To enter into this silent house was to feel as if one surprised a poised and expectant presence. This air of suspense made itself felt to the occasional intruders: to the boy who from time to time came through from the office with telegrams for the dressing-rooms, to the girl from Florian’s and the young man from the wigmaker’s, and to the piano-tuner who, for an hour, twanged and hammered in the covered well. And to Martyn Tarne who, alone in the ironing-room, set about the final pressing of the dresses under her care.
The offices were already active and behind their sandblasted glass walls typewriters clattered and telephone bells rang incessantly. The blacked-out box-plan lay across Bob Grantley’s desk and stacked along the wall were rectangular parcels of programmes, fresh from the printer.
And at two o’clock the queues for the early doors began to form up in Carpet Street.
It was at two o’clock that Helena Hamilton, after an hour’s massage, went to bed. Her husband had telephoned, with a certain air of opulence which she had learnt to dread, that he would lunch at his club and return to their flat during the afternoon to rest.
In her darkened room she followed a practised routine and, relaxing one set of muscles after another, awaited sleep. This time, however, her self-discipline was unsuccessful. If only she could hear him come in it would be better: if only she could see into what sort of state he had got himself. She used all her formulae for repose but none of them worked. At three o’clock she was still awake and still miserably anxious.
It was no good trying to cheer herself up by telling over her rosary of romantic memories. Usually this was a successful exercise. She had conducted her affairs of the heart, she knew, with grace and civility. She had almost always managed to keep them on a level of enchantment. She had simply allowed them to occur with the inconsequence and charm of self-sown larkspurs in an otherwise correctly ordered border. They had hung out their gay little banners for a season and then been painlessly tweaked up. Except, perhaps, for Adam. With Adam, she remembered uneasily, it had been different. With Adam, so much her junior, it had been a more deeply-rooted affair. It had put an end, finally, to her living with Ben as his wife. It had made an enemy of Ben. And at once her thoughts were infested with worries about the contemporary scene at the theatre. ‘It’s such a muddle!’ she thought, ‘and I hate muddles.’ They had had nothing but trouble all through rehearsals. Ben fighting with everybody and jealous of Adam. The doctor bawling everybody out. And that wretchedly unhappy child Gay (who, God knew, would never be an actress as long as she lived) first pitchforked into the part by Ben and now almost bullied out of it by the doctor. And, last of all, Martyn Tarne.
She had touched the raw centre of her anxieties. Under any other conditions, she told herself, she would have welcomed the appearance out of a clear sky and, one had to face it, under very odd circumstances, of this little antipodean: this throw-back to some forebear that she and Adam were supposed to have in common. Helena would have been inclined to like Martyn for the resemblance instead of feeling so uncomfortably disturbed by it. Of course she accepted Adam’s explanation but at the same time she thought it rather naïve of him to believe that the girl had actually kept away from the theatre because she didn’t want to make capital out of the relationship. That, Helena thought, turning restlessly on her bed, was really too simple of Adam. Moreover he had stirred up the already exacerbated nerves of the company by giving this girl the understudy without, until last night, making public the relationship.
There she went, thinking about last night’s scene: John Rutherford demanding that even at this stage Martyn should play the part, Gay imploring Adam to release her, Ben saying he would walk out on the show if Gay went, and Adam…Adam had done the right thing of course. He had come down strongly with one of his rare thrusts of anger and reduced them to complete silence. He had then described the circumstances of Martyn’s arrival at the theatre and had added in a voice of ice that there was and could be no question of any change in the cast. He finished his notes and left the theatre, followed by Jacko.
This had been the signal for an extremely messy row in which everybody seemed to come to light with some deep-seated grudge. Ben had quarrelled almost simultaneously with Parry Percival (on the score of technique), with Dr Rutherford (on the score of casting), with his niece (on the score of humanity) and, unexpectedly, with J. G. Darcey (on the score of Ben bullying Gay). Percival had responded to a witticism of the doctor’s by a stream of shrill invective which astonished everybody, himself included, and Gay had knitted the whole scene into a major climax by having a fit of hysterics from which she was restored with brutal efficiency by Dr Rutherford himself.
