The Wardrobe Mistress_A heart-wrenching wartime love story

by Natalie Meg Evans

  After ticking off her name, the doorman introduced himself. ‘Leading Seaman Doyle, Jacob Doyle, ma’am. Commander Redenhall was my captain on the Sundew. Come to me for anything you need. Messages taken, errands run, awkward so-and-sos dealt with.’ He pointed up the corridor. ‘Take the OP pass-door, then up to the wardroom, ma’am.’

  ‘Wardroom?’

  ‘Commander’s lair, ma’am. His office.’

  ‘And what do you mean by “OP”?’

  ‘“Opposite Prompt”. Right-hand side, when you’re standing on stage. “Prompt” is left-hand side. What we call port and starboard in the Navy.’

  ‘Why not call it left and right?’

  Chuckling, Doyle conducted Vanessa to the door that led into the stalls. He said, ‘Commander Redenhall’s given me a sheet of theatre jargon. I’ll let you have a gander at it some time.’

  ‘Please do. You – you respect Commander Redenhall?’ According to Joanne, the entertainment world was still a-buzz over Alistair’s nerve – temerity – in running the theatre he’d inherited. This morning, drinking her morning tea in her curlers and dressing-gown, Joanne had said loftily, ‘Redenhall will find that Navy rules don’t apply in the West End. For one, he’ll have to deal with trade unions. You can’t just give orders and expect them to be obeyed.’

  Doyle’s opinion of his former captain was plain as soap. ‘He’s the best, ma’am. I served with him from day one, until the Sundew went under. He saved my bacon. I can say that with feeling, as at the time I was frying.’ His voice shook, and not with humour.

  ‘Are we all new boys and girls here?’

  ‘Clean sweep, excepting Miss Bovary. Oh –’ Doyle winked, ‘and the one they call Back Row Flo, but she don’t appear that often.’

  Once in the auditorium, Vanessa remembered how colossal this place had seemed to her as a child, and her awe at the dimming lights, the congealing hush. For the first time, she saw the interior for what it was: an intimate Georgian theatre, miraculously preserved. Walls were iridescent jade, with marble inset panels. The ceiling was painted to resemble an ocean, waves foaming over the torsos of mermaids and mermen. Neptune with his trident pierced the waters, his fiery gaze shooting up into a clouded sky. Bow-fronted boxes, once reserved for the gentry, resembled split oyster shells with their creamy mouldings. Waterfall chandeliers filled the lofty space. These weren’t illuminated – by the look of them, they still had their original candle holders – but they reflected light from all sides. Dust covers had been removed from the seats, which were sea blue, matching the carpet. The effect was of being under the ocean, looking up to heaven. Rather appropriate for Alistair. ‘Beautiful,’ she murmured.

  ‘Unique, too.’

  Alistair must have entered from the back of the auditorium. His tone suggested he had no intention of referring to their scene in Ledbury Terrace.

  Perhaps it was foolish of her to tease, but she couldn’t resist saying, ‘I’d love to have seen your face when you learned this was to be yours.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, I promise. Nor will I repeat my comments when I walked in the first time. She’d been dark long enough for vagrants to find shelter inside, and rats.’

  She. Appropriate. There was a soul to this place. ‘At least she survived the Blitz.’

  ‘Only just. The pub on Farren Court and six shops went. We’re patching up, but the materials we need are reserved for rebuilding more vital institutions.’

  ‘How did you get the scaffolding and the men on the roof?’

  For the first time, she detected something other than guarded formality. Help me, she called out to the invisible guardians of her heart, I still feel his body against me. I can taste his skin.

  ‘What scaffolding? What roofers?’

  ‘So I imagined hammering when I first came here?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘What you’re saying is, you have your secret suppliers. What about the safety curtain?’

  ‘See for yourself.’ He shouted towards the stage, and to somebody she couldn’t see, ‘Bring the house lights down, footlights on.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Sir,’ came the return shout.

  The auditorium slid into darkness. A moment later, footlights cast an upward glow on the iron barrier. Vanessa had previously only seen its rear side, which had been as plain as an oil tank. By contrast, the audience-facing side was exquisite, with ‘Safety Curtain’ in shapely lettering and wreathes of flowers framing a brown-haired woman leaning against a plinth. She wore an ivory, Georgian-style gown, her tresses dressed in courtly style. Her expression was composed of sorrow.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Elizabeth Farren, the actress and tragedienne, born mid-seventeen-hundreds. This theatre was named for her. She became the Countess of Derby.’

