by Thomas Tryon
Similar nimble machinations on Viola’s part saw to the casting of the equally important role of Missy Priss. There was, Viola informed Papa Baer, a certain actress about to sign for a major New York play; contracts still hadn’t been finalized, however, and if one was fast and if the money was sufficient … Papa Baer was immediately intrigued. How much? Vi named a figure considerably higher than what they could have had Beulah Bondi for; nonetheless Papa jumped at the chance. Soon after, Viola and the two Baers drove to the airport and greeted the plane that had borne Nellie Bannister west. Papa pinned an orchid corsage to her dress and off they went to sign the contracts.
It was part of Viola’s fairy-godmother technique that this flight was the second transcontinental trip Nellie had made in a two-day period, for the actual fact was that she had been living in Los Angeles all the time. Vi had known her since her days as a secretary at the old AyanBee studio, when Nell had left “The Four Belles” and become a struggling young actress. Now, years later, she was a resident of a run-down Hollywood hotel, where she had been living in near penury, unable to find work at any of the studios. Remembering her old friend, Viola had decided that Nell and Nell alone would play Missy Priss, and to this end she had looked her up, loaned her money to fly to New York, where she turned around again and arrived back in Hollywood, presumably as the star of a Broadway show, but in reality a down-and-out and nearly forgotten woman.
Like his alter ego, Mr. Thingamabob, Robin came and went like quicksilver, Nellie said. He came like a Greek, bearing gifts: a bunch of flowers, a box of Godiva chocolates, which Hilda doted on, a book. If Nellie was out, he would pop down to Phyllis’s or up to Naomi’s, then he was gone again, to meet friends. He knew all the famous people in New York, what Women’s Wear Daily called the BP’s and the QP’s (the Beautiful People and the Quality People), and the names came rolling from his lips as unconcernedly as if he were speaking of the corner butcher: Babe Paley, Chessy Rayner, Nan Kempner, Mica Ertegun, those ladies who oiled the machinery of New York’s social set. Visiting Nellie, while she was cooking in the kitchen, he sat with his feet up in the chintz-covered chair, doodling on the memo pad, and she couldn’t help hearing as he laughed and joked with the president of Henri Bendel, a Miss Strutz—“Hello, Gerry, ’tis me, Robin”—and when he’d hung up, he’d immediately dial Nancy Martin and they’d have a chat, or Shirley Clurman or Marti Stevens. Other calls followed; when Nellie tore off his doodles she’d glance at his list: Hal Prince, Milton Goldman, David Merrick, Arnold Weissberger.
To her he was always the same, her Bobbitt, but then again he was always different; or to her eyes he seemed different. He would come like a troubadour, in embroidered jeans and a loose-sleeved shirt of Greek cotton, with a guitar slung on his back, and when the girls were gathered he would sit on the rug and play gypsy songs or Irish ballads. He was an artist with words, the way he could create a scene. None of them had been to Europe, but he took them there, most especially to Ireland. Ah, Ireland, he would begin with his hint of lilting brogue, describing the Castle Baughclammain, in which he and Kitty and little Bobby lived. It sat amid the rolling green Galway downs, such a green in springtime no eye had ever seen, with the old stone ramparts built by the last king of Ireland still facing the sea, where you could walk on the turrets and feel the salt air in your face. It was horsy country, and everyone in the county rode, and he painted pictures of those fox hunts with the men in their red coats, the women in top hats, the drinking of the traditional stirrup cup, then the flying hoofs, the barking pack, while the huntsman wound his horn and the fox tried to save his brush.
Then, every summer, there was the Galway Race, one of the most famous horse races in the world. Lady Ransome’s stables had won the trophy six times, and hoped this year to earn a seventh; she was running Caliph, a thoroughbred of great promise, and named after a character in Bobbitt’s Flying Carpet. The race week was one gala after another, culminating in the famous Galway Ball, given each year by Lady Farquahar, whose guest list was the most exclusive imaginable: people were known to have come from as far away as Africa and South America. All the great houses were opened, the inns of the countryside filled to the rafters with guests, the men in white tie and tails, the women in their finest gowns, and they had to hire special guards to watch after the jewelry that would be worn.
