The Wardrobe Mistress

by Patrick Mcgrath

  – Julius, please go back to bed!

  – I can see I’m not welcome down here, he said.

  She heard him going back upstairs. Then the clouds parted, and she saw through the kitchen window the moon come out. For some minutes she was still, she said, because she was trying to understand a thought that had occurred to her with a quite startling flash of clarity when she’d first heard him call her name. He’d been expecting someone else. And then she thought – and she turned, and gripped her mother’s arm more tightly still – I know that’s daft.

  – Oh no, said Joan, who wasn’t surprised.

  Vera stared at her.

  – There’s more, she said.

  Vera had been standing in the kitchen in the dark. She opened the back door and went out and stood at the top of the steps. At the far end of Julius’ narrow garden the branches of a weeping willow in the alley beyond fell bare and thin over the back wall like ropes, swaying a little, said Vera, and the ground beneath was patched with shifting moonlight. Vera was slipping. She wasn’t strong, at times, particularly when she wasn’t working. And of course she’d lost her father. Her eyes came up, wide with astonishment. I saw something move, she whispered, over by the fence. It was like a crouching shadow, that’s what it looked like, then it was creeping along the fence!

  – Slowly, sweetheart. Where was this?

  – Near the back wall under the tree. Then it disappeared.

  – What was it, a cat?

  Vera was still clutching tight to her mother’s arm as they struggled on through the empty square, Vera staggering, almost, in her big fur coat, on her high heels, as though a little drunk, but with her mind clearly still fixed in horror on what it was she’d seen that night. No, she said, not a cat, it was too big. Or a dog. It was a man.

  – A man?

  – Yes.

  Vera stopped. Again she turned to her mother. Her eyes were wild now and her face was pale as a bone.

  – Mum, who’d be out in the garden that time of night?

  – What did you do? said Joan.

  – I went down the steps, very quietly, she said, then I went down the garden until I was in among the branches of the tree, and I didn’t move, Mum, I just stood there, not moving, and all I could hear was the snow dripping and there weren’t any footsteps from down the alley, nothing. Quick and stealthy he’d run off, whoever he was, when he saw me come out of the kitchen!

  – Did you go into the alley?

  – He’d gone.

  – Vera.

  – What, Mum?

  – You’re sure it was a man.

  – You think it was a woman?

  – No, dear, I wasn’t there! It could have been a dog.

  – I thought that too, that it was a woman.

  She sounded frightened. Not often Joan had heard that, not from Vera. There was a bench by the swings. They sat down. Joan was shivering. She couldn’t stay out in this cold much longer. Next to the pub stood the one house in the square that had been hit by a bomb. Much of the front was blown off and the roof sagged but it hadn’t collapsed, so it was half a roof supported by half a wall, and all through the war that broken house had stood there like that, but an effort was being made to shore it up now. Metal pipes and planked walkways and ladders enclosed the structure so it appeared only in dim outline as though seen through a scrim, prisoned in its own scaffolding. Joan thought if that scaffolding came down it wouldn’t take long for the house to come down after.

  It was getting dark, and the gloom crept like a kind of fog into the spaces between the bare trees and the lamp posts and the hanging swings. It brought a deeper chill, and Joan felt it at once. She stood up from the bench. Vera looked up, those luminous eyes still wide with fearful bewilderment and filled now with tears. There was a sudden movement of warm sorrow in her mother’s heart, and she sat down again and took her daughter’s hands.

  – Now stop it, my love, she whispered. You’re all right. Listen to me, listen, Vera, you’re all right. Look at me, Vera. Sweetheart—

  Gazing at her, stroking her trembling hands, doing what she’d done so very often when Vera was a child, telling her that whatever pain she had, a grazed knee, a bad dream – usually it was a bad dream – she was all right now, it was nothing, and so she would comfort her in her child’s distress, by saying it was nothing. It still worked, up to a point. Vera was in her arms now, sobbing, and what a rare pleasure this was, thought Joan, to sink her face into all that thick warm fur. Then she saw over the girl’s heaving shoulder, across the square, in the dusk, lights coming on in the Builders Arms.

