Authors: Stella Whitelaw
‘My ankle is strapped up and I’m on very strong painkillers. Tell everyone I’ll be back for opening night in a week’s time. Ready to take over the lead.’
‘Really?’
Joe had been listening on an earpiece. He said nothing but his face was a picture of despair. He could see his big dreams going down the drain, all his designs and sets, his imagery, the painstaking hours of rehearsal. They were all on hold. He was going to have to cancel. Put up the notices outside the theatre. Cancellation! As Fran said, it was the only possible decision.
‘So lovely to talk to you,’ said Fran happily. She sounded as if she was lying on a couch, munching chocolate, probably Belgian. ‘Enjoy your week off. Go have a McDonalds or something. Bye to everyone.’
‘Go stuff your extra strong painkillers down your throat,’ I said crudely, my anger rising. ‘Who said that the show was going to be cancelled? Joe never said that. And it won’t. This show is going on. Watch the news, Miss Fran Powell, it’s going to be a brilliant success. Make headlines. Read all about it in tomorrow’s papers.’
I could hear someone saying these strident words. I think it was Glenn Close. It certainly wasn’t me. Not guilty.
It felt like the long mile walk to the guillotine. Joe was trying to keep encouragement on his face. Some members of the cast started to clap. Their smiling faces were a blur. People moved about like mechanical ghosts.
‘That’s my girl,’ Joe whispered. ‘You can do it.’
He was guiding me downstairs to Wardrobe. Hilda went into a state of panic, knocking the screen over. She’d worked on my costumes half the night, just in case. I hoped my half-baked brain would remember to buy her some flowers.
‘Here she is, Hilda. The most courageous woman in London. Look after her. I’ve a dozen last-minute things to do. See you later.’
I stripped behind the screen, my fingers faltering, shedding Damart.
‘You won’t need a vest on stage,’ said Hilda, helping me into the page boy’s doublet and shirt first for a last check. It fitted perfectly. She took it off and hung it on a hanger, then pulled the torn shipwreck dress over my head. I stood there like a dummy. ‘It’s hot under those lights. Used to be on the stage myself, you know, one of the Bluebell Girls. In the chorus line.’
I looked at Hilda with new interest. I could see a certain faded glamour, thin rather than slim, pale eyes worn out from close sewing, tinted brown hair.
‘We used to make a lot of our own costumes. All spangles and sequins. That’s how I got into sewing, when my legs gave up.’
‘What happened to your legs?’ asked my voice.
‘Varicose veins. The devil they are. Painful and unsightly. And
there were family problems….’
I let Hilda gabble on about her ailments and looking after her mother. Despite my brave words on the phone, I didn’t feel in the least bit brave. What had I said? I’d been carried away, angered by Fran’s cool assumption of a cancellation. I should have kept my mouth shut. This was going to be one almighty disaster.
The costumes were beautiful. There was no doubt about it. Joe had specially dyed the velvet to the colours of saffron, granary, and fudge and sugarcane. The short cloaks were lined with shot silk, edged with old braid. Every set was going to look like a medieval painting. The harmonious colours in themselves built up the period, the atmosphere, the style. How had he got it all to look so old? Beaten it to death?
‘Good thing I’ve got plenty of different buckled shoes,’ Hilda said. ‘Your feet are bigger than Elinor’s. Pity, these little velvet slippers are so pretty but too small for you. She loves them.’
‘She’ll wear them when she comes back,’ I said.
I was hardly aware of Joe returning to OK the costumes but I suppose he did. Hilda was busy. She had other last-minute alterations to do as well.
‘This fitted last week,’ Byron grumbled, trying to fasten a waistcoat, tugging at the edges.
‘Too much booze,’ said Hilda, ripping a back seam open with one of those sharp gadgets. ‘Could you try not to breath for a bit?’
‘You’re a brick, Hilda.’
‘These bloody yellow stockings,’ Claud cursed. ‘They look like wrinkled bananas. They won’t stay up.’
‘Wear yellow pants over them. Women do that with one-size tights which never fit, put their knickers on top. But don’t give them to me to wash every night. You can do that yourself.’
A secondary lady in waiting came in wanting to swop her dresses for Fran’s outfits, get herself modishly upgraded. Fran’s costumes were much more sweeping, low cut and gorgeously decorated to reflect her status at court.
‘Sorry, but you are not a size zero and never will be,’ said Hilda, putting Fran’s dresses back on the rail. ‘But you can wear her cloak. It matches.’
‘It’s so boring having to wear black all the time,’ complained Olivia, trying on her widows weeds for the hundredth time. ‘I look like a nun.’
