Cool Repentance

by Antonia Fraser

  Jemima prayed for patience. Her voice grew lower still. 'To begin with, as I told you from the beginning Blanche Cartwright is not a lovely young woman. She's a stocky, rather plump, teenager, who, when she's fined down in a year or two, will be lucky if she's half as good-looking as her mother is now—' Jemima ignored an interruption which sounded like 'the first fresh dawn breaking' and ploughed on relentlessly: 'She's stagestruck and she's sulky and she's jealous of her mother, and Cy, listen to me for a minute, just listen, none of these things matter in the least compared to the fact that SHE CAN'T ACT FOR TOFFEE! I was there at the audition. It was PAINFUL.' Jemima allowed herself at last a higher register on the final words.

  Satisfied she had secured if only for a moment Cy's attention, Jemima moved in for the kill: 'Listen to me, Cy. Something is going on here. Something I don't understand. Something unpleasant. Someone has set this girl up, or rather set up the production and Christabel Herrick along with it. You see, someone suggested Blanche should read for Nina in the first place, and now everyone denies it.

  'It certainly wasn't her mother, let alone her father, who hates all things theatrical for obvious reasons, and the girl herself says she simply got a telephone message from the Director telling her to turn up for the audition. The Director - Our Nat - utterly denies having sent the message, and I must say I very much doubt whether he would take any step quite so liable to ruin his precious production. The death of Filly Lennox was trouble enough, with all the publicity it caused: the postmortem showing death by drowning, and the coroner's inquest -accidental death, but still most unpleasant, with all those revelations about wine drunk at the picnic. Then the funeral and then back to the rehearsals and no Nina. But he thought it was Christabel's own personal request to include Blanche; he got a tip-off that she was on the point of withdrawing from the production altogether, because of Filly's death and all the newspaper coverage, unless Blanche got the part.'

  Jemima paused. It was time to use her trump card: 'There's some kind of plot here, Cy, a conspiracy and I don't want Megalith to get mixed up in it.'

  'A plot!' There were two words Cy Fredericks recognized in any language; one was 'plot' and the other was 'conspiracy'. Associated with the name of Megalith, these were a lethal combination. After that double invocation, it was not really too difficult for Jemima to get her way. Was that not indeed one of the reasons why Cy Fredericks employed her? Trumpet, cajole, bluster - and on occasion break down and weep as he might, he could rely on Jemima Shore not to give in to him, if she believed that by so doing a programme would be ruined.

  On this occasion Cy Fredericks ended by giving Jemima carte blanche to deal with Nat Fitzwilliam. Megalith would finally withdraw from the filming of the Larminster Festival - having honourably weathered the death of Filly Lennox - if Blanche Cartwright was allowed to play Nina.

  Under these circumstances the footage of film already taken would be consigned to that special limbo reserved for fragments of Megalith programmes which had been scrapped. This included rehearsals of The Seagull which was well advanced and early rehearsals of Widow Capet. The same would go for the long interview already filmed with Nat Fitzwilliam and the short interview with Major Cartwright as Chairman of the Festival (so short it scarcely amounted to more than two questions and three hostile looks). Even some of Spike Thompson's fine work on Larminster sunsets illuminating the Watchtower Theatre in Blakean fashion would similarly be scrapped.

  Jemima apprised Spike Thompson of Cy Fredericks' decision. They were sitting in the bar of the Royal Escape at the time. Spike was drinking Scotch. He offered Jemima a drink.

  'Come on, my lovely love, what shall it be? You can't be serious with all that white wine you keep knocking back, no better than cat's piss in a pub like this. Come on then, what's your heart's desire?'

  'Truthfully, champagne. But at the moment, nothing. I have to go back to the Watchtower to have a little talk with Our Nat which may be awkward, then on to Lark Manor for a talk with Little Blanche which will be. Champagne wouldn't help.'

  'You don't mean she got the part? Guth and I had an idea of covering the audition, but Jesus when she came on - the poor kid - it was pathetic. Look, darling, if you're worried, I could drop a word in Equity's ear—'

  But in the event Jemima found her interview with Nat Fitzwilliam unexpectedly easy. While her interview with Blanche she decided to postpone to another day, to let at least one night pass before crushing the poor kid's ambitions.