The party had then broken up. J.G. sustained his new role of knightly concern by taking Gay home. Parry Percival left in a recrudescence of fury occasioned by the doctor flinging after him a composite Shakespearian epithet (‘Get you gone, you dwarf; your minimus of hind’ring knot-grass made; you bead, you acorn’). She herself had retired into the wings. The stage-staff had already disappeared. The doctor and Ben finding themselves in undisputed possession of the stage had squared up to each with the resolution of all-in wrestlers and she, being desperately tired, had taken the car home and asked their man to return to the theatre for her husband. When she woke late in the morning she was told he had already gone out.
‘I wish,’ a voice cried out in her mind, ‘I wish to God he’d never come back.’
And at that moment she heard him stumble heavily upstairs.
She expected him to go straight to his room and was dismayed when he came to a halt outside her door and, with a clumsy sound that might have been intended for a knock, opened it and came in. The smell of brandy and cigars came in with him and invaded the whole room. It was more than a year since that had happened.
He walked uncertainly to the foot of the bed and leant on it—and she was frightened of him.
‘Hallo,’ he said.
‘What is it, Ben? I’m resting.’
‘I thought you might be interested. There’ll be no more nonsense from John about Gay.’
‘Good,’ she said.
‘He’s calmed down. I got him to see reason.’
‘He’s not so bad, really—old John.’
‘He’s had some good news from abroad. About the play.’
‘Translation rights?’
‘Something like that.’ He was smiling at her, uncertainly. ‘You look comfy,’ he said. ‘All tucked up.’
‘Why don’t you try and get some rest yourself?’ He leant over the foot of the bed and said something under his breath. ‘What?’ she said anxiously. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said it’s a pity Adam didn’t appear a hit sooner, isn’t it? I’m so extraneous.’
Her heart thumped like a fist inside her ribs. ‘Ben, please’ she said.
‘And another thing. Do you both imagine I don’t see through this dresser-cum-understudy racket? Darling, I don’t much enjoy playing the cuckold in your restoration comedy but I’m just bloody well furious when you so grossly underestimate my intelligence. When was it? On his New Zealand tour in 1930?’
‘What is this nonsense!’ she said breathlessly.
‘Sorry. How are you managing tonight? You and Adam?’
‘My dear Ben!’
‘I’ll tell you. You’re making shift with me for once in a blue moon. And I’m not talking about tonight.’
She recognized this scene. She had dreamt it many times. His face had advanced upon her while she lay inert with terror, as one does in a nightmare. For an infinitesimal moment she was visited by the hope that perhaps after all she had slept and if she could only scream, would awaken. But she couldn’t scream. She was quite helpless.
Adam Poole’s telephone rang at half-past four. He had gone late to rest and was awakened from a deep sleep. For a second or two he didn’t recognize her voice and she spoke so disjointedly that even when he was broad awake he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
&n
bsp; ‘What is it?’ he said: ‘Ella, what’s the matter? I can’t hear you.’ Then she spoke more clearly and he understood.
At six o’clock the persons in the play began to move towards the theatre. In their lodgings and flats they bestirred themselves after their several fashions: to drink tea or black coffee, choke down pieces of bread and butter that tasted like sawdust, or swallow aspirin and alcohol. This was their zero hour: the hour of low vitality when the stimulus of the theatre and the last assault of nerves was yet to come. By a quarter past six they were all on their way. Their dressers were already in their rooms and Jacko prowled restlessly about the darkened stage. Dr John James Rutherford, clad in an evening-suit and a boiled shirt garnished with snuff, both of which dated from some distant period when he still attended the annual dinners of the BMA, plunged into the office and made such a nuisance of himself that Bob Grantley implored him to go away.
At twenty past six the taxi carrying Gay Gainsford and J. G. Darcey turned into Carpet Street. Darcey sat with his knees crossed elegantly and his hat perched on them. In the half light his head and profile looked like those of a much younger man.
‘It was sweet of you to call for me, J.G.,’ Gay said unevenly.
He smiled, without looking at her, and patted her hand. ‘I’m always petrified myself,’ he said, ‘on first nights.’
