Night at the Vulcan (2 page)

He fished out a wallet, found a card and scribbled on it. “He’s a bit of a stickler: you’d better take this.”

She took the card and the keys. “To-night?” she said. “Now?”

“Well, can you?”

“I — yes. But—”

“Not worrying about after-hours are you?”

“No.”

For the first time he seemed, in the darkish foyer, to be looking closely at her. “I suppose,” he muttered, “it’s a bit—” and stopped short

Martyn said in a voice that to herself sounded half-choked: “I’m perfectly trustworthy. You spoke of references. I have—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said. “Good. That’ll be O.K. then. I’m late. Will you be all right? You can go through the house. It’s raining outside. Through there, will you? Thank you. Good night”

Taking up her suitcase, she went through the door he swung open and found herself in the theatre.

She was at the back of the stalls, standing on thick carpet at the top of the ramp and facing the centre aisle. It was not absolutely dark. The curtain was half-raised and a bluish light filtered in from off-stage through some opening — a faintly discerned window — in the scenery. This light was dimly reflected on the shrouded boxes. The dome was invisible, lost in shadow, and so far above that the rain, hammering on the roof beyond it, sounded much as a rumour of drums to Martyn. The deadened air smelt of naphthalene and plush.

She started off cautiously down the aisle. “I forgot,” said Mr. Grantley’s voice behind her. She managed to choke back a yelp. “You’d better get some flowers for the dressing-room. She likes roses. Here’s another card.”

“I don’t think I’ve—”

“Florian’s at the corner,” he shouted. “Show them the card.”

The door swung to behind him and a moment later she heard a more remote slam. She waited for a little while longer, to accustom herself to the dark. The shadows melted and the shape of the auditorium filtered through them like an image on a film in the darkroom. She thought it beautiful: the curve of the circle, the fan-like shell that enclosed it, the elegance of the proscenium and modesty of the ornament — all these seemed good to Martyn, and her growing sight of them refreshed her. Though this encouragement had an unreal, rather dream-like character, yet it did actually dispel something of her physical exhaustion so that it was with renewed heart that she climbed a little curved flight of steps on the Prompt side of the proscenium, pushed open the pass-door at the top and arrived backstage.

She was on her own ground. A single blue working-light, thick with dust, revealed a baize letter-rack and hinted at the batten-and-canvas backs of scenery fading upwards into yawning blackness. At her feet a litter of flex ran down into holes in the stage. There were vague, scarcely discernible shapes that she recognized as stacked flats, light bunches, the underside of perches, a wind machine and rain box. She smelt paint and glue size. As she received the assurance of these familiar signs she heard a faint scuffling noise — a rattle of paper, she thought. She moved forward.

In the darkness ahead of her a door opened on an oblong of light which widened to admit the figure of a man in an overcoat. He stood with bent head, fumbled in his pocket and produced a torch. The beam shot out, hunted briefly about the set and walls and found her. She blinked into a dazzling white disk and said: “Mr. Grantley sent me round. I’m the dresser.”

“Dresser?” the man said hoarsely. He kept his torchlight on her face and moved towards her. “I wasn’t told about no dresser,” he said.

She held Mr. Grantley’s card out. He came closer and flashed his light on it without touching it. “Ah,” he said with a sort of grudging cheerfulness, “that’s different. Now I know where I am, don’t I?”

“I hope so,” she said, trying to make her voice friendly. “I’m sorry to bother you. Miss Hamilton’s dresser has been taken ill and I’ve got the job.”

“Aren’t you lucky,” he said with obvious relish and added, “Not but what she isn’t a lady when she takes the fit for it.”

He was eating something. The movement of his jaws, the succulent noises he made and the faint odour of food were an outrage. She could have screamed her hunger at him. Her mouth filled with saliva.

“ ’E says to open the star room,” he said. “Come on froo while I get the keys. I was ’avin’ me bit er supper.”

She followed him into a tiny room choked with junk. A kettle stuttered on a gas ring by a sink clotted with dregs of calcimine and tea leaves. His supper was laid out on a newspaper — bread and an open tin of jam. He explained that he was about to make a cup of tea and suggested she should wait while he did so. She leant against the door and watched him. The fragrance of freshly brewed tea rose above the reek of stale size and dust. She thought, “If he drinks it now I’ll have to go out.”

