Rory spun around. “Why don’t you both shut up! Bloody stupid sods! What do you know about it? What do you know about me? What makes you think I never fall in love?”
Lester reached up and pulled Todd’s head down into a conspirator’s pose. “Todd, old boy, do you see what I see?” He pointed to Rory. “I think our friend has fallen in love, practically at first sight, too. What do you think of that then?” They were almost at the stage door. Rory glared, bit his thumb at them, pushed through the crowd of autograph seekers, and ran inside. Lester put his hand over his heart and pretended to be shocked. “Did he bite his thumb at us, sir?”
Todd recited back, "No sir, but he did bite his thumb, sir."
*
Unlike the raucous boys, Meg acted very superior, leading Elly to the theatre. The stage door was blocked by a crowd of patrons. Meg made a hugely theatrical gesture, and shouted with a piercing voice, “ ‘scuse us very kindly, we ‘ave to get ready fo’ the performance.”
Inside, a different stage-doorkeeper sat at the high desk. He was a younger man. “Good evening Miss O’Mally, Miss Fielding.” He held out his hand. “I’m Alberts.”
Elly shook his hand. “How-do-you-do, Mr. Alberts? It’s so nice to meet you.” Her smile was sweet and Alberts looked enchanted.
“Welcome to ‘is Majesty’s.”
“Come along now, Elly,” Meg’s tone was condescending. “We must ge’ a move on. I ‘ave a performance tonight.”
“I’m so sorry.” Elly spoke with appropriate deference. Alberts chuckled, giving her an understanding wink. Elly smiled at Mr. Alberts, blushed slightly, and followed Meg through a corridor and down a staircase taking them under the stage.
Michael had been wrong about one thing, Elly had power. Her physical beauty, unaffected charm, and simple good manners were winning her conquests at every turn.
Meg stood close and whispered. “I always take a wash before the show. The washrooms is this way.”
Inside the women’s washroom, Elly was delighted to find a large tub of water warming on a gas stove. It was filled from a single tap, sticking out of the wall. The slate floor sloped down to a drain in the center. Tin basins were stacked on a wide ledge. A row of worn but clean towels hung over a clothesline and cakes of soap lay in a saucer. A large drying rack was filled with ladies’ clothing.
Elly asked, “Can I do my washing here?”
Meg filled one of the tin basins and set it on the ledge. “We do all our washin’ ‘ere. There’s no water at Potter’s.”
Elly filled a basin and washed her hands and face.
Meg washed only her hands. “I wash m’ face after the show, when I take m’ makeup off.”
From the look of her skin, Elly wondered if Meg ever took off her makeup. Most of the dark greasepaint seemed to be smeared across the bed sheets at the boarding house.
Meg led the way back upstairs to the stage level. The wing space at the side of the stage was painted white. The floors were smooth, unvarnished wood. She pointed to a dressing room with the number 2 on the door.
“This is the quick-change room. Our dressing room’s upstairs but we change down ‘ere when there’s no time to go all the way up and down again.”
The next door, number 4, had a polished brass name plate with MISS STEWART engraved in beautiful script. Elly smiled to herself, remembering Mrs. Potter’s boardinghouse doors. Meg whispered, “It’s not ‘alf-hour yet, but ’er door is closed so we won’t disturb Miss Stewart. I’ll introduce you later. Come on, let’s go over t’ the other side.”
They walked onto the stage, brightly lit and full of scenery. Unhurried scene-shifters placed fake looking bushes and trees onto marks painted on the floor. A backdrop featured a toy castle set against roughly painted dark streaks. It hung loose and waved slightly as the girls walked by. Two men carried a large black cauldron. They used only one hand each and it appeared to weigh very little. After carefully setting it on its marks, they went to tie down the backdrop.
Stage-manager Eddy Edwards walked to his desk down-stage left, and waved a greeting to the girls.
He shouted, “Heads up, curtain coming down!”
Off to stage right, a well-muscled man reached up with two hands and pulled on a thick rope running from floor to ceiling. Elly was thrilled to see the heavy red-and-gold curtain slowly descend, until its huge weight made a muffled whoosh against the wooden floor. She recognized the large stage-right wing where she and the other hopefuls had waited to audition. The empty dressing room 1, where Michael had helped her prepare, was now another quick-change room, full of velvet and brocade costumes dyed rich earth tones: browns, dark-reds, and dark greens.