Robin now was often on the telephone to Lady Keith, an American and a great friend of both Robin’s mother and Lady Farquahar; plans were already being laid for the gathering of the BP’s at this year’s Galway Ball. Meanwhile, betwixt and between, Robin still was quicksilver. One week he was at the Plaza, then the St. Regis, then the Pierre. But he hated hotel life, and at one point announced that he had temporarily moved in with an old friend, Madame Potekka.
Madame Potekka was a painter, and it was to her vernissage that Robin invited Nellie to go with him one evening; Nellie said she would love to, but didn’t know what a vernissage was, how should she dress? He laughed, saying vernissage was only a fancy word in art gallery circles; Madame Potekka was having an exhibition and this was the opening.
The gallery was in SoHo, and there were crowds of people there, nobody paying much attention to what hung on the walls, but rather drinking champagne from plastic cups and talking to each other. The artist herself was gay and vivacious, flitting from group to group in a gown the shape and colors of a butterfly, and chattering so much that Nellie had no more chance than to say How d’you do before Madame, who seemed particularly fond of Robin, whisked him away to meet some friends. Madame’s pictures were all of flowers, and there was one, a small bunch of violets tied with a ribbon, that Nellie liked, though the price was far beyond her modest means.
When they came back uptown Robin suggested the Russian Tea Room for dinner. Nellie mentioned the violets, but Robin hadn’t seen the picture; he’d been too busy—there were a number of people there who he was hopeful might serve as backers for his production. Was Madame Potekka one of them? Nellie asked. Robin’s expression became grave. Ah, no, he said. His friend, though no one knew it, was a tragic case. She had cancer and had exhausted herself putting the show together, trying to make some money to cover the expenses of cobalt treatments; though you’d never know it to look at her, it was probably terminal. He was helping her out financially, but the treatments were draining his bank account, and since he had moved in with her to help look after her, it was also taking up a lot of his time. If he could just get the musical going he was certain things would work out.
As Nellie had learned, the production was called Sweepstake, and the plot centered on the Galway Race itself. It was set in nineteenth-century Ireland, and Robin’s music had several beautiful Irish ballads in it, including her favorite, “Ah, Fair Love of Tara’s Hall,” which Robin had played for her on his guitar. Usually, in discussing the project, he was happy and optimistic; tonight, however, he seemed depressed. Drawing him out, she discovered that things at home were not all that he had indicated they were. He and Kitty were not getting along, which was one reason he was happy to be in New York. He wanted her to come and join him with little Bobby, but she insisted on remaining in Ireland. She was willful and had a fearful temper and was used to getting her own way. Lately they’d been having lots of arguments, mainly over Bobby, whom she spoiled outrageously, and Robin was afraid the child was going to grow up to be a brat.
“You never did,” Nellie told him with a smile. He understood what she meant. As a child he had had everything, and he’d turned out all right. Together they recalled the “castle” he had lived in when he was a star. Papa Baer’s studio designers and decorators had transformed the house he lived in with Aunt Moira into a child’s wonderland. His bed had been a pirate galleon with sails and rigging and a gangplank. The dining room was a reproduction of the Cave of the East from Bobbitt in the Enchanted Forest. The living room was draped like a circus tent, another room was like a Persian potentate’s. His bathroom was a Napoleonic camp pavilion with military drums and banner
s. The rumpus room had a real soda fountain, a jukebox, and a stage with lights and a curtain and real theater seats.
Robin agreed that that had all been wonderful, but still, it was only fantasy. Here was little Bobby, living in a real castle, and while that was wonderful too, Robin wanted him to grow up normally, like other boys, which was why he never liked hashing over his days as a child star. Since Kitty was so busy with other things, while Robin was away the boy was in the charge of Pat, a wonderful old character from Cork, who’d worked for the family for years; he spoke with a heavy brogue and was a local institution.
