by P. G. Glynn
Wearing her new paisley ensemble beneath a fur coat and feeling a little jittery Marie reached the Brooker building at ten minutes to three. Her meeting with Judith aside, it was so long since she had had to present herself professionally that she was suffering a sudden attack of self-doubt. All the way, on the bus, she had been riding high on the strength of Charles’s faith in her and when she left him at a table in the Corner House to await her return his last words were: ‘You’re on the brink, my Marie, and will soon be back at the top of the bill.’ These caused her to reflect on whether he was thinking wishfully rather than realistically. Despite all evidence, was she still twenty in his head? Did he believe she could play Nancy or Florence again? Ascending the steps to the second floor Marie paused in mid-ascent to take several deep breaths. Then she told herself sternly that whether twenty or forty her acting ability was not in question. If it were, Charles would have been honest when putting her through her paces during the past few days. So she had nothing to fear and, starting today, a new future ahead of her.
She was shown by a middle-aged and heavily made-up blonde secretary into an ante-room and invited to take a seat as Mrs Madison was presently busy. Glad of some breathing space, Marie sat and looked around her.
The walls were virtually papered with photographs, much as Charles’s office walls once were. There was a picture of Vivien Leigh who, three years ago, had won an Oscar for her portrayal of Scarlett O’Hara in GONE WITH THE WIND and nearby was one of her husband Laurence Olivier as Mercutio at the Old Vic, which was bombed last year. John Gielgud was depicted as Richard of Bordeaux and Peggy Ashcroft, Diana Wynyard and Flora Robson had all signed their photos. Marie recognised Irene Vanbrugh, costumed for her part in Maugham’s farce CAROLINE, and her gaze then alighted in turn upon Sybil Thorndike, Winifred Oughton, Bransby Williams and Jean Simmons. Ah, and here was Edith Evans, standing with Cedric Hardwicke in a scene from Emlyn Williams’s THE LATE CHRISTOPHER BEAN! Edith was somewhat ubiquitous, wasn’t she? Was she also Welsh, like Marie? With such a surname she might well be.
One thing was certain: if these artistes and the others gazing out from within their frames were all managed by Brooker’s, Marie was potentially in illustrious company. And Judith had not been wrong in her claim that Dorothy Madison wielded power in theatrical management. It was certainly in Marie’s interests to give of her best when she and Mrs Madison met. Glancing after a while at her watch she saw to her astonishment that it was almost four o’clock. The hour had passed remarkably quickly, punctuated by the clicking of the typewriter and by the secretary’s nasal voice answering the telephone that rang virtually non-stop.
+++++
“Has your boss forgotten me?” Marie asked, leaving her seat and approaching the desk as the telephone rang yet again.
“Fat chance,” answered the woman disinterestedly after she had dealt with the caller. “I’ve never known her be forgetful. She has a memory like an elephant – and will see you when she’s good and ready.”
Conscious of Charles waiting patiently for her at Lyons Corner House and objecting to the cavalier way she was being treated, Marie queried: “When might that be?”
“Search me!”
“That isn’t good enough.”
“Beg pardon?” The baby blue eyes opened wide beneath their astonishingly black lashes.
“I’m suggesting that perhaps you can do better – and tell me whether Mrs Madison currently has someone with her.”
“Not as far as I know, but,” she glanced toward a big mahogany door Marie had not noticed before, “she’s … on the telephone.”
“I’ll knock, then, before entering.”
“You can’t go in there!”
“Oh, can’t I?” asked Marie, advancing purposefully. “Just watch me!”
She knocked and almost at once a throaty voice responded: “Come!”
Marie turned the brass doorknob and entered the inner sanctum. That was how it struck her, for whereas the anteroom and secretary’s office were chiefly functional Dorothy Madison’s office was sumptuous. From the soft carpet, textured dark green walls and rich gold velour curtains, closed now in keeping with blackout regulations, to the fire burning in the far grate, the room was more like a private salon than a workplace. Such photographs as graced these walls were all mounted and framed to tone with the décor. Marie saw Margaret Lockwood, Dulcie Gray, John Mills and a fine portrait of Robert Donat before directing her gaze toward the large leather-inlaid desk to the right of the fireplace and concentrating on the woman who sat behind it, leaning back in her chair and smoking a cigarette through a long black holder.