‘You are a nun,’ said Hilda. ‘A nun in mourning for her brother. If it bothers you, wear lacy red undies.’
Wardrobe was like Clapham Junction, cast coming and going in all the time, wanting Hilda to do this, do that. Noise and commotion. It was only missing a few trains running late. Everybody acted the star when it came to their costume. I tried to help but my hands were shaking so much I could barely thread a needle.
I tried not to think. That was the only thing to do. Pretend it was not happening, hide my head under a towel. This was not happening. I stared at myself in the wall mirror and saw a ghost of a person with large frightened eyes.
Joe came down to see me. He looked harassed. His hair was standing on end, as usual, hedgehog style, from running his hands through it.
‘Sound can’t get the thunder and lightning to work,’ he said, abruptly. ‘We may have to change the weather forecast.’
I had no idea what he meant.
He took me aside, close to the basement window where sulphured London light filtered from above. ‘All right if I cut your hair now?’ he asked. ‘Or are you going to make a fuss like Elinor?’
‘What do you mean? Cut my hair?’ It was like a foreign language.
‘You can’t have this mass of hair. Unusual colour but there’s far too much of it. Viola is masquerading as a pageboy. She can’t have hair flowing like Vesuvius.’
‘You can’t do it. You’re not a hairdresser.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I liked my hair. My long hair.
‘Too late to book one. Look, have correct scissors, can cut.’
He was brandishing a slim pair of scissors. They looked very sharp. He was eyeing my hair, calculating the length to chop off. I could not believe this final indignity. I was really shaking now. One day I might take the scissors to his hair. How about a striking badger look?
‘It’ll grow back, Sophie,’ he said. ‘It’s not like it’s permanent surgery. You may even get to like it short. Easier to wash and dry.’
He was bustling round, finding me a chair, putting a towel over my shoulders. One thing he didn’t do was place me anywhere near a mirror.
‘Close your eyes and think of England,’ he said. The weak joke didn’t help.
His fingers brushed my neck, lifting the heavy coil of hair. I’d plaited it some time that morning, but it had come undone. He bounced the rope of red around as if guessing the weight at a fair.
‘You could probably sell your hair to a wig maker. It’s in great condition.’
I heard the click, click of the scissors. He had started. It was too late to do anything now. I could hardly rush away with half a head of hair. Tears squeezed out of my eyes. He was cutting off my hair.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re going to look fabulous.’
I saw my hair falling on the floor, long strands of red curls, like exotic snakes writhing. A cold draught touched my neck. The scissors were cold on my forehead. He was cutting a fringe.
‘I don’t want a fringe,’ I cried, aghast.
‘Too late. You’ve got one.’
This was the worse day of my life. And I’d had some bad days. This man was programmed to blight my life. My fate line had his name written all over it.
‘I shall look r-ridiculous,’ I sobbed.
Joe stood me up, shaking the towel and turned me towards a mirror. He was smiling. But he also had a strange look on his face, something I didn’t understand. ‘Does this look ridiculous?’ he said gently.
I stared at the woman in the mirror. I didn’t know her. A bob of flaming red hair sprung like curtains either side of a scared face. Her neck was suddenly long and creamy. Her eyes were wide and startled.
‘You look gorgeous,’ said Joe, looking straight into my eyes in the mirror. ‘Absolutely ravishing. We can really see your face for the first time.’
‘Is that me?’
‘You’ve been hiding behind that hedge of hair for years. This is the real you.’
‘I don’t believe it. You’ve cut off all my hair. How could you? Joe, Joe … it’s ruined.’ I wailed, fingering some of the long locks on the floor. They fell from my hands in a shower. ‘What am I going to do without my hair?’
‘Make-up now, Viola.’ It was Elinor’s dresser, that nice young woman called Millie. ‘Shall I help you or do you want to do it yourself’?’
‘Make-up? Surely it’s not time?’ Where had the day gone? It couldn’t really be time. This was when I should wake up in bed and find it had been an awful, horrifying dream. But I didn’t wake up. I was awake. It was a stomach-churning, out-of-body experience.
‘It’s time to get ready. You can’t rush your make-up. Come along, you can use Elinor’s dressing room. I know she won’t mind.’
There was a ticking clock and it was banging away in my head. My mouth was so dry, my lips were sticking to my teeth. I barely remembered putting on the base and Millie shading and painting my eyes. She had the right touch, knew what she was doing. My eyes looked huge, petrified.
‘Your hair’s lovely,’ she said. ‘It’ll look perfect with the caps Viola wears. Just right.’
