Twopence Coloured

by Patrick Hamilton

  “Very well, then, dear, you shall have it at your old hotel.”

  Your “old” hotel? She immediately detected the flaw in his good-humoured idiom, and looked up. She found him smiling awkwardly to himself. She had never known him smile to himself.

  “Richard, dear? Do you want to go back?”

  “No, darling. Let’s go to the hotel.”

  “No; but, Richard, I believe you really want to go back.”

  “No, dear. I only thought we might sort of freshen up for the show this evening.”

  “We’ll go back, darling.”

  “No, dear, let’s go to the hotel. I’m all right, really.”

  Who, in heaven’s name, thought Jackie again, had said that he wasn’t all right?

  “Richard, dear? Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “Absolutely. Come on. We’ll go to our hotel.”

  “Darling, you’re not feeling well. What’s the matter? You look all right. What’s the matter?”

  “No, I’m all right, Jackie darling. Only a bit of a chill.”

  “A bit of a chill?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  “Sort of all cold. Come on, dear. It’s nothing.”

  “We’re going back, Richard. Come on. We’ll take a tram.”

  She guided him in that direction, and he made no demur.

  “I wish you hadn’t got to go on to-night, Richard,” she said.

  “Don’t be mad, darling. I’ve got to go on.”

  (Who, in heaven’s name, thought Jackie, had said that he hadn’t?)

  III

  They caught a tram, after some waiting about in the wind (“Go on, put your collar up, Richard,” said Jackie, and he did), and they went clanging up to the top of the town, where their rooms were situated.

  These were expensive theatrical diggings, and, for Sheffield, of a high-class nature. They were placed in a rather respectable street adjoining a very foul slum, whence could be heard, all day, the cries of children. And there was a grocery, and a butcher’s shop, and a sweet-shop in this slum, and at the sweet-shop the children could obtain toffee-apples and skipping-ropes — both of which were greatly in favour. The rooms themselves were clean, and the dining-room contained innumerable portraits of famous variety stars, affectionately dedicated to the landlady — who was a sinister, tall, thin, widowed character in black (undoubtedly a murderess), who spoke little, and with an air of extreme forbearance and rectitude when she did. Richard and Jackie had already had much fun at her expense.

  It was dark by the time they got there, but they soon had their gas alight (a very asthmatic and bright green gas), and poked the fire — and then Jackie went to the top of the stairs to see the landlady about Tea. The landlady said that she had Understood they were not coming back. (She was a great Understander of things.) But she thought something could be Managed. (She was a great Manager, as well.)

  When Jackie returned to Richard, she found him sitting back in an arm-chair by the fire.

  “Feeling better, darling?” asked Jackie.

  And he smiled up, rather wearily, without replying, and she went and sat on the arm of his chair, and stroked his hair.

  When the tea came, she would not let him get up, but brought him over a cup by the fire. And then she herself came and sat down on the floor in front of him. And they looked into the flames and did not speak very much.

  “I’ll tell you what, Jackie,” he said, after a while. “Suppose I go upstairs and have a little Lie Down?”

  “A little Lie Down, Richard?”

  “Yes. Sort of freshen me up for the evening. We’ve got an hour before we need start, haven’t we?”

  “That’s right, Richard. Will you go now?”

  “Yes,” he said. And he sprang up, very suddenly….

  She took his arm as they went up the stairs, and led the way into the bedroom, where they lit a candle. It was very cold.

  “You must wrap up,” said Jackie.

  “Yes. I’ll take off my coat, and get under the quilt thing.”

  She took off his coat, and she arranged a pillow for him, and wrapped him round, and kissed him. Then, when the candle was out, she said through the cold darkness: “Call you in an hour, darling.”

  “Right you are, Jackie,” he said.

  And she left the room, softly closing the door.

  She stirred the fire again, when she got downstairs, and brought a book down to the arm-chair, and tried to read it.

  But she did not find herself able to do this. Quite apart from this little accident, there was something troubled, hushed, uneasy over everything to-night. And she had never been left by Richard at this time of evening before. They generally had such fun, and were so noisy together, at this time. And it was quite horrid to think of him lying there, alone in the dark, upstairs.

  And then she found herself listening, she did not know why, to the noises in the slum near by — to the cries of the children — to the incessant echoing cries — now loud, now soft — now single and whining, now in sudden chorus — on and on…. And brisk manly footsteps came hurrying past her window, and faded away in the distance….

  And how black and dark was the night outside! She could not see a light from here. Only the reflection of the room in which she was sitting, and the dirty tea-things…. She should pull down the blinds. She had not the energy to get up and pull down the blinds….

  So dark, and yet only six o’clock…. The top of Sheffield at six o’clock…. In her present state there was something frightening in the mere thought of it…. It seemed a wicked Universe which could have arrived at such a thing as the top of Sheffield at six o’clock…. Inexplicable event in time and eternity! A truly mysterious Universe….

  And she, alone in Sheffield — and the only human being in Sheffield to feel the weight of these mysteries…. Another pair of feet went hurrying past her window….

  She was getting nervous. She wished that Richard would come down and say that he was better. When she was in Richard’s arms the Universe could do what it liked.

