‘You know, I’ve always liked this girl.’ Tom patted her on her smooth auburn head. ‘And I feel by the pricking of my thumbs—which are very reliable thumbs in these matters—that she’s going to be our lucky mascot.’
Gail refrained from asking what his thumbs had been doing two hours ago, when he was sure that neither she nor anyone else could rescue his show from disaster. Tom was, as he had himself said modestly on more than one occasion, something of a genius. And geniuses must be permitted a few inconsistencies.
That at least she had learned from the Bannisters!
The next few days were the most crowded and concentrated she had ever known. Indeed, it was sheer necessity as well as inclination which decided her not to contact anyone in her usual circle with the news that she was back in London. Better they should assume that she was still away.
Particularly did she feel this was the case with Madame Marburger who might, for all she knew, strenuously object to her taking part in anything so far removed from her usual type of work. Not that Gail did not feel able to stand up to almost any kind of opposition nowadays. She had learned a great deal in the last few months. But if all friction could be avoided before the great first night, that was all to the good.
For the first time in her life she had the delightful experience of being fitted for highly glamorous stage clothes. Her Greek costume was enchanting, her Spanish one almost shockingly striking, but the really beautiful costume was the one for her third appearance.
This was to be in the central act of the evening. It was a short romantic drama set in seventeenth-century France, and Gail simply had to make an appearance as an opera singer of the period and sing a couple of Lully airs, which had considerable dramatic point in the play. It was necessary that her costume should be a real show-stopper, and this was the kind of thing that Reuben Arrowmead’s stage designers could do to perfection.
Never had Gail supposed that she could look as she did when she surveyed herself in the long stage mirror just before the dress rehearsal. And Tom’s uninhibited, ‘Lord! You’re really a beauty, Gail!’ did wonderful things for her ego.
It was not until after the dress rehearsal—a pretty successful dress rehearsal, though a certain amount of hair-tearing went on—that Gail ventured to say to Oliver, ‘Will your family be coming tomorrow night?’
‘But of course! However condescending Father may permit himself to be, there’s great family solidarity about anything like this. He says he thinks it’s going to be a great success. I hope he means it! He has a splendid nose for the subtle perfume of success.’
‘I think it is too, Oliver.’ She smiled encouragingly at him. ‘I can’t tell you why I’m so sure. But it’s going to be all right.’
‘I hope so,’ said Oliver again. ‘I’ve given up being able to judge coolly. I’m just a disgusting mass of nerves. You look cool enough.’ He sounded almost resentful. ‘Aren’t you at all scared?’
‘Not sickeningly so,’ Gail replied with great exactness. ‘I have my shivery moments, of course, when I think of actually being on the stage, with the theatre full. But I love my three scenes so much that I can’t believe other people won’t love them too.—Is Marc coming?’ she added casually.
‘Oh, yes, I expect so.’ Oliver spoke nervously and absently.
‘Oliver, do they know I’m in it?’
‘Do who know?’ He looked past her and shouted an irritable direction to one of the stage hands.
‘Your family,’ she said patiently.
‘What?—No, I haven’t had time to talk to any of them in the last few days.’
‘Then please don’t tell them. I’d feel better somehow, if they didn’t know beforehand. I know it probably isn’t of any interest to any of them—’ she paused, not allowing even to herself how eagerly she hoped Oliver would contradict her.
But his thoughts were obviously already on something else and he did not even bother to answer her. So she sighed a little and turned away. Perhaps it was just as well that no personal considerations should be allowed to colour those last few hours of concentrated thought about her work.
When she told Oliver that she was not overwhelmingly nervous it was nothing less than the truth. There was the occasional tremor, of course, on her own behalf, but most of her concern was for him and Tom. For them this revue was the first great test of their artistic collaboration. For her it was undoubtedly an important occasion. But it carried none of the all-consuming terror she would have experienced if she had had to sing Anya on the first night of ‘The Exile’, for instance.
