by Ngaio Marsh
Hambledon had already gone out into the little corridor, and Alleyn was in the doorway, when Carolyn stopped him.
“Mr. Alleyn!”
He turned back. There she was, still looking at him out of one eye, like some attractive, drowsy, but intelligent bird.
“Why didn’t Valerie want you to see the leather writing-folder?” asked Carolyn.
“I don’t know,” said Alleyn. “Do you?”
“I can make a damn’ good guess,” said Carolyn.
CHAPTER THREE
Off-Stage
THE DACRES COMPANY arrived at Middleton in time for breakfast. By ten o’clock the stage staff had taken possession of the Theatre Royal. To an actor on tour all theatres are very much alike. They may vary in size, in temperature, and in degree of comfort, but once the gas-jets are lit in the dressing-rooms, the grease-paints laid out in rows on the shelves, and the clothes hung up in sheets on the walls, all theatres are simply “theatre.” The playhouse is the focus-point of the company. As soon as an actor has “found a home,” and, if possible, enjoyed a rest, he goes down to the theatre and looks to his tools of trade. The stage-manager is there with his staff, cursing or praising the mechanical facilities behind the curtain. The familiar flats are trundled in, the working lights are on, the prompter’s table stands down by the footlights, and the sheeted stalls wait expectantly in the dark auditorium.
Soon the drone of the run-through-for-words begins. Mechanics peer from the flies and move, rubber-footed, about the stage. The theatre is alive, self-contained, and warm with preparation.
The Royal, at Middleton, was a largish playhouse. It seated a thousand, had a full stage and a conservative but adequate system of lighting and of overhead galleries, grid, and ropes. Ted Gascoigne, who was used to the West End, sniffed a little at the old-fashioned lighting. They had brought a special switchboard and the electrician morosely instructed employees of the local power-board in its mysteries.
At ten o’clock Carolyn and her company were all asleep or breakfasting in their hotels. Carolyn, Valerie Gaynes, Liversidge, Mason and Hambledon stayed at the Middleton, the most expensive of these drear establishments. For the rest of the company, the splendour of their lodgings was in exact ratio to the amount of their salaries, from Courtney Broadhead at The Commercial down to Tommy Biggs, the least of the staff, at “Mrs. Harbottle, Good Beds.”
George Mason, the manager, had not gone to bed. He had shaved, bathed, and changed his clothes, and by ten o’clock, uneasy with chronic dyspepsia, sat in the office at The Royal talking to the “advance,” a representative of the Australian firm under whose auspices the company was on tour.
“It’s going to be big, Mr. Mason,” said the advance. “We’re booked out downstairs, and only fifty seats left in the circle. There’s a queue for early-door tickets. I’m very very pleased.”
“Good enough,” said Mason. “Now listen.”
They talked. The telephone rang incessantly. Box-office officials came in, the local manager of the theatre, three slightly self-conscious reporters, and finally Mr. Alfred Meyer, carrying a cushion. This he placed on the swivel chair, and then cautiously lowered himself on to it.
“Well, Alf,” said Mason.
“’Morning, George,” said Mr. Meyer.
Mason introduced the Australian advance, who instantly seized Mr. Meyer’s hand in a grip of iron and shook it with enthusiasm.
“I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Meyer.”
“How do you do?” said Mr. Meyer. “Good news for us, I hope?”
The reporters made tentative hovering movements.
“These gentlemen are from the Press,” said Mason. ‘They’d like to have a little chat with you, Alf.”
Mr. Meyer rolled his eyes round and became professionally cordial.
“Oh, yes, yes,” he said, “certainly. Come over here, gentlemen, will you?”
The advance hurriedly placed three chairs in a semicircle close to Meyer, and joined Mason, who had withdrawn tactfully to the far end of the room.
The reporters cleared their throats and handled pads and pencils.
“Well now, what about it?” asked Mr. Meyer helpfully.
“Er,” said the oldest of the reporters, ‘just a few points that would interest our readers, Mr. Meyer.”
He spoke in a soft gruff voice with a slight accent. He seemed a very wholesome and innocent young man.
