Golden Pavements

by Pamela Brown

  Lynette received by post a script of her play; Beloved Viper it was called. She spent several days alone at No. 37 looking over her part.

  “Gosh. It will be awful here without the others!” she thought, “I think I shall move—a little room in some nicer district—a flatlet, perhaps—I shall be able to afford it.”

  The time approached for the Blue Doors to depart. Mr. Chubb was already installed at the theatre, and had been introduced to the Bishop by Lord Moulcester and thoroughly approved. Every day Nigel had long and involved telephone conversations with Mr. Chubb, the Clerk of the Town Council, and local printers and newspapers at Fenchester. Then at last one night he announced, “Well, it’s time to get moving. There’s nothing more we can do in town. The next thing is to get down to Fenchester. And, gosh, the amount of work that’s waiting to be done there!”

  “When do we leave?” asked Maddy eagerly. “I’m all packed and ready.”

  “Two days’ time, I should think,” said Nigel. “If that suits everyone?”

  “O.K. by us.”

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Lynette, “I shall miss you so.”

  There was a silence, then Maddy said coldly, “Well, you know what you can do—”

  “Be quiet, Maddy,” Sandra checked her. Maddy tossed her head and went out.

  “I’m sorry, Lyn,” said Sandra. “She doesn’t mean to be unkind. She is honestly disappointed that you’re not coming back to Fenchester.”

  “I see,” said Lynette slowly. “I’m sorry.”

  “When do your rehearsals start, dear?” asked Vicky.

  “The day after you leave.”

  Mrs. Bosham was heart-broken to know that she was losing her lodgers.

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said tearfully. “House won’t seem the same without you lot. Miss Lynette and I will be real lost without you.”

  “However shall I tell her that I want to move?” thought Lynette. “But I won’t bother until the show is open.”

  The night before they left they gave a party at No. 37, inviting all the rest of their class from the Academy, and Mr. Whitfield and Mrs. Seymore. Mr. Chubb was up in town from Fenchester and appeared wearing a faded greeny-black opera cloak. Mrs. Bosham really rose to the occasion, and the food was wonderful. It was a buffet supper, with a marvellous array of cold meat and pickles. Sandra had made lots of little savouries out of cheese biscuits and potato crisps, and anchovy and olives and cucumber, and everything she could lay hands on. Jeremy had evolved a cider cup, into which he flung slices of orange and apple and cucumber, with bottled cherries floating on top. Everyone talked very loudly, and the room was full of smoke and laughter, so that they had to open wide the windows that gave out on to the tiny patch of cat-ridden backyard with a fine view of the drain, the meat-safe, and the dustbin.

  After everyone had eaten and drunk as much as they were capable of, they sat on the floor on cushions, and Mr. Chubb did some dramatic monologues, If and The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, and did not seem to mind that his audience laughed immoderately.

  “Ah, it’s good to be back among one’s fellow Thespians,” he intoned as he sat down amid wild applause. Then they turned on the wireless, which was inclined to crackle, and pushed back the heavy Victorian furniture and danced to the late night orchestras. Bulldog whirled Mrs. Bosham round in a wild polka until she had to sit down on her favourite horse-hair chair and sniff some smelling salts. Mr. Chubb and Myrtle were getting on splendidly together, swopping stories of their old touring days, finding that they remembered the same digs and landladies from Sheerness to Dunoon.

  All the rest of the class who were not accompanying the Blue Doors to Fenchester expressed their envy of Ali, Billy, and Myrtle, and made Nigel and Mr. Chubb promise to employ them for odd weeks whenever possible. Lynette, of course, was the object of greater envy, and promised to invite everyone who was staying up in town to tea in her dressing-room on matinee days, once the show was started. They drank to the success of the Blue Door Theatre and to a long run for Beloved Viper.

  “But how could it fail?” demanded Mr. Whitfield, “with Marcia Meredith and Lynette Darwin?”

  Maddy was so excited she could hardly keep still. Tomorrow it would all be starting—the theatre that they had dreamed about for so long, and although she would be coming back to town for term time at the Academy for another year or so, she would at least be in at the Fenchester opening.

