Stories (34 page)

At six he was at the stage door, but a message from Miss Coles said she was not quite ready, could he wait a little. He hung about, then went to the pub opposite for a quick one, but still no Miss Coles. So he made his way backstage, directed by voices, hammering, laughter. It was badly lit, and the group of people at work did not see him. The director, James Poynter, had his arm around Barbara’s shoulders. He was newly well known, a carelessly goodlooking young man reputed to be intelligent. Barbara Coles wore a dark blue overall, and her flat hair fell over her face so that she kept pushing it back with the hand that had the emerald on it. These two stood close, side by side. Three young men, stagehands, were on the other side of a trestle which had sketches and drawings on it. They were studying some sketches. Barbara said, in a voice warm with energy: “Well, so I thought if we did this—do you see, James? What do you think, Steven?” “Well, love,” said the young man she called Steven, ? see your idea, but I wonder if …” “I think you’re right, Babs,” said the director. “Look,” said Barbara, holding one of the sketches towards Steven, “look, let me show you.” They all leaned forward, the five of them, absorbed in the business.

Suddenly Graham couldn’t stand it. He understood he was shaken to his depths. He went off-stage, and stood with his back against a wall in the dingy passage that led to the dressing rooms. His eyes were filled with tears. He was seeing what a long way he had come from the crude, uncompromising, admirable young egomaniac he had been when he was twenty. That group of people there—working, joking, arguing, yes, that’s what he hadn’t known for years. What bound them was the democracy of respect for each other’s work, a confidence in themselves and in each other. They looked like people banded together against a world which they—no, not despised, but which they measured, understood, would fight to the death, out of respect for what they stood for, for what it stood for. It was a long time since he felt part of that balance. And he understood that he had seen Barbara Coles when she was most herself, at ease with a group of people she worked with. It was then, with the tears drying on his eyelids, which felt old and ironic, that he decided he would sleep with Barbara Coles. It was a necessity for
him. He went back through the door onto the stage, burning with this single determination.

The five were still together. Barbara had a length of blue gleaming stuff which she was draping over the shoulder of Steven, the stagehand. He was showing it off, and the others watched. “What do you think, James?” she asked the director. “We’ve got that sort of dirty green, and I thought …” “Well,” said James, not sure at all, “well, Babs, well…”

Now Graham went forward so that he stood beside Barbara, and said: “Fm Graham Spence, we’ve met before.” For the second time she smiled socially and said: “Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t remember.” Graham nodded at James, whom he had known, or at least had met off and on, for years. But it was obvious James didn’t remember him either.

“From the B.B.C.,” said Graham to Barbara, again sounding abrupt, against his will. “Oh I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I forgot all about it. I’ve got to be interviewed,” she said to the group. “Mr. Spence is a journalist.” Graham allowed himself a small smile ironical of the word “journalist,” but she was not looking at him. She was going on with her work. “We should decide tonight,” she said. “Steven’s right.” “Yes, I am right,” said the stagehand. “She’s right, James, we need that blue with that sludge-green everywhere.” “James,” said Barbara, “James, what’s wrong with it? You haven’t said.” She moved forward to James, passing Graham. Remembering him again, she became contrite. “I’m sorry,” she said, “we can none of us agree. Well, look”—she turned to Graham—“you advise us, we’ve got so involved with it that …” At which James laughed, and so did the stagehands. “No, Babs,” said James, “of course Mr. Spence can’t advise. He’s just this moment come in. We’ve got to decide. Well I’ll give you till tomorrow morning. Time to go home, it must be six by now.”

“It’s nearly seven,” said Graham, taking command.

“It isn’t!” said Barbara, dramatic. “My God, how terrible, how appalling, how could I have done such a thing….” She was laughing at herself. “Well, you’ll have to forgive me, Mr. Spence, because you haven’t got any alternative.”