Kitty, however, was still so entranced by the idea of what had once been that she talked of nothing else. She was passionate, she was beautiful, he adored her, but she had notions of romance that were plain silly. Robin was afraid of the child’s being torn between them, so he let her have her way; still, from his own experience, a fairy-tale world was hardly the best world for a child to be living in. He was hopeful, he said, that later in the summer, if Kitty wouldn’t come herself, she would at least let Bobby visit New York; there were so many things Robin wanted to show him.
Against his protests Nellie insisted on picking up the dinner check—she knew he was short of cash—and afterward, because the night was pleasant, he asked her if she would like to walk or would prefer a taxi; she agreed that a walk would be nice, and they joined the people in the street, idly drifting in that somnambulistic way New Yorkers have on summer nights. At Columbus Circle some people were just getting down from a hansom carriage; taking Nellie’s hand, Robin announced he was taking her for a ride. “Where to?” the cabby asked, and Robin, the incurable romantic, threw up his arms with a happy cry and said, “Drive away, my man, away into the night.” They went up Central Park West, past the Majestic, the Dakota, and the San Remo, and then into the park and back down the curving drive, which was still brightly lighted. People were walking hand in hand, there were the sounds of music; somewhere along the way a man was playing a hurdy-gurdy. Nellie looked suddenly at Robin: they were both thinking the same thing—the hurdy-gurdy man in Bobbitt Royal, before Bobbitt rides off in the coach with Queen Victoria, when Arthur Treacher, as the hurdy-gurdy man, stepped up, raised his derby, and said, “’Ats off ter Bobbitt.” The song that followed had been one of Willie Marsh’s greatest hits in the series.
As the carriage stopped for a light, and while the hurdy-gurdy continued the tune, Robin leaped out and began dancing along the drive in front of the hansom, singing the song. He had appropriated the cabby’s top hat, and he broke into the famous “Gonna Dance Off Both My Feet” number. Out of nowhere a crowd collected, and when Robin realized he had become the center of attraction he stopped and jumped back in the carriage, obviously embarrassed to have people watching him. Nellie tried to imagine what they would have thought if they’d recognized him, if they’d known it was one of the most famous stars in the world performing for them, and for free; but of course they hadn’t.
“You’re mad,” she said as he gave the cabby back his top hat, and he laughed. “It’s me Peter Pan shadow,” he told her. “I can’t help it.” He drew her arm through his and gave her a pat. “Aw, Nell, it’s such a wonderful world, isn’t it? Just the way it is? That Peter Pan, he crept inside, right here”—he placed her hand over his heart and she could feel it beating from his exertions—“and I don’t want to grow up. I don’t care if I never do.”
“Darling,” she told him, “you’re a father now.”
He laughed again. “Don’t I know it. And if I have my way, Sir Bobby’ll never have to grow up either, never have to go to war, never know sorrow.”
“Like his pa?”
“Sure. Like his pa.” His face grew thoughtful as the hansom moved along. The horse’s hoofs went pleasantly and rhythmically clip-clop, the hurdy-gurdy music fading, and with her head back, looking past the festoons of plastic flowers that overhung the carriage, and the branches of the green trees, Nellie must have dozed or dreamed off, and under the spell of the moment, or the spell that only Bobbitt could create, she had for an instant thought she was back again on the lot at Shady Lane Studios. But no, she was here in New York City, it was a summer night, and they were merely having a lovely drive in the park.
When they got back to the apartment, he said he was tired and wouldn’t come up; she told him she’d been thinking about Madame Potekka’s problem, she had a little money tucked away, and she wanted him to have it to help her. “Ah, Missy Priss,” he said, “you’re too foine, by far.”
“It’s for you, Robin, because I love you.”