  Lynette was happy, and looked round at everything, trying to imprint it on her mind and hold it there, yet somewhere there was a feeling of guilt and slight trepidation.

  The sky was massed with scarlet-tinted clouds as the guests took their leave.

  “Shepherd’s delight,” said Vicky, as they closed the door behind Mr. Chubb, the last to leave. “A good omen.”

  Next morning there was chaos at No. 37. Such packing and yelling up the stairs and telephoning, that one would have thought a regiment were departing. Their trunks and suitcases full to overflowing, they had to resort to carrier bags and brown paper parcels strapped on to the sides of their luggage. At the last minute, when every available cubic centimetre of space was as full as it could be, Mrs. Bosham appeared with large packages of sandwiches for all of them.

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bosham. Liver sausage—how delicious.” When she had gone Maddy said, “Well, the only space I’ve got is inside me,” and sitting down on the bed she began to demolish her packet. “Yes, I think it’s the only way. And we’ve got some time to spare.”

  The empty rooms looked very melancholy, now that the book-cases were cleared, the gramophone records no longer stacked in the corners, the framed pictures of actors and actresses taken from the walls.

  “As if we’ve never really been here,” remarked Vicky.

  “But we have,” said Maddy. “Oh, yes. Look, there’s the mark where Bulldog spilled his hair cream. And there’s where your Degas picture was nailed up.”

  “Does the train go at five-or twenty-five minutes past?” Sandra inquired suddenly.

  “Five past.”

  “Gosh, we must hurry,” and immediately there was a stampede to say goodbye to Mrs. Bosham.

  “Go and find a taxi,” yelled Nigel, and Maddy and Bulldog both ran out at the door. Within a few minutes they had both got one, and were considering sending one away, when they realized that six of them and their luggage could not possibly get into one vehicle. Lynette stood out on the doorstep with a strained smile, helping them in with the endless luggage, and trying to wise-crack with them.

  “We probably won’t be able to get to your first night, but we’ll be thinking about you,” said Sandra. “And all the best of luck for it.”

  “And—and good luck to you, too,” said Lynette foolishly as if they were strangers.

  At last they were all stowed away in the taxis with cases on the roofs, and Maddy leaning half out of the window to wave.

  “Cheery-bye—cheery-bye!” shouted Mrs. Bosham, waving a large blue-spotted handkerchief. The taxis started up, and groaning under their heavy load, crawled down Fitzherbert Street, and round the corner out of sight.

  “Oh, dear!” sighed Lynette, leaning against the dusty iron railings.

  “Come along, ducky,” said Mrs. Bosham. “We’ll ’ave a nice ‘cupper’, shall us?”

  Down in Mrs. Bosham’s basement, sipping an enormous cup of almost black tea, Lynette tried hard to overcome the depression that engulfed her.

  “I shouldn’t be miserable,” she told herself. “I’m one of the luckiest girls in London. I should be bubbling over with joy. Oh, but I’m not.”

  She took her script out with her for a walk. Just to carry it about seemed to help her to know the part. And even a glimpse of the bright orange script cheered her up. The more she read of the part the more she realized what a gem it was.

  “If only I can do it,” she thought. “It would be so easy to make her into a sloppy little prig. She must be played so as to be credible.” Already the thought of th
e first rehearsal next day produced a quaking feeling in the pit of her stomach. To have to rehearse with an experienced and famous actress like Marcia Meredith. Terrifying!

  The following day she dressed with great care and a trembling heart, and setting out with plenty of time to spare, walked down to the St. Christopher’s in Shaftesbury Avenue. The friendly old stage door-keeper directed her down the stairs to the stage, and she made her way through the gloomy passages and through a soundproof door. Draped over the furniture of the detective thriller that was still playing at the theatre were some other members of the cast. Lynette said good morning to them shyly. There was a handsome, elderly actor of about sixty with steely grey hair, an extremely glamorous blonde with a hair-style that looked as if it had been sculptured on her head, and a young man whom Lynette recognized as Vivian Conroy, an up-and-coming film actor.

