Sagely, Stephen put it down to talent. ‘The more talent they have,’ he had once observed to Angela, ‘the more human they are. It’s as if they don’t have to pretend they’re something they’re not, ’cos they are.’
Angela had understood what he meant, and with guilty pleasure, they had drawn up a list of the Merlin Players, allocating marks for talent as far as they could tell, and marks for…well, for ‘being nice’, as Angela put it. These marks were constantly revised, and after rehearsals, when they all retired to the local pub and the actors shrieked and performed for their own amusement, Angela and Stephen would whisper together, marking them up or down.
Of course they had their favourites, but they were sensitive to each other’s preferences. Angela, perhaps inevitably, didn’t like Nicola; Stephen didn’t much like Gerald O’Donovan, a solicitor in his early thirties, who had once helped Angela over some tricky pronunciations when she’d had to prompt a production of Molière.
Gerald was a bachelor, tall and thin with a mocking self-confidence. His forehead was high and bony, framed by elegantly groomed, dark hair, parted in the middle; he had a long aquiline nose, and an over-active left eyebrow which would arch at the slightest provocation. Stephen felt nervous in his company, sensing that he, Stephen, was the subject of some private joke. In the current production, he was cast as Aimwell; Nicola as Dorinda.
Both Stephen and Angela agreed that Robin Roberts, an estate agent, playing Archer, was an oily creep and not at all right for the part. He was forty, barely five foot six, plump, with a thinning head of reddish hair that he smeared over his balding crown.
And then there was Mrs Brownsword, who was Lady Bountiful but far too old and far too fat for her role, as usual, and they doubted she would ever learn her lines. They liked her though; she was very good-natured and had a deep-rooted chuckle which made her unnaturally brown curls bob and bounce, her eyes narrow into slits and disappear in the folds of her face and her little round body rock backwards and forwards. She was an old friend of June Pagett, and the only one of the company who remained completely unperturbed by June’s barbed comments, even when they were directed at her, as they often were when she couldn’t remember her lines. In truth, Mrs Brownsword could not have managed to get through a performance without Angela or Stephen feeding her the script, and she, in turn, fed them chocolates from a box of Quality Street that permanently resided in the bottom of her bag.
Maybe because it was a hot summer’s day and the actors wanted to be elsewhere; maybe it was because June Pagett had a hangover from a dinner the night before, or maybe because Stephen was unable to put Elsie’s melodramatic ultimatum out of his mind, but that afternoon’s rehearsal was bad-tempered and prolonged. As June drove the actors through the scenes, Stephen’s level of concentration wavered and he missed a number of moves. This became evident when there was a dispute over what had been agreed in a particular scene, and Nicola was involved, which made it worse. He had blushed redder than usual when she had greeted him upon her arrival, and the whole afternoon he had been unable to look her in the eyes. When the disagreement over the moves arose, she turned to him, appealing for his support, but all he could do was grow red and look foolish. She gave a disappointed shake of her head and turned away. Mrs Pagett was less restrained.
‘Really, Stephen, what’s got into you this afternoon? I rely on you to faithfully record what we decide. The Stage Manager’s book is the only record we have, the only documentation of our artistic process. It’s the transcript of my thoughts, my creativity… I need it. We all need it… We don’t want to have to start from scratch again because no one can agree on what was decided. If you can’t concentrate, hand the book over to Angela and go and do something useful. Have a look at those props of hers. The majority of them just will not do, will not do at all – quite the wrong period. Now then, darlings, we’ll have a quick tea break and then on to Act Two, scene one, with Dorinda and Mrs Sullen. Angela, have you put the kettle on?’
The afternoon dragged on. June was having difficulty with a scene involving the oily Robin Roberts and Mrs Pagett’s au pair, who had been forced by her indomitable employer to take the part of Cherry, the landlord’s daughter, as a means of improving her English. She was a student from Romania, in her early twenties, tall, plain and lumpy. No shrinking violet, Roxanne seemed to view the whole proceedings with ill-concealed contempt, and when required to do so, stalked the stage with an arrogant toss of her head.
