by Pamela Brown
It was an odd sort of a day, thundery and sunless, with a red glow in the sky at breakfast-time. As they walked to the Academy there seemed to be a breathless hush over the streets. Vicky clutched her tummy and her head in turn.
“Oh, I feel sick. Oh, I’ve got such a headache. I’ll never get used to appearing in front of an audience—never. How I hope to be an actress when I get such stage fright I can’t imagine.”
A large striped awning had been put out in front of the doorway of the Academy, and there were flowers in all the windows.
“Doesn’t it look gay?” said Sandra.
“Quite Continental,” said Vicky.
“Gay,” grumbled Lynette. “I feel it should be draped in black to celebrate the funeral of so many young ambitions.”
“You’re becoming neurotic, my girl,” Nigel told her.
“Well, at least I know how bad I am in the show,” Lyn told him rudely.
“Miaow,” squawked Bulldog.
Chaos reigned inside the Academy. There was a buffet tea being laid in the refectory, and students had to lunch out. Roma Seymore, wearing a turban, ran round in circles, trying to be efficient.
“Bet you she’s got her hair in curlers under that scarf,” said Vicky.
Mr. Whitfield was looking very smart in a tailcoat.
The Blue Doors bought some sandwiches and ate them, sitting in the square, feeding the fluttering sparrows and scraggy cats that frequented the patch of sun-dried grass. As they were not on until the second half of the programme, they stayed to watch the audience arrive. In cars they came, Rolls Royces, and shooting-brakes, in taxis, and on foot—smartly dressed West End actors and actresses, artily clad producers from the out-of-town reps., and a few parents, obviously wearing their best clothes for the occasion. Mrs. Bosham, plus feather boa, was on the pavement to watch the arrivals, clasping her stumpy umbrella, and viewing all that went on with eyes that goggled with excitement. She spotted the Blue Doors and waddled across to them.
“What a collection, eh?” she exclaimed. “Best lot o’ celebrities they’ve ’ad for years. Now, can you slip me in somewhere? I always like to see my young people performing.”
Nigel took her across and explained to Miss Smith who she was. Miss Smith took a doubtful look at the feather boa, and then recognized its wearer.
“But of course! Mrs. Bosham comes every year.”
And radiant with achievement, the happy landlady was led to a seat of honour in the stalls, behind London’s most influential dramatic critic, and next to a popular matinee idol. Maddy came bouncing up to supply her with a programme.
“Hullo, Mrs. Bosham. I’m glad you got in all right.”
“Never miss a public show, if I can ’elp it.”
“Will you try to keep that seat next to you for me when I’ve finished giving out programmes?” asked Maddy, and Mrs. Bosham laid her umbrella forbiddingly across it.
The stalls filled up with a rush. There was much bowing and smiling, and “I really don’t know why I bother to come to these things, my dear. They bore me to tears usually, but one always hopes.” A few press cameras flashed, and everyone started to put on their best smiles. When the lights went down Maddy slipped into the seat beside Mrs. Bosham.
“The gang don’t come on until the end of the show,” she whispered, “but all the best scenes come first, I’m afraid.”
By the first interval there was a feeling that the Gold Medal had already been won, for Helen had given a performance of “Sonya” in Uncle Vanya that made everyone sit up and rustle programmes to discover her name. All the sultry fire of her personality was poured out, and her terms at the Academy had taught her a precision and restraint of feeling that she had not had in the early days. Hearing the applause, Lyn stood in the dressing-room, “Yes, she’s got it. And she deserves it. I think that in time to come we shall be proud to say that we were in the same class as Helen.” And she jammed her ugly Salvation Army bonnet on to her head with a gesture.
The second half of the programme was rather an anti-climax. The Hay Fever scene was not really very funny, though Sandra and Jeremy tried hard with an unhelpful team. Bulldog had a moderate success with his Falstaff, but overdid it as usual, and Vicky was nervous, and a little inaudible.
“Well, I never! Fancy Mr. Bulldog,” was all that Mrs. Bosham could say.
Maddy heard the eminent critic in front of her remark, “I should say that this young boy was very Falstaff, only more so.” “How rude!” she thought. “Or is it?”
