Twopence Coloured (36 page)

A
ND now it would be wise to advance, without further delay, to the day which, with the exception of a day spent upon the Sussex downs, was of the gravest moment in the life of that lonely, striving, optimistic, egoistic but
harmless
organism that was Jackie.

This day occurred late in November, and was the fifth day of rehearsal of “The Underdog” — and must be
described
in detail.

It began with her leaving Talgarth Road at ten o’clock, and taking a short walk in the vicinity of St. Paul’s School with the object of going over her words to herself.

She was well wrapped up, for it was the coldest day of the year as yet, and a great wind was blowing the clouds over a scudding and vaguely sunlit sky. It was, indeed, as though the first big guns of the coming winter were pounding out, and she felt strangely invigorated in that bombardment.

The trees lining St. Paul’s playground, with their battalions on battalions of leaves, whirling with lyrical and ascending buoyancy from their seething branches, as though they had waited all the long, drooping summer for this one bounding moment, and were now going to make the best of it, touched her heart altogether, and made her feel like a happy leaf herself.

And by the time she had walked round and reached West Kensington Station again, with a flushed face (and a rather pink nose), she had forgotten all about her words. She had forgotten about her whole profession, indeed, and was merely conscious of the privilege of being alive.

On reaching Earl’s Court Station, where she changed, she was accosted by a young, nervous, and very pretty girl
(nine years her junior at least), who asked her if she was on the right platform for Wimbledon.

“No,” said Jackie. “You must go up these stairs, and right along to the right, and then down the stairs again, and it comes in on the farthest line.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” said the very pretty young girl, as she moved away.

“Only,” said Jackie, “you must see that it has Wimbledon written on the front, because they sometimes run trains to Ealing on that line now.”

She then smiled, and went bustlingly downstairs to her own train. She was surprised (and not a little proud) at the almost maternal fluency and calm with which she had carried off this little episode. And she remembered how, on her own first day in London, she had tremblingly sought direction on precisely the same spot.

And she felt maternal. She thought of a few of the things that had happened to her since then.

It was the fifth day of rehearsal. The actors and actresses had reached that phase wherein they made pleasant jokes at each other’s expense, and were very friendly in public, but very malicious in the innumerable private lunch and tea combinations which had already formed.

Jackie herself, lonely as she was, was not unpopular — the anger which had arisen in the breasts of her fellows on slowly comprehending that such a pretty and insignificant figure had an important part, having been partially alleviated by her treatment at the hands of Mr. Claye.

Of the first four days of rehearsal nothing need be said. Jackie was too hardened now to feel the blows in running the emotional gauntlet of production. At least she told
herself
she was too hardened. She had been telling herself this, with great conscientiousness and keenness, for the last four days.

Mr. Lionel Claye had certainly been unusually difficult.
Mr. Claye would have been a great deal nicer, Jackie thought, if he had not been so Infinitely Patient. Endless-Painstaking-with-Actresses was also a thing which she put as a black mark against his character. They were doubtless very
valuable
things in their way (thought Jackie), but the betrayal of the fact that they were, at the expenditure of enormous self-control, being exercised at all times upon herself, revived in her an old frame of mind, which she was loath to revive, but in which the broken edges of bottles figured largely. Also the combination of Infinite Patience with white flowing hair (brushed back), pince-nez, a thin, emaciated face, a soft collar one inch larger than its neck, an old blue suit, a thick voice, and a reproachful (but infinitely patient) smile — was not a pleasing combination to Jackie.

She left the sunny London day outside, and entered the dark, board-banging mumble of the theatre at eleven o’clock precisely. The curtain was up, the stage was half lit, and the various actors and actresses were standing in groups about the stage. She was only just in time.

The stage-manager was seated at a table, and Mr. Claye was in deep converse with Mr. John Sheridan (the heavy man) who was seeking instruction on some subtlety in his part.

