Charlie craned his neck towards the rear of the stalls …
There, standing alone at the back of the theatre is Baxter, leaning a little on his walking stick and muttering quietly to himself. Baxter’s gaze is fixed straight ahead at the stage. Is Minnie up there? Is it her, he’s watching? No. The stage is empty. There is no sign of the woman Baxter loves.
Baxter wipes his eyes, rubs his nose with the back of his hand, fumbles impatiently for a handkerchief. ‘Ridiculous,’ he mutters, swiping at his face with the large white cloth and stuffing it back in his pocket. ‘Cannot get a grip anymore. Cannot think straight, not in this place.’
All at once a loud sob breaks forth from his chest, echoing around the seats, reverberating around the walls of the chamber: ‘My heart is broken, you dreadful, awful woman!’
Baxter begins to walk slowly down the aisle towards the stage. He has a wry, sorrowful smile on his face. ‘I lost you a long time ago, didn’t I? I let you go. But then, I never had you. William was your great love, everyone knew that. I knew it, and yet I tried to steal you away from him. And I did it too, didn’t I? For a short while. A sweet time in my life, Minnie – the sweetest. But I was an old fool, and you were still young and beautiful with much more life in you than I ever had. If only I had let you publish those damn letters! You would be here now, with me. Serves me right. But I shall never rest Minnie, never, not till I see you again …’
Placing his stick against the row in front, Baxter sinks into a seat in the stalls and awkwardly thrusts his legs into the aisle. He begins to hum to himself. ‘Remember that tune, Minnie? A song you once sang to me at your piano when we were rehearsing a scene.’ His voice gradually dies, his eyes close, his head lolls forwards onto his chest.
‘Tired now, Minnie,’ he says, ‘terribly, terribly tired …’
The door at the rear of the stalls flies open and several people make a flurried procession down the sloping floor. ‘What’s he doing? Who the hell is he?’
For a few seconds they stand and study Baxter’s inanimate form. ‘Is he drunk, Mrs Croft? Is he dead?’ The only woman in the group takes charge. She is dressed in a smart burgundy-coloured two-piece suit, with dark hair rolled in an elaborate arrangement. ‘He’s not bloody well dying in here!’ she says, hand on hip. ‘Get him out! We’ve got less than an hour before the doors open!’
They prod and cajole at his lifeless form. ‘Come on, sir. Up you get!’
There is no response.
‘If I have to cancel opening night because there’s a corpse in the stalls, there’ll be hell to pay!’ says Mrs Croft.
‘Who is he?’ They repeat.
‘God knows! But there’s no way I’m having the police here, not tonight! Come on. Heave to. Get your arms under him, Mr Berry! You as well, Mr Dawes.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ says Mr Dawes, smoothing a protective hand down the front of his jacket. ‘Get the stage hands to do it.’
‘Oh, it’s like that is it? Worried you’ll crush your velvet? Not to mention your dickie! Bleedin’ hell.’ She turns to the others. ‘Right you are, then. Stan! Percy! Off you go.’
The two stage hands grab an arm apiece and heft Baxter’s bulky form away from the seat. ‘Strewth! He weighs a fucking ton!’ With great difficulty they manoeuvre him out of the aisle.
‘I think I know who he is, Mrs Croft,’ says Mr Berry following the struggling stage hands as they drag their load out of the auditorium, toe ends leaving dark weaving trails in the carpet pile. ‘It’s Mr Baxter, the critic.’
‘Him?’ says Mr Dawes. ‘He’s well past it.’
‘Before my time,’ says Mrs Croft. ‘I don’t remember him. Hold him up. That’s it.’
Struggling through the backstage area, Mrs Croft opens the stage door to allow everyone out into the side street. ‘Take him around the corner and leave him outside the pub. They’ll think he’s had one too many.’
‘People will see us!’
‘Not if you’re quick.’
Opposite the theatre the glass windows of the public house are throbbing and glowing with red and amber lights. ‘Better still,’ says Mrs Croft, ‘take him down the end where the bomb damage is. It’s dark down there, it’ll look like he’s tripped over some rubble or that’s he’s been done over by a prostitute.’
