Shadowplay

by Joseph O'Connor

  Be gone, say the roller skates. You do not want to know us. If we were you, we’d skate off while we could.

  That was the staircase where she was once photographed with poor Wilde, on a night when he wore his fame like an ermine stole. Shaking the hands of royalty, accepting kisses from dowagers. Signing autographs with quills dipped in vintage Château d’Yquem. Two years later, he’d be dead.

  In that alcove, a peer of the realm sipped champagne from her slipper, whispered suggestions that would have made an iceberg blush, beseeched her to be what he called his paramour. Men queuing at the Box Office would fall silent when she passed through the foyer to rehearsal, as though she were a fairy or a unicorn. Today, almost nobody has recognised her. They rarely do any more. Spectacles can be so disguising.

  And through that doorway over there, which leads to the private boxes – no, too saucy to think about what happened. It was the First Night of Excalibur, he was the King, you Guinevere. The wildness, the wanting, Christ he was like a bull. Dear heavens, youth. The walls have eyes. She feels herself scorch as they watch her.

  Now an impossible apparition comes strolling from the auditorium. Clad in only a pair of bathing trunks which are leopard-skin patterned, he is himself tattooed from head to toe in leopard-skin pattern, so that he looks like a walking carpet.

  ‘Afternoon, Treacle,’ he says, in a pleasant cockney bounce. He lopes into the Box Office, retrieves a packet of cigarettes, strikes a match against the wall and lights up.

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Indeed.’

  An afterthought takes him. ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘If you’re here to see Ern, he ain’t in.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Shall I tell him you’ve called?’

  ‘No, I’ll wait.’

  ‘You in the business yourself, Treacle?’

  ‘A little. I used to be.’

  ‘Knew it, I knew it. Minute I’ve seen you, I’ve said, Frank, that’s a lady was in the show game if ever I saw. Where’d you work then?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I often worked here at the Lyceum.’

  ‘Blow me down. With who?’

  ‘Oh I worked with a very great artist at one time, the greatest of all, people said.’

  His eyes widen. ‘Not Billy the Bearded Baby?’

  ‘Not quite as great as that, no.’

  ‘Want to take a little shufti about the old gaff, Treacle? Go in if you like? I’d escort you but I’ve thingummy to see to here. Before Ern gets back, you know what he’s like. He’ll have me hide in a bucket if I don’t.’

  ‘Why, thank you. That is most kind.’

  He beams. ‘Anyfink for a fellow artiste.’

  What used to be the auditorium has been stripped of its seats. The floor and low walls of the roller-skate rink are painted silver – well, what might have been silver once but is now corpse-grey. The orchestra pit has been boarded over, and the opera boxes. A wooden safety-curtain plastered with advertisements for cocoa and dancing lessons is concealing the stage, which in a way is just as well, she wouldn’t like to see that. She places her lily at the foot of the proscenium pillar, says a silent, aching prayer.

  Thank you, my darling.

  Never feel you are forgotten.

  Around the perimeter of the skating rink where the stalls used to be, the waxworks have been placed, on badly painted pedestals. Were it not for their labels you wouldn’t know who they are. ‘Henry VIII’ might be any other fat man in doublet and hose, ‘Dr Crippen, the Wife-Killer’ a tailor’s dummy in bowler hat. ‘The Virgin Queen’ looks like Chancellor Bismarck forced into a bustle, ‘Robin Hood’ like a municipal librarian dressing up. ‘Shakespeare’ is missing his right hand. Did someone steal it as a souvenir? A buxom young woman in a ball gown is labelled ‘Ellen Terry’. The hair colour, eye colour, height, complexion and figure are wrong. Otherwise it’s a perfect likeness.

  Remember poor Bram, the way he used to stand there on First Nights like a sergeant major, snapping at the ushers to get into their places, mother-henning the ingénues, rushing about with his chalkboard. Everyone used to laugh at him, but fondly. Dear Bram. Wonder about him. Used to sometimes glimpse him in dreams. So long since we’ve met. Did someone say he’d returned to live in Ireland? Who was that?