For the purpose of attending to this gentleman’s queries, Mr. Claye’s arm was placed affectionately around his
interlocutor’s
shoulder, and he was looking thoughtfully at the floor. And as Mr. Sheridan spoke, Mr. Claye accompanied his speech, as though beating the time, with a slow (and infinitely patient) nodding process, and the enunciation of “Ye-e-es … Ye-e-es … Ye-e-es …” in a manner that implied that so far from being about to punish this actor for upping and speaking his mind, he quite encouraged this sort of thing.

Then, “Well, you play it just how you feel it, will you, Sheridan, old man?” said Mr. Claye, in his slow voice. “And then we’ll see how it comes out, shall we?”

And it was the smile, conciliatory and all-embracing which Mr. Claye at this moment switched upon Mr. Sheridan,
that subtly warned Jackie to prepare herself for an even larger dose of infinite patience than she had yet had to swallow.

“Miss Mortimer here?” asked Mr. Claye, looking around.

“Ah! …” he said.

And he smiled at her too…. She smiled back, and set her teeth.

Her scene began in half an hour’s time. This opened with her entrance, and was played alone with Mr. Maddox. Mr. Maddox was an altogether brilliant and also very courteous little actor, with a reputation worth having but the habit of spending many months (about nine in every year, for
instance
) Out. During which periods his appearance, which was that of a hungry but very well-dressed wolf — underwent emphasis. His natural skill, however, made it a joy to play with him, and Jackie thought she could be very happy in this scene.

It began three minutes after her entrance.

“Now, shall we have that again, Miss Mortimer?” asked Mr. Claye.

An impression was given, from the complacent manner in which Mr. Claye asked this, that it was merely a casual suggestion which she might veto at will.

“Where from?” asked Jackie. “The entrance?”

“The Entrance,” affirmed Mr. Claye, nodding. The first impression was subtly nullified.

Mr. Maddox changed his position. Jackie returned to the doorway.

“Hullo, Ronald,” said Jackie. “Where have you been?”

“Been?” said Mr. Maddox. “Only just round to Rector’s — why? You’re not ——”

“Yes, Miss Mortimer,” said Mr. Claye. “But we’re not just dropping in to tea, are we?”

There was a silence.

“I thought,” added Mr. Claye, “that we were just getting our first suspicion of our husband’s misconduct.”

There was another silence in which Mr. Claye and Jackie looked at each other.

“Eh?” said Mr. Claye, and he now, with some
conscientiousness
, looked into the script to verify what he had said. There was obviously a sturdy argument for those of the conviction that at this moment of the drama we
were
just dropping in to tea, but he personally, when
he
had read the play, had had an intimation to the contrary.

“You mean you want it more tense?” asked Jackie.

“Oh, yes. A great deal more tense, Miss Mortimer.”

Jackie returned to the doorway.

“We want to let ourselves right out in this, don’t we?” said Mr. Claye.

“Oh,” said Jackie.

Being of the strong personal belief (after a close study of her part) that this was the exact moment at which she held herself In, so as to give whatever value there was to her later stormings, Jackie was thrown back forcibly upon “Oh.” This is a nasty monosyllable to employ during
production
— and one which creates bad feeling —but she had no alternative.

“Eh?” said Mr. Claye, in an off-hand and agreeable way, and looking up at the proscenium arch. Mr. Claye knew how to quell his “Oh” insurrections at once and without mercy.

“Yes. Perhaps so,” said Jackie, coming to heel, and the production was allowed to proceed.

She now played with Mr. Maddox for seven minutes
without
interruption. This concluded with a two minutes’, speech on her part, into which she put every ounce of knowledge, skill, and energy that she had at her command. She then looked, with some optimism, at Mr. Claye.

This producer, however, appeared to have become
suddenly
rather blasé about his production, and was merely gazing upwards, in a spirit of friendly contemplation, at the second border. There was a long pause.

“Ye-e-es,” said Mr. Claye, at last — and there was another long pause….

“Well,” said Mr. Claye. “You’ll have to come farther down for that, Maddox. And we’ll have to find some business for you while all this is going on.” (This was a reference to Jackie’s speech.) “We’ll have some drinks there, of course, when the time comes. Otherwise that’s very good, old man.” Mr. Claye made pencil marks in his script. “Now you, Miss Mortimer….”