I felt so sick that my face was all turned down like a morose cartoon caricature. Any minute I was going to throw up. I didn’t think I would be able to make it to the stage. Somewhere on the way, I would be so ill that my knees would fold under me. That moment of bravado had been my undoing. If only Fran hadn’t phoned to gloat over me. I could be sitting in front of the telly now, watching Emmerdale.
Millie was doing her best. ‘Now, your first scene is the shipwreck so you wear the torn gown, the cloak and the shawl over your head. How about getting it all on now, so you don’t have a rush?’
‘W-where are they? Where’s the d-dress and the shawl?’
‘You’ve got the dress on. There wasn’t any need to try on a shawl. A shawl fits anyone. Come along, Sophie. Wrap this round.’
She was dressing me like a child. My fingers were unable to do anything, fumbling and stiff. I looked a wreck. I was a wreck.
The shawl and cloak hid all of me. There was only this gaunt white face staring at me in the mirror. Truly, a creature from a shipwreck. I was entirely shipwrecked with nothing to cling to.
Joe appeared in the dressing room. He was nodding encouragingly, approving, but looking harassed. He took my cold hand.
‘I’m going to be there, with you, the whole time,’ he said. ‘I will be telling you when to go on and give you the first line. I’ll signal your exit and point to which exit to take but if you go the wrong way, it doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about exits. Millie and I will help with all your changes, making sure you have the right things on and have plenty of time for your next entrance.’
‘I can’t do it,’ I whispered.
‘Yes, you can. We are going to do it together. Once you are on stage, speaking those lines you love, you will feel wonderful. Forget there is anyone sitting out there, listening. You can’t see them. Think of the play and the words that Shakespeare wrote. I bet he’ll be in the wings, willing you on.’
Something like a dry laugh touched my mouth. The first of the day. ‘I hope he keeps his beard off me,’ I said.
‘You are going to do us proud,’ he said, turning me out of the dressing room. He was walking me along the crowded corridor towards the wings. I could hear the minstrels playing the opening music. The play had started. The first scene in Orsino’s palace was very short. I barely heard the Duke’s last words.
‘Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers.’
Had he said them or had I imagined it? I was frozen with fear. I couldn’t go on, my legs were like straw. The lights dimmed for the scene change. The Captain and the sailors were already in the wings, waiting, looking rugged, tense.
‘It’s like bungy-jumping,’ said Bill, at my side. ‘Only without a safety harness.’
The thunder crashed, making me jump, and lightning flashed across the stage. The floor was a mass of seething waves created with ripples of material and lights. Creaks came from the wooden ship floundering on the rocks. It was realistic and spectacular.
For a moment I was looking at the scene like someone in the
audience, mouth open with amazement. I was nothing to do with the play, actually. I was just watching it. Then Joe gave me a gentle push forward into the darkness.
As I went on stage the rain started. It was coming down from five sprays fixed high up in the flies, water cascading in a line across the stage and I was right under it. I was standing in a veil of rain. In seconds I was soaked, rain dripping off my nose and my face, sticking in my eyes.
I gasped with the shock of it. Thunder, lightning and now real rain. I was shipwrecked in truth. I staggered to the front of the stage, drenched, wiping my face. The stage lights went on.
‘What country, friends, is this?’ I said with a short, audible intake of breath.
I was still on stage. It had become a different world, a different universe, hazy with colours and movement. The Duke was taking my hand and gazing at me fondly.
‘Here is my hand,’ he said. ‘You shall from this time be your master’s mistress.’
I smiled back at him, tremulous with joy. Olivia hugged me with genuine warmth, her face alight.
‘A sister! You are she,’ she said.
The words rolled over my head, the sick panic ebbing away. These were the last few pages of the play. It was almost all over. I had nothing more to say, could stand and listen to everyone going through the last lines. The relief was washing over me in crashing waves. It was like the shipwreck in reverse.
I was still in one piece, but shredded. Literally fed through a shredder and churned out in little pieces. I had sweated buckets, wept and cried, hyperventilated, swallowed litres of water, remembered very little of what happened. It had been words, hundreds and thousands of words, spilling out of my mouth.
If I never said another word on stage again, I had had this night. I had this moment. Somehow I had got through it, played Viola, been Viola.
Then I found myself waiting in the wings and the audience was clapping, cheering. I wasn’t certain of the order of the curtain calls. I was pushed and pulled in all directions by other members of the cast.
‘Smile, girl’ said Byron, grinning. ‘Bow. We’ll take the cue from
you. It’s all over now. Step forward, that’s it, smile, another bow. Good girl.’
I smiled shakily but radiantly in all directions, any direction. I was amazed at the size of the audience. The theatre was full, not a seat left unoccupied. They were standing and clapping madly. It was an amazing sight. Any minute now the cherubs might wave and clap.