The room was dimly lit, which seemed to Marie a little odd. There was something even odder about Mrs Madison’s face, which was very sculptured, almost as if chiselled in stone, and unnaturally pale. Clearly it owed more to make-up than to nature. The vivid red lips were testament to that, as were the false black lashes and the thin eyebrows arched in perfect bows. Marie was seeing a kind of perfection and yet feeling uneasy, for this face had the quality of a work of art … or a mask. Framed as they were with straight coal-black hair reminiscent of Cleopatra, the features seemed surreal and certainly lacked any hint of character.
After drawing deeply on her cigarette, Dorothy Madison exhaled smoke through pinched nostrils and said: “Sit down, Miss Howard. Why stand on ceremony after barging in on me?”
“Barging … ?” Marie began, at a loss to understand. “I hardly barged, given that our appointment was for over an hour ago and that when I knocked you invited me in.”
“So I did! Are you saying that you dislike being kept waiting?”
“I suppose I am.” Reminding herself where she was and the importance of forming a rapport with this strange woman, Marie seated herself and said: “Though I do know how busy you are. Judith Brodie told me … ”
“Ah, yes – Judith!” Mrs Madison butted in. “It’s thanks to her that you are here since I wouldn’t otherwise have considered seeing someone of your age and inexperience. However, she spoke so well of you that I was intrigued. Having seldom known her to be wrong about an artiste’s potential – she sends her best students to me, you see - I value Judith’s opinion.”
Marie said uneasily: “I might have little recent experience, but before living abroad I was an actress of some standing.”
“So I gather. Judith mentioned the Tavistock Theatre …?” the husky voice left the sentence in mid-air.
There was a timbre within the huskiness that Marie found oddly familiar. It made her uncomfortable and she also felt pressured because the need to prove herself outweighed her need to pause and think. “Yes, prior to my marriage I was leading lady there – playing opposite Charles Brodie in his Dickensian Company. My reviews,” she continued, when Dorothy Madison showed no inclination to comment, “were outstanding. One, by the foremost critic of the day, said – I seem to remember - that I set London alight and gave the role of Nancy new life.”
After drawing deeply again on her cigarette in the ensuing silence Dorothy smiled with her mouth but not with her eyes, which seemed to Marie to harden. “And when was this moment of glory?” she enquired.
“Back in 1919.”
“Ah!”
Feeling diminished both by Mrs Madison’s tone and facial expression, Marie hastened to justify herself: “I know that seems a long time ago, but I haven’t forgotten how to … ”
“ … play a role? Show me. Here’s a speech from MACBETH.” She pushed a dog-eared script across her desk. “Read the passage I’ve marked in red.”
It was one of the pieces she had read for Judith, which made Marie more optimistic since she concluded that the two women knew of a forthcoming production for which they were trying her out. The fact that they both had an odd manner was neither here nor there. Proving herself was all that was important. She took a deep breath and read: “‘They met me in the day of success; and I have learn’d by the perfect’st report they have more in them than mortal knowl
edge … ’” As she relaxed into Lady Macbeth’s character, Marie forgot herself. She was in Inverness, reading the letter her husband had sent ... losing all sense of London and any other identity.
“That will do,” Mrs Madison said, before Marie reached the passage’s end. “I’ve heard enough to establish that you haven’t totally lost your edge. So, I have an offer for you.”
“You have?” She was still Lady Macbeth but did her best to revert to herself again.
“Yes: with the C.E.M.A. touring company that Sybil Thorndike and Lewis Casson will shortly be taking through Wales. It will be a ten-week stint, during which they’ll take Shakespeare to thirty-eight towns in Welsh mining areas, under the auspices of the Miners’ Welfare Association.” There was a pause before: “Sybil and Lewis need a … soubrette.”
This took some digesting in many respects. “Soubrette?” Marie echoed.
