CHAPTER 9
Four weeks remaining.
‘I don’t see why you still need me to pose. You’ve been painting me for years. I’d have thought you’d know what you were doing by now.’
Father furrowed his brows and looked very sad.
‘That isn’t the point of it, my love. Your presence-‘
‘Yes yes, fills you with inspiration and joy.’
Mother, dressed in a black silk dressing gown trimmed with feathers, twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers and tutted.
‘The lines – one can never truly master the human body. But, if you would rather not today…’ Father reached out to her timidly, but withdrew his hand before he touched her. We’d all seen her in moods like this before. With her pale white skin and dark hair and clothes, she reminded me of a cornered, baited badger. A pair of badgers, her and father were. Perhaps that was why they were together, in spite of their enormous differences. The only two badgers in human form. It was almost sweet.
‘If you insist on it, then I must, I suppose.’ Mother tossed her head back and swung the hem of her robe with great drama and aplomb. ‘Who am I to refuse the great Julius Thompson? I, a tuppeny actress, a mere clothes horse.’
Father said nothing, merely backed into his studio and left the door ajar, should she wish to follow. Mother eyed me, Annie and Andrew, as we loitered in the hall, both watching the drama unfold and fastening our boots as we prepared to make the very short trip into the town. We avoided her steely gaze and, with a “humph”, she swung around and strode into Father’s studio, slamming the door behind her with such force that the picture frames on the wall around it rattled.
Having seen this before and knowing the sort of noises which generally followed, Annie, Andrew and I hurried from the theatre, for all that Andrew’s coat was half on and my left bootlace was untied. From the broken peace of home, we ventured into the protective bustle of the town.
I have never been to London, but I feel justified and confident in saying that it cannot be much more of a thriving hub than the centre of Leeds. We have, on the long, broad road from the Leeds Bridge to the Headrow, ten inns. I think that alone speaks volumes for both the amount of visitors we have and the quality of the local ale.
Of course, Annie and I never had much money to spend, beyond what Parker gave us for groceries and things we needed for productions, but we always managed to save a few pennies here and there for ribbons and what Andrew mockingly referred to as “baubles”.
Either way, we always looked forward to a trip into town, even though we lived in the very middle of it.
‘How long do you think that’ll take to burn out?’ Annie asked of Mother’s anger, as the door swung closed behind us.
‘All day, won’t it?’ Andrew said, stepping back to let a large maid with a big basket and who was clearly in a great hurry, pass by.
I shrugged. ‘With any luck we’ll miss the part where she explodes, and go back to have her merely simmering quietly with rage.’
Annie took my arm as we crossed the Headrow, giving it a squeeze as we wound between the mounds of manure which littered the road.
‘I hate it, you know.’
‘I know.’ I squeezed her arm back. We all hated it. There was something unsettling about watching my mother bully my father, continually playing the victim as she did so. I always avoided it if I could. I’d tried to defend him before, when I was younger. It wasn’t worth it. He was as convinced as she was that Mother was always right, so there was really no point.
‘Where are we going?’ Andrew asked, slipping between us and capturing an arm either side of him. ‘If I am to squire you about town, I’ll need some direction.’
‘Feynman’s?’ Annie piped up. She swished her skirt as she skipped around the wheel-crushed carcass of one of the town’s proliferation of pigeons. ‘I get a discount there now.’
‘She’s rutting the manager,’ Andrew stage-whispered. Annie elbowed him hard in the ribs as an old woman turned to glare at us. ‘What? You are, aren’t you?’
‘All for the greater good. We can get more fabric this way. Or more candied almonds. I have an absolute hankering for candied almonds.’
‘You’re all heart,’ I slipped my arm from Andrew’s so as to squeeze between a group of travellers with a large pile of luggage and a harassed looking young man. ‘Perhaps you should flirt with the clerk there too – then you might double our savings?’
‘Perhaps you could,’ Annie shot back, ‘unless you’re a one-man woman now? Perhaps we should go to Lewis’s? I feel as though I’ll need a new hat.’
‘I think I can still get you a discount there,’ I said with a grin. The clerk there had the prettiest eyes I had ever seen on a man, and I had spent many an enjoyable hour fluttering my lashes in that direction. ‘But let’s go to Feynman’s first. What is it we’re getting again? Oh, we probably ought to have made a list of what we need, oughtn’t we?’
