The foyer was packed. Tom Barnaby, accompanied by a tall girl, darkly beautiful, pushed his way toward the Winstanleys. He held a drink in one hand and a program in the other. Strings played over the P.A. system.
“What awful music. It simpers.”
“Salieri.”
“Ahhh …” said Cully, adding, “can you see the divine afflatus?”
“You behave yourself, my girl. Or I’ll take you home.”
“Dad,” Cully laughed delightedly—“you are a hoot. Look—there he is.”
Harold was in evening dress. A large yellow silk hanky peeped out of one jacket pocket. He also wore a maroon cummerbund and a dress shirt so stiffly starched you could have sliced tomatoes with the ruffles. He was welcoming the audience graciously. Harold adored first nights. They came closer to satisfying his longing for recognition than any other occasion. Mrs. Harold, in a black button-up cardigan unevenly spattered with pearls teamed with a tartan skirt of uncertain length drifted dimly in his glorious wake echoing the greetings, getting the names wrong, and wishing she were at her flower-arranging class.
“Hello, Doris.”
“Oh, Tom.” Relieved at the sight of a friendly face, Mrs. Winstanley thrust out her hand, and blushed when her companion was unable to take it. “Harold tells me you’ve done a wonderful job on the set.” Knowing it would never occur to Harold to do anything of the kind, Barnaby just smiled and nodded. “And I understand,” continued Doris, “that Joyce is singing better than ever.” She didn’t add, as she had been wont to do when they first met, “You must come and have a meal with us soon.” Harold had really torn into her as soon as they were alone, saying that when he wanted a great clod-hopping philistine of a policeman cluttering up his lounge, she would be the first to know.
Barnaby was aware of this attitude, which caused him not a little quiet amusement. Now, he talked to Doris about horticulture, having long ago recognized a passion as great as his own. In fact, all the shrubs in the Winstanleys’ garden were grown from cuttings from Arbury Crescent, and he kept some of his seeds back for Doris every year. Although she loyally pretended these gifts were unnecessary, Barnaby guessed that Harold’s dashing lifestyle left little money to spare for what he would regard as inessentials. Now, Harold’s wife turned on Barnaby’s companion a look of polite, slightly dazed inquiry.
“You remember my daughter?”
“Cully?” Last time Doris had met Barnaby’s daughter, the child had sported a green and silver crest of hair, was covered in black leather, and hung with chains. Now, she had on an acid-yellow evening dress, strapless with a puffball skirt caught in above her knees. Slender black-silk-stockinged legs ended in high-heeled suede shoes with embroidered tongues. Her shoulders were draped with very old lace sparkling with brilliants, and her hair, blue-black like hothouse grapes, was scraped into a tight coil on the top of her head secured by an ivory comb. “I hardly knew you, dear.”
“Hullo, Mrs. Winstanley.” Cully shook hands. “Hullo, Harold.” She was wondering how anyone could bring herself to put that cardigan on even once, never mind year after year. Leaving his daughter after a stern warning glance had failed to connect, Barnaby pushed his way over to the door, where a youngish man accompanied by a vapidly pretty girl was entering the foyer.
“You made it then, Gavin?”
“We did, sir.” Detective Sergeant Troy pulled down the cuffs of his sports jacket nervously. “This is my wife, Maure.” Mrs. Troy moved her foot. “Ooh. Sorry. Maureen.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Maureen shook hands. She didn’t seem especially pleased. Barnaby guessed she was about as fed up as Doris Winstanley, but without the necessity to conceal the fact. He always put a CADS poster in the staff canteen without ever making a point of his connection with the company, but his sergeant, hearing him mention Joyce’s rehearsals, had put two and two together, and tickets had been purchased. Barnaby could imagine the conversation in the Troy household. Gavin believing that keeping in with the old man couldn’t be bad; Maureen picturing just what sort of draggy old time she was letting herself in for. She smiled now, a glum, restrained smile, and said she couldn’t half get outside a lager and lime. Embarrassed, her husband eased her nearer the auditorium steps. As he did so, he caught sight of Cully, who was making her way toward the swing door opening onto the corridor that led backstage. After a few moments Maureen set him in motion again with a savage poke in the small of his back.
