Long Acre

by Claire Rayner

  ‘You know it is not,’ she hissed, furiously. ‘I want to say — to tell you — oh, Fenton, please to forget this mad Will business! It is nonsense, you know it is! They will not give you that money so easily —’

  ‘That is not what you said when you first suggested talking to old Lackland about it,’ Fenton said and grinned sharply at her and from the stage beyond there was a clatter as Wyndham whirled into the fastest part of his jig. ‘You thought it made sense then. So, does it not still make sense?’

  ‘Of course it does not. Not going to court, and making such a scandal and —’

  ‘Oh, scandal, scandal!’ he mocked, and even in his whispers she could hear the venom in this tone. ‘Have you become so mealy-mouthed and virtuous that you care about scandals? You were sharp enough about the Cabot uncles at home, and cared not a whit for their nice feelings, but these damned Lacklands and Caspars have but to beckon and you go running like some squirming lap-dog! They have robbed us — and I will not give in so easy, even if you will.’

  ‘They have not robbed us, you fool! Lilith Lucas did not even know we existed when she made that Will! How could there have been any — any malice in it? She meant no harm to us, and nor did they. She left her money as she chose and it is wicked of you to upset everyone so, and to upset me and Felix and —’

  Suddenly his eyes seemed to her to blaze there in the darkness, at the same time as the music coming from the stage changed its rhythm and became a heavy stamping that seemed to fill her with fear, and she took a step backwards as Fenton moved towards her, his hands held out as though he wanted to seize her and shake her.

  The gun, which had been held loosely under his arm, shifted as he moved, and toppled forwards and she stepped even further back as it came towards her in the dimness, looking much larger than it was because of its foreshortening. Quite what happened then she was never to know. Whether the gun actually slid to the floor and tripped her up, or whether Fenton actually pushed her against the flat before which she was standing or whether her own emotion so overcame her that she stumbled and fell was a total mystery.

  But fall she did. She seemed to herself to be falling a long way, down and down, and she heard rather than felt the sick crunch as the base of her skull hit the curling metal loop of a stage brace, one of the great metal hooks which held the flats safely upright with coils of rope pulled tautly around them.

  The last thing she was to remember was staring upwards at Fenton’s blank stare as first his face and then his body seemed to dwindle and shrink away to nothingness, until he was no more than a dot in the blackness. And then even the blackness was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Had Amy set out to create the theatrical furore of the season she could not have had a greater success. Within minutes the theatre was in an uproar, for Wyndham finished his dance and after taking his well-earned applause gave the line that was Fenton’s cue and which should have brought him leaping on stage waving his dead rabbit about his head. The delay in his entrance alerted the audience and a ripple of unrest moved across them and made Wyndham nervous. He repeated his line and looked sidelong into the wings of the prompt side.

  And then quite lost his professional aplomb, for he could clearly see the white huddle on the floor that was Amy, with Fenton bending over her, and fear filled him in a great rush. He knew more than anyone of the animosity that lay between them and for one dreadful moment he thought Fenton had killed his sister, and he ran off stage to the wings as the audience, now thoroughly excited by the strange goings-on, began to mutter and some people got to their feet and craned their necks in an attempt to see more of what was happening.

  The curtain dipped, rose again and then finally came down with a rush, and an agitated head appeared round it on the OP side and hissed something at the orchestra leader who at once lifted his arms and led his musicians into a spirited if ragged reprise of Wyndham’s jig. But the damage was done. The audience knew perfectly well that trouble was afoot and their voices were raised harshly and someone started a slow handclap which swiftly spread through the entire theatre. The noise was tremendous.

  Backstage there was no less of an uproar. Fenton was still beside Amy but no longer staring at her. He was standing with his eyes screwed tightly closed and his face immobile, an expression Amy herself would have recognized but which thoroughly amazed everyone as they came running and looked at him and then down at the white-faced huddle on the floor.