“Like a drop of char?” he said. His back was turned to her.

“Very much.”

He rinsed out a stained cup under the tap.

Martyn said loudly: “I’ve got a tin of meat in my suitcase. I was saving it. If you’d like to share it and could spare some of your bread…”

He swung round and for the first time she saw his face. He was dark and thin and his eyes were brightly impertinent. Their expression changed as he stared at her.

“ ’Ullo, ’ullo!” he said. “Who give
you
a tanner and borrowed ’alf-a-crahn? What’s up?”

“I’m all right.”

“
Are
you? Your looks don’t flatter you, then.”

“I’m a bit tired and—” Her voice broke and she thought in terror that she was going to cry. “It’s nothing,” she said.

“ ’Ere!” He dragged a box out from under the sink and not ungently pushed her down on it. “Where’s this remarkable tin of very pertikler meat? Give us a shine at it.”

He shoved her suitcase over and while she fumbled at the lock busied himself with pouring out tea. “Nothin’ to touch a drop of the old char when you’re browned off,” he said. He put the reeking cup of dark fluid beside her and turned away.

“With any luck,” Martyn thought, folding back the garments in her case, “I won’t have to sell these now.”

She found the tin and gave it to him. “Coo!” he said. “Looks lovely, don’t it? Tongue and veal and a pitcher of sheep to show there’s no deception. Very tempting.”

“Can you open it?”

“Can I open it? Oh, dear.”

She drank her scalding tea and watched him open the tin and turn its contents out on a more dubious plate. Using his clasp knife he perched chunks of meat on a slab of bread and held it out to her. “You’re in luck,” he said. “Eat it slow.”

She urged him to join her but he said he would set his share aside for later. They could both, he suggested, take another cut at it to-morrow. He examined the tin with interest while Martyn consumed her portion. She had never before given such intense concentration to a physical act. She would never have believed that eating could bring so fierce a satisfaction.

“Comes from Australia, don’t it?” her companion said, still contemplating the tin.

“New Zealand.”

“Same thing.”

Martyn said: “Not really. There’s quite a big sea in between.”

“Do you come from there?”

“Where?”

“Australia.”

“No. I’m a New Zealander.”

“Same thing.”

She looked up and found him grinning at her. He made the gesture of wiping the smile off his face. “Oh, dear,” he said.

Martyn finished her tea and stood up. “I must start my job,” she said.

“Feel better?”

“Much, much better.”

“Would it be quite a spell since you ate anything?”

“Yesterday.”

“I never fancy drinkin’ on an empty stomach, myself.”

Her face burnt against the palms of her hands. “But I don’t… I mean, I know. I mean I was a bit faint and somebody… a girl… she was terribly kind…”

“Does yer mother know yer aht?” he asked ironically, and took a key from a collection hung on nails behind the door. “If you
must
work,” he said.

“Please.”

“Personally escorted tour abaht to commence. Follow in single file and don’t talk to the guide. I thank you.”

She followed him to the stage and round the back of the set. He warned her of obstructions by bobbing his torchlight on them and, when she stumbled against a muffled table, took her hand. She was disquieted by the grip of his fingers, calloused and wooden, and by the warmth of his palm, which was unexpectedly soft. She was oppressed with renewed loneliness and fear.

“End of the penny section,” he said, releasing her.

He unlocked a door, reached inside and switched on a light

“They call this the Greenroom,” he said. “That’s what it was in the old days. It’s been done up. Guv’nor’s idea.”

It was a room without a window, newly painted in green. There were a number of armchairs in brown leather, a round table littered with magazines, a set of well-stocked bookshelves and a gas fire. Groups of framed Pollock’s prints decorated the walls: “Mr. Dale as Claude Amboine.” “Mr. T. Hicks as Richard I.” “Mr. S. French as Harlequin.” This last enchanted Martyn because the diamonds of Mr. French’s costume had been filled in with actual red and green sequins and he glittered in his frame.