  – We’ll go and have a little drink, shall we, dear, she murmured. The pub’s open.

  Then they were sitting by a coal fire in the small saloon bar. It was empty but for them. They each had a large gin. It helped, Joan knew it would. She thought, dear Uncle Alcohol, why are you so good to us? Vera got her fags out. A clock ticked. There was a small black cat purring and snoring on the rug in front of the fire. Vera was still in her fur, Joan in her black coat. She leaned down and rubbed the cat’s cheek just below the ear. But for the clock and the purring of the cat there was silence. Their mood was subdued now; peaceful, almost. Then Vera was talking again.

  – I came in from the garden, she said quietly. I wasn’t so upset as I had been and I took my shoes off in the kitchen and turned off the light. I went upstairs in my stocking feet but slowly, and I stopped every time it creaked. I had to know, you see.

  – Know what? said Joan.

  She didn’t want to look at Vera now. With every step up those creaky stairs she saw her moving further into some place from which she might not easily come down again.

  Vera stopped at the bedroom door and opened it a crack. Very dark in there, the merest catch of moonlight in a long slit where the blackout curtain failed to meet the wall. Quiet snoring. She made out the form of the bed, and the humped mass of the man in it. Himself alone. But she could smell it!

  – Mum, I could smell it!

  – What, dear?

  – The perfume.

  – From the person in the garden?

  – Yes.

  Joan had one thought only. This girl had to get back to work. Leave her to her own devices and idle hands, idle mind, trapped in an attic and a cold husband two floors below – this is what happens. She imagines women in the garden. Or was it Joan herself who put that thought in her head?

  – I’m so sorry, my love, and I do hope you’re wrong.

  – It stank in there. I’m not wrong, Mum.

  – Stank of what?

  – Perfume. Jicky.

  Her tone now was one of quiet certainty. There was no point arguing with her. That creeping man was a woman and she’d been in Julius’ bed. She’d been there when Vera got home earlier that night, and had got into the garden through the cellar. It explained everything. Or at least Vera thought so.

  They left the pub soon after. Vera had forgotten her keys so they had to ring the doorbell. It was Auntie Gustl who answered it.

  – You are frozen, she cried. Come into the kitchen where there is more warm!

  But Joan didn’t want to come in. Whatever it was that was happening in Julius’ house, she couldn’t be certain, but it made Vera unhappy. She must wait. She had a nice bit of tongue put by for her supper, and a little cabbage. She liked a bit of cabbage, when she could get it.

  6

  TWELFTH NIGHT HAD only seven performances more, and Joan had started to anticipate yet another death: the end of Malvolio. She couldn’t stay away. The following night she purchased a ticket, yet again in the balcony stalls, and again she wore the soft black homburg pulled low, and the black coat that fitted her nice and snug now and still carried Gricey’s scent in the lining.

  We see her leaning forward, gazing like a child at the players below, one in particular, of course. She stayed in her seat through the interval and prepared herself for the horror of Act IV. For it’s then we see a sane man incarcerated as a lunatic, t
hat sane man being Malvolio. How quickly Gricey used to draw his audience into this nightmare predicament, locked in an asylum, your every protestation of sanity serving only to convince your gaolers that you are indeed mad – no surprise then that on his release he’s furious at the cruel trick played on him, and flings out, oh, in such a rage, promising revenge. Gricey struck a dark shock into his audience in this scene, and at the same time made them laugh. Extraordinary.

  And so it ends. A brother and sister, twins, separated by shipwreck, each presumed dead by the other, are reunited. And each finds his or her true love. Who cares for old Malvol? It’s Viola and Orsino who matter, and Olivia and Sebastian. Are they not the lovers? Does not all the world love lovers?

  When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding,

  Sweet lovers love the spring.

  Now it was dead of winter but Joan waited in her seat until the audience had shuffled out and only then did she make her way downstairs. She turned up her collar. Another cold night. Frank Stone was leaning against the brick wall by the stage door. He was concealed, deep in shadow with his head down, as before. Seeing her, he stepped out into the pool of light under the street lamp.