The next door, 3, was half-open. The brass name plate read MR. O’CONNELL. Elly saw the name, caught her breath, and stepped back.
*
The clatter of hard-soled shoes and rowdy voices announced the arrival of two-dozen actors for their half-hour call. Jeremy O’Connell chuckled to see his ratty band of apprentices straggle in. Meg and the new girl came straight towards him. Meg’s small feet supported heavy legs, a thick body, and a large head topped-off with an enormous hat. The total design made her an almost perfect kite. The new girl looked slim and charmingly plain by comparison. The hem of her pale-green frock was mud spattered under her schoolgirl coat. Her radiant hair was tied back under a modest wool bonnet.
Meg pushed open the door with a theatrical, “Good evening’, Mr. O’Connell.”
Jeremy’s rich theatrical tones mimicked her pretentious grandeur. “A very good evening to you, Miss O’Mally.”
Meg whispered, “Say ‘ello,” gave Elly a push, and watched as she awkwardly fell into the room.
Regaining her balance, Elly looked at Jeremy O’Connell and blinked with surprise.
He sat in a richly upholstered chair, dressed in a hand-painted silk dressing-gown. His eyes were clear, his dark hair was combed back, and one manicured finger touched his thin lips. His street clothes and costumes hung on a neat rack. An oriental rug covered the floor and heavy green drapes swayed against a partially opened window. Two carved wooden chairs and a narrow cot filled most of the space. Gilt mirrors, framed photos, and letters covered the walls. Even his stove was polished. His dressing table held perfect rows of grease sticks, charcoal pencils, and fake hair for mustaches and beards. It was a tiny jewel of a room.
Elly stood very still, her hands clutched together.
Jeremy was sure the other apprentices had frightened her with tales of his often sadistic nature. He studied her as if she were a laboratory rat.
“Ah yes, Miss…” He stopped, thought for a moment, remembered the name Round-tree, and shook his head. “We changed your name, did we not?” She started to speak, but he held up a hand. “No, no, wait. Let me think… El… Elly. Yes?” She nodded. He held up his hand again. “El-ly-Fiel-ding.” He almost sang the name, separating the syllables.
She stammered, “Y’ Yes sir.”
“You see, I was not quite as hung-over as you thought I was.” His manner was so broadly theatrical, he wondered if she knew he was only teasing.
Her cheeks flushed. Tears filled her eyes. “I beg your pardon sir, I thought nothing at all.”
“Nothing at all? Only a salamander thinks nothing at all.”
Her eyes bulged, and he guessed she had been warned never to disagree with him. He softened his tone. “It is I who should beg your pardon. This afternoon, I presented myself as less than a gentleman.” His voice dropped low. “Forgive me.”
Elly looked totally confused. She started to answer back, stopped herself, and stared at the floor. Her self-control was marvellous. He hoped that he could harness her energy and teach her to use her beauty. She could be a sensation. He would make her into an actress.
He fluttered a hand. “I can see you are in the very capable hands of Miss O’Mally. Please enjoy the play, come back after, and tell me what you think.”
“Thank you, sir. I look forward to this evening. I have
not had the pleasure of seeing you on stage since you played Skipton.”
“Skipton? But… that must have been…”
She laughed appealingly. “Yes sir, I was a child, but I remember you very well. You were Henry the Fifth, and I fell in love.”
Overpowered by her flattery, he smiled in spite of himself, then quickly turned away. "Goodbye."
*
Meg led Elly up the stairs, shaking her head. “Can’t believe wha’ O’Connell just said. ‘at’s a first. Never ‘eard ‘at ol’ pouf say ‘beg pardon’ to the likes of us.”
Elly asked, “What’s a pouf?”
“A Jessie.”
“What’s a Jessie?”
Meg made a face. “You know, a Nancy Boy.”
Elly shook her head, still not understanding.
Meg stared at her in disbelief. “Good God, almighty!” She continued up the stairs.
Up one flight were two dressing rooms, 5 and 7, with four men in each. Meg made the introductions. “Chaps, this is Elly. Elly, this ‘ere’s room five. ‘ere’s Kenny, Ollie, Owen, and Evan. Back ‘ere’, in room seven, you’ve got Brian, George, Donald, and you know Michael. You’ll ‘ave to remember the rooms when yer workin’ in the costume shop.”
