Stratford Jewel

by Oliver, Marina

  'When's the opening?'

  'In April. I can finish off the outstanding work in the Chicago office during the next two weeks, and get a boat which arrives two days beforehand. That gives me time to have a look at what Elizabeth Scott has achieved, and catch a boat back a week later. I'd be away three weeks. Chicago can cope for that long, we've some good young people there.'

  'Which brings me to why I wanted to see you, Max. De Vries is leaving us, and the California office is too big, too important for anyone else who's there at the moment. I'd like you to go back as senior partner there. Could you clear everything in Chicago before you're off to England?'

  'Sure. What's de Vries doing?' Max asked, not at all sure if he wanted to be in Hollywood again. Gloria had never given up, and made his life so unpleasant he'd eventually asked to move to another office, and to his surprise last year had been given the task of setting up a new one in Chicago.

  'He's leaving us, starting his own practice. I imagine you don't know that Gloria went off with an Argentinian rancher two months ago. So will you go?'

  'Yes. And thanks.'

  Max sat for a long time in his hotel room that evening, before stirring himself to go out and eat. Was Reuben aware that Rosa would be starring as Beatrice in the newly finished Memorial Theatre, and he'd at last given in to his incessant need to see her again? He wondered if he'd made a wise decision, or whether seeing her in the flesh instead of in the occasional newspaper photograph would make his regrets even more unendurable.

  He shook himself. He'd tried to forget her for almost three years, but nothing could drive away the memory of her beauty, the joy of loving her, the enchantment of just being with her. Their brief marriage had been too deeply entwined with Jack's tragedy to have flowered. Since then work could absorb him for most of his waking hours, but other women repelled him. After that one night with Gloria he'd slept alone, missing Rosa intensely, but knowing he'd hurt her too deeply, she would never return to him. One last glimpse of her, he told himself, and maybe the spell would be broken. Perhaps he was cherishing an illusion. He had to make sure.

  *

  Rosa had a break from rehearsals, and for the first time since she'd arrived in Stratford the previous day had leisure to walk by the river. She crossed the bridge, and from the far bank viewed the stark exterior of the theatre, the façade of red-sand and grey bricks broken only by uncompromisingly abrupt pillars and a few windows. The vast fly-tower above the stage would enable them to hide the flying cloths, but already Rosa had discovered that much of the artistic advice which had been sought, from Sir Barry Jackson and Norman Wilkinson and others, had been forgotten in the stress of building, when people who might have insisted on changes were away. Mr Bridges-Adams, for instance, was only in Stratford during the spring and summer seasons.

  Rosa sighed. It had been designed to serve a function, and would no doubt become world-famous. It deserved the local derisive description of jam-factory. Max's concept, however, she decided, would have been more in keeping with the town and better fitted for the purpose of honouring Shakespeare.

  As she returned along Bridge Street she had to step aside when a large fat woman came hurriedly out of a shop and almost bumped into her. The woman looked at her, gave a tentative smile, and then bit her lip.

  'Agnes? It is Agnes, isn't it?'

  'You don't recognise me? Have I changed so much, Rosa?' Agnes said. 'How are you, Rosa? Whose husband have you stolen now?'

  'Oh, Agnes, if you knew how much I regretted that, and have wanted to apologise.'

  Agnes shrugged her shoulders. 'Adam soon got over it. We've got a son now, he's a year old. He's adorable, the image of Adam. It's that, childbearing, and contentment that's made me put on a little weight.'

  More like eating too much when she was miserable, Rosa thought. She knew that temptation and felt guilty again for being the cause of it. 'A son? Congratulations. You must both be very pleased.'

  'We are. That's real creativity, better than pretending to be other people. I'm happy doing something worthwhile with my life, looking after my husband and son, making a proper home for them,' Agnes said, but Rosa thought her expression belied her claims. She looked anything but happy, lines of worry and discontent creasing her plump countenance. Agnes went on, remorseless in her need to spill out her long-pent up anguish. 'Enjoying flaunting yourself back here in Stratford? Do you like being the star? Is it as good as being a film star like Celia? She's done very well for herself. Better than you. She'll soon be known all over the world.'

