Golden Pavements

by Pamela Brown

  “Ah,” he said expansively, grinning broadly across a nutcracker face with beady bright eyes. “Lynette Darwin. Yes, I prefer you minus the Salvation Army.” Lynette laughed nervously. He walked round her appraisingly, then said to Cathcart, who had followed him in, “Told you she looked just right for it, didn’t I? Not pretty-pretty, but interesting—and the right age!” Lyn flushed with pleasure.

  “Well, I suppose you’re free to take an engagement?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Lyn eagerly.

  “Well, we’d like to hear you read. Have you got a copy of the script? I’ll give you brief outline of the plot. You’re a very nervous, highly strung young girl who comes back from school in France, to find that your mother, whom you worship, a woman of forty or more, has suddenly started to refuse to grow old gracefully. It sounds rather hackneyed, but it’s been treated in a very original manner by the author, who is quite a young man. Look, read this speech at the top of page ninety.”

  Cathcart sat at his desk toying with the inkwell, while De Whit wandered aimlessly round the office, straightening pictures on the wall, and looking at himself in the mirror. Lyn took a deep breath, stood up, and began to read. It was an extremely emotional speech, and to plunge straight into it in cold blood was very difficult. Her voice sounded metallic and false, and she could have wept with mortification at ruining such a lovely speech.

  When she had finished neither of them said anything. They just looked questioningly at each other. Lynette shuffled and coughed and wished she could sink through the floor. Finally Cathcart said, “Very well, Miss Darwin. We’ll let you know what we decide, if you’ll leave your address and phone number.” Lynette’s heart sank, but she smiled politely and said, “37 Fitzherbert Street,” and gave the phone number. They were very charming as they said goodbye and showed her out, and De Whit said, “Well, let’s hope it’s ‘au revoir’.”

  All the way along Charing Cross Road Lyn remembered that “Let’s hope it’s au revoir.” “Was he merely being polite, or did he mean he wanted me to have the part? He liked me. Cathcart wasn’t so sure. Oh, I read it so badly.” She walked blindly in the hot sun, oblivious of the heat, the traffic, and the people, wrangling with herself as to whether she had got the part or not.

  “If I’d got it they’d have told me. No, they wouldn’t. They must discuss it between themselves. And perhaps with Marcia Meredith—Marcia Meredith! To act with her—I’d never dare. She’s so famous. And so brilliant.” She found herself in St. James’s Park, gazing intently at the ducks, who swam and flapped and caught flies coolly on the dark water. The shade of a willow tree looked inviting, and she flung herself under it and fell asleep from sheer mental exhaustion.

  The week that followed was torture. Every morning she woke early and ran down to wait for the postman. She saw him come slowly along Fitzherbert Street, popping letters through letterboxes, with maddening precision. Sometimes she ran along the street where the shadows of the houses were long on the pavements, and asked him breathlessly if there were anything for No. 37, and was presented perhaps with a catalogue for Mrs. Bosham. Other mornings she made herself stay in the dark hall and wait for the flap of the letterbox to be lifted, and a cheery letter from one of their mothers to flutter in. Whenever the phone rang she rushed to answer it, and she watched the message rack at the Academy with an eagle eye. Her temper became shorter and shorter, and she did not join in any of the end-of-term horseplay that went on. No work was ever done in the week that followed the Public Show. Mostly they lazed on the roof in their bathing costumes, playing silly acting games like “Charades” and “Proverbs”, and carried on a feud with the medical students at the college opposite, throwing missiles of every sort across at them. The other Blue Doors were kindly and sympathetic, and never failed to ask “Heard anything?” when they saw her, but they could not understand the overwhelming importance it held for her.

  “Forget about it,” advised Sandra sensibly. “Then when you do hear, it will be a nice surprise.”

  “Forget it!” groaned Lyn. “If only I could!”

  On the seventh day of hearing nothing she decided that she must pull herself together. She was looking pale and tired, and was not sleeping well. She forced herself to think what fun it would be when the Blue Doors opened up at Fenchester again.