  Can’t remember just at the moment what caused the loss of touch. Did we quarrel? Hardly. He’d have been too courteous or too afraid, was never much of a one for having things out, more for wanting them left in.

  Perhaps it was just a drifting apart, one of those sunderings that happen unnoticed. The letters a bit less frequent, a birthday forgotten. One year a Christmas card not sent. Then the point at which it begins to seem that it’s too late to catch up, too much time has elapsed; explaining away the silence would be embarrassing. If you don’t see someone for years, there is always a reason, even if you don’t know what it is or can’t find its name. Wonder where he is at this moment.

  Happy here, was dear Bram. Joy shining from his face, his pride like a Savile Row suit, quiet, tactful, but transmitting its signals all the same, aware of its place in the world. His childhood so full of illness. His parents abandoned him. Remarkable, in his books, the sheer number of orphans. No wonder he clung to the theatre.

  Back in the chilly foyer, the tattooed man is nowhere to be seen. Nobody here. As though no one ever was. Only the revolving door turning slowly in the draught.

  As she makes to leave, she has a sensation of being watched from the staircase. But sensation is not the word, this is knowledge, certainty. She knows who it is. So intense, she can see the eyes without having to look at them. They are too difficult to turn to, and in the end she doesn’t.

  Goodbye, Mina, she whispers. God bless you, dear ghost. I shan’t ever come here again.

  This is Noel, my son do you remember? And your mother is well? Dear crikey, little Edy, what a beautiful young woman you’ve grown to. Stand back and let me see you, my eyesight, you know. And I haven’t my spectacles. Mislaid them. My eyes. Do you remember when we’d all play together, in the theatre sometimes? The truth is, I forget things since I had a little stroke. Oh, quite better, thank you. Hard to keep a bad thing down. And your brother is well I hope? Wasn’t it Edward, his name? Oh yes Gordy, that’s right. Works in theatre himself, do you tell me, isn’t that a living marvel. Golly, this is a turn up, Edy, to see you again. Do tell Mummie I said hello. We’d better run along Nolly and I. We have an appointment, you see. Something pressing, I’m afraid. Do remember me to your mother. Such happy old days. There we are. Goodbye now. Goodbye, Edy. No, we must.

  Covent Garden is busy. So much here has changed. Pretty shops, little pubs, municipal flowers. More tarts than there used to be, and younger, poor things, standing by the lamp posts asking passers-by for a light. What is there for the man who is reduced to paying? Or maybe that’s what he likes – his abasement?

  The image of the street-girl brings dark recollections. They never caught the Ripper. He could yet be in London, could be anyone. That leopard-skinned grinner. An old waiter at the Savoy. No Londoner will forget the dread, the filthy chill of those nights. Suspicion rolling in like a fog.

  But onward, you must. Wouldn’t do to give in. Will never back down before the cowards and bully-boys. Nicer things to think about. It’s a duty.

  For no reason, it comes back, that mortifying performance. To think of it still liquefies the heart. Him as Arthur, about to pull the sword from the stone at the end of Act One, solemn knights all about him, lady queen in attendance, but the stagehands had misunderstood a cue and wheeled the wrong stone back on, so that no matter how wretchedly he tugged and sweated, Excalibur stayed where it was.

  The audience cheering him on, thinking it an extraordinary performance, such commitment in an actor, you could see the veins bulging in his temples, the massive eyes popping like grapes. Presently he lost his temper, insulting and kicking the stone. ‘You granite little poncing bastard, come out I sa
y.’ And then Merlin got involved, his long wizardy hat flapping. Bram glowering from the wings, more anxious. She’d had to run from the stage, gulping down the laughter, clutching at her stomach and trying to think of something sad. And Bram had laughed, too, afterwards in the Crush Bar, his stern face wilting, tears of gaiety streaming into his beard, while Guinevere downed her gin fizz. And after a while, in trudged Henry. Make-up stains on his dressing robe. Cigarette in mouth. Sword in hand. ‘Anyone got a rock I might stick this in?’

  Poor Bram. Whatever happened? Where did it go? That mad, blazing time when we swirled the stars in the sky.