“It’s a pity you didn’t bring a knife and fork,” she said as they took their seats.
“What?” He stared at her blindly.
“You could have eaten her in the interval.”
Mr. Tibbs was late, and Deidre was in a ferment of agitation. She was already regretting that she had accepted, even encouraged, his wish to attend the first night. It seemed to her now the height of foolishness. If he had a bad turn or became frightened, there would be no one to help him. She wished now she had thought of putting him next to Tom, but a gangway seat on the back row had seemed the better idea. She had been afraid he might feel threatened, surrounded by rows and rows of strangers. She clutched a program, painfully aware of the insignificant position of her own name, and the prominence of Harold’s, which could not have been bolder unless burning with letters of fire.
She glanced at her watch. Where on earth could he be? She had booked a taxi for a quarter to eight, and the journey was a few minutes at the most. Then she saw a cab drawing up at the curb and hurried out into the cold night air. Mr. Tibbs alighted.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “I was so worried—” She broke off, gaping. Her father was wearing a short-sleeved summer shirt and cream cotton trousers and carrying a linen jacket over his arm. She had left him wearing a thick tweed suit with a cardigan for extra warmth and five pounds tucked in the breast pocket. At least, she thought, watching him hand over the note, he had remembered to switch the money. As the driver wound up his window, Deidre tapped on it and said, “Isn’t there any change?”
“Do me a favor,” said the man. “I had to sit ticking over for ten minutes while he changed all his clothes!”
Deidre took her father’s arm, ice-cold and slightly damp, and led him through the now almost deserted foyer to his seat in row P. Fortunately the auditorium was warm, and she would make sure he got a hot drink during intermission. She left him sitting up very straight and staring with febrile intensity at the rich red curtains.
In the foyer Barnaby nodded to Earnest and followed his daughter toward the wings, easing himself past Harold, who was being gracious to a heavyweight couple in full evening regalia.
The ladies’ dressing room was only being used by four people and, the actress playing Katherina Cavalieri also being part of the stage staff, now held only three. Joyce Barnaby in a puritan gray dress and snowy-white fichu was pressing powder on her nose. Kitty twitched and twirled about in her seat, clattering her bottles and jars and mumbling her opening lines with so much fervor they might have been a rosary. Rosa sat, apparently serene, in the chair nearest the electric fire. She had dressed and made up with sublime disregard as to the requirements of her character. Far from appearing plain and severe, her face, splendidly orchidaceous, could have been that of a tum-of-the-century poule de luxe. Eyelids shimmered like the insides of a mussel shell, and her plummy lips glistened. She wore a large hat from which a bunch of cherries hung down, lying against her damask cheek. Perfect speckled crimson ovoids, they could have been the eggs of some fabulous bird. There were two magnificent bouquets from Harold for his leading ladies. Joyce (small parts/wardrobe) had a bunch of wintersweet and hellebores tied with a velvet ribbon from her husband. On the back of a chair between Rosa and Joyce hung Kitty’s “baby.”
The door opened. Cully put her head round briefly, said “Neck and leg break,” and vanished. Barnaby was close behind. “Good luck, everyone.” Joyce slipped out into the corridor and hugged him. He kissed her cheek. “Good luck, Citizen of Vienna, Maker of the Cakes, and Noises Off.”
“I’ve forgotten where you are.”
“Row C in the middle.”
“I’ll know where not to look, then. Is Cully behaving herself?”
“So far.”
Barnaby found the men’s dressing room charged with emotion. Only Esslyn, wearing the memories of past first nights like invisible gongs, appeared calm. Other actors were laughing insecurely or prowling about or wringing their hands or (in the case of Orsini-Rosenberg) all three at once. Colin called “Beginners: Act One,” and pressed the buzzer. Emperor Joseph shouted, “The bells! The bells!,” and let forth screams of maniacal laughter. Barnaby mumbled, “The best of British,” and withdrew, backing into Harold, who then leaped into the center of the room with a clarion call of ill-reasoned confidence.
