by Nicola Upson
Josephine laughed, picturing the scene in her mind. ‘So what happened? Hester obviously got her own way about becoming an actress.’
‘She took lessons in private at first. No one found out – they all thought she was still intending to take money under false pretences by teaching an instrument she could never hope to learn, but it was only a matter of time before she got a part. Cornelia Carlyle in East Lynne, I think it was – a maiden lady of a certain age. No one could accuse that director of typecasting: Hester was such a pretty young thing. These days, it’s about looking the part whether you can act it or not, but then there was a fetish for never letting people play their own age.’ He was right, but Josephine hadn’t come here for a discourse on modern theatre and she moved him on as subtly as she could. ‘There was a hell of a row,’ he continued. ‘As far as Hester’s family was concerned, actresses were no better than prostitutes; they both painted their faces, especially Hester for that first part – she always said she looked like a close-up of Clapham Junction, there were so many lines. But they really did believe that actresses were fallen women, you know – they must have thought she’d found her vocation in Maria, bless her. Then there was all the money that had gone to waste on piano lessons, when she’d chosen to sleep on the Embankment and die in the gutter. It’s easy to see where she got her sense of drama from, isn’t it?’
‘I hadn’t realised that it was such a struggle,’ Josephine said. ‘I knew there was trouble over Walter, but not over the theatre in general.’
‘Walter was all part of it, I suppose. Hester was simply proving them right by running off with her leading man. A flagrant disregard of loyalty and morality, they called it – but you will never see a couple more loyal and more devoted than those two.’
‘When did you meet them?’
‘In 1901, at the Assembly Halls in Durham. I was sixteen, and they hired me for a pound and a shilling a week to play walk-on parts, open the show with a song and make myself generally useful. There were no contracts and no written agreements – just a handshake and a promise, and I’ve never regretted that. It’s how I work to this day.’
‘What was it like, being on tour at that time?’ Josephine had vowed to stick to questions about Hester, but she had been sucked in as always by the romance of theatre, and she allowed herself a brief diversion.
‘Magic, pure magic. Utterly exhausting, but we were far too excited to notice. We played halls and corn exchanges, mostly in towns that didn’t have their own theatre, and we took everything with us, including the stage. The staff – if I can use such a grand term for a crew of four – built the whole thing up from scratch.’
‘I’ve seen some of the sets,’ Josephine said. ‘They were in Hester’s garage when I first went to the cottage.’
‘Then you’ll know how makeshift and how splendid they were. We built the stage on trestles, and often had to run the gas to the stage from the other side of the building, but I promise you something – that curtain was never late. And I was being paid to see the whole country – seventy-odd towns in five months.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘I’ll never forget how I felt when I walked onto the station platform and saw the notice on the carriage window: “Reserved for the Walter Paget Company”. And I had a right to be there. It was freedom, especially at that age, and a very fine life. It still is.’
Josephine remembered her conversation with Jane Peck, and how the secretary had said that Slaughter seemed to prefer his garden to acting these days, but he didn’t strike her as a man who was jaded with the stage; he sounded like the man who had listed his hobby as ‘work’ in Who’s Who; perhaps it was just the sadness of the occasion that had made him seem tired of the profession. ‘What was Hester like to work with?’ she asked.
‘Unforgettable. It was Walter’s company, but she was the lifeblood of it, a real force of nature. I was terrified of her until she’d licked me into shape. She was a martinet about language and pronunciation, and I still had a trace of my Geordie accent back then. It infuriated Hester. Every rehearsal she’d shout at me if I lapsed. She did it in a performance once. Her voice rang out through the house, and I was so embarrassed. I never did it again, so I suppose her parents got their way after all – she was a marvellous teacher.’
‘And as an actress?’
‘Oh, she loved the limelight – literally. She insisted that the spots followed her all over the stage, and she’d curse the crew if they didn’t do as they were told. I can hear her now: “Put the lights on me, you fool! They’ve never seen a dress like this in Ulverston before!”’
It was a great story, and Josephine could tell that Slaughter was enjoying himself as much as she was. ‘It sounds as though Hester was just honest enough to say what all actresses are thinking,’ she said.