Mr. Claye came forward to Jackie, and she came forward to him. They faced each other.

“Now,” said Mr. Claye. “We’ve got two hands, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” said Jackie.

“Well, then,” said Mr. Claye, looking into her face. “Shall we try to make use of them?”

“How do you mean, exactly, Mr. Claye?”

Mr. Claye now adopted a slightly sterner tone.

“Well, they’re simply expressing nothing at the moment, are they?”

Jackie blushed. “What should I do?” asked Jackie.

“Well, to begin with — as you’re supposed to be in a very nervous state all through this scene, don’t you think you might try to express that a little? You’re just wriggling them about in the air at the moment.”

“Oh,” said Jackie.

“What about a little Clenching?” suggested Mr. Claye. “And standing up a little stiffer — so.”

Mr. Claye stood at attention, and Jackie followed his example. They looked into each other’s eyes.

“Eh?” said Mr. Claye, expansively, as much as to say that
that
was better.

Jackie found it quite easy, while facing Mr. Claye, to stand up stiffly and clench her hands. She was also clenching her teeth and her toes. But Mr. Claye did not know that. Mr. Claye was more hazardously situated than he guessed.

These little passages in Jackie’s day are being related without extraneous comment. Each of them was to have
some bearing on the general result of her day, but she had no idea of this at the time.

She had lunch in a slightly fœtid atmosphere at the “Jerry” Lunch and Tea Rooms in Rupert Street. These rooms were owned and run by Miss Stella Gladdon, the sister of the well-known Miss Billie Gladdon, and existed almost
exclusively
for the profession. But Jackie would have known she was surrounded by professionals without knowledge of this fact. About the women she could sometimes remain in doubt, but the men she could now detect at sight. That infinitely minute tendency to Waist, that slightly shabby swagger, that distant air of dissipation and emaciation, that too perfect simulation of gentlemen who were anything in the world but actors, that elusive effeminacy — could never, nowadays, escape her.

In the noise and knife-clatter of the ill-ventilated place, and the roar of London around her, she sat over her coffee — nonchalantly reading her paper, and having imaginary conversations with Mr. Drew (Mr. Claye’s partner in this venture, who had actually given her the part), to whom she intended to appeal concerning her treatment at the hands of Mr. Claye. If he did not look in at the theatre this afternoon, she would go to the “Barnstormer” Theatre at Hampstead, where she knew she could find him, in the evening.

“You see, I know how terribly good he is,” she would say. “But he’s started so early he’s getting me all worried….”

Mr. Drew, of course, was Hand-holding, wasn’t he? … “No — honestly, Mr. Drew.
Honestly
….” She would meet his eyes….

It was a day like any other day to Jackie.

Only Mr. Claye, Mr. Maddox, the stage-manager, and Jackie were present at rehearsal that afternoon. It was a rehearsal exclusively for Jackie. The others had been sent
away on the explicit, widely credited, but entirely false assumption that they were going to attack their words.

Mr. Claye was in the best of tempers on arrival, and all went fairly well until about 4.30. At this period his patience assumed the infinite proportions to which Jackie took such exception.

“Now,
once
again,
once
again,” said Mr. Claye, in a
sing song
voice. “We’ll go ver-ry slowly, shall we, till we get it right? Now, watch me closely.” Mr. Claye came forward to demonstrate.

Mr. Claye faced Mr. Maddox, at the distance of three paces, and lifted his hand as though he were going to paint a picture of him.

(“What’s the line?” asked Mr. Claye.

“Ronald-I’m-tired-of-all-this-acting,”
muttered the
stage-manager
.)

There was a pause.

“Ronald!” said Mr. Claye, in a stern voice, and stiffened his body. There was another pause.

Mr. Claye took three serious-minded paces over to Mr. Maddox.

“I’m tired of all this ——” said Mr. Claye, and paused again.

“Acting,”
said Mr. Claye, bitterly, and having looked deeply into Mr. Maddox’s eyes with what he had a little while before described as a Frank, Challenging look, turned with a modest flourish to Jackie. “There.”

Jackie faced Mr. Maddox at a distance of three paces.