CHAPTER 14
Rehearsals continue apace as the countdown of days until the Duke’s exhibition nears single figures. With less than two weeks to go until the great unveiling of Augustine’s work, the Liberty Theatre appears to be undergoing a phoenix-like transformation. It rises, in glorious splendour from dust sheets and crumbling plaster. Julius Thompson and his piece for the exhibition remain shrouded in mystery, and this reporter has been unable to breach the locked studio door to glimpse what will surely be a masterpiece.
Parker Davis, manager of the troupe and owner of the theatre, spoke to me and confirmed that everything was going as well as he could hope in both restorations and rehearsals. Mr Davis will have more reason than might be supposed to be proud on the night of the performance; his daughter Annie Davis will be taking a starring role of Belinda.
It wasn’t going well. Mother hurled the newspaper from the stage, and the tempestuous swirls and flutters of her cape only added to her menace. I had to admit, she had really mastered that cape, and her use of it was adding an unexpected flourish to the narrator’s role. It seemed to enhance the action on the stage, rather than distract from it. I hadn’t told her that yet though.
‘You need to speak to him, Evelyn.’
‘Happily.’ I kicked one of the chairs so I could rest my feet on its seat more comfortably. ‘Why?’
Mother shook her head in disbelief before gliding and ruffling down the stage steps and towards me, like a thwarted, dark angel.
‘He’s said she’s got the starring role. Her.’ She hissed like a viper and pointed at Annie, where she stood on the stage, pointedly ignoring Jackie.
‘He’s just got confused,’ I said, airily. ‘As she appears to be the main character.’
‘He was at the read through.’ With a swoop of her cape, like a bird’s wing, Mother sat beside me. ‘He heard the lines. He heard the parts.’
‘He’ll have remembered it wrong.’
‘It isn’t the starring role, is it?’
‘The role I initially offered you, do you mean? The one of the main character? No.’
I shouldn’t have been baiting her, but the truth of it was that I was in a foul mood.
‘No, you’re right, I made the distinction where you didn’t. I made the right choice. No doubt about that.’ She nodded her head firmly, before leaning in to whisper to me. ‘And I didn’t like that he put that bit in about her being Parker’s daughter. It makes it sound as though this place reeks of nepotism.’
I rolled my eyes at that.
‘In the troupe brought fame by association with your husband’s artwork, and in the production directed by your daughter. Oh yes, he should have mentioned that instead.’
‘I can see there’s no talking to you this afternoon. You aren’t making any sense.’ She rose like a flapping crow and swooped back to the stage. ‘I brought the troupe to fame,’ I heard her add quietly.
‘Can we get started?’ I called, clapping my hands. ‘Where the hell is Parker?’
No answer, but all but Annie sighed.
‘Oh, he’s never coming. Can’t we cast someone else instead? Or cut out Sir Plume?’ Mother folded her arms as she perched atop her narrator’s box.
‘Sir Plume is an integral part of the plot,’ Annie bit back. ‘And you know he’ll be marvellous.’
‘He hasn’t been to a single rehearsal,’ Jackie added. Annie glared daggers at him and he backed away, knocking into the shadow puppet set and causing it to rock alarmingly.
‘Hey,’ Andrew called, marching across to steady the frame. ‘Watch where you’re going, you clumsy oaf.’
Jackie looked mutinous and balled his large hand into a fist.
‘Evey, I am tired of everyone treating me like a fool.’
‘You shouldn’t be such an idiot then,’ Andrew cut in.
Mother snorted with laughter.
‘Am I late?’ Parker shouted from the door, hurrying in as he struggled into his magenta jacket. ‘I can’t find my wig.’
‘No,’ Annie said, but it was drowned by a loud chorus of “yes” from everyone else.
‘My apologies,’ Parker said, trying to force his arm into the sleeve, which was half turned inside out.
There was a loud ripping noise, and the whole back seam of Parker’s jacket had split.
‘Ha!’ Mother crowed. Annie jumped down from the stage to try and help him.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, but I couldn’t look at him, not when my head was in my hands.
‘I wish you’d come to even one fitting, Parker,’ I ground out from between gritted teeth.
