“Hi, Effie,” says Robert with a sheepish grin, standing in the doorway. He’s scruffy in jeans, t-shirt, black winter coat, and two days” stubble, looking just like the sort of young man you see in documentaries about actors. He strolls over to the suits and picks out a lovely grey pinstripe number that took me ages to spruce up.
Effie is a picture. ‘Robert! Are you -”
He shrugs as he pulls a blue shirt over his t-shirt and fiddles with the cuffs. “It’s the Miramar’s quiet season. And I felt like an adventure, so…”
I grab his cuff and fold it over, slapping his other hand to stop his fidgeting. “You’ve been gadding about with us too long if you think this is an adventure compared to some of the scrapes we’ve had! Effie, be a love and fetch some cufflinks.”
We’re both fussing round him when the door crashes open and a booming voice stops us in our tracks.
“Where the blazes is wardrobe? I’m on, I’m on in forty-five minutes! Leave that febrile fustilarian to fend for himself, I need my contemplation time!”
Robert jumps as though he stood on a wasp, and nips off to finish changing in the loo. The voice belongs to Jim, of course. Five foot ten of impossibly grand pensioner, with a barrel chest, florid complexion, and a grey beard so bushy it could drown a badger. He’s already in full regal costume, and only needs a few dabs of foundation and eyeliner. Not to mention Duncan’s crown planted on his head.
As the old ham shuffles towards a chair, I see Effie’s lips pursing. I step in with a gentle hand on her skinny arm. “Effie, this is our local legend, Jim. He worked with Redgrave.”
“Which one?” she demands, still stony.
“Every last one of the degenerate buggers!” Jim roars, and I shoo Effie off to help Robert in the loo. “Oh, forgive my testy grumblings, dear Brenda. I’m all at sixes and sevens, and in need of your gentle ministrations.”
He subsides into the chair, and puts on a paper bib, instantly an absolute pussycat, as he is whenever it’s just the two of us having a natter.
“You’re unkind to young Robert. He’s a good boy,” I scold him gently as I fetch his crown from the props table.
He puts a weary hand to his brow. “Is he? I’ll take your word for it, my darling. These young actors are ten a penny. They flit around being slim and handsome until they hit forty, then it’s all babies, beer guts, and retraining as drama teachers. No love for the craft, you see. No… dedication. Now, work your magic and make me look… fifty years younger.”
His chin sinks on to his chest, and his beard rises up the bottom of his face until he looks like a kiddy trying to hide in a bubble-bath. He’s strangely quiet as I apply his slap, but other actors are filing in now and a queue is forming, so I count my blessings and get on with it.
As I brush out his collar-length silver hair, there’s a buzzing noise. To my surprise, he takes out a snazzy mobile phone and checks a text message. Of course he hits the wrong bit of the screen with his swollen old fingers, and brings up some photos of the dark sea just outside the Pavilion. “Bloody stupid thing,” he snarls, and tosses it on the table in a sudden huff.
I sympathise there, I’ve no truck with the things. “Present, was it?”
Jim gives me a sideways look, and I think he’s about to blow up again. ‘Something like that,” he says eventually. As I hold up the crown, he takes it from my hand.
“Allow me. Like Napoleon, I am ever fated to crown myself.” And he lowers the circlet of gold-painted plaited copper wire on to his old head. He does look grand, I must say.
“What sort of villain could dream of murdering such a lovely old king?” I ask him. It’s one of our nightly little jokes, but he doesn’t even smile tonight. Instead he takes my hand and I think I can see a tear in his eye.
‘The kind of villain we know too well, you and I, my dear Brenda.” He pats my hand once, rises from his chair, and leaves the room in a silent contrast to his explosive entrance.
Once they’re sure the coast is clear, Effie and Robert sidle back in, him in his lovely suit now. Effie’s fussing around, and the other actors are all preening in front of mirrors, but I’m in such a tizzy. What was that about? I’ve only known Jim a week! Or… have I? I feel something shift under the dustsheets and cobwebs that cloud so many of my memories. Something is stirring, like a hungover student moving under his duvet at five in the evening. “Robert darling, did the fossil tear you off another strip?” The lad playing Macbeth is putting his lippy on, but never takes his eyes from Robert’s reflection in the bulb-lined mirror.
