Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Yes, I hope he’s right for me too, Julian,’ Maddy said and she turned to go.

  Jenny waved furiously but Maddy didn’t look back as she walked into the customs lounge.

  Douglas Mackie wasn’t at the airport. But Rodney Baines was.

  ‘I know you told me not to bother,’ he said. ‘Douglas was picking you up and all that. But, face it, he’s let you down more often than not in the past, hasn’t he?’ Rodney looked around meaningfully. He didn’t approve of Douglas. Or rather he didn’t approve of the way Douglas constantly deserted Maddy. He could see the hurt in her face so he didn’t push the issue. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I’ve missed you and I couldn’t wait to see you.’

  ‘Thanks, Rodney. You’re a darling, and I’ve missed you too.’ Bugger Douglas, she thought yet again.

  The drive from Heathrow to London was magical. Late spring was always Maddy’s favourite time of the year in England. Late spring and early autumn. It’s good to be back, she thought.

  Jenny was enjoying the drive too. Rodney had opened the sun roof for her and she had both back windows down.

  ‘I love this car—this is my favourite car,’ she declared. ‘Sydney’s a great place, Roddie, you’d love it.’ And from then on she didn’t stop.

  As soon as they reached the outskirts of London, Jenny spent most of the time with her head out of the window, despite Maddy’s admonitions.

  ‘I love London,’ she said. ‘And now I love Sydney too. I don’t know which one I love best.’ Maddy knew exactly how she felt.

  ‘Open the fridge, Jen,’ Rodney said.

  Maddy turned to the back seat and watched as Jenny opened the Jag’s new, custom-made refrigerator. ‘Oh, very fancy,’ she said, and Jenny nodded agreement.

  ‘Yes, I thought so,’ Rodney smiled. There was a bottle of champagne and three icy cold glasses inside. ‘Welcome home.’

  ‘She’s a big girl now,’ he insisted as Maddy threw him a querying glance about the third glass. ‘Eleven, for heaven’s sake; she has to start experiencing the good life sooner or later.’ He nodded at the bottle. ‘Start opening. We’ll have a quick cruise around.’

  ‘She can have a quarter of a glass, then, no more,’ Maddy agreed. Jenny shrieked with delight and they spent the next twenty minutes sipping champagne as they drove around the streets of London looking at their favourite views.

  ‘You’re setting a very bad example,’ Maddy whispered to Rodney who was holding his glass out to her as they drove past Westminster Abbey.

  ‘Yes, wonderful, isn’t it?’ he nodded. Then to Jenny. ‘Did you know that the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey are made from totally different coloured stone, Jen? Gold and dove-grey. Difficult to tell when they’re all black with muck like this but you’ll be able to see one day soon when they finish cleaning them up.’

  He grinned as Maddy handed his glass back. ‘I give up,’ she muttered but she was deeply grateful to Rodney. It was taking her mind off Douglas Mackie.

  Not for long. No sooner had they struggled up the stairs to Maddy’s flat than the front door buzzer rang. ‘Flowers for Miss MacLaughlan,’ came the voice through the intercom system.

  ‘Douglas, I’ll bet,’ said Rodney.

  Of course he was right. There was a note with the flowers: Sorry about the airport. Unavoidable. See you around eleven. Love, Douglas. It was in the florist’s handwriting and Maddy knew that he’d rung from ‘out of town’ and arranged for the flowers to be delivered an hour or so after her arrival home from the airport.

  Douglas turned up shortly before midnight. By ten past twelve they were in bed clinging to each other and the rest of the world didn’t exist.

  So much for her good intentions, Maddy thought when she awoke the following morning and looked at Douglas sleeping beside her. So much for putting an end to the relationship and getting her life in order. She gazed at the face, so boyish in sleep, and knew that she loved him more than she’d ever thought possible.

  What the hell, she decided. Douglas stirred. She kissed him and they made love again.

  For the next year or so Maddy resigned herself to Douglas’s disappearing acts and to the bizarre relationship she had with him. He insisted on keeping his flat, although when he was in London he invariably stayed at her apartment. He never once suggested they should live together and as a matter of pride Maddy resolved that she wouldn’t either.