“Ditto,” he said, and of course, the next time he came he brought her another present. He had called several days later from Madame Potekka’s, after depositing Nellie’s check; he had news, some good, some bad, all important, could he drop by? Oh, dear; she would love it, but Willie Marsh and Fedora were on Classic Movies tonight, and the girls were coming up to watch the picture. Would he join them? Yes, he would. He arrived in a state of high excitement, bringing a small paper-wrapped parcel, which he presented to Nellie. Undoing the string, she found the little painting of the violets that she had loved. Oh, she told him, he shouldn’t have. He shrugged and laughed; what people wanted they should get. Besides, it was nothing; Potekka had given him a rake-off on it. Other news: lunch that day with his producers indicated that the necessary money would he forthcoming, and a February rehearsal date had been tentatively set, with Sweepstake to open in the spring. Then he was at the piano, playing what he hoped would be the hit song, “Ah, Fair Love of Tara’s Hall,” and he got the Belles to singing the words and doing some of their old vaudeville routines. Then, while Hilda played the spinet, he performed some of the Bobbitt numbers he used to do with Willie Marsh. He kept them in stitches while sitting around before the broadcast, and then was having chatty confidences with Phyllis in the kitchen. No, she told the others when they emerged, it was between her and Robin, nobody else’s business, and gave him a kiss. Meanwhile Robin had a call to make, and waving his plastic credit card at Nellie to indicate that the charges would go on his account, he proceeded to telephone Galway. Right from Nellie’s living room to Castle Baughclammain.
Then the picture came on; it was The Player Queen. Robin had never seen it, and the girls agreed it was one of Fedora’s best, though often neglected by critics. Her role was that of an Elizabethan Cheapside hoyden who wants to be an actress. Since in the time of the Tudors the stage appearance of women was taboo, and the famous female Shakespearean roles were essayed by males, Fedora masquerades as a man and takes the stage in the role of the Player Queen in Hamlet. There is a romantic triangle consisting of herself, the playwright, played by Adolphe Menjou, and Burbage, the actor, played by Willie Marsh. Their romantic escapades arouse the jealousy of the Virgin Queen, who in a flight of screen-writing fancy arrives at the Globe Theatre in midperformance to stride onstage and unmask the Player Queen’s identity. All ends happily if preposterously, and at the fade-out Fedora reprises her role in a command performance. When the movie was over everyone agreed that Willie Marsh was dashing and handsome in his doublet and ruff, Fedora was fascinating as always, and they all loved the scene in which Menjou’s wife, Verree Teasdale, playing Elizabeth, confronts Fedora, while she, all velvet and lace, laughs daringly and tosses an apple at her.
Afterward Nell had Robin describe for the girls the party Willie and Bee Marsh had given for him at their house. Though he was only twelve at the time, he remembered it well, a kind of real-life version of the scene from Bobbitt Royal, when he had been presented at court. He had worn a velvet suit with short pants and a ruffled shirt, and he had been taken from room to room to meet all the famous people. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, Audrey Hepburn, Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, Rosalind Russell, Noël Coward, Ginger Rogers, Lana Turner; the list was endless. The Marshes had been famous for their parties; everyone went, and this one was special. There was a particular room he remembered; it was all glass and mirrors, with a huge cry
stal chandelier. The room looked out on the pool, where candles had been set floating among flowers. There was an orchestra in a pavilion, and each of the dinner courses was named Bobbitt something-or-other. In the center of the buffet, which took up practically the whole dining room, was an enormous ice sculpture, a copy of the crown he’d worn in Bobbitt Royal, and there were candles all around it.
Later everyone entertained—Sinatra, Garland, Coward, then Willie, who insisted on Robin’s joining him in their duet of “For Old Times’ Sake.”
Nellie sat down at the spinet, Robin beside her on the bench, and they sang the number for the girls, a sentimental song, but one that had enjoyed enormous popularity at the time.
“Let’s take a little cuppa tea, just you and me,
For old times’ sake.
Or maybe yet a glass of wine, yours and mine,
For old times’ sake.
Rememb’rin’ all the things that went before,
Memories, we’ll have a score or more,
When my hair’s gone gray and I can’t dance
And you’re so big you need long pants,
It’ll still be you and me, a cuppa tea, yours and mine, a glass of wine …
For old times’ sake.”
“Schmaltzy,” Nellie said when they were done, and they smiled at each other: it was Willie’s line, “Give ’em the old schmaltz.” He’d been saying it for years, and often claimed it was the secret of his success. Robin had wandered to the window, where he stood staring out, then he suddenly turned.
“Let’s call him!”