  – Mrs Grice.

  She’d hoped he’d be there. And how well he’d found his light.

  – Hello, love. Now tonight I’ll be paying, no argument.

  He joined her and she slipped her arm in his. Later he said he liked that she became at once familiar with him, for at that time he was of course still very unsure of her. But there will always be those rare men who see in a woman like Joan Grice that to which most others are blind. He couldn’t care less that there were more than a few years between them, nor did he find her sour, or cold. He knew she was grieving and would never show it, and he suspected, too, that she was far from lacking in the humour and, oh yes, the passion that others of more limited imagination never guessed at.

  They talked until last orders were called. She asked him how it was to play Malvolio after watching Gricey do it. It was bold of her to do this, considering what she thought she knew about him, but she was curious. He surprised her, he told her he had no thought of Malvolio, no, all that was required of him was that he do exactly what Gricey did. It began with his posture, how he stood – at times like a quivering poker. So he stood as Gricey stood, he moved as Gricey moved, and slowly, or perhaps not so slowly, a curious thing began to happen. He began to acquire his body memory. Yes. He began to know, without having to think about it, not how to play Malvolio, but how to play Charlie Grice playing Malvolio.

  – Is that so?

  – Yes. But when I talked about it backstage I was told I should have known. It happens all the time.

  He tipped his head to the side and lifted his beer glass. What was it in his voice? Then she had it. The faintest suggestion of an eff at the end of have – German! He was grinning at her, a bit of the wolf in his face again. She didn’t know what to say. She lifted an eyebrow and shook her head. She felt confused, and a little aflutter.

  – Yes. So I stepped in and I played it exactly as he had. The others appreciated it.

  – They did? The actors?

  She’d regained her composure.

  – I didn’t upset their performance, you see.

  – No?

  – It was still Gricey.

  – You make it sound easy, Mr Stone.

  – People came to see it again. They wanted to see if the new man could do it. Get all the laughs Gricey used to.

  – And of course you could.

  He said nothing for a few seconds and then quite solemnly he nodded his head.

  They parted as before on the pavement outside the pub. They made no arrangement to meet again. But it was understood that Joan would see the play once more before it came down. They shook hands and went their separate ways. Each was quietly satisfied that, whatever was going on here, it was at least becoming a friendship.

  Joan’s improved temper did not go unnoticed in the costume shop the next day. The girls called her Saint Joan. They lived in fear of her displeasure.

  – Morning, Mrs Grice, they trilled, although not the two older women, who had more complicated relations with her.

  – Morning, girls. Esther!

  – Yes, Mrs Grice.

  – Where did you find that skirt?

  – I made it myself, Mrs Grice, it came from an old curtain.

  – Well, dear, you’re showing a little taste at last.

  This counted as high good humour in the costume shop. The older women glanced one to another, as though to say, well, fancy. But she’d slept well, and the gin bottle on the high shelf in the kitchen cupboard had not been disturbed.

  7

  SHE CHOSE TO attend not the last night of the run but the night before last. And again she waited until the theatre had emptied out before she made her way downstairs and into the street. It was snowing that night. It was a heavy downfall with strong wind behind it and she struggled with her umbrella, for it was a large one and not easy to handle in the conditions.

  Then the strong, sure fingers of a man were on the shaft. The flapping canopy was brought under control. It will happen in friendships like this, is our observation, that a few days after the second or third meeting, when it’s become clear to both parties that something’s afoot – in the time spent apart, changes will have occurred within the imagination of each, and a new level of familiarity, or even intimacy, will have been achieved. It was the case here. He offered his arm and she took it and, clutching tight to one another under the shelter of the big umbrella, and with their heads down, they hurried the few steps through the driving snow to the warmth and light of the pub on the corner of the street.

