It Ends with Revelations (3 page)

They tiptoed into the back of the stalls. On the stage, a working light of dazzling brilliance dangled into a roofless composite set, made up of a sitting room and a kitchen separated by a staircase leading to a room which suggested a look-out for forest fires. The whole gave the impression of a giant toy badly put together, rather than a place where human beings could conceivably live.

‘Did you know it was to be like that?’ Jill whispered.

‘Well, I knew it wasn’t to be realistic but I didn’t expect it not to make sense. And it’s hideous, into the bargain.’

‘It’ll look better when it’s furnished.’

‘It’ll look worse. You can’t put normal furniture into rooms shaped like that.’

‘Perhaps Peter’s found some abnormal furniture.’

‘Not he. We’ve been rehearsing with the furniture and it’s perfectly normal. If you ask me, dear Peter’s gone stark out of his mind.’

The back of dear Peter could be seen, in silhouette, half way down the stalls. He suddenly shouted towards the stage, in a voice hoarse with tiredness, ‘Jack, what the hell’s happening – or rather, why isn’t something? I swear there hasn’t been a sign of life for the last ten minutes.’

Jill repressed a laugh. The evening had reached a stage she remembered well. Jack Anderson, the stage manager, and his two assistants would be working doggedly
somewhere
, as would, almost certainly, the master carpenter,
the property master, the electrician, and anyone else belonging to the ‘crew’ which had come from London with the company. But nothing could be
seen
to be happening. The only unusual thing was the silence. Such moments were usually accompanied by the sound of hammering.

Getting no answer, Peter Hesper shouted again. ‘Come on, for God’s sake. I’ve got to light tonight. Are you there, Jack?’

Jack Anderson stepped from the prompt corner and said grimly, ‘Yes, Mr Hesper.’ Jill recognized the ‘Mr’ as a rebuke. Peter liked to be on Christian-name terms with his stage management. An altercation then began about the lighting installation, wrinkles in the backcloth to a small section of garden (Jill hadn’t realized it
was
a garden), a missing piece of furniture and the fact that the local staff had just ‘stepped out for a bite’.

‘I could do with one, too,’ said Peter Hesper. ‘Send someone for some sandwiches.’

The stage manager shouted, ‘Mary!’ An untidy girl appeared at the top of the stairs and said, ‘Right! I’ll get them. Will you have ham or cheese and tomato? That’s all they’ve got at the pub.’

‘Both,’ said Peter. ‘And get plenty for everyone.’ Though frequently short-tempered he was always kind to his staff. ‘Here, take this.’ He went to the front of the stalls. Mary, having come down the stairs, accepted the couple of pounds he handed up and scurried away.

‘But for the grace of Miles Quentin, there go I,’ said Jill. ‘Except that I’d by now be older than Mary is. Come on,
let’s be nice to Peter. We must pull our punches about the set.’

Peter, turning, saw them and came to meet them, looking more like a tired boy than a man of forty. Jill had always found it astonishing that he was only two years younger than Miles – not that Miles looked old for his age; it was simply that Peter, short, slight, and with a
schoolboyish
mop of red hair, looked abnormally young for his. Subject to swift changes of mood (though Jill was never sure if these were real or assumed), he now smiled affectionately. ‘Darling Jill, how nice of you to look so nice. That lovely dress – would you call it off-black or
gun-metal
? And the world-famous Quentin sables.’

‘I wonder if there
is
such a thing as grey sable,’ said Jill.

‘If so, I’m sure Miles would send to the ends of the earth for it, if you’d let him. Lucky Miles! If only I’d someone like you to brighten my life.’

‘How’s Gaston?’

‘Hardly a life-brightener, these last weeks. I’ve sent him to spend a few days in his native Paris, which was probably what he was after. Now I want to talk to you – and without Miles, who is being his usual kind-hearted self at a moment when kindness will turn out to be cruelty.’

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Miles, ‘while I study the set.’

‘Ghastly, isn’t it?’ said Peter, disarmingly. ‘I’ve made every conceivable mistake over this production and I’ve simply got to correct some of them. Come on, Jill.’ He led her away from Miles. Loud hammering started. ‘Oh, God, we can’t talk through that. Let’s get out of earshot.’