“Certainly,” said Mr. Meyer. “By God, this is a wonderful country of yours…”
The reporters wrote busily the outlines for an article which would presently appear under the headline: “Praise for New Zealand: An Enthusiastic Visitor.”
Two young men and a woman appeared in the office doorway. They were Australians who had travelled over to join the company for the second piece, and now reported for duty. Mason took them along to the stage-door, pointed out Gascoigne, who was in heated argument with the head mechanist, and left them to make themselves known.
The stock scene was being struck. The fluted columns and gilded walls of all stock scenes fell forward as softly as leaves, and were run off into the dock. An Adam drawing-room, painted by an artist, and in excellent condition, was shoved together like a gigantic house of cards and tightened at the corners. Flack, flack, went the toggles as the stage-hands laced them over the wooden cleats.
“We don’t want those borders,” said Gascoigne.
“Kill the borders, Bert,” said the head mechanist, loudly.
“Kill the borders,” repeated a voice up in the flies. The painted strips that masked the overhead jerked out of sight one by one.
“Now the ceiling cloth.”
Outside in the strange town a clock chimed and struck eleven. Members of the cast began to come in and look for their dressing-rooms. They were called for eleven-thirty. Gascoigne saw the Australians and crossed the stage to speak to them. He began talking about their parts. His manner was pleasant and friendly, and the Australians, who were on the defensive about English importations, started to thaw. Gascoigne told them where they were to dress. He checked himself to shout:
“You’ll have to clear, Fred; I want the stage in ten minutes.”
“I’m not ready for you, Mr. Gascoigne.”
“By—you’ll have to be ready. What’s the matter with you?”
He walked back to the stage. From up above came the sound of sawing.
Gascoigne glared upwards.
“What are you doing up there?”
An indistinguishable mumbling answered him. Gascoigne turned to the head mechanist.
“Well, you’ll have to knock off in ten minutes, Fred. I’ve got a show to rehearse with people who haven’t worked for four weeks. And we go up tonight. Tonight! Do you think we can work in a sawmill. What is he doing?”
“He’s fixing the mast,” said the head mechanist. “It’s got to be done, Mr. Gascoigne. This bloody stage isn’t—”
He went off into mechanical details. The second act was staged on board a yacht. The setting was elaborate. The lower end of a mast with “practical” rope ladders had to be fixed. This was all done from overhead. Gascoigne and the head mechanist stared up into the flies.
“We’ve flied the mast,” said the mechanist, “and it’s too long for this stage, see. Bert’s fixing it. Have you got weight on, Bert?”
As if in answer, a large black menace flashed between them. There was a nerve-shattering thud, a splintering of wood, and a cloud of dust. At their feet lay a long object rather like an outsize in sash-weights.
Gascoigne and the mechanist instantly flew into the most violent of rages. Their faces were sheet-white and their knees shook. At the tops of their voices they apostrophised the hidden Bert, inviting him to come down and be half killed. Their oaths died away into a shocked silence. Mason had run round from the office, the company had hurried out of the dressing-rooms and were clustered in the entrances. The unfortunate Bert came down from the grid and stood gaping in horror at his handiwork.
/> “Gawdstreuth, Mr. Gascoigne, I don’t know how it happened. Gawdstreuth, Mr. Gascoigne, I’m sorry. Gawdstreuth.”
“Shut your—face,” suggested the head mechanist, unprintably. “Do you want to go to gaol for manslaughter?”
“Don’t you know the first—rule about working in the flies. Don’t you know—”
Mason went back to the office. One by one the company returned to their dressing-rooms.
“And what,” said the oldest of the three reporters, “is your opinion of our railroads, Mr. Meyer? How do they compare with those in the Old Country?”
Mr. Meyer shifted uncomfortably on his cushion and his hand stole round to his rear.
“I think they’re marvellous,” he said.
Hailey Hambledon knocked on Carolyn’s door. “Are you ready, Carol? It’s a quarter past.”
“Come in, darling.”
