Twopence Coloured

by Patrick Hamilton

  But Jackie has no gratitude in her heart at the moment. The three young men are in jovial spirits, and chaffing one another.

  “No, honestly, old boy, why don’t you write a book?” Mr. Brands is saying. Mr. Brands is an embarrassed little man, not much good as a good fellow, and given to flattering the leading man. “That was really jolly good — that bit in that letter there.”

  “And come to you for the copy, eh, old man? Come on. Drink up. Drink up.”

  “Oh, well, you might do worse, old man. (Thanks, old boy.) But honestly, old boy — why don’t you? ‘The Diary of an Unsuccessful Actor.’ What about that?”

  “The Diary of a What?” cry both the other young men, simultaneously, and Mr. Brands looks a little sheepish.

  There is a gust of laughter in the compartment, and then Mr. Crewe comes down.

  “My Dear Old Boy! My — Dear — Old — Boy! You have Dropped it, old boy — this time all right. Poor old North! Poor old boy! Did he ever think he’d be called that!”

  “No, old boy. Just a good title, that’s all,” says Mr. Brands, but Mr. Crewe will have none of that.

  “You — have — Dropped, old boy, The Brick! The Pro Verbial Cube — of Baked Clay, old chap! I mean I’ve never heard anything like that. The Pro Verbial Cube, old boy, I mean!”

  “No, old boy, don’t be an ass,” says Mr. Brands, but Mr. Crewe will have none of that, either.

  “The Historic Oblong, old boy! The Identical and Actual Oblong! Well I Never!”

  “No, old boy ——”

  “I mean Absolutely Ripped it up, old man. I mean you left nothing Undone, old chap. Ruthless, I mean. Poor old North. I don’t think he’ll ever get over that. Too bad. Cheer up, North, cheer up.”

  “No — listen, old man ——”

  “As an Actor, old chap — doubtless very fine. But for Tact, old fellow…. For pure Diplomacy, old man…. I mean to say we won’t mention Corns, old boy. Nor Sensitive Spots, old man. I mean we actors have our Susceptibilities, you know. I mean one Simply Doesn’t, old fellow. Not straight to a fellow’s face. Of course it’s what we all think really, but there are certain Well-defined Limits, if you understand…. Oh, that was too good…. I say, we’re getting up a pace.”

  “Be in by two,” says Mr. North.

  And Jackie listens, and the train roars on, and the time is ten to two. And she supposes the landlady has got her letter, and she trusts the landlady will be up, and her headache is fearful, and she thinks she has a cold coming on, and she’ll take some Aspirin when she gets there, if she hasn’t forgot to pack them (which she rather thinks she has)…

  And she is without love or protection in this world. She is utterly desolate, and ill, and alone. But she doesn’t care two pins. She will never have another emotion.

  She looks at a photographic advertisement of a watering-place in Wales.

  II

  It is half-past eleven in the morning. Jackie is in the front room of her Margate lodgings, and Little Minnie, her landlady’s daughter, is going to do the Charleston.

  There has been a lot of talk about it, and Jackie’s landlady thinks that Jackie wouldn’t be half amused, just to see it like.

  But Little Minnie, standing there by the door, is Shy. Little Minnie is three feet high, and eats her thumb.

  “Now then, dearie,” says Jackie’s landlady. “Show the pretty lady how you do the Charleston. Go along, dearie. Show her! Don’t be Shy.”

  But Little Minnie continues to eat her thumb.

  “Go on, dearie. Do the Charleston. Do the Charleston, dearie.”

  But Little Minnie continues to eat her thumb.

  “She won’t do it, will she?” says Jackie’s landlady.

  Jackie smiles.

  “Go on — like you did it before, dearie…. Oh, you silly girl! Are you Shy of the Lady? She won’t eat you. You’re Shy of the Lady, aren’t you?”

  But Little Minnie, not committing herself on this point, continues to eat her thumb.

  “Silly little girl,” says Jackie’s landlady….