  It was Wyndham who knelt down beside her and with some trepidation began to examine her. Doctor though he had been trained to be his heart had never been in the profession and consequently his ability was limited, and well he knew it; but even he could see that Amy was badly hurt. Her eyes were only partly closed, so that a rim of white could be seen beneath her thick lashes, and her face was almost as pale as the muslin dress she wore. At the back of her head there was a soft spongy area and blood was matting her thick curls, and as his fingers moved gingerly across his face became very still and his expression tight.

  ‘What the devil is going on here?’ Rourke came pushing his way through the cluster of actors and stage-hands standing staring all agog at the tableau before them. ‘Christ take ye all to hell an’ back, we’re givin’ a performance here! What d’ye think ye’re all about? I’m over there on the OP side mindin’ me own affairs and then I hear an uproar that’s fit to — God in heaven!’ He stopped and stared down at Amy. ‘What’s happened to her? Is she — oh, my God —’

  ‘She’s badly hurt.’ Wyndham said curtly. ‘We’d better get a surgeon to her, fast.’

  ‘You’re a surgeon, ain’t ye?’ Rourke said, and bent down beside Amy and awkwardly touched her cheek with his forefinger. ‘Can’t ye bring her round? We’ve a performance goin’ on, and she’s got another Act to get through. Get some brandy, someone. And some cold water —’

  ‘You fool!’ Wyndham said sharply and pushed him away, for now he was trying to shake Amy into consciousness. ‘I’m a physician, not a surgeon, as well you know. The girl’s badly injured, and needs operating upon. If she doesn’t get help from a good surgeon fast, she could die! She’s broken her head, damn it —’

  From beyond them there came a faint keening sound and Rourke looked up and saw Fenton standing there, and now his eyes were wide open and he was staring down at Amy with his face white and his eyes wide with terror.

  ‘What happened, Lucas?’ Rourke shouted, and he straightened up and took Fenton by the shoulders, shaking him, seeming to find some comfort in being able to be rough with him. ‘What the devil happened to her?’

  ‘They was alone rahnd ’ere,’ the leading character lady said shrilly. ‘Come rahnd ’ere she did, to make ’er entrance — ’eard ’er wiv me own ears sayin’ to you as ’ow she didn’t want to wait there wiv your fancy piece and was goin’ to come to this side to take ’er cue, an’ there was just the two o’ them ’ere on their own. ’E must ’ave —’ she stopped as Rourke again shook Fenton and shouted, ‘What happened, man? Tell me what had happened or I’ll bloody well shake it out of you!’

  ‘Will you listen to me, Rourke!’ Wyndham roared. ‘If this girl doesn’t get help soon I can’t be responsible for what happens to her! To hell with how it happened — we’ve time and enough for that — it’s her care now that matters. Send at once for a surgeon, d’you hear me?’

  ‘We could carry her to the hospital,’ one of the actors volunteered and pushed his way through the knot of watching people. ‘We could use one of the flats and with four or five of us we’d have her there in no time —’

  ‘She’s not fit to be moved,’ Wyndham said curtly. ‘We can get her as far as her dressing-room but that’s as far as is safe. If we carry her through the streets in this condition — look at her, damn it!’

  She was looking even worse now they could see her more clearly, for someone had brought a light into the little space there between the flats, and it was all too clear how white her face was and how unevenly she breath
ed and a silence fell on them which was underlined by the uproar and slow clapping still coming from beyond the curtain.

  ‘I’ll have to deal with them,’ Rourke said distractedly. ‘Oh, Christ, what did I ever do to deserve this? What did I ever do — move her then, Wyndham, and someone fetch the bloody surgeon and the devil take ye all for the useless gowks y ’are!’ and he went hurrying onto the stage and pushed his way through the curtain to make what soothing speeches he could at his now thoroughly enraged audience.

  It took Wyndham more than fifteen minutes to get Amy lifted carefully on to a stage flat, carried to her tiny dressing-room and then transferred to the couch there, for he would not allow the smallest jar to disturb her. ‘For,’ he said portentously to the sweating actors who were doing the work, ‘I believe she is bleeding within her skull and that could be the death of her. The least jolt and the bleeding could be greater than it is, and that would be fatal — fatal —’

  Amy herself would have much enjoyed the whole affair, for they all threw themselves into her transport with an alacrity and an exaggeration that was very theatrical, carrying her to her dressing-room with such measured steps that they looked as though they were supers in the last act of Hamlet, bearing the Prince to his last sleep, and with an expression of such dolour on their faces that onlookers would have been forgiven for thinking their small burden was already long past any help.