They went into the foyer and sat in an alcove which faced the glass doors. Jill listened patiently but she knew from the outset what she was going to say. And the more Peter talked, the more sure was she that, though he was right in wanting to change his direction of the play, Miles was right in thinking the job could only be done by degrees, during the coming week.

Peter was saying, ‘How could I have been so fooled by that television performance? But wasn’t everybody? Didn’t
you
think Cyril – Doug – was brilliant?’

She said, ‘The trouble is, dear Peter, that you despise
television
. You won’t direct it and you hardly ever watch it, so when you do see good television you’ve no idea what makes it tick – or why it won’t tick the same way in the theatre.’

‘You’re telling me. The boy can’t even project his voice. He can’t be heard unless he shouts.’

‘He didn’t have to project it on television. He didn’t have to
act
, he just had to
be
. Still, he must at least have some imagination to be as good as he was.’

‘Go on, tell me he was better directed.’

‘He was directed by a television director, for television. The same director couldn’t get a stage performance out of him. Peter, darling, you know all this, really.’

He nodded glumly. ‘I also know the play stinks. As a rule, when one’s involved with a play, one digs deeper and gets to believe in it more and more. But I believe in this less and less.’

‘Have you never been wrong about plays you believed in?

He grinned. ‘Two of them closed in a week.’

‘Well, you may be equally wrong about this one.’

‘I doubt it. Have you tried summing the plot up, without trimmings? This is what you get: Into the lives of a childless married couple there erupts a boy who claims to be the illegitimate son of the husband by a dead mistress. He’s accepted and pampered – only to disclose that he’s an imposter, whose father was some other lover of his mother’s. She isn’t dead at all but has primed the kid with facts and documents, and she’s all set for a big scene in Act III. Could anything be more bogus?’

Jill laughed. ‘Well, put like that … But it’s not without interest, how a man reacts when he finds the son he’s come to care for isn’t his son. And the women’s parts are well written. How
are
the women?’

‘Pretty fair but nothing matters but Miles. He’s so good that he just might carry the play to success, but only if it’s treated as a vehicle for him, with the boy merely a supporting character.’

She said, with truth, that she agreed; and then
proceeded
to hand on Miles’s proposition as if it were her own, concluding by saying, ‘Look, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll leave things the way they are until after Monday night, I’ll persuade Miles to let you do what you want before the London opening. I’ll point out that you’ll be making various changes during the week, so Cyril won’t feel so specially insulted. And, honestly, Peter, the boy couldn’t cope with vast changes at the dress rehearsal.’

‘I only meant to change the end of Act II. He could cope with that on his head if he were a real professional.’

‘Well, he isn’t. And what he needs at tomorrow’s dress rehearsal is to be praised and encouraged and given confidence for Monday night. Anyway, is it a bargain?’

‘I suppose so, if you really will persuade Miles.’ He looked at her anxiously, his red eyebrows drawn together in a harassed frown.

‘I promise. And you’ll be specially nice to Cyril tomorrow? Oh, Peter, look!’

Through the glass doors of the foyer, a boy wearing grey flannel trousers and a striped blazer was to be seen. He was standing beyond the pillars of the portico and looking up at the theatre.

‘The soul’s awakening,’ said Peter. ‘That’s a new outfit – I suppose he thinks he looks like a boy from a good Prep school. Why can’t he dress like a normal teenager?’

‘Poor love, he isn’t a normal anything. I hope he sees his photograph – yes, he’s going to it. Come on, Peter, let’s start the good work. Encourage him.’

‘Oh, not tonight, Jill – please!’ But he let himself be steered through the foyer doors and said, pleasantly enough, ‘Hello, Doug.’

The boy turned quickly. ‘I’m not Doug yet, Mr Hesper – look, it says “Cyril Digby” under my photo and it’ll be on the programme here. And we can’t have my hair dyed this week, can we? Not with that fair photo here.’

‘Maybe not.’ Peter had switched on a charming smile. ‘Well see how the audiences here like you fair.’

Jill, who had met the boy on the train, always gave
herself
a dispensation regarding lies spoken to actors in need of encouragement. She said now, ‘I know you’re going to be splendid.’

‘I ought to be, to act with such a wonderful actor as Mr Quentin. And with such a wonderful director. Do
you
think I’ll be all right, Mr Hesper?’

‘Of course you will.’ Peter managed it fairly
convincingly
.

‘Honest, Mr Hesper? You had me worried this last week.’