‘I don’t like it,’ says Percy, his legs buckling under the weight. ‘I really don’t think we should.’
‘Just get him down the end of the street, away from here! If you’re that worried, run into the pub afterwards and get them to call an ambulance.’ She spots a gaggle of pedestrians about to turn from the main road into their path and she hurriedly positions herself with her back to the street, blocking the view.
With Baxter’s arms around their necks, the two men carry him in a stumbling fashion towards the gloomy far end. ‘Mind his shoes,’ Mrs Croft hisses. ‘Don’t scuff his toe ends! Gently, gently!’ She watches anxiously as they are swallowed in the black emptiness. A couple of minutes later the pair return, empty-handed. ‘Good,’ says Mrs Croft. ‘Well done. I can’t have a dead critic in my stalls on opening night, now can I? What will the press say?’
The two men scratch their chins and look behind. ‘Do you think he really is dead?’
‘Not our problem,’ says Mrs Croft, briskly. ‘Stan, you run into the pub and tell them you’ve just seen a man fall over at the end of the street. Say you think you saw him come out of their pub, and tell them to call for help.’
‘Why me?’ says Stan.
‘Because you have the face of a cherub and they’ll believe you. The rest of us will be inside carrying on as if nothing’s happened. Go on! Scat!’
The hapless Stan trots across the road to the pub allowing Percy, Mr Berry and Mr Dawes to retreat into the safety of the theatre foyer. While Mr Dawes takes up position at the box office, Mrs Croft and Mr Berry go back inside the auditorium to check that there is no trace of Baxter’s presence remaining. ‘He didn’t drop anything did he? There’s no blood or anything?’ Mr Berry leans down to check between the seats. ‘Nothing there, Mrs C.’
‘Well,’ she says, raising her eyes to heaven. ‘Thank God for that …’
A cough in the stalls. A hum like the sound of traffic from beyond; the wail of a police siren in the city. Anne Marie walked towards him and put a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, although she hadn’t asked.
Her large eyes roved around his face. ‘What have you seen, Charlie? What can you tell me?’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Charlie followed Anne Marie off the stage and along the corridor to the dressing room. ‘Minnie’s presence,’ he said, ‘is everywhere; it’s permeated its way into the very fabric of the building, the seats, the velvet, the safety curtain!’
‘And what about the hundreds of other actresses who’ve worked here? What about their presence?’ Anne Marie was sceptical.
‘Not like her,’ Charlie insisted, ‘not with her power and charisma – she’s unique. And there’ll never be anyone like her again. Somehow or other, you’ve absorbed her spirit too.’
‘So you agree it’s Minnie who’s been disrupting my performances?’
The dressing room décor was vastly altered since Minnie’s day. Electric light in place of gas, cream walls rather than pink, and where Minnie’s black-fringed shawl had once draped from the peg behind the door, Anne Marie’s denim jacket now hung there instead. A copy of the well-thumbed playscript was lying next to a can of Coke and a half-eaten sandwich. He flicked through the printed pages. The text was littered with notes in biro and long streaks of yellow highlighter pen.
‘I did think that, at first,’ he said, ‘but I’ve since come to a different conclusion. I think it’s Baxter who’s been doing the disrupting. It’s his presence you’ve been sensing.’
‘Baxter? The critic?’ Anne Marie removed a towel from the chair so that he could sit down, and then perched herself on the edge of the dressing table in front of him.
She gave him a sharp look. ‘What’s Tom got to do with it?’
‘Parallels, I suppose. Your experience mirrors hers. Not exactly, but there are elements that are similar; there are aspects to the story that you’ve absorbed somewhere.’
‘But how could all that have affected me?’ She leaned back against the mirror. ‘It’s warped, fantastical, nonsensical.’
‘I said I’d try and help you; I never said it would make any sense. You asked me to find out what happened to Minnie, and I have. She didn’t die in Paris; she died in Provence. In 1944.’ He explained what he’d found.
‘Minnie Devine was part of the Resistance?’ Now she was incredulous.
‘She found herself in the middle of a very dangerous situation. A fatal situation. The Vichy government’s counter-insurgency force, the Milice were on the lookout for Resistance activity. She was taken in for questioning.’