They began laughing again: this was clearly a group joke. And now Graham took his chance. He said firmly, as if he were her director, in fact copying James Poynter’s manner with her: “No, Miss Coles, I won’t forgive you, I’ve been kicking my heels
for nearly an hour.” She grimaced, then laughed and accepted it. James said: “There, Babs, that’s how you ought to be treated. We spoil you.” He kissed her on the cheek, she kissed him on both his, the stagehands moved off. “Have a good evening, Babs,” said James, going, and nodding to Graham. Who stood concealing his pleasure with difficulty. He knew, because he had had the courage to be firm, indeed, peremptory, with Barbara, that he had saved himself hours of manoeuvring. Several drinks, a dinner—perhaps two or three evenings of drinks and dinners—had been saved because he was now on this footing with Barbara Coles, a man who could say: No, I won’t forgive you, you’ve kept me waiting.

She said: “I’ve just got to …” and went ahead of him. In the passage she hung her overall on a peg. She was thinking, it seemed, of something else, but seeing him watching her, she smiled at him, companionably: he realised with triumph it was the sort of smile she would offer one of the stagehands, or even James. She said again: “Just one second …” and went to the stage-door office. She and the stage doorman conferred. There was some problem. Graham said, taking another chance: “What’s the trouble, can I help?”—as if he could help, as if he expected to be able to. “Well …” she said, frowning. Then, to the man: “No, it’ll be all right. Goodnight.” She came to Graham. “We’ve got ourselves into a bit of a fuss because half the set’s in Liverpool and half’s here and—but it will sort itself out.” She stood, at ease, chatting to him, one colleague to another. All this was admirable, he felt; but there would be a bad moment when they emerged from the special atmosphere of the theatre into the street. He took another decision, grasped her arm firmly, and said: “We’re going to have a drink before we do anything at all, it’s a terrible evening out.” Her arm felt resistant, but remained within his. It was raining outside, luckily. He directed her, authoritative: “No, not that pub, there’s a nicer one around the corner.” “Oh, but I like this pub,” said Barbara, “we always use it.”

Of course you do, he said to himself. But in that pub there would be the stagehands, and probably James, and he’d lose contact with her. He’d become a journalist again. He took her firmly out of danger around two corners, into a pub he picked at random. A quick look around—no, they weren’t there. At least, if there were people from the theatre, she showed no sign.
She asked for a beer. He ordered her a double Scotch, which she accepted. Then, having won a dozen preliminary rounds already, he took time to think. Something was bothering him—what? Yes, it was what he had observed backstage, Barbara and James Poynter. Was she having an affair with him? Because if so, it would all be much more difficult. He made himself see the two of them together, and thought with a jealousy surprisingly strong: Yes, that’s it. Meantime he sat looking at her, seeing himself look at her, a man gazing in calm appreciation at a woman: waiting for her to feel it and respond. She was examining the pub. Her white woollen suit was belted, and had a not unprovocative suggestion of being a uniform. Her flat yellow hair, hastily pushed back after work, was untidy. Her clear white skin, without any colour, made her look tired. Not very exciting, at the moment, thought Graham, but maintaining his appreciative pose for when she would turn and see it. He knew what she would see: he was relying not only on the “warm, kindly” beam of his gaze, for this was merely a reinforcement of the impression he knew he made. He had black hair, a little greyed. His clothes were loose and bulky—masculine. His eyes were humorous and appreciative. He was not, never had been, concerned to lessen the impression of being settled, dependable: the husband and father. On the contrary, he knew women found it reassuring.

When she at last turned, she said, almost apologetic: “Would you mind if we sat down? I’ve been lugging great things around all day.” She had spotted two empty chairs in a corner. So had he, but rejected them, because there were other people at the table. “But my dear, of course!” They took the chairs, and then Barbara said: “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” She had remembered she needed makeup. He watched her go off, annoyed with himself. She was tired; and he could have understood, protected, sheltered. He realised that in the other pub, with the people she had worked with all day, she would not have thought: I must make myself up, I must be on show. That was for outsiders. She had not, until now, considered Graham an outsider, because of his taking his chance to seem one of the working group in the theatre; but now he had thrown this opportunity away. She returned armoured. Her hair was sleek, no longer defenceless. And she had made up her eyes. Her eyebrows were untouched, pale gold streaks above the brilliant green eyes whose lashes
were blackened. Rather good, he thought, the contrast. Yes, but the moment had gone when he could say: Did you know you had a smudge on your cheek? Or—my dear girl—pushing her hair back with the edge of a brotherly hand. In fact, unless he was careful, he’d be back at starting point.

He remarked: “That emerald is very cunning,” smiling into her eyes.