  'She's coming to Stratford for the opening ceremony. Will you be seeing her then?'

  'I expect so. We asked her and her husband to stay with us, of course, but Celia said they had so many theatre people to see, it wouldn't be fair on us. I think they've booked a suite, but I'm not sure which hotel.'

  Rosa swallowed the information. Celia had arranged their accommodation at the White Swan months ago, so why hadn't she told Agnes? Did she wish to avoid meeting her old friend? Or was she afraid of being smothered by Agnes's friendship? 'Will you be coming to the theatre?' she asked instead.

  'Of course. Everyone will. Adam's one of the Masons, so naturally he'll be in the procession. I'll be with my parents. I've left the baby with them now, and I ought to get back. I don't imagine you'll ever know the problems of parenthood, will you? Is your husband still in America? Or has he divorced you? From the rumours we hear about you and that Gilbert Meadows he'd have ample evidence, even in this country. Bye.'

  Rosa watched her walking towards the High Street. The limp was more noticeable now, probably exacerbated by her weight. Rosa shrugged. Agnes had paid off a good many old scores during that short conversation. She no longer had any urge to apologise. She even felt a sneaking sympathy for Adam, with such a discontented wife. Nevertheless, she fervently hoped he would not attempt to see her while she was in Stratford. That madness was over for good.

  *

  Gilbert threw down the newspaper and clenched his hands tightly. How could Celia endure to have such gossip about her private life repeated in the less respectable organs of the press? Her present husband was a scoundrel, notorious for his affairs, and surely she could not enjoy such humiliation. A seed of hope began to blossom within him. Celia was established now in Hollywood, she didn't need Rossi in the way she once had. Gilbert was well aware that Celia had used him, then Willy, then Rossi, to further her own ambitions. He didn't care. He still loved her, and if only she would permit it would cherish her once more.

  He'd see her that afternoon. The opening performance in the new theatre would take place before the Prince of Wales, and Gilbert had confirmed that Celia and her husband had tickets for the play. He yawned. They'd had so little time for rehearsing in the new building, and as the workmen were still there most of the rehearsals had been at night. Last night, or rather this morning, they hadn't finished until three. Luckily his roles in the two parts of Henry IV, to be staged that afternoon and evening, were small with few words to remember. Now he must forget the snide gossip about Celia in the morning's paper and try to get a few more hours of sleep.

  Unrefreshed, he was with the rest of the company when the Prince, having piloted his own plane, was driven to the theatre in a Rolls Royce with Fordham Flower. Thousands of people lined the route and cheered as the seventy-four flags were raised without any of the disasters opponents of the new electrical equipment had been predicting. Fordham's father, the Mayor, now Sir Archibald, stepped forward to greet them and made his usual speech. The Prince replied, was handed a key by Elizabeth Scott, and the favoured few followed him into the theatre.

  The performance was a disaster. Gilbert knew it would be condemned by the critics from the first few moments. 'Why did we have to have that dreadful ode first?' he whispered to a fellow attendant Lord.

  'The Poet Laureate's job depends on it. But I've heard better stuff by Masefield. And why didn't they insist on a Royal box? The Prince won't be able to hear a thing tucked away up i
n the back of the Dress Circle.'

  'It looks more like a cinema, doesn't it?' a nervous cleric added. 'I don't like the circle being so flat, such a long way from the stage, and no boxes or anything at the sides. And I've been up there, in the front row the rail gets in the sight line.'

  'Hush, the curtain's rising.'

  Randle Ayrton, uncomfortably seated on a box-like throne before a hurriedly painted backdrop of Westminster Palace, took a deep breath and, clearly nervous, spoke the first words of Shakespeare to be uttered publicly in the new Memorial Theatre. 'So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant – '

  Someone, Gilbert thought it was one of the ladies, gave an hysterical giggle. 'Apt, fits us like a glove,' someone else whispered, and anxious laughs were hastily stifled.

