The Town in Bloom (12 page)

Miss Lester sent me out to buy gold sandals and a small evening bag; there was a theatrical shoeshop quite near where I could get both and charge them to the
management
. She said they were a bonus for my work at rehearsals.

We went out to dinner early so that I should have time to dress. Walking back through the blue early evening I looked up at the brilliantly lit theatre and suddenly felt wildly excited. Later I told myself this had been a
premonition
that something was going to happen; but I was only being wise after the event. I needed no premonition to excite me. Even on an ordinary evening I found the
lit-up
theatre exciting – and tonight I should be showing that theatre,
my
theatre, to my friends. Also, up in the Throne Room waited that never-to-be-forgotten dress.

The girls arrived early and were in the foyer when I sailed downstairs, to be received by their admiring gasps. They all wore pretty dresses but I don’t think I was flattering myself in believing mine was prettier; and I remained convinced that women’s waists ought not to be round their behinds.

There was a very different atmosphere in the theatre from the one I had noticed on the first night. Then, even the audience had seemed overwrought. Now, one felt that everyone was confident the play would be good. Tension had been replaced by a sense of settled success.

We had the middle gangway seats in the fifth row and I was put on the outside as there was a low-sitter in front of that seat. Lilian was next to me and turned out to be a whisperer. Soon after the curtain rose she told me she thought the tall young girl who played the part I had hankered for was very dull. I more than agreed and it seemed to me that the girl was being even duller than I had remembered.

In the first interval we all went up to the office and had coffee with Miss Lester, who showed the girls round the Throne Room. Lilian gazed ecstatically at Mr Crossway’s
portrait and said, ‘I can’t think why our Mouse doesn’t fall in love with him.’

‘Our Mouse has too much good sense, I’m glad to say,’ said Miss Lester, smiling at me.

I said, ‘I think it’s more that I’m too old to fall in love with actors. I was passionately in love with him when I was twelve. I mentioned it to his photograph every night, after my prayers.’

‘You should tell him that,’ said Miss Lester, laughing. ‘He’s rather vain about his schoolgirl admirers.’

Then we heard the bells ringing to call the audience in for the second act. As we went down, Lilian said, ‘You didn’t tell us Miss Lester was like that – terribly elegant in a don’t-give-a-damn-about-it way. Not at all like most secretaries.’

In the second interval we walked about outside the theatre and were looked at a good deal, especially Molly, who put in heavy work with her lorgnette. When we went back for the last act I was sorry to feel the evening was so nearly over.

It must have been about five minutes later when I noticed that the tall, dull young actress was being worse than dull; she was being positively bad, saying her lines as if she didn’t even know what they meant. This was during an ensemble scene so was not very noticeable at first. Then she failed to come in on a cue. I heard Tom prompt her but she just sat staring in front of her with a strained expression. Mr Crossway went on without the missing line, which meant skipping the line that should have answered it. For the next few minutes everyone acted with extra briskness, as if to distract attention from the girl; but they
didn’t distract mine and I saw she was sitting with her eyes closed and that her face looked drawn with pain. I knew she would soon need to rise and say, ‘Come with me, Aunt Caroline,’ and then go off, but when the cue came she neither spoke nor moved. The elderly actress who played Aunt Caroline was sitting beside her and able to help her up, saying, ‘Let’s go together, dear.’ They managed to get across the stage, the elderly actress practically holding the girl up, and off through an archway. Then, just as they were out of sight, there was a thud.

Lilian instantly whispered, ‘Did you hear that? She’s fainted.’ And various people in the front stalls whispered to each other. Mr Crossway gave one quick look after the girl, then went on with his lines, and in a few seconds the leading lady came on from the opposite side of the stage and the play was continuing normally. I knew that the girl would not have to come on again for quite a while. Ten minutes? Perhaps a little longer. I imagined the scene in the wings, and Brice Marton or Tom dashing upstairs to warn the understudy—

And then I remembered. A couple of days earlier Brice Marton had been up in the office talking to Miss Lester about an understudy who was ill. He had grumbled because there weren’t enough understudies – ‘This girl’s covering three parts. Even when she’s not ill, it isn’t safe.’ Miss Lester had said Mr Crossway loathed paying understudies to sit around doing nothing, it was the only thing he was mean about. And the girl would be back on Monday, or Tuesday at the latest.

It was Monday now.
Was
the girl back?

