The Wardrobe Mistress

by Natalie Meg Evans

  ‘Did you see the play?’

  Alistair shook his head. ‘By that stage of the war, I was getting very little leave. I’d dash down to London, spending more time travelling than being here. I saw Bo for lunch a couple of times, that’s all.’

  ‘I didn’t even get to London. I wish I’d tried harder.’ She met Alistair’s eye. ‘I looked for that card in Miss Bovary’s filing cabinet. I hoped to find out more about my dad. It’s one of the reasons . . . No. The main reason for wanting to work here.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so at your interview? Or on any other occasion, for that matter. It’s fundamental, a material fact, Vanessa.’

  ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘Fern gave me your father’s name that sizzling day at Stanshurst. I recognised “Quinnell”. It’s unusual. Fern contributed some of the more sordid details.’

  Vanessa asked faintly, ‘Sordid?’

  The telephone burst to life. Without thinking, she picked it up. ‘Commander Redenhall’s office. May I ask who’s calling? Oh, hello, Mr Doyle. Yes, he’s here. Right, yes, I’ll let him know.’ She covered the mouthpiece and looked to Alistair. ‘Hugo’s arrived and Doyle’s helping him take his portfolios to the foyer. The tables are still in position, so they’ll set up there.’ She put the receiver to her ear again. ‘Who else? Oh, that’s good to hear.’ Tanith had also arrived. Thanking Doyle, she set the receiver back in its cradle.

  ‘How many crippled fighters and bombers did you sweet-talk down to a safe landing?’

  ‘Not as many as I’d have liked.’

  ‘Did you know that when we’re in desperate trouble, when catastrophe closes in, a woman’s voice is what we crave? It was rare at sea, but every now and again, a Wren would come through on the transmitter. Electrifying. Cold, frightened men stood taller and found their courage.’

  ‘So we do have our uses.’

  ‘You do. We’ll return to this conversation.’

  He let her go ahead of him so he could shut Macduff inside the office, and they travelled down in the lift. Detouring through the auditorium, they saw Tom Cottrill on stage, consulting a broadsheet plan. The ASM, Peter Switt, and a lighting rigger, a carpenter and two scene painters stood in a separate huddle, scrutinising a similar-looking plan held by the props master. Tanith was by the OP wings. She was dressed in Navy surplus slacks, a crew-neck jersey and soft shoes. Her hair was plaited into short pigtails. She looked like an orphan cabin boy.

  Alistair muttered, ‘I thought she’d have the grace to keep away for a few days.’

  ‘I told her to come.’

  ‘You had no right.’

  ‘No. But you had no right to take her to a jazz den and then drive her home. Everything that happened afterwards is down to you.’

  ‘My error was to take you home first. I thought you were the greater danger.’

  Flustered, she asked, ‘What’s Mr Cottrill doing?’

  ‘Getting his first eye-full of Hugo’s set. I hope it’s a clear plan and not some kind of Expressionist explosion. I’m beginning to wonder if Miss Bovary and Terence Rolf weren’t having a joke at my expense, appointing Brennan.’

  ‘Or sabotaging you.’

  Alistair’s look was sharp. She confessed, ‘Hugo thinks there’s something macabre about the whole family. Bo being the exception.’

  ‘Talking of Brennan, shall we go and find him?’

  Hugo rushed towards Alistair and Vanessa as they entered the foyer. ‘I need walls,’ he said, making windmills of his arms to indicate the empty space. He was wearing the suit he’d had on for visiting Lady Ververs, and the reek of cigarettes and alcohol met Vanessa as she went towards him. ‘My sketches don’t work laid flat.’ He hadn’t shaved that morning, either. Nor all weekend, Vanessa guessed.

  ‘It’s not an exhibition,’ Alistair said. ‘Aubrey Hinshaw isn’t a critic. Talk him through your designs and it’ll be fine. Have you had coffee?’

  Hugo nodded. ‘Far too much.’

  ‘Go take a nap in the green room. I’ll wake you when Hinshaw is ready.’

  Hugo shook his head. ‘Can’t risk it.’

  ‘Pull up some chairs, then,’ Alistair suggested. ‘You can explain your plans for manufacturing the costumes.’

  But Hugo paced instead, re-arranging his work, occasionally swooping on something, snarling, ‘This won’t work. Why ever did I think it could?’

