He was holding her up, but she had such an understanding and appreciation of the era he was reluctant to relinquish her help. ‘So, you’ve a passion for all things thespian, but when it comes to psychic phenomena, where do you stand on that?’
‘The Haymead,’ Celia said confidently, ‘hasn’t got a ghost, as far as I’m aware. Which is unusual for a theatre. Is that what you’re hunting?’
Charlie was circumspect. ‘I’m not sure that it’s a ghost I’m hunting, but there’s some kind of psychic interference involved.’
He’d said too much. Celia was all ears.
‘I’m trying to help someone who suffers from stage fright,’ he confessed. ‘Kind of.’
‘Who?’
‘Can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘Professional confidentiality.’
Undeterred, she proceeded to reel off a list of well-known thesps who were all reputed to have dried up at some point in their professional careers. When Anne Marie’s name was mentioned his poker face must have slipped. ‘Oh my God! I saw her play Lady Anne in Richard III, years ago! Long before she was nominated for an Olivier award and way before her personal tragedies. Everyone claims to have been at one of her early performances, but I actually was. I knew she was something special. Such a shame she had to give up the theatre.’
‘You know all about her then,’ said Charlie.
‘I know about a lot of actors,’ Celia rejoined. ‘It’s my job.’
‘Anne Marie is related to Minnie Devine. She’s her great-granddaughter.’
Celia crinkled her nose. ‘And you think Minnie Devine has something to do with Anne Marie’s breakdown? Bit tenuous, isn’t it?’
‘Possibly. But she’s asked me to research Minnie Devine’s disappearance, so that’s what I’m doing. Any reference, however small, might be the lead we need. Minnie Devine’s circle is quite wide, that’s the thing. I’m trying to identify the men she was involved with. See if any of them hold the key.’
‘How exciting,’ said Celia. ‘A theatrical mystery. Who’s next on the list?’
‘An actor called Robert Perry. Ever heard of him?’
‘Minor figure in the Haymead annals. Left acting eventually, served his country during the Second World War. Some kind of colonel, or captain. You’d be better off consulting his army records.’
‘Anything about him would help.’
‘Wait there,’ Celia said, slipping off the bag. ‘I’ll look him up.’
‘Don’t let me keep you. I’ll ask your colleague.’
‘Him?’ she said jerking her head towards a young man with artfully gelled hair and skinny jeans. ‘He can’t even push the returns trolley in a straight line.’
He followed her around the counter to her desk, where she was soon busy tapping away at the keyboard. ‘It’s transitory, isn’t it, our time here, on this planet?’ she philosophised. ‘One day you’re going about your business, famous or otherwise, the next – you’re dead, extinguished. You only exist in other people’s memories. When there’s no one left to remember you, it’s as though you were never even born. Unless you’ve become a reference in a catalogue or an index somewhere. So can anyone hire you?’ she asked.
‘If I think it’s a suitable case; if I think I can help.’
‘I feel honoured. The most excitement I get is tackling the occasional pizza-wielding member of the public. “Restaurants are for eating,” I say, “libraries are for studying,” that kind of thing.’
‘Do you get in a lot of fights?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘You’d be surprised. Here you go: Robert Perry. Actor with the Farrar Fay Players from 1920. List of roles. Minor characters; no lead parts. Ditto 1930s. Joins army, aged forty. Serves in Africa. Discharged early due to ill-health. Dies in London 1958. Two children, one predeceased, one living. Aren’t databases fantastic?’
‘One living?’ He repeated.
‘A daughter.’ Celia typed in the name. ‘I have a reference for her, also. She was an actress too, for a time. Again, nothing major. She scarcely set the world afire.’
‘She might remember Minnie,’ said Charlie.
‘She’ll be about ninety,’ Celia said. ‘In a home, or something. She’ll be gaga.’
‘They say long-term memory is the last to go.’
‘What exactly are you looking for?’
He smiled at her. ‘I honestly won’t know until I find it.’