Then came the Major Barbara scene. Maddy sat forward on the edge of her seat, hanging on to every remark of the aged critic, and breathing rather hard on his bald head. When Lynette entered he glanced at his programme and mumbled to his companion, “Yes. I remember this girl from last year. Got something.”
Lynette did her best with her few lines, and looked sweet and striking and pathetic. Nigel was too loud and monotonous, and a few people left before the end of the scene, as it was long past tea-time.
“No,” Maddy said sadly to Mrs. Bosham. “She hasn’t got it. I was afraid she wouldn’t.”
“I nearly joined the Salvation Army one time,” was the inconsequent reply.
When the curtain had come down finally and the visitors had hastened upstairs to fall hungrily on the buffet tea, the ten judges went into a huddle in the stalls to decide on the prize-winners. Maddy, on the pretext of collecting the used programmes that were scattered on the floor, hung about appearing to be engrossed, but with her ears nearly on stalks to overhear all that went on. It was decided unanimously that the Gold Medal must go to Helen, but there were numerous other smaller awards to be considered. They decided on Myrtle for the Comedy prize, and one of the old Etonians for Diction.
“Now, what about the prize for Grace and Charm of Movement?” said the matinee idol, scratching his beautifully waved head with a gold propelling pencil. There was considerable disagreement over this. Some stood out for one of the Roedean girls, who had played “Sorel” in Hay Fever.
“What about the little red-haired ‘Merry Wife’? She wasn’t very good but she was graceful.” Maddy sat on the floor under one of the plush-covered seats with her fingers crossed.
“Good old Vicky!” she thought.
“No. I think the dark girl who played ‘Jenny’ in Major Barbara,” said the critic firmly. “She wasn’t consciously graceful, but she put up a very good show. I think she ought to get something, and that’s all that’s left.” Because the critic was by many years the senior of the judges, they accepted his suggestion.
“All right, then. What’s her name? Lynette Darwin. O.K. We’ve finished now,” and thankfully they made their way teawards.
When they had gone up, Maddy swung between the rows of seats chanting joyfully, “Grace and Charm of Movement—Grace and Charm of Movement.”
Miss Smith put her head round the door and said, “Still here, Maddy? You have worked hard today.”
“Yes, Miss Smith,” agreed Maddy smugly.
“Well, if you’re not too tired to go up and hand round cakes you can help clear up whatever is left.” Soon Maddy was burrowing her way through the crowds of sweetly perfumed women and cigar-smoking men, holding out dishes of dainty cakes with the nicest one farthest away from the visitors, in the hope that it would be left to be “cleared up” by herself. Several people recognized her and asked her if she were Madelaine Fayne. To some she said “Yes,” and enjoyed being told how much they had loved Forsaken Crown, and to the others she said gravely, “No. My name is Gladys Smelly,” and enjoyed seeing them choke into their dainty cups of tea. When everyone was full of éclairs and meringues and hoarse with talking, the prize-winners were announced.
“Maddy,” said Miss Smith. “Run down to the dressing-rooms and fetch Helen, Lynette, Richard, Myrtle, and Jane.” In the girls’ dressing-room there was a hubbub of chatter and a smell of removing cream. But when Maddy shouted, “They want the prize-winners upstairs,” there was immediate and breathle
ss silence.
“Helen, Lynette, Jane, Myrtle.”
“Who’s got what? Who’s got the medal?” people shouted, but Maddy only shook her head and ran off to call Richard from the boys’ dressing-room. Shiny-faced from removing grease-paint, and somewhat sheepish, the prize-winners went up to the refectory. The eminent critic made a rather long but witty speech, shook hands with them, and presented the prizes. The gold medal that Helen received was worthless in itself, but to her it opened up gates to further achievement. The minor prize-winners were given books. Lynette received a nicely bound copy of Ellen Terry’s Memoirs, which she already had, but she made a mental note to exchange it with Nigel for his Collected Works of Shaw, of which he possessed two copies. The critic said to Lynette as she was about to go out of the door:
“In fifteen years’ time, my dear, you might—note I say might—be beginning to learn something about the art of acting, and except for the Gold Medallist, I would say that nearly all the other performers this afternoon will by that time be rearing healthy families in Chiswick.” Lynette was very cheered by this rather mixed compliment, and walked back to No. 37 not feeling too bad about having failed to win the Gold Medal.