He went into the bedroom she shared with Meyer. It looked exactly like all their other bedrooms on tour. There was the wardrobe trunk, the brilliant drape on the bed, Carolyn’s photos of Meyer, of herself, and of her father, the parson in Bucks. And there, on the dressing-table, was her complexion in its scarlet case. She was putting the final touches to her lovely face and nodded to him in the looking-glass.
“Good morning, Mrs. Meyer,” said Hambledon and kissed her fingers with the same light gesture he had so often used on the stage.
“Good morning, Mr. Hambledon.” They spoke with that unnatural and half-ironical gaiety that actors so often assume when greeting each other outside the theatre.
Carolyn turned back to her mirror.
“I’m getting very set-looking, Hailey. Older and older.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you? I expect you do, really. You think to yourself sometimes: it won’t be long before she is too old for such-and-such a part.’
“No. I love you. To me you do not change.”
“Darling! So sweet! Still, we do grow older.”
“Then why, why, why not make the most of what’s left. Carol—do you really believe you love me?”
“You’re going to have another attack. Don’t.”
She got up and put on her hat, giving him a comically apprehensive look from under the brim. “Come along now,” she said.
He shrugged his shoulders and opened the door for her. They went out, moving beautifully, with years of training behind their smallest gestures. It is this unconscious professionalism in the everyday actions of actors that so often seems unreal to outsiders. When they are very young actors, it often is unreal, when they are older it is merely habit. They are indeed “always acting,” but not in the sense that their critics suggest.
Carolyn and Hambledon went down in the lift and through the lounge towards the street door. Here they ran into Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn, who was also staying at the Middleton.
“Hullo!” said Carolyn. “Have you been out already? You are an early one.”
“I’ve been for a tram ride up to the top of those hills. Do you know, the town ends quite suddenly about four miles out, and you are on grassy hills with little bits of bush and the most enchanting view.”
“It sounds delicious,” said Carolyn vaguely.
“No,” said Alleyn, “it’s more exciting than that. How is your husband this morning?”
“Still very cross, poor sweet. And black and blue, actually, just as he prophesied. It must have been a footballer. Are you coming to the show tonight?”
“I want to, but, do you know, I can’t get a seat.”
“Oh, nonsense. Alfie-Pooh will fix you up. Remind me to ask him, Hailey darling.”
“Right,” said Hambledon. “We ought to get along, Carol.”
“Work, work, work,” said Carolyn, suddenly looking tragic. “Good-bye, Mr. Alleyn. Come round to my dressing-room after the show.”
“And to mine,” said Hambledon. “I want to know what you think of the piece. So long.”
“Thank you so much. Good-bye,” said Alleyn.
“Nice man,” said Carolyn when they had gone a little way.
“Very nice indeed. Carol, you’ve got to listen to me, please. I’ve loved you with shameless constancy for—how long? Five years?”
“Surely a little longer than that, darling. I fancy it’s six. It was during the run of Scissors to Grind at the Criterion. Don’t you remember—”
“Very well—six. You say you’re fond of me—love me—”
“Oughtn’t we to cross over here?” interrupted Carolyn. “Pooh said the theatre was down that street, surely. Oh, do be careful!” She gave a little scream. Hambledon, exasperated, had grasped her by the elbow and was hurrying her across a busy intersection.
“I’m coming to your dressing-room as soon as we get there,” he said angrily, “and I’m going to have it out with you.”
“It would certaintly be a better spot than the footpath,” agreed Carolyn. “As my poor Pooh would say, there is a right and a wrong kind of publicity.”
“For God’s sake,” said Hambledon, between clenched teeth, “stop talking to me about your husband.”
Before going to the theatre young Courtney Broadhead called in at the Middleton and asked for Mr. Gordon Palmer. He was sent up to Mr. Palmer’s rooms where he found that young man still in bed and rather white about the gills. His cousin and mentor, Geoffrey Weston, sat in an arm-chair by the window, and Mr. Francis Liversidge lolled across the end of the bed smoking a cigarette. He, too, had dropped in to see Gordon on his way to rehearsal, it seemed.