  On a whim, she tries in Boots Book-lovers’ Library on Tottenham Court Road – she never leaves the house without her membership card – but no books from him are listed in their last four catalogues and they don’t stock the literary newspapers. The librarian, a Scotsman, manages to get a lot of rrs into ‘literary’. He is brusque in his manner, never heard of any ‘Stoker’, no call for ghost stories anyhow, it’s the 20th Century now, an age of science and discovery not bunkum and horsefeathers, and if anyone’s asking his opinion (which nobody was) ghost stories should be banned from all librrarries.

  Outside, she passes a pleasant few minutes in that most English of pastimes: composing a letter of complaint that is never going to be sent.

  Try the bookseller’s. You might find him there.

  Dear god, let me alone.

  Take me with you?

  She dawdles a while at a dressmaker’s window so as not to give him the pleasure of her obedience. What a ravishing gown. Pale organdie silk. When she believes he has returned to whatever silence he lives in, she finds herself crossing the street and entering Foyles.

  The ting of the bell and the soothing balm of silence, the peacefulness of all places where old volumes are gathered.

  Where to start is the question. Which shelf would be best? How gorgeous, the daylight through the dusty front window, like an illustration of God in a hymnal for children. The aroma of ancient leather and parchment.

  An assistant approaches, a young man of remarkably kind eyes. As though afraid of awakening the books, he speaks quietly.

  ‘Might I be of assistance, Madam? Or just browsing?’

  ‘I was looking for anything new by an author called Stoker. I came in about three months ago when I was last up in town and left a note with some of his titles.

  He is a writer of fiction, mostly supernatural tales.’

  ‘The name does seem familiar, Madam, one’s definitely heard it somewhere. If you wait a moment or two I can check in the lists. Please, do feel free to take a look about while I’m gone, won’t you?’

  She gazes out at the street, at the people drifting by. A young woman in black emerges from the piano store across the way, pauses, glances at the sky before hurrying on. Something Russian about her, a sable-wrapped mournfulness. Once seen, you wouldn’t forget her.

  ‘I believe I have found the person you’re after, Madam. An Abraham Stoker?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Published The Lady of the Shroud a couple of years ago, and then The Lair of the White Worm last year. Nothing since. Rum titles, aren’t they.’

  ‘Have you either of those in stock?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Madam. They have lapsed out of print, as have all his other books. You might try a Boots Library or one of the second-hand stalls on the riverbank.’

  ‘Do you know how I would write to him? The author. Is that possible?’

  ‘Golly, I’m not certain how that would be done. Via his publishers, perhaps?’

  ‘Well then, I shall try that. Good day. Thank you for your helpfulness.’

  ‘Good day, Madam,’ he says, reaching out to shake hands. ‘Won’t you come and see us again. We are always here to assist.’ Odd, his sudden familiarity. How times are changing. But she accepts.

  Now she realises that he is pressing a tightly folded envelope into her gloved hand.

  ‘Thank you for calling,’ he says. ‘I wish you success with your search. Goodbye.’

  With his eyes, he asks her to leave. From behind the counter, he waves.

  On Charing Cross Road, the pavement is crowded. People hurrying past barely notice an old lady in a bookseller’s doorway, spectacles misting as she reads. The small shake of her shoulders. Her wrists brushing tears from her face.

  Dear Madam. I go about with a person who works at Foyle’s, the boy who has given you this note, a reply to yours of 9th January. Forgive the cloak and dagger if you will, skulduggery is not intended. My father sits on the Charitable Aid Committee of the Royal Society of Literature, and my brother and I sometimes assist him in small secretarial ways in that regard. The proceedings of this body are of course confidential and its decisions are effected with utmost discretion, as you will understand. I am honour-bound never to discuss publicly any workings of the committee. But I can tell you that, in various ways, it succours authors of a certain age who might benefit from tactful assistance. I happen to know that a certain old gentleman is one such case. A lot of our old gentlemen and ladies can be proud and not entirely forthcoming. But the fact is that the gentleman’s employer died some years ago and the gentleman has found no position since. He has suffered a number of strokes, is in considerable want and has no friends of his old life. His wife is herself unwell and is staying with relatives in her home country. If you will write to the Society, I believe that more news may be ascertained. Your servant in confidence. A friend, Foyle’s Books.