‘Yes, you’re right there, but she was good enough to get away with it. She was a great comic actress – I’ve still never seen a finer Beatrice to this day. But she spent most of her years tearing every passion to tatters, and she was good at that, too. She became a real barnstormer – it was in her blood, and audiences loved her for it. The Elephant was a rough old theatre, but she could charm the birds out of the trees and the money out of a miser’s pocket, and she knew how to play to a crowd.’
‘So that’s where you get it from.’
‘Oh, I’ll always be a novice compared to Hester. She had two speeches on tour, one for an opening night and one for closing.’ He got to his feet, turning the anecdote into a full performance and giving a passable rendition of the Inverness accent. ‘“Ladies and gentlemen,” she’d say, “thank you for the splendid reception you have given us tonight. It has been like renewing an acquaintance with old friends, but nowhere do I feel I have so many good friends as here at . . .”’ He shrugged. ‘Wigan, Rhyl, Morpeth . . . wherever we happened to be. Cue loud applause, usually led by one of the stage crew who’d nipped round to the stalls. Then she’d run through what we were doing that week. On Saturday night, she would shed tears on behalf of us all at the thought of leaving Wigan or Rhyl or Morpeth, then brighten when she remembered she was booked to return the following year. She’d always finish with “And now ladies and gentlemen, I will not say goodbye, only auf wiedersehen until we meet again.” Obviously that became au revoir after 1914, but I’d left by then.’
He sat down again, and Josephine poured more him more tea. ‘You took on Richmond and Croydon Hippodromes before the war, didn’t you?’
Slaughter twinkled at her. ‘You’ve done your homework. Yes, I did. It was too good an opportunity to miss, and Hester and Walter insisted I go – but it was as though a milestone had gone, as though I’d lost something that would never come again. I didn’t know back then that I’d be able to recreate the spirit of all that with Jenny, and with Hester’s blessing. I’ve been very lucky.’ And worked very hard, Josephine thought; it was a completely different world from the theatre she was used to, with different obstacles and different pressures, and she had an enormous respect for those who had made a go of it. ‘And do you know, Josephine – you don’t mind if I call you Josephine? – Hester and Walter came to every new production that I did at those theatres. They were so loyal. They’d sit in the middle of the front row, and as soon as the lights went down, she’d lean over to him and squeeze his hand and whisper: “Oh Walter! I do so love a play, don’t you?” And she was right – there’s nothing like it. I’m grateful to the films – not every actor is fortunate enough to have that to fall back on now that so many of the houses we toured to have become cinemas – but it’s the theatre I love.’
‘It must have devastated Hester to give it up.’
‘Yes. When Walter died she lost the two great loves of her life – there was never going to be one without the other. I’ll never forget that night, or the look on her face when she knew he was gone. You know he died on stage, playing Corder?’
Josephine nodded. ‘You were there?’
‘Yes. I’d come back to work at the Elephant with them
for a bit. Hester asked me to when she realised that it was getting to be too much for Walter, running the whole thing on his own as well as two performances a night. They both hoped I’d take the place on eventually, which I did – but it was supposed to be after Walter’s retirement, not his death.’ He stared at the floor, thinking back, and Josephine could see him reliving the night. ‘He died during the murder scene, ironically enough. Maria’s last laugh, Hester said afterwards – the only time I ever heard bitterness in her voice. His heart just gave out. You’d never believe the life could go out of someone so quickly. It was chaos for a while. There were people trying to revive him and pandemonium in the audience, but Hester just stood there in the middle of the stage. She knew there was nothing to be done – she felt it the moment he died – and I’ve never seen anyone so alone. Crowds everywhere, but they didn’t exist for her. And I feared for her then, Josephine. I honestly didn’t think she’d get through it.’
‘I imagine the fact that she did was partly down to you. It must have helped to have friends who truly understood what that double loss meant to her.’
‘That’s hard to say, really. Yes, she had lots of friends in the theatre, but Walter was her soulmate and when you find that with someone, other people are on a different level, aren’t they?’
It was another way of saying thus far and no further, Josephine thought. ‘There was another friend mentioned in her will,’ she said casually. ‘Dilys Nichols?’