The ghosts of my prehistory evaporate as Effie hisses in my ear. “Here, isn’t that…”
I nod. It is. James Fanning, local boy made good. He was in the Whitby Players’ youth group just a few years back, and now he’s between recording blocks on Menswear and wants to “give something back” by doing one last show for them. He’s hardly been at any rehearsals, though, and the cast hate him even more than they fear dear splenetic Jim’s baritone outbursts. Penny thinks James is only doing it so he can pretend he started out as a stage actor in interviews later.
“It’s fine,” mumbles Robert. “Nerves and that, I suppose.”
James chuckles at that, though God knows why. He talks slowly as he paints his lower lip with spirit glue and sticks on a ratty little beard. ‘That’s the spirit, forget the sozzled old fart. I need to be decapitated in two hours, and we wouldn’t want you to balls that up.”
There’s an edge to James’s voice, and I give him a sharp look. I don’t know what the telly people see in him, really I don’t. He’s handsome enough, in his way, but his voice has a shrill little whine at the back of it. Everything he says sounds like he’s telling tales to teacher. I don’t suppose I was ever in a playground, but my hands twitch with the instinctive desire to give him a Chinese burn.
Robert’s nettled as well, but he’s faced down proper monsters, far worse than jumped-up actors, so he deadpans, “I know which end of a sword to hold,” and stalks over to chat to the lad playing Malcolm. He must wonder why he ever bothered with this bunch, and I do feel a bit guilty because of course it was me who put him up to auditioning so I’d have one friendly face at rehearsals.
Things start to blur after that, as the rest of the actors clamour in. Most of them sort themselves out, but there are a few precious snowflakes who need Effie and I to help them into costumes, and put on eyeliner. The men are wearing suits, which apparently is the director’s way of showing that the play’s themes of ambition and political brutality are still with us, but it just looks daft when they start swinging broadswords while wearing three-pieces.
The kiddies playing Fleance and MacDuff’s children are a pain as well, charging around the dressing rooms and hollering until the audience must be able to hear. It’s a relief when the stage manager comes in with her clipboard and herds the opening actors towards the wings for the start of the show.
When the last of the actors have filed out, and the dressing room’s empty, Effie and I put things back into place on the make-up table, and I take out the bottle of fake blood, ready to squirt it over actors” hands and clothes.
“Are you enjoying this lark, Brenda?” Effie asks me as we finally take a breather and put the kettle on.
I think about it. There’s been fragile egos and rampant bores, and three nights of rehearsals a week, but… “Yes,” I say, “it’s nice getting out and about with no diabolical plots and ancient evils on the prowl and the like.”
I had to open my daft old mouth, didn’t I?
A hoarse cry of horror slices through the air. Effie and I both leap to our feet as we recognise the voice. Robert.
In a twinkling, we dash out into the corridors, and there’s our young friend, standing over Jim’s body. Robert’s deathly pale features contrast starkly with the vivid blood that covers the old man’s body, the beige-painted corridor wall. It pools on the floor in a viscous puddle.
“I just popped back to glance at my script,” Robert gabbles
, “and he was lying here. Stabbed!”
It only takes a glance to see that Robert’s correct. Poor old Jim’s shirt is full of tears and dark stains. His face is covered by his jacket.
“Who would want to do something so horrible to such a sweet old man?” I say, and the shocked silence from Effie and Robert is replaced by an altogether more interrogatory muteness. I protest. “Oh, I know he was a bit gruff, but it was an act. He was a sweetie. And why would the killer cover his face like that?”
Effie bends down for a closer look. “He did it himself. Look, his knuckles are still white, he was grabbing his jacket that hard.”
“But why?” Roger quavers.
There’s a dry little noise behind us, somewhere between a cough and a giggle. When we turn, James Fanning stands there, gory dagger in hand, cool as you like. ‘The frightful old fruit thought he’d do a Julius Caesar. I’ve a horrible idea he was even trying to quote it when I got him in the throat.”