  IV

  She went up ten minutes before the time agreed.

  She went over to the bed in the darkness, and said softly: “Richard.”

  There was no answer.

  “Richard.”

  And he did not reply to that.

  “Richard,” she said, more loudly, and struck a match.

  With the little tearing noise of the igniting phosphorus, he sat up suddenly, and looked into her eyes.

  “Hullo, Jackie,” he said. He seemed dazed. She lit the candle.

  “It’s nearly time, Richard dear.”

  “I’ve been right off.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Rather foul. I wish I had an understudy.”

  She sat on the bed and took his hand. It was wet and clammy. And his face was flushed, now.

  “Look here, Richard. You can’t go on to-night.”

  “Who’s going on, then? The stage-manager?”

  “Well. Couldn’t he?”

  He released his hand, and got off the bed.

  “Come on, Jackie. It’s no use.”

  “But you mustn’t, Richard, if you’re ill. And you’re looking ill.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m better now.” He put on his coat, and kissed her, and led her downstairs.

  “Well, we must have a taxi, there and back, that’s all,” said Jackie.

  “Shouldn’t think we could get one.”

  She asked the landlady. The landlady had no idea where one could get one.

  “Come on, Jackie, we’ll be late.”

  He had his way.

  On their way to the tram, and walking arm in arm (with their spirits slightly improved by the fresh air), he all at once made the most outrageous little sound in his throat. It was a kind of tremulous sob, a swift hiccoughing intaking of breath — as though in sudden horror of something, as though he had seen a spirit.

  He smiled wea
kly at her, after it had happened. It could not pass unnoticed, and there was nothing else to do.

  She did not say how horrified she was.

  V

  She almost forgot about him in the hurry of changing and making up, and the next she saw of him was from the o.p. corner as he acted. She could detect no difference in his performance (his laughs were coming as pat as ever) and the paint hid whatever there was of illness in his face. Only once, during a long speech from his fellow-actor, did his look become slightly strained as he covered his mouth to give a little harsh cough.

  “He’s all right,” thought Jackie.

  But because the stage was freezingly cold, she went away to fetch her own cloak to put round him as he came off.

  He was trembling a little (but then so was she) as he came off, and he let her put the woman’s thing round him without demur. And they stood together, strangely silent, at the back of the set.

  The stage-manager passed them as they stood thus. He was an agreeable, smiling, youngish man.

  “Wrapping him Up?” asked the stage-manager.

  “Yes,” said Jackie, smiling.

  And they all three smiled, and were silent.

  VI

  At half-past two next morning Jackie was standing, fully dressed, in the sea-green light cast by the gas of the sitting-room.

  She had her back to the fireplace, and she was in the silent presence of a quaint, bowed, bald, common little man, with a white moustache and watery blue eyes. This was Mr. Broggen, a permanent lodger in an attic of the house, who had just been out to knock up the doctor. That unknown, unseen, but existing and clearly conceived individual might be along any moment….

  Downstairs in the kitchen the murderess, dressed in a night-gown and dressing-gown, was making Cocoa for them all.

  Upstairs, in the bedroom, Richard was lying, propped up in candle-light (the gas had gone wrong and they could not adjust it), with flaming cheeks, and in the noise set up by the labour of accomplishing forty-five respirations a minute. He was, however, for all the ardour of this, surprisingly comatose.

  Jackie could think of nothing to say to Mr. Broggen, as they stood there. The little distressed man, hat in hand, gazed with a kind of weak commiseration at the tablecloth….

  They waited.

  VII

  Jackie told herself to pull herself together as she left the house next morning at half-past ten, on her way to the theatre.

  Influenza…. There was nothing the matter with that. The only thing she had not liked had been the doctor’s air. “There’s nothing at all serious, is there?” she had asked him. “Oh, dear no, I don’t think so,” he had replied, as though the idea had been almost fantastic. She did not like such an idea descending to the plane of the almost fantastic.

  And he was, if anything, slightly better this morning. Besides …

  She had an awkward interview in front of her.

  There was no one in the company down at the theatre when she arrived (except the carpenter), and she had an unpleasant quarter of an hour waiting about on the cold stage and in the colder passages. But at last there arrived the woman who played the housekeeper (with whom she had a small chat), and then the stage-manager, smiling as ever.

  “Well, how are we this morning?” he asked.

  “Well,” said Jackie. “As a matter of fact, I’m afraid I’ve some rather bad news. My husband’s rather ill.”

  “Oh, dear. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s a sudden attack of ’flu, I’m afraid. He’s been awful last night. We’ve had the doctor.”

  A very great silence fell. The stage-manager looked at the floor.

  “Dear, dear, that’s bad. Won’t he be able to go on tonight, then?”

  “No, I’m afraid he won’t. He’s really too bad. His temperature’s something terrible. Is there anyone who can go on for him?”

  The stage-manager pulled a wry smile.

  “Well, some one’ll have to go on, won’t they?”

  There was a silence.

  “You’re sure he can’t get down?”

  “No. I’m afraid he really can’t. You see …”

  There was another silence.

  “I’m very sorry,” said Jackie….

