Cool Repentance

by Antonia Fraser

  The lights dimmed, to a sharp cry from Boy Greville - he had warned Jemima earlier that dress rehearsals had an extraordinary effect on the nerves in his spinal cord and he often found himself going into spasms just as they started. His production of The Seagull was clearly to be no exception to this painful rule.

  Apart from the physical agonies suffered by the director, the first act of the dress rehearsal really went remarkably well. Boy Greville had to lie flat on the thick soft pile carpet of the auditorium. Gallantly, he observed that it was one of the great consolations of his affliction that theatre floors, especially modern ones like the Watchtower, provided an ideal arena for recuperation. He spoke warmly of the Olivier at the National in this context as though recommending an expensive private nursing-home.

  'Like dock leaves growing near nettles,' Cherry piped up: her new passion for imparting pieces of country lore, where previously she had concentrated on literature was, Jemima thought, another bad sign.

  The company advised Boy to think of himself, and not worry about the production. 'Lie back and enjoy it, like rape,' added Vic Marcovich. In view of what was known about Boy's general passivity, and in view of Vic's special relationship to Boy's wife Anna Maria, this jocular remark if well meant, was felt to be in rather poor taste.

  Still, the play went on. In their efforts to atone to Boy for this latest blow of fate, the actors did as well, even better perhaps, than if their director had attended the rehearsal in the more conventional upright position. As a result, the performance was singularly free from those petty theatrical disasters of the sort to be expected and even welcomed at a dress rehearsal because they seemed to promise a trouble-free First Night. 'Dangerously smooth,' Vic Marcovich described it. 'Hope it's not a bad omen for tomorrow.'

  In particular Christabel shone. In view of what happened later, the few people who had been present would remember this last shimmering of her talent with agonized regret for what might have been. Guthrie announced in the first break that Christabel was using her voice as if it were a musical instrument whose range was being explored for the first time at the hands of a master. 'A clarinet perhaps,' he suggested enthusiastically, the image clearly taking hold. Jemima, trusting that he would not expect her to incorporate any such sentiment in her commentary, did not speak. She was still deeply moved by what had happened on stage, and wanted to collect her wits before joining the unofficial Critics' Forum.

  'Violin!' cried Cherry.

  'Bassoon maybe? Christabel's voice is quite deep.' This was Gregory. Cherry shot him a reproachful look. Jemima felt grateful.

  All the same, Christabel's voice was peculiarly sonorous and varied that evening. Her performance radiated exactly the kind of automatic careless charm, followed by sudden vulnerability and frightened hungry reclaiming of the wandering Trigorin, which the part of Arkadina, the actress playing the actress, had always seemed to Jemima to require. Gone were all the hesitations and nerves of previous rehearsals. Christabel Herrick was back. Christabel Cartwright was forgotten.

  Even Old Nicola, never one to shower a fellow-actor with compliments, acknowledged that. But then Old Nicola was in an unwontedly seraphic humour that evening. Her knitting too was less maliciously orientated, less audacious in its attacks on the ankles and elbows of passersby. It remained incarcerated in the old grey plastic bag at her feet most of the time. Old Nicola did not even attempt to knit during the first three acts of The Seagull.

  'Just as well. I would have murdered her if she had,' muttered Guthrie.

  'You keep threatening that kind of thing,' complained Jemima. 'You know Cy's strong views about a director's individual responsibility. If anyone does in Old Nicola we shall have our programme cancelled and it will be all your fault.'

  Guthrie snorted. But really, it had to be admitted that Old Nicola was not in a tiresome mood at all, and as a result no one had any proper excuse for wanting to murder her. If she was not, all the same, an absolutely ideal member of a small audience, this was because Old Nicola had a habit of chuckling audibly whenever she herself perceived one of the jokes. These perceptions of Old Nicola's concerning the humorous side of Chekhov had not by any means been shared by the late Nat Fitzwilliam nor by Boy Greville subsequently.

  Old Nicola had nevertheless proved quite remorseless in her note-giving after rehearsals: 'You naughty boy, you should really listen to Old Nicola, you know. I've known them all in my day, Stanislavsky, Komisarjevsky, all the Russians. I even went to Moscow. Have I ever told you about the time I was in the audience when Stalin came to the theatre. Now when Stalin laughed, you see, everyone had to laugh ...'