‘Ah, yes. Dilys was her dresser. She worshipped Hester and was incredibly loyal to her. I’m not surprised that Hester would remember that.’
‘Hester left her all her furs.’
Slaughter threw back his head and roared. ‘That’s marvellous. Dilys is in a nursing home – has been for years – and she’ll love that, lording it over the rest of them in Miss Larkspur’s furs.’
Another dead end, Josephine thought. It might have been a good idea in theory but, as entertaining as the afternoon had been, these stories of Hester’s ‘old life’ had thrown no light whatsoever on her death. Before she could raise the subject of the funeral and who was there, Slaughter said: ‘It was such a shame that she couldn’t manage the film of Maria Marten.’
‘How did you even persuade her to consider it?’
‘With fine dining and a case of Tio Pepe, I seem to remember. It cost me a fortune, but it was worth every penny to hear her say yes. She was always a fool for Maria. There was a kinship there, and God knows that girl’s had few enough friends over the years.’ ‘Kinship’ was an interesting word to use, and Josephine asked him what he meant. ‘I suppose they were both outsiders, in a way – isolated from their own communities by the choices they made. Hester always said that no one ever considered Maria as a real woman, and that was always how she played her. She’d have done the same with old Mrs Marten.’
For a moment, Josephine considered telling the actor about Lucy Kyte and the diary, but time was pressing and she still had things she wanted to ask. ‘Hester’s eyesight stopped her taking the role, though?’
‘Yes. It took a lot of courage for her to admit that she wasn’t up to it. She would have been splendid, too, and I’d have loved to work with her again. She’d certainly have given Milton Rosmer a run for his money: Hester and a director – now that would have been interesting! In some ways it was a blessing, though – she’d have hated what they did to the story. Her story, as she’d come to think of it. It was cut to half the length for cinema. All the supernatural stuff was taken out – Mrs Marten’s dreams and Maria’s ghost – and we weren’t even allowed to show the hanging.’
‘Really?’ Josephine asked, fascinated by what was deemed too shocking – or too incredible – for a film audience.
‘Yes. We shot the procession and the gallows scene, but they would only give the film a certificate if it was cut. It was the same with Sweeney. We couldn’t show an actual murder; all I do is wave a razor and cackle.’ He did it for her, rubbing his hands and slipping effortlessly into the voice and the face. ‘Bloody censors. I really would like to polish them off. Mind you, Hester would probably have got round that. Do you know the story of how The Old Women was put on?’ Josephine recognised the name of the Grand Guignol play that she had mentioned to Marta, but that was all she knew and she shook her head. This time, Slaughter’s chuckle was genuine. ‘It was thanks to Hester that it went on at all. She was friendly with a vicar in Suffolk. Stephen something.’
‘Stephen Lampton. He’s still there.’
‘Really? Nice chap, as I recall. But the play was the most shocking thing that had been put on, even in Paris. The Lord Chamberlain would never have passed it. But Hester thought of a way round it. Stephen had a hall licensed in Polstead for stage plays in the parish, so she sent the script to him, with the reading fee and the draft of a letter he was to send to His Lordship, saying he wanted to produce the play in the village hall to raise money for a new scout hut. The licence was issued by return of post, and the play went on there in the very next bill.’
‘Is that really true?’
‘Absolutely. All hell broke loose when the play was reviewed in the press, and it caused a huge sensation. It’s a wonder the theatre wasn’t closed down. It didn’t do them any good in the end, of course. The Lord Chamberlain was on their backs all the time after that, and it was the end of the whole thing, but it was a small triumph for free speech – which I gather your vicar is all in favour of. And Hester – well, I should think she’s still laughing, wherever she is.’
It amused Josephine to think of the serious-minded vicar involved in a conspiracy to pull the wool over the Lord Chamberlain’s eyes. Slaughter was about to tell her something else, but they were interrupted by a tentative knock at the door and one of the younger members of the cast put his head round. ‘Sorry, Mr Slaughter, but is there any chance of that loan we talked about?’