The actors greeted her warmly.
Michael led Elly onto the landing. “Are you all right? I feel terrible. I left you on the street. I’m so sorry.”
So much in the past few hours had been new and unpleasant, Michael’s sweet words almost made her cry. “Oh Mr. Burns – Michael, you were so tired and you’ve been so kind to me. I’m fine, everything’s fine, really.” Tears burst from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.
He handed her a handkerchief and she blew her nose. He whispered, “I told you Potter’s was a beastly place.”
“It is, but I’ll survive. Truly! I’m not as fragile as I look.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I hope that’s true.”
Meg commanded, “Come along, Elly.”
She held the handkerchief to her heart. “Let me wash this for you.”
“If you like.” Michael gave her his most encouraging smile.
She smiled back, clutched the handkerchief for support, then followed Meg to the top floor. They were greeted by their male housemates and a host of other men. Lester, Todd, Rory, and Peter shared one room. Ten supernumeraries were crammed into the other. Since there were only four chairs, they took turns applying their makeup, then waiting in the hall. Elly was reminded that Shakespeare wrote many roles for men, but few for women. She noted the room numbers: 9 and 11.
When Rory saw Elly, he dropped his makeup sponge and leapt from his chair. One of his cheeks was dark with greasepaint, and he looked like a little boy with a dirty face. Elly smiled in spite of herself.
Meg took off, up a very steep, narrow staircase. Elly followed and Rory raced after them, taking Elly’s arm. “Mind your step now. It’s a bit tricky up here.”
Meg sneered, “‘It’s a bit tricky up ‘ere.’ I been ‘ere two years, Rory, an’ y’ never walked me up them stairs.”
Elly was determined to stop this row before it started. “Oh, Miss O’Mally, you’re so good at so many things, and I have such a lot to learn. I’m sure Mr. Cook is only worried I’ll break my silly neck.”
Meg accepted this with a sarcastic, “Right!” She entered dressing room 10. It was occupied by the two lady apprentices.
Peg was finishing her Second Witch makeup. The point of her razor-sharp chin extended into impossibly thin cheeks and huge eyes in ghostly sockets. She snarled at Elly, “Wha’ in ‘ell you doin’ ‘ere?”
Elly gasped and stepped back.
Rory raced to defend. “She’s got as much right to be in here as you lot, and you’d better get used to her being…”
“Mr. Cook, please!” Elly glared, begging him to be quiet. Very deliberately she turned back to Peg. “Miss O’Mally has been kind enough to show me around, Miss. Lamoor. I shall now go into the stalls where I belong. I beg your pardon for the intrusion. I look forward to your performance.” She smiled at the scowling witch face, turned her back, and shuddered.
The call-boy shouted from two floors below. “‘alf hour, laidies!” He saw Rory, “and gen’leman.”
Rory stammered, “I’ll just run Miss Fielding down to the stalls.”
“Make it quick. Don’t let the gov’ see you.”
“Come on, Elly.” They hurried down the stairs.
She stopped him half-way. “Mr. Cook, promise me something.”
He spun around, almost knocking her over. “Yes, of course, anything in the world.”
She backed away from him. “I have to live with Meg and Peg. Please don’t make them hate me.”
“Right.” He looked ashamed of himself. “Sorry.”
They continued down the stairs and she stopped him again. “There’s one thing more.”
“Anything. Just ask.”
“Well, Jeremy O’Connell said I should come back after the performance. Do you suppose he meant it?”
“Absolutely. If he asked you to come back, you must do it.” He left her and sped back upstairs.
Elly put her wool cap in her pocket, took off her coat and folded it over her arm. She shook out her skirt and her hair, hoping she looked presentable. She opened a door leading from the dim backstage area, into a curtained vestibule, pushed the curtain aside, and stepped into the brightly lit stalls. The pit orchestra played lively music; loud enough to be heard, but not interrupt the cheerful conversations of elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, squeezing past each other, finding their seats.
