‘And it was a terrible thing, wasn’t it, Katie?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve always felt there was something in your past that troubled you…that this…event had propelled you to London, and that it also prevented you from returning to New York.’ She nodded as if to herself, as if confirming something in her own mind. Her brow furrowed. ‘I felt there was some sort of…impediment…’ Melanie’s voice trailed off.
Taking a very deep breath, Katie told her story.
‘Oh my God!’ Melanie sat gaping at Katie. Not having anticipated anything quite as dreadful as this, she was momentarily at a loss for words. Finally, she said softly, ‘What a truly horrendous thing to happen to those poor girls. And an awful burden for you to bear.’
‘It was that particular afternoon that flashed back to me, out on stage…I’m not sure why, though.’
Melanie was quiet, reflective for a long moment. ‘Has it ever happened before? This kind of flashback?’
‘No, and certainly not on a stage. And as you know, I’d been working solidly for four years before I went to RADA in London.’
‘It’s a terrible memory, a traumatic experience that you can’t shed, obviously. Have you ever talked to a psychiatrist about it, Katie?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should.’
‘I don’t think so, I really don’t, Melanie. No one can help me, I can only help myself, I suppose.’
‘Talk to me, Katie, unburden yourself to me. God knows, I’m not a psychiatrist.’ She half smiled. ‘But sometimes I think I am, though, dealing with the free-floating temperament and emotion that’s around all you talented actors every day. So talk, get it off your chest…I do have a good listening ear, a strong shoulder to cry on, if necessary.’
And so slowly, carefully, Katie told the producer everything about her girlfriends, the deep and loving relationship the three of them had, their dreams and hopes and ambitions. And she recounted her memories, happy as well as troubling, and she filled Melanie in about the murder, still unsolved to this day. She broke down several times, but for the most part Katie was in full control of herself.
When she had finished, Melanie blew her nose and patted her eyes with tissues. ‘I said before, and I’ll say it again, it’s a dreadful burden for you to carry, Katie.’
‘Grandma Catriona from Ireland always says God never gives us a burden that’s too heavy to carry, but I’m not so sure I subscribe to that,’ Katie murmured.
‘That’s faith for you. Perhaps your grandmother’s lucky that she has it. But I know what you mean. However, somehow we all cope with problems, don’t we?’ Melanie sighed, and rose. She walked over to Katie, put an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m really glad you told me all this, and it will remain a confidence with me. Don’t worry, I’m not going to discuss what you’ve said with Jack. This is private, between us.’
‘Thank you. Thanks for everything.’
‘I do want you to do something for me, Katie.’
‘Tell me. I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘I think you should take the weekend off. Skip tomorrow’s rehearsals. Rest on Saturday and Sunday. Be back here on Monday morning.’
‘But what will Jack say?’
‘Leave Jack to me. Don’t worry about him. Or the play. You’re word-perfect, and you have the part down pat. I have great confidence in you, and missing a couple of rehearsals is not going to hurt you. It’ll probably do you good.’
‘But are you sure…I don’t want him to be…’
‘Difficult?’ Melanie smiled at her. ‘Jack’s one of your biggest fans even though he doesn’t show it. That’s his way. No favourites. Anyway, the buck stops here, you know, with me. I’m the producer, and I’m telling you to take the weekend off.’
Her bedroom was much the same as it had always been, with the same colour scheme and the same furniture. Her father repainted it from time to time, to keep it fresh, but it was always done in the same dusty pink on the walls, with pristine white paint on the windows and doors. She loved this unusual dusty pink colour, and her father had once explained that it was a warm pink toned down with grey which made it soft and muted. ‘Easy on the eye,’ was the way her father put it, and she knew he took special care with her room.
She was glad to be back at home in Malvern for the weekend. This house had always been important to her; it was home; she had grown up in it and it spelled safety, security, and boundless love to her. The love from her parents and Niall and little Fin. Not so little any more, she thought, with a half smile. He was six feet one and gorgeous. She hung up a pair of grey flannel trousers and a heathery-coloured tweed jacket which she had brought with her for the weekend, then emptied her small suitcase.
When everything was put away, she glanced at the bedside clock, saw that it was four-thirty. Her mother had gone shopping and wouldn’t be back for an hour at least, so she went over to her carryall and took out her diary. She suddenly noticed that its green leather looked slightly worn, but then again, it was five years old. Time for a new one soon; this one was already almost filled up.
Sitting down at the desk facing out over the back garden, Katie opened the diary and began to write.
January 21st 2000
Malvern
Connecticut
I felt very guilty when I got back to the apartment earlier today. I had upset Jack and Melanie, but what happened at the theatre was not of my own volition. It just happened. And I couldn’t stop it at first. I could no more have stopped it than I could have flown to the moon.