  “Much better experience than a West End show,” she told herself. “To play a new part every fortnight will do me the world of good. We’ll probably do The Constant Nymph again, and we might do The Importance and She Stoops to Conquer—oh, yes, it will be grand.” She even joined in a conclave with the others, to decide on their first show. Then, on the day before the end of term, Roma Seymore called her out of class and said, “Lynette, dear, I wonder if you’re free at tea-time today?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Seymore. Can I do anything for you?”

  “Well, I’m having tea with Marcia Meredith, who is an old friend of mine. We were at this Academy together many, many years ago, and she has asked me to bring you along, as they are considering you to play the part of her daughter.”

  “Are they still considering me?” gulped Lynette.

  “Yes, I think so. Haven’t you heard anything?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Well, come along with me this afternoon, and if Marcia likes you that will be half the battle.”

  Lyn reeled back into the classroom.

  “How shall I behave? What shall I wear?” she demanded of the Blue Doors.

  “Don’t look too glamorous if you want her to like you,” advised Vicky. “I should try to look madly young and rather plain.”

  “Easy,” said Maddy.

  “You be quiet, Miss Fayne. And should I talk or listen?”

  “Listen admiringly,” advised Jeremy, “and laugh at her jokes, if she makes any.”

  Once more Lynette spent most of the afternoon on her toilet, borrowed a dab of perfume from Sandra, stockings from Vicky, and some money for a taxi from Jeremy. The meeting was to take place at a little Belgian pâtisserie called “Chez Bertrand”, in Soho, where the Blue Doors had often popped in for a cup of coffee and a sticky cake.

  “Funny,” thought Lynette, “that the most important interview of my life should take place in such an ordinary little café.” She paid the taxi man and went in. Immediately she saw Marcia Meredith, for she was the most colourful thing in the room. She was a large woman, dressed in black with a smart crimson hat at an extreme angle. She had large striking features, enormous burnt-out eyes, and dark hair in an elaborate coiffure. Although beautifully made-up, her age showed in lines at the corners of the mouth, and a conscious lifting of the chin to defy any suggestion of sag. Beside her Roma Seymore seemed almost pastel-coloured and motherly. Roma introduced Lynette, and Marcia Meredith said in a rich husky voice with a break in it, “My dear, how are you? Excuse my fingers being rather sticky, but we’re simply wallowing in these delicious cakes! Sit down and have some. Those are especially delicious.”

  Marcia kept up a vivacious monologue throughout the meal, and Lynette was relieved to find that she had only to say “Yes” and “No” at intervals and to look pleasant. The actress gave vivid impersonations of all her friends, and Lyn came to the conclusion that she gave an even better performance off stage than on. Finally, Marcia drained her cup with a gesture and said, “My dear, I must fly—I’ve got to change and get to the Savoy by eight-thirty.” She kissed Roma affectionately on the cheek, leaving the imprint of her lipstick, and extended a gracious hand to Lynette. “Goodbye, you dear thing. I know we shall meet again in the near future,” and she made a terrific exit from the little café, bestowing sweet smiles on the beaming proprietor and waitresses. Lyn sank back exhausted.

  “Phew!” she said, and Roma smiled.

  “Yes, she does affect one that way, but one can’t help admiring her.”

  “Did she like me, do you think?” Lynette asked anxiously. “I hardly said anything.”

  “Yes. She liked you all right. If she hadn�
�t, it would soon have been quite obvious, I’m afraid. Marcia doesn’t bother to be polite.” Lynette reflected that no mention had been made of the play.

  But next morning at breakfast-time the phone rang, and Mrs. Bosham hurried into the dining-room.

  “There’s a gent on the phone for Miss Lynette. Says ’is name is Pee Whit or something.”

  Lyn swallowed several baked beans whole, and ran into the hall. The stag’s head and the late Mr. Bosham stared at her accusingly as she picked up the receiver with trembling hands.

  “Hullo, Miss Darwin,” came Mr. De Whit’s cheery voice. “Wonder if you could come down to the office? Little matter to discuss.”

  “Yes, why yes,” said Lynette. “What time shall I come?”

  “Oh, between eleven and twelve. I shan’t be there, but Mr. Cathcart will deal with you.”