All the men wore black-and-white dress suits. The women paraded in colourful beaded gowns, silks, furs and jewels. The excitement was electric. Crystal chandeliers beamed sparkling light. The seats were upholstered plush red with gold trim, matching the red-and-gold of the stage curtain. Gilded carvings of cherubs playing musical instruments, and murals of Greek lovers were everywhere.
An elegant lady noticed Elly’s soiled frock, turned to her woman friend, and spoke loudly. “I don’t know what my maids do on their nights off, but I certainly wouldn’t want to see one of them here.”
An usher hurried to her. “Gallery stairs are at the back, Miss. Got a ticket?”
Elly’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “No, I haven’t. I’m a new apprentice. Mr. Bates said…”
The usher’s scowl relaxed into a smile. “Oh, you’re the one. Right-i-o. We’re sold out, cha know, even standing room. You’ll have to watch from the back wiv’ us. Seats usually get freed-up second act. I’ll keep m’ eye out fer y’. They call me Old Jim, on a count a there’s a lad ‘ere, and ‘e’s…”
“Young Jim?” Elly finished and they both laughed. “Thanks, Old Jim, you’re very kind. I’m Elly.” She smiled and offered her hand.
Old Jim shook her lovely hand, smiled back, and fancied himself in love. He led Elly to the back of the stalls and introduced her to the other ushers. The houselights began to dim.
*
Jeremy O’Connell looked in his dressing-room mirror. Macbeth looked back. Greasepaint and charcoal sharpened his delicate features. Dark auburn wig hair was combed back over his shoulders, and a slender beard framed his chin. He was Macbeth -- a warrior, a patriot, a weak-willed murderer.
Glancing across his dressing-table, he smiled at a family photograph of Katherine, Evan, and himself on a pebble beach. Beside it stood a photo of a handsome young man, holding a violin. He whispered, “Stephen, my pretty boy, I hope you are not having too much fun on tour.” He chuckled sadly. “I miss you, you little tart.”
A boy’s voice called, “Five minutes, Mr. O’Connell.”
“Thank you, Matt.”
Backstage was a beehive of activity. Jeremy walked over to Katherine. Her face was painted sharp and dark. Thick red wig-hair fell to her waist. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
Eddie called, "Ladies and gentlemen, beginners for Act One. Places please!"
&n
bsp; The houselights dimmed and the audience ceased their chatter. The house went to black and eerie music sounded from violins playing close harmonies in their highest registers. Double basses bowed their lowest open strings. The curtain rose and Elly’s heart pounded. The stage she had walked across was now the Scottish moors. A real castle stood in the distance and a real storm was raging.
Downstage-right, Peg McCarthy and two older actresses appeared as three terrifying witches, stirring a fiercely bubbling caldron. Behind them, a dozen ghostly figures converged in the shadows.
Stage-right disappeared into darkness, and stage-left blazed with cold blue light. A dozen soldiers wielded huge metal swords that clashed together, launching a mighty battle. The music surged as the stage filled with a dozen more soldiers swinging axes and shields. Women in the audience gasped and fluttered their fans.
Owen Freeman, dark and handsome, entered as Malcolm. Michael Burns, fair and lithe, entered as Ross. Some soldiers howled with victory. Others shrieked with pain. Todd, dressed in gleaming chain mail, strode downstage, then viciously hurled his ax upstage. Lester and another soldier held up their shields, stopping the ax with a terrible crash. Rory Cook raised his sword over his head and drove it into Todd’s side. The Witches reappeared in the mist.
A drum roll — a great flash of lightning — and Jeremy O’Connell stood center-stage — tall, dark, and magnificent, a huge broadsword rested on his shoulder. His voice cut through the storm. “So foul and fair a day I have not seen.” A swift lift of his head brought the witches swarming around him. An excited hum rose from the audience. He was Macbeth—a sinewy, well-muscled warrior with no thoughts other than serving his king and his personal ambition. A hard man, yet still a likable man, vulnerable and self-doubting.
The scene changed to inside the castle walls. Oddly sweet music brought Lady Macbeth gliding onto the stage. Katherine Stewart was fascinating, mysterious, and sensual. Her beauty would be Macbeth’s undoing. Rory Cook appeared in small roles, always intense and forceful.
But From Thine Eyes: Scintillating historical drama set in an Edwardian English theatre (His Majesty's Theatre Book 2) Page 4