by Laura Wood
As congratulatory speeches go it is not exactly effusive. There’s a muted ripple of applause, and then he sweeps from the room, followed by Miss Meriden.
“Rest be damned!” Russ exclaims, when they are safely out of earshot. “I’m gasping for a drink!”
This time, the cheer is much louder.
I spot the missing shoe and snatch it up, then gather the remaining pieces of costume and go to find Nora. As I hurry down the corridor I run almost head first into Kit.
His red hair is tousled, sticking out at peculiar angles, and his eyes are shining. “Freya!” he exclaims. He swings me around in a little jig. “How about that for a first night?”
“It was wonderful,” I reply, beaming up at him. My heart clatters in my chest, and I feel warm, almost feverish, with a crashing mixture of excitement and relief that everything went well.
“Don’t let Nora keep you, will you?” Kit says, releasing me and heading off down the corridor. “Make sure the two of you get back to Del’s for the party.”
“A party?” I frown. “I thought it was just a drink…” But Kit is already gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
By the time Nora and I walk through the door at Del’s I see that Kit was not exaggerating. This is a party, all right. In fact, it’s an absolute squeeze.
“Who are they all?” I ask Nora as we push through the front hallway. People are propped along the wall, deep in conversations, laughing, smoking, and drinking from a variety of strange receptacles. There’s a general air of dishevelment, as though everyone has rushed over from the theatre as soon as possible.
I realize that I haven’t even looked in a mirror for hours, and run one hand quickly over my hair, jabbing at the loose pins there, and another down the front of my slightly crumpled frock.
“Nora!” An attractive woman with dark hair cut boyishly short catches Nora by the arm.
“Darling,” Nora’s voice is a purr, “I didn’t know you were in Oxford.”
“I heard you were going to be in town.” The woman’s voice matches Nora’s, and smiling, Nora pulls her slowly into her arms and kisses her very soundly, full on the lips.
Blimey. My eyes widen, and I leave Nora to it, pushing my way through towards the sitting room, keeping my eyes peeled for Alma or the flash of Kit’s hair.
I follow the compelling jangle of jazz music coming from the record player, weaving my way past a group gathered at the foot of the stairs who – for some reason – are all wearing animal masks. A badger lifts his mask as I pass, in order to give me a leery wink, and a hand brushes – not quite accidentally – across my hip.
I shove and squeeze my way into the sitting room, where I can see neither Alma nor Kit, but find Russ instead, holding court, telling a story that has the group around him laughing. There’s more than one pretty girl there, and he looks extremely pleased with himself, flashing his perfect white smile. I wonder if, like the Cheshire Cat, the rest of him could fade away and the self-satisfied grin would remain. I chuckle at the thought. At that moment, he catches my eye.
“Little Freya!” he exclaims, reaching for my hand and drawing me into the circle. “Someone fetch a drink for little Freya, the only girl here who’s had the pleasure of undressing me. So far, anyway,” he adds in a low voice and the giggles that greet this remark leave me raising my eyes to heaven.
Someone presses a chipped teacup full of water into my hand. I take a swig and almost spit the whole thing out. Not water. Gin. Neat gin.
Russ looks upon me with the sort of fond amusement one may reserve for a young sibling and I straighten my spine, instantly riled. I certainly don’t want him thinking of me in that light. I sip carefully at my drink and try not to grimace.
He must notice, because he drops an easy arm around my shoulder. “Don’t be cross, darling,” he murmurs, close to my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. Then he pulls away, his dark eyes dancing. “Although you do look adorable when you pout.”
I shrug his arm away and feed my cup of gin to the sad-looking potted fern beside me. “I’m not cross,” I say. “And I’m perfectly happy to be adored.” I hesitate. “Although, to be honest, I wasn’t pouting so much as making a face over the gin, and I find it hard to believe that was especially attractive. I think you must be a little drunk.”
He stares at me for a moment, and then, suddenly he laughs, a real laugh, long and loud, and – after a very brief pause – his crowd of sycophants join in.