  ‘She married well!’

  ‘Assuming the Earl of Derby was worth spending time with, I suppose she did. A daughter of hers became Countess of Wilton.’

  ‘Wilton, as in “Wilton Bovary”?’

  ‘Bo was a descendent, reputedly. It’s why he and his father felt this theatre to be a family possession. Ready to start work? Crew meeting in my office.’

  ‘Can I sneak a look at my room first?’

  In reply, Alistair handed her a black, iron key. ‘Yours. I have one and Doyle has the other.’

  The wardrobe room walls had been painted pale green, the ceiling cream. An industrial-looking light hung above the long cutting table.

  Her fossilised memory was of a forest of chair and table legs. The room was brighter than she’d expected, thanks to a wide metal window set high in the wall. Hadn’t there been curtains across it before? Of course, she’d come here as a child in the depths of winter, when it would have been dark by three-thirty. She ran her fingers over the table, frowning because it was chipped. She must find some baize or American Cloth to cover it.

  The wardrobe stood where she remembered it, near the door. It was eight feet wide, built of sombre oak. It wasn’t locked and didn’t seem to have a key of its own. She tried Eva’s gold key and it almost disappeared.

  She poked around the shelves and found white cotton, hat ribbon and assorted buttons. On the top shelf, her fingers dislodged a reel of ribbon. It was soft as moleskin and faded in the middle, but at the edges a rich sea green. ‘Hello!’ How long had her baby curls survived in Eva’s possession? Her dad had taken the bow Eva had tied in her hair so as not to upset her mother. Had he lost it, or deliberately dropped it as they stepped off the train?

  A movement caught the edge of her eye and she turned in fright. A figure was watching her from the opposite end of the room. A disconcerting, dismembered figure. Her heart stopped – until she realised that it wore a cotton dress with yellow triangles and a beige jacket. She was looking into a mirror.

  It must have been broken. Somebody had cemented it back together with window putty, to crazy effect. The frame was painted in the same green as the walls. She went over and nicked a corner with her fingernail and saw gilding beneath. That’s how she remembered it, as a golden, scrolled frame mirror. She would need a new one. She couldn’t imagine actresses accepting Cubist versions of themselves.

  Perhaps she should take an inventory? She looked inside wicker skips, which presumably were for storing costumes. All they contained were calico cotton dress covers. When she pulled the covers off the hanging rails, she discovered men’s lounge and evening suits, late Victorian or Edwardian. They looked about right for Lady Windermere which was set in the 1890’s.

  Would she have to measure actors’ waistlines and inside legs? How did one measure a man’s inside leg? Efficiently, of course. You wouldn’t want to have to ask to do it again. But which end did you start, thigh or ankle? She decided to ask Doyle; he seemed to know a lot.

  Rummaging along the shelves, she found flat irons and crimping irons. Cravats, bow-ties, spats and monocles in labelled boxes. But though she searched every corner, she discovered nothing her little key would unlock.


  And something else . . . unless female costumes were stored elsewhere, there was nothing for the actresses. They’d have to be dressed from scratch. ‘“Must have knowledge of period costume.”’ Crumbs.

  As she moved hangers on the rails, a sweet smell filled the air. Her mother’s voice made an unwelcome intrusion in her thoughts: ‘Her coat came out of a theatre wardrobe and his smelled of lavender.’

  ‘Eva, I’m back,’ Vanessa whispered. ‘I’m going to need help and more luck than I’m used to.’ But for now she’d better get to the crew meeting. Chancing the cage-lift, she descended to the back-stage area and took a similar lift up to Alistair’s corridor. As she approached his office – his wardroom – she whispered, ‘OP is the left side as you look out from the stage. Wait. No, it isn’t!’ She stopped, copying Doyle’s hand-movements. ‘OP is the right side when you’re on stage, because “P” is “prompt side”, which is on the left. Isn’t it?’ She sighed. ‘How will I remember all this?’

