by Gavin McCrea
Someone said he had seen her heading towards front of house, so they doubled back the way they came.
Though the half-open backstage door, father and daughter had a view across the bar into the foyer. By now the crowd had left the auditorium and the place was packed. Everyone was here. The Times. The Guardian. The Telegraph. The Daily Worker. The West End people. The Royal Court people. The university people. The Party people. The art people. Even the local King’s Cross people who, on Doris’s insistence, had been given free tickets. And there, now, was Doris herself, in homemade clothes which were not the fashion, her black hair sprayed into a stern bun that belied the unrestricted manner with which she moved through the gathering. Iris was too far away to hear what Doris was saying to those she spoke to; she knew only that Doris had become very smart very fast, a proficient user of the vocabulary, a meeter and greeter, an ardent believer in herself.
As they watched Doris weave through the bodies, Iris could sense her father was fighting against the urge to go out there after her.
Never go front of house during the intermission, was his line. Do not be the man who makes an appearance. Do not be the man who greets his audience, and talks to them informally, and asks them how they are. Do not do it. Be anyone but him.
But then he swung open the door fully and stepped out into the torrent, and took Iris with him. Immediately they made a difference. Like a siren going off, they became the object of everyone’s eyes. Heads turned, looks widened, cheeks collided. In strained accents, the people — these sharp and cross examples of the English, so used to being encased in brick rooms and freezing — overcame themselves in order to give her father the inevitable praise. Iris, her ears already attuned to the unspoken layers, could detect an air of surprise in their voices that her father, this Northerner, a Party man no less, should have produced something worthy of their consideration, in need of no excuses or special allowances. They didn’t spot it coming, did they?
—Magnificent, Paul, darling.
—I simply can’t believe what you’ve managed to achieve all by yourselves. Is it true it was all done without a grant?
—Look at this place. When I heard what you were planning, I just knew it would turn out fabulous.
—You’ve brought us all together, when we’re all so busy. And that’s what one wants. An event. When can we expect the next?
He took hold of Iris again, and, as they moved together through the crowd, he used his free hand to scratch a patch of eczema on his forearm, brought on by the stress of the last few days. Being in the presence of these people affected him violently; Iris could feel it in his grip, how it tightened when someone approached and loosened when they went away again.
Although Doris was still in their sights, she was tough to keep up with, for she was everywhere. Slipping this way and that, into the empty spaces. Welcoming people, introducing them to others. Approaching the orbit of those whom no one else dared approach. Snubbing the significant people in her own good-humoured manner. Apparently unmarked by any social stigma, unburdened by her accent and her origins, deftly transforming the crowd into a party.
They, father and daughter, made good progress through the throng, faster than Doris because they were ruder, but then, suddenly, they lost her.
Thinking that perhaps she had gone outside, they pushed through the main doors. Under the entrance canopy clad with translucent red corrugated plastic, a smattering of people glowed in its reflected light. Not seeing Doris amongst them, Iris peered up and down the terrace, which was illuminated by a line of paper lanterns, also red, hung from the lampposts to mark the theatre’s opening. A line of cabs stretched along the pavement; the neon lights in the shape of the words THE EAST WIND were reflected in their windows. A gang of local boys loitered on the opposite side of the road, immersed in the soft rays of red, What’s going on over there? written on their faces: the audience’s audience.
—Excuse me, said a young man to Paul’s left. Are you Paul Bradburn?
Her father, identified, became uncomfortable in his body and started to fix himself.
—Can I just say, said the man, I really admire—
Paul interrupted him by pointing at the cigarette he was smoking:
—Can I have a drag of that?
—Sure, said the man. Let me get you a fresh one.
—That one’s fine. I just want a puff.
The man handed her father the half-smoked fag. Iris watched him suck on it, wetly. Then drop it on the ground and pulverise it with the sole of his shoe.
Back inside, Iris glimpsed Doris’s black hair near the bar and pointed at it. They made their way there, both smiling at the thought that, outside right now, the people would be explaining them.
Her father tapped Doris on the shoulder, and she turned round: Not her.
—Sorry, I thought you were—
—Paul, darling, lovely to—
But they were already moving off:
—Thank you, sorry, yes, thank you for coming, we’ll catch up ss—
Paul waved at Simon behind the bar: Have you seen Doris?
Simon touched his ear to say he could not hear him over the noise.
Have you seen Doris? Paul said silently, exaggerating the movements of his jaw.
Simon raised a bottle of wine: Want some of this?
I don’t want anything. Have you seen—?
Simon, seeing Iris now, waved at her, and Iris waved back. He poured wine into one glass and lemonade into another and put them on the counter. They muscled through the bodies. Her father intimidated someone off a stool and put Iris on it. Iris gulped the lemonade: an extremely rare treat.
Simon ruffled her hair:
—Nice?
She burped.
Simon laughed.
Her father pointed at the wine.
—I don’t want that.
—It’s not for you.
Simon slid the glass towards a man sitting on the next stool.
—Hello again young Iris, said Mr Lever. Having fun?