‘Are you? I suppose a true artiste must be.’
‘Ah, youth, youth!’ sighed J.G., a little stagily perhaps, but, if she hadn’t been too preoccupied to notice it, with a certain overtone of genuine nostalgia.
‘It’s worse than the usual first-night horrors for me,’ she said. ‘I’m just boxing on in a private hell of my own.’
‘My poor child.’
She turned a little towards him and leant her head into his shoulder. ‘Nice!’ she murmured and after a moment: ‘I’m so frightened of him, J.G.’
With the practised ease of a good actor, he slipped his arm round her. ‘I won’t have it,’ he said. ‘By God, I won’t! If he worries you again, author or no author—’
‘It’s not him,’ she said. ‘Not the doctor. Oh, I know he’s simply filthy to work with and he does fuss me dreadfully but it’s not the doctor really who’s responsible for all my misery.’
‘No? Who is then?’
‘Uncle Ben!’ She made a small wailing noise that was muffled by his coat. He bent his head attentively to listen. ‘J.G., I’m just plain terrified of Uncle Ben.’
Parry Percival always enjoyed his arrival at the theatre when there was a gallery queue to be penetrated. One raised one’s hat and said: ‘Pardon me. Thanks so much,’ to the gratified ladies. One heard them murmur one’s name. It was a heartening little fillip to one’s self-esteem.
On this occasion the stimulant didn’t work with its normal magic. He was too worried to relish it wholeheartedly.
Ben, he thought hotly, was insufferable. Every device by which a second-leading man could make a bit-part actor look foolish had been brought into play during rehearsals. Ben had upstaged him, had flurried him by introducing new business, had topped his lines and, even while he was seething with impotent fury, had reduced him to nervous giggles by looking sideways at him. It was the technique with which a schoolmaster could torture a small boy, and it revived in Parry hideous memories of his childhood.
Only partially restored by the evidence of prestige afforded by the gallery queue he walked down the stage-door alley and into the theatre. He was at once engulfed in its warmth and expectancy.
He passed into the dressing-room passage. Helena Hamilton’s door was half-open and the lights were on. He tapped, looked in and was greeted by the smell of greasepaint, powder, wet-white and flowers. The gas-fire groaned comfortably. Martyn, who was spreading towels, turned and found herself confronted by his deceptively boyish face.
‘Early at work?’ he fluted.
Martyn wished him good evening.
‘Helena not down yet?’
‘Not yet.’
He hung about the dressing-room, fingering photographs and eyeing Martyn.
‘I hear you come from Down Under,’ he said. ‘I nearly accepted an engagement to go out there last year but I didn’t really like the people so I turned it down. Adam played it in the year dot, I believe. Well, more years ago than he would care to remember, I dare say. Twenty, if we’re going to let our back hair down. Before you were born, I dare say.’
‘Yes,’ Martyn agreed. ‘Just before.’
Her answer appeared to give him extraordinary satisfaction. ‘Just before?’ he repeated. ‘Really?’ and Martyn thought: ‘I mustn’t let myself be worried by this.’
He seemed to hover on the edge of some further observation and pottered about the dressing-room examining the great mass of flowers. ‘I’ll swear,’ he said crossly, ‘those aren’t the roses I chose at Florian’s. Honestly that female’s an absolute menace.’
Martyn, seeing how miserable he looked, felt sorry for him. He muttered: ‘I do so abominate first nights,’ and she rejoined: ‘They are pretty ghastly, aren’t they?’ Because he seemed unable to take himself off, she added with an air of finality: ‘Anyway, may I wish you luck for this one?’
‘Sweet of you,’ he said. ‘I’ll need it. I’m the stooge of this piece. Well, thanks, anyway.’
He drifted into the passage, halted outside the open door of Poole’s dressing-room and greeted Bob Cringle. ‘Governor not down yet?’
‘We’re on our way, Mr Percival.’
Parry inclined his head and strolled into the room. He stood close to Bob leaning his back against the dressing-shelf, his legs elegantly crossed.
‘Our little stranger,’ he murmured, ‘seems to be new-brooming away next door.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Bob. ‘Settled in very nice.’