Maddy sat among the array of half-empty plates left after the departure of the guests, picking a crumbled tart from here and a squashed cream bun from there.
“I bet I’ve enjoyed myself today more than anyone.”
The day after the Public Show started off in a very ordinary way. Kippers for breakfast at No. 37, buying the morning papers on the way to the Academy to see what was said about the Public Show, and a long post-mortem on the subject between themselves.
“You weren’t as bad as I feared,” Maddy told them. “In fact you didn’t disgrace me at all.”
“Thank you. As long as I please you and the critic of the Daily Tribune.”
The Academy looked rather drab without the striped awning, and with the flowers dying in the windows.
“What a boring day this will be,” remarked Lynette. “Everything over, and yet we can’t go home for another week.”
“Can’t think why we’ve bothered to come today,” said Bulldog.
As Lynette entered through the swing doors a junior running up the stairs called out, “Lynette, darling—there’s a telegram for you in the rack!”
“Thanks.” Lynette thought as she took it, “Suppose Mummy and Daddy are coming up to town, or something.”
At first the words did not make sense. She turned it over and looked hard at the back on which, of course, there was nothing.
“Please call at the Tiller and Webb Productions Office, Charing Cross Road, this afternoon at three,” it read.
13
OPPORTUNITY IS A FINE THING
Jeremy saw Lynette’s face grow pale, and said quickly,
“Is it—anything from Mum and Dad?”
“No,” said Lyn. “Oh, no. No, it isn’t.”
“Well, what is it then, you soppy date?” Maddy snatched the telegram from Lyn’s nerveless hand and read it, her eyes and mouth widening.
“Tiller and Webb! Gosh! Lynette! It must mean a job.”
“Yes,” said Lynette, abashed and exhilarated. “Yes. Perhaps it does.” The telegram was handed round the six of them, and their excitement made other people come over to inquire what was up. Soon the whole Academy knew that Lynette was to have an interview with the most important theatrical management in town.
“It’s probably only a walk-on,” Lynette kept saying, and everyone replied, “Yes. But with Tiller and Webb.” The rest of the morning she walked about in a daze, occasionally turning to Sandra to say, “What do you think I should wear?” or “How ought I to do my hair?” She went to Roma Seymore to ask if she might be absent from class that afternoon, and Mrs. Seymore seemed to know all about it already.
“Yes,” she said. “They rang up after the show yesterday to inquire if you would be free to consider an engagement.”
“Consider!” exclaimed Lynette. “Do you know what it is?”
“No, dear, I don’t exactly, though I believe it’s a very nice little part. But don’t get too excited about it yet, will you? So many things can happen.”
“No, no, I won’t count on anything,” vowed Lynette, but with fast beating heart. After lunch she hurried back to No. 37, ironed a crisp summery dress, and brushed her long hair until it shone.
“Now, ought I to wear gloves?” she pondered. “Yes, of course I ought.” And she plundered Vicky and Sandra’s drawers to find a white pair. There were some dirty spots on them which she tried to cover with powder, dropped the powder box, and laddered her stockings as she bent down to clear it up.
“Thank goodness I left plenty of time to get there,” she thought. She snatched up a large straw hat, tied the ribbons under her chin, and let it fall down on to the nape of her neck. She surveyed herself in the fly-blown mirror that distorted your reflection if you stood too close.
“Not bad,” she thought, “but terribly young. Much too young for anything.”
At last she was swinging along Charing Cross Road, the sun beating down, seeping through her thin clothes, and a hot smell of petrol and melting tar from the busy roadway. She was pelmanizing herself, saying loudly inside her, “I mustn’t be nervous, I must be poised, and collected and—suave—and svelte—and talk confidently—as if all the managements in London were wanting me.”
The clock of St. Martin in the Fields was striking three as Lyn reached the Tiller and Webb offices, which were in a tall business block at the Trafalgar Square end of Charing Cross Road. There was a notice saying “Tiller and Webb Offices, 5th Floor,” and a lift by which to ascend. She didn’t quite know how to work it, so decided to walk. The stairs were stone and rather steep, and the air struck chill after the brilliant sunshine. By the time she reached the top she was out of breath, panting and shivering with excitement. “Calm yourself, calm yourself!” she murmured, and opened her handbag to powder her nose.