  Everyone was tired, apprehensive and, when the Prince departed during the interval to return to London, dispirited. The acting was wooden, the scenery uninspired, the lighting inadequate, and Gilbert afterwards heard that many of the words had been inaudible. He was finished early, had changed and was outside hoping to catch Celia, when he saw Sir Archibald Flower stalk past, clearly in a furious rage. A few critics Gilbert knew by sight emerged, and from a remark he overheard Gilbert guessed they were going straight back to London. Then he saw Celia and forgot all about the theatre, the play, and the critics.

  'Celia,' he said, his voice hoarse. 'Celia, I want to talk to you.'

  She was alone, but in his agitation Gilbert neither knew nor cared. If Hank Rossi had been there he would still have spoken.

  'What? Gilbert! You were in the play?'

  'I think I'm glad you didn't recognise me. Celia, it's been so long. Please, let's talk.'

  'I have to get back to the hotel. Hank was talking to some business friends, but he's expecting me.'

  'I'll walk with you. Give me that, at least.'

  She didn't reply, and they set off along Chapel Lane. Gilbert studied her profile. She was thinner, but as lovely as ever, her skin translucent, her golden hair vibrant and gleaming.

  'I never recovered from your leaving,' he suddenly burst out. 'Celia, I don't blame you, I was being insensitive. I never had a chance to say I was sorry.'

  She smiled lightly. 'Gilbert, our mistake was to get married. But if I hadn't left you I wouldn't have reached Hollywood. I have that to thank you for.'

  'Is that all you feel?'

  'I don't have regrets, if that's what you mean. Though I never found another lover to match you. Perhaps we could renew our acquaintance one day, when Hank's busy. I'll arrange a time when you're not in the performance, and send him to the theatre alone. What about it?'

  He was standing still, staring at her. Celia stopped after a few paces and glanced back at him.

  'It's because your husband has such flagrant affairs,' Gilbert said, frowning. 'You're hurt. Celia, leave him! Come back to me,' he added, impetuously catching at her arm.

  Celia shook herself free. 'Hank?' She giggled. 'I don't mind, it gives me more freedom. And I certainly won't leave him yet, he's useful, like Willy. And you, Gilbert.'

  'Is that all you care about? I hoped you'd changed.'

  She sighed, and walked on, He hastened to catch up with her as she turned the corner past New Place. 'I care only about acting,' she said distinctly. 'I'll do anything to achieve what I want. I liked you, Gilbert, better than the other men who wanted me, but it wasn't a sensible choice. You didn't have influence, or you wouldn't still be playing extras here, would you? Luckily I saw sense in time. I've chosen better since. But if you want a frolic for old time's sake, let me know.'

  Before he could reply she stood on tiptoe and kissed him, then with a wave disappeared through the doorway of the hotel. Gilbert, unaware of the newspaper photographer who had just taken several shots, stood looking after her as his illusions finally shattered around him.

  *

  Rosa was tense. The critics had been harsh about the first performance, condemning the theatre itself and the production. Most of them had departed after the matinee, and the company was discouraged. Mr Bridges-Adams, who had worked so tirelessly for this moment, was exhausted and looking ill. The Mayor was furious and unforgiving. Only the new production of the Dream, on which unusual amounts of money had been lavished for new, wonderful sets designed by Norman Wilkinson, had received praise, and that only in the local press. Rosa desperately wanted her play to be a success, for the sake of Mr Bridges-Adams who had given her her first chance.

  The opening scene began, and Rosa, awaiting her first line, strolled down onto the dark apron. She gazed out into the audience, feigning indifference, and gave a sudden start. Surely that was Max, three rows back on her side of the theatre? It couldn't be, he wouldn't have come, he didn't love her. Heart beating, breathless, she tried to penetrate the darkness of the auditorium, but could no longer see him. It was a chance resemblance. Yet, would he not be interested in seeing his rival's building, the successful design? He might not have known she was joining the company. She turned back to the stage, desperately trying to control her trembling, just in time to hear Leonato give her cue: 'How much better it is to weep at joy than joy at weeping!'