I was hurrying out of the stalls less than a minute after
that off-stage thud. If the understudy was not back this might be my great chance.

I rushed up to the foyer and round to the stage door. As I passed the stage door keeper he was telephoning for a doctor. I dashed downstairs hoping to find Brice Marton.

I saw him standing outside the iron door leading to the stage, talking to the leading lady’s understudy, who held an open script of the play. As I raced towards them I heard her say, ‘But I’ve never in my life been asked to do such a thing. I shall be ludicrous.’ I guessed what was happening: she was being urged to go on and read the girl’s last scene. And it certainly would be ludicrous as she was quite
forty-five
and wearing a most unbecoming tweed suit; also horn-rimmed spectacles through which she was worriedly looking at the script.

Brice Marton said, ‘I’ve got to keep the curtain up.’

I reached him then and implored him to let me play, assuring him I knew every word, every movement. The leading lady’s understudy received me as if I were an angel from heaven – ‘But of course you must do it! Mr Marton, I simply won’t go on now this child is available. Look at me – in these awful clothes; I’m just back from the country. Oh, you marvellous girl – and what an enchanting dress! Mr Marton, please!’

I thought he would argue but he only asked if I was sure I knew the lines – ‘If not, you’d better read.’

‘Absolutely sure. I swear it.’

‘Anyway, we can prompt you. If you can even give a general idea of the scene—’ He opened the iron door and listened. ‘You’ve got nearly five minutes yet.’

‘She ought to have some make-up,’ said the leading
lady’s understudy. She scurried to the nearest
dressing-room
, which was the leading lady’s. The dresser was at the open door.

‘Do you want to look at the script?’ asked Brice Marton.

I shook my head decidedly. ‘I’m sure I still know every line. Have you cut anything since rehearsals?’

‘Not a thing. One move was changed, putting the girl more upstage for the long speech. But it doesn’t matter.’

By then the leading lady’s understudy was back with rouge, lipstick and a handglass.

‘This is all there’s time for. Thank goodness you’ve long, dark eyelashes.’

She put the rouge on for me, then held the glass while I did my lips. Brice Marton had the iron door open again, listening.

‘Come on, now,’ he said, and held the door for me.

‘All the luck in the world,’ said the leading lady’s understudy.

There was still a minute or two before my entrance. Brice Marton stood with me, and to my surprise, put his arm round my shoulders. I said, ‘Poor Mr Crossway, I suppose he doesn’t know what’s going to happen.’

‘There’s no way of letting him. But you can count on him. He’s always wonderful in any emergency. If you forget your lines he’ll cover up for you until you hear the prompt.’

‘I’m not going to forget them. I’ve wanted to play this part ever since I came to that audition – remember? And I’ve played it in my mind dozens of times.’

‘Concentrate, now. Your cue’s coming. Good luck.’

I walked on through the arch. The lights were far more
brilliant than at the audition or than any I had faced in amateur theatricals, and the auditorium was not merely dark; it seemed to me utterly black. And the blackness was alive with whispers. I knew that all over the theatre people must be saying to each other that I was a different girl, an understudy. The thought of the audience was so distracting that every word of the part vanished from my mind and I had a moment of absolute panic. Then Mr Crossway smiled at me and spoke. I answered – and instantly felt supremely confident. But confident is too calm a word. Standing in the wings I had felt excited (never nervous). Now the excitement had become elation. I was experiencing, for the first time in my life, something near to pure joy.

At the back of my mind I remembered Mr Crossway had said the part must not be funny, and I did not try to be funny. But soon the audience showed a tendency to laugh – and the laughs came in places where I thought they ought to come. I found this so intoxicating that I could not resist trying for any laugh I could get. And feeling a certain line warranted it, I put in a little pirouette which the audience loved – someone actually clapped. Then I got a laugh when I did
not
try for it. I had to say to Mr Crossway, ‘But can’t you see that we’re perfectly matched?’ As we were standing close together and the top of my head was barely level with his chest, we couldn’t have been less well matched, and the audience certainly got the point.

However, I didn’t think it mattered and it led to what I thought was a valuable idea. We were now nearing my big speech, in which I would implore Mr Crossway to leave his faithless wife for me. I had every intention of delivering
this most seriously, and I could see I should be at a disadvantage if I had to look up at him – or, alternatively, talk to his chest. Brice Marton had said the speech was now spoken from further upstage, which might help me a bit, but surely it would be unprofessional to upstage Mr Crossway? I thought about this while he made a fairly long speech. How far up dare I go?

