Night at the Vulcan

by Ngaio Marsh

  ‘Oh, well,’ she thought and said aloud: ‘I’m thinking of the show. It’s such a good play. She mustn’t be allowed to fail. I’m thinking about that.’

  He came nearer and looked at her with a sort of incredulity. ‘Good Lord,’ he said, ‘I believe you are! Do you mean to say you haven’t considered your own chance if she did crack up? Where’s your wishful thinking?’

  Martyn slapped her palm down on the table. ‘But of course I have. Of course I’ve done my bit of wishful thinking. But don’t you see—’

  He reached across the table and for a brief moment his hand closed over hers. ‘I think I do,’ he said. ‘I’m beginning, it seems, to get a taste of your quality. How do you suppose the show would get on if you had to play?’

  ‘That’s unfair,’ Martyn cried.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘don’t run out on me. That’d be unfair, if you like. No dresser. No understudy. A damn shabby trick. As for this background music, I know where it arises. It’s a more complex business than you may suppose. I shall attend to it.’ He moved behind her chair, and rested his hand on its back. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘shall we “clap hands and a bargain”? How say you?’

  Martyn said slowly: ‘I don’t see how I can do anything but say yes.’

  ‘There’s my girl.’ His hand brushed across her head and he moved away.

  ‘Though I must say,’ Martyn added, ‘you do well to quote Petruchio. And Henry V, if it comes to that.’

  ‘A brace of autocratic male animals? Therefore it must follow, you are “Kate” in two places. And—shrewd Kate, French Kate, kind Kate but never curs’t Kate—you will rehearse at eleven tomorrow, hold or cut bowstrings. Agreed?’

  ‘I am content.’

  ‘Damned if you look it, however. All right. I’ll have a word with that girl. Good day to you, Kate.’

  ‘Good day, sir,’ said Martyn.

  That night the second dress-rehearsal went through as for performance, without, as far as Martyn knew, any interruption during the action.

  She stayed throughout in one or the other of Miss Hamilton’s dressing-rooms and, on the occasions when she was in transit, contrived to be out of the way of any players. In the second act, her duties kept her in the improvised dressing-room on the stage and she heard a good deal of the dialogue.

  There is perhaps nothing that gives one so strong a sense of theatre from the inside as the sound of invisible players in action. The disembodied and remote voices, projected at an unseen mark, the uncanny quiet off-stage, the smells and the feeling that the walls and the dust listen, the sense of a simmering expectancy; all these together make a corporate life so that the theatre itself seems to breathe and pulse and give out a warmth. This warmth communicated itself to Martyn and, in spite of all her misgivings, she glowed and thought to herself. ‘This is my place. This is where I belong.’

  Much of the effect of the girl’s part in this act depended, not so much on what she said, which was little, but on mime and on that integrity of approach, which is made manifest in the smallest gesture, the least movement. Listening to Miss Gainsford’s slight uncoloured voice Martyn thought: ‘But perhaps if one watched her it would be better. Perhaps something is happening that cannot be heard; only seen.’

  Miss Hamilton, when she came off for her changes, spoke of nothing but the business in hand and said little enough about that. She was indrawn and formal in her dealings with her dresser. Martyn wondered uneasily how much Poole had told her of their interviews, whether she had any strong views or prejudices about her husband’s niece or shared his resentment that Martyn herself had been cast as an understudy.

  The heat radiated by the strong lights of the dressing-rooms intensified their characteristic smells. With business-like precision Miss Hamilton would aim an atomizer at her person and spray herself rhythmically with scent while Martyn, standing on a chair, waited to slip a dress over her head. After the end of the second act when she was about this business in the star-room, Poole came in: ‘That went very nicely, Ella,’ he said.

  Martyn paused with the dress in her hands. Miss Hamilton extended her whitened arms and, with a very beautiful movement, turned to him.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ she said. ‘Did it? Did it really?’

  Martyn thought she had never seen anyone more lovely than her employer was then. Hers was the kind of beauty that declared itself when most simply arrayed. The white cloth that protected her hair added a Holbein-like emphasis to the bones and subtly turning planes of her face. There was a sort of naïvety and warmth in her posture: a touching intimacy. Martyn saw Poole take the hands that were extended to him and she turned her head away, not liking, with the voluminous dress in her arms, to climb down from her station on the chair. She felt suddenly desolate and shrunken within herself.