  Nat Fitzwilliam was sitting in the third row of the stalls, gazing raptly at the stage, on which for once nothing whatsoever was to be seen. He did not hear Jemima approach: the theatre was thickly carpeted in cinnamon-colour which extended all over the seats and walls, making it in some ways more like a cinema than a theatre.

  Jemima had found the dark-glass front doors unlocked. A girl with long straight hair was sitting in the little glass booth which served as a box office. For a moment Jemima had the impression that all girls in Larminster had the same drifting hairstyle and were attired in the same pre-Raphaelite patterned muslin. Then she realized she was gazing not at Poll's double, but at Poll, she of Flora's Kitchen, herself.

  Poll, away from Moll, was surprisingly chatty, to the point of being effusive. She confided to Jemima that bookings for the Festival were brisk and that the death of Filly Lennox had not affected them, despite her popularity as a television star; newspaper reports of the drowning had simply called further public attention to the event itself. Above all, declared Poll, the general public wanted to be on telly.

  'It's perfectly super!' she exclaimed. 'They all want to be there the nights you're filming. No problem with a full house at all. I've explained everything just as they said. Reduced visibility, cameras in front of their noses, bright lights. It doesn't seem to put them off one bit. They're all interested in just one thing - will they see us? The audience, that is. Nat's a bit depressed about it all, to tell you the truth. For a moment he thought they were more interested in television than in Chekhov, his Chekhov that is. Which would be absurd.'

  'Absurd,' echoed Jemima.

  'Anyway he's in the theatre,' Poll added, 'seeking inspiration.' Was she serious? It was impossible to tell. Jemima headed for the auditorium.

  'Oh, by the way,' Poll called after Jemima, 'see you later?' For a moment Jemima was disconcerted. Then she remembered a tentative rendezvous with Spike Thompson - and Guthrie Carlyle of course - at Flora's Kitchen to discuss the latest developments in l'affaire Nina. She supposed that either Guthrie or Spike must have booked a table -probably the latter who, since the original mistake which had taken him to the interior cuisine of Christopher's Diner, had proved a regular customer at Flora's Kitchen. Since food at Flora's Kitchen, although delicious, was not served at rustic prices, Jemima had a momentary loyal pang for Megalith's bank balance. Then she reminded herself that the regular eating place of Cy Fredericks, representing management, was the Connaught, arguably the most expensive restaurant in London. Why should Spike Thompson representing the workers - and after all Spike was nothing if not a worker - fare any worse?

  'See you later,' she echoed to Poll.

  'Not a word to Moll then.' A grin which was quite roguish lit up Poll's pale elfin features. 'I'm moonlighting here. Helping Nat out of a hole. We're mates. We lived together for a couple of years, one way and another. Moll can't take that. She's—' As Poll indicated the cutting of the throat, Jemima hastily promised silence.

  So into the soft dark cinnamon-coloured world she passed.

  Nat started up when she touched him on the shoulder.

  'Oh, Jemima.' He looked for a moment slightly surprised, then he looked delighted.

  'Poll told me you were communing—' she began.

  'I wanted to see you anyway,' he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat which folded silently upwards. 'There's something I'd rather like to talk to you about.'

  'Nina, I suppose? Blanche Cartwright - look, I'm afraid, Nat, that Cy Fredericks won't wear that
at all. And I agree.' Even as she spoke Jemima realized that for once Nat was not thinking about Megalith Television. The tone - almost cajoling - with which he addressed her showed that it was she, Jemima, not Megalith, who was the object of his attentions. Now Nat twisted the fringes of his white scarf, in what he seemed to imagine was a beguilingly youthful manner, as he addressed her.

  'No, no, not about Blanche as Nina. Whose idea was that anyway? Someone who wanted to ruin the whole production, I'll bet. Blanche was absolutely hopeless of course. Emily Jones is our Nina, that's for sure, which leaves Masha - I see a kind of severe sailor-suit here, by the way, in contrast to Nina's mermaid costume - the sea-creatures and the creatures of the land. And wonder of wonders Anna Maria Packe will do it, despite being chucked as Arkadina: says she adores the part, always has, which means she really adores Vic Marcovich. Boy Greville's coming too. That's the only flaw. He should have directed it, but under the circumstances I felt I must—'

  'What will Boy Greville do here?' demanded Jemima desperately, wondering where all this was leading.