  All of which took time, and when Rourke at last came rushing backstage, having — much to his chagrin — been forced to promise his disgruntled audience a full repayment of their ticket prices, more than half an hour had passed since Amy had crumpled at Fenton’s feet. And still she lay white and silent and breathing in an erratic and very alarming way.

  ‘Well?’ said Rourke. ‘Where’s this bloody surgeon ye was on about, Wyndham? What does he say has to be done?’

  ‘Eh? I told you to send for someone!’ Wyndham looked up from Amy’s side where he was kneeling with his fingers on her wrist, checking her pulse rate. ‘Do you mean you’ve not done aught about it?’

  ‘I? You’re the one who said she needs a surgeon —’

  ‘But I told you —’

  ‘I’ll go.’ One of the actors who had carried Amy to her room began to pull a coat on over his costume. ‘I’d have gone sooner if you’d only told me — I’ll go. Where to?’

  ‘What?’ Wyndham looked up at him, worriedly. Amy’s pulse was fast and thready and anxiety rose higher in him. ‘The Middlesex is nearest — no! No, not there. Laurence — he’ll — oh, God, this is a sorry tangle!’ He looked at Fenton sitting slumped in a corner of the dressing room where someone had led him and then pushed him into a rickety old chair. ‘I’ll send word there separately. Better go to Nellie’s. She has friends there — ask for Caspar. He’s a surgeon. Tell ’em you want Mr Frederick Caspar. Tell him Miss Amy Lucas is the patient and to come fast, for she has a head injury which much alarms us. D’you understand?’

  The man nodded and went, and the dressing-room slid into an uneasy silence, as Rourke and Wyndham stood beside the terrifyingly still figure of Amy and the leading character actress stood watchfully beside Fenton, staring down at him with an expression of great ferocity on her face.

  Once or twice Wyndham looked up at her and then at Fenton with his brow creased. Clearly she was thinking as he was; had Fenton been the direct cause of Amy’s injury? He was a short-tempered, self-indulgent man, as Wyndham well knew, and self-control had never been one of his qualities. And they had been at odds with each other, the brother and sister, as everyone knew. Could this be a matter for the law as well as for surgical aid?

  It was a sobering thought, and Wyndham looked down at Amy and sighed softly. To have this happen in the middle of a successful run was heartbreaking; though, he thought optimistically, if she was well again soon and could return to the play, it could mean a better run as a result of the publicity. Especially if it turned out that her brother had been the origin of her misfortune.

  He tried to push the thought away as ignoble, but it was not easy, any more than it was for Rourke who was chewing his large cigar very lugubriously and with a slightly glazed expression in his eyes as he tried to compute the cost of returning the money to tonight’s audience as well as the cost of losing the next few performances, until either Miss Lucas was fit to return or a replacement had been found, for the understudy could not carry the part for more than a day or two at the outside.

  All of which filled the little room with an atmosphere of gloom and tension which was almost palpable to Freddy when he arrived an hour and a half later. He had already left the hospital when the messenger seeking him had arrived, and he, since he had been so firmly told to seek Mr Caspar, refused to tell the surgeon who was on duty what was amiss and went toiling away to Tavistock Square to find the man he had been told to seek. And since he was wearing his stage costume under his borrowed topcoat he had no money with him, and could not hire a cab (although he had tried, but was refused by the very suspicious jarveys who would not dream of taking up such a disreputable character, especially one who admitted he had no cash) he had had to walk all the way.

  But Freddy Caspar had responded immediately to his breathless explanation and had come running out of the house imperiously to wave down a passing hack and swept himself and the messenger back to Dean Street with great expedition.

  Now he pushed his way past Rourke, who glared at him, and knelt beside Amy, his fingers moving gently over her head as Wyndham explained as best he could what had happened.