Robert takes a step back. Even Effie goes pale. James just smirks. “I’m sorry. Were you hoping to do a cosy mystery investigation? Allow me to skip to the drawing room denouement. I killed him.”
“Why?” I ask, incredulous and sick to my stomach, realising too late that the young narcissistic actor is rotten to the core. He waves the dagger at us, and on the pommel, I catch a glimpse of the theatre masks, Comedy and Tragedy.
Robert draws his own sword and charges James, looking ready to murder the younger man. I’m thinking about stepping in, when James raises a finger.
“Wait,” he says quietly, and his voice has this unearthly timbre to it that rattles my bones. It’s full of authority, and Effie and I wait for his next word in spite of ourselves. Robert stops dead in his tracks, and his sword clatters to the floor.
When James next speaks, his grin is even nastier, but he’s using his normal whining tone. ‘That’s why. I’m now an initiate of the Brotherhood of Thespia.”
‘The what?” I ask. I do my best to sound mocking, but I’m cudgelling my poor old brain to work out why that name sets off tingles in the furthest reaches of my mothballed memories. It can’t be good, though. Secret societies are always vicious little sausage-fests.
He sighs, as though we’re ignorant for never having heard of a clandestine organisation. ‘The Brotherhood of Thespia are elite actors, gifted with prodigious psychic powers of concentration and persuasion. They can sway elections, inspire wars, topple governments. And now I’m one of them.”
My mind is racing, but as James seems to be happy to chat, Effie presses him for the grisly details. “How’s that, then?”
I’m expecting James to point at poor old Jim’s body, but I think he’ll say it was a case of dead man’s shoes. As he sneers, though, I realise it’s worse than that. Did you never think it odd that a grand old man of the stage should appear in seaside am dram? Did you never think it odd that you had this veteran actor, who you’d never heard of? That you never even learned his surname?
‘This is James Fanning!”
Effie gasps, though I think she’s laying it on a bit thick considering the times we’ve whizzed back and forth through history. I look at James’s face closely. I can’t see much of a resemblance at first with the grumpy old man I’ve been making up and fussing over. But then James smiles, and it’s lovely, Jim’s smile, but it sits under those cruel cold eyes and it almost makes me sob.
He gives this smug little nod at my reaction. “Yes! He was sent back in time fifty years by the future Brotherhood’s combined power. Sent back to meet his nemesis. Me. By killing my older self, I proved myself worthy.”
This is as barmy as it is horrible. “But you’ve killed yourself!” I protest.
He waves the dagger again as though this is a trivial detail. “A small price to pay for untold mental powers. They call it “chewing the scenery”, and after that Caesar routine, I see why. As we get older, the knowledge that we must be drawing close to chewing the scenery boosts our powers further, giving us gravitas beyond the wildest dreams of mortal men.”
Robert stirs now, ashen-faced and wobbly. “And what happens now?”
I can see Effie clenching her fists beside me, steeling herself for a scrap. But I’m not worried. He might be able to put the ‘fluence on young Robert, but I could tan his hide before he could mesmerise me.
“Why Robert darling, now we need to finish this performance. I’m on in about half a page. And then I’ll dominate the whole audience, and lead them Pied Piper-like into the Bitch’s Maw. Come along.”
He strides off down the corridor, and blow me if Robert doesn’t trail after him.
Left to ourselves, Effie and I roll up our sleeves and pick up poor old Jim between us. He seems suddenly so light for such a huge man. “Who’d have thought the old man had so much blood in him?” Effie says, trying to make light of the grisly task, but she catches my eye and falls silent.
We take his body back to the dressing room, and lay him out in front of one of the mirrors framed with lightbulbs, still with his jacket covering his face..
My head reels and I hang on to a fire extinguisher for a moment as it hits me. This was supposed to be a break, and again I’m plunged in the middle of a fracas.
“James is a fool. Poor Jim. He tried to tell me, Effie. All that about crowning himself, and making him fifty years younger. He was sad, remorseful, I see that now. He’s spent years regretting what James just did. And what he’s about to do to all those poor people.”
