He continued to stare into the cold unforgiving sea for nearly five minutes during which time he almost forgot why he was staring in the first place. He had lived so long with the sea beneath his theatre that it had become second nature, and yet it still scared him. Scared but enthralled him, because it was not something he could direct or browbeat as he sometimes did with recalcitrant actors. It was a force with which he shared a good part of his life, and yet would never understand, and would never feel quite comfortable. Unnerved, he continued his familiar slow walk to the end of the pier.
The theatre itself was badly in need of restoration. Its white painted façade was peeling, stained by streaks of birdlime. Red, white and blue bunting had been draped across its frontage in a forlorn attempt to make the place look more glamorous, but only served to highlight the general air of decay that hung about the place like a shroud. Posters were stuck to the walls one on top of another in thick layers, curling out at the edges, scabs on the hide of a beast close to extinction.
Turner paused by the swing doors and jerked his head around, convinced he had heard something. There was no-one close by and, as he looked along the length of the pier, he could see nothing unusual. Yet he was sure someone had whispered his name very close to his ear, whispered in a breathy, wheezing voice that sounded like a sheaf of papers being fanned. Just a trick of the imagination, he told himself, and then he noticed the posters. All the advertising notices on the outside of the theatre had been replaced. They were no longer showing the play Turner was currently presenting, but instead proclaimed Nocturne, a play in three acts by… before he could investigate further, all the notices began to blur in front of his eyes, so that the author’s name was indistinct. Gradually the posters themselves began to blur, until they dissolved, leaving the normal dull notices showing the names of the actors and actresses in the current production.
Not for the first time Turner swore to resist two large brandies before, or instead of, breakfast. It was becoming a bad habit.
He opened the doors and hurried along to his office, fighting the urge to keep looking behind him. The office was a drab, grey painted room, its walls decorated by fading playbills, reminders of happier, more successful days. Maurice Littlejohn, the company’s leading man was waiting for him, seated at Turner’s desk, in Turner’s chair. His feet were on the desk, and there was an expression of studied arrogance on his face.
“Are you all right, Henry?” Littlejohn asked as Turner entered. The older man’s face was white, drained of all colour, covered by a light film of perspiration, giving his complexion a waxy, sick look. Before he closed the door to the office, Turner glanced back along the dingy corridor that led to the main entrance. Finally he turned his attention to Littlejohn and came into the office. “Sorry, what was that?” he said.
Littlejohn swung his feet to the floor and opened the bottom drawer of the desk, pulling from it a half-empty whisky bottle and two glasses. “You’ve been working too hard. Have a drink and sit for a while.”
Turner was distracted. Normally he would have hit the roof if Littlejohn, or anyone, had helped himself to his whisky. Instead he took off his jacket, hung it on a hook on the door and gladly took the whisky Littlejohn was offering. “Tell me, Maurice,” he said hesitantly. “Have you heard or seen anything unusual in the theatre?”
“What sort of thing, Henry? Melanie’s interpretation of Elvira in Blithe Spirit last week was a trifle weird. Is that the kind of thing you mean?” Littlejohn hid a smile behind his hand. Turner’s drinking was legendary in the theatrical world and the cast waited almost weekly for its effects to become more manifestly apparent than the occasional slurred line or ragged step.
Turner sipped his whisky and perched on the edge of the desk. He wanted to tell someone what he had just experienced, but one look at Littlejohn’s expression of supercilious insolence told him that Maurice was not the ideal confidant. “It doesn’t matter,” he said and picked up his desk diary, pretending to study it. “What was it you wanted, Maurice?”
Littlejohn took the change of subject in his stride. “Well, a stroke of luck actually, for me anyway. A chance of another job. Birmingham Rep has offered me a contract.”
“For the winter?”
“Actually, it’s for a year, starting this November. So I’m afraid…”
Turner cut him off. “Then you must take it, dear boy.”
For the first time the arrogant look on Littlejohn’s face slipped a little. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Well, yes, of course. Be stupid not to. But you don’t mind?” He had been expecting a full-scale row about the matter. When Fiona Godshaw had left last season there had been an argument of epic proportions, with words like, “betrayal” and, “duplicity” being foremost in Turner’s vocabulary.
“There comes a time, Maurice, when the fledgling must leave the nest. How long have you been with the company now?”
Littlejohn knocked back his whisky, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He still suspected a trap and was waiting tensely for the vitriol to pour out. “Five years, Henry. I’ve given you my best in that time, but I’m still a young man. There are some exciting playwrights about now, Orton, Osbourne. They’re writing marvellous parts for people like me. Parts you can really get your teeth into. I want the chance to play those roles.”
“And quite right too. The company will miss you though. Was there anything else?”