‘Strong resemblance,’ Parry said invitingly.
‘To the guvnor, sir?’ Bob rejoined cheerfully. ‘That’s right. Quite a coincidence.’
‘A coincidence!’ Parry echoed. ‘Well, not precisely, Bob. I understand there’s a distant relationship. It was mentioned for the first time last night. Which accounts for the set-up, one supposes. Tell me, Bob, have you ever before heard of a dresser doubling as understudy?’
‘Worked-out very convenient, hasn’t it, sir?’
‘Oh, very,’ said Parry discontentedly. ‘Look, Bob. You were with the governor on his New Zealand tour in ‘30, weren’t you?’
Bob said woodenly: ‘That’s correct, sir. ‘E was just a boy in them days. Might I trouble you to move, Mr Percival. I got my table to lay out.’
‘Oh, sorry. I’m in the way. As usual. Quite! Quite!’ He waved his hand and walked jauntily into the passage.
‘Good luck for tonight, sir,’ said Bob and shut the door after him. Parry moved on to J. G. Darcey’s room. He tapped, was answered, and went in. J.G. was already embarked on his make-up.
‘Bob,’ said Parry, ‘refused to be drawn.’
‘Good evening, dear boy. About what?’
‘Oh, you know. The New Zealand tour and so on.’
‘Did you see her?’
‘I happened to look in.’
‘What’s she like?’
Parry lit a cigarette. ‘As you have seen,’ he said, ‘she’s fantastically like him. Which is really the point at issue. But fantastically like.’
‘Can she give a show?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Parry. He leaned forward and hugged his knees boyishly. ‘Oh, yes indeed. Indeed she can, my dear J.G. You’d be surprised.’
J.G. made a noncommittal sound and went on with his make-up.
‘This morning,’ Parry continued, ‘the doctor was there. And Ben. Ben, quite obviously devoured with chagrin. I confess I couldn’t help rather gloating. As I remarked, it’s getting under his skin. Together, no doubt, with vast potations of brandy and soda.’
‘I hope to God he’s all right tonight.’
‘It appears that Gay was in the back of the house, poor thing,
while it was going on.’
‘She didn’t tell me that,’ J.G. said anxiously and, catching Parry’s sharpened glance, he added: ‘I didn’t really hear anything about it.’
‘It was a repetition of last night. Really, one feels quite dizzy. Gay rushed weeping to Adam and again implored him to let her throw in the part. The doctor, of course, was all for it. Adam was charming but Uncle Ben produced another temperament. He and the doctor left simultaneously in a silence more ominous, I assure you, than last night’s dog fight. Ben’s not down, yet.’
‘Not yet,’ J.G. said and repeated: ‘I hope to God he’s all right.’
For a moment the two men were united in a common anxiety. J.G. said: ‘Christ, I wish I didn’t get nervous on first nights.’
Clark Bennington’s dresser, a thin melancholy man, put him into his gown and hovered, expressionless, behind him. ‘I shan’t need you before the change,’ said Bennington. ‘See if you can help Mr Darcey.’
The man went out. Bennington knew he had guessed the reason for his dismissal. He wondered why he could never bring himself to have a drink in front of his dresser. After all there was nothing in taking a nip before the show. Adam, of course, chose to make a great thing of never touching it. And at the thought of Adam Poole he felt resentment and fear stir at the back of his mind. He got his flask out of his overcoat pocket and poured a stiff shot of brandy.
‘The thing to do,’ he told himself, ‘is to wipe this afternoon clean out. Forget it. Forget everything except my work.’ But he remembered, unexpectedly, the way, fifteen years ago, he used to prepare himself for a first night. He used to make a difficult and intensive approach to his initial entrance so that when he walked out on the stage he was already possessed by a life that had been created in the dressing-room. Took a lot of concentration: Stanislavsky and all that. Hard going: but in those days it had seemed worth the effort. Helena had encouraged him. He had a notion she and Adam still went in for it. But now he had mastered the easier way: the repeated mannerism, the trick of pause and the unexpected flattening of the voice: the technical box of tricks.