  Rosa had an hysterical desire to laugh. She had no more tears for her lost love, she had wept them all long ago, and all that remained was a deep, searing anguish, a never-healing wound. Then she pulled herself together and said her first line. It was muted, but clear, and by the time Benedick entered she was once more completely in control of herself. In their first duel of words she injected a derisive tone that made her a true Lady Disdain. By the end of the first act the rest of the cast had been infected by the sharpness of her performance, and they knew it was going well.

  During the interval Rosa sat in her dressing room and forced herself not to think about Max. She could hear the noises outside, since the rooms overlooked Waterside, and she had to restrain herself from a crazy desire to look out of the window in the hope that she could see him. It couldn't have been him. It had been a brief glimpse only, and she must have been mistaken. She'd had no further opportunity of looking towards that part of the audience, and she berated herself for daring to think of it. Great as was her desire to confirm his presence, she dared not, must not risk losing her concentration on the play, especially her final scene with Benedick, which for some reason had gone badly at rehearsals. Anyway, she must be mistaken, it couldn't be Max.

  Benedick, she thought, as she descended from the dressing room to the stage, wasn't a regular member of the company but, like her, had been brought in just for this one play. They hadn't acted together before and didn't know each other apart from the performances last year and now. Sometimes they found it difficult to act together. He was too effeminate for her taste. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed the sparring but not the genuine love scenes. She had to brace herself for his kisses.

  He wasn't a bit like Max. Angrily she thrust the thought aside. Max wasn't here. It was ridiculous to imagine he might be. When she stepped out onto the stage again she forced herself not to glance towards the audience and concentrated on her words. When Benedick kissed her she closed her eyes and prayed she could sustain her part for the remaining few minutes. Thank goodness she had no more lines to speak. She could barely wait to discover whether Max was in fact there, or whether it had been a cruel illusion. Yet she had felt a tingling, a sensitivity, which was new. Could that be due to him.

  At the end the applause showed the audience's appreciation. Rosa took the curtain call and received the flowers which were handed up to her, laughing and smiling with relief that it was over. She risked looking towards the seat where she'd seen him, but he'd gone. Had he? Or was it that the enthusiasm of the audience, many standing to applaud, hid him from sight? By the next performance she would be calmer, would somehow have discovered whether that glimpse of Max's face had been a mirage.

  As the curtain fell for the final time and Rosa moved into the wings some of the bouquets in her arms slipped. Two f
ell from her grasp and a card fluttered loose to the ground. Rosa caught a glimpse of the writing as Benedick helped her recover the bouquets, then she was hurrying towards her dressing room. She needed solitude, time to think, to plan what to do, find ways of discovering the truth. But she shared a dressing room with Hero.

  To calm herself she took a shower while the actress playing Hero changed, and finally she was alone. Wearing only a dressing gown she fumbled through the bouquets. All but one had cards, but she barely glanced at them. The card she'd glimpsed, with the strong black writing, wasn't there. Had it been from Max? Was it his writing? Rosa clenched her fists. She had to know.

  She slipped out of the dressing room and made her way downstairs. Working lights were still on in the wide wings, though no one was there. The stage hands would come to tidy the set in the morning. She closed her eyes to try and think exactly where she'd been standing when the card had fallen from the bouquet. Then she saw it, beneath a gilded throne they were using in Lear.

  She stepped forward, hesitated for a moment, and then swooped to pick it up. As she turned it over and read the name on it, her own name was spoken softly and she swung round towards the shadowed stage.

  *

  'Max?' Rosa's voice was hoarse. 'Is that you?'

  Max stepped forward. 'I thought you were marvellous. I had to congratulate you. "She's a fair lady" He quoted Benedick, then "In mine eyes she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on".'

  'That's about Hero,' Rosa said faintly.

  'It suits you. I was coming to look for you in your dressing room.'

  Rosa was breathless. She had imagined this meeting so many times, wondered how she'd feel if she ever saw Max again, but she'd never imagined such a turmoil of emotion. There was desire to be held in his arms, to feel his lips on hers, and fear that it would never happen. She tried to sound cool and businesslike, and managed a faint chuckle. 'Using privileged information to sneak through the passdoor?'