It was quite obvious to Littlejohn now that Turner was trying to get rid of him. If not out of the company, then certainly out of his office. “Are you expecting someone?” he asked bluntly. His shallow ego was hurt by the lack of reaction to his news.
A flicker of alarm appeared in Turner’s eyes. “No, not at all. What made you say that?”
“All right, calm down. I just thought you seemed a little edgy, that’s all.”
Turner swallowed his whisky and poured himself another, leaving Littlejohn’s glass empty. “I have a lot on my mind,” he said. “Now, was there anything else?”
“No.”
“Right then. I’ll join you on stage shortly. I want to go over the end of act two again before tonight. Tell the others will you?”
Littlejohn got to his feet. “Very well, Henry. I must say, you took my news better than I expected you to. Thank you.”
Turner came round the desk and reclaimed his office chair. “Thank you, Maurice. Close the door on your way out.” He busied himself with the desk diary again and only looked up from it when the office door closed. He put down the diary and held his hands out in front of him. They were shaking badly.
Littlejohn’s departure could well sound the death knell for the company, but Henry Turner was past caring for the moment. The future of the theatre was just about the last thing on his mind. All he could think of was the mist, the sea, the voice and those notices. The whisky was starting to give him a headache. Perhaps he would get Eric Latham, the stage door keeper to go out and get him a sandwich from the bakers along the promenade. As if on cue Latham poked his head around the office door.
“There’s a gentleman waiting to see you, Mr Turner,” Latham said.
“Really? I’m not expecting anyone.”
“A young man, sir. Very urgent he said it was. I didn’t like to send him down to your office, so I told him to wait in the auditorium.”
A frown of irritation crossed Turner’s face but he soon had it under control. “Very good, Eric. Does the gentleman have a name?”
“Blake, sir. Said you’d know what it was about.”
Turner searched his memory. The name Blake nudged something buried deep in his thoughts but he could not bring it to mind. “In the auditorium, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” Latham said hesitantly. “I hope I did the right thing.”
Turner smiled reassuringly, and silently cursed him for letting a complete stranger into the theatre when it was closed. “No harm done, I’m sure,” he said, then walked past him, and through to the doors into the auditorium.
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There was always a stuffy, stale smell lingering in the auditorium during the day. The décor was shabby, the carpets threadbare, and the harsh sunlight from the uncurtained windows shone through to reveal the rundown seedy face of despair. Like a sixty-year-old woman covering lines of life with garish teenage make-up, and with the same haunted expression in the eyes. The brocade upholstery of the seats had been worn smooth by the bottoms of countless theatregoers, and scarred by leathery spots made by the drips from a thousand ice creams. A haze of cigarette smoke hovered in the air, obscuring the red brocade curtains, semi elegant in the nightly gloom, now cheap and gaudy in daylight. Puddles on the thin carpet from slopped drinks, sticky rings on the arms of the seats from wet glasses. Scuff marks on the doors, cigarette burns on the wallpaper.
The young man waiting for Turner was sitting on the stage, his back to the white canvas safety curtain, his legs dangling over the edge. He looked untidy. His worn tweed jacket was stained, with ragged suede patches at the elbows, and the green corduroy trousers he wore were shiny at the knees. His hair was long and unkempt, and he affected a straggly beard that Turner assumed was to make him look more mature, but only served to make him seem like a scruffy adolescent. Watery blue eyes peered at Turner myopically from behind a pair of rimless spectacles.
“Mr Blake?” Turner said, in the rich baritone he used to intimidate junior cast members. “Henry Turner.” He walked down the aisle towards him, hand outstretched. “How can I help you?”
Blake leapt from the stage with a suddenness that startled Turner and had him stepping back in alarm. “D’arcy Blake, Mr Turner,” the young man said in a thin, reedy voice, taking Turner’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Forgive the intrusion, but I’ve been waiting so long now, I thought a personal visit might hurry things along.”
Turner tried to camouflage his bewilderment and failed. “I’m sorry, Mr Blake. I’m usually very good with faces but… Have we met before?”
Blake looked troubled. “My play, Nocturne. I sent it to you six weeks ago.” The troubled look verged on one of panic. “Don’t tell me you didn’t receive it. Oh God, I knew I should have sent it by registered mail.”
The name of the play struck a chord in Turner’s memory. It was the name from the blurred notices he thought he had seen outside the theatre. Then he had a vague picture of the postman handing him a package, and of himself opening the package and taking from it a manuscript. Nocturne, a play in three acts by D’arcy Blake. He remembered the title page. What he could not bring to mind was what he had done with it after that. He certainly hadn’t read it.
“Six weeks ago, you say? I’m pretty sure I received your play, Mr Blake, but you’ll have to forgive me, I’m afraid I haven’t got around to reading it yet.”
Blake managed to look relieved, disappointed and annoyed simultaneously. “Oh, I see,” he said, giving the words such weight that Turner immediately felt guilty.