That’s when I spot Alma, marooned across the room with a young man, who is wearing a lot of black and standing much too close to her while gesturing earnestly. Her eyes are darting around the room and I get the strong impression she is not enjoying herself.
“I must go,” I say, and Russ clutches at his chest.
“You can’t leave me. Stay!”
I laugh, and leave him to his fans, though I feel his eyes on my back as I cut through the crowds until I reach Alma.
“Freya!” she exclaims in obvious relief. “I was just telling … um…”
“Nathaniel,” the young man supplies, frowning.
“Yes, Nathaniel, of course,” Alma says. “I was just telling Nathaniel that I was meeting a friend tonight, and here you are. Should we…”
“Go and find Kit as we promised,” I agree swiftly, taking her arm. “Come on.”
“Nice to meet you, Nathaniel,” she calls over her shoulder.
“Was it nice?” I ask teasingly.
“Not really,” she sighs, and then obviously feels bad about it. “I shouldn’t say that. I didn’t want to be rude. But I just couldn’t stand another minute of listening to him talk on and on about Brecht.”
“Gosh, there are a lot of terrible men here,” I sigh as I dodge another wandering hand. “Are theatre parties always this bad?”
“Don’t ask me,” Alma replies glumly. “I’m new to this too, remember?”
“Not enjoying yourselves?” a voice asks from behind me, and I see my own relief mirrored in Alma’s face.
I turn to find the reassuringly rangy form of Kit standing next to Dan, who, unlike the rest of us, is immaculately turned out, his fair hair neatly oiled, his shirt crisp, his shoes shined – you would never guess that a couple of hours ago he’d been sweating under the stage lights.
“It’s the men!” I say. “Either it’s Russ and his fan club, or it’s leery men, or it’s men who want to bore you to death with the sound of their own opinions.”
Kit looks amused, and Dan sniggers.
“It is rather slim pickings,” Dan drawls, his eyes running around the room, “but, then, not everyone’s arrived yet. Del’s crowd usually attracts a devastating man or two to keep things interesting.”
I look around the crowded room. “Where is Del going to put them?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sure we can find somewhere.” Dan raises his eyebrows suggestively, and we laugh.
“Here,” Kit says, holding out a glass to me. “We got our hands on some champagne.”
I take the glass saucer, cool to my touch, and Dan hands one to Alma as well. “Thank you,” I say, taking a sip and enjoying the sharp sting of the bubbles. “Much nicer than the gin.”
Kit grimaces. “You haven’t been forced to drink that muck, have you? I heard Del brews it herself in the bathtub – it’s absolutely lethal.”
“I fed mine to the plant.”
“Poor plant.”
“Congratulations on tonight,” Alma says to Dan. “You were wonderful.”
“I was rather, wasn’t I?” Dan smirks, pleased with himself, then the smirk drops away and he gives a much more genuine, slightly lopsided smile. “As a matter of fact, it was a hell of a lot of fun.” His smile widens. “And speaking of fun, here she is.”
Daphne appears at his side, the bubbly red-headed girl who plays Cecily, Russ’s love interest. She and I have not had much chance to talk, but she seems to me like the glass of champagne in my hand, sparkling hard and fizzing with energy.
“You were ravishing, darling.” Dan loops an arm around her waist, and she lifts her own glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” she whoops happily. “Particularly when everyone else seems to be.”
We chat more about the performance, and I feel a thrill at the easy way in which I am taking part in a conversation with the performers. I was there, I think. I helped make it happen too, in a small way.
It feels almost as though I am watching myself, hovering above the scene and looking down on my body as words come out of my mouth. I’m so painfully, crushingly aware that what is happening right now in this moment is a dream come true. Or, I suppose it could be the champagne – never having really drunk much before, I can’t be certain.
I catch Kit’s eye and he’s looking right at me, through me almost, and suddenly I know that he knows just what I’m thinking. It’s a moment of startling telepathy, the kind that I suppose is only possible between kindred spirits and good friends. I beam up at him, wrapped up in the thick delight of it all.