‘I don’t understand. She was killed by the French?’
The large mirror unnerved him. It was uncomfortable watching his reflection the whole time. He cleared his throat. ‘No, they let her go. Unfortunately the SS found her a short while later …’ He described what he’d seen.
Anne Marie was stunned. ‘That is just about the last outcome I could have expected.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve been imagining her wandering around the garden, regaling the Grillets’ with her theatrical anecdotes; getting on everyone’s nerves.’
‘Oh she did that as well,’ said Charlie. He replaced the playscript on the dressing table and retrieved a photocopied document from his pocket. ‘This is her death certificate. I got it from the archives at the mairie – the town hall. Look at the name.’
The deceased’s name was recorded as Mme Minette Fay.
She sat for a while in silence. ‘How do you know it’s her?’
‘The dates fit,’ he answered. ‘She was calling herself ‘Fay’ in William’s honour. That’s what the locals knew her as, including the Milice.’
‘There’s no cause of death,’ she said. ‘Are you sure that’s how she died?’
‘Positive.’
‘And Baxter never saw her again?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Is that what I’ve been feeling? The weight of his disappointment?’
‘You tell me. The important thing is Minnie Devine did something very brave. She lied to protect the girls. She was afraid there would be reprisals; they would be punished. She saved them, Anne Marie. She wasn’t just a self-centred diva, thinking only of herself. It’s time everyone forgave her.’
‘And I thought she was just bored.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Her children never knew any of this.’
‘Neither did Hélene or Jeanine.’
‘Oh poor Hélene! And Valérie! Her grandparents were killed by government supporters!’ She pondered for a moment. ‘I assumed everyone in France was part of the Resistance. I never realised there might be conflicting views. But Charlie – what if none of this makes the slightest bit of difference? What if knowing all about Minnie Devine and her adventures doesn’t change anything? What if I’m still crippled with nerves on opening night? What if the presence is still there? This could turn out to be the biggest cock-up of my career – and that’s saying something! I’m already being pestered for quotes, comments, pictures. It’s all highly stressful.’
‘I understand,’ he said gravely. ‘The thought of seeing yourself spread all over the weekend culture sections must be very disturbing. I can imagine the headline: Beautiful, gifted, middle-class actress reveals the trauma of living in the picturesque south of France with only the revenue from luxury chocolate bar commercials to support her!
Anne Marie stared at him. ‘Yes, you’re right of course. I am being self-indulgent, self-centred …’ She paused. ‘I can see you’re exhausted, Charlie.’
‘I am,’ he said, slouching back into the chair and closing his eyes. ‘I really, really am.’ Then he remembered he still had the dragonfly brooch in his pocket. He gave it back to her. ‘For luck on opening night.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, her husky voice falling almost to a whisper. ‘But I don’t think I’ll need it. Not now.’ She rolled the delicate object around in her fingers. ‘I know what you’re telling me. Instead of letting the disappointment and regret overwhelm me I should emulate my ancestor as she was in her heyday. The Divine Miss Devine!’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The theatre foyer was busy as Charlie headed for the bar. The air was filled with excited babble.
‘I know, it’s extraordinary, isn’t it? After all this time. Of course, we saw her in Glengarry Glen Ross and she was absolutely fine!’
‘Did you? Oh, but we were there the night she walked off in the middle of Act One of Pericles. Awful! Felt terrible for the poor girl. Really did. If she walks out of this one, she’ll never work on stage again.’
There was no sign of Angus Malone but he spotted John Edgerton the director, clutching a plastic beer glass and looking tense.
He paid for a programme and tucked the glossy brochure under his arm. The auditorium was already half full as he found his seat – alarmingly near the front of the stage – and removed his coat. Above and around him the gold embellished decoration was picked out in the glow from the house lights. Settling himself into the plush red upholstery, he flicked through the programme until he found the synopsis: The Strawberry Thief by Geoffrey D’Urvaine. It is late Victorian England. William Morris is on the verge of creating a whole new movement in design and textiles. The arts and crafts era will come to fruition under his guidance. But life is not simple for the creative genius and his personal problems are only just beginning.