The cub, as Hambledon had called Gordon Palmer, was seventeen years old, dreadfully sophisticated, and entirely ignorant of everything outside the sphere of his sophistication. He had none of the awkwardness of youth and very little of its vitality, being restless rather than energetic, acquisitive rather than ambitious. He was good-looking in a raffish, tarnished sort of fashion. It was entirely in keeping with his character that he should have attached himself to the Dacres Comedy Company and, more particularly, to Carolyn Dacres herself. That Carolyn paid not the smallest attention to him made little difference. With Liversidge and Valerie he was a great success.
“Hullo, Court, my boy,” said Gordon. “Treat me gently. I’m a wreck this morning. Met some ghastly people on that train last night. What a night! We played poker till—when was it, Geoffrey?”
“Until far too late,” said Weston calmly. “You were a young fool.”
“He thinks he has to talk like that to me,” explained Gordon. “He does it rather well, really. What’s your news, Court?”
“I’ve come to pay my poker debts,” said Courtney. He drew out his wallet and took some notes from it. “Yours is here, too, Frankie.” He laughed unhappily. “Take it while you can.”
“That’s all fine and handy,” said Gordon carelessly. “I’d forgotten all about it.”
Mr. Liversidge poked his head in at the open office door. He did not come on until the second act, and had grown tired of hanging round the wings while Gascoigne thrashed out a scene between Valerie Gaynes, Ackroyd, and Hambledon. Mr. Meyer was alone in the office.
“Good morning, sir,” said Liversidge.
“’Morning, Mr. Liversidge,” said Meyer, swinging round in his chair and staring owlishly at his first juvenile. “Want to see me?”
“I’ve just heard of your experience on the train last night,” began Liversidge, “and looked in to ask how you were. It’s an outrageous business. I mean to say—!”
“Quite,” said Meyer shortly. “Thanks very much.” Liversidge airily advanced a little farther into the room.
“And poor Val, losing all her money. Quite a chapter of calamities.”
“It was,” said Mr. Meyer.
“Quite a decent pub, the Middleton, isn’t it, sir?”
“Quite,” said Mr. Meyer again.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“You seem to be in funds,” remarked Mr. Meyer suddenly.
Liversidge laughed
melodiously. “I’ve been saving a bit lately. We had a long run in Town with the show, didn’t we? A windfall this morning, too.” He gave Meyer a quick sidelong glance. “Courtney paid up his poker debts. I didn’t expect to see that again, I must say. Last night he was all down-stage and tragic.”
“Shut that door,” said Mr. Meyer. “I want to talk to you.”
Carolyn and Hambledon faced each other across the murky half-light of the star dressing-room. Already, most of the wicker baskets had been unpacked, and the grease-paints laid out on their trays. The room had a grey, cellar-like look about it and smelt of cosmetics. Hambledon switched on the light and it instantly became warm and intimate.
“Now, listen to me,” he said.
Carolyn sat on one of the wicker crates and gazed at him. He took a deep breath.
“You’re as much in love with me as you ever will be with anyone. You don’t love Alfred. Why you married him I don’t believe even God knows, and I’m damn’ certain you don’t. I don’t ask you to live with me on the quiet, with everyone knowing perfectly well what’s happening. That sort of arrangement would be intolerable to both of us. I do ask you to come away with me at the end of this tour and let Alfred divorce you. Either that, or tell him how things are between us and give him the chance of arranging it the other way.”
“Darling, we’ve had this out so often before.”
“I know we have but I’m at the end of my tether. I can’t go on seeing you every day, working with you, being treated as though I was—what? A cross between a tame cat and a schoolboy. I’m forty-nine, Carol, and I—I’m starved. Why won’t you do this for both of us?”
“Because I’m a Catholic.”
“You’re not a good Catholic. I sometimes think you don’t care tuppence about your religion. How long is it since you’ve been to church or confession or whatever it is? Ages. Then why stick at this?”
“It’s my church sticking to me. Bits of it always stick. I’d feel I was wallowing in sin, darling, truthfully I would.”
“Well, wallow. You’d get used to it.”