The Gentle Prisoner

by Sara Seale

  someone hammered in the flies. The little theatre looked shabby and forlorn in the dim light.

  "This is no good," Jake said as Colin hailed him from the orchestra pit. "It fairly creaks. I thought of Daddy-long-legs or one of those old romantic comedies to ring the changes, but poor Moira Sheridan's a bit long in the tooth for ingenues. Curses on Betty and her inconvenient appendix!"

  "Never mind," Colin said. "I've brought you the perfect ingenue to fill the gap."

  Jake peered down at them short-sightedly.

  "Who is it?" he asked.

  "Miss Shelley- ?" Colin paused enquiringly. "Wynthorpe," said Shelley, reverting quite naturally to her old name.

  "Shelley Wynthorpe? Never heard of her. What experience have you, dear?"

  "None, I'm afraid," she faltered. ""An amateur!" Jake exclaimed, and turned to Colin impatiently. "Really, Colin, as if we hadn't got enough on our hands! I'm sorry, Miss - er - Wynthorpe, but what we lack at present is a leading lady."

  "Well, have a look at her," Colin said, and picking Shelley up, deposited her on the other side of the footlights.

  She stood nervously before Jake, and the light from the one batten overhead, flooded down on her.

  "H'm," said Jake, frowning heavily. "The right type. Pity you've no experience."

  Colin climbed on to the stage.

  "She can play Prunella," he said. "She's word-perfect, and it's no tax on her abilities. She just has to be herself. It wouldn't want much rehearsing. The others all know it."

  Jake's frown deepened.

  "Fantasy won't go over in a place like this," he said. "They want something they can understand."

  "Well, where's your choice? You can't play Charley's Aunt for the rest of the season."

  "We'll have to think of something else, or pack up early and go."

  "Where's the need? Give Prunella a chance. It's a charming little play, and even if the child can't act, she'll look right, and won't forget her lines. She's played it before."

  "Where?"

  "At her convent school - all right, all right, don't go off the handle! Give her a trial. Come along, Shelley, let's give him the scene with Pierrot when Prunella comes down from her window."

  "Now?" She looked at him with startled eyes. "Yes, now. Stop that hammering back there! She opens her window and sees Pierrot below in the garden - remember ?" She said, almost as if she was sleep-walking: " 'Who is there? Who are you?' "

  " 'The man in the moon' " answered Colin. "Go on - that's fine. Forget Jake, forget me. Remember only Pierrot and that you're running away."

  Running away ... Her eyes closed for a moment on tears.

  " 'Why have you come back?' " she said.

  They played the little scene out. Sometimes she forgot the words and Colin prompted her, but she was too tired to be nervous. She remembered only that she was running away, to Colin, to Pierrot...

  "Good girl," Colin said, when they had finished. "Well, Jake, you see what I mean?"

  Jake was looking at Shelley curiously.

  "Yes, she has something," he said slowly. "Haven't I seen you somewhere before, Miss Wynthorpe?"

  "Yes," she said. "You came and sang carols with Colin outside Garazion."

  He blinked.

  "Of course. But in that case you're - "

  "Yes, she's Mrs. Penryn of Garazion, but she's gone back to her maiden name and wants to try her luck on the stage," said Colin quickly.

  Jake glanced at him. He knew Colin of old, and he had known, too, there was some girl with whom he had been having an affair since they had come back to Polzeal.

  "I hope," he said, "you're not getting involved in something, Colin, not that it's any business of mine, of course, but - "

  "Don't worry," Colin said. "As you say, it's no concern of yours. The point is - will you take her on?"

  "Well," Jake said a little ungraciously, "an attractive amateur is better than nothing, I suppose. I'll give her a trial, but I don't know about Prunella. I can't help feeling it would be too big a risk all round. And I'll have to fix it with Equity."

  "We'll see," said Colin cheerfully. "Now, the first thing we must do, Shelley, is to fix you up with somewhere to stay. I've got it! You can have Betty's old digs at Mother Tregenna's until she comes out of hospital. Come on - we'll go and see the old girl."