Iris could not answer because she had filled her cheeks with lemonade and was trying to get the gas to come out her nose.
—Do you know who this gentleman is? Simon said to her father.
Her father looked at Mr Lever: No.
—This is Doris’s father, said Simon.
—Ah, Paul shook Mr Lever’s hand. You came.
—Paul invited me. Would’ve been rude not to accept.
—Ha, yes, well, I’m glad you received the invitation. It’s a coincidence, actually, that I bumped into you because I was just looking for—
—You must be the brother, Mr Lever said. Paul’s told me about you.
—What’s that? said her father, furrowing his brow in confusion.
Simon caught her father’s eye and gave him a quick signal, a circling of a finger around the temple, to say that the man was a bit senile or something.
Iris spat the lemonade into her glass and released a guffaw.
Simon wiped the spilled lemonade with a cloth and gave her a stern look.
—Yes, Mr Lever, said her father, raising his voice and stressing his diction, it’s nice to meet you at last.
—You don’t look nothing like each other, said the father, wagging a finger in the space between Simon and her father.
—So people like to say, her father said.
—Weren’t you at the war as well? said Mr Lever. You’re of the age.
—Second thoughts, her father said to Simon, nodding at the wine bottle, give me a glass of that.
Simon went to get him a glass.
—Sorry, said Mr Lever. Did I offend you?
—Course not.
—I has a mouth sometimes. I don’t get out much, is what that is.
—I’m glad you came. Doris is very special to me. To al
l of us. None of this could’ve happened without her. She was an enormous help. You should be proud of her.
—Next she’ll be wanting to get on the stage herself.
—Oh, no danger of that. Her talents definitely lie elsewhere.
Mr Lever shook his head as if to say he did not understand what talents he was referring to, and why a place like this would need them.
—D’you mind me asking, why ain’t you behind the bar as well? Look at your poor brother there.
He gestured to Simon who was pouring her father’s wine.
—Doing everything. In his condition.
Her father took up his glass.
—You’re absolutely right. I do feel quite useless now that the play is up and running.
—What’s wrong with you? said Mr Lever.
And then to Simon:
—What’s wrong with him? Why don’t he do anything?
—Don’t worry about my brother, Mr Lever, said Simon, wiping the counter and giving her father a wink. We give him plenty to do. Behind the scenes.
—Hope so, said Mr Lever. The devil is God being idle on the seventh day.
Her father downed his wine in four successive gulps. As he drank, he glowered at Simon.
—D’you want to know what I think of the play? said Mr Lever now. I were telling Paul here—
—You’re mixing the names up, Mr Lever. He’s Simon. I’m Paul.
—What’s that?
—I said—. Never mind.
—I were just saying to Paul, it doesn’t have much of a plot, the play, does it? I couldn’t understand a word of it, but I enjoyed watching.
—Thank you.
—I’s a few things I could say about China, if I was pushed.
—Well, what you must understand is, behind the Chinese façade, the play is really about England. Europe. The struggles here.
—Well I never. That quite passed me by.
Her father gulped from a fresh serving of wine:
—The thing is, Mr Lever, when you’re like us, when you’ve had your fill in life and you don’t care any more, you tend to be philosophical. You put things obliquely. Turn things into symbols. That’s our failing.
Mr Lever slapped her father on the arm:
—Look, don’t get down about it. You’s all did your best, di’nt ya? Ain’t that what counts?
Mr Lever turned to Simon:
—And you’s happy with it, i’nt ya?
Simon shrugged:
—Yeah, it’s not bad.
Mr Lever turned back to Paul:
—Listen to your brother. He’s the expert. He knows what’s good and what’s not.
While her father was talking to Mr Lever, Iris clocked Doris going up the mezzanine steps to the office. She tugged on Paul’s sleeve, and again, and again, until he took notice of her, and followed her gaze. He slammed down his glass and said:
—Mind Iris for a minute, can you, Simon?
And:
—Fine to meet you, Mr Lever, we’ll catch up later.
Then made straight for the stairs. Climbed them two at a time. Ducked under the STAFF ONLY sign that hung on a chain across the top. Entered the office.
Iris kept an eye on the office door while she finished her drink. Simon poured her another one, which she drank the same way. She waited for a moment when Simon and Mr Lever were not looking before jumping down from the stool and running after her father upstairs.
She pushed open the office door and peeked in: she had seen them at it before, many times, and did not get tired of it.
After a good innings, they both noticed Iris in the doorway.
Iris ducked out and ran down the stairs. Her head pounded. Her hands tingled. There was blood in her mouth from where she had bitten the inside of her own cheek. She tried to pass through the bar without being seen, but Simon called out to her.
—Iris, where you off to? Come back here!
She threaded her way through the bodies to the backstage door. Ran down the corridors to the dressing rooms. Her mother was the only member of the ensemble to have a room of her own. Iris found it crammed with people: friends and well-wishers picking at the food laid out on a special little table and sipping on champagne in real flutes. Her mother was sitting at her dressing table, Eva on an overturned basket beside her. The people crowded around them. Pressed their hands. Kissed them. As Iris tried to push through, the heat and the scratch of ruffles and sequins against her skin made her face flush a deep red.