  “Well, it’s not your fault, is it?” said the stage-manager. “You’ll be able to come down all right, won’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Oh, well, we’ll manage somehow, I expect. I’ll have to go on myself.”

  There was yet another silence.

  “Well, I must be rushing back, I’m afraid,” said Jackie, smiling weakly and moving away. “You’ll tell everybody, won’t you?”

  “Yes. That’s all right.”

  “Hope he’s better,” said the stage-manager, calling after her.

  Jackie smiled again, and left.

  Whatever else might be in store for her, there was no sympathy awaiting her in this crisis.

  VIII

  That night Jackie played.

  The company were full of sympathy for her. “Tell him he must buck up and get well,” said the woman who played the Colonel’s wife, and, “It’s this cold stage,” said the woman who played the housekeeper. “No wonder he caught a cold.”

  “He shouldn’t have come down last night,” said the rather queer man who played the butler. “He ought to have stayed in bed.”

  Nevertheless, it was all a bit of a lark for them all. It was great fun to see how the stage-manager was going to shape, and all agreed that he did remarkably well.

  “You would have thought,” said the woman who played the housekeeper, “that he’d been playing it ever since we opened.”

  “Yes, isn’t he good?” said Jackie.

  And, “Well, I do hope he’s better when you get back,” said the same lady, as she smiled Good-bye to Jackie, amid the grind and clatter of almost final trams, just outside the theatre, at half-past eleven.

  “I expect he will be,” said Jackie.

  IX

  She had quite believed that he was going to be better when she returned. He was to have smiled weakly at her as she came in, and the nurse was to have been professionally cheerful.

  But he was no better, and the nurse’s face was the same. Jackie might have been absent no more than two minutes, instead of nearly four hours. There had been no upheaval, no adventure, in the drama of his illness. It had proceeded in her absence with all its grim, feebly-lit quiet. The nurse did not so much as punctuate her duties with a smile, as Jackie came in.

  He was lying there, like a drunkard thrown down, utterly unconscious, impotent and trusting in the fearful battle which his heart had been called upon, and had gallantly undertaken, to fight for him.

  He was in a state of perpetual climax. Each sharp breath seemed to be the straining and decisive one, but the decision was never forthcoming….

  She sat down by the bed and watched him…. For one passionate and angered moment she felt that she must shake him, wake him up, reproach him, plead with him. She must bring home to him the terrors he was bringing upon herself and himself. She must tell him where he was, what was happening, that this was Sheffield, that they were in rooms on tour. She wanted to tell him, even, that he was not married to her….

  Then the night nurse came, whom Jackie did not like so much as the other. She was an elderly woman, with a slight cold, and she went about the place sniffing.

  X

  He was a little better in the morning (the doctor admitted as much), but by three o’clock she was in a panic, and had wired for Charles. She should have done this before. He was still in Brussels, and there was no chance of getting him for another day….

  Presumably she acted that night: but she was conscious of next to nothing of it. She was conscious of the faces of the actors and actresses, apprehensively sympathetic under their chromatic colouring — of the ebullient sea of the audience — and of the orchestra clashing in the intervals. The orchestra clashing, on Richard’s last night on earth…. She
knew everything now.

  *

  And at twenty-past one that night Richard’s heart, competent and courageous in the emergency to the last practicable moment, abruptly accepted the fate of the organism for which it conspired, and was still.

  Jackie was not in the room at the time, but downstairs in the dining-room, sipping and gulping at a cup of coffee. The nurse ran down the stairs and told her.

  She arose, without speaking, and walked straight out of the room. It was not as though she had learnt that the man she loved was dead. It was as though she had been told of some domestic mishap, and was going to rectify it.

  She ran firmly up the stairs, with her shoulders held back, and her slim body straight. The pall of her grief was too dense and black for tears or thought. She could see nothing beyond it, and did not try to do so.

  She reached his bed, knelt down, covered her head with her arms, felt for his hand, and with the quietness of the dead man himself, was absolutely quiet.

  Book Three

  THE FAILURE

  CHAPTER I

  MOMENTS

  I

  TWENTY to two in the morning, five months later. A train flying through Lancashire at fifty miles an hour, and Jackie huddled surlily in a corner with her eyes closed in disgust. A grey light from the terribly yellow little bulb above, and the roar of the rails, and three young men, in the same company as herself, talking to each other and drinking whisky out of the top of a thermos flask.

  Three young men of about thirty — the stage-manager, the A.S.M. and the leading man — Mr. Brands, Mr. Crewe, and Mr. North. The latter, to-morrow night, at half-past nine, will smother Jackie with an alcoholic and cosmetic embrace. They have offered her whisky, but she has smiled and said No.

  This is her fourth week with Mr. Edward Granger in “The Reckoning.” Mr. Edward Granger, the well-known London actor-manager, who has not been seen in London for over three years, but a great deal in Canada, and South Africa, and the provinces of England (where he is amassing a vast fortune) has heard of Jackie’s plight (it is common talk), and employed her in his company, and treated her with very great kindness altogether. She is very grateful to Mr. Granger, and Mr. Granger is rather grateful to her, for she makes Mr. Granger feel large.