‘Lof ess I kernow not what eet coms I kernow not ow an goes I kernow not wayne’
‘Very well, an apt scholar.’ And following the stage direction, Robin Roberts put out his hand and tickled Roxanne under her chin. She immediately slapped his hand away and boxed his ear.
‘Why you do that? You keep you feelthy hands to yourself…’
Nursing his sore ear, Robin Roberts protested. ‘But I was chucking you underneath the chin – look, you stupid girl, it says here, “Chucks her under the chin”!’
‘Well, I don’t like this chucks. Chuck me, I go. Right?’
‘For goodness sake, let’s get on with it. Roxanne, I’ll explain this scene to you later, but for the moment, can we just concentrate on blocking the movement?’ June’s patience was wearing thin, but, single-minded, she was determined to get to the end of the scene.
The lateness of the hour was ignored, much to the irritation of the other actors. One or two pointedly picked up their bags and hovered by the door, although none was quite brave enough to announce their departure. June had always made it clear that if anyone wanted to be members of the Merlin Players, they had to abide by the rules of the society, and one of the rules was that no one left rehearsal before the producer gave permission.
Stephen, in particular, was getting anxious. The cows had to be brought in for milking at five thirty. Having incurred June’s wrath already this afternoon, he didn’t want to do so again, but the cows could not wait. His face went red, his stomach turned to water and his mouth went dry as he summoned up all his courage to speak.
‘Excuse me, missus, but your time is up. I’m waiting to close the hall. I thought you lot finished half an hour ago. Haven’t you got homes to go to?’
Saved by the caretaker, standing at the back, jingling his keys, his eyes gleaming, teeth bared. Stephen had once whispered to Angela that he was like the crocodile in Peter Pan, who had swallowed an alarm clock, and that he stalked June Pagett in much the same way as the reptile stalked Captain Hook.
June turned to do battle, and as if on cue, the actors chorused their farewells. Stephen, sighing with relief, hurried to put things away.
He became aware that Nicola had detached herself from the main group making their farewells, and was coming over to him. He kept his head down, re-arranging the contents of a box he had just filled.
‘Stephen.’ Her voice was slightly husky and so sweet. ‘Like a ripe apricot,’ he thought to himself, although he didn’t think he’d ever tasted one. The thought sent his senses swimming.
‘Stephen, are you alright?’ She sounded concerned and Stephen was so overcome he could scarcely bring himself to stammer, ‘Yes…I’m fine…thanks.’
‘Only you seemed preoccupied this afternoon. I’m not used to you looking so miserable.’
‘Was I? …Sorry.’
‘You’re not fed up with us, are you?’
‘With you?’ Stephen was amazed.
‘Only it would be awful if you were. Mind you, with an afternoon like this one, I wouldn’t blame you. Honestly, I don’t know how you put up with us.’
‘No, no, really, it’s not you. I love…’ Confused, Stephen became increasingly overheated. Little beads of perspiration broke out on his top lip and his hands became damp and sticky. He stuck them nervously into the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders. ‘I love it, really. Just had some…it’s nothing. Really.’
‘Good, I’m so r
elieved,’ she touched him lightly on the arm. ‘We rely on you, Stephen; remember that.’
Stephen, in a daze, watched her rejoin the others, link arms with Gerald O’Donovan, and say something to the group, which made them burst out laughing. He longed to be part of that group, laughing with her, so easy. He could still feel her touch on his arm, hear her voice in his ears, see her sweet, concerned expression.
‘Are you alright, Stephen?’ Angela was at his elbow. She looked hot; her face was moist with perspiration and her wispy hair curled, damp and drab, against her pale freckly skin. ‘Only time is getting on and I know you was worried about the cows. Don’t worry about dropping me off,’ she added, as Stephen, groaning, almost ran around the hall stacking the chairs the actors had not put back. His actions were critically supervised by the caretaker, who slammed tight the windows, bearing his pole triumphantly aloft, having won this round in the ongoing war between himself and June Pagett. She, a wan Romanian Cherry in her wake, left them to it with an imperious farewell, and an instruction ‘not to be late on Tuesday’.