My heart sank as I thought over how we could have made better use of the shopping trip – not least to save more money for sweetmeats. Amazing how swiftly I could drop into sadness and, frankly, fear, these days.
‘We should have planned it,’ I continued. ‘A proper company would have written down a list of what they needed and budgeted it accordingly.’
I felt a little sweaty. I couldn’t remember any of the characters we needed to buy fabric for or any props we were short of. I wasn’t even sure if we needed any props.
I looked back over my shoulder towards where I knew Woodhouse Lane was, now obscured by buildings and horses. I wasn’t prepared to go back and make a list, either. The milling crowds which I usually thought of as wonderfully bustling suddenly seemed dangerous and menacing. I wondered, in the depths of my brain although in a voice seemingly removed from my consciousness, if I would have a fit of the vapours or turn hysterical. That hadn’t happened for a very long time. I’d almost forgotten what it was like.
‘Perhaps we ought to just go to The Adelphi,’ I said desperately. ‘Fritter our money away on ale and loose women. Never return to the stage and become professional elbow-crookers.’
Andrew placed his hand on the small of my back and steered me towards the haberdashery.
‘Stop panicking,’ he said quietly. ‘Remember you aren’t alone.’
Feynman’s was a cool oasis within the hubbub of the town. Mr Feynman (the son in Feynman & Sons Haberdashery Emporium) greeted Andrew and me with a smile, which quickly turned into a blush when he saw Annie behind us. From then on he made no attempt to speak to either of us besides Annie, and conducted all business with her in soft whispers and longing looks. I’d likely have minded, if he didn’t give us so much money off.
At first I stayed by Annie’s shoulder, frowning at cottons and wracking my brains to remember the smallest details from the play and umming and ahhing over colours and worrying over how they would appear on stage. When it became apparent that Annie was in complete control and I was merely a muttering hindrance, Andrew stopped pretending to be interested in some dyed feathers and shepherded me away.
‘You aren’t usually this worried,’ he said.
‘I know.’ I didn’t like it.
‘I’m worried about you,’ Andrew continued. ‘I’m worried about the Troupe too. What are you worried about exactly?’
I wasn’t sure I liked his accusatory tone, and avoided his eye, instead looking at the rolls of ribbon which were strung across the ceiling.
‘I have grown concerned that…’ I paused, trying to word it in a way that didn’t make me sound like a hideous snob who hated The Liberty Troupe and was ashamed of her family. ‘God damn it, Andrew, I’m scared they’ll laugh at us. We’re just a provincial theatre company with no idea how to perform to Dukes.’
‘Wellington has only been a Duke a few months. I’d be surprised if his tastes have changed all that much.’
‘Not from being a Lord, no. But that isn’t the point and you know it.’ I reached up and batted away a thick length of silk ribbon embroidered with poppies, then immediately regretted it. Feynman’s had previously been known to implement a you-touch-it-you-pay-for-it policy. Happily in this instance, the younger Feynman was the only member of staff on duty, and his attention was firmly fixed elsewhere.
Andrew took my hand and squeezed it, hidden behind the tables stacked high with bolts of fabric so nobody could see.
‘I can see why you’d be worried.’
I turned to him then, eyes wide and with a lump of nausea in my throat.
‘You mean I’m right to be scared? I knew it. Leeds has been humouring us for years. We’d never have lasted if Parker hadn’t been supporting us.’
‘I mean,’ Andrew cut me off by squeezing my hand again, this time uncomfortably tight. He frowned down at me in the way fathers were supposed to. ‘Your mother is doubtless as scared as you are. This is her one big chance to get back in the public eye. And if anything is going to ruin us then it’ll be Liberty overacting or collapsing on the stage drunk.’
‘She wouldn’t.’ I was horrified. Here was a concern I had not even considered. I had assumed that any failure of mine would be the cause of failure for the group. Now I saw that humiliation threatened from every quarter. ‘She’s a consummate professional.’
‘She’s an alcoholic,’ Andrew replied quietly.
I knew he was right about that.
I thought for a moment, watching the ends of the reels of ribbon gently sway. Andrew let my hand go, trailing his fingers over the delicate skin of my palm. I liked it when he did that. It made me shiver.
‘She’ll be fine,’ I said firmly. ‘She is an alcoholic, yes, but when she’s on stage – I’ve seen her play countless roles drunk. She’s always done them perfectly. Remember when she was Titania? She’d not been sober for days and The Advocate said it was one of her finest performances.’