  And then, all at once, and before they are ready, the spirit moves Little Minnie. And Little Minnie’s arms are suddenly lifted up, and a strange and awe-inspiring spasm shakes Little Minnie’s body, and a hideous silence falls, and Little Minnie’s face takes on a horrible smile…. And Little Minnie’s legs begin to turn outwards and inwards.

  Little Minnie is Doing the Charleston.

  “Look! She’s doing it! She’s doing it!” cries Jackie’s landlady. “She’s doing the Charleston!”

  “Oh, isn’t that good?” says Jackie, with enormous glee. “Isn’t that good?”

  “Go on, dearie. Don’t leave off! Go on, dear. Do the Charleston!”

  But Little Minnie wouldn’t stop the Charleston now, if you asked her.

  “That is good, isn’t it?” says Jackie. “I’m sure I couldn’t do the Charleston like that.”

  “Look — she does it just like them, doesn’t she?”

  “Just,” says Jackie.

  Little Minnie suddenly reverts to thumb.

  “And what did you say the Lady was yesterday, dearie?”

  Little Minnie looks flirtatiously at her mother, but does not reply.

  “Go on, dear. What did you say?”

  Little Minnie pauses. “Pri,” says Little Minnie.

  Pretty! The child has surpassed herself! There is an explosion of laughter and the little thing is bundled out. “You must come and do the Charleston again before I go,” says Jackie. And then Jackie, by herself again, walks over to the window.

  And she stays at the window for a long time, gazing out. And then she comes back to the sofa, and looks at the fire.

  And then she puts her head into the cushion, and begins to cry, and tell the cushion things.

  “Oh, why weren’t you here, Richard?” she asks. “To see Little Minnie do the Charleston? You shouldn’t have left me to Little Minnie, Richard. I do hate her so….”

  And, “Richard dear, it’s my birthday to-day…. And I’m twenty-seven, Richard dear! I am…. Oh, Richard, Richard, Richard! …”

  III

  Sometimes Jackie would wake in the night and wish him back just to round it off. She wanted just one little word of exposition and farewell.

  He would come in the dark and be close to her. And, “That’s all right, Richard” she would say. “There’s nothing to fret about. It was quite wonderful while it lasted, wasn’t it? And we got the best out of it. If we’d only known we had such a little time, we might have wasted it less, but it was perfect while it lasted…. It was a perfect year. Do you realize it was just a year and five months? … And it’s quite all right, isn’t it, Richard?”

  And he would say, “Yes. That’s right, Jackie. There’s nothing really to regret. It’s only over. Good-bye, darling.”

  Then, she thought, he could go back, and she could go on. It would be a mere aching tragedy — no worse.

  And if he could kiss her, in the dark, once, for the last time….

  IV

  But then Jackie was always waking in the dark these days, and it was wearing away her spirit.

  She had worries now — even earthly and monetary worries — things which had not touched her before.

  And nowadays Jackie’s mind would continually revert to the days when she had first arrived in London — to the days when she had come up with all the dignity of her virginity and youth behind her — to the days when life had been too simple for her conquering. And nowadays she would examine that early attitude, and see it for what it was. And she would see it as one enormous bluff, an astounding optimism which had so far borne her up — a colossal assumption that she was to take the prizes and rare things of life. And had she taken them? No. And was she going to take them? And was there any reason for supposing she was going to take them?

  She wished she could recover that early dignity.

  And in twelve years’ time one would be forty. What did one do then? It was all get
ting too much for her.

  V

  It was in the o.p. corner of the stage of the Theatre Royal, Brighton, and at about 10.15 at night, and on the last night of the tour, that Jackie hit upon a temporary solution to life. She would succeed.

  She would succeed in this business. She had always meant to do it. Her ambition had been temporarily diverted. Now she would return to it — with renewed vigour and wisdom.

  The solution came quite suddenly. She was watching, with wide eyes and a dreamy air, Mr. Robert Granger driving his wife round a very tropical-looking hut with a whip.

