‘It’s worth the climb,’ said Miles.
No light showed in any window. The houses, built of pale grey stone, looked almost white under the moon. In front of them, the expanse of grass that sloped towards the roofs of a lower terrace was bleached of colour. Far below, beyond Spa Street, was the open countryside.
‘Lucky the houses have their backs to the New Town,’ said Jill. ‘What, exactly, constitutes their beauty?’
‘I don’t know enough about architecture to say. Perhaps it’s partly due to their uniformity – and no one’s put in a fancy window or added a porch or an attic storey. And the curve of the Crescent is superb. I suppose it’s not as imposing as the Royal Crescent at Bath but I find it even more pleasing.’
Jill, peering, said, ‘There’s a row of bells at every front door. That must mean the houses are divided into flats now. Seems sad.’
‘Still, as long as they’re well taken care of, as they obviously are …’
‘I wonder which house Geoffrey Thornton’s grandmother lived in. Did you really like the Thorntons or do you want me to protect you from them?’
‘Oh, I liked them well enough. We might give the girls some little outing, a picnic or something.’
‘Not Thornton?’
‘I imagined he might be too busy with constituency work. But by all means give him the chance.’
‘We must see how the week works out. You’re bound to have a few rehearsals.’
‘More than a few, I’d say. Yes, I may not have much time.’
They were leaning, now, on the stone balustrade at the top of the grassy slope. She noticed that he was looking troubled – his face was so expressive that, when playing in films or television, he often had to school it into immobility to avoid giving the impression of overacting. She said, ‘Are you still worried about Peter’s behaviour to that boy?’
‘Not now. We can sort things out once Monday night’s over.’
But his expression remained clouded. After a few seconds she said, ‘Then what is worrying you?’
He smiled. ‘Read me like a book, can’t you? Jill, things have worked out for you, haven’t they? I mean … well, us.’
‘Miles, dear!’ She looked at him in blank astonishment. ‘Surely you know they have? What made you ask?’
He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Oh, perhaps it was seeing you in this place, imagining you as a girl here. I just wondered.’
‘Well, you can stop wondering. That girl who stood here twelve years ago couldn’t have believed such luck would come her way. Funny, I was thinking about that … well, something like that, this afternoon, walking along Spa Street.’
‘What did you think exactly?’
‘It added up to the fact that I’m contented. I am, indeed. And you, Miles?’
‘As if you didn’t know. I still say prayers every night simply so that I can thank God for you.’
‘Do you say prayers? I’ve never seen you.’
‘Well, I think them, before I fall asleep.’
‘Then you must think them jolly fast, seeing how quickly you can fall asleep. And it’s time you set about it. Come on.’
‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to going down those steps. Almost worse than coming up.’
‘We can go by the road. It’s longer but one can walk fast as it’s all down hill.’
When they were approaching the hotel, Miles said, ‘I suppose it’s too late to get any food. I could do with some, in spite of that solid dinner.’
‘Well, it’s five hours since you finished it. There’ll be a thermos of soup and some sandwiches in our room. I ordered them when I arranged about breakfast.’
‘Marvellous woman.’
When they eventually got to bed, Jill found she could see one of the pollarded chestnuts, silvered by moonlight; both she and Miles liked to sleep with the curtains drawn back. Then she remembered coming face to face with the lion. What colour would moonlight turn his gold? Other brief memories of her day came back to her: strolling along Spa Street, meeting Geoffrey Thornton – and then the theatre, young Cyril-Doug gazing at his photograph. How kind Miles had been about the boy! But when wasn’t Miles kind?
She looked across at his bed. He was already asleep. The room was light enough for her to see his face clearly. She had often thought that he did not really look like himself when asleep, any more than he did in a still photograph. In absolute repose his features were almost too classical to be interesting; it was his constantly changing expression, particularly the liveliness of his eyes, which gave them charm. She wondered if an Impressionist painting could capture some of that charm. But Impressionism, she believed, was out of fashion – and, anyway, Miles disliked the idea of being painted; he was the least vain actor she had ever known. Dear Miles! She remembered his troubled expression when he asked if things had worked out for her. Never before had he seemed in need of such assurance. Why now?
A possible explanation flickered in her mind – and no more than flickered, for she turned her thoughts away from it, both finding herself faintly distressed and knowing she had no right to be. The tiny unease dwindled. She slept.
Night of the Long Gloves
Guessing they would stay late at the theatre she had given instructions that they were not to be disturbed until ten. She woke some little while before that and had time to tidy her hair, put some make-up on, and awake Miles before their breakfasts arrived. He always woke unwillingly but, within seconds, would be smiling – at her and at the prospect of a new day.
This morning he remained relaxed until he had finished breakfast and taken a very cursory glance at a Sunday paper. Then he sprang up with a suddenness which almost brought disaster to his breakfast tray. She knew that from now on he would be mentally at the theatre – and physically, too, as soon as he could get there, and hours before his presence was needed. Nothing but the theatre would now exist for him until after the first night.
When he had gone into their bathroom she decided to find another, to use herself, partly to save time and also because she liked the idea of wandering about the old hotel. After walking some way along the wide corridor outside their room, she turned into a narrow passage, one wall of which had windows looking onto the hotel’s courtyard. Almost at once she came to a door open onto thin air. No steps led up to it and only an iron bar discouraged one from stepping into the courtyard some fifteen feet below. She stood looking down at the cobbles; then turned, on hearing a nearby door open.
Geoffrey Thornton was coming out of his room. He greeted her, then said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ went to the next door room, knocked on the door and called, ‘Hurry up, girls,’ then came back to Jill. She commented on the open door she was standing by and he told her it dated from the days when luggage from the bedrooms would be loaded through it onto the tops of stage coaches.
‘Fasc
inating,’ said Jill, gazing round the sunny courtyard.
‘If you’re looking for a bathroom there’s a gem on the next floor, with a huge porcelain bath surrounded by mahogany. Most of the bathrooms are new, or modernized.’ Church bells began to ring. ‘If my daughters don’t get a move on, we shall be late. It’s the done thing here to walk to church, so as not to litter the Close with cars; one’s entitled to park there but it’s highly unpopular with the residents.’
‘Vote-losing?’
‘Oh, not as bad as that. The inhabitants of the Close would vote Conservative even if the candidate was a double murderer.’
Out of their room came Robin and Kit, rather conspicuously holding Prayer Books. They greeted Jill enthusiastically and she remembered to wish Kit many happy returns of the day. Then Robin said, ‘Do we look all right? Meek enough for church but smart enough for church parade? I’ve forgone my white boots.’
‘Good,’ said Thornton. ‘I find those white boots a bit much.’
‘But they give Robin such confidence,’ said Kit. ‘I’m sure white boots have a psychological effect.’
Jill said, ‘An elderly actress once told me much the same thing. She was showing me a photograph of herself during the First World War, with white boots up to her knees, and she said, “My dear, when I’d me white boots on I could have kicked God’s throne from under him.” But perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that, especially when you’re on your way to church.’
‘We only go to church to help Father make a good impression,’ said Kit. ‘And none of us believe in a God who would have a throne. Anyway, it was a lovely remark. I didn’t know white boots had been in before. I must do some research.’
Robin said, ‘I think I can risk my white satin boots at the Civic Reception, don’t you, Mrs Quentin?’
‘Valuable as Mrs Quentin’s views on boots would be, we must now go,’ said Thornton. He steered his daughters along the passage, then called back to Jill, ‘Do try that vintage bathroom on the second floor.’