  ‘She has some neck rigidity —’ Freddy murmured after a moment. ‘Was there any when you first examined her?’

  ‘I — I did not seek for it,’ Wyndham said wretchedly. ‘Damn it, I may have trained as a physician, but I am an actor by profession — I told them to fetch a surgeon at once, but —’

  ‘How long ago did this happen?’ Freddy asked curtly.

  ‘About — when was it? Rourke?’

  ‘Middle of Act Two,’ Rourke growled, looking at his watch which he swung from his waistcoat pocket with his usual exaggerated gesture. ‘That would have been about — oh, nine o’clock, give or take a few minutes —’

  ‘It’s gone eleven now — why have you waited so long?’ Freddy snapped and glared at Wyndham.

  ‘We thought word had been sent,’ Rourke said. ‘But it hadn’t. Still, you’re here now, so that’s all right. Will ye get on and deal with the matter, damn it? Can’t stay here all night like this —’

  Freddy shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps, a couple of hours ago, as soon as it happened — perhaps — I could have found a way to stem the bleeding. But as it is — look.’ He lifted Amy’s hand, and the wrist instead of flopping as they all expected remained rigid and the fingers were set in a clutching stiff posture that looked very strange and alarming. ‘There is pressure on the brain. She needs burr holes —’

  ‘Oh God,’ Wyndham said softly.

  ‘Burr holes — what’s burr holes?’

  Freddy looked up at Rourke. ‘An operation that makes small holes in the skull to release the blood that is being lost by the injury. It is essential if her life is to be saved.’

  There was another sound from Fenton now, who was sitting bolt upright, at last showing some signs of animation.

  ‘No —’he said and shook his head violently. ‘No. You are wrong. ‘ His voice was hoarse and again he shook his head as Freddy frowned and said abruptly, ‘What do you mean, no?’

  ‘No operations. Not by you. You hate her. You hate me. All of you — you all hate us. You shall not touch her —’

  ‘Be quiet, Lucas!’ Wyndham said and got to his feet and at the same time Fenton stood up and Rourke moved forwards as if to stand between the two men.

  At which point there was a sound outside the door, voices raised in some expostulation and sharply the door opened and a sweating stage hand put his head round and said apologetically, ‘I keep tellin’ ’im as ’e can’t come i
n, but ’e won’t take no for an answer —’

  And then the door opened even wider and Felix came in, softly but with a determination that was unmistakable.

  ‘What is happening?’ he said quietly. ‘I went to Long Acre to meet Miss Lucas after the play as we had arranged and found Mrs Miller in a great pother because neither of them have returned. What is happening? Will someone please —’

  He stopped sharply and his face seemed to freeze as he saw beyond Wyndham and Freddy to the couch upon which Amy lay, and after a long moment he shifted his gaze to Freddy’s face and said, ‘What is it, Freddy?’

  ‘Fractured skull,’ Freddy said after a momentary pause, and turned his head to look down at Amy. ‘I’ve only just arrived. It happened close on two hours ago, apparently.’

  ‘Two hours — why did you not send for help sooner?’ Felix’s eyes shifted and his gaze rested on Wyndham’s face. ‘Charles?’

  ‘The confusion — we each thought the other — dammit, Laurence, don’t look at me like that! We did our best, but it was the middle of the performance! I was on stage, looked up, saw her lying there with Fenton beside her and didn’t know what was amiss — I thought he had hit her and — well, never mind that. But there was the noise and the audience. I did my best, believe me —’

  ‘He shan’t set a finger on her, Laurence, you hear me? Not a finger! They will kill her out of spite, those people, you know they will —’ Fenton’s voice was rising now and his eyes were glittering excitedly. ‘If they lay a finger on her it will be they who hurt her, not me, they, you hear me? I did not hurt her — it is they. They hate her because they’ve robbed us and they’ll try to hurt her — don’t let them —’

  ‘What is he talking about?’ Felix said, and his cold clipped voice cut across Fenton’s shrillness like a knife and he flicked his eyes over the rumpled costume and the painted face of the other man with a contempt that was unmistakable. ‘Charles? Freddy?’