Mrs Madison spread her hands expressively. “I know that, given your circumstances, the Welsh valleys might not seem as attractive as the West End and that strictly speaking, you are too old for that type of role, but we could make an exception – and what else did you expect?”
“After being asked to read Lady Macbeth, I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear the word ‘soubrette’! I didn’t think the term was even used any longer, in the modern theatre.”
“And I didn’t think modernity featured in the vocabulary of a … a has-been!”
Startled, Marie stared at Dorothy Madison. As she stared it was as if the layers of paint on that meticulously constructed face lifted, bit-by-bit, bringing into the present a dark spectre from the past. Goose flesh rose on the back of Marie’s neck and a shiver ran the length of her spine as she breathed in disbelief: “Not Dolly … Dolly Martin?”
The face contorted into an expressive grimace and the voice that had been so husky was now high-pitched. “Yes, dearie, it’s me! You must be a half-wit, or else too conceited to see the wood for the trees. But we both know all about your conceit, don’t we? Lady Macbeth, indeed! You’re still rooted in 1919. Well, I’ve news for you: the world has moved on, leaving you where you belong – in Fantasy Land. It’s pure fantasy, Miss Hoity-Toity Howard, if you think for one second that you can do again as you did back then. Professionalism is what’s needed these days – and it’s hard to imagine anyone less professional than you. Oh, don’t look so self-righteous, as if you’ve forgotten the manner in which you stepped into my shoes! I can never forget, let alone forgive you – not that you’ve ever asked my forgiveness. To do so would need a degree of humility that you don’t possess. Well, we’ve come full circle finally, and my, how I relish this opportunity to take my revenge!”
Stunned, Marie said: “It was you, not me, who was unprofessional back then. Had I not stepped in when I did … ”
“The curtain would have risen on Dolly Martin and OLIVER TWIST would have been twice the success it proved to be with a silly little soubrette masquerading as Nancy – and insinuating herself into Charles Brodie’s bed! Are you and he still shagging, dearie, or are you both past that just as you’re long past being an actress?”
“How you must hate me!” Marie breathed, seemingly rooted to her seat.
“That’s an understatement. My feelings toward you go deeper than hatred, while I’m endlessly indebted to Sarah Hodgkiss. Remember old Sarah? She was more than a dresser. For me she was salvation in disguise. It’s thanks to her that I rose from the gutter to become the most influential woman in the acting profession. Her advice was to forget being an actress and go instead into management. Not that, as you’ve just seen, I took her advice entirely: my performance today is surely worthy of an Oscar! Which brings us both to this moment,” she smiled and lit another cigarette, “thanks in part of course to my good friend Judith Brodie.”
Marie had wondered, foggily, where Judith fitted in. She asked: “What have I ever done to make her so vindictive?”
“You hooked Guy just as you did his father. No woman wants a half-hearted husband. So when Charles asked Judith’s help in respect of a comeback for his precious Marie she was more than ready to direct you toward me. His call represented manna from heaven for us both, actually. Any more questions?”
It had all begun to make sense. Judith’s ‘unfortunate’ manner was actually an attempt to cover up her underlying deep dislike. A lesser actress than Dolly, she had struggled with her performance but had nevertheless led Marie to expect that today’s meeting represented a new beginning. Instead of which, this was the end – a reality that had not sunk in yet. “I find myself wondering how you two met,” she said, her voice as dull as her spirits.
“It was just after Guy went off to war,” Dolly answered. “We were introduced at the First Night of a Shaw revival. I heard the name Brodie and was galvanised! I then did some delving and have been kept in the picture ever since. The theatrical world is a small one, Marie - and I am its undisputed queen. If you doubt me, put it to the test. You’ll soon find what it means to be blacklisted and to have doors systematically closed on you, just as the Tavistock’s and others were closed on me after you started bedding Charles Brodie.”
Mention of Charles brought Marie to her feet. The thought of him still patiently awaiting her at the Corner House had given renewed strength to her legs and she was no longer the weakling she had been.