‘That is true,’ Andrew conceded. ‘She’s generally fine so long as she doesn’t have to dance.’
‘Precisely. But now I am also worried about that. Thank you, Andrew.’
He sighed, and rubbed his thick, cropped hair roughly.
‘Don’t be a bear. You know I don’t mean it in that way. What I’m trying to say is that you should stop worrying about things you have no control over – like the Duke’s opinion, or high society’s.’
‘I should worry about Mother’s desperation and lack of self-control instead?’
‘Yes. And no. Because that’s something that I can help with. I can help with the scenery, I can help with the rehearsals. Annie can help with the costumes and we can all help with… controlling Liberty.’
I still felt riled, but I knew he was right. It’s a hideous thing when you can’t trust your own mother to be discreet.
‘And there’s Jackie,’ I said. ‘You know what he’s like. He’ll likely trip in the middle of the stage and pull the curtains down.’
‘Possibly.’ Andrew shrugged. ‘But that could always happen and you never worried about it before.’
‘Not actively, but the fear was always there. Besides, our regulars would love it if something like that happened.’
‘Perhaps the Duke would. Everyone laughs at other people falling over, don’t they?’
I smiled.
‘I suppose they probably do.’
‘That’s better. Are you going to stop fretting so much now? I’ve been ham-fisted about it, but what I mean is that the things that could go wrong are the same as they always have been. Your mother perhaps more than usual, but it’s nothing we’ve not handled before. What the Duke and his exalted guests think is beyond our control, but doesn’t bear fretting over. People are people, whether the world tells us they’re better or not.’
‘Hmm.’
He was probably right. I felt somewhat reassured that he would be there for me to help with the usual problems, but resolved to keep my fears of public ridicule to myself from then on.
We pottered around the shop for a few minutes more, hands scrupulously in pockets to avoid the temptation of stroking the rolls of gauze and fingering the fine lace. Not a moment too soon did Annie, for whom you-touch-it-you-buy-it did not apply, having secured quite the bargain, stop pressing the hand of Mr Feynman (son), and gather Andrew and I from the depths of the haberdashery. Her purchases were securely bundled in a large square of brown paper and tied with string. As she struggled over to us, Andrew held out his arms to take the package from her, but even he struggled a little under the weight.
‘You’ll never believe how much I got,’ she whispered. ‘And all with plenty of money for treats left over.’
She fluttered her lashes at poor Mr Feynman, and glided from the shop like a skater across ice. We hurried after, before the aura of her presence could fade and young Mr Feynman come to his senses.
The grocers’ shop was a delight. When we made our way back up to the theatre, our arms were filled with paper-wrapped packages, which included not only the groceries we required for the next few days, but several little bags of secret treats which would never grace the shelf in the pantry. We were in such high spirits at the success of our mission that I, at least, had forgotten the ungodly mess we had left brewing.
The theatre was quiet when we arrived back, and the silence was broken by our chatter and laughter as Andrew mimicked Mr Feynman’s doe-eyed devotion. There came a crash from upstairs somewhere, like the sound of furniture falling over. We heard Mother’s voice, a ragged scream.
‘I don’t care. How could you do that to me?’
There was another crash, the sound of shattering glass. I stared up to the landing above, and saw the door of Father’s studio wrenched open, and Mother storm out, spitting violent disdain.
‘I hate this bloody house, and I hate you bloody people. I wish I’d never met you, Julius.’
She stopped at the banister and looked down at us. She was deathly pale, and her cheeks were streaked with deep red in her anger. Her lips were dark, and I supposed she must have painted them.
‘What the hell are you looking at?’
She looked around for something to hurl at us, but luckily nothing presented itself and after a brief pause, she stalked off to her dressing room. We could hear her growling as she climbed the stairs, muttering on and on about how much she hated us all and this bloody theatre and how we’d all ruined her life. I felt Andrew take my hand and Annie put her arms around my neck.
‘That was worse than usual,’ I said quietly. ‘It hasn’t been that bad for a long time.’