  “Are you the girl who is playing ‘Nita’?” demanded the blonde, in an extremely “Mayfair” voice.

  “Yes. My name is Lynette Darwin. How do you do?”

  “Hullo. My name is Loraine French. This is Mr. Roger Revere, and Mr. Vivian Conroy.” Lynette smiled at each of them, and sat down on the arm of a chair.

  “What do you think of the play?” demanded Mr. Revere.

  “I think my part is a lovely part, but I’m not sure of the play as a whole,” said Lynette truthfully, and looked round hastily to see if the author were about.

  “That’s how we all feel about it. Still, it’s always difficult to judge a new play. It’s up to us to make it a good play, of course.”

  “And Marcia will drag in the audience,” added Loraine French. “She has an enormously large following, you know.”

  Lynette looked round the stage. The curtains were closed, making the fourth wall, and the set was cosy and cheery.

  “I’ll be acting on this stage,” she thought. “Night after night. Until it will seem like home—”

  There was a sudden commotion in the wings, laughter and loud voices, and on sailed Marcia, wearing a wonderful mink coat and a sensational hat. Behind her came Duncan De Whit, overflowing with energy and good temper, and last came a fair, pale young man with a slight stoop.

  “Good morning, good morning, good morning,” cried De Whit. “How nice to see you all so bright and early. May I introduce our author, Mr. Timothy Carew.” The young man blushed a deep shade of beetroot and shook hands with everyone, obviously too nervous either to hear or care what anyone’s name was. Marcia flung herself into a chair, stretching her magnificently long legs.

  “But I’m exhausted already! I’ve not been up so early in the morning for months. Oh, work, work, work! It fascinates me. I could sit and watch it all day long.”

  “Now, who is there left to come?” said Duncan De Whit. “Our stage director is around the theatre somewhere, I believe, and there’s old Weatherby, who’s playing the butler, and the girl who’s playing the maid. Oh, here they are…” A very old man and a young girl about Lyn’s age entered somewhat timidly and were introduced. The girl’s name was Joan something or other, and Lyn thought she seemed rather nice.

  “Well, I think,” said Mr. De Whit, “that we’ll have a little read through just sitting down comfortably, shall we? Then I think it will be time for a coffee.”

  “Good idea, Duncan, dear boy,” said Marcia. “I missed my breakfast, I was so late this morning.”

  They went through the first two acts of the play, and it sounded much better read aloud. The young author sat watching them breathlessly, blushing gratefully if anyone laughed at the humorous lines. Marcia was quite ruthless towards the weaker spots of the play.

  “Hey, Timothy, I can’t say that line. Now, can I? I ask you?”

  “Well, what would you rather say?” Timothy would ask, and the line would be altered to suit Miss Meredith. About twelve they went out to the little pâtisserie in Soho where Lynette had been introduced to Marcia, and had some coffee and squashy cakes. Lynette found herself at a table with the author, the girl who was playing the maid, and the old character actor. At the next table Marcia, De Whit, and Loraine were making a great deal of noise and laughter. Conversation at Lynette’s table was more pedestrian. The young author was painfully shy, and the Joan girl was quiet but self-possessed, so they listened to a long monologue of how Mr. Weatherby had had a very bad journey from Norwich to Newcastle-on-Tyne one Sunday before the Great War. At last De Whit said, “Well, boys and girls, back to our work. There’s just time to finish reading the ‘opera’ before lunch.”

  “I like this man,” cried Marcia. “He measures life by mealtimes, which is something I do appreciate. Producers who break for ten minutes at lunch-time and expect you to exist all day on a bun and lemonade are my bête noire.” They trooped back to the theatre. On the way Timothy Carew fell into step beside Lynette.

  “I say,” he said, “may I talk to you? I feel so terribly scared of all these people. They’re all so frightening—except you.”

  “Yes,” agreed Lynette, “they are a little overpowering. I expect it’s only just at first, though.”

  “I thought that the day my first play went into rehearsal would be the happiest day of my life,” confessed Carew. “But it’s not, I’m so scared. I wish I’d stuck to the Civil Service.”