“Well, my darlings—I know you’re all going to be superb…
Barnaby melted away. Passing through the wings, he saw Deidre already in position in the prompt corner. In the light from the anglepoise lamp he thought she appeared distressed. Colin stood by her side. Barnaby gave them both the thumbs-up. He spotted Nicholas waiting behind the archway through which he would make his first entrance. The boy’s face looked gray in the dim working light and was pearled with transparent beads of sweat. He bent down, picked up a glass of water, and drank, then he clutched the struts of the archway with shaking hands. Better you than me, mate, thought the chief inspector. He had just made his way to row C and settled next to his daughter when Harold followed, flinging open the pass door to the left of the front row with a quite unnecessary flourish, then turning to face the audience as if expecting a round of applause simply on the grounds of his existence. Then he sat in the center of the row, and the play began.
Things went wrong from the word go, and everyone, as they came off, blamed the lighting. Tim and Avery, now sweating in the box, had been so totally wrapped up in their daringness and so entranced by the fact that they were, at long last, going to do their very own thing, that they had taken no account of the effect a whole new spectrum of light and color might have on the cast. Actors became slow and muddled, as well they might. Even Nicholas, who was prepared for the change, was badly thrown and found it hard to recover. And his first scene, full of four-letter words, nearly brought him to a standstill.
At first the residents of Causton, determined to show that they were as avatit garde as the next man, boldly took this profanity in their stride, but when Mozart said he wanted to lick his wife’s arse, one honest burgher, muttering loudly about “toilet humor,” got up and stomped out, his good lady bringing up the rear. Nicholas hesitated, wondering whether to wait until they had disappeared or carry straight on. His indecision was not helped by hearing Harold clearly call “peasants!” after the departing couple. As Nicholas stumbled again into speech, all the Rabelaisian relish had vanished from his voice. He felt morbidly self-conscious, almost apologetic, as if he had no right to be on a stage at all. He was sharply aware of Kitty, floundering unsupported by his side, proving the truth of Esslyn’s snide predictions. After his first exit, he stood in the wings sick with disappointment, listening to Salieri, word perfect, roll smoothly and woodenly on.
For the first time ever, Nicholas asked himself what the hell a grown man was doing standing drenched in nervous sweat, wearing ludicrous clothes, his face covered with makeup, and a daft wig on his head, waiting to step through a canvas door into a world having only the most tenuous connection with reality.
Act I did not improve. The tape of Salieri’s march of welcome as reworked by Mozart started too soon. Fortunately the lid of the pianoforte hid the fact that Nicholas had not had time to actually reach the keys. At least, he thought as he sat down, I haven’t fallen over my sword.
In the Seraglio scene Kitty, rushing across the stage crying, “Well done, pussy-wussy,” to her Wolfgang, caught her foot in a rug and ended up hanging onto the Emperor’s arm in an effort to remain upright. Franz Joseph laughed and broke up everyone else. Only Esslyn and Nicholas remained in character and straightfaced.
On Barnaby’s right Cully slid slowly downward, her shoulders beneath the black lace trembling slightly, and covered her face with her hands. Three seats in front and to the left, he saw Doris Winstanley glance anxiously at her husband. Harold’s profile was rigid, his lips clamped tightly together. Then a light so brilliant it seemed impossible the stage and four walls could contain it shone. This was accompanied by a stellar explosion of glorious sound from the C Minor Mass, then everything faded to a predawn gray. Esslyn finished his final speech, crammed his mouth with sweetmeats, and strode off.
Barnaby watched Harold propel himself up the aisle two steps at a time, then rose himself and turned to his daughter. “Would you like a drink?”
“Oh, Dad.” She got up slowly. “I wouldn’t have missed that for the world. What’s my eye makeup like?”
“Runny.”
“I’m not surprised. We did a cod panto at the Footlights last year, but it wasn’t a patch on that.” She followed him up the aisle. “It must be some sort of a record when you go to the theater and the best thing onstage is the lighting. Oh … oh …”
“Don’t start gurgling again.”
“I’m not …” She snuffled into her hanky. “Honestly.”