  It seemed to Shelley, by the time she was able to get to bed, that she had never spent such a strange day. Colin arranged everything with, or without her consent. Mrs. Tregenna proved to be a hard-faced elderly woman who viewed her with suspicion but consented to let her the room while the other girl was in hospital.

  "Though I'll say to you what I say to all of them," she added. "Rent in advance, and no gentlemen upstairs. When you come back late you'll please to be quiet, and towels used to wipe off greasepaint will be charged for."

  Colin paid the week's rent, which made the woman sniff disapprovingly as she sook it, and told Shelley to come back to the theatre when she had unpacked her things.

  "We have a bite at about five," he told her, "and Moira makes cocoa after the show for anyone who want's it."

  When she got back to the theatre, most of the company were there. Colin, who had, in the meantime, evidently persuaded Jake to put Prunella into rehearsal, thrust a script into Shelley's hands and bade her brush up her words. They would start rehearsing tomorrow. The other members of the company accepted her without curiosity. They were used to people coming and going. She thought they took her lack of experience with slightly contemptuous resignation, but on the whole they were tolerant and kindly disposed.

  She listened silently while they talked their endless "shop" and squabbled amicably among themselves, and later watched from the wings the performance of Charley's Aunt to a half-filled indifferently disposed house.

  Sitting in Moira Sheridan's dressing-room, drinking cocoa when the performance was over, Shelley had her first experience of the unforgettable back-stage atmosphere which was soon to become as familiar as the beeswax and incense of the convent cloisters. The smell of greasepaint, and the property clothes, the cigarette smoke, the half-finished glasses of stout were, tonight, unfamiliar and a little nauseating. Moira's shrill laughter made her head ache, and sleep weighed down her smarting eyelids.

  "The child's all in," Colin said suddenly. "Come on, Shelley, I'll take you home and tuck you up."

  "Not at old Mother Tregenna's you won't!" screamed Moira.

  "Well, night-night, dearie. You'll get used to us in time."

  It was a relief to breathe the wet cold air on the seafront. The rain had stopped, and out at sea, the lights of some small craft twinkled in the darkness. Shelley thought of the China Queen and the Star of Persia, and her throat constricted. Those very lights might belong to one of the coasters carrying the Penryn clay to its destination.

  Colin felt her shiver and said:

  "You're very tired, aren't you? It will seem strange to you at first, but, as Moira says, you'll get used to us." "Will they get used to me?" she asked dispiritedly. "Why shouldn't they? They're a good lot, really." "I think they resent me."

  "Well, all pros resent the amateur - that's natural. But you'll be one of us in no time."

  He spoke confidently, but he knew he was lying. Shelley would never become one of them.

  "You've been so kind, Colin," she said. "Thank you very much, indeed. I'll try and repay you by doing my best."

  He gave her arm a little squeeze.

  "You'll repay me best by snapping out of it," he said. "We're going to have fun, Shelley. W're going to have a lot of fun and forget all about ogres and sleeping princesses. You're down to earth, now, my sweet, and you must live as other mortals do."

  "Yes," said Shelley meekly. "I'll try."

  She did try. She wanted them to like her; she wanted to be part of their careless, casual life, but it was difficult, she found, to adapt herself. She had lived too long with Nicholas to take easily to informality, and theirs was the sort of freedom she
had never desired for herself.

  "There's something old-fashioned about you," Colin told her, laughing. "I don't believe you'll ever make a trouper."

  Yet they liked her, and in their own fashion, protected her from her own ignorance, teaching her kindly, what was done and not done in the theatre, helping her with her parts, allowing good naturedly that she was a good choice for Prunella even if she must learn to speak up.

  Every day they rehearsed the play, and Shelley lost her initial awkwardness on the stage. She was shy, but she was not self-conscious, and the character was so much part of her that she instinctively knew what Jake wanted of her.

  "She's going to be good," Colin said, with surprise. "You may have a find there, after all, Jake."

  Jake gave him a quiet, thoughtful look.

  "She isn't acting, that's why she's good," he said slowly. "She's just playing herself, running away from security and a sheltered life."