—Oh God, said Eva when she saw her sister.
—Shh, said their mother.
—Hi, said Iris when she finally made it over.
Eva fixed her shirt collar and touched her hair and bared her teeth:
—Pchs! What’re you doing here? This is no place for a child, am I right, Mama?
Their mother did not answer because Edward Woddis, the theatre’s main shareholder, was bending over and whispering into her ear.
—Can’t you just piss off and stay off, for once? said Eva.
Iris bit the inside of her cheeks and tried to catch her mother’s eye. But her mother was staring up towards the ceiling as she listened to Woddis.
Iris took hold of her mother’s sleeve and pulled on it.
—Mama?
For she had just understood why she had come here.
—Mama? Mama? Mama?
She had come to warn her. She had come to say: Mama, they’re at it again. Papa and Doris are fighting. And to ask: Why don’t you fight with Papa like that any more?
—Mama, listen to me, please.
Doris wants Papa to leave with her. And Papa said he’s going to go. You’re losing, Mama, don’t you see? Iris saw it in her mind; it was a kind of premonition. A rupture was going to happen, and her mother was doing nothing about it. Don’t just sit there, Mama, do something.
Her mother swatted away her hand and held up a finger: an order for her daughter to stop being annoying and to wait her turn.
The truth was in Iris’s mouth, and for once she was ready to spill it. Speak, speak, was this not what her mother was forever telling her to do? So why aren’t you listening? The frustration that she felt in her groin crept up into her stomach and her throat and was now close to consuming her. She felt her eyes go fuzzy and saw spectrums in the room where the sounds were and tasted burnt meat on her tongue.
—Eva, darling, her mother said then, detaching her ear from Woddis’s lips and leaning forwards so that she could speak quietly and still be heard. Take your sister out of here. Take her to Simon at the bar. Or better yet, find your father. He’s the one who’s supposed to be looking after her tonight.
—Mama, come on, said Eva. I’m one of the actors, I can’t be seen front of house. Get someone else to take her.
—For heaven’s sake, Eva, said Alissa, do as I say, and don’t make a scene.
Iris watched her mother’s face turn towards her. The coloured clouds parted and reality returned to stare at her.
—Iris, I can’t talk right now, all right? Have you forgotten what night this is? Can’t you see what’s happening around you? Go with your sister and I’ll see you after the show.
Eva, enraged, seized Iris’s wrist and dragged her through the crowd out of the room. In the corridor, Eva swung Iris forward and pushed her in the back, hard enough to make her stumble. The floor vibrated, and in the places where Iris’s feet fell, luminous circles like ripples in a pond appeared.
—You always have to get in on things, don’t you? said Eva. You can’t stand that this is happening to me and not to you. You won’t just let me have it.
Eva led Iris to the dressing room she shared with the other actresses. Two of the actresses were inside, sharing a single cigarette. As soon as the sisters came in, they shared a look of exasperation and left without saying
a word.
—You see what you do to people? Eva said to Iris when they were alone. No one wants to be around you. I don’t care what Mama says, I’m not going front of house, that’s not what real actors do. So you’re going to have to wait in here on your tod until the show is over. Christ, you really know how to get in the way.
Iris looked around the room: two mirrors, four chairs, one wardrobe, a standing lamp, and, blowing through these objects, wetting her face like a mist, the colours purple and turquoise and yellow — and that was where her memory stopped.
What she did next, what she did to her sister in that room, she had no recollection of. Later, when accused, she would not deny doing it. Nor would she even deny planning it (the rope and the duct tape were in her pockets). It was simply that she could not remember performing the actions. Any images of the incident that she could summon came, not from her own memory of it, but from what others told her about it. And, in fact, most people refused to tell her anything because they did not believe that she could not remember. How is it possible, even for you, to forget doing such a thing? Of course you remember. You’re just using your illness as an excuse. Really the only one who seemed to believe her was Doris. Doris did not mind telling Iris what she saw that night. Which meant Doris’s memories were what filled the void in Iris’s mind. Doris’s memories became hers.
After her fight with Paul in the office, Doris came downstairs alone. Paul had left before her, returning to the spot box in the auditorium. The bar had emptied out, just a few stragglers left. Simon called out to her as she went through, but she ignored him and went straight for the backstage door.
Alissa was waiting for her at the props table in the wings.
—You’re cutting it fine, Alissa whispered.
Alissa was first on stage in the second half. Rather than entering from the wings, however, she was to come into the auditorium through the central door, and walk alone in the dark through the stalls, holding a lighted lantern and chanting. Doris’s task was to accompany her as far as the auditorium door: carry the lantern, open the doors, and make sure Alissa’s costume, THE JUDGE’s red robes, did not get caught in anything.
Alissa walked two paces behind Doris along the corridors. Because her hands were busy holding the lantern, Doris had to push through the doors with her back and hold them open with her foot. Alissa did not think to assist her once. Doris checked that the bar was empty before allowing Alissa to come through.