“Gosh, what a face!” she thought. “I’d never give me a job,” and then she marched boldly through the door marked “Inquiries”. The little waiting-room was empty, but there was a hatch with a notice that read, “Please ring.” She rang, and a secretary pushed up the hatch and said peremptorily, “Well?”
“I have an appointment,” said Lynette firmly, “for three o’clock.”
“Who was it with?”
“I don’t know,” said Lynette. “I just had a telegram.”
“What is the name?”
“Darwin. Lynette Darwin.”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, glancing at a notebook. “For Mr. Cathcart. But you’ll have to wait.”
For three-quarters of an hour Lynette sat on the edge of an easy-chair and read back numbers of The Stage, while the secretary informed the trickle of job-seekers who came into the office that Mr. Cathcart was ill, away in the country, or not back from lunch.
“How funny that it’s called ‘Tiller and Webb’s’, yet there doesn’t seem to be any Mr. Tiller or Mr. Webb around,” Lynette pondered. At last the hatch was flung up again and the girl said, “Mr. Cathcart will see you now,” as she unlocked a secret sort of door in the wall for Lynette to pass through.
Beyond the secretary’s office was the inner sanctum with “C.K. Cathcart, Casting Director” painted on the door. The secretary threw it open and announced, “Miss Darwin,” so there was nothing for Lynette but to walk in. She thought of Daniel in the lion’s den, and of the early Christian martyrs, and then found to her relief that Mr. C. K. Cathcart looked very much like her own father. In fact, he appeared to be as nervous as she was. They both said “Good afternoon”, and he told her to sit down. Then he looked at her for a long time without speaking, and Lynette wondered whether she should remark what a lovely day it was. Then he said, “Well, Miss—er—Darwin, in September we are putting on a new show in which there is a part that Mr. Duncan De Whit, the producer, thinks might suit you. He saw your Public Show yesterday and liked
your performance.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lynette in a rather squeaky voice.
“So I’d like to hear a few details about you, if you don’t mind. How long have you been at the Academy?”
For the life of her, Lynette could not remember, so she smiled vacantly and said, “Quite a time.”
“One year—or two?”
“In between.” (“Bother,” she thought, “why am I being so dopey?”)
“And have you done any professional work?”
“Yes. I’ve done some rep. at—at Tutworth Wells.”
The name sounded rather like Nether Wallop or Little Muddington-in-the-Marsh to Lyn’s nervous ears, but Mr. Cathcart nodded as if he had just about heard of the place.
“Oh, well, that’s good. We couldn’t employ you if you were completely inexperienced.” Lynette blessed the days of toil at Tutworth Wells.
“And how old are you?” Lynette added on a few months and said, “Eighteen.”
“Oh, dear. You’re very young, aren’t you?” he said accusingly.
“I’m sorry,” said Lynette miserably, and he laughed kindly.
“The part is of a girl of seventeen, but it’s very tricky and emotional—not at all easy to play. To be quite frank with you, I should have plumped for a really experienced actress for the part, but then Mr. De Whit has seen what you can do, and I haven’t. In a few minutes’ time he will be coming to hear you read a bit of the part.” Lynette gulped, feeling quite ill with the desire to succeed. “You’re really a very lucky girl to have attracted De Whit’s notice. Every ingénue in London has been after this part, but he hasn’t been able to find the right person.”
He handed Lynette a fat typewritten script in an orange cover and said, “You’d better have a look at it until Mr. De Whit arrives. Read any of ‘Nita’s’ speeches that you like. The best ones are in the scene with the mother. That’s the leading part. Marcia Meredith is playing it for us.” He went out of the room, and Lynette stared at the script. The type danced up and down in front of her eyes, and not a single phrase would make sense. She found herself gazing out of the window, and listening to the striking of clocks and the hum of traffic from the street below. Then the door was flung open and Duncan De Whit entered like a whirlwind. He was loaded with books and papers and a despatch case, had a colourful silk scarf flung carelessly round his neck, and the lightest grey suit Lynette had ever seen.