  Alistair was setting out chairs and nodded in response to Vanessa’s ‘hello,’ then said, ‘I forgot to ask earlier, did you find accommodation?’

  ‘Phoenix Street, above the Russian bookseller’s. With my actress friend.’ He was looking at her as if he’d just discovered a new flaw. ‘What have I said?’

  ‘The fact that you aren’t staying with Fern suggests she hasn’t returned from Paris.’

  He didn’t know where his wife was? Vanessa didn’t know either. While working out her notice, she’d pointedly refrained from asking Lord Stanshurst for news of Fern. She said to Alistair now, ‘I always intended to stay with Joanne, sir. It’s easier because Jo lets me chip in financially.’ The sight of Macduff under the desk gave her an excuse to crouch down, out of Alistair’s sightline. ‘Hungry, old chap?’

  The dog returned solid thumps of the tail.

  Getting up, she found Alistair looking at her quizzically. Or rather, at the beret she wore side-on. Was he wondering if it was another of Fern’s?

  All he said was, ‘Don’t call me “sir”. We stand easy here. Unless you’d prefer “Mrs Kingcourt”?’

  ‘The “sir” was from habit. I’d like to be Vanessa.’

  ‘Good. I like to imagine it was Mrs Kingcourt who slapped me, and Vanessa who returned my kiss.’

  ‘I didn’t return –’ she began. She almost said, ‘You forced yourself on me,’ but that wasn’t strictly true, so she leaned back on reproach. ‘You promised to forget about it.’

  ‘I promised not to repeat the attempt. I didn’t say anything about forgetting.’

  They put out the rest of the chairs in silence. Fourteen in all. The room undoubtedly resembled a ship’s wardroom, just as the theatre in some ways resembled a luxury liner – the side corridors being the deck promenades, the auditorium the lounges and ball room, and the stage the prow. OP side is to the right, if you’re standing on stage, she repeated to herself. Got it!

  She watched Alistair place a final chair on one side of the doorway. Now the door wouldn’t close. ‘It’s a bit tight, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘If anybody smokes, we’ll expire.’

  He surveyed the room, then looked at his watch. ‘You’re right. Ten minutes to get these chairs down to the stage.’

  For the next fifteen minutes, they travelled up and down in the lift, Doyle off-loading chairs at the bottom. They phased their journeys, travelling one at a time, until the final descent when the creaking lift conveyed Alistair, Vanessa and Macduff. A tight squash, the dog panting between them.

  ‘Is the dog joining the meeting?’ she asked when things unsaid became suffocating.

  ‘Of course. He’s on the payroll.’

  ‘What’s his job?’

  ‘Theatre mascot.’

  ‘He really is on the payroll?’

  ‘Twenty guineas a year, most of which goes on food.’

  Other staff began to arrive just as she and Alistair finished placing the chairs in a semi-circle across the stage. Cottrill traipsed on and hoisted the safety curtain. This time it rose on buttered wheels.

  Alistair put the final chair out front for himself. Vanessa chose one at the end of the row. Joanne’s second piece of advice had been, ‘Don’t ally yourself with crew. Keep a professional distance.’ But how could she? The men now filtering in through the OP wings would be working alongside her to the same end, a successful show.

  Though of course, she had the extra burden of mapping her father’s last days. She pressed her fingers against her breastbone until the gold key bit into her flesh. She’d been in danger of forgetting her mission to find out why her father had wanted to see her so urgently before his death. This job, this company, and above all, Alistair, must not obscure her purpose.

  Vanessa soon became aware that the crew were choosing seats at the end opposite to hers. There was nothing overtly hostile in their action; she supposed that these men with their competent, military bearing were conditioned to separateness from women. Then, just as she was thinking of calling Macduff over for company, a young woman strode on to the stage.

  She drew whistles because she was wearing a siren suit, the all-in-ones people had pulled on during air raids to protect precious clothes in the underground shelters. Hers was a pattern of faded greens, which shouted ‘old curtains’, but it was tightly belted, emphasising a pert bottom and breasts. Her sandy hair was bundled under a yellow duster, tied at the front in a knot. With her poppy-red lipstick, she could have been a poster-girl for female munitions workers. Considering Alistair’s insistence that his new staff must have war-service, she might well have been a shell-case packer or a dockyard riveter.