  ‘Was it really right?’ Miss Hamilton said.

  ‘You were, at least.’

  ‘But—otherwise?’

  ‘Much as one would expect.’

  ‘Where’s John?’

  ‘In the circle, under oath not to come down until I say so.’

  ‘Pray God he keep his oath,’ she quoted sombrely.

  ‘Hallo, Kate,’ Poole said.

  ‘Kate?’ Miss Hamilton asked. ‘Why, Kate?’

  ‘I suspect her,’ said Poole, ‘of being a shrew. Get on with your job, Kate. What are you doing up there?’

  Miss Hamilton said, ‘Really, darling!’ and moved away to the chair. Martyn slipped the dress over her head, jumped down and began to fasten it. She did this to a running accompaniment from Poole. He whispered to himself anxiously as if he were Martyn, muttered and grunted as if Miss Hamilton complained that the dress was tight, and thus kept up a preposterous dialogue, matching his words to their actions. This was done so quaintly and with so little effort that Martyn had much ado to keep a straight face and Miss Hamilton was moved to exasperated laughter. When she was dressed she took him by the arms. ‘Since when, my sweet, have you become a dressing-room comedian?’

  ‘Oh, God, your only jig-maker!’

  ‘Last act, please, last act,’ said the call-boy in the passage.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, and they went out together.

  When the curtain was up, Martyn returned to the improvised dressing-room on the stage and there, having for the moment no duties, she listened to the invisible play and tried to discipline her most unruly heart.

  Bennington’s last exit was followed in the play by his suicide, offstage. Jacko, who had, it seemed, a passion for even the simplest of off-stage stunts, had come round from the front of the house to supervise the gunshot. He stood near the entry into the dressing-room passage with a stage-hand who carried an effects-gun. This was fired at the appropriate moment and as they were stationed not far from Martyn in her canvas room, she leapt at the report which was nerve-shatteringly successful. The acrid smell of the discharge drifted into her roofless shelter.

  Evidently Bennington was standing nearby. His voice, carefully lowered to a murmur, sounded just beyond the canvas wall. ‘And that,’ he said, ‘takes me right off, thank God. Give me a cigarette, Jacko, will you?’ There was a pause. The stagehand moved away. A match scraped and Bennington said: ‘Come to my room and have a drink.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben, not now,’ Jacko whispered. ‘The curtain comes down in five minutes.’

  ‘Followed by a delicious post-mortem conducted by the Great Producer and the Talented Author. Entrancing prospect! How did I go, Jacko?’

  ‘No actor,’ Jacko returned, ‘cares to be told how he goes in anything but terms of extravagant praise. You know how clever you always are. You are quite as clever tonight as you have always been. Moreover you showed some discretion.’

  Martyn heard Bennington chuckle. ‘There’s still tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I reserve my fire, old boy. I bide my time.’

  There was a pause. Martyn heard one of them fetch a long sigh: Jacko, evidently, because Bennington as if in answer to it said: ‘Oh, nonsense.’ After a moment he
added: ‘The kid’s all right,’ and when Jacko didn’t answer: ‘Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Jacko.

  On the stage the voices of Helena Hamilton and Adam Poole built towards a climax. The call-boy came round behind the set and went down the passage chanting: ‘All on for the Curtain please. All on.’

  Martyn shifted the chair in the dressing-room and moved noisily. There was a brief silence.

  ‘I don’t give a damn if she can hear,’ Bennington said more loudly. ‘Wait a moment. Stay where you are. I was asking you what you thought of Gay’s performance. She’s all right. Isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I must go.’

  ‘Wait a bit. If the fools left her alone she’d go tremendously. I tell you what, old boy. If our Eccentric Author exercises his talent for wisecracking on that kid tonight I’ll damn well take a hand.’

  ‘You will precipitate a further scene, and that is to be avoided.’

  ‘I’m not going to stand by and hear her bullied. By God, I’m not. I understand you’ve given harbourage, by the way, to the Mystery Maiden.’

  ‘I must get round to the side. By your leave, Ben.’

  ‘Plenty of time.’

  And Martyn knew that Bennington stood in the entry to the passage, barring the way.