She smiled politely, and said: “It’s not cunning, it’s an accident; it was my grandmother’s.” She flirted her hand lightly by her face, though, smiling. But that was something she had done before, to a compliment she had had before, and often. It was all social, she had become social entirely. She remarked: “Didn’t you say it was half past nine we had to record?”

“My dear Barbara, we’ve got two hours. We’ll have another drink or two, then I’ll ask you a couple of questions, then we’ll drop down to the studio and get it over, and then we’ll have a comfortable supper.”

“I’d rather eat now, if you don’t mind. I had no lunch, and I’m really hungry.”

“But my dear, of course.” He was angry. Just as he had been surprised by his real jealousy over James, so now he was thrown off balance by his anger: he had been counting on the long quiet dinner afterwards to establish intimacy. “Finish your drink and I’ll take you to Nott’s.” Nott’s was expensive. He glanced at her assessingly as he mentioned it. She said: “I wonder if you know Butler’s? It’s good and it’s rather close.” Butler’s was good, and it was cheap, and he gave her a good mark for liking it. But Nott’s it was going to be. “My dear, we’ll get into a taxi and be at Nott’s in a moment, don’t worry.”

She obediently got to her feet: the way she did it made him understand how badly he had slipped. She was saying to herself: Very well, he’s like that, then all right, I’ll do what he wants and get it over with….

Swallowing his own drink, he followed her, and took her arm in the pub doorway. It was polite within his. Outside it drizzled. No taxi. He was having bad luck now. They walked in silence to the end of the street. There Barbara glanced into a side street where a sign said: butler’s. Not to remind him of it, on the contrary, she concealed the glance. And here she was, entirely at his disposal; they might never have shared the comradely moment in the theatre.

They walked half a mile to Nott’s. No taxis. She made conversation: this was, he saw, to cover any embarrassment he might feel because of a half-mile walk through rain when she was tired. She was talking about some theory to do with the theatre, with designs for theatre building. He heard himself saying, and repeatedly: “Yes, yes, yes.” He thought about Nott’s, how to get things right when they reached Nott’s. There he took the headwaiter aside, gave him a pound, and instructions. They were put in a corner. Large Scotches appeared. The menus were spread. “And now, my dear,” he said, “I apologise for dragging you here, but I hope you’ll think it’s worth it.”

“Oh, it’s charming, I’ve always liked it. It’s just that …” She stopped herself saying: It’s such a long way. She smiled at him, raising her glass, and said: “It’s one of my very favourite places, and I’m glad you dragged me here.” Her voice was flat with tiredness. All this was appalling; he knew it; and he sat thinking how to retrieve his position. Meanwhile she fingered the menu. The headwaiter took the order, but Graham made a gesture which said: Wait a moment. He wanted the Scotch to take effect before she ate. But she saw his silent order; and, without annoyance or reproach, leaned forward to say, sounding patient: “Graham, please, I’ve got to eat; you don’t want me drunk when you interview me, do you?”

“They are bringing it as fast as they can,” he said, making it sound as if she were greedy. He looked neither at the headwaiter nor at Barbara. He noted in himself, as he slipped further and further away from contact with her, a cold determination growing in him—one apart from, apparently, any conscious act of will—that come what may, if it took all night, he’d be in her bed before morning. And now, seeing the small pale face, with the enormous green eyes, it was for the first time that he imagined her in his arms. Although he had said: Yes, that one, weeks ago, it was only now that he imagined her as a sensual experience. Now he did, so strongly that he could only glance at her, and then away towards the waiters who were bringing food.

“Thank the Lord,” said Barbara, and all at once her voice was gay and intimate. “Thank heavens. Thank every power that is….” She was making fun of her own exaggeration; and, as he saw, because she wanted to put him at his ease after his boorishness over delaying the food. (She hadn’t been taken in, he saw, humiliated, disliking her.) “Thank all the gods of Nott’s,”
she went on, “because if I hadn’t eaten inside five minutes I’d have died, I tell you.” With which she picked up her knife and fork and began on her steak. He poured wine, smiling with her, thinking that this moment of closeness he would not throw away. He watched her frank hunger as she ate, and thought: Sensual—it’s strange I hadn’t wondered whether she would be or not.