Xenia once said Verity was impeccable. And now I really understand what she meant. Also, I can now say that of Melanie Dawson. She, too, is impeccable. Talking to her helped me. She was sympathetic, understanding, and kind. Impeccable. I love that word. And Melanie is impeccable in every sense of it.
I had no choice but to take the weekend off, but I did feel guilty about it when I left the theatre. Even worse by the time I got back to West End Avenue. Mom was so surprised to see me when I walked in, and she immediately looked crestfallen, as if she thought I’d been fired. Once I’d explained that I hadn’t felt well on stage and had been sent home until Monday morning she cheered up, and insisted I drive up to Malvern. I didn’t need any persuading to go home with her. A chance to see Dad and Niall was irresistible. Unlike some people, I had a very happy childhood, and I don’t hate my parents or my siblings, and none of my extended family. I love them all, and I think they’re all wonderful. Human, of course, with human frailties. But wonderful.
Going home to Malvern was also a chance to go and see Carly at the hospice. I went to see her this past Christmas when I first got back from London. I hadn’t seen her in over a year, and she hadn’t changed at all. She was just the same as she’s been for the last ten years.
I didn’t expect Carly to be any different now. But I had a real need to go and see her, a pressing need. I wanted to hold her hand and talk to her as I had in the past. I wanted to let the love I felt for her spread over her, in the hope that she would somehow feel it, and that it might help her.
On the drive up from the city, I told all this to Mom. She confided that she believed Carly knew when she was there, she didn’t know why she believed it, but she did. And she said Carly would know I was with her in the room. Because she would feel my love flowing to her. I wanted to believe my mother, needed to believe her, I suppose. She’s a Celt, very fey at times, and very much in touch with herself and her feelings.
I dozed part of the way. I always do in cars. It must be something to do with the motion…it sort of lulls me to sleep. Anyway, I slept my way to New Milford, and then I awakened. We’d just left the town behind when it hit me. All of a sudden I understood the flashback, understood what it was all about.
It should have been the three of us up on that stage, doing this play about the Brontë sisters. Three sisters so close and loving, just like the three of us had been all those years. And we had always dreamed of acting toget
her in a Broadway play.
As Mom drove us back to Malvern it was crystal-clear. So simple. Yet it hadn’t been at eleven o’clock this morning. There is another thing. Charlotte has the same colouring as Carly and Petra is a blonde just like Denise. In their sweaters and skirts at rehearsal they had reminded me of them…and something had been triggered.
I needed to write this down, to see it on paper. Writing helps me to understand things, to make order out of chaos. If I didn’t act I think I would be a writer. I enjoy it. But would I enjoy it professionally? I’m not sure.
Mom was surprised when I didn’t go to the supermarket with her because she knows I love the local supermarkets up here. I always have. Just as I like bookshops. I’m a bit of a browser in both. I didn’t go because writing in my diary was more important. Pressing.
I was really surprised when Melanie told me that Jack Martin was a fan of mine. He’s a brilliant director, but has a reputation for being difficult. Very irascible. However, I do know he likes my interpretation of Emily, different as it is from Janette Nerren’s in London.
Rex truly helped me to understand Emily. He gave me a book about her that contains what he considers to be one of her great epic poems, one of six. It was composed when she was twenty-six, just a year and a half younger than me. I’ll be twenty-eight this year. Anyway, Rex said the poem delineates the obsession with memory that Emily had. I only know one thing, I love it, too.
Katie stopped writing, put down her pen, and went to find her carryall. She rummaged around in it, found the book Rex had given her and took it back to the desk. Opening the book, she found the poem, which she knew was one of Emily’s most famous, and propped the book against the base of the lamp. She read it through quietly to herself, and then she slowly began to copy it into her diary, wanting to have it there, so she could read it whenever she wished.
Cold in the earth, and the deep snow piled above thee!
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time’s all-wearing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains on Angora’s shore;
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
That noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth, and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring –
Faithful indeed is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive if I forget thee
While the World’s tide is bearing me along:
Sterner desires and darker hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure but cannot do thee wrong.
No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
No other Star has ever shone for me:
All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given –
All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.
But when the days of golden dreams had perished
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened and fed without the aid of joy;
Then did I check the tears of useless passion,
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine!
And even then, I dare not let it languish.