  "Perhaps," Colin admitted, and thought that this was probably true. He did not, in his heart, believe Shelley was an actress, although coupled with experience, she would have enough natural grace and beauty to make a career.

  "You know - " began Jake, but at Colin's enquiring glance ended: "Well, it's none of my business."

  The day after Shelley had come to Polzeal, she had written to her father. She was reluctant to get into touch with him at all but she felt she owed it to him to acquaint him with the fact that she had left Nicholas and he must therefore be prepared for any course of action which Nicholas might decide to take in relation to them both.

  The result was surprising. She received by return of post, the longest letter Lucius had ever favoured her with. Was she quite mad, he wrote, even to contemplate throwing away comfort and security on account of some silly romantic notion? He begged her to return immediately, if Nicholas would have

  her, and was sorry if any unguarded remark of his had driven her to such extremes. He was, himself, writing to his son-in-law to explain. Whatever her own feelings, would she kindly consider his and not make matters awkward for him.

  Shelley's mouth twisted into unaccustomed bitterness as she folded up the letter. He had been quite unconcerned with her happiness, and although, by now, she had recognized his extreme egotism, she found he could still hurt her. She replied briefly that the matter was entirely between herself and Nicholas, and her mind was made up. In answer she got a lengthy telegram, and, on the following day, Lucius arrived, himself.

  They had just finished the morning rehearsal when the message was brought to her, and for a moment she knew panic.

  "Who?" she asked, her eyes suddenly strained.

  "Says he's your father. He's waiting at the stage door."

  "Oh!"

  For a moment she wanted to laugh. Lucius must indeed be concerned if he would come all this way to argue with her. She fetched her coat and went down to meet him.

  "Well, Father," she said.

  Her surveyed her indignantly.

  "Really, Shelley! I think you must have taken leave of your senses," he exclaimed. "And of all abominable places!"

  "Yes, Polzeal isn't very attractive," she replied with composure. "St. Bede was nicer, wasn't it?"

  "Is there anywhere we can get a reasonable lunch?"

  "Well, we always feed in tea-shops, but there's quite a good hotel on the front."

  He shuddered.

  "Take me to it. I've been travelling ever since seven o'clock."

  They walked along the sea-front to the hotel, and Lucius ordered himself a double whisky.

  "Anything for you?" he asked as an afterthought.

  "Yes," she said. "I think I'll have a martini."

  He seemed puzzled by her manner and a little disconcerted, and when the waiter had brought their drinks, he began at once:

  "Now, Shelley, what's the meaning of all this nonsense?

  You hadn't led me to suppose that your feelings for this young actor were in any way serious."

  She sipped her drink and looked at him thoughtfully.

  Even after his long journey, Lucius was dapper and elegant, with a flower in his buttonhole.

  "But that," she said gently, "was not the impression you gave Nicholas."

  He flushed slightly.

  "Well, as I told you in my letter, if anything I inadvertently said, caused trouble between you, I'm anxious to put it right."

  "But why," she asked, "did you give the wrong impression? You knew there was nothing between Colin and me." He looked at her quizzically.

  "Well, my dear, I confess the whole thing struck me as rather dim and phoney at the time, but who was I to grudge you a little fun if that was the sort of thing that amused you?" He fidgeted a little under her grave stare, and continued: "The fact is, your husband's rather righteous attitude over money annoyed me, I simply wanted to prick his colossal self-sufficiency. Don't tell me the poor fool believed the worst of your innocent little idyll!"

  "Isn't that what you meant him to do?"

  "Of course not. I imagined he was too much of a man of the world to be really disturbed. If, between us, we've driven you into this present situation, I'm quite sure I can persuade Nicholas that the fault was his, not yours."

  She looked at him gravely. He really believed what he was saying, she thought. It would be quite useless to attempt to make him understand.

  "Let's not talk about it, Father," she said, putting down her empty glass, and watching him embark on his second double whisky. "In any case, I'm not living with Colin, if that's what you mean by the present situation. He is simply a friend who has found a job for me, so that I can at least keep myself."