  But neither Nat Fitzwilliam nor Boy Greville, disappointingly, was prepared to show undue interest in Stalin's contribution to Russian humour. Besides, Old Nicola's reminiscences were growing more daringly fantastic every day. Since she even claimed to have been bandaged by Chekhov's own hands ('He was a perfect duck, Chekhov, he was a doctor you know, and when I accidentally tripped over at a rehearsal and fell...'), perhaps too much credence was not to be given to her memories.

  Now her chuckles punctuated the performance like a persistent low cough, irritating when the performance flagged, unnoticeable when it was at its height. During the second break, on the eve of the last act, Old Nicola first went and exchanged some remarks with Blanche, then sidled up to Jemima. Gregory had moved and was chatting to Julian and the girls.

  'Isn't she quite perfect tonight?' Old Nicola put her face with its bright bird's eyes and bird's sharp beak very close to Jemima's. 'Christabel, I mean. I've just been telling that sweet little Blanche; never mind about Nina, her chance will come, I'm so pleased for Mummy. I do hope everything will go right for tomorrow. After so long, you can't help being worried for her, can you? Wouldn't it be just tragic if anything went wrong? Just when everything's coming to a happy ending for her?'

  'What could go wrong?' Jemima was afraid she sounded irritable but she found Old Nicola oozing sympathy even more intolerable than she was grumbling. 'Other than a bad performance. And I don't think Christabel is likely to turn in one of those, do you? Or are you suggesting she can't do it twice?'

  'Oh no, dear, no, no, no. Please don't misunderstand Old Nicola. My, some of you clever ladies from television can be sharp sometimes, can't you? Not all of you, though. My friend Susan Merlin was interviewed by a young lady, a very pretty young lady, the other day on her memories of the theatre - though Susan is really quite a newcomer to the stage compared to me, and you didn't want my memories, but we'll let that pass. Be that as it may - we'll talk about it later, dear - Susan said that this young lady was really terribly sweet and gentle and helpful to her, in spite of being so pretty. Still I suppose it takes all sorts in television, doesn't it, as well as in life?'

  Jemima had not survived the repeated fruitless attempts of the press to stir up rivalry between her and her female contemporaries on television in order to succumb to the poisoned darts of Old Nicola.

  'I think that's so very true,' she said in her warmest television voice. 'It certainly does take all sorts. And not only in television. The theatre too. Now tell me all about Widow Capet and your part in that. I'm sorry that in the end we went for filming just the one production—'

  Normally, any mention of this appalling dereliction of duty by Megalith was enough to set Old Nicola off on a tirade. An interview with Gregory was being included, but no clips of the play itself (which might have shown the old woman in her famous role as the jailer's mother). It had turned out to be too expensive to film both productions and do them justice. But on this occasion, Old Nicola's own version of a high good-humour was not to be shaken.

  'Well, dear, there's not much to tell, is there? Otherwise I suppose we'd find ourselves telling it to all you clever girls and boys on the box, wouldn't we? To tell you the truth, I'm not quite as thrilled with the part as I was. I've done it many many times, you know, really created the role for that nice Gregory, at his own personal request. But that was a long time ag
o. The stage is not like television, dear: here today, gone tomorrow. It's a very hard life. So you may be interested in hearing, dear, on or off the box, that Old Nicola is going to retire.'

  In its way, it was a startling declaration. And Old Nicola made it not with regret or complaint, but with an air of triumph. What, no more Old Nicola besieging young directors with her irresistible demands for parts? No more Old Nicola giving those same unwary directors endless notes after rehearsal on the proper way to get the production right - which meant listening to her tales of bygone triumphs? And what about her flat in Fulham, hers for so many years, whose ever-increasing rent was one of Old Nicola's most persistent laments? What about the cost of living, another personal affront to Old Nicola's survival, especially since she was blessed with an equally ancient companion, in the shape of an enormously fat grey cat called Thomas. Jemima had seen his photograph: from his girth and insolent expression, it came as no surprise to her to learn that Thomas could only exist on a diet of minced best steak and fresh fish, salmon being a particular favourite. Jemina, who had always thought she liked all cats, wondered if she might find herself making an exception in the case of Thomas.