There were three main characters: William Morris, the celebrated artist and designer; Jane Morris, his wife; and Jane’s lover, Rossetti, the Pre-Raphaelite painter. I’m so thrilled we’ve been able to revive this play,’ says John Edgerton, the play’s director. Anne Marie was fantastic in it first time round and I’m sure she’ll be even better now.
No mention was made in the blurb about her personal troubles. The column stuck to a brief description of her theatrical training, and a list of credits.
Five minutes to curtain up. His nerves were thrumming with tension. There was still time to leave before it started, to get out while he had the chance. He didn’t want to be there if it went wrong. He didn’t want to watch her fail. To see her fall apart. To know that he hadn’t helped her after all.
But the row had filled up on both sides and he was trapped. No point disturbing everyone now. He tapped his feet on the carpet, slipped the programme under his seat, rolled up his coat. The leg room was cramped, his back was hunched, the arm rests were too hard.
And then there was hush. The house lights dimmed. The curtain went up. Silence.
A single light illuminated the backdrop, followed by the gentle swish of a woman’s skirt and the creak of the stage floor, as two characters took their places. It had begun.
He hardly dared lift his eyes. If she was actually there, then all this was real, and once she’d started, she would have to continue, right through to the end. No one else knew of the deep connection he had with the woman on stage. It was their secret. He glanced at the girl in the seat next to him but she was frozen in the opposite state, unable to tear her eyes away even if she’d wanted to.
The pull was too strong. When he finally took the risk, his heart skipped several beats. There, centre stage stood Anne Marie in the guise of a Victorian beauty, hair dark and rippling, wearing a sumptuous dress of deep russet velvet and satin; the fabric falling to her feet, highlighting her slim build, her graceful figure, her luminous beauty. Her gull’s wing eyebrows were perhaps a little more groomed than normal. But it was most definitely her.
Her
co-star wore a brown tweed suit with tight trousers and a trim jacket. Despite his full beard and unkempt hair, his features were prominently outlined beneath the lights. What a ridiculous way to earn a living, thought Charlie: prancing around a platform in costume and wigs, projecting and gesticulating. He desperately wanted to laugh. Concentrate, he told himself sharply. Pay attention. Listen to the words. Follow the action, understand the story.
William Morris was pacing around in front of his wife, taunting her about something or other, and she was maintaining a haughty distance. But he was persistent; he wanted a reaction from this woman, he was determined she would respond.
Anne Marie began to move across the stage. Her voice sounded unusual, distorted by the acoustics, or maybe it was the unfamiliarity of the setting, Charlie couldn’t decide, but as soon as she spoke she was in charge of the moment. It was a big, important speech and her words carried over the stalls and high up into the roof. The atmosphere in the auditorium was tense. Was she going to make it? As the seconds ticked past Anne Marie’s focus was entirely fixed as though nothing would penetrate the force field, but each time a speech ended, the audience held their breath en masse, fearful that she might not be able to continue, and each time she did the relief was palpable. Her performance continued to grow in stature but when the first half ended and she left the stage he sensed a collective hesitation. The applause was warm and effusive, but it wasn’t over yet. There was still plenty of time for things to go wrong.
During the interval Charlie remained where he was, afraid of tempting fate if he left the auditorium for even a second. He wondered what she was doing right now. Changing her costume? Re-applying make-up? Gulping down a cup of tea? Texting her son?
Gradually the seats filled up again. Conversation murmured and died as the stage lights came on. The scene had changed. Several years had passed and Jane’s relationship with Rossetti had picked up. Here was an attractive younger man, more exciting than her plodding husband; a man who beguiled her, seduced her, and wove a pattern of desire around her. She poses for the artist; he dresses her, arranges her. She lies, she sits, she arches her back, tilts her head while he sits at his easel and paints. A magical chemistry exists between them; an attraction so intensely real, the audience can physically feel it within themselves. There was no doubt now that Anne Marie was in the zone. The character was completely hers. She owned the stage, she prowled the stage, she used every square inch of it, sometimes without even moving at all. How did she do that? How did she achieve that quiet stillness whilst enslaving the audience?
The Dragonfly Brooch Page 20