Above the fireplace hung a largish sketch — it was little more than that — of a man of about thirty-five in mediaeval dress, with a hood that he was in the act of pushing away from his face. The face was arresting. It had great purity of form, being wide across the eyes and heart-shaped. The mouth, in particular, was of a most subtle character, perfectly masculine but drawn with extreme delicacy. It was well done: it had both strength and refinement Yet it was not these qualities that disturbed Martyn. Reflected in the glass that covered the picture she saw her own face lying ghost-wise across the other; their forms intermingled like those in a twice-exposed photograph. It seemed to Martyn that her companion must be looking over her shoulder at this double image and she moved away from him and nearer to the picture. The reflection disappeared. Something was written faintly in one corner of the sketch. She drew closer and saw that it was a single word:
Everyman
.

“Spittin’ image of ’im, ain’t it?” said the night-watchman behind her.

“I don’t know,” she said quickly. “Is it?”

“
Is
it! Don’t you know the Guv’nor when you see ’im?”

“The Governor?”

“ ’Strewth you’re a caution and no error. Don’t you know who owns this show? That’s the great Mr. Adam Poole, that is.”

“Oh,” she murmured after a pause, and added uneasily: “I’ve seen him in the pictures, of course.”

“Go on!” he jeered. “Where would that be? Australia? Fancy!”

He had been very kind to her, but she found his remorseless vein of irony exasperating. It would have been easier and less tedious to have let it go but she found herself embarked on an explanation. Of course she knew all about Mr. Adam Poole, she said. She’d seen his photograph in the foyer. All his pictures had been shown in New Zealand. She knew he was the most distinguished of the younger contemporary actor-managers. She was merely startled by the painting because… But it was impossible to explain why the face in the painting disturbed her and the unfinished phrase trailed away into an embarrassed silence.

Her companion listened to this rigmarole with an equivocal grin and when she gave it up merely remarked: “Don’t apologize. It’s the same with all the ladies. ’E fair rocks ’em. Talk about ’aving what it takes.”

“I don’t mean that at all,” she shouted angrily.

“You should see ’em clawing at each other to get at ’im rahnd the stage-door, first nights. Something savage! Females of the speeches? Disgrace to their sexes more like. There’s an ironing board etceterer in the wardrobe-room further along. You can plug in when you’re ready. ’Er royal ’ighness is over the way.”

He went out, opened a further door, switched on a light and called to her to join him. g>

As soon as she crossed the threshold of the star dressing-room she smelt greasepaint. The dressing-shelf was bare, the room untenanted, but the smell of cosmetics mingled with the faint reek of gas. There were isolated dabs of colour on the shelves and the looking-glass; the lamp-bulbs were smeared with cream and red where sticks of greasepaint had been warmed at them; and on a shelf above the wash-basin somebody had left a miniature frying-pan of congealed mascara in which a hair-pin was embedded.

It was a largish room, windowless and dank, with an air of submerged grandeur about it. The full-length cheval-glass swung from a gilt frame. There was an Empire couch, an armchair and an ornate stool before the dressing-shelf. The floor was carpeted in red with a florid pattern that use had in part obliterated. A number of dress-boxes bearing the legend
Costumes by Pierrot et Cie
were stacked in the middle of the room, and there were two suitcases on the shelf. A gas heater stood against one wall and there was a caged jet above the wash-basin.

“Here we are,” said the night-watchman. “All yer own.”

She turned to thank him and encountered a speculative stare. “Cosy,” he said, “ain’t it?” and moved nearer. “Nice little hidey hole, ain’t it?”

“You’ve been very kind,” Martyn said. “I’ll manage splendidly, now. Thank you very much indeed.”

“Don’t mention it. Any time.” His hand reached out clumsily to her arm. “Been aht in the rain,” he said thickly. “Naughty girl.”

“It’ll soon dry off. I’m quite all right.”

She moved behind the pile of dress-boxes and fumbled with the string on the top one. There was a hissing noise. She heard him strike a match and a moment later was horribly jolted by an explosion from the gas heater. It forced an involuntary cry from her.

“ ’Ullo, ’
ullo
!” her companion said. “Ain’t superstitious, are we?”

“Superstitious?”

He made an inexplicable gesture towards the gas fire. “
You
know,” he said, grinning horridly at her.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand?”

“Don’t tell me you never ’eard abaht the great Jupiter case! Don’t they learn you nothing in them antypodes?”

The heater reddened and purred.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “it’d be before your time. I wasn’t ’ere myself when it occurred, a-course, but them that was don’t give you a chance to forget it. Not that they mention it direct-like, but it don’t get forgotten.”