I felt sick. I always hated it when they – well, when she – argued. Mother’s anger was riled at least a little on a fairly regular schedule, at least once a fortnight, and for the most part I could ignore it. The episodes always followed the same pattern. Mother would be angry over some imagined slight. Perhaps one of us hadn’t been complimentary enough after she’d had a bad review. Perhaps Annie and I had been talking, and the conversation had reached a natural lull when Mother had entered the room. She often became convinced we were talking about her, and took our silence for guilt when she arrived. I had grown into the habit of extending conversations if I heard her coming, which helped a little but for the most part she found something else to be angry about instead.
It was a skill I had developed to ignore or suppress anything which might stoke the fire of her ire. The things I could turn a blind eye to in the name of peace sometimes surprised even me.
Then, every couple of months she would fall out with Father. That was worse, because then there was nobody that she could complain to about how much she hated him, or us, or the theatre. Admittedly, he was infuriatingly useless at times, when he seemed incapable of doing anything beyond painting and loving her, but I always thought that the devotion which had spanned almost three decades should be worth something.
But this time was different. There had been a streak of desperation in her screaming. She hadn’t been acting, even a little. It hadn’t been for drama or effect, I was sure.
‘We have to fix this,’ I said.
‘Leave her.’
Andrew was probably right, it usually worked. She burned herself out after a few days and needed someone to talk to, so slipped back into the normal routine as though nothing had happened. But I didn’t want to wait. I wanted things to be right now, so we could get on and the play would be a success and, frankly, so she didn’t feel like she was desperate or alone and had to act like this. I also wanted, a little, to go up there and slap her.
Shaking Andrew and Annie off my person, I climbed the stairs and tapped on Father’s door. When there was no answer, I opened it and peered in. He was standing by the window in the gloom. Not painting, not even looking out, really. Just standing by the window with his hands by his sides, and his head bowed.
‘What happened?’
He shrugged, not really acknowledging my presence. He didn’t want to say anything as she would likely hear – she seemed to hear everything that was said after an argument – and then hate him more, and start shouting again. Safer to say nothing, let it pass. Andrew was right. Still, though, I left him and climbed up the next set of stairs, stopping outside Mother’s dressing room. Her door was ajar.
She was still muttering to herself about how much she hated us all, but some of it was obscured by dull thuds and slamming cupboard doors. I pushed the door and it swung open, revealing that she had been very busy in the scant few minutes since she had arrived there.
Three large cases had been dragged to the centre of the room. Their contents, previously old costumes and fabric off-cuts, were now strewn over the sofa and floor, and had been replaced with coats and hats and books of newspaper clippings. Mother was standing in front of her wardrobe, ripping dresses from hangers and throwing them in the vague direction of the cases. She was facing away from me, but I could tell she still bristled and radiated with anger.
‘Go away.’
It was a snarl more than anything else.
‘What happened?’
‘I hate him. I don’t want to talk about it. All these years and he’s been bloody mocking me.’
‘No, he can’t have been. He adores you more than anything.’
She swung round then to face me, and hurled an arm full of creased-up dresses into one of the trunks. The lid fell shut with a deep bang. She stared at me for a few seconds, waiting for me to make the next move. I wanted to leave. Andrew had been right. I should have left her alone. She probably wasn’t leaving, not really.
‘Are you leaving?’ I asked, quietly and very politely.
‘No, I’m merely rearranging for my summer wardrobe. Stupid bloody child. Of course I’m leaving. I’ll be glad to be rid of the lot of you. Stupid bloody fools.’
‘Oh.’ I didn’t know what to say. I suppose she wanted me to tell her I didn’t want her to leave. I didn’t want her to, but for some reason I didn’t think to say it just then. ‘Where are you going?’
She waved her hand, a mechanical action supposed to be airy.
‘Wherever I bloody like. You aren’t the only people in my life, you know that? What do you care anyway? You’ll be glad to see me go. Then you can give all my parts to that simpering milkmaid.’
‘Annie?’ I was surprised. ‘But you’re the narrator now. If anything,’ I continued blithely, like a damned fool, ‘you stole her part.’
Mother glared at me, her face a picture of incredulous disgust.
‘How can you be so stupid? How can a child of mine be so stupid?’
Then she began to sob, and I stood there, torn, until she began to sag forward, dissolving into a heap of shuddering tears.
I waited a moment before I went to her, just to be sure these were sad tears rather than angry ones which may result in my being batted away in a fury.
‘What happened? Why do you want to leave?’
Mother let me put my arms around her although she did not put hers around me. She smelled strongly of cheap wine, and I realised that her lips were not painted dark, they were stained by red wine.