  He drained his drink and ordered another.

  "Then," he said irritably, "I fail to see what all the fuss is about. You can't like this sort of life after what you've been

  used to - a shoddy little fifth-rate company who feed in coffee bars!"

  She smiled.

  "They haven't much money, that's why they feed in coffee bars! And they're real people. I like them."

  "The trouble is Nicholas kept you too penned-up," he said as if that explained everything. "I can understand you might want to kick over the traces. I shall be able to make him see that, I'm sure, though you can't blame the chap if he thinks you've left him for another man."

  "I don't blame anyone," she said a little wearily. "Oughtn't we to be going into lunch, Father? It's getting late."

  They went into the dining-room, and Lucius suddenly decided to abandon the r61e of parent. He ordered wine, made a fuss of her, and produced an easy spate of amusing anecdotes.

  "You really are developing into rather an exquisite creature, Shelley," he told her. "If you were anyone else's daughter, I should want to be showing you off to half London."

  "And there's not the same interest attached to your own daughter?"

  "Well, there isn't, is there? No one would look at us and say: 'There must be something about that old rip to have captured a girl like that!'"

  "And yet," she said slowly, "some fathers are proud of their daughters."

  "Of course," he replied easily, "but not in public. Such a boring relationship, don't you think?"

  She sipped her wine in silence. He had often before hurt her by remarks of this kind, and he could hurt her even now, but she was beginning to understand him. His artificiality cloaked nothing that was not there for all the world to see. He meant exactly what he said.

  When the coffee came, he lit and cigar and eyed her tolerantly.

  "Now, we're not going to have any more nonsense, are we?" he said. "I shall see Nicholas tonight and straighten everything out."

  "Tonight?" She looked startled.

  "Well, you don't suppose I'm going to face that dreary

  journey twice in one day, do you? It's obvious I shall go to Garazion. Have you heard from Nicholas?"

  "No. He went away."

  "He comes back today. I rang up."

  "He doesn't know you're coming, then?"

 
"Oh, Baines will tell him, unless I get there first."

  "Father - " She stirred her coffee with care. "I would rather you left things as they are. Go to Garazion if you must, but please don't discuss me with Nicholas."

  "Well, it's hardly likely that either of us can avoid it, is it?"

  "Nicholas could. He's very adept at - concealing his conclusions."

  He gave her a sharp glance.

  "You know, my pretty, you've changed," he said, frowning. "You've grown up, and I'm not sure I like it." She felt a stab of anger.

  "Yes, I've grown up," she said. "You and Nicholas, between you, saw to that." He looked puzzled.

  "Nicholas, certainly - one would expect marriage to effect some alteration, but I can't see that I - "

  "Nicholas told me of your not very attractive bargain with him," she said gently.

  For a moment he looked taken aback.

  "Then he had no right to tell you," he replied quickly. "And moreover, he was a fool. He - he drove me into a corner at the time. I had no option but to fall in with his proposition. I needed money and - well, if you hadn't married him, it would have been awkward."

  "If I hadn't married him," she said, "he might have sent you to prison. He didn't spare me, Father. He told me everything."

  He flushed angrily, and, for a moment, had nothing to say. So well had he always been able to deceive himself as well as others, that he had already begun to believe that he had never lived dishonestly.

  "That," he said, flustered, "was surely unnecessary. He had no right to betray that confidence, no right at all."

  "I don't think," Shelley replied quietly, "he ever would

  have done so if you hadn't made him believe that I, in my turn, had betrayed him. You can't have it all ways, Father."

  "I utterly fail to understand you," he exclaimed. "If you no longer care about Nicholas, you might consider me. Anything I may have done in the past, Shelley, I did for you. That's a small debt to repay, isn't it?"

  "Oh, Father!" She had to smile. "You know you've never really troubled about me. Why, I even spent my holidays at school!"

  "There were very good reasons for that."

  "Yes, I'm sure there were," she said gently. "No, Father, I won't go back to Nicholas simply to ensure your allowance not being stopped. You can tell him so, if you like."