Talk turns to the other guests and Dan and Daphne entertain me with scandalous tales of cast, crew, theatre workers and hangers-on. They keep breaking into impressions. The room fills with more people and in the crush I find myself leaning back against Kit, laughing so hard that my own legs won’t hold me. I feel his own body rumbling with laughter, a deep vibration against my back.
Somehow, we end up being swept towards the piano. Never one to shy away from the spotlight, I ask if it is in tune, and tap out a tremulous scale.
“Oh, yes, a song!” Daphne exclaims joyfully. “Just what we need!”
I sit down at the stool and crack my knuckles, my fingers hovering over the keys. I am not a particularly brilliant pianist, but Midge always says that what I lack in talent I more than make up for with enthusiasm. I bring my fingers crashing down on the keys and launch into “I’m Sailing on a Sunbeam” by Des Tooley, shouting out my goodbyes to all my cares and sorrows.
The rest of them join in enthusiastically. Alma, I notice, has a particularly beautiful voice, and she and Dan begin harmonizing like a pair of songbirds.
Others join in. Someone produces a trumpet, from where I do not know, and starts playing along.
Daphne hops up on the stool beside me, an open bottle of champagne in her hands as she conducts the crowd, all joining in the chorus. We sing the song through three times, getting louder and rowdier and more pleased with ourselves on each pass at the chorus.
As I bring the song finally to a clattering halt, Daphne exclaims, teeters suddenly on the stool, rights herself briefly and then, in a fog of expletives, crashes to the ground.
“Daphne! Daphne!” I exclaim, crouching down, reaching out to touch her arm. “Are you all right?”
She looks up at me. “Well, that’s torn it,” she says, and then her eyes flutter closed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
November 12th
Dear Midge and Pa,
So, here I am in Oxford at the start of the tour. The place we’re staying in is very nice, and I’m told the lady who owns it makes a good breakfast, for which I’m very grateful as these theatre types don’t seem terribly worried about scheduling meals at proper times. Still, you mustn’t imagine I am fading away. For one thing Lou sent me off like a child to boarding school with a full tuckbox. I shall have to start having midnight feasts with my new friend Alma – she and I are sharing a room. I’m having so much fun already, I love it all. Our first performance last night was a triumph and everyone very pleased.
Will write again soon, love to you and all the babies,
Freya xx
Dear Lou,
Drank gin that was brewed in a bathtub. Danced until the early hours. Almost out of shortbread.
Don’t miss you one bit,
Freya xx
***
The next morning, I wake early. Alma is still asleep in her bed, her long hair tumbled across the white pillowcase. There is barely any light filtering through the gap in the curtains, and I snuggle under the blankets with my torch, careful not to wake my roommate as I write a couple of quick postcards.
There’s a restless kind of buzzing in my limbs and I dress as quietly as possible, bundling up in a thick and misshapen jumper, the product of Midge’s misguided belief that she can knit. The jumper is a soft russet colour, and when I press it to my nose I almost believe that I can smell the sea.
Slipping out of the room I tiptoe down the hallway, the floorboards creaking monstrously as I try to be wraith-like and silent. It’s no matter, though – I can hear snoring coming from one of the rooms off the hallway. The party went on extremely late – it was still going strong when I stumbled into bed around two-thirty. I’m much more used to early nights and early mornings, and it’s going to take me a while to adjust. I should think it will be ages before anyone else is up.
Downstairs, I pop my head into the kitchen. It’s freezing, and no one is there, but the mess from the party litters every surface. I head into the pantry in search of sustenance and find half a slightly sad-looking loaf of bread and a jar of honey, as well as fat, yellow butter in a butter dish shaped like a white cow. I pour water into a tin kettle and set it on the stove. I’m not sure there’s a finer feast on earth than tea with bread and honey. I eat hungrily, mulling over the details of the night before.