  Vanessa recognised a man who had hit a wall. Leo had been the same after flying twenty hours of sorties, four hours off in-between, when sleep was often impossible. Though there the comparison ended. Hugo wasn’t facing death. ‘I’ll ask Tanith to make you some cocoa,’ she said.

  Miss Bovary arrived for work just then, dressed for a chilly autumn morning in a black coat and hat with a gauze face-veil. She turned a bony shoulder to them, implying that they were cluttering the place.

  Alistair said, ‘I’d better make sure Macduff has water. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Hugo muttered something about needing the gents, and suddenly Vanessa was left alone.

  Like a child trying not to peep at the presents round the tree, she straightened the sketches that Hugo had thrown onto the table any old how. She examined only one, the ball gown to be worn by the play’s black sheep, Mrs Erlynne, whose arrival at Lady Windermere’s birthday ball was a climactic point of Act Two. The audience should by that time be on the edge of their seats.

  Mrs Erlynne’s drum-roll gown was deep amethyst, fitting like a glove over the hips and with a savagely-corseted waist. A sweetheart neck revealed a spade-full of cleavage. Throat and arms lay bare. It was Lady Ververs’ portrait to the last detail. ‘Hugo Ruddy Brennan!’ Vanessa burst out. Coming back from the gents’, he heard her and parted his hands in apology.

  ‘One thing life has taught me, Nessie-darling, is never give too much away. Wear your heart on your sleeve, some bastard will stub his cigarette out on it.’

  Aubrey Hinshaw arrived with his third assistant director. Vanessa wondered if there was a second-assistant director as he or she had made no appearance so far. Having little confidence that he’d be able to keep Hugo on the premises for the entire day, Alistair called the design meeting right away.

  Aubrey Hinshaw was delighted with what he saw. ‘Inspired,’ he told Hugo. ‘Showing the play’s progression through day to night, linking it to the hopelessness of the marital situation. I adore that mauve gown. Very “Helen of Troy” meets “Rule Britannia”. Ought to bring the house down. What gave you the idea?’

  Hugo swept his hand towards Vanessa. ‘She did. She showed me a picture. If life is a play, Nessie is the narrator, keeping it flowing.’

  ‘Ah, the lady that makes omelettes with a mop.’ Aubrey Hinshaw smiled at Vanessa.

  ‘I don’t understand, Sir.’ The third assistant director, Neville Eden, shortened to ‘Ned’, addressed the director over Hugo’s head. ‘Mrs Erlynne will undoubtedly steal the scene, yet surely, Lady Windermere is the focus of the play.’

  ‘Isn’t it bloody obvious?’ Hugo’s manner darkened in a heartbeat.

  ‘Good and bad women are one of the themes of the play,’ Vanessa put in quickly. There were shades of Leo in Hugo, both quick to flare, quick to turn. ‘What society calls a “good woman” may simply be one who has never been tested morally. She’s had everything laid at her feet, never having to fend for herself or make difficult decisions. A “bad woman”, on the other hand, has made profoundly human choices. Society condemns one and praises the other. Wilde asks the audience to consider if Society is right, and intelligently, he gives the “bad” woman many admirable qualities.’ Vanessa felt Alistair observing her, his smile a mite sardonic.

  ‘Flint-edged observations poking through the froth,’ Hinshaw agreed. ‘We will make this play as bitter and relevant as can be, without losing the fun. Do we have a Lady Agatha yet?’

  ‘No,’ Alistair admitted. ‘Rolf has turned a few girls away for being too pretty.’

  ‘Can a girl
be too pretty?’ Ned Eden demanded.

  ‘Yes, if they’re sharing the stage with Miss Abbott.’

  ‘Where can I store my drawings?’ Hugo interrupted. He’d told Vanessa a few times that actors bored him.

  Alistair suggested the models of the set go straight to the carpenter’s workshop.

  ‘Put the sketches in my room,’ Vanessa offered.

  Hugo nodded. ‘Perfect. That makes you responsible for mediating with pattern cutters and out-workers. My work is done, Mrs Kingcourt. Having been up three nights straight, I can go back to being an artistic drifter. I’ll be napping in some quiet corner if anyone needs me.’

  As Hugo strolled off, Aubrey Hinshaw asked, ‘Is he playing games?’

  ‘He’s playing the role of himself,’ Alistair answered. ‘He writes the script as he goes along.’

  In a few, casual words, Hugo had laid the onus of costuming the play on to Vanessa’s shoulders. She caught up with him later, on his way out to smoke a cigarette. Smoking was prohibited backstage, where glue fumes and wood shavings made a volatile mix.