Chapter Thirteen
Situated on the outskirts of a village in Surrey, the old people’s home was an hour’s drive away. With its sweeping driveway and lush green fields the rural setting implied stately country mansion, but the actual façade was a modern impersonal red brick and white PVC construction. The ambulance parked outside didn’t bode well, but he crossed the pedestrian-unfriendly car park, scrambling onto the grass verge as a car swept past, and made his way through the double doors to reception. An unsavoury combination of mashed potato and carpet freshener hit his nostrils as he signed the visitor register and was welcomed in by ‘Molly’ on the desk. ‘Alison will take you through,’ said Molly, ‘she’ll be along in five.’
Alison arrived, wearing a shirt-length overall, flappy boot-cut cotton trousers and crystal-encrusted flip flops. Her hair was beautifully coiffed in choppy layers and her fingers and toenails were painted fuchsia pink, impressively chip free, he noticed. ‘Everyone’s in the day room,’ Alison told him, ‘watching Bargain Hunt. She led him along a lushly carpeted corridor, past icky, softly painted floral prints hung at regularly spaced intervals, past the open doors of the family reception area, and on through a corridor of private suites succinctly advertising the delights of enlistment in the ranks of the old and frail. They passed an empty room, bare but functional, neatly impersonal, ready for immediate occupation. The bed was crisply made with hospital corners, turned down eiderdown, and a cushion balancing on one point. If it weren’t for the handrails everywhere, the building might almost convince as a hotel.
He checked out the itinerary of weekly events and activities pinned to the wall: film club; chair exercise; coach trip; hairdresser; and a special visit from a youth theatre group, probably trying out an exam piece on a captive audience. How come certain octogenarians were winning Oscars and making witty acceptance speeches, whilst others morphed into crumpled, slow-moving decrepits, living on a banal diet of Bingo and scrabble?
Alison took him into one of the day rooms, where two old gents and three lumpy-shaped ladies sat together in a group. The mashed potato odour was particularly strong here. Shepherd’s pie for lunch, he guessed: easy on the dentures.
Every single occupant was leaning at a slight angle despite their high-backed chairs. Alison demonstrated the art of straightening up an old person: easing her arm behind the nearest old woman; gently resting her head against her own shoulder; rearranging the cushion behind and then propping her up against it.
‘Shake me up, Judy!’ he said.
‘Indeed,’ said Alison. ‘But it has to be done.’
A large fish tank along one side of the wall, bubbled away to itself in the background. Was it supposed to numb the residents’ senses, tranquilise them into repose? Did they really need any more encouragement to nod off?
‘Here she is,’ said Alison, taking him around the corner. ‘Our lovely Kaye. Hello, Kaye! Visitor for you.’
The elderly lady was sitting at the piano, utterly absorbed in reading a letter. ‘Oh my darling!’ she said, turning carefully on the piano stool. ‘Bless you for coming!’
Alison leaned down and stroked Kaye’s elegantly long fingers. ‘Your visitor’s name is Charlie. Would you like to talk to him?’
Kaye lifted her bent neck, gazing up at him with sleepy eyes. ‘I can’t find a pen.’ Her scent smelled expensive; he wondered why an elderly lady wearing expensive perfume should surprise him. Her nails were as impressively manicured as Alison’s – a soft, iridescent peach colour. ‘We have a lady come in, once a week,’ Alison explained. ‘It’s very popular. Why s
hould old age preclude a beauty regime?’
He fumbled in his inside pocket and gave Kaye his biro. She perused it uncomprehendingly, the letter still in her hand. ‘I’m supposed to sign it, am I?’
‘No love, there’s nothing to sign,’ said Alison.
Kaye gave the pen back, unused. Alison smiled. ‘I’ll make some tea while you get started.’
‘You know, I don’t think I’ve had anything to drink at all today,’ Kaye mused. ‘No wonder I’m gasping.’
‘Of course you have,’ said Alison. ‘With breakfast.’
‘Oh, my darling! I had scrambled eggs this morning. With salmon! Can you believe it?’ Kaye affected a rather refined upper-middle class register.
Alison shook her head. ‘She had cornflakes. And toast.’
Kaye abandoned the letter and held out her hand. He took it and helped her to her feet, wondering who she’d mixed him up with. ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asked. She nodded at the bronze-coloured sofa opposite. There was an Argos catalogue on the table next to it, and she started to flick slowly through the pages. ‘Oh, a gym ball. They look like fun!’