  Lyn returned to the breakfast table thinking, “A little matter to discuss—what does that mean? And how long will this uncertainty go on?” She couldn’t wait to titivate herself. On the stroke of eleven she was ascending the stone stairs, talking to herself almost incoherently. “It doesn’t matter really if I don’t get it—nothing I can do now will alter anything. Oh, I must, I must.” In Mr. Cathcart’s office she sat on the edge of the chair, and he discussed the weather. As if it mattered! Then suddenly he whipped a sheaf of papers out of a drawer and pushed it across the desk.

  “I wonder,” he said, “if you would be interested in signing this.” It was some seconds before she realized that it was a contract.

  “Now, I must read it carefully,” she thought, “as if I were used to signing contracts and not too eager.” But the legal terms defeated her, and she merely looked to see what her salary would be. The sum made her gasp.

  “I’m not worth it,” she thought as she signed. It was all over so soon.

  “We start rehearsing on the fifteenth,” said Mr. Cathcart, “but I shall probably be in touch with you again before then.”

  On wings, Lynette ran down the stone steps, out into the sunshine and noise of Charing Cross Road. She wanted to stop passers-by and say to them, “What do you think? I’ve just signed a contract—I’m really going to be an actress. I’m the happiest girl in London.” Her feet did not seem to touch the ground as she sped along. Everything suddenly seemed to be more highly coloured than usual. The sky was a Mediterranean blue, the dumpy taxis that rattled by were gaily painted, and the women’s dresses as varied as a rainbow. Everyone seemed to be smiling, and Lynette wanted to smile back, and say, “Isn’t it a lovely day? Isn’t London wonderful? I’m so happy, aren’t you?” She wanted to celebrate madly, to do something really rash. She went into a milk bar and ordered an enormous sundae with strawberries on top.

  “It’ll cost the earth—but it doesn’t matter.”

  On, up to Cambridge Circus she bounced, and walked down Shaftesbury Avenue to look at the theatre at which she was to appear. It was the St. Christopher’s, an old theatre with a fine history. At the moment it housed a detective play. Lynette stood and looked up at the posters and the photographs outside.

  “Soon it will be me—soon it will be me.”

  She retraced her footsteps into Charing Cross Road.

  “The most lovely road in the world,” she thought.

  At Foyles she stopped and went in, fingering enviously the sweet-smelling books. Rashly she bought a beautifully illustrated ballet book, and went out again hugging it. The trolleys clanged in Tottenham Court Road, the buses were red and sailed heavily round the corners. The sun struck the fragments of quartz in the paving stones and they flashed goldenly. Lynette’s heart bubbled in her throat with joy. She gave pennies to beggars, bought some sweets and presented them to a ragged little boy, and cut through the square towards the Academy. Suddenly she realized that it was the last day of term, and she sat down on a green-painted seat to think about it. The lions on the doorway grinned as hard as ever, the pianos were tinkling ballet music, and on the roof dark figures fenced wildly, their foils glinting in the sunlight.

  “What a wonderful thing to have happened on my very last day!” she thought. “It’s the only thing that could make up for leaving the Academy.” She watched the stream of students coming in and out of the swing doors. She knew them all, had chatted on the stairs with them, walked down Tottenham Court Road with them, sat with them in Raddler’s.

  “How exciting it will be to come back here to visit them,” she thought. “When I’m playing at the St. Christopher’s!”

  The clocks struck two and Lynette got up and stretched and sauntered across to the Academy, savouring the satisfaction she would receive from telling her news to the others. There was the usual end-of-term excitement, people rushing about asking, “Are you coming back next term?” “Where are you going for the holidays?” She looked everywhere for the Blue Doors, and finally found them in the wardrobe, helping Mrs. Bertram. As soon as they saw her they dropped the armfuls of costumes under which they were staggering.