  'Oh no, dear, it won't be a disaster financially, not at all,' Old Nicola hastened to reassure her, her complacency even more marked. 'You see, someone is going to look after Old Nicola in future. Someone who can well afford to do so, plenty of money, when you think how Old Nicola herself has to live. But how good of you all the same to think of my Thomas, my dear, and his special diet; I shall tell Susan Merlin that you have a heart of gold under your' - Old Nicola paused - 'up-to-date exterior. Yes, Thomas and I will be able to afford lobster in future -something he has never yet tried, but I have a hunch he may take to it.'

  'A gift?' enquired Jemima delicately. From the bustle on stage, the next and last act was going to proceed at any moment.

  Old Nicola looked immensely sly and at the same time very pleased with herself. 'A gift? Not quite, dear. A reward, you could say. A reward to Old Nicola for having sharp eyes, and a clear mind in her eightieth year, and being able to put two and two together and still make more of it than most of you young people. Yes, you may not believe it, but I shall be eighty on December the sixteenth. Jane Austen's birthday and people-have often pointed out that I have exactly the same talent for observation.' Old Nicola clearly awaited some comment from Jemima on this coincidence.

  But Jemima's instinct as an investigator was at war with her respect for Jane Austen. The latter won. She said nothing.

  'Of course I also know all about the theatre and its little ways,' went on Old Nicola, sounding disappointed. 'After all these years. It was really most fortunate I moved my room to the Royal Stag when I did, in spite of the manageress making such difficulties about giving me a proper light. It even turned out lucky in a way that my room overlooked the back entrance to the hotel although I trust you will not mention the fact to Mrs Tennant.' The old woman, in her newly bonhomous mood, gave a conspiratorial chuckle. 'Fortunate too that I kept my eyes open at that picnic, no naps for Old Nicola in the afternoon, even though she is in her eightieth year. Eyes open and mouth shut, that's the way to get rich, dear.'

  For a moment Jemima had the strongest possible feeling that Old Nicola was going to confide in her exactly what it was that she had seen. She held her breath. The Stage Manager appeared at the edge of the stage.

  'Right, Boy?' he called. From his prone position, Boy Greville raised his arm on high in assent, in a gesture of the dying Siegfried, and the house lights were dimmed.

  'Miss Wain,' whispered Jemima urgently, 'what was it you saw? Who is it who is making you this handsome gift?'

  But Old Nicola merely put up her thin gnarled finger to her lips, and went 'SSSh' in a self-righteous way. Then she scuttled away to one of the side rows of the theatre, away from the central block, taking her plastic bag with her. She was still smiling. She looked both greedy and cheerful, like a gourmet cat who expected to be fed on lobster for the rest of his life.

  After the theatre, Old Nicola was not to be seen. She must have gone straight back to her room at the Royal Stag, across the square. Jemima looked for her for as long as decency allowed, but that was not for very long. There were the actors to be congratulated and encouraged, and even more to the point Boy Greville to be brought back from the verge of despair. Although everyone else agreed that the dress rehearsal had gone wonderfully well, even worryingly so, Boy Greville declined on the one hand to believe this, and on the other hand prophesied woe on the morrow.

  It was not until he reached Flora's Kitchen where a special late dinner had been arranged for the Cartwright family that Boy became remotely content. Jemima walked across the square to the restaurant, with Christabel's expression at the very end of the last act haunting her.

  'What's that?' she had exclaimed, at the sound of the shot off-stage. Tobs, as Dr Dorn, had made a very passable stab at comforting her: 'That's nothing. It must be something in my medicine chest that's gone off. Don't worry.' Christabel had then sat down and pretended to be comforted. But all the while Christabel's expression, her over-wide eyes, had remained stamped with some terrible premonitory fear. When Dr Dorn confided to Trigorin at the end of the play: 'Take Irena Nikolayevna away from here somehow. The fact is, Konstantin Gavrilovich has shot himself, you knew that she already experienced the tragedy within her.