‘When are we ever?’ Stephen growled.
Angela stared at him. She looked worried. ‘I can finish off here, Stephen. If you could take the props in your Land Rover, then I can walk back. I really don’t mind.’
But it was clear she was tired, and Stephen felt ashamed. ‘No, no, ten more minutes won’t make no odds. Cows will moan a bit, but they’ll have to put up with it.’
‘I’ve a better plan. Why don’t I come back with you and give you a hand? We can sort out these wretched props afterwards, then you can drop me back, if you don’t mind?’
The idea appealed to Stephen. He was exhausted by his own thoughts, and having company as sympathetic as Angela’s would be a welcome relief from them. She had met the cows before and wasn’t frightened of the beasts. He looked at her. Her big specs had slipped to the end of her nose; her mouth looked pinched and anxious, her skin blotched, and her chin, which she rubbed when she was nervous, was pink and prominent; her body shrank into the all-purpose dungarees she wore for rehearsals, and the little pink T-shirt emphasised the skinniness of her neck and arms.
‘Poor Angela,’ Stephen thought. ‘What a pity she’s not more attractive.’ He instantly felt ashamed.
‘Great idea. That is, if you’ve nothing better to do?’
Angela, the prospect of a long summer evening alone in her bed-sit before her, hastily reassured him.
* * *
Her arms round Al’s waist, Alison leaned against his back, protecting herself from the turbulent air whipped up by the speed of the bike. Always aware of the proximity of the lean body in front of her, of her thighs pressed against his, of moving with him as they swooped and cornered, she found the ride itself exhilarating. Having eschewed bikes since that incident in the farmyard, she had forgotten, until Al had taken her to Summerbridge the day before, the sheer physical excitement of being on a bike: the deep growl of the exhaust; the rhythmic sway from side to side as they wove in and out of lines of cars crawling towards the coast, and the thrill of speed when Al opened up the throttle and everyone else was left behind.
He had suggested going down to the coast, and she, not having the faintest idea of where they were going, or how long it would take, had agreed; the bike ride could go on forever, as far as she was concerned. By the time they turned off a narrow lane and bumped across a stony track to a car park, however, her bum was sore and her legs, even though protected by her jeans, were roasting from the exhaust pipes, and she was glad to climb off.
She stood and looked around as Al settled and locked the bike. The car park was little more than a field, and in every direction, cars sparkled in the afternoon sun. Here and there, grouped round open doors and hatchbacks, family groups were picnicking; one or two kites were flying high, almost motionless in the blue sky; nearby, a group of youths were playing a noisy game of football; sitting in their cars, people dozed or were listening to the cricket on their radios, the sound of the commentary floating across from different directions like a wrap-around sound system; and dotted here and there, on the grass, in various stages of undress, people were sunbathing, snogging, or sleeping. Of the sea there was no sign.
Alison turned to Al. He had pulled off his helmet and was grinning. ‘Not the first here, I see.’
She laughed. It was impossible to feel disappointed. ‘Not exactly. But where’s the sea? I thought you said we were going to the seaside?’
‘And so we are. We have to walk the next bit. I hope you’ve got a good head for heights. Come on.’ He started to walk away and for a moment, she stared after him, feeling what? Let down? What had she been expecting? A kiss? They’d only just met, for Chrissake…but he might have taken her hand before he set off…
Al turned, the sunlight glinting off his earring. ‘Ali?’
‘Coming.’ They had the whole afternoon ahead of them, she thought, and anything might happen…
* * *
The rays of the late afternoon sun were slanting low and gold over the farmyard when Charlie arrived home. There was nobody about. Gran’s car was missing from the yard; the kitchen was empty, the dishes from lunch were still on the table and there was no sign of his mother, which was odd; there was no music coming from Alison’s room; and there were no cows in the yard, which meant that Stephen hadn’t arrived back to start the milking.