‘Er, yes,’ he said, sitting down in the chair next to her. He could feel the heat from the radiator: boiling. He took off his coat.
Alison returned with tea and biscuits. ‘Your hair’s nice, Kaye. I meant to say earlier. The hairdresser did a lovely job.’ Kaye’s hair was snow white and brushed smooth into a Louise Brooks-style bob, neat and easy to care for.
‘I had it done yesterday,’ Kaye told him. ‘Half price for OAP’s on a Tuesday! A delightful young woman had a go at it. Ever so sweet, she was. I think she might be a Pole. Has a boy at the grammar school. He’s very bright apparently. Get’s As in everything.’
‘Good for him,’ said Alison. She glanced at Charlie, raised an eyebrow. Righto, he thought, play it by ear.
‘Charlie’s come to ask you some questions, my love, remember? He’s writing a book about actresses. I’ll leave you to it. Call me if you need me, all right?’
Kaye picked up her teacup. ‘They never make it properly,’ she said to him, ‘always so weak and insipid.’ Spoon for each cup and one more for the pot was the way I was taught. Rationing was over years ago. Here they’ve never stopped!’
He might as well make a start. ‘Kaye, I believe you once worked at Ealing Film Studios, is that correct?’ As an opening gambit he’d played a blinder. The direct question sparked off an instantaneous flurry of eager reminiscences, mostly relating to inappropriate goings on. ‘Oh we had such a good time there! They were always up to some mischief or other.’ She’d once been cornered on the stairs by a lascivious James Robertson Justice, she told him. ‘He trapped me with his capacious girth, and even though I managed to squirm past, he still managed to goose me as I ran off, although being a rather naive nineteen-year-old, I couldn’t quite work out what had happened! Stewart Granger once followed me out to the car park and invited me to dinner but he had such a dreadful reputation with the ladies, I turned him down flat. I was a nice girl, you see. David Niven always stood to attention as soon as a lady entered the room, and Googie Withers used to give us her cast-off dresses; a bit of alteration here and there and they were quite transformed!’
‘That was very generous of her.’
‘I had many admirers including one of the screenwriters. He wanted me to elope with him – I nearly did, but common sense prevailed and at the last minute I left him at the station and was home in time for tea! Mother was none the wiser! In the end I married Laurence.’
‘Who was he?’
‘One of the stills photographers – he did beautiful portraits. I kept telling him he should have brought out a book. He said no-one was interested. It wasn’t Kobal …’
Charlie listened patiently, waiting for a natural break, and then he said, ‘I don’t suppose you remember much about your father’s career?’
She frowned. ‘Daddy’s career?’ She paused. ‘He drove a tank, you know. A Matilda.’
‘North Africa?’
‘Yes, the desert.’
‘What about his life before the war? When he was an actor? Do you know much about that?’
‘He was in a play …’she said, ‘but I don’t know what it was called … hang on, didn’t he work in a theatre?’ She glanced furtively to the side as if her neighbour might know. ‘The Haymarket, the Hayden, no, what was it?’
‘Haymead.’
‘Was that its name?’ She sipped at the tea. ‘Haymead? Yes, I think it was. He worked with some ghastly people …’
He leaned in. ‘Ghastly?’
She gave a shudder. ‘Told me some things, he did. Told me what they got up to, backstage! Ho ho! Not for polite company.’ She bent her head indicating the old dear alongside. ‘She would have a fit if I told you some of the things that went on. Doesn’t believe me. But why should she? She worked in Woollies for fifty years, never went near the West End!’
He decided to go for it. ‘Minnie Etherege Devine. Did your father ever mention her, or the Farrar Farr Players?’
Her mouth drooped, the light in her eyes extinguished. ‘Her!’ She uttered contemptuously. ‘We never mention her.’
He proceeded with caution. ‘And why’s that?’
She screwed her mouth up. ‘Couldn’t stand the woman!’
‘You met her?’
‘Not me. No. My mother knew her. Hated her guts. Stole my mother’s part. Not once, but twice!’
‘Your mother was an actress?’
‘Of course she was. How else do you think she met my dad? Drove him to drink, she did.’