  A TABLE AT CLARIDGE’S

  4.43 p.m.

  His eye picks her out immediately. Alone in the furthest corner of the café. Sipping tea, reading a slim volume of what must be poetry.

  His impulse is to leave. Her solitude and stillness too beautiful to disturb. But her daughter touches his shoulder and eases forward his wheelchair. Through the rows of gorgeous tables, the lavish bouquets, the ice buckets.

  ‘Mummie,’ she says.

  ‘Edy.’

  ‘Look what I turned up at the auction.’

  Nothing is said for a thousand years.

  ‘Oh, my dear friend,’ she says, rising slowly from the table. ‘Oh, my dearest, dearest heart. What joy.’

  He tries not to weep, will not be unmanned as he covers her outstretched hands with kisses.

  ‘Sit a while with me, won’t you, Bram? I say, waiter, another menu.’

  ‘I shan’t eat, thank you, Ellen.’

  ‘You’ll have something small.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘You have ruined my eye-paint, darling. I shall stop in a moment.’

  After her daughter has left, they look at one another, saying nothing, hands clasped tightly on the stiff linen tablecloth. When talk commences, it is of old acquaintances; Harks emigrated to South Africa, she tells him, they keep in touch now and again, lives in Durban. Gordy is designing stage sets, frightfully successful, owns a motor car.

  The waiter brings her meal, a plate of mixed grill, and places it silently before her, then fills her glass from the water jug.

  ‘You’ll let me buy you a bit of tea, Bram?’ she says. ‘My treat?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Then you’ll share this pile of stuff with me, it’s far too much.’

  ‘I really—’

  ‘Come now, you remember how infernally vain I am, you can’t let me eat all this mountain of muck, I shall bloat.’ She turns with a brisk smile and beckons the waiter back, insists on a second plate being fetched, and a bottle of Mouton Rothschild. The old-fashioned gaslights on the walls begin to dim.

  ‘Your daughter is very beautiful,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘She would make a nice sweetheart for my Noel.’

  ‘That would be unlikely, old darling, dreamboat though he is.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Edy bats for the other eleven.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Yes. Rum turn-up when one’s only daughter turns
out a tearing old lesbian. Often sorry I didn’t give it a good go myself. Would have saved everyone a good deal of bother.’

  ‘Never too late?’

  ‘What a thought.’

  ‘Your Edy knows how to spend your money at any rate. She bought up half the auction. Drat me if she wasn’t actually boosting the prices on purpose.’

  ‘Yes, I sent her along, didn’t want all the old bastard’s clutter falling into the wrong clutches. You know what a frightful snob he was, the scamp. Couldn’t go oneself, didn’t care to be recognised. Also, wanted to find a way of getting a bit of decent money to his wife. Always felt for her, you know. Difficult woman, they say. Likes queening it up about the town in the role of Lady Irving relict, but Christ, imagine being married to the rascal, it would drive a bloody saint mad. No doubt a little guilt on my part too. But let us speak no more of such things.’

  ‘How wonderful to see you. Are you working much, darling?’

  ‘A couple of jobs lined up in the provinces, where they don’t mind an old carthorse clopping about the boards. I’ve Ophelia in Penge or some ghastly place like that, she’ll be the cobwebbiest incarnation ever seen. Oh and I’m going to start appearing in these nonsensical moving pictures, such dreadful vulgarity but they fire pots of money at one. I don’t give it a year, silly fad.’

  ‘Must admit I rather like the moving pictures. Guilty pleasure sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh everyone likes them, darling. That’s why they are bad. Be honest, don’t you ever dream some character you’ve written might appear in the moving pictures one day?’

  ‘I should need to be insane to entertain any such notion.’

  ‘But enough about me, dearest Bram. How is your health?’

  ‘Ruddy marvellous.’ He laughs quietly. ‘How does it look?’

  ‘You must permit me to help you,’ she says. ‘Financially and in other ways. At least until you are back on your feet. I absolutely insist.’