  ‘You must not leave me holding the hand-grenade,’ she pressed. At the very least, she needed the names of cutters, dressmakers, fabric wholesalers. But just then Aubrey Hinshaw came out to smoke, along with the lighting riggers. Hugo ignored her and she listened to them discussing The Farren’s luminaires, Fresnels, spots, projectors and footlights, and how many coloured gels were still in a useable state. In the end, she hissed at Hugo, ‘Come up to my room.’

  He did not. An hour later, Doyle knocked on her door with Hugo’s portfolios and together, they decorated her walls with his drawings. Vivid and exciting, the sketches were vague in actual detail. How would each garment work as a pattern? What would the pumpkin sleeves of Lady Agatha’s visiting gown look like as flat, two-dimensional pieces?

  ‘Darned if I know,’ Vanessa muttered to herself. ‘Eva, I wish you were here.’

  Chapter 17

  The following day, October 1st, blocking rehearsals began. They had been put back from the previous day in all the excitement over the designs. Expecting to stand in for Lady Agatha, Vanessa discovered that Tanith had been recruited instead.

  ‘She strikes absolutely the right note,’ Aubrey Hinshaw explained, ‘of childlike vacuity and latent cunning. A relief for you, no?’

  Oddly, it wasn’t. Having made a fuss about being asked to read the part, Vanessa had unexpectedly enjoyed it. Tanith must have known what was in store today because her hair was in an extravagant roll and she was wearing a dress and stockings. Now I know why actresses get so catty, Vanessa thought. Competition at all sides. It just proved, backstage Bessies like herself shouldn’t develop a taste for the limelight.

  ‘May I stay and watch?’ she asked the director. ‘I don’t have much to do yet.’ She’d tried to find Hugo at his atelier yesterday, and later at his flat, without success.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Aubrey Hinshaw replied, ‘take a script into the prompt box. The cast should be off the book by now, but they’re bound to fluff. Blocking interrupts the rhythm.’

  In the prompter’s cubicle, Vanessa spread out the script. Peter Switt demanded to know what she was doing.

  ‘Your job. Complain to Mr Hinshaw.’ She wasn’t keen on the young ASM. He’d taken too much obvious pleasure in eclipsing Tanith. She wondered how he’d react when Tanith was demoted from temporary actress back to being his clueless superior.

  Patrick Carnford and Ronnie Gainsborough arrived punctually. James Harnett, the butler, turned up next and Miss Konstantiva a few minutes after. Vanessa watched the older woman being introduced to Tanith.

  ‘My new daughter! How lovely.’

  In her late sixties, Rosa Konstantiva challenged every notion of aging. Tall, with striking features and supple limbs, she moved with a balletic precision, legacy of a career in Paris many years ago with the ballets russes. Her hair was an ice-white chignon and she wore a couture suit. Vanessa noticed that in ordinary conversation, she spoke with a slight French intonation, though on stage she became as English upper class as any actress.

  She greeted everyone, including the stage staff, with unforced pleasure.

  Patrick Carnford bowed low. ‘Madame la Duchesse de Berwick, bonjour.’ He resembled a superlatively handsome scene shifter in his loose trousers, a rolled-sleeve shirt and boating shoes. His fellow male lead was more in character in a dark lounge suit, his hair slicked. Giving Carnford a brisk evaluation, Ronnie Gainsborough delivered a slice of the barely-polite contempt that was known to exist between them.

  ‘Cool and casual, Pat? I shall feel as though I’m performing with my tennis coach.’

  ‘Then I’d better be quick on my feet, Ronnie, to avoid those notoriously low balls of yours.’

  ‘Haven’t lost your instinct for the easy laugh, I see.’

  ‘Dear chap, it’s only the blocking rehearsal. I shall hone my humour as we progress to the serious stuff.’

  ‘Blocking is serious. It isn’t only where one stands, it’s how one stands. How one moves, establishing character, relationships, mood. It was so when I trained.’

  ‘Ah, but so much has gone out of fashion over the decades, Ronnie.’

  Noticing Miss Konstantiva observing them with a sardonic eyebrow, the men grinned sheepishly. Rosa looked around. ‘Is our little firmament missing a star?’

  There was as yet no Miss Abbott. Minutes later Alistair brought a message: Miss Abbott was deeply fatigued and would not be attending.