  It was as well that dinner at Flora's Kitchen was rather demanding with Boy needing not only spiritual reassurance but medical remedies. (Moll coped with the latter, sending Poll out from the kitchen with some strange vegetable concoction of her own, her raucous voice shouting, 'See if that will shut the bugger up.') Otherwise Jemima might have had to live with that image of Christabel's expression throughout the evening. As it was, everyone was relieved when dinner, begun late, broke up early, with the prospect of a First Night ahead. Julian Cartwright it was who masterfully tore Christabel away, and announced in his loud voice that he and Christabel had booked rooms at the Royal Stag for themselves and the girls: 'Christabel certainly needs a proper sleep, as she says, and Lark is not very comfortable at the moment, in view of poor Mrs Blagge's condition.'

  'Can't I drive back by myself, Daddy?' began Regina. Ketty silenced her.

  'This is much nicer, Rina,' she said firmly. 'Please say thank you nicely. Daddy has been his usual thoughtful self.'

  'I'm thinking of Mummy as well,' Blanche contributed in a virtuous voice. 'I'd like to stay, if it makes things easier for Mummy.'

  It transpired that the suite in which the Cartwrights had been allowed to continue their party on the night of Blanche's birthday - and Nat's death - was still empty. Christabel was to sleep in the inner bedroom, Julian on a bed in the sitting-room, 'to give her maximum rest' as he put it. The girls and Ketty had been found rooms on an upper floor.

  All these domestic arrangements appeared to have a warming effect on Gregory. He offered to buy Jemima a drink at the bar - champagne, why not? - and when the bar was closed, suggested jovially that they should adjourn to her suite and order it there. This suggestion, in view of the possibility that Gregory might find Spike Thompson already installed in her sitting-room, black leather jacket and all, or worse still in her bed, black leather jacket and everything else discarded, Jemima was obliged to turn down. She found herself feeling distinctly regretful about this, which both annoyed and unsettled her. And when she did get upstairs, there was no sign of Spike, which annoyed and unsettled her still further.

  Old Nicola, when she had first reached her bedroom some hours earlier, had been in an altogether more contented frame of mine. So she was fast asleep when the person who was supposed to reward Old Nicola for her sharp eyes and ears entered her room by means of Mrs Tennant's pass-key. Certainly the last night of Old Nicola's life had been a very happy one. As the person placed the dark-grey plastic bag over Old Nicola's head and fastened it tight with the flex of her despised table-lamp, perhaps she was dreaming of lobster, of proud Thomas tas
ting the first consignment with his fastidious pink tongue.

  At any rate Old Nicola made no noise as she died, in the small room at the top of the service stairs in the Royal Stag Hotel.

  15

  Your Lady's Instinct

  In all the terrible furore which followed the discovery of Old Nicola's body - by Marie, the hotel chambermaid, bringing her morning tea — nothing was more painfully vivid to Jemima Shore in retrospect than her conversation with the Chairman of Megalith Television. Somehow breaking the news to Cy Fredericks was an even more traumatic experience for Jemima than Marie's prolonged if natural hysterics (she was only sixteen) and Mrs Tennant's equally natural hotelier's agitation.

  At first Mrs Tennant showed herself a model of calm; but her nerves grew progressively more ragged with the inevitable influx of a large work force of policemen and their associates. The doctor on call to the police, who arrived at the same time as a Detective Constable from Beauport, was actually well known to her, because he happened to be the hotel doctor too. Mrs Tennant thought this only made his behaviour in using the front staircase more outrageous.

  'Doctor Lamb ought to know how dreadful all this is for us!' she exclaimed to the nearest sympathetic audience, which happened to be Jemima Shore. 'What will the guests think? What will the Cartwrights think? Mr Cartwright was so upset to hear the news: he said he'd break it to his wife personally when she awoke. I'm afraid Miss Kettering had already got it from Marie before I made her lie down upstairs, the noise when she dropped the tea tray woke her, and then it was too late to stop the young Cartwright girls finding out. Regina went terribly quiet, but Blanche was quite hysterical, I always say she's the feeling one—' Then, in her nervous state, Mrs Tennant concentrated on the essential difference between the front staircase and the service stairs, as though by upholding this distinction, she could avoid further dire troubles for the Royal Stag Hotel.