It’s awful. A theatre full of grannies, and couples, and a school trip. Hundreds of people who just wanted to spend an evening eating ice cream, listening to a bit of poetry, watching sword fights, and maybe having a quick nip in the bar. All doomed by one actor’s mad ambition. Effie’s not beaten yet, though, bless her. “Brenda love, it’s still only a play.”
“Effie! That sweet old rogue -”
“No. I mean he’s going to do all this dominating at the end. So what’s to stop us running on the stage and shouting ‘stop”? Announce there’s been a dreadful accident backstage and they’re to pop to the bar for a free G&T and a ticket for tomorrow night.”
“Why a G&T?”
“Would you rush out just for the ticket?”
She’s talking a lot of sense, of course, so we leave poor Jim’s body, and walk the short distance together through dark, scenery-littered corridors. We push through a set of heavy fire doors lined with fabric and sponges to muffle noise, up a short rickety wooden staircase with thickly carpeted steps, and We’re in the wings. Well, he won’t have heard us coming. The stage manager and the rest of the backstage crew are just standing around, and don’t seem to take much notice of us, even when we pause right next to the stage’s brightly-lit boards.
“Ooh, your big entrance, Brenda.”
“Put a sock in it, Effie love.”
And, to the alarm of none of the backstage crew, I step on stage. It’s so bright, with a blue lamp shining right in my eyes, and there are clouds of smoke being pumped in that catch at my throat something rotten. To my left (stage left, I remember with confused pride) James has his back to me and is acting up a storm with the snotty lass playing Lady Macbeth. I heard a few mutterings from the sound desk about that one, and she’s certainly no better than she ought to be. But she ignores me too, though she’s facing me and we’re alone on the stage but for a derivative big metal throne made of swords and imposing Gothic arches up the back wall.
‘Stop the performance!” I bellow, and reel from the sight of the auditorium. Rows on rows of folks sitting in plush green theatre seats, stretching into the darkness. Hundreds of theatre programmes, hundreds of mint humbugs, and hundreds of eyes all fixed on me.
I’ve spent my life hiding from prying eyes and public attention, and now I’m centre stage. It’s horrible, like they can see every shameful secret I’ve forgotten, lasering away my careful make-up with piercing gazes.
But something’s wrong. No one’s so much as blinked at my hollering. In fac
t, as far as I can see, no one’s blinking at all. They’re all sitting there, mute and motionless, like dull statues. The theatre staff are standing frozen by all the fire exits. I can even make out the green-tinged features of Robert’s boyfriend, Gila, in the front row. Even he ignores me. What do I do? Yell again? I’ll just look daft if I walk off.
James does that irritating sniggering cough again, and I turn slowly to face him. “I ought to have mentioned that everyone in the building is frozen during the play. It’s a Brotherhood thing, it’s easier to murder people in theatres without the yelling and screaming.”
He pauses, and looks thoughtful. “You’re not under, though. You and the other old woman. I wonder...”
“Cheeky bleeder!” Effie yells from the wings. I think she’s irritated, and not trying to distract him at all, but it does the job.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, “Karla will explain later, I’m sure.”
I freeze even more rigid than the audience. “Karla?” I whisper. “Karla who?”
“Karla Sorenson. I was an extra on that Get Thee Inside Me remake, my first acting job. And Karla was my first lover. She told me of the Brotherhood. And tonight we’ll cross through the Bitch’s Maw to bring her back.”
With that parting shot, he turns on his heel to Lady Macbeth and carries on his speech as though I’m not there.
Karla Sorenson! I’ve forgotten so many of the people I once knew over the course of my long life, but some names keep rolling around. Contempt starts to breed familiarity after a while, and that vampy trollop has caused me no end of grief across forty years with her mucky film Get Thee Inside Me, Satan. If she wasn’t summoning the Devil himself in the original, she was cavorting and conniving with my own devilish Dad in the remake! And even consigned to the depths of Hell, she’s still meddling with my town? Oh no you don’t, lady!
I look out at the audience again, and none of them have twitched a hair through our interruption. Effie creeps out across the stage, and I think I see James roll his eyes a bit, but otherwise he ignores us and carries on. ‘There’s someone moving about up there,” she whispers, pointing into the auditorium.
[Brenda & Effie 00] - A Treasury of Brenda and Effie Page 9