  ‘I’m talking,’ he said, ‘about this understudy-cum-dresser. Miss X.’

  ‘You are prolific in cryptic titles.’

  ‘Call her what you like, it’s a peculiar business. What is she? You may as well tell me, you know. Some ancient indiscretion of Adam’s adolescence come home to roost?’

  ‘Be quiet, Ben.’

  ‘For twopence I’d ask Adam himself. And that’s not the only question I’d like to ask him. Do you think I relish my position?’

  ‘They are getting near the tag. It is almost over.’

  ‘Why do you suppose I drink a bit? What would you do in my place?’

  ‘Think before I speak,’ said Jacko, ‘for one thing.’

  A buzzer sounded. ‘There’s the curtain,’ said Jacko. ‘Look out.’

  Martyn heard a kind of scuffle followed by an oath from Bennington. There were steps in the passage. The curtain fell with a giant whisper. A gust of air swept through the region back-stage.

  ‘All on,’ said the stage-manager distantly. Martyn heard the players go on and the curtain rise and fall again.

  Poole, on the stage, said: ‘And that’s all of that. All right, everyone. Settle down and I’ll take the notes. John will be round in a moment. I’ll wait for you, Ella.’

  Miss Hamilton came into the improvised room. Martyn removed her dress and put her into her gown.

  ‘I’ll take my make-up off out there,’ she said. ‘Bring the things, Martyn, will you? Grease, towels and my cigarettes?’

  Martyn had them ready. She followed Miss Hamilton out and for the first time that night went on to the set.

  Poole, wearing a dark dressing-gown, stood with his back to the curtain. The other five members of the cast sat, relaxed but attentive, about the stage. Jacko and Clem Smith waited by the prompt corner with papers and pencils. Martyn held a looking-glass before Miss Hamilton who said: ‘Adam, darling, you don’t mind, do you? I mustn’t miss a word but I do rather want to get on,’ and began to remove her make-up.

  Upon this scene Dr John James Rutherford erupted. His arrival was prefaced in his usual manner by slammed doors, blundering footsteps and loud ejaculations. He then appeared in the central entrance, flame-headed, unshaven, overcoated, and grasping a sheaf of papers.

  ‘Roast me,’ he said, ‘in sulphur. Wash me in steepdown gulfs of liquid fire ere I again endure the loathy torment of a dress-rehearsal. What have I done, ye gods, that I should—’

  ‘All right, John,’ Poole said. ‘Not yet. Sit down. On some heavy piece of furniture and carefully.’

  Clem Smith shouted: ‘Alf! The doctor’s chair.’

  A large chair with broken springs was brought on and placed with its back to the curtain. Dr Rutherford hurled himself into it and produced his snuff-box. ‘I am a child to chiding,’ he said. ‘What goes on, chums?’

  Poole said: ‘I’m going to take my stuff. If anything I have to say repeats exactly any of your own notes you might leave it out for the sake of saving time. If you’ve any objections, be a good chap and save them till I’ve finished. Agreed?’

  ‘Can’t we cut the flummery and get down to business.’

  ‘That’s just what I’m suggesting.’

  ‘Is it? I wasn’t listening. Press on then, my dear fellow. Press on.’

  They settled down. Jacko gave Poole a block of notes and he began to work through them. ‘Nothing much in Act I,’ he said, ‘until we get to—’ His voice went on evenly. He spoke of details in timing, of orchestration and occasionally of stage-management. Sometimes a player would ask a question and there would be a brief discussion. Sometimes Clem Smith would make a note. For the scenes where Poole had been on, Jacko, it appeared, had taken separate notes. Martyn learnt for the first time that Jacko’s official status was that of assistant to Poole and thought it characteristic of him that he made so little of his authority.

  From where she stood, holding the glass for Helena Hamilton, she could see all the players. In the foreground was the alert and beautiful face of her employer, a little older now with its make-up gone, turning at times to the looking-glass and at times, when something in his notes concerned her, towards Poole. Beyond Miss Hamilton sat J. G. Darcey alone and thoughtfully filling his pipe. He glanced occasionally, with an air of anxious solicitude, at Miss Gainsford. At the far side Parry Percival lay in an armchair looking fretful. Bennington stood near the centre with a towel in his hands. At one moment he came behind his wife. Putting a hand on her shoulder he reached over it, helped himself to a dollop of grease from a jar in her case and slapped it on his face. She made a slight movement of distaste and immediately afterwards a little secret grimace as if she had caught herself out in a blunder. For a moment he retained his hold of her shoulder. Then he looked down at her, dragged his clean fingers across her neck and, smearing the grease over his face, returned to his former position and began to clean away his make-up.