‘Well, we often get worried towards the end of
rehearsals
. Now cut along and get a good night’s sleep. Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll be as good as you were on television.’

‘Came out all right there, didn’t I? Thank you for your faith in me, Mr Hesper. You know I’ll do just anything to please you, change my name, dye my hair – though I
feel
right, fair.’

‘Well, we’ll see. Now be in the theatre by one o’clock tomorrow and I’ll help you with your make-up.’

‘I got all the stuff you told me to.’ He turned to Jill. ‘You don’t have to do your own make-up on television.’

‘You’ll soon learn how to. Good night, Cyril.’

‘Good night,
Doug
,’ said Peter, firmly.

‘Good night, Mrs Quentin. Good night, Mr Hesper. Thanks ever so for cheering me up.’

Jill, as they went back into the foyer, said, ‘Don’t tell me that boy’s eighteen.’

‘He is. I’ve seen his birth certificate. It’s his dwarfishness that’s put me off him.’

‘But, Peter, his voice is young, too. He’s got an ugly accent, hasn’t he? Simply choked with glottal stop. But I suppose that’s good for the part.’

‘It would be, if he’d stick to it. He’s now starting to imitate Miles – oh, not all the time; just every now and then, when the fancy strikes him. I haven’t the heart to tell him the part’s that of a gutter-snipe and he just needs to be himself.’

‘I should hope not, poor kid. Come on, your sandwiches will have arrived.’

Back in the stalls, she reported to Miles. He thought she had done well and was particularly pleased that Peter had been kind to Cyril. ‘What with that and seeing his photograph displayed, he should be feeling much better.’

‘I found him more than a bit pathetic. Is anyone looking after him?’

‘No one has to, specially, as he isn’t a child, but I did make enquiries,’ said Miles. ‘He’s sharing rooms with his understudy who’s got his Mum with him. Cyril’s an orphan.’

‘Wouldn’t you guess it? Tell me he’s all alone in the world.’

‘No, I gather he lives with a brother. What he needs most is an agent. I was wondering if Tom Albion would take him on.’

‘Rather small beer for Tom, isn’t he? Look, Peter’s beginning to light.’

‘Let’s stay and watch for a bit.’

They stayed until the first act had been lit. Jill knew enough about lighting to enjoy watching it being done but by eleven-thirty she felt they ought to leave; with a dress rehearsal next day, Miles needed a long night. They congratulated Peter warmly, and sincerely, on some highly dramatic effects he had achieved, and then left him, a solitary figure, in the blue and white auditorium which contrasted so oddly with the unrealistic, unrealistically lit, set in front of him.

‘Is he going on all night?’ said Jill, as they made their way to the foyer.

‘If so, he’ll ruin the management with overtime. No one could call our Peter economical. But I do admire him.’

Outside there was a full moon. Jill said, ‘That’s a better effect than Peter will achieve with any amount of overtime. How lovely Spa Street looks. I’ve just remembered. Twelve years ago I went up to look at Queen’s Crescent by moonlight.’

‘Who with?’

‘No one. That’s why I went. I had an idea beauty might be soothing. Like hell it was. But when one’s miserable there’s something to be said for wallowing in it. And at least I’ve never forgotten how beautiful the Crescent looked.’

‘Is it far? Could we go now?’

‘As late as this? But it might be rather fun. It’s up at the back of the theatre. There’s a short cut up an enormous flight of steps. This way, I think.’

They found the steps a little further along Spa Street.

‘Well, they’ll help to keep my weight down,’ said Miles, looking up them. ‘There must be quite a hundred.’

‘But they’re not steep.’

Still, they were both of them a trifle breathless when they reached the top. Then they only had a little way to walk, mercifully over level ground, to the terrace.

‘It’s worth the climb,’ said Miles.

No light showed in any window. The houses, built of pale grey stone, looked almost white under the moon. In front of them, the expanse of grass that sloped towards the roofs of a lower terrace was bleached of colour. Far below, beyond Spa Street, was the open countryside.

‘Lucky the houses have their backs to the New Town,’ said Jill. ‘What, exactly, constitutes their beauty?’

‘I don’t know enough about architecture to say. Perhaps it’s partly due to their uniformity – and no one’s put in a fancy window or added a porch or an attic storey. And the curve of the Crescent is superb. I suppose it’s not as imposing as the Royal Crescent at Bath but I find it even more pleasing.’