He wasn’t sure if Kaye meant her mother, or Minnie. ‘He was an alcoholic?’
She made a glass holding gesture, raised it to her lips. ‘Liked a tipple if that’s what you mean. Ruined his liver. Died of it. All her fault.’ She subsided into a glowering silence.
‘How was it Minnie’s fault?’ he ventured.
Kaye gave her head a little scratch. ‘Could have helped him out, couldn’t she? Found more work for him. Pulled some strings. She had contacts, mother said so! She could have got him a part. For old time’s sake, if nothing else. More or less stabbed him in the back.’
This was more promising. The rift, the bad feeling between Minnie Devine and Robert Perry had obviously festered. ‘I take it Robert wanted to continue acting?’
‘Never got any more work,’ Kaye went on. ‘Ended up scenery painting. Not that he wasn’t good at it mind, he was marvellous. He was always drawing pictures for me and my sister. I kept all mine. I don’t know what Kelly did with hers. She never was much good at holding onto things.’
‘But Minnie?’ he pressed. ‘She fell out with your father?’
Kaye wasn’t sure. ‘Fell out?’ she repeated.
Her mind was beginning to wander. She was getting tired, losing her concentration. He wanted to hurry her, get her back to the point.
‘He was a beautiful painter,’ she said smiling. ‘Absolutely beautiful. It was his liver gave out in the end. Only in his fifties. That’s no age, is it?’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘But what do you know about their disagreement? Minnie and Robert?’
‘Disagreement?’ she said. ‘I don’t think they ever saw each other again, after Paris.’
Again, a small snippet of useful information. ‘Paris? They went there together?’
‘I remember him telling me she thought she was going to go to Hollywood and become a movie actress. She never did,’ Kaye snorted. ‘She was no good at it. She was never as good as any of the others. Coffee pot ankles.’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s how my mother described Minnie’s legs – “coffee pot ankles”. He left her there in Paris, came back to England. He stayed in the theatre. Not acting, you understand, but he worked on and off, till he got too ill.’
‘His liver.’
‘Yes, his liver. Never saw her again,’ Kaye repeated brightly. ‘He was always happy with my mother. She was a good
wife to him. He forgot all about Minnie Devine.’ She stopped with a small satisfied sigh. The story was over.
‘Thank you,’ he said, pressing her soft hand. ‘It’s been wonderful talking to you.’
‘Are you coming again, next week?’
He considered his words. ‘It would be nice to visit again, if that’s all right with Alison.’
‘Who?’ she said, her memory patchy like a crocheted shawl shot through with glittering thread, straggling and unravelling at the corners.
He took his leave.
So, according to Kaye, Minnie had severed all contact with Robert; left him to fend for himself. He had married and settled down with his wife and children. Scenery painting, not acting, had been his subsequent, more stable career.
Minnie’s beauty and sexuality had drawn many admirers, but at some point the fickle public had eventually grown tired of her; she’d failed to hold their interest. In England her star had faded; in America it had never really taken off.
So who did she turn to next?
Chapter Fourteen
Anne Marie was anxious for an update. Arranging to meet her at the V & A, Charlie was half an hour early and killed some time wandering through the jewellery collection. To his untutored eye none of it was as beautiful as the dragonfly brooch, fake or otherwise.
‘So many rings,’ said a voice nearby. ‘So few fingers!’
In the darkness Anne Marie pressed her nose against the glass, her face lit up, literally and metaphorically by the gold reflected back at her. She took his arm, clinging on like a limpet mine ready to detonate. ‘I’m hungry. What’s for lunch?’
They chose the Gamble refreshment room to eat in. Illuminated from above by the orb-shaped light fitting and surrounded by clatter and chatter, he felt strangely inhibited. The ceramic-decorated walls and stained glass windows made him feel like they were trapped inside a giant teapot.
She’d come straight from a read through and was wearing an oddly cut coat and a clingy patterned dress. Her London clothes were just as dishevelled as her French outfits; as if they’d shrunk in the wash and her iron was broken. And yet people turned to watch. He guessed it had something to do with her body language. Like a dancer, lean and agile, she knew how to hold herself.
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