And then I noticed a conveniently placed footstool. If I stood on that, I thought, my head would be level with Mr Crossway’s and I need not go upstage at all. And it seemed to me quite in character to use a footstool, if one was a small girl trying to make an impression on a tall man.

The first line of my long speech was: ‘Now you listen to me.’ Should I say it before I got on the footstool or after? Before, I decided. My cue came. I said the line and jumped on the stool. Unfortunately I had miscalculated and it raised me some inches higher than Mr Crossway. The audience gave quite a howl of delight. I waited for the laugh to die and then held up my finger at Mr Crossway, as if lecturing a child – this winning idea just came to me. The audience gave another happy howl. I was afraid it would not fully quieten down for my speech so I said loudly, ‘Please, please, listen!’ – to Mr Crossway, of course, but it did quieten the audience. I then said the speech with intense feeling.

Its end was the leading lady’s cue to come out on a staircase in time to see an embrace. Realising that embracing would be difficult while I was on the footstool I jumped down, which must have given the impression that I was pouncing on Mr Crossway. The happy audience
laughed again, all the time the leading lady was coming downstairs. I then had to say to her: ‘Oh, don’t think I’m sorry! You should take better care of your property.’ The tall girl always said this coldly and walked off with dignity. It seemed more in character, for me, to speak
mischievously
; so I did, and went off to an enthusiastic round of applause. To this day I remain convinced that the audience adored me.

I rather expected people would be in the wings, waiting to congratulate me, but nobody was. Then Brice Marton came from the prompt corner, where he had stood with Tom during my scene. He said, ‘Bravo! Got to see if the doctor’s come,’ as he passed me. Well, at least he had said ‘Bravo!’

Knowing I should have to go on for the curtain call I stayed, listening to the last scene of the play. The faithless wife had to show her intention of reforming; the husband pretended he had never known she was faithless, merely thought her indiscreet. She had to realise he was
pretending
but see she must accept the pretence. And she had to win back the sympathy she had lost earlier. The husband helped her by pointing out how happy she had made him in spite of her ‘indiscretions’. Mr Crossway and his leading lady played the scene very quietly. On the first night, and whenever I had watched through the spy-hole, I had noticed how completely the audience was held.

Tonight, after only a few minutes, I knew something was wrong. There was a slight laugh on a line not meant to be funny. Soon after, the leading lady had to refer to me as ‘that humour less beanpole of a girl’. This got a really loud laugh. Then things went on all right for a while, except
that Mr Crossway played more forcefully than usual, which made the scene seem less real. Just before the end the leading lady had to refer to me again, by saying: ‘She was something of a surprise.’ The audience then laughed its head off.

By the time the curtain fell, the whole cast was waiting for the call. A nice old character-actor took me on with him and put me in the right place; then brought me off. While Mr Crossway and his leading lady went on taking calls, the actress who played Aunt Caroline whispered to me, ‘I hear you got through splendidly, not a single prompt.’ The old actor said, ‘Most remarkable. And what a pretty dress!’ Then they talked about the girl who had fainted; she was believed to have acute appendicitis and had been taken to a hospital. ‘Dreadful, dreadful,’ said the old actor. ‘But you saw us through, my dear.’ And other people came and congratulated me.

Then the curtain fell for the last time and I heard the leading lady shout ‘Rex!’ in a tone of outrage. Everyone near me moved quickly away except Aunt Caroline, who said, ‘Come and sit in my dressing-room, dear,’ and hastily steered me off the stage – but not before I had heard the leading lady say: ‘How in God’s name did it happen? Who let that little oddity loose on us?’

I knew it was no use trying to speak to Mr Crossway until the leading lady had finished complaining, so I went with Aunt Caroline, who told me, in considerable detail, about an occasion in her own youth when she played some large part at a moment’s notice. I listened for about five minutes and then said I must go to the office. Actually, I went straight back to the stage.

Already most of the lights had been turned off. I wondered if Mr Crossway had gone back to his
dressing-room
. Then I heard him and also heard Brice Marton. They were quite close to me but hidden by the backing to the archway, and they were beginning a really furious row, using words I had never heard before. It took me several seconds to realise these must be bad language. I remember thinking they sounded idiotic.