  Lynette laughed.

  “You don’t really. You know you don’t. Think of the thrill when you see people queuing up to watch a play that you’ve written. It will be wonderful.”

  “But do you really feel it’s all right—as a play, I mean. I’ve been having terrible doubts about it lately.”

  “I see no reason why it shouldn’t run for years,” Lynette told him, “but one just can’t tell what will tickle the fancy of the public. It must be good, otherwise a management like Tiller and Webb would never have accepted it.”

  This seemed to pacify the author considerably.

  “It’s very kind of you to be so comforting,” he said. “Why are you so—so untheatrical?”

  “Am I?” asked Lyn, surprised.

  “Yes. You’re not artificial like the others.”

  “Perhaps it’s because I’ve only just come out of dramatic school,” laughed Lynette. “This is my first real West End job, you know.”

  “I’m terribly glad they’ve chosen you for the part. I wasn’t allowed any say in the casting,” Timothy told her, “and I was afraid they’d get some hard, grown-up type for the part and that would have ruined it. You’re so right.”

  “Thank you,” said Lynette gratefully, and having bolstered up each other’s egos they went back into the theatre slightly reassured.

  At lunch-time Marcia said, “I must fly if I’m to get to the Berkeley in time.”

  “I’m going to the Ritz, so can I drop you?” said De Whit.

  In solitary state Lynette ate her lunch in Lyons, wishing that she had arranged to meet one of her friends from the Academy. “I’m sure I shall never get out of the habit of eating cheaply,” she thought, and got a peculiar satisfaction out of the procession of workaday faces that passed by. And it was lovely to think that after her coffee she would have some real hard work to return to.

  They finished reading through in the afternoon and were left with an overpowering urge to get some life into it.

  “Now run off to your tea, girls and boys, and get a good night’s rest, and I’ll see you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,” cried De Whit.

  Lyn obeyed his directions, and after a solitary cinema she retired to bed in a very lonely and quiet No. 37. It was so odd not to hear the boys coming in late, giggling on the way upstairs, and the murmur of the girls’ voices in the next room.

  The following weeks of rehearsal were a mixture of excitement and depression, exhilaration and despair, and enjoyment and boredom. Gradually the part began to take shape. By dint of learning her lines on buses, and trains, in the bath and in bed, Lynette soon knew them perfectly. The moves were more difficult, and several times De Whit came near to losing his temper when she tu
rned up in the wrong place. On these occasions Lynette would retire to a corner to nurse her wounds, and the memory of his hard words would rankle for many a day. But at other times De Whit would say, “That’s terrific, darling. That’s fine,” and beam at her jovially, so that she would feel warm all over. She got tremendous satisfaction out of trying to do what he told her. He would give her an inflection, saying, “No, dear. Not like that—like this,” and when she got it correctly at last, “That’s right. Clever girl.” And Lynette’s heart would sing with achievement.

  Marcia was sweet to her and would take her out to coffee in the mornings, and keep up an amusingly scandalous monologue about all the other members of the company. She also gave Lynette many helpful hints about her part.

  “There are some things that a man producer can’t see in the playing of a female part. Now, if you don’t appeal to the feminine members of the audience you’re losing seventy-five per cent of your public. It’s the suburban matrons who make up the audiences in the long run.”

  Timothy Carew continued to make Lynette his confidante, running to her whenever anyone had complained about a line or refused a suggestion that he had made.

  “I should never have started coming to rehearsals,” he moaned.

  “How could you have stayed away?” Lynette demanded.

  “Yes, you’re right. I must see that the parts are played as I meant them to be. One little alteration and the whole sense of the play is lost.” He was now working on a long semi-autobiographical novel, and every night returned home to write until one or two in the morning, appearing pink-eyed at next day’s rehearsal.

  “If only this play is a success I can sell my novel without any trouble.”

  Lynette felt great sympathy for the shy, pale young man, for he had given up being a Civil Servant four years previously to devote himself to writing, and for two years had lived on air without a single success. Now things were beginning to look up, and this play might be the turning-point of his career.