  Seeing Vanessa, she shouted, ‘Hurrah, a sister!’ and sat down beside her, shoving out her hand. ‘Name’s Tanith Stacey. I’m DSM. You?’ Her voice had the short vowels of a private school education, but there was a catch to her breath. Scared, Vanessa thought, and hiding it.

  ‘Vanessa Kingcourt, Wardrobe.’ Vanessa returned the handshake. Having no idea what ‘DSM’ meant, she probed – ‘Were you in this business before the war?’

  ‘Gosh, no, I was eleven before the war! Though I was an air raid warden for the last year, when I wasn’t at school.’

  ‘Who will you be reporting to?’

  ‘Horrid Cottrill.’ Tanith spoke in a stage whisper and eyes turned their way. Fortunately, Tom Cottrill was pacing behind the scrim curtain like a sergeant major looking out for stragglers.

  If Cottrill was Stage Manager, the ‘D’ in ‘DSM’ must mean ‘Deputy’.

  ‘You’re very glam.’ Tanith glanced at Vanessa’s bare legs. The legs terminated in soft canvas shoes that, to Vanessa’s mind, made her feet look like baby rabbits. The wooden-soled sandals would never intrude upon the stage again.

  Tanith sighed. ‘Wish I had nice pins. Mine are like sea defences and they never go brown.’

  ‘My friend Joanne, who’s in a dance show, makes a leg mixture with cornflour and gravy powder. You just fluff it on. I’ll show you how.’

  ‘Would you? I envy every inch of you, because you’ll have your own room and no boss.’

  ‘I have a boss.’ Vanessa glanced at Alistair who was shaking hands with a dark-skinned man, asking him if his accommodation was satisfactory. The reply, ‘Very acceptable, sir, thank you,’ came in the back-throated accent of Liverpool.

  Tanith laughed. ‘We’re a mixed bag, aren’t we?’

  ‘With one thing in common.’ Vanessa nodded lightly at Alistair. ‘Him.’

  ‘Mind if I ask –’ Tanith’s eyes were blue and when she spoke, they moved with a searching speed, ‘were you ever an actress?’

  ‘Never. Why?’

  ‘You pack a lot into one word. Him.’ Tanith’s glance towards Alistair was pure schoolgirl. ‘You like him.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘You keep looking at him.’

  ‘I’m getting his measure.’

  ‘They say he walked away from his marriage. So if you’re not interested . . .’ />
  Vanessa whispered fiercely, ‘He’s very much married.’ She added privately, and you’re too young to even think of such things! To shake off the memory of Alistair’s mouth on hers, Vanessa counted the number of people on stage. Apart from Alistair, herself, Tanith and the dog in his customary snoozing heap, there were ten men. All shades of hair and one with sleek, brylcreemed waves. Some wore collar and tie, others had waistcoats and rolled shirtsleeves. Many of them wore rubber plimsolls, their footsteps inaudible as they moved about. Her eyes grazed Alistair and she knew he’d been watching her.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome.’ He was standing, a hand resting on his chair back. His mastery was unforced, implying that he, and everyone with him – Macduff included – was in the right place. ‘None of us, apart from our stage manager, has previous theatrical experience.’ Tom Cottrill was staring into the fly tower until, with a nervous turn of the neck, he shifted his gaze to the upper circle as if looking for somebody.

  Alistair continued, ‘Yet here we are, raising a theatre from the ashes. People will say we’re mad. How can a bunch of innocents put on shows that will bring in audiences? We’ve much to prove, and we ought to question ourselves. But we all have one thing in common – ’

  Tanith nudged Vanessa and whispered, ‘Him.’

  ‘Most of us gave everything except our lives to our country. Think of this as a peacetime challenge that will draw on that experience. The Farren will continue to be a Producing Theatre, which means we’ll produce and create plays ourselves, hiring in designers and directors for each show. Money will be tight –’ he stopped to allow for the good-humoured groan that issued from a portion of his audience. ‘Some of you will be doubling up on jobs but I want you to know –’ he stopped again as an apologetic cough cut across him.

  ‘I am unforgivably late but I made a detour via the Charing Cross Road. One step inside a bookseller’s and I’m lost.’