  She decided instead to surrender herself to the love they had for one another and, fortunately, her career was galloping along at such a rate that she really didn’t have time to contemplate any alternative anyway.

  Jenny was twelve, going on thirteen, and happy at boarding school. Maddy had completed a very successful season of Rashomon for the 1983 Edinburgh Festival—Viktor Hoff directing her in the second stage production of his career.

  ‘The Americans, poof …’ Viktor had declared, as he made a rudely dismissive gesture, ‘… they do not want that I should crack their film market. Scared of the Hoff magic they are. European theatre, she is far more exciting.’

  Indeed, his first production for the Black Theatre of Prague had been hugely innovative and a runaway success. ‘Now I give Japan to Scotland,’ he announced, ‘with my little Aussie in the lead.’

  It was a typical Viktor Hoff triumph. Rashomon was an American adaptation of an ancient Japanese legend and Viktor’s production boasted an Australian, a Scot and a Japanese playing the three leads. Against all odds, it worked—so much so that the production transferred to London.

  While technical rehearsals for the London production were under way things began to go wrong with Douglas and Maddy.

  It all started with the flour canister. When Maddy thought about it later the only remarkable thing may have been that she hadn’t made the discovery earlier. Although not really. She’d stayed at Douglas’s flat less than a dozen times in the three years they’d been together and never for any extended period. This time she was there for a whole weekend while her apartment was getting its long overdue paint job.

  It was Sunday. Monday afternoon would see the final technical dress rehearsal for Rashomon and then the hard slog would begin. Douglas had another ‘out of town’ month coming up too, so Maddy decided to surprise him with a home-cooked seafood meal. At the Billingsgate Fish Markets she decided on the dover sole—one of his favourites: pan fried, lightly sprinkled with flour to make it go crispy on the outside. Finding the flour was the trouble. On the rare occasions they stayed at Douglas’s it was dinner out or takeaway and he always cooked breakfast himself.

  She found the flour canister oddly situated behind the rarely used spare saucepans. There was no flour in it. But there was a gun. A Heckler and Koch 9mm semi-automatic. Also in the canister was a full magazine. All ready to go. The gun looked shiny and lethal and well cared for. Maddy had never had anything to do with guns and she was shocked. But she wasn’t surprised. Apprehensive, perhaps, but not surprised.

  Douglas didn’t appear shocked, surprised or apprehensive when she confronted him with it. He appeared disappointed. And weary—as though he really couldn’t be bothered offering an explanation.

  ‘I’m one of the good guys, Madeleine.’ She kept staring at him. ‘Honestly. You’ll have to take my word for it.’

  ‘One of what sort of “good guys”?’

  ‘Call it military, if you like—that’s my training.’

  And Maddy had to be satisfied with that. She believed him. It pleased her to think that he wasn’t tied up in some way with the underworld, a thought that had crossed her mind many a time during his mysterious disappearances. But she worried at the necessity of his carrying a gun.

  ‘It’s only a precaution,’ he assured her. And again she had to be satisfied.

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ she wailed over the phone to Julian.

  Julian was her lifeline; they took turns in ringing each other weekly. The bills were huge but it was worth it to both of them. Maddy didn’t dare discuss Douglas wi
th either Rodney or Viktor. Neither approved of the affair, both were overprotective and both had the same answer: ‘Leave the man—he’s not worth it.’

  Other women had girlfriends they could share such things with, Maddy mused. The only girlfriend she had was Jenny, and one could hardly discuss one’s lover with a twelve-year-old.

  The weekly telephone link was equally as important to Julian. The Conjurer had been every inch the success he had hoped it would be and now, six months after its Australian world premiere, he and Alex were fielding the first of a series of nibbles by British producers. But exciting and successful as his life had once more become, Julian’s only true confidante was Maddy.

  ‘You know what Alex said when he read the opening scene? The scene where the little boy deliberately dares his older brother to do something that he knows will kill him? He said, “It wasn’t like that”.’ Maddy could practically feel Julian’s shudder down the telephone wire. ‘It was weird, Maddy, really weird. He was very cool, very calm: “It wasn’t like that”. And then he went on reading the play and when he’d finished he said it was possibly the best play he’d ever read.’