Turner started moving back towards the doors, hoping to lead Blake from the theatre. “I do most sincerely apologise. These past few weeks have been unbelievably hectic, height of the season, you know? It really is quite a job looking after a theatre of this size. I assure you I will read your play at the earliest opportunity. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get on.”
Blake seemed to become more confident, now it was established his play had not been lost. “No, I’m sorry, you don’t seem to realise how important this play is to me. I’ve spent the last five years working on it, sometimes working all through the night, writing, rewriting, honing scenes, polishing dialogue. I’ve sacrificed five years of my life to produce something I think is worthwhile.” He rubbed at his chin, ruffling the sparse growth. “I really think that this is the play that’s going to get me the recognition I deserve. You must read it.” The young man’s voice rose steadily in pitch throughout the speech.
Turner recognised artistic temperament. In his experience the best course of action was to humour it. He turned back to the young man. “Mr Blake, I’m sure your play is really very good, if as you say, you’ve spent so long writing it. I’m sure I shall enjoy reading it, but…”
“Don’t patronise me!” Blake interrupted him vehemently. “I sent you the play because I respect you as a producer and an actor. I know you are a man of integrity; otherwise you wouldn’t still be trying to breathe life into a theatre that is clearly dying on its feet. All I ask is that you read my play and give me your honest opinion of it. I know it’s good. Others who have read it say I could be the next Harold Pinter, but I need to hear it from a man whose talents I respect.”
As far as Turner was concerned one Harold Pinter in the world was more than enough already, but he kept the opinion to himself to avoid antagonising the young man further. It was also still possible for his ego to be massaged, and the thought of a playwright relying on his opinion flattered his vanity considerably. “Very well, Mr Blake. I shall read your play when I get home tonight after this evening’s performance.” Of course he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. He did not even know where the damned play was. For all he knew he had thrown it out with the rubbish. The promise though seemed to satisfy Blake.
“I knew I could rely on you,” he said. “You’re not like the others.”
“Others?” Turner said, as he reached the doors and pushed them open.
“Small minded producers. Petty men blinded by their own jealousies.”
“You mean you’ve submitted this play to other companies?” Turner realised if others had read it, and it had still not been produced, the chances of it actually being any good were remote.
“I’ve been wasting my time with idiots like them,” Blake said, as he was led out into the foyer.
“Look, Mr Blake, on second thought perhaps I am not the one for you. As you said yourself, my efforts here are modest. A bigger audience might be obtained elsewhere?”
Tears welled up in the young man’s eyes, and his voice, when he spoke, veered towards the hysterical. “No! It must be you. You are my last hope. I am relying on you to give me my chance. Together we will write theatrical history. Don’t you see it? Producer and playwright, one team, producing and performing throughout the country, perhaps even abroad. I can see the reviews now…” His eyes were unfocussed now, as if he was seeing through the physical confines of the theatre, and was not even aware of Turner’s presence. “…can’t you hear the applause?”
Turner had a well-judged sense of self-preservation. He recognised this young man’s behaviour went well beyond the realms of artistic temperament. “Of course, when you put it like that,” he said. “Please, leave the matter with me. I shall of course read it this very evening and give you my opinion.”
“I know you’ll see the quality in my words.” He shook Turner’s hand again, the grip cool and clammy. “My telephone number is on the title page.”
“I’ll be sure to call,” Turner lied easily, then let the doors swing shut on the young man and leaned against them with relief. He was glad to have got rid of him. Before he went inside for rehearsals he checked the notices to see if they had changed again, but they hadn’t. They still advertised Private Lives.
That evening Turner came off the stage angry and frustrated. The play had been a shambles, his own performance amateurish. He had even fluffed his lines on, not one but, two occasions, unable to concentrate. In the second row, leaning forward in his seat, D’arcy Blake had watched the play, in particular he had watched Turner, and Henry Turner had not been able to block him out of his mind. He felt his eyes being drawn to the intense young man and, when he made his second gaffe, he glanced across the footlights at Blake. The young man was smiling smugly and shaking his head, as if delighting in Turner’s discomfort.
Turner retreated to the refuge of his dressing room, slammed the door, quickly removed his make-up and changed into his street clothes. Then he walked the length of the pier at a brisk pace, heading for the Three Anchors public house in order to drown his sorro
ws. Two whiskies and the noisy smoke filled atmosphere soon put him a better mood, and as he sat with his third drink he had almost put the evening out of his mind.
He was sitting alone at a corner table, nursing the large scotch when Blake entered the pub. Turner sank down into his seat and watched the young man cross to the bar. As Blake ordered he was looking about him, searching the pub with eager eyes. In the shadowed corner Turner swallowed the rest of his drink and slipped out of a side exit before he was seen.
Echoes of Darkness Page 7