‘I’ll fix it,’ Annie said. ‘It just needs another panel in the back. It can be a different coloured stripe – that’ll look even better.’
I waved them both in the direction of the stage.
‘If we could, please?’
The stage slowly cleared, with a small tussle between Andrew and Jackson the only violence. Mother, from her box, began her opening monologue.
‘What dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs,
What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things.’
There came a loud cry from off stage left, and the sound of a slap echoed across the auditorium. Annie made her entrance on cue, but rather than pausing in the middle, she strode across the stage, and jumped down.
‘I will not work with him,’ she shouted as she hurried in my direction. ‘I refuse to work with him.’
‘With who?’ I asked calmly, my already stretched patience almost ready to tear.
‘Jackson,’ she turned and pointed to the stage, where Jackie’s hulking mass peered into view. ‘The man’s an animal. I think we should get rid of him. We don’t need him, there are plenty of thugs with muscles who can take his place at the drop of a hat.’
‘I’m not a thug,’ Jackie said. He rubbed his cheek. ‘I’m not.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Annie folded her arms and turned away from me.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
I sighed.
‘I’m not going to have him removed from the premises and all our lives if you won’t tell me.’
Jackson yelped in protest.
‘And I’m not going to have him removed any way,’ I continued. ‘There’s nobody who could do it, for a start.’
‘I thought you’d be on my side,’ Annie said with a sniff. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side.’
‘I don’t know what’s happened, so I’m not on any side.’ I rubbed my hand roughly across my face. I could kill them all, and at that moment I almost didn’t think I’d care. ‘Was it about his girls?’
‘He said…’ Annie flopped down beside me and stared down at her lap. ‘He said I was just as bad,’ she finished in a whisper.
‘I have no comment to make on that,’ I said. ‘You do both enjoy a good liaison.’
‘He said I was as bad as them, as those … as those trollops,’ she hissed.
‘Ah.’
Clearly Jackie’s time for reflection with my father hadn’t brought him to any deeper understanding of Annie.
‘Can we get on?’ Mother called, her strong, clear voice cutting through the turmoil. ‘I’m growing bored.’
Annie rose, the picture or anger. She was how I imagined I’d be, when I finally unleashed the raging amazon within. But not so tall. She strode to the stage and let free a tirade of abuse and expletives at my Mother, who returned it all in kind, leaping from her box as she did so.
I gathered my things and left them to it.
Michael was in my office, perched on the edge of my desk.
‘Good,’ I said, dropping my notes in a heap on the floor. Within a second I was in front of him, pressing my lips to his. I almost knocked him back onto the desk, but he regained his balance and returned my kiss, if not with equal violence, then with equal enthusiasm.
I raked my hands through his hair, pulling his face to mine as hard as I could. I felt his hands over my back, in my hair, on my neck, and I leaned into him, grinding my chest against his, bending my back as far as I could in order to touch him as much as possible. From his lips, I moved my attentions to his jawline, so strong and still dusted with stubble like the day before. I welcomed the roughness against my lips. There to his neck, and as I bit his earlobe he moaned my name, pulling me closer to him still. I paused only to gulp in more air, and reached for his cravat to rip it from his throat.
‘Evey, I-‘
I pushed him back against the desk and climbed over him.
‘Woah, I-‘ he grabbed my wrists as I reached for his shirt.
‘What? Don’t you want to?’ I couldn’t believe it. He was rejecting me. How could he be? I shifted my hips against his. He was so eager.
‘God, I do. Believe me. But-‘
‘But?’ I shifted my hips again and he gave a low moan.
‘But not on your desk. Well, maybe on your desk. And will you please get off me?’
No, he was rejecting me. I felt a little sick, and like such a fool. I rolled to the side, catching him with my knee as I did so. He grunted, and I was glad.
‘You should go,’ I said as I sat up. He reached into his trousers and adjusted himself with a creaky sigh.
‘Jesus.’
He sat up next to me and reached for my hand. I turned my head from him, but didn’t move my hand away.
‘Please know that this is one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.’