‘It’s like the bloomin’ Marie Celeste!’ he declared out loud, standing in the middle of the deserted yard and scratching his head. ‘Perhaps they’ve all gone and left me to it – abducted by aliens, never to return. Fat chance!’ He thought about bringing in the cows for the evening milking, but he wasn’t feeling very charitable and was rather hung-over from the afternoon’s drinking. He toyed with going back to Lenny and Paula’s, but decided an evening with the marrieds would depress him even further.
The sun was still quite warm and the air was full of the gentle musings of wood pigeons. He liked this time of day, and rather than slump in front of the telly to watch Red Dwarf, as he had planned (it never failed to cheer him when he was particularly fed up), he thought he would walk across the fields to The Bunch of Grapes. The pub sat on a crossroads about two miles out of Summerstoke, so by the time he walked there, Linda would be open for the evening. He fancied an evening propping up the bar, flirting with Beth and having a chat to Linda. Linda was bright, she might even have a few ideas about how he could get round this stupid plan of Elsie’s.
As it turned out, he didn’t get much of a chance to have a quiet tête à tête with Linda. When he arrived, the door of The Grapes was shut. Having pushed it in vain, Charlie scratched his head, puzzled. It was after six, and in the summer, Stan and Linda opened on the dot to catch potential customers returning home from a day out in the Mendips, or Wookey Hole, Wells, or Glastonbury, all of which were not far away. A main road to Bath and Bristol whizzed past the pub’s front door; the little back lane to Summerstoke bordered one side, and thick, cool, green woods stretched around the back. The darkness of the trees created a natural frame for the old inn, which was built of local stone, aged over the centuries into a deep gold. It had mullioned windows, now winking brightly in the evening sunshine, and was covered with Virginia creeper already turning scarlet.
From an upstairs window, Charlie could hear a child crying and then the sound of Linda’s voice. He called up, and moments later she looked out. She seemed, he thought, a bit stressed.
‘Oh, it’s you, Charlie. I’m running late. Hang on a moment, I’ll be down.’
The door’s locks were scraped back and Linda, a little girl in her nightclothes, dangling on her hip, let him in. Linda looked unwell, he thought. She had no make up on; her cropped hair, normally spiked with gel, lay flat against her head; the large dangling earrings she usually sported were absent, and although she was dressed for work, she was not wearing any shoes, and her lack of heels made her seem sm
aller and vulnerable.
‘Charlie, do us a favour, love. Stan ain’t here, the bar staff haven’t turned up yet and Jessie here won’t settle down. Can you open up and hold the fort for a bit. I don’t expect we’ll be busy for a while. I won’t be long, honest. Give yourself a pint, on the house.’
Charlie was not used to being in the pub so completely alone, at opening time, and he enjoyed himself. A faint smell of polish mingled with the all-pervasive smell of beer and tobacco. The sunlight, glancing in through the windows, lit the motes of dust floating and sparkling in the air, emphasising the shadows in the room where daylight didn’t reach. It wasn’t a large pub, but still had both public and lounge bars. The public bar had a flagstone floor and was dotted with assorted wooden tables and chairs with a number of high stools against the bar for favoured customers, like Charlie. There was a large inglenook fireplace where, except in the hottest weather, Stan usually kept a fire burning. It wasn’t alight today, and the fireplace was full of ash, cigarette butts and crisp papers. Unwashed glasses stood on the bar, along with a number of overflowing ashtrays. Evidently the clearing up from lunchtime had not been completed.
Charlie wandered through into the saloon. It told a similar story. Piles of plates and dirty cutlery had been stacked on the counter. The tables were sprayed with spilt salt and splashes of food. The carpeted floor was littered with used paper napkins and the odd menu, and the chairs had not been pushed back into place. Here, too, the fire was dead in the fireplace.
Charlie was puzzled. Linda took pride in having an immaculate pub and worked hard to keep it so. ‘Odd.’ he muttered. ‘What’s going on?’
A Tangled Summer Page 10