  Martyn didn’t want to look at Gay Gainsford but was unable altogether to avoid doing so. Miss Gainsford sat, at first alone, on a smallish sofa. She seemed to have herself tolerably well in hand but her eyes were restless and her fingers plaited and replaited the folds of her dress. Bennington watched her from a distance until he had done with his towel. Then he crossed the stage and sat beside her, taking one of the restless hands in his. He looked hard at Martyn who was visited painfully by a feeling of great compassion for both of them and by a sensation of remorse. She had a notion, which she tried to dismiss as fantastic, that Poole sensed this reaction. His glance rested for a moment on her and she thought: ‘This is getting too complicated. It’s going to be too much for me.’ She made an involuntary movement and at once Miss Hamilton put out a hand to the glass.

  When Poole had dealt with the first act he turned to Dr Rutherford who had sat throughout with his legs extended and his chin on his chest, directing from under his brows a glare of extreme malevolence at the entire cast.

  ‘Anything to add to that, John?’ Poole asked.

  ‘Apart from a passing observation that I regard the whole thing as a tour de force of understatement and with reservations that I keep to myself—’ Here Dr Rutherford looked fixedly at Parry Percival. ‘I am mum. I reserve my fire.’

  ‘Act Two, then,’ said Poole and began again.

  Martyn became aware after a few minutes that Dr Rutherford, like Bennington, was staring at her. She was as horribly fascinated as birds are said to be by the unwinking gaze of a snake. Do what she could to look elsewhere about the stage, she must after a time steal a glance at him only to meet his speculative and bloodshot regard. This alarmed her profoundly. She was persuaded that a feeling of tension had been communicated to the others and that they, too
, were aware of some kind of impending crisis. This feeling grew in intensity as Poole’s voice went steadily on with his notes. He had got about half-way through the second act when Dr Rutherford ejaculated, ‘Hi! Wait a bit!’ and began a frenzied search through his own notes which seemed to be in complete disorder. Finally he pounced on a sheet of paper, dragged out a pair of spectacles and, with a hand raised to enjoin silence, read it to himself with strange noises in his breathing. Having scattered the rest of his notes over his person and the floor he now folded this particular sheet and sat on it.

  ‘Proceed,’ he said. The cast stirred uneasily. Poole continued. He had come to the scene between himself and Miss Gainsford and beyond a minor adjustment of position said nothing about it. Miss Hamilton, who had arrived at the final stage of her street make-up, dusted her face with powder, nodded good-humouredly at Martyn and turned to face Poole. Martyn thankfully shut the dressing-case and made for the nearest exit.

  At the same moment Poole reached the end of his notes for the second act and Dr Rutherford shouted: ‘Hold on! Stop that wench!’

  Martyn, with a sensation of falling into chaos, turned in the doorway.

  She saw nine faces lifted towards her own. They made a pattern against the smoke-thickened air. Her eyes travelled from one to the other and rested finally on Poole’s.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said ‘Go home.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Dr Rutherford shouted excitedly.

  ‘Indeed she does,’ said Poole. ‘Run away home, Kate. Goodnight to you.’

  Martyn heard the storm break as she fled down the passage.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Opening Night

  FROM NOON UNTIL half-past six on the opening night of Dr Rutherford’s new play, the persons most concerned in its birth were absent from their theatre. Left to itself the Vulcan was possessed only by an immense expectancy. It waited. In the auditorium, rows of seats, stripped of their dust-cloths, stared at the curtain. The curtain itself presented its reverse side to Jacko’s set, closing it in with a stuffy air of secrecy. The stage was dark. Battalions of dead lamps, focused at crazy angles, overhung it with the promise of light. Cue-sheets fixed to the switchboard awaited the electrician, the prompt-script was on its shelf, the properties were ranged on trestle-tables. Everything abided its time in the dark theatre.