  Aubrey Hinshaw requested Alistair ring Terence Rolf immediately. ‘Either she’s here in twenty minutes, or he has my permission to re-cast. Miss . . .’ he wiggled his fingers at Vanessa in the prompt box. ‘Mrs King – um – ’

  ‘Kingcourt.’

  ‘Lady Windermere for the rest of the morning, if you please. Bring your script and take your position on stage. Beginners to the wings please, Parker and Lord Darlington. Miss Konstantiva, Miss Stacey, stand by. Lord Windermere, you’ve time for a cup of tea. Mr Cottrill, lower the curtain. Ned, got your notebook? You,’ he waved at Peter Switt, ‘into the prompt box.’

  Blocking was slow and even though Aubrey Hinshaw directed her gently, the script in Vanessa’s hand shook ludicrously. She’d often pondered the exact meaning of ‘charisma’. Sharing a stage with Ronnie Gainsborough, she learned that it was the ability of another person to draw eyes and energy from you to themselves.

  When Tanith entered with Miss Konstantiva, she felt utterly eclipsed. Tanith made her moves with an ease that must be inherited.

  Aubrey Hinshaw remained patient and by raising eyebrows and mouthing directions, Miss Konstantiva helped too, though Tanith tittered whenever Vanessa confused stage left and right. Ronnie Gainsborough made no effort to conceal his affront at being asked to share a stage with amateurs.

  When Vanessa accidentally overshot her mark, Gainsborough snapped, ‘The audience pays to see my face, not the back of my neck. You’re forcing me to turn my back. Come forward.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Vanessa shifted quickly downstage.

  ‘Not so far that I have to shout!’

  Rosa Konstantiva came to her rescue. ‘Ronnie, don’t bully. Ask Mrs Kingcourt what you wish for.’

  ‘I wish for her to stand a little downstage of me so I can give the impression of conversing.’

  Carnford’s voice floated from the wings. ‘“The impression of conversing.” Bravo. Ronnie’s given us the definition of acting. Perhaps our director will note it down so we can make it our company motto.’

  Gainsborough appealed to the director. ‘Can’t we get through this? I am dying for a pee.’

  Hinshaw came on stage and gently moved Vanessa into a different position. ‘Perfect. You too, Ronnie, an inch or two back please. No, just an inch. Remember, you love this woman. You are passionate about her and in your desire to have her, you will tempt her to defy social convention. She shows no sign that she will waver. Let me see frustration in your stance, in your face.’
r />   ‘I’m already in agony! If we could race to the end – ’

  ‘Work with it, dear fellow. Mrs Kingcourt, you are doing splendidly. Virtue under siege. Say your line again, please.’

  Aubrey Hinshaw took them through Ronnie Gainsborough’s exit lines with painstaking, overly-deliberate thoroughness. When he finally said, ‘Exit Lord Darlington, let’s take a fifteen-minute break,’ and Ronnie rushed from the stage, he winked at Vanessa. After the break, she was back on with Rosa and Tanith. Patrick Carnford entered as Lord Windermere. Where Ronnie Gainsborough magnified his stage presence with big movements and an open stance, Patrick moved with the tread of a leopard, seeming to know exactly how and where to place his body – and hers. When he moved Vanessa into place, it was like being led by a good dancer. She realised suddenly that his light colouring reminded her of her Norwegian friend Finn, and liked him all the more for it.

  As the discord flashed between the Windermeres, Carnford’s mannerisms changed. He retreated into himself, and Vanessa was beguiled into projecting stronger emotions. She felt the pain of a woman losing the love of her life. She didn’t have to dig deep. When she spoke of Mrs Erlynne, the supposed cause of the rift, it was Fern’s face that swelled in her mind. ‘“. . . if that woman comes here – I warn you –”’

  She felt a current drawing her on. I’m acting. Now I understand. It’s like falling off a cliff and finding you’re flying. She left the stage on cue and Patrick Carnford delivered his final, tormented lines.

  ‘“My God! What shall I do? I dare not tell her who this woman really is. The shame would kill her.”’

  Aubrey Hinshaw called, ‘Curtain down. Thirty-minute break, ladies and gentlemen, then all beginners for Act Two. Good work.’

  Vanessa went down into the auditorium, still holding her script. She’d slip upstairs, quickly freshen up. She was walking on air, and hardly noticed the pass-door opening to admit a female figure. A moment later, a hand fell on hers. A slender hand terminating in silver painted nails. ‘I’ll take that from you, if it’s all the same.’