This faint element of detachment—which she allowed herself only when she was not on the stage, of course—stood her in good stead when it came to that famous first night. She was calmer than almost anyone else backstage, and so she was one of the first to detect that indefinable current of delighted approval which began to flow almost immediately between audience and stage.
During her first scene, which was in the Greek skit, she could feel the warmth and good will of the audience coming over the footlights like a living force, and her sheer enjoyment of what she was doing imparted to her performance an unforced gaiety and charm which communicated itself to her colleagues and brought them the first undoubted ovation of the evening.
As she came off the stage she ran into Oliver, who was wandering up and down distractedly, chewing his shapely finger-nails like a frightened schoolboy.
‘Don’t, Oliver darling.’ She gave him an affectionate hug. ‘It’s going marvellously. Can’t you hear it is?’
‘I know—I know. You were terrific.’ He gave her a brief, absent-minded kiss. ‘I just feel it simply can’t go on like this.’
But it did. The evening was described afterwards, not unjustly, as a crescendo of success such as had not been seen and heard in the field of light entertainment for many a long day. Gaiety and mutual enjoyment coursed between audience and players, as though they were all in some delightful conspiracy together to have the time of their lives.
Much of it was sheer scintillating fun. But, mixed in, with a subtlety remarkable in two such young men, Tom and Oliver had provided several moments of real thought-provoking brilliance and touches of nostalgic heartache which added the occasional enjoyable tear to contrast with all the laughter.
Gail stopped the show all right with her entry in the seventeenth-century playlet, and her perfectly straight singing in the Lully arias brought her the kind of curtain that is every singer’s dream.
But the real test of the evening for Gail was the Spanish number. Not only was the actual performance to be delicately balanced between laughter and tears. It was she herself who had suggested the particular way of doing it, and therefore she felt personally responsible for its success or failure.
Just before she went on to the stage she was, for the first time, suddenly and appallingly nervous. The idea of playing it for laughs to begin with and ending on a note of near-tragedy now seemed to her to be nothing but a gimmick. How terrible if the whole show sagged at this point because of her insistence that this was the way to do it!
She heard the familiar, utterly singable opening, and she was on stage almost before she knew what she was doing. Never in her life had she felt less comic. But she found something deep within her—in reality an instinctive vein of delicate comedy—which told her exactly how to play, and slightly overplay, her part.
There was not a breath of crudeness or coarseness, but she was unmistakably the girl who knew how to attract the men with everything in her figure, face and voice. She heard little ripples of appreciative laughter running through the house as she gave just the lilt and emphasis to the irresistible tune, which was to set everyone whistling or singing it the next morning.
Then, at the exact moment when amusement could have turned to uninhibited laughter, the complete change came. One man—obviously the one man who mattered to her—walked past with no more than a flicker of contemptuous rejection.
She stood there, quite still,
just watching him go out of her life. And it was as though he stripped her of all her confidence and her charm, so that her very spirit seemed to droop.
And somehow, as she saw him vanish into the wings, Gail associated him in her own mind with the loss of Marc’s friendship and affection; and she knew, as she had never known before, how to put into her voice the hunger and desolation for the ultimate loss of the one thing that really mattered.
With a little gesture of despairing resignation, she turned away and, half to herself—in a mezzo voce for which Elsa Marburger was certainly responsible!—she sang the catchy, provocative little tune again, and it became a lament for all shattered dreams.
She went slowly from the stage in utter silence. And then the applause came, like a tropical storm.
The song was itself a winner. Everyone knew that with instantaneous recognition. But it was Gail’s presentation of it which sent it to the top pinnacle of success.
Nothing could fail after that, and the final numbers merely added a jewel or two to the diadem of success which already rested securely on the show. Gail remembered little of the rest until the congratulations and kisses and bouquets and applause which closed the performance.
Oliver and Tom Mallender had ‘arrived’. And, beyond any shadow of doubt, Gail Rostall with them.