‘Oh?’ I glanced at him from beneath my eyelashes.
‘Oh yes.’ He gave my hand a squeeze. ‘But you were- you are so angry. You are, aren’t you?’
I nodded.
‘And I think, if we do that as the first time, then that will be the only time, do you see what I mean? I don’t want it to be our only time.’ He gave my hand another squeeze. ‘It may sound terribly presumptuous, particularly as it hasn’t actually happened yet, but I feel that when – if it does – then I won’t want it to be the last time.’
‘I see.’
I didn’t, really. All I knew was that I seemed not to be in control any longer. He sat with me and held my hand for a long while.
I wanted him to leave. I wanted to be alone so I could throw something and shout, then curl up in the shell of my own shame and curse the day Augustine ever picked up a paintbrush. But most of all I wanted somebody to take all of the mess and the anger and the hate that whirled around The Liberty Troupe, gathering force and momentum and turning into an unstoppable wave, and move it out of my reach. For somebody to step in and say, “you don’t have to deal with all of this,” or even better, “you don’t have to deal with all of this on your own”.
The weight of responsibility hung over my head, and I felt crushed and suffocated. I didn’t want to cry with an audience. That would be an even greater shame. Yet Michael stayed, quietly, holding my hand without moving, as minutes stretched and merged, and I had no idea what time it was. My hand longed to stretch, and my skirts weren’t thick enough to cushion me from the hard wood of the desk we sat on. But I remained motionless, listening to the sounds of both of our breathing and trying not to think, for a while.
Then without a word, he shuffled closer to me and put his arms around me, and I sank into his embrace, and sobbed. He stroked my hair and kissed my forehead, holding me closer as my sobs increased.
‘I’m so sorry you feel like this,’ he said. ‘I wish there was something I could do to help.’
‘No,’ I said between sobbing and heaving for air. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘There’s nothing I can do?’
‘I don’t want you to. I have to fix it, don’t you see? Otherwise I’ve failed. I can’t fail, I just can’t.’
My words were muffled by the lapel of his jacket, the scratchy wool of which I was using as a handkerchief. He’d never have me now, I thought, and hated myself for being so weak as to care.
He squeezed me tighter and I wondered if he could squeeze me so tightly that I’d cease to exist. That the pressure would be too much, and I would fall out of existence. I just wanted everything to stop.
‘I don’t know what’s happened,’ Michael said quietly, ‘But I know that if anyone can fix it, you can.’
I drew back from him then, still keeping my head bowed so he wouldn’t see the mess of my face. My kingdom for a handkerchief. I sniffed loudly, and resisted the temptation to touch my nose.
A handkerchief appeared beneath my eyes and I hesitated only briefly before grasping it eagerly.
‘Everything is falling apart here,’ I said. ‘Father’s been keeping secrets from me, the whole building is covered in dust and sheets, and today, rehearsal was…’ I paused, searching for the words to accurately describe the carnage. ‘It didn’t go well,’ I finished quietly.
‘Oh. I can imagine that would be upsetting.’
‘It feels as though everyone is deliberately trying to make things difficult for me. As though they don’t want this to go well. They’re just arguing all the time, and picking at things.’
‘Perhaps they’re feeling the pressure too.’
I nodded.
‘You’re probably right. But I’m the only one who isn’t allowed to fall apart. And then when – well,’ I flapped my hand in the vague direction of Michael. ‘That was the last straw.’
He pulled me close again and held me tightly. It was better that time, and I didn’t feel quite so bad about his not wishing to make love to me on my desk. In spite of myself, I began to persuade myself to see the positive side of things.
I decided to give them almost two whole days before I called another rehearsal. During that time, I allowed myself precisely an hour after Michael had gone to feel sorry for myself. But by the time he had gently kissed me goodbye and I had made my way to my bedroom via the back stairs, so as to avoid meeting anybody, I didn’t feel quite so suffocated any more. My tears seemed to have dried unshed, and I could only be grateful for that, although I couldn’t help but feel as though I had been denied the luxury of self-pity. When you feel as though the whole world is against you, self-pity is one of the greatest comforts.