  “Well?” Radiant-faced Lynette announced, “I’ve signed my contract. We rehearse on the fifteenth.” There was silence. On the faces of the Blue Doors every emotion played, amazement, joy, disappointment, envy. No-one said anything. The seven of them stood and looked at each other. Bulldog had been trying on a policeman’s helmet, which was perched at a rakish angle on his red head. At last Maddy said rather shakily, “We—we didn’t think you would—take it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well—the Blue Door Theatre…”

  “Oh!” Lynette sat down suddenly on a heap of old curtains, deflated as a balloon pricked by a pin. Slowly she said, “I’d forgotten. Yes, I’d forgotten that.”

  “We can get on without you,” said Nigel. “But we didn’t want to. We haven’t got a really strong actress without you.”

  “But you’re quite right to take this opportunity,” Sandra put in, rather too quickly. “I mean, it’s a very lucky thing. I mean…” She trailed off into miserable silence.

  “I hope you don’t feel,” said Lynette slowly, “that I’m letting you down in any way.”

  “Why, no!” they chorused in a somewhat forced manner. All except Maddy.

  “I think you are,” she said. “You’re an idiot to go straight into the West End. Mr. Whitfield says everyone should have four years’ rep. first. And what about our parents and the Bishop? We promised them we’d all come home.”

  “But—but surely they’ll understand,” stammered Lynette. “I mean—an opportunity like this!” Maddy looked at her coldly and walked out of the wardrobe. Lynette said brokenly, “Of course—Maddy has had even better offers than this—for films—and turned them down. Oh, what shall I do? I’ve signed my contract!”

  “Of course you must keep on with it,” insisted Nigel. “It’s the chance of a lifetime. We’re not expecting you to back out now.”

  “But you did hope that I wouldn’t accept it. Didn’t you?” The Blue Doors shuffled uneasily. “Yes, you did. But don’t you see—I couldn’t. It’s a wonderful part. It’s London—it’s good money!” Suddenly she burst into tears, crouching in the folds of the old blue velvet curtains. They comforted her, and told her that it was selfish of them to make her unhappy when she’d had such a piece of luck, but Lynette sensed that behind their kind words they were remembering the offers that Maddy had turned down in order to stay with the Blue Doors in their precarious venture at Fenchester. Vicky ran and fetched her a cup of tea from the canteen and Sandra lent her a handkerchief, and Bulldog put on an act with the policeman’s helmet to cheer her up. Mrs. Bertram appeared and told them that they must go into the theatre for the end-of-term ceremonies.

  Everyone was rather over-wrought, and there were more tears from people who were leaving when Mr. Whitfield said the little prayer about “worthy citizens of London”. Then they sang the National Anthem, cheered the staff, and surged up into the dressing-rooms to pack their make-up cases, their practice clothes, books, and all the odd belongings accumulated in
their lockers during a year and a half. Addresses were exchanged, vows of reunion made, and promises of “See you on Crewe Station on a wet Sunday train call.” There was terrific hand-shaking, kissing, and embracing, and the six of them stood on the mat marked B.A.G.A. and looked at the swing doors, none of them wishing to be the first to make so final an exit. Then, “Excelsior!” cried Bulldog with a gesture, and they walked out into the square.

  The doors swung to behind them.

  14

  “BELOVED VIPER”

  All through the hot nights Lynette tossed and turned and wondered if she were doing right. She had a letter from her mother which read, “Dear Lynette, Daddy and I were very surprised at your piece of news. It is certainly very fortunate for you, but I cannot pretend that we are really glad about it. We were looking forward so much to having you home and settled down in Fenchester once more. The Blue Door Theatre won’t seem the same without you. I’m sure the Bishop will be very upset about it. But just the same we wish you all the best of luck in your new venture. I don’t know if Daddy and I will be able to get up for the first night, but we will try to come and see it as soon as possible…”

  “They don’t understand,” Lynette thought miserably. “How can they understand that this is the chance of a lifetime. It might never happen to me again.”

  The Blue Doors, with the exception of Maddy, continued to be sweet, yet distant. They were wrapped up in plans for the opening of the theatre, and were out all day, dashing round London, buying sets of plays, furniture, and properties. They had received a nice fat cheque from the Fenchester Town Council and were having a wonderful time buying all the things that they had longed for for their theatre for years. The boys gloated over the new lighting equipment they had acquired, and the girls over several long mirrors for the new dressing-rooms.