In all the excitement backstage, after the final fall of the curtain, Gail had little part to play. The two girls with whom she shared a dressing-room had their quota of friends and family to kiss and praise them, but Gail had no one. It was inevitable. For excellent reasons she had deliberately chosen not to tell anyone what she was doing. Even her family were to read of her success only in the next morning’s newspapers.
She felt a trifle forlorn. Until Oliver looked in to thank and congratulate everyone and then drew her aside to whisper, ‘Come to my room. The family want to see you.’
To Gail at that moment ‘the family’ meant above all Marc. And, although he managed to look calm as she accompanied Oliver, in reality her heart was thudding with mingled hope and dread. She had much to explain to him, and very little of it could be done on an occasion such as this. But surely, surely he would receive her kindly at last, and they could make some sort of bridge to a future meeting when full explanations could be made.
When they arrived at Oliver’s room, however, though Quentin Bannister and his wife were conspicuous among the throng, there was no sign of Marc.
Her disappointment was so absolute that she felt strangely like the real-life version of the Spanish girl she had portrayed so successfully. But at least the intensity of her feeling helped her to face the confrontation with Quentin Bannister, if not with indifference, with a certain composure.
‘Well, you naughty girl—’ he surveyed her sternly. ‘I suppose you’re expecting to be forgiven after tonight’s triumph?’
‘I should like to think I might hope to be forgiven,’ she replied, with becoming meekness.
‘On the principle that, if you help one member of the family, you can afford to affront another one, I suppose?’
‘Not—quite.’ Gail felt sure he thought she ought to hang her head at this point, so she looked down fixedly at her shoes. ‘I want to take this chance of saying that I do know how much I owe to you, and that what you taught me will stand me in good stead for the rest of my life. I’m sorry I just couldn’t fulfil your hopes for me entirely, Mr. Bannister. But the fact is that, by standing down over Anya, I did leave the place free for the ideal person, from all accounts.’
‘A lot you cared about that when you slapped Marc and me in the face, and went gallivanting off to Germany on your own.’
‘Did—did Marc also feel that I slapped him in the face, as you put it?’
‘Of course he did. And, family rivalries and stresses being what they are, I don’t expect he’s any better pleased now he finds you were willing to put yourself very much at the service of Oliver’s career, though you wouldn’t even play fair by him.’
‘Oh!’ Gail stopped contemplating her shoes and looked up in sudden horror. ‘You don’t mean that’s how he thinks of it, do you?’
‘Well, of course. How else should he view your behaviour? Well—’ as Gail remained dumb with dismay—‘I suppose those of us who are big enough can take a good deal of ingratitude in our stride.’ By which he evidently meant himself rather than Marc.
But, as he was turning away, Gail caught him by the arm and exclaimed, ‘Mr. Bannister—’
‘All right, all right. You’re forgiven,’ he said magnanimously. But he very firmly removed the fingers which were clenched on his arm and proceeded to talk to someone else.
Gail was desolated. Quentin Bannister’s good humour would extend to no further discussion, she could see, and her hands dropped helplessly to her sides. At the same moment, Mrs. Bannister, whose presence she had completely forgotten, said quietly beside her,
‘Gail dear, this is the second time I have to thank you for a great service to my family.’
‘Mrs. Bannister—’ Gail turned in astonishment to receive the cool, sweet kiss which was deposited on her cheek. ‘I don’t think I—I know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you?’ For a moment Gail had the full impact of the smile which had made Daisy Bannister famous thirty years ago. ‘I know for you it’s primarily your own evening of triumph. But you have also helped to set Oliver on a splendid career, if all the signs mean anything.’
That—yes,’ Gail smiled faintly in return. ‘And I’m very glad it should be so. But, for the rest—Don’t you think I let Marc down very shabbily, then?’
‘Oh, no. Anya had to be played by Spolianska, didn’t she? You knew that. And that was why you removed yourself from the scene.’
