CHAPTER 16
One day remaining.
The people of Leeds have long flocked to see Liberty Thompson (previously Porter) perform. For ten years she has graced the stages of the Liberty Theatre and delighted audiences with her beauty, wit and dazzling acting skills. She has enjoyed particular success as Lady Macbeth, the like of which has not been seen since the great Mrs Siddons, and her performance as Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream two years ago sparked a wave of reported sightings of fairies and magic, which swept through most of the Yorkshire area.
Liberty found the stage at the tender age of twelve, and has been delighting theatre-goers since then. Starting as a dancer, she worked her way to the front of the stage in playhouses from Liverpool to London, and was soon performing as Portia in front of the great and good of high society at Drury Lane. The Duke of Clarence is reported to have seen her performances there and likened her talents to those of Dorothea Jordan, his companion and the mother to ten of his illegitimate children.
By then, Liberty had met Julius Thompson, and after they had started a family together and his star rose in the world of painting, Liberty chose to leave London and set up her own theatre, where she could exercise greater creative control over her roles.
Father had spent the last five days in his studio. He refused to leave for either sleep or food, and Annie took to bringing him food on a tray every few hours. He wouldn’t let her, or indeed anybody else into his studio, and had I had the mind to visit him, I didn’t think he would have allowed me in either. Even me. How things had changed.
For the rest of us, all we did was wait in that grey theatre, sitting in semi darkness as the heavy clouds which had seemed to darken the sky for the past week refused to clear. It rained on and off, but the oppressive gloom never seemed to lighten. Rather, it got hotter and hotter, as the last rays of summer were trapped beneath the clouds. We avoided one another, and waited. Our only contact was at our desultory rehearsals, which we went through mechanically and as swiftly as we could. The play ran smoothly, actually, but there was no passion or feeling there. It was technically competent, but we were going through the motions. There was no love. We scattered immediately after the final scene, without comment, question or congratulation. And I was pleased with that. But then, when there was only one day to go before the painting’s arrival, Father spoke to me.
I was brought from my study by the sound of raised voices. Had I recognised them as a member of the Liberty Troupe, I would have remained in my room and waited for it to be over, but it was not one of us. It was Brendan Fitzroy.
I crept along the wall and peered over the bannister. Fitzroy was in the hall, shouting up at my father, who was cowering behind his studio door, looking out with an expression of both fear and anger – one entirely foreign to his face.
‘It must be ready in time,’ Fitzroy yelled, his voice quivering with rage. ‘Or you mark my words, you’ll never work in this country again.’
He was perfectly turned out, as always, but a few strands of his dark hair had worked themselves loose of their Macassar oil constraints and flicked over his brow. His cheeks had deep flushes of red over them and the skin on his nose shone.
‘It will be ready,’ Father half shouted, shaking a little as he did so, and I couldn’t tell if it was with rage or fear that caused it. ‘But I will finish it to a lot higher standard if you leave me be. I will not have visitors in my studio, and certainly not without any prior warning.’
Fitzroy seemed then to turn icily cold, as he bowed stiffly and said in a low voice filled with menace,
‘Have it as you wish, Thompson. Play the temperamental artist if it suits you. But our deal stands, or you’ll pay for it.’
‘All will be ready,’ Father said again. ‘You have my word.’
Fitzroy snorted.
‘For what it’s worth.’
He turned on his heel then, and I stepped back out of view. Father’s eyes darted upwards, and he saw me. He stared silently, wide-eyed and shaking slightly until we heard the door slam. Then he moved, waving me down to his studio with quick, jerky movements.
‘I don’t think he saw you – did he?’ Father asked as he pulled me into the room, closing the door swiftly behind me.
I said not, as Father led me to the chaise longue and pushed me to sit. I watched as he paced up and down in front of me.
‘What’s happened?’ I asked after a pause.
Father flung his hands into the air and shook his head, never ceasing in his pacing.
‘I can’t work like this, under these conditions,’ he muttered. ‘Augustine, he would never have had to work under these conditions. God rest his soul. It’s all becoming too much. Why won’t they just leave me alone, Evey? Why can I not just work without interruption? Why can I not just be allowed to create? The things I could do, if I were just given the time. Why does it always have to be about the money?’
‘Are you nearly finished?’ I asked, because in spite of myself, I found that I did care, just a little, if my father was about to be ruined.
Father threw his hands into the air again.
‘No. Perhaps. I could be, you know, but I’m not sure. You never do, when you’re on the last few days. But he wants it tonight, and I said, no, that wasn’t part of the deal, he said in time for the exhibition, but now he wants to see it, to see if he thinks it’s ready to take away now. And I said no, because I may be a charlatan, but God damn it Evelyn, I am a professional and I will not put out unfinished work.’
‘He wants it now? But the exhibition isn’t until tomorrow, and you’d have thought he could wait until then.’
‘Oh no,’ Father shook his head and sank down onto the seat beside me. He settled into the creases in his shirt and seemed to sink into the chaise longue like a hot air balloon deflating. ‘The sooner the better, although I thought we had agreed tomorrow morning. Oh Evey, I begin to not care if I’m ruined or not.’
He looked dejected and sunk further back, as though his spine had disappeared completely.
‘Can you still not tell me anything about it?’
Father rubbed his face hard with balled fists.
‘I want to. I do, I really do. And I’ve been thinking about it so much, and I want to, but something bad will happen if you know, Evey.’
‘Have they threatened you? More than your career being over?’
Father looked at me through tiny eyes which sat dull in his paper-creased face. He rolled his lips between his teeth.
‘That isn’t enough?’
‘There you are.’ The door swung open and glanced off the wall behind it. In wobbled Mother, her glass held high and half its contents dribbled down her front. ‘Hiding from me again, are we?’
That’s what she said, but it sounded more like “haidyngframmmeeeeagenahweeeeeeeee”. And Father leapt from his seat and scuttled over to steady her.
‘Sit down, darling.’
He lowered her down onto the chaise longue next to me, and she stank of miscellaneous alcohol and sweat. I didn’t know if it was hers or someone else’s. Her hair was falling loose from its pins and her usually immaculately painted face was smudged and smeared with damp lip stain and eyelash tint. I left immediately, and didn’t turn back. Not even when I heard her start to sob. One more day. Just one more day.