As soon as we helped Daphne up from the floor it became clear that she had badly hurt her ankle. Del hurried off to call the doctor, and several of the others spirited Daphne off to her room to lie down. In that moment I looked at Alma and saw that her eyes were wide. I knew just what she was thinking, and I knew that she didn’t like herself for it one bit, but there it was: if Daphne couldn’t perform, then Alma would. I suppose in this business you need a degree of self-interest. I remember what Russ said about Viola being an “ambitious little thing”.
My own sense of ambition is complicated. On the one hand I’ve known I wanted to act pretty much since I could talk, and I’m extremely determined to get there – if that’s not ambition then I don’t know what it is. On the other hand, I never thought much about how to get there.
Certainly I never imagined dining with producers like Viola does. I suppose I just thought one did a good job and was rewarded for it. But Viola, despite being undeniably talented, is not starring in a big theatre, and she’s chasing all the opportunities she can. There is clearly more to it than I imagined.
I lean back against the stove, my hands cradling my mug, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. When I’ve finished I make a half-hearted attempt at tidying up a little. Then I decide I can’t stand it any more and I need to go out. I feel claustrophobic in this stuffy room, as though I’ve been too much inside, as though I need to feel the sting of cold, sharp air on my face. I have a sudden, searing longing to see the sea. I’ve never been so far from it before and for some reason it leaves me unsettled.
I am in the hallway, wrapping a scarf from the teetering coat rack around my neck, when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Looking up, I find Kit, yawning.
“Hello!” he says in a low voice. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be awake.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to explore.”
“Would you like some company? You can say if not; I know it’s hard to get time to yourself on tour.”
I beam at him. “No, I’d like you to come. But it’s cold out there.”
“This isn’t cold! Wait until we get up north. You’re not going to know what’s hit you.” He grabs a coat and we go about the business of wrapping up, buttoning jackets, and tying shoelaces, side by side.
“Right, then,” says Kit, as we step outside into the chill morning. “Where are we going?”
“I woke up missing the sea,” I say. “So I thought I might try and find the river.”
“That sounds perfect.”
We walk through the quiet streets in silence. I think it must be around seven o’clock. The sky is a gentle gold, still lightly pink around the edges, the su
n struggling and sleepy. When we reach the river a low mist hangs over the bank, giving the place a strange feeling – almost as if we have stepped out of time. I feel like some ancient traveller, walking along the well-worn riverbank. I think about all the feet that have walked this path, about all the lives and the stories and the triumphs and the failures. Great artists and not-so-great artists. Many of them walked here over the years. Even Oscar Wilde was here. And now so am I.
Willows weep over the water, and trees line the banks. Some of them are still clinging to their finery, jewel-like flashes of ruby and amber, others are elegantly spare, skeletal against the early morning light.
“Is it helping?” Kit asks, breaking the quiet. “With missing the sea?”
“Not exactly,” I say finally. “It’s different, I suppose. I miss the size of the sea, the way it stretches out into the horizon, the way it’s always changing… It makes me feel small. And that feels like a healthy dose of perspective. Walking here isn’t like that.” I laugh. “I think I’m starting to get ideas of grandeur instead.”
“Perspective is overrated,” Kit says. “Places like this, with all of their history – it makes me feel close to the people who came before me. The ones who did what I’m trying to do.”
“That’s just what I was thinking!” I exclaim. “I was thinking about Oscar Wilde and how he must have walked along those streets and here by the river. I know it’s the same in London, but somehow it’s easier to imagine here…”
“London is always changing.” Kit nods in agreement. “Growing, spreading, eating itself up and becoming something else. It’s harder to imagine people from the past there sometimes. You catch glimpses, but for the most part I think it belongs to the present.”
“Yes, that’s it,” I say. “That’s what I was trying to work out in my head. The way London feels like the most modern place on earth, where it’s all happening right now – but it’s where it’s always all been happening for whoever was there at the time.” I’m not explaining myself very well, but I know Kit understands. It’s like when you tie two tin cans together with a piece of string; our thoughts whisper straight down the line between us.