  And now, six months after the Australian success, there was talk of The Conjurer coming to the UK.

  ‘Another six months and I’ll probably be in London. I can meet your man in the flesh,’ Julian said. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to give you better advice then. You know, when I can get the actual “vibes”, all that sort of thing.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do in the meantime? He disappears for months on end and now I find he’s got a gun! What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Be a good little gangster’s moll and shut up about it.’ (Julian didn’t altogether believe the military story.)

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Julian …’

  ‘Maddy,’ he interrupted. ‘You love the bloke, don’t you?’

  There was a pause on the end of the line, a pause which spoke volumes to Julian. ‘Exactly. So you may have picked a dud, but you’ll just have to stick it out, won’t you? I mean, you can try and talk yourself out of love with him but it doesn’t really work that way, does it?’

  ‘Get off the phone, Julian,’ said Maddy in mock exasperation.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t, does it? Or so I’m told.’

  ‘I said, get off the phone, Julian.’

  ‘Speak to you next week, see you in six months,’ he chanted and then he hung up.

  Maddy laughed. A dose of Julian always did her good.

  Things became complicated after the discovery of the gun. Maddy worried more when Douglas was away and Douglas became more secretive, possibly in an attempt to stop her worrying. It was a vicious circle and Maddy was definitely feeling the strain. Then the ghastly night of Jenny’s thirteenth birthday pushed her close to breaking point.

  It had promised to be such a lovely evening. Jenny was home from boarding school for the holidays. She and Douglas were going to go to Maddy’s show and then the three of them were going out to supper.

  Jenny hadn’t yet seen Rashomon and she was very excited about it. She loved watching her mother work. She positively glowed with pride; every time she sat out front, she felt like turning around and announcing to the rest of the audience, ‘That’s my mother up there’. She told Maddy so. ‘It’s not just because you’re my mother, though,’ she warned, ‘it’s because you’re very good. If you handed in a rotten performance I wouldn’t feel the same way.’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Maddy said. It was true—Jenny’s critical faculties were not to be sneered at. She’d spent her life surrounded by the theatre and Maddy valued her criticism. ‘Do you want to come in and watch me make up? It’s a two-hour job.’ Jenny nodded. Try and stop her!

  At five-thirty Jenny pulled up a chair, leaned on Maddy’s dressing table and studied every step over the full two hours, fascinated. It was indeed an elaborate process. Viktor had called in two makeup experts to advise Maddy in the early days of the production. A special effects expert taught her how to get a hooded eyelid effect with latex and a Japanese expert drew up a chart for her and instructed her in the full classical Japanese makeup.

  ‘Wow,’ Jenny breathed, very impressed as Maddy rose, pressed her palms together and bowed. ‘Kon-ban-wa,’ she said in a light breathless voice, her tiny bright red Cupid’s-bow mouth barely moving, her eyes lowered.

  ‘Wow!’ Jenny said again.

  ‘Wait till you see it with the kimono.’

  As Maddy started undoing her robe there was a tap at the door.

  Jenny took the large bouquet of flowers from the assistant stage manager and was surprised when she read the accompanying envelope. ‘Hey, they’re for me!’ she said, taking out the card.

  ‘Flowers for the birthday girl,’ Maddy smiled. How sweet of Douglas, she thought.

  ‘“Sorry, can’t get there in time for the show. Meet you backstage afterwards. Happy birthday, Love, Douglas,”’ Jenny read out.

  Maddy didn’t feel the customary mixture of worry, hurt and disappointment. She felt angry. She didn’t even bother looking at the note; she knew it would be in the florist’s handwriting. She felt consumed with anger. How dare he! Letting her down was one thing. But this was Jenny’s birthday! How dare he!

  ‘Hey, Mum, calm down. It’s no big deal.’ It was strange to see her mother’s eyes flashing behind the hooded lids and the flush of anger rising beneath the white makeup. ‘Really. I don’t mind.’ And Jenny didn’t. It was the show she wanted to see—it didn’t matter who was sitting next to her.