  'Oh nothing. Fuss. Take pills.' Nat sounded quite unconcerned about it all. 'He's married to Anna Maria you see and a frightful hypochondriac. He won't do anything. Just look on. He'll like that, I can assure you. He likes being an onlooker, it doesn't tax his health.' Nat sighed. Then he began to plait the fringe of his white scarf as he resumed: 'It was about something quite different I wanted to talk to you, Jemima. Something much more personal. You're such a calm person. Yes you are. Calme, volupte et luxe...' Nat let his voice trail away as though calme was the operative word here, volupte and luxe merely bonuses which Jemima could take or leave as she wished.

  'You have this wonderful outside-inside calm,' he went on. 'And so I'd love to cast you as Volumnia in my green-green Coriolanus, the one I'm going to do at Edinburgh.'

  'Green-green?' she questioned, momentarily taken aback. But she should have realized that Nat's personal approaches always related in some manner to his career.

  'Yes, I'm terribly excited about my discovery: green is absolutely the key to Coriolanus. All the different greens; from hope to envy - you do see how exciting it will be? Faces, costumes, sets, all green. And you could be my Volumnia.'

  'My greenish silence?'

  'Oh you're wonderful, you're teasing me,' Nat cried. 'And don't worry about your age by the way: it's your inner age I'm after and that's perfect. No, seriously, I'd love to talk to you properly. Alone. Just you and me. I feel we should get on terribly well away from all this, the narrow artificial world of the theatre.' Nat waved his hand grandly, as though to sweep away all his productions; past, present and to come. 'Could we have, do you think, dinner together?'

  But Jemima had other plans for her evening. Dinner plus a full exposition of the green-green Coriolanus - possibly even worse than the traditional dissertation on the Sung Dynasty Hamlet - was not at all what she had in mind. She said so: that is to say, she said that she had other plans for the evening while indicating placatingly that she might well be free the next night.

  This merely meant that Nat returned to his cajolery. 'I could even help you with your investigations, you know.' Jemima began to curse the persistence which was undoubtedly Nat's dominant characteristic. 'I'm quite a good investigator myself,' was his next remark - the tone only barely modest. 'A natural talent for observation, an eye for detail. I'm an onlooker too, although in quite a different way from Boy Greville.'

  ‘Oh, I'm sure of that,' Jemima replied sweetly. 'But you see, I'm not making any investigations at the moment - except into the workings of your production for Megalith. I mean, what else is there to investigate round here?'

  A rather curious expression crossed Nat's face: for once he did not rush into the breach. It was as though smugness was struggling with caution -or perhaps some uglier emotion was at work. Smugness, of a limited nature, won.

  'I could tell you something about being an onlooker - my sort of an onlooker,' he said after a pause. ‘I was an unlooker for example on the afternoon that Filly died. An onlooker through my binoculars. What do you make of that?'

  Jemima, from having been exasperated and even bored by Nat's advances, became suddenly alert; she did not necessarily want to betray her interest to Nat.

  'I should really ask you what you make of it,' she spoke quite lightly. 'Whatever it is you're referring to.'

  'Supposing I saw something through my binoculars, something rather odd, something which didn't seem odd at the time, but in retrospect, thinking it through, right down to the sub-text, which is what I like to do with everything and is I think one of my strengths as a director—' Jemima's heart sank as Nat appeared to be returning to his well-worn theme but she was prepared to hear him out. However just then Nat broke off:

  'Oh, come on, Jemima, let's have dinner. And then I'll talk to you in depth about Volumnia. I know I can persuade you that being in my production will give a further integrity to your career. Think about it. Volumnia is Jemima is Volumnia.'

  It was the last sentence which was fatal. One thing was quite clear: Jemima was definitely not Volumnia, but Jemima. Nat was obviously trying to lure her with his references to investigations: conversation at dinner would be angled heavily towards the green-green Coriolanus.

  'Tomorrow,' she said firmly. 'Not tonight. Any other night.'

  'Tomorrow then, eight o'clock. It has to be Flora's Kitchen of course. I used to work as a waiter in Christopher's Diner and a close acquaintance with their kitchen ...' Nat, to her relief, agreed without further protest to a postponement.