  With what relief did she again in his company sit quiet over her gin. Again she wouldn’t let him pay. He said it was surely his turn, and anyway it was for the man to buy the drinks, and she told him not to be so foolish, as she fetched out a half-crown from her purse, and gave it to him, and it said as much about their relationship, this transaction, as any frank exchange of feelings would. In fact their traffic was hardly verbal at all, rather it was a growing recognition of an ease in each other’s company which felt very much like the beginnings of trust. They sat side by side at their little table, backs to the wall, herself upright as ever and himself with his hands thrust in his trouser pockets, his long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. His coat was swept back and fell almost to the floor, and a cigarette dangled from his lips. Untidy hair, and his hat on the chair beside him. To the casual glance a bohemian, perhaps a painter or even a musician, but what was he doing with that smart, rather attractive woman with the chilly demeanour who never smiled?

  Thus did they view the world from the same prospect. Joan needed this; she needed him. As for him, now he sat with Joan Grice and was enchanted by the woman he watched emerge with quiet humour from within her carapace of grief.

  – You were very good tonight, Mr Stone, she said. We may make an actor of you yet. Now I have a suggestion.

  – Oh you do, he said.

  He turned towards her, sat up straight and got his hands out of his pockets.

  – Yes I do. I would like to give you supper in my flat. Tomorrow night. I want to put some flesh on those bones of yours.

  He gazed at her. He was not at a loss for words, but he was aware of a slow joy rising in him.

  – But we don’t come down until after ten.

  – I know that.

  – Then thank you, Mrs Grice, I would like that very much.

  This was the bold advance Joan made, seeing no reason why she should not. She saw her new friendship as a delicate flame and knew it must be nursed. Not so it would grow, necessarily, but so it could continue to exist.

  They parted soon after. She rode home on her bicycle. She lay awake for an hour thinking about one thing and another, Vera mostly, then she fell asleep. The next day she was aware, as she bicycled to work – it was cold, but dry at least, and the drifted snow was no
t as deep as she’d expected – and she’d worn a good black scarf knitted by herself that fluttered about her as she pedalled through the busy streets, Holborn, Aldgate, Shaftesbury Avenue, then sweeping, soaring into Piccadilly Circus and past the Statue of Eros – she was aware that, despite everything, despite her anxiety about Vera’s collapsing marriage, and the poor girl’s state of mind, she herself was in better spirits than she’d known since Gricey’s death.

  It was the prospect of her late supper, of course. She’d planned the menu in some detail, to the inclusion even of that precious long-cherished tin of pork sausages that had entered her larder before the war. Her ration card would be clipped all to hell for this feast but she would put flesh on those bones all right, she thought. A simple supper but one that Gricey always appreciated when he came in from the theatre. An actor’s supper, he’d say, as he set to with exclamations of delight. Dear Gricey. Again came the pangs, but tempered now by the thought that he wasn’t so very far away after all.

  It was after eleven when she heard the doorbell and went downstairs to let him in. Daniel Francis – or Frank Stone, let us call him, this was how Joan thought of him now – Frank Stone stood in the street rubbing his mittened hands together and blowing cold steam into the night.

  – Come in, please.

  He followed her up the narrow ill-lit stairs. He was relieved of his coat and his hat and scarf, which Joan hung in the cupboard in the passage by the front door. He saw that the flat was austere and shabby and in need of repairs, but clean and tidy. Joan’s sewing room was behind the kitchen, and across the hall was Gricey’s room with the big wardrobe. At the end of a short passage was the master bedroom, sadly of course without a master, for Joan slept in the old broad bed alone now. And next to it was the sitting room. But the kitchen being the warmest room in the flat, it was there Joan mostly lived.

  Near the cupboard by the front door was a small table and on it various pieces of mail which Frank saw were all addressed to Charles Grice. There was a pair of men’s shoes under that table, which he assumed correctly were also Gricey’s. Joan took him into the kitchen. No man had been in that kitchen for more than a month. The table had been laid with a starched white cloth and two settings. Joan wore a string of pearls that once had been her mother’s. She offered him a drink and he asked her if she had any beer. Of course she did. She took the bottle of pale ale down from the shelf and poured him a glass. He was silent. He felt a strong intimation of the presence of the man who until recently had been the master there, and whose personality was still palpable.