As they drew level with the back row of seats and the exit doors, Barnaby saw Mr. Tibbs. He was leaning forward, holding the back of the seat before him. He looked grubby and abstracted, like a saint at his devotions. Barnaby, who hadn’t seen him for nearly two years, was shocked at his physical deterioration. His skin was like tissue paper and salt white. Blue corded veins pulsed on his forehead. Barnaby greeted him and received a smile of singular sweetness in reply, although he was convinced the old man had no idea who it was that spoke to him. Three young people sitting between Mr. Tibbs and the wall kept saying “Excuse me” very politely, but he did not seem either to hear or to understand, and eventually they climbed over the row of seats in front and got out that way.
The clubroom was packed. Cully dug out a wisp of lace and a mirror from her jet-encrusted reticule, spat in the hanky, and wiped away a runnel of mascara. When Barnaby brought her wine, she nodded across at the lighting box on which Harold was tapping more and more urgently. Then he put his lips to the door jamb and hissed. The door remained closed. Clamping his successful impresario’s smile into position, Harold backed away and moved once more into the center of the room, where Cully caught his arm.
“Wonderful lighting,” she said. “Brilliant. Tell Tim I thought so.”
“There’s … there’s no need for that!” cried Harold, put-putting like a faulty two-stroke. “Tim is simply a technician. No more, no less. I design the lighting for my productions.”
‘‘Oh. Really?” Cully’s tone, though exquisitely polite, positively curdled with disbelief. Barnaby took her arm and hustled her away.
“I shan’t bring you out again.”
“You used to say that when I was five.”
“You don’t improve. Drink up.” Barnaby made an irritated tch as Cully lowered her delightful nose into the glass and sniffed. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. If you like paraquat and crushed bananas.” Sergeant Troy approached, trailing his resentful wife, and Barnaby forced a smile. “Enjoying yourself, Gavin?” “Not bad, is it, sir?” He spoke to Barnaby, but his eyes were on Barnaby’s companion. “I mean for amateurs.” He continued to stare until the chief inspector was forced to introduce them.
“Your daughter.” Barnaby appreciated Troy’s poleaxed demeanor. Each time Cully returned home, he was newly amazed that such an elegant, sassy creature should be the fruit of his loins. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before, Cully.”
“I’m at Cambridge. Final year.”
Yes, you would be, thought Mrs. Troy, reflecting tartly on the unequal distribution of gifts come christening time.
“Oh—this is my wife, Maure,” said Troy, and the two girls touched hands.
; “More what?” said Cully.
“Troy,” said Maureen, with a flinty spark in her eye. Once more Barnaby led his daughter out of trouble. As they backed away, he nearly stepped on Tim, who nipped out of the box, looked quickly around the room, and hurried down the stairs. Meanwhile Harold had stormed through the wings shooting glances of disgust at the stage staff—who alone, during the disastrous first half, had hardly put a foot wrong—and was now in the men’s dressing room impresaroing like mad to powerful effect.
“Never … never in all my years in the business,” bawled Harold, “have I seen such a grotesque display of mind-boggling incompetence. Not to mention complete lack of verismo. All of you were corpsing. Except Salieri.”
“Do you mind?” said Nicholas angrily. “I certainly wasn’t.”
“We were thrown by the lighting,” said Emperor Joseph. Unfortunately adding, “Fabulous though it was.”
“You should be used to my lighting by now,” squawked Harold, puce with rage.
Nicholas, jaws agape, stared at his director. He had wondered how Harold would react to Tim’s defiant behavior. He had visualized everything from freezing instant dismissal to temper tantrums and violent exhibitionism. What he had never considered, would never have considered in a hundred years, was that Harold would calmly annex the new lighting and represent it as his own.
“All you’ll catch that way is flies, Nicholas,” said Harold. “I shall say nothing more now. You all know you’ve let me down. Yes—you too, Mozart. There’s no need to look at me like that. Where is your sword?”
“Oh.” Tardily, Nicholas realized why he had not fallen over it at the piano. “Sorry.”
“Sorry is not enough. I want an improvement—no, I want a transformation—from everyone here in Act Two. You can do it. I’ve seen you all turn in marvelous work. So go back out there and show them what you’re made of.” He spun around, and a moment later they heard him haranguing the distaff side next door.
Death Of A Hollow Man Page 12