  'So what did you see?' Jemima could not resist asking jokingly at the last minute.

  'Ah, interested in spite of yourself!' The teasing note had returned to Nat's voice. 'We might discuss it tomorrow - and then we might not. Tell me one thing, do you promise to think very very hard about Volumnia tonight? Think about it all tonight? And then, if you're favourably disposed tomorrow, and I know you will be—'

  'I won't have a wink of sleep,' Jemima swore solemnly.

  'In that case—' The same odd expression - half-complacent, half-greedy- crossed Nat's open boyish face. 'I will tell you something. You're not the only person interested in this particular piece of information. And yet the funny thing, the hilarious thing, is that I actually saw nothing. My mind was very much on my production, you realize. Using my binoculars, I was busy conjuring up new images, juxtaposing the reality of the beach and the trees and the sea with Chekhov's inner reality. It was only afterwards, when I tried to make sense of the macabre patterns of that dreadful afternoon, that I noticed it. I saw nothing where I should have seen something, or to put it another way, just a little discrepancy between text and sub-text. Once again part of my director's instinct, I suppose. Now if we worked together on Coriolanus—'

  'Quite so,' interrupted Jemima hastily. 'We'll talk about all that tomorrow. One last thing though - I don't suppose you've discussed all this with anyone else as yet? Or have you?'

  Nat smiled back at her. Now the greedy look was quite apparent on his face. It occurred to Jemima suddenly that what she saw was the look of a predator, the expression of one who had been, or was about to be, preying on someone else.

  All Nat said was: 'Haven't I? Let's see about that too tomorrow. Sleep well, Jemima Shore, or rather dine well and then think, think deep about Volumnia. Green. Green-green. It really is the key to everything you know.'

  On which mutually unsatisfactory note - Nat having failed to persuade Jemima to have dinner and Jemima having failed to pump Nat - they parted.

  After all, Jemima had dinner with Guthrie alone. Spike Thompson, whom she had expected to be present, was busy despatching spools of Widow Capet rehearsal and Bridset countryside by rail to London. Cherry, much to her surprise, had been invited to sample the delights of The French Lieutenant in neighbouring Dorset by Major Cartwright.

  'Totally new place, can't be too careful,' was the rather strange form the invitation took. Cherry wondered if she was
supposed to taste the food for the Major and see if it was poisoned. However, under the circumstances - after all the Major was unarguably an older man and a substantial one to boot - she had felt it right to accept.

  Poll, serving in Flora's Kitchen, was as deft and silent as before: her conversation with Jemima in the Watchtower might never have taken place. When Nat Fitzwilliam himself came in with Anna Maria Packe and Victor Marcovich (no sign of Boy Greville), Poll scarcely acknowledged his presence beyond depositing the Botticelli menus on the table. Moll in the kitchen remained raucous but unseen.

  There was nevertheless some feeling of tension, expectancy in the air.

  When the Cartwright party swept in and occupied a large table on the opposite side of the restaurant, Jemima felt she had known all along that they were coming. It turned out to be Blanche's birthday. To celebrate the occasion, she was trying out a new sartorial style: she wore a man's hat, a baggy checked jacket over a shirt and a flowing tie, and what looked like baggy trousers beneath. Hat and all, she was, Jemima feared, imitating Diane Keaton in the film Annie Hall. Christabel elegant in contrast, in a mauve linen dress and matching bandeau covering her fair hair, looked relaxed. She kissed Nat Fitzwilliam, then Vic, then Anna Maria warmly and passed on. Julian Cartwright, in spite of the heat in the restaurant, kept on his jacket over the dark silk polo-necked jersey: he did all the ordering. Gregory Rowan made the jokes. Blanche looked happy if hot. Evidently unaware of her dismissal as Nina, she waved ecstatically at Nat. Then she took him over a large chunk of birthday cake and hugged him. Ketty and Regina were on the whole silent.

  Jemima Shore, suddenly feeling the whole Larminster scene to be claustrophic, left as soon as she could. She had a quick drink - more white wine - with Guthrie at the bar of the Royal Stag and decided to retire to her bedroom. The Cartwright party was arriving at the hotel for some final celebration as she mounted the stairs. She heard Julian Cartwright's loud authoritative voice. She wanted to be alone.