  There was a great deal of cracking and screaming going on, and the audience were looking up with a strained, serious, pince-nez’d, and rather anxious expression, as much as to say Tut Tut, he shouldn’t do that (though they knew to what drink led a man, in the tropics).

  She would succeed. She would start right again from the beginning and succeed. She would be back at West Kensington to-morrow, and out of work. But she had her art. Yes, she had the right to say that now. She had her art, and could live for that alone.

  She would write letters to every manager or producer she knew, and force herself upon London. And she would come to the top.

  And when she had got there? … She could not answer that…. But she now had something to work upon. She would use all her forces and die in the attempt.

  By the time she had reached this conclusion, Mr. Granger, having swallowed (on the mistaken impression that it was whisky) a large tumblerful of what was not, was rolling about, in a painful and arsenical manner, upon the floor. And at this point Jackie was joined by the company’s carpenter.

  “The Old Gent’s Busted himself,” murmured this carpenter to Jackie.

  That this carpenter, after having witnessed the Old Gent Bust (even if that was the right word to employ) himself in this way for over fifty nights at the least, should now have the naïveté, the effrontery, the spirit even, to announce, to the leading lady on the last night of the show, that his employer had done it again — was a surprising thing to Jackie. Nevertheless, Jackie felt a peculiar sympathy arising towards this sardonic carpenter. He had an attitude towards the drama which appealed to her.

  “I know,” said Jackie, and smiled at him. He smiled back. He was the most winning carpenter.

  She was surprised by that smile. It brought her back to life again. She was one with human kind, after all.

  *

  When she had taken her call (and the Saturday applause was reassuringly violent) she ran up to her dressing-room with quite a light air — humming. She was going to succeed.

  CHAPTER II

  THE ASPIRANT

  I

  JACKIE kept her promise to herself when she got back to West Kensington, and in a week’s time she had her card in the “Telegraph” and over a dozen letters written to managers and producers of her acquaintance. Some of these received no reply whatever, others procured examples of the if-anything-comes-along-will-remember school of replies, and others obtained interviews for her.

  These interviews were generally fixed for eleven o’clock in the front of a theatre, and they either took place at one o’clock or not at all. There was generally another young woman, rather like yourself, hanging about at these interviews — or else an Apollo-like young man (with a Plum) who at last got very testy and said Well, he had been told he could see Mr. So-and-so at eleven thirty, and strode away with a very slim waist but manifestations of spleen.

  If, however, you succeeded in obtaining precedence over these lounging rivals, you at last found yourself in a small room, where your producer (or whatever he was) would by slow degrees familiarize himself with your hand, look into your eyes, and murmur, “You don’t want a job. What do you want a job for?” Your producer did not say this because he really thought you didn’t want a job (he knew you would give your soul for one) — but because he was not, at the moment, concentrating upon his profession, but dallying with matters nearer his heart.

  Indeed, if he was greatly afflicted in this direction, he would forget himself so far as definitely to kiss you (in a prolonged manner), or, in very severe cases, to express his good-will by a curious tendency to Produce you on the spot — or at least artistically to mould, and make appreciative manual experiments upon, your figure — as though the first steps in production were purely personal, and he really had to see where he was….

  It was all in the business, and if you were an actress of normal spirit, when you came out from such interviews you rushed pantingly to your nearest friend and exclaimed, “Oh, my dear, the Embraces!” But if you were a Jackie of life you took a dreary train back home to lunch with a jaundiced outlook on life.

  *

  Not that all Jackie’s experiences with producers were of this nature. There was also that type of producer which believed that the Theatrical Profession Happened to be a Business. And this type of producer didn’t have Whole Mornings to Waste. And it Knew Actors and Actresses In and Out. And they Knew it Knew Actors and Actresses In and Out, and that was where the trouble lay (for the actors and actresses).