Joe came on stage now, taking his bow as the guest director. He hadn’t wanted to do this but it was traditional on opening night. He turned to me and flashed a smile of such warmth and gratitude that my serrated heart nearly melted. The sun had come out, so I thought. But it was all the stage lights, dazzling.
There were flowers arriving on stage now, both for Olivia and me. I didn’t know I was going to get flowers. They were gorgeous. I buried my face in their fragrance, nearly choking on the perfume. I hoped they were personal from Joe, not the management, and did I get to keep them?
We took second calls and a third. It was never ending. I was so tired, I could barely keep the smile fastened to my face.
Then the curtain came down for the last time. Joe swept me up in his arms and spun me round. My new short hair flew out like electric sparks. I was switched on and laughing.
‘You did it, girl. You bloody did it.’
I hung on to him for a moment, relishing his closeness.
He sounded like Professor Higgins and I was his Eliza. I could have danced all night. Perhaps we would go out dancing.
Everyone was hugging and kissing everyone else. I got loads of hugs and kisses and genuine, heartfelt congratulations. The cast really meant it. I had saved their day, the Royale’s day, Joe’s day.
But at what cost? I was on the point of collapsing from exhaustion. Millie appeared with a cup of tea, properly brewed in the dressing room in a teapot, none of the awful machine stuff.
‘Get this down you, before you fall down,’ she said. ‘You look done in.’
‘Thanks,’ I said tremulously. ‘And thank you for helping me, Millie. You were wonderful. I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ said Millie. ‘Elinor would have been proud of you.’
‘And I’m so proud of her,’ said Joe, giving me another big hug, nearly spilling my tea. He was obviously on a terrific high, despite the darkness of stubble on his chin. And so he should be. It was a spectacular production with sets and designs to kill for. All his work, his unique imagination, as if he had a direct line to the Bard and they had worked as a team.
I wanted to go home to the craven safety of my bed, and go to sleep, a deep, deep sleep but, of course, there was going to be a party. There’s always a first night party, I’d forgotten, so everyone could wind down. It was drinks on tap at The Stage Door pub, as we were all too drained to walk far. Joe had to stay behind to talk to the media. I nipped out in case they wanted to talk to me. No comment.
I didn’t remember walking to the pub. A wave of chattering people carried me along. I checked that I had my own clothes on. All present and correct.
The stage crew were late joining us as they had to get the set ready for the next performance. Bill came straight over to me, a bottle of champagne in his hand. He took advantage of the serial kissing going on.
‘To our new star,’ he said, waving the bottle. ‘Our wonderful Viola. A star in the making.’
‘Pack it in, Bill. Don’t be daft,’ I said wearily. ‘A one-night wonder. The understudy’s understudy.’
‘Get a glass of bubbly down you,’ he said, pouring out a flute of golden bubbles. ‘You’ll feel better.’
And I did. Several glasses later and I was feeling better. By the time Joe arrived, I was really a lot better, ready to face the world with a shaky smile. It was all over.
Joe did the rounds first. He had a good word for every member of the cast and crew. He didn’t leave anyone out. Even Hilda had stayed for a port and lemon, the price of a taxi home in her pocket. I could guess who had slipped her that. I tried not to look at him but he was glowing with the success of the show and I was glad for him. Those dark eyes were sparkling, a sparkle I’d seen once before,
a reflection of the stars.
He sat beside me the moment Bill got up to get another round for the party, like grown-up musical chairs. Bill was spending his week’s pay without a moment’s hesitation. He was tonight’s big spender.
‘So how’s my star, my Viola?’ Joe asked softly.
‘Sozzled,’ I said. ‘I think this is my third glass of champagne on an empty stomach.’
‘You deserve every bubble. You were wonderful, Sophie. Every line was perfect. I couldn’t have given you any direction though perhaps a few hesitant smiles, here and there, as you fell in love with Orsino might have been appropriate.’
‘I was hiding my feelings.’
‘You hide them very well.’
‘It’s a habit I have.’
‘Do you always hide your feelings?’ he asked, peering at me. Suddenly it seemed he wasn’t joking.
‘Yes, always,’ I said. ‘It’s too dangerous to let anyone know how you feel. They could hurt you.’
‘I’d never hurt you,’ he said.
Oh, but he had. He had. I turned my head away so he would not see the sudden tears. Oh yes, he had hurt me so much, like being pierced with burning arrows. I remembered the misery, feeling so empty and alone. I had once tried to hate him but he was a difficult man to hate.
‘Can I have that in writing,’ I tried a joke, very Goldie Hawn. ‘I’m safe, then, from a broken heart?’