“I shan’t be lingering,” she said, “to listen to any more of your distortions. You wouldn’t recognise the truth if I hit you over the head with it, so I won’t waste my energy. You’re to be pitied, Dolly, for the bitterness eating you from within – and for today’s charade, with your dyed hair and painted mask and power-complex. Your personal life must be a vacuum for you still to be so grotesquely preoccupied with me. I’ll bet your nights are lonely and cold and that any power you hold seems meaningless as you lie awake wondering why you are so alone. I reckon that the sad life you’ve led has sent you gaga. Macbeth said, didn’t he, in relation to Duncan’s murder, ‘this blow might be the be-all and end-all’? Well, for your information the blow you’ve tried to deliver today has missed its mark. I’m so happy with Charles, and feel so loved by him that I’d been wondering whether I still wanted a theatrical career. My heart doesn’t belong in the theatre the way it once did. I kept this appointment more to please him than for my own sake, since he was keen for me to return to the stage. And I’m glad I kept it, because it has been a revelation to see you again. I’ve been reading a book recently – Rider Haggard’s SHE. Have you read it? I reckon that when you remove the paint and plaster that’s holding your face in place you’ll disintegrate just as she did, which is a fascinating image that I’ll take back with me into the real world.” Marie had reached the door, which she now opened – turning to deliver her final line: “Goodbye, Dolly – I’ll leave you and your fellow serpent to reflect on my happiness!”
50
Charles agonised over the fact that it was thanks to him Marie had walked into a trap. He had set up her initial meeting with his daughter-in-law and didn’t listen to her concerns over Judith’s manner and motives. But then, in his own defence, how could he have envisaged all that had happened since? He was a mere man, still bewildered by the mechanisms that made some women tick. It was beyond his imagining that Judith had plotted with Dorothy Madison who, in her former incarnation, was Dolly Martin.
He shuddered to think of Marie entering the web that Dolly and Judith had woven together and then reading Lady Macbeth while Dolly prepared to tear her limb from limb. Not that Marie had been torn. True to form, she had retaliated before ensuring that she had the last word. Nevertheless her encounter with Dolly had had an effect. Was there no end to the repercussions from that unforgettable day in 1919 when Marie Howard stepped into Dolly Martin’s shoes and into his consciousness?
The worst thing was the loss of hope. His hopes had been so high that Marie’s name would soon be back in lights and now the chances of that seemed remote. Dorothy Madison’s addiction to power and revenge meant paying
attention to her threats. Marie refused to see a problem. She said that all along his hopes had been higher than hers and that therefore his disappointment went deeper than hers did. Was she just saying this to comfort him or did she mean it? A week on from her meeting Charles realised that his best bet was to tackle the subject again.
The realisation hit him as they sat with Nell in her kitchen, a cup of tea in their hands and a cat in each of their laps. He observed casually: “I still feel that I should ring Judith and tell her exactly what I think of her.”
“You’d just be playing into their hands,” Marie told him. “They’ll be expecting something of that sort and would relish it, for it would tell them they had won. But they haven’t. We have each other and our love. What do they have by comparison?”
“Nothing!” said Nell stoutly. “They’re sad people, to behave like that.”
“Especially Judith,” Charles muttered. “After all, she’s family. I dread to think what Guy will have to say about this.”
“Who will tell him about it?” asked Marie. “Not Judith.”
“I shall,” said Charles. “He’ll have to be told what kind of woman he’s married to.”
“What good would that do?”
“It’d do me a power of good, to get everything off my chest.”
“And then?”
Charles looked bemused. “Then it would be up to Guy how to proceed next.”
“Judith’s his wife … and the mother of his children. He’s away fighting for King and country. The last thing he needs upon his homecoming is the news that Judith and Dolly are in conspiracy against me. Unless,” Marie added as an afterthought, “Judith tells him herself.”
“She’ll never do that,” said Nell. “Why would she?”
“It’s unlikely, I agree,” answered Marie pensively. “In any event, I expect the truth will emerge some day. Truth has a horrible habit of emerging whether we want it to or not. But I believe we’d be demeaning ourselves by having a hand in this particular emergence.”