  And this type of producer possessed a very telling nose, and much urbanity, but it did not leave off writing when you came into the room. On the contrary it said “Do take a seat, please,” in a suave voice, as though it was keeping its temper very well this morning, and would continue to do so provided you didn’t start any calumny. And it went on writing for about fifty seconds…. Then it clipped two bits of paper together…. Which was accompanied by a soft humming noise. Also by “You‘re Miss Mortimer, aren’t you”— as much as to say “That’s a pretty bad state to have got into — to be Miss Mortimer.” You admitted, not without a decent awareness of guilt, that you were. But it didn’t follow up your affirmative, because it wasn’t quite satisfied about those two bits of paper, which were by now in the little basket on the desk…. Either it thought that they weren’t clipped together properly, or else that they weren’t quite the right bits of paper to put in that basket — at any rate, it was sure something was wrong, and it picked them up and glanced over them suspendedly — lifting up the top bit, running its eyes down the bottom bit, and fiddling about until it was satisfied, when it tossed them back again. All this was keeping you waiting, of course; but being, by now, a confessed criminal, you obviously did not deserve much consideration. At last, however, in the same suave voice, and sharpening its pencil, “Is there anything I can do for you?” it asked.

  You only wanted to know, really, if it Had anything for you.

  It rested its elbows on its chair, and joined its middle fingers. There was a silence.

  It wanted to be let see — what had you been doing lately?

  You stated your latter engagements.

  Oh, you weren’t HAZEL Mortimer, were you?

  No. You didn’t know anything about Hazel Mortimer….

  Oh. It thought perhaps you were Hazel Mortimer. It had been getting confused. Of course she was pure Legitimate, wasn’t she?

  So were you.

  Oh, you WERE?

  Yes. You were.

  But by now it was getting rather dissatisfied about other bits of paper on its desk, and was picking them up and putting them down right and left, as though it had lost its paper-knife. It continued to talk, vaguely, while it did this, and then, suddenly alighting upon the most important piece of paper in the world, commenced to Stamp. This was done with a little rubber handle, which produced a very half-hearted mauve lettering, but which demonstrated, beyond the last growlings of Doubt, that the Theatrical Profession Happened to be a Business. There it was Happening to be it. It was a positive Post Office of a profession.

  Well (stamp), it said, there certainly wasn’t anything going around just now. It wanted to be let see — “The Knocking at the Gate” you had said? (Stamp.)

  You had.

  Had you got (stamp) any programmes of that?

  Felon that you were, you at last showed a little stiffness at this. No, you didn’t think y
ou had.

  Your stiffness was not unobserved. (This was a curious bit of paper to find on one’s desk! Stamp-stamp!)

  Such a thing would be useful, it said.

  You hadn’t thought that such a thing would be necessary.

  And some cuttings, too, would be useful, really….

  You rose. Well, then, there wasn’t anything doing just at present?

  It had the grace to rise as well, and take your hand. No — but it would remember you if anything came along. Would you give your address in to the girl downstairs? You knew her room, didn’t you? Good morning.

  It was back at its desk before you had shut the door.

  The whole result being that, by the time you had given in your address to the girl, who was prejudiced against taking down such a loathsome address from the beginning, but could not help herself — and by the time you were out in the street, you were alluding vulgarly to this type of producer’s shows as Dirty shows, and asseverating (in the same low form of speech) that you would not enter them if you were given Two Hundred Pounds. But you knew, unhappily, that they were actually very desirable shows, and that even if so many as £195 were subtracted from your idiomatic amount, and you were given the chance, you would be in them like a shot.

  II

  After various experiences of this nature, and various other experiences wherein she found herself in stage-door passages with five or six young women of the same age and appearance, and the same manner of looking at their wrist-watches with serious doubt as to whether they could go on waiting about for the same interview for the same part as Jackie herself was seeking — and after various other experiences still, when, on being so lucky as to obtain intercourse with one of the dozen or so actor-managers of established repute in London, she was treated with the utmost deference, sweetness, and consideration, but a lack of optimism — Jackie found herself losing heart in her letter-writing, and made a concentrated attack upon the agents.