  Maddy slipped out of her robe. It might not matter to you, Jen, she thought, but it sure as hell matters to me. ‘Give me a hand with the kimono,’ she said.

  Jenny was enthralled by Rashomon. Ten minutes into the play when the exquisite little Japanese lady arrived riding side-saddle on the white pony she forgot that this was her mother. She even forgot the stories Maddy had told her over the phone of the early previews in Edinburgh when the horse had shit during its brief stage appearance.

  ‘Twice he did it,’ Maddy had said and Jenny had found it hysterically funny. ‘Oh, but that’s nowhere near as bad as the peeing,’ Maddy insisted. ‘He did it during a dress rehearsal. He pee-ed. Do you know how long it takes a horse to pee? All over the stage it was, everywhere.’ Jenny could barely hold on to the phone she was laughing so hard at this stage.

  ‘It’s not funny, Jen,’ Maddy insisted, loving the sound of her daughter’s helpless laughter. ‘I tell you, I had to do the rape scene rolling all over the stage in horse pee.’ There was a long wait before Jenny had calmed down enough for Maddy to continue. ‘The wrangler says it was only nerves, the poor little thing,’ she said eventually. ‘He says that it won’t happen again. Now they give him a big workout each afternoon before they bring him into the theatre so he’s more tired than anything. We get on very well. He’s really sweet; his name’s Andy Hardy.’

  He wasn’t Andy Hardy to Jenny. Not now. Even though she’d called him that when she’d patted him backstage. Now he was the pony carrying the wife of a Samurai warrior through the forest to Kyoto a thousand years ago.

  At the end of Act One the lights dimmed and only a spotlight remained on the face of the Japanese wife as she appealed to the magistrate. Then, just as the spotlight went to black, and before the audience had time to applaud, the strangest thing happened. There was a faint whirring sound, the heavy iron safety curtain started to descend and the actor playing the magistrate stepped downstage and addressed the audience.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?’ The front-of-house lights came up and he waited a moment for the murmurs of surprise to die down. ‘The management requests that everyone leave the theatre as quickly and as quietly as possible, please.’ He raised his voice as the first cries of consternation signalled the possibility of a panic. ‘A call has been received which is most likely a hoax but the police would like to search the auditorium.’

  The rest of the actor’s words urging people
to look after the small children and the elderly were wasted as members of the audience leapt from their seats and raced for the exits. It was pandemonium.

  Jenny was sitting in one of the special house seats the management reserved for VIPs, about eight rows back in the stalls, and was fortunately by the right-hand centre aisle. The moment the safety curtain had started its descent she felt her wrist grabbed and the stage director whispered in her ear, ‘Jenny, come with me’.

  She barely heard the actor’s voice making the announcement as she was whisked down the aisle and through the prompt side door to backstage.

  Maddy was waiting for her. She had her robe on over her costume and she was tying a scarf around her head. ‘Come on, Jen,’ she said. ‘Nothing to be frightened about. We’ll go to the pub next door and have a lemonade.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jenny asked as they settled themselves into a corner of the bar and sipped their lemonades.

  ‘A bomb threat,’ Maddy said. ‘Bound to be a hoax. They’re happening quite a lot lately.’

  ‘A bomb threat. Who by?’

  Maddy shrugged. ‘You tell me. The IRA, the PLO—any number of organisations that specialise in terrorism.’

  ‘How do you know it’s a hoax?’

  ‘We get them all the time.’

  ‘But how do you know?’ Jenny demanded. ‘How do you really know!’

  ‘Hell, I don’t, Jen, but … well, we’re not a government body, are we? I mean, we’re not the BBC. And there were no VIPs in the house, were there? The Queen wasn’t out front, was she? And the play doesn’t make any political statements—it’s a thousand year old Japanese legend, for God’s sake. It has to be a hoax.’

  ‘The people in the audience didn’t think it was a hoax.’

  ‘No. That’s why the bastards do it, to scare people. It’s a horrible business, isn’t it?’ Maddy downed her lemonade. ‘Try not to let it spoil your birthday though. They’ll call us back in soon and we can get on with Act Two. Do you want another lemonade?’