‘Mrs. Bannister,’ said Gail again, and rather helplessly this time, ‘how did you know?’
‘Because I am really quite a far-seeing and intelligent woman,’ was the cool reply. ‘Though it often pays me to appear otherwise.’
Gail gave a delighted little laugh. And then she said shyly, ‘I’m glad you feel like that about me.’
‘Gail dear, I want you to think hard.’ Those very beautiful eyes, which were singularly like Marc’s when he was in a softer mood, contemplated Gail thoughtfully. ‘If there is anything you want very much, and which I can do for you, you only have to ask.’
‘If there’s anything—’ repeated Gail, and then she stopped. She was silent for almost half a minute. And then because, she knew suddenly that this was one of the great moments of truth in her life, she said slowly, ‘Would you please ask me down to your home again some time?’
‘Next Sunday,’ replied Mrs. Bannister, with incredible exactness for a seemingly vague person. ‘There is a good train from Victoria at eleven o’clock. I will meet you at the station at twelve-ten. You must stay overnight and go back on Monday in time for your evening performance.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ Gail was not quite sure if she were terrified or enraptured at the speed with which this had been arranged. But as Quentin Bannister indicated at this moment that it was time he and his wife went, there was no chance to modify, or even discuss the arrangements.
As Mrs. Bannister bade her good-night, however, she said quietly, ‘I shall see Marc is there.’ And then they were both gone, and Gail was left wondering if it had all really happened.
She went out to a late supper with Oliver and Tom Mallender, and they shared in a daze of mutual relief, congratulation and wild optimism.
‘We haven’t seen the reviews yet,’ Gail said warningly once.
‘But, we don’t need to,’ replied Tom. ‘If they damned us unanimously—which is unlikely—they could only hold back the tide for a week or two.’
‘By the way, was Marc there in the end?’ Gail turned casually to Oliver.
‘Of course. He thought you fine.’
‘He didn’t bother to come and say so.’
‘No?—I remember now, he left before the parents. Maybe he’s still a bit sore that y
ou preferred revue to opera, so far as the Bannisters are concerned,’ Oliver replied complacently.
And though Gail winced at the repeated expression of opinion, she found herself quite unable to challenge it.
The reviews the next morning were almost uniformly good, and Gail was singled out for special mention in all the principal ones. This naturally brought ecstatic and astonished telephone calls from the family, and necessitated explanations of great length and complexity.
Explaining to Madame Marburger was not quite so easy. But, once she had been persuaded to come and see the show for herself, she expressed a qualified degree of pleasure in her pupil’s performance.
‘It isn’t what I would have chosen for you, Gail, and I can’t pretend otherwise. But your performance is tasteful and musical to the highest degree. I admit that freely. So long as you don’t become completely side-tracked, the experience may be' of value.’
Which was the most, Gail felt, she could have expected from that somewhat academic quarter.
Finally, on the Saturday night, to her boundless astonishment and gratification, she received magnificent flowers and a note of warm congratulation from the Warrenders.
‘Oscar Warrender!’ exclaimed one of her fellow artists hanging over the flowers in admiration. ‘Now we’ve seen everything! You couldn’t very well have higher praise than that, could you?’
‘No, I suppose one couldn’t,’ Gail agreed with a smile, ‘Professionally,’ she added, half to herself.
‘What other praise would you want then?’ The other girl looked amused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ Gail said quickly. For to no one could she admit how she longed and longed for that one word of praise from Marc which never came.
And when she was finally in the train on the Sunday morning, on the way to his home, she asked herself what madness had made her agree—no, actually ask—to go down there.
If she had had even a few minutes to think clearly on that crazy first night she would have withdrawn from the invitation. But it had been given and accepted, and then irrevocably sealed by the immediate departure of die elder Bannisters. And since then she had been unable to bring herself to telephone and cancel.
Music of the Heart (The Warrender Saga No. 6) Page 16