I made a list of all that was wrong; with the production, the cast, the building, the family. Then beside it I wrote a list of the things that could be done to fix them. And I felt better. The list was long, but not as long as it had seemed in the chaos inside my head. It was true that we went through this sort of turmoil with every production we staged – I had conveniently forgotten the drama we had been through with Hamlet, and the arguments that had plagued every rehearsal. There had been less resting on that, we were less fractured. Although perhaps I place too little value on Mother’s integrity as an actor.
Now, under Michael’s gaze, I saw our flaws as though I were a stranger, magnified by the magnitude of the occasion. It was the most publicity we had ever had, by far. Although I prided myself on our productions, I saw now that we were barely professionals. More like a band of children putting on plays for parents and friends. The world was filled with what I imagined were proper people, and now they would see us for what we really were.
That was the lowest. That was the rock bottom foundation on which I was able to construct some hope. We tended to receive almost exclusively favourable reviews. We were fronted by one of the greatest actors of her generation. We had Andrew, the most skilled builder of shadow boxes in the country. We were a lot better than that troupe in Sheffield. Their Macbeth was once described by The Mirror as “more a flock of bleating sheep than the three witches”.
As for the personal differences – there was little I could do. My cast separated, prickled and avoided one another, but there was no more fighting. Their differences would melt away with a good review, and be replaced by some other drama further down the line. It was what we did. We were in the theatre, darling, there was always drama. For now, though, the theatre was a den of calm. There was no noise, beyond the builders, but they kept their personal chatter to a minimum. Although filled with people, my home rattled like an empty machine, filled with spare parts.
Michael, too, kept himself to himself during those days. I tried not to think about why. It seemed, however much I tried to twist or distort it, as though he was actually coming to care for me. Not as some cheap harlot to bed and then leave, but as a friend, and dare I say, equal. It was, I suppose, what I had aimed for when he was still the faceless M. Bailey, who I would seduce to distract.
I had known all along that he was up to something – that a man who wrote such heart-rending pieces about tragedies and human suffering could never truly be interested in something so flippant as our little play. And I had been proven right, but rather than distract him, he had distracted me. And I was, in my way, perhaps coming to care for him a little too. I didn’t want that. I wasn’t my mother, but I am my mother’s daughter. As she has proven, happy marriage and the theatre do not go together hand in hand. It was my intention never to marry, and it remained so, but once Michael and I had slept together, it would doubtless be more difficult than I had anticipated to push him away.
At half past two, nine days before the curtain opened on The Rape of the Lock, I left my study, and for the first time in forty eight hours, sought company. I would gather the cast together, and we would rehearse, as we ought to. I had my notebook beneath my arm, my list of issues pasted in behind my other notes, and I felt in control. I have always liked to feel in control. As I made my way down to the stairs, I heard hushed voices whispering in the hall below. As silently as I was able, I crept towards the banister. I ignored the sneering voice in my head mocking my hypocrisy. When they are my people, I am allowed to know what is going on.
That man was there again. With his Van Dyke beard. I couldn’t see it, though, as all I could see was the back of his heavily maccasser-oiled head. I scowled. He was leaning forward into the doorway to the sitting room, his arm against the door, blocking my view of who he was talking to. I knew, though. She can’t really whisper. Not when she’s spent most of her life on stage.
And that was when I realised who Mother’s affair had been with. It coincided, as it happened, with when Julia Fitzroy had stopped automatically buying every new piece of my father’s work, sight unseen.
‘We can’t,’ she whispered, so even the back stalls could hear her. ‘My husband-‘
I couldn’t hear his reply, being as how he wasn’t trained for the stage, but I saw him reach into the room, and it looked as though he was stroking her face. Then he kissed her, and there was no doubt that was what happened, as when he pulled my mother towards him and he held her tightly, she swung into my view and I could see her kiss him back. It was several long seconds before she pulled away, stepping out of view once more. She didn’t look like the penitent wife. She looked more powerful than I had seen her for weeks. Brendan Fitzroy leaned in to the doorway, paused, whispered again, and then left.
I decided I’d leave it another day before I called the rehearsal, and went back to my study.