‘I thought he loved me, after all this time the only thing I was ever sure of was that he loved me. But how he sees me, Evey, he sees me so cruelly.’
Even with her eyes red and the blackening from her lashes streaked down her face, she still looked beautiful.
‘What on earth has he done to make you think that?’
‘He just… I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You know he adores you. You can’t fail to see that, can you?’
‘It’s his new painting. I look hideous. Masculine.’
‘I highly doubt that.’
‘It’s true. I’ve lost it all, Evey. All I have now are my looks and they’re fading fast, and I’m turning into a shallow husk. I’m turning into my own mother – no – my father, if that painting is anything to go by.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I said, dropping a kiss on her brow. ‘You’re just overwrought, that’s all. You never did get a proper rest after Lady Hamlet closed, did you?’
‘No, that’s true.’ Somewhat mollified, she sniffed delicately and rubbed a hand over her wine-stained lips. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘And whatever Father’s picture is like, I’m sure it’s not so bad. It’ll be nowhere near finished, will it?’
She sniffed loudly and shook her head.
‘There, then,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be completely different next time you see it.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
Mother pushed me away and shakily began to rise to her feet.
‘Where’s my wine? Where did I leave it?’
I suspected she had hurled the glass at Father, but it seemed unwise to suggest that. Happily for me, Andrew tapped lightly on the door at that moment.
‘Come on Liberty, let me take you to dinner.’
She brightened immediately, and patted her hair, smoothing down the stray ends which had worked loose.
‘But I’m not dressed for it – I look a fright, I’m sure.’
Andrew smiled, and he’s such a handsome man that she couldn’t help but primp a little more.
‘Not at all, but since my means won’t stretch beyond the kitchen, you needn’t worry yourself on any account.’
She went to him, still a little unsteady on her feet, and our eyes met over her bowed head. He wouldn’t let her drink any more. He’d probably give her water and put her to bed. Wonderful, capable Andrew. If only he didn’t make me feel so useless.
Annie was nowhere to be seen so I guessed she’d taken herself off – quite sensibly – to avoid stoking Mother’s wrath. I occasionally felt a little hurt that it was always Annie she felt threatened by and jealous of and never me, but that was foolish. Annie was her equal in beauty and acting skill. I was just her daughter. I had my father in me, therefore could never be quite good enough.
I spent a little time setting Mother’s room to rights. It was such a mess anyway that her haphazard packing had made little difference. I hung up her gowns and bundled everything else back into the cases – original contents and more besides. I managed to heave them back against the wall where they had been before, and my hope was that when Mother woke with little more than a bad headache later, she would forget she had ever planned to leave.
As I made my way down the hallway I could hear Mother chattering to Andrew, her voice half pealing bells and half choking back the sobs which still lingered. I could still hear her as I approached Father’s door again, and saw that he had turned, and was looking at his easel with great sadness.
‘She said it was because of your painting.’
‘Yes. I know.’
He didn’t look up, and I took another step into the room.
‘I – we have cheered her up now though.’
‘Yes.’
‘She said it was different. She said you made her manly. I told her that was ridiculous and that it would be different when it was finished.’
‘Hmm.’
I took another step forward.
‘Can I see it?’
Father slowly raised his head and looked at me with sleepy eyes.
‘See what?’
‘Your picture of Mother.’
‘Oh. No. I’d rather not.’
‘Oh.’ I didn’t quite know what to say to that. I could hardly insist upon it. ‘I won’t shout at you, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No.’
He was still quiet but there was no mistaking the firmness in his voice.
‘Ah.’ I didn’t know what else to say. ‘Perhaps it would be a good idea if you didn’t ask her to model for you again for a little while.’
He blinked twice.
‘That won’t be possible,’ he said slowly, as though speaking to a particularly stupid child. ‘I need to work on it and she needs to model for me.’
‘If you’re sure that’s a good idea.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s the only option. Excuse me, Evelyn. I have work to do.’
The look in his eyes made me want to go to him and run away, both at the same time. I wanted to beg him to let me in and to show me what he was doing, and what was so important that it was worth Mother being upset. It was dark in there, and it seemed to get darker as we looked at one another, not saying a word.
It was a skill I had developed, the ability to ignore things which might cause a disturbance. I creaked into life, and left him without a word. I wasn’t prepared to shoulder this as well. I didn’t know if I physically could.