The actor raised his eyes to the heavens in mock weariness, and took a ten-shilling note out of his pocket. ‘They’ll be the death of me,’ he said good-naturedly to Josephine when the lad had gone, and she was struck again by the paternal kindness he showed towards his company.
‘Did you visit Hester at the cottage very often?’ she asked.
Slaughter lit another cigarette. ‘Yes, I did. It was so exciting to be where it all happened, and Hester’s young people, as she called us, were always welcome. It was peaceful, too, especially during the war. I was in the Royal Flying Corps, but I’d often spend my leave in Suffolk. You could get away from everything there. It was a tiny pocket of fantasy. She had a gift for that, Hester – for creating a world where none of the distressing inconveniences of life could touch her, not even war. Less so, Walter. He wanted to fight, but he was too old and his heart was bad, even then. But Hester was an escapist: if something was too painful, she simply shut it out. I often thought that was why she was so good at creating fantasy for others – she did it for herself, to keep her own demons at bay.’
‘What sort of demons? If she and Walter were so happy—’
‘Oh they were,’ Slaughter interrupted her. ‘But there was a part of Hester that always regretted not having a family. Walter never wanted children. It wouldn’t have fitted with their lifestyle, and Hester sacrificed that side of herself to be with him – but it was a sacrifice and there were times when it affected her more than she ever admitted to him. She had a friend back in Inverness – it must have been your mother, I suppose – whom she envied deeply for that settled family life.’
Josephine thought back to the letter she had read. ‘There were times when my mother envied Hester her freedom and her adventures, too,’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m sure there were. But Hester could never quite escape the guilt of her life with Walter,’ Slaughter explained. ‘When he died the way he did – on stage, doing what had brought them together – Hester saw that as some kind of retribution, I think, an inevitable consequence of how their relationship had started. The trouble you mentioned earlier.’
‘I don’t know much about that,’ Josephine admitted, remembering what Hester had told Rose Boreham: ‘Everything beautiful has a cost.’ ‘What happened?’
‘She broke off an engagement with a local man in Inverness.’
‘But that was years before Walter’s death. Surely she wasn’t still feeling guilty about it then?’
‘It reared its ugly head again – in this very theatre, in fact. Quite a scene, there was, and it brought back all the old ill feeling. We were backstage after the first night of The Old Women. I wasn’t in the play myself, but Hester had invited Jenny and me, and we were all in the green room having a drink to celebrate. The performance had been quite a triumph and Hester was magnificent in it – it was a great night for her, until this woman turned up out of the blue. Don’t ask me how she got past the stage doorman, but she started screaming at Hester, accusing her of ruining her life and saying the most diabolical things. I’ll never forget it – all that poison pouring out in a voice as beautiful as yours. You sound so much like Hester, you know. Not even years of ranting in third-rate theatres could destroy that voice of hers. If I close my eyes and listen to you now, it’s as though she’s in the room again.’
At any other time, Josephine would have been delighted with the compliment, but she was trying to make sense of what Slaughter had told her. She should have realised that Hester’s old life meant her home town; in her heart, Hester had been an actress until her dying day and she would never have described the theatre in that way. ‘So Hester knew this woman from Inverness,’ she clarified, just to be sure.
‘Yes. I can’t remember her name – I’m not sure I ever knew it – but she was the jilted fiancé’s sister. It turned out that he’d had a stroke a few years earlier, and – in the absence of a wife – his care had fallen to his sister. She blamed Hester, of course; in her eyes, Hester was responsible for everything that was wrong with her life. It should have been Hester tied to the sickbed, not her, and she was determined to have her say. I’m not sure what she thought it was going to achieve, but it was a marvellous performance; if she hadn’t been so unpleasant, I’d have offered her a job on tour.’ It was a joke, but Josephine was too preoccupied to acknowledge it; her thoughts were racing, but the conclusion they had brought her to made no sense. She opened her mouth to ask if Slaughter had ever seen the woman again, but he pre-empted her. ‘And do you know what? She had the damned cheek to turn up at Hester’s funeral. She tried to talk to me – I don’t suppose she realised I’d been there when she made such a disgraceful show of herself – and I’m afraid I had to be quite rude to her.’