‘Absolutely. I shall nurture your budding talent and when you are a big star with your name in lights on Broadway, I shall tell everyone that I discovered you in a prompt corner, wrapped up in blankets and ponchos.’
‘No Broadway, no big star,’ I said firmly. ‘I’m a one-night wonder and that’s all. I did your opening night for you. That very important night. Elinor will be back next week, I’m sure, and till then you have got your official understudy.’
The sparkle snapped out of his eyes. He was glaring at me as if I had handed him a closure notice from the Lord Chancellor. He was
drinking juice. He thumped the glass down on the table, spraying orange droplets.
‘Am I hearing this correctly, Sophie? I’ve just given you your biggest acting role, your chance of fame, a giant leap for womankind, and you’re saying you won’t go on again, won’t go on tomorrow?’
‘Don’t make out you were doing me a favour,’ I said hoarsely. ‘You practically forced me at knife point. I never wanted to do the role, to go on stage in front of all those people. I did it for you, to save your precious skin, to keep the show on the road, to salvage your reputation.’
‘I don’t need you to salvage my reputation,’ he said, his eyes dark and dangerous. ‘My reputation can stand up for itself, something I’ve worked night and day for years to achieve. So don’t ever think that I need you, because I don’t. But the show needs you, the cast and crew need you, at least till the end of the week, till Elinor returns.’
‘But I can’t do it—’
‘Can’t, can’t, can’t … that’s all you ever say, Sophie. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to nurse your tender ego. I’ve more interesting people to talk to.’
He stood up abruptly and joined a crowd at the bar, not looking back once. I sat in total shock, the champagne bubbles bursting flat. Bill nipped in and regained his seat. He’d had quite a jug full. He slid his arm along the back of my chair, brushing the bare skin on the back of my neck. No hair now.
‘How’s my gorgeous girl?’ he said, all lovey-dovey.
‘Dead tired,’ I said, without thinking.
‘Shall I take you home and tuck you up in bed?’ he said, his eyes glazing over with the thought. ‘You need someone to tuck you up all nice and cosy and cuddly and to whisper sweet dreams in your tender ears.’
I needed to be tucked up and cuddled up by Bill like I needed a lobotomy. But I did want to go home and it was very late. A taxi with Bill might be manageable if I was in charge of the situation.
Hilda. But a shared taxi home with Hilda would be ideal. I got up to find her. I searched the pub, the cloakrooms, ran out to the
entrance. But someone told me she had already gone home, to put her soap-addicted mother to bed.
I stood there, hoping another taxi would come along, hugging my labelled mohair round me but I was starting to shiver. I willed one to come, to rescue me, to take me home. It was getting late, even the street lamps were darker and murky looking. It was starting to feel scary. Taxis didn’t cruise around late at night these days. Too many rowdy drinkers. The drivers preferred to be safely in their marital beds, or non-marital, whatever.
Bill Naughton lurched into the entrance of the pub, grinning, swaying like a palm tree in a force eight gale.
‘There’s shmy girl,’ he said. ‘I’ve phoned forra cab. There shoobe one along any minute.’ He tucked my hand into his arm and gave it a squeeze. ‘Shoon be in bed, sweetheart.’
That’s what I dreaded. I was getting myself into a tricky situation. It was like a replay, only much worse. But this time I was going to take good care of myself. I was stronger, older, considerably more sensible. Bill Naughton was going to get a surprise.
A mini-cab arrived. It was not a normal black cab. I never used mini-cabs unless they were from a firm that I knew. I climbed into the back seat and Bill followed me, all clumsy and falling about. With a little luck, he’d be dead to the world soon. He gave his address to the cab driver, not mine, thank you. I didn’t like that one bit. He lived the opposite side of London.
‘Hey, I’ve left my bag at the table. I won’t be a moment,’ I said, getting out the other side of the cab, hitting the roof for take-off and hurrying back into the pub.
I ran inside but there were few of our people left. They were all dead tired and drifting away. Joe had disappeared too. Without a word, he had left. Perhaps he thought I had gone with Bill.
I sat down on a chair, almost too weary to move. It was late and too far to walk. Hopefully the mini-cab driver, tired of waiting for me, would have taken Bill southwards by now.
This was a strange way to end the evening. Alone and abandoned, it seemed, left to fend for myself, as usual.
I had to sleep somewhere. I was desperate to sleep, to put an end
to the day. Most London hotels were beyond my means. But there was somewhere I could sleep and no one would mind. I’d had my own key for months and the Royale’s eerie midnight emptiness didn’t scare me. If I saw a ghost, we’d be on nodding terms. Maybe I’d even prompt his lines.
If I could hear them.