Dare not indulge in Memory’s rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
Once she had copied it, Katie sat back, staring at the poem, thinking of all the things Rex had explained about it. She loved it most for the use of the language, the cadence, the rhythm, and the emotions it evoked in her. Rex had told her that the woman voicing the thoughts in the poem was Lady Rosa of Alcona, a character borrowed from Emily’s juvenile writings. Memory, Katie thought. It’s about the memory of a dead lover, and yet in me it also evokes thoughts of Denise and Carly…
Picking up her pen, Katie continued writing in her diary:
I told Melanie I’d never been to a psychiatrist to talk about my traumatic experience, when my girlfriends were attacked, and I don’t intend to go. I must work things out for myself. I think I’m getting there at long last. I feel comfortable living in New York now, and I’m very preoccupied with the play, with my work, and work is a wonderful healer. As my mother has always told me.
I want to see Carly more than I have. I shall go to the hospice tomorrow, and then again on Sunday before I go back to Manhattan. Mom said she’d drive me in, but I can always take the bus to the city.
I’m glad I now understand the flashback, and what brought it on. I thought for a moment in the theatre that I was going crazy. Although I’ve been rehearsing with Georgette and Petra for some weeks, we were working in the rehearsal hall at 890 Broadway that once belonged to Michael Bennett. It’s only these last few days that we’ve been in the theatre, and being on a stage with my co-stars definitely took me back in time. Took me back to the old barn…triggered my memories so vividly I was reliving that last day. But I’m all right, in good shape…as long as I understand what makes things happen and why, I can cope.
I feel that I must go forward now. Put the past behind me as much as I can…
Katie heard the door slam, and she closed her diary, put it away in the desk drawer, went out of the bedroom. She was running down the stairs to greet her mother when she heard the door close a second time, and a voice calling, ‘It’s me, Mom!’
Her mother answered, ‘Hello, Niall. Katie’s here from New York.’
And a moment later she was rushing into her brother’s arms, laughing as he swung her around, lifting her feet off the floor.
‘Katie! It’s great to see you!’ he exclaimed as he put her down and hugged her to him. ‘And what brings you home? I thought you were busy on Broadway, becoming a star?’
She grinned at him. ‘I got the weekend off. A short rest before plunging into dress rehearsals next week.’
‘Is that the famous voice of Katie Byrne I hear?’ a strong masculine voice asked.
Katie swung her head, saw her father and ran across the kitchen to him. ‘Yes, it’s me, Dad!’ she said, laughing again.
Michael Byrne put his arms around his daughter and held her close to him for a long moment, thanking God, as he did very often, that she was alive.
The four of them sat around the kitchen table having a cup of tea.
There was a lot of talk about the play, and opening night, and the party afterwards at Tavern on the Green.
Her father and brother asked Katie questions about the production, opening night, and a variety of other things to do with her Broadway debut. She answered them as best she could.
Maureen poured tea, passed the currant cake, and smiled contentedly, happy that they were all together for the weekend. Having Katie here was an unexpected bonus. And if only Fin were present, the circle would be complete, she thought. But he had gone back to Oxford earlier in the month, to continue his studies at the university. But Michael had bought him a ticket to come back for the opening of Charlotte and Her Sisters, although this was a secret from Katie. A surprise.
At one moment, Katie sat back in the kitchen chair, listening to her father and mother discussing the arrangements for the weekend in New York when the play opened. As she looked from one parent to the other, she couldn’t help thinking how well they had weathered the years.
Her father’s dark hair was touched with silver, and he was a little more weather-beaten from being outside so much on building sites. But he was as handsome at fifty-seven as he had been ten years earlier.
And her mother looked wonderful, Katie thought. She was slender, and her face was remarkably unlined. If her bright-blue eyes had faded ever so slightly, her hair was still that
lovely, burnished red of her youth, with not a grey hair visible, even though she was now fifty-five. Katie sometimes wondered if her mother touched it up at the hairdressers. But even if she did, what did it matter? Maureen had always been a beautiful woman. There was no other person like her mother, as far as Katie was concerned.
As for Niall, he was a younger replica of their father. A true Byrne. Black Irish. They had always been similar in appearance, but to Katie that resemblance seemed more marked than ever these days. Niall was fit and in good shape, with a trim athletic body, which Katie knew came from dedicated physical activity and consistent working out. Tanned from being outdoors on sites, like their father, his handsome face was rugged, and his thick black hair flowed back from a broad brow. No wonder women fell for him.
A carbon copy of Dad, Katie thought. But although they looked alike they were quite different in personality. Niall was not quite as outgoing or as charming as their father, and over Christmas she had even thought he had become somewhat introverted.
Like her mother, Katie often wondered why Niall wasn’t married. Suddenly, she thought of Denise. She truly believed her brother had always had a thing about her girlfriend. But was he still carrying a torch for her? Now after all these years? After her death?
Katie had no answers for herself.
The Triumph of Katie Byrne Page 22