The Foreigner

by P. G. Glynn

  The russet skirt made of suiting serge had had some extra gathers at the waist and now gave maximum fullness – a very different fashion from the straight unbroken lines so much the current vogue. The blouse was beige and, Marie’s compressor having been dispensed with, somewhat revealing. “Isn’t the neckline a bit low?” Marie asked, snatching at it and imagining Mam’s reaction to an audience seeing such an expanse of her daughter’s flesh.

  “Big breasties is for showin’, if your name’s Nancy,” Sarah said, tugging at the blouse from beneath the skirt and then tacking the two together so deftly that Marie was scarcely aware of the needle touching the cloth. “She’s a woman through and through and so must you be!”

  With Marie seated in front of the mirror Sarah then completed her transformation into Nancy. A liberal sprinkling of Bay Rum followed by deft handling of a hairbrush soon coaxed those dark tresses into ringlets, after which the dresser concentrated on Marie’s hands and eyes. An audience noticed those first so they must pass muster. She massaged almond-paste into skin that was already soft and then dusted it generously with powder. Marie’s hands would now appear pale and smooth across the footlights whereas, young though they were, they had risked appearing red and worn under that relentless glare. Black kohl emphasised her eyes, which would look larger and still more lustrous later after the inner corners had benefited from drops of belladonna. Derived from the deadly nightshade, this was quite harmless when used cosmetically. Leichner foundation had been applied, with a touch of rouge to lend extra shadow, and there was need for little else. Sarah avoided mention of the French chalk that filled the wrinkles in Miss Dolly’s leathery skin, smoothing them. She could keep a secret, could Sarah, besides which Dolly Martin was unaware that anyone knew she used this trick. Few such skills escaped Sarah, however, who put those premature lines down to hard living. Her handiwork finished, Marie stared at herself.

  The face that looked back from her mirror was not her face but ethereal and yet at the same time earthy – a goddess’s face, or a slut’s. Marie gasped in awe, for she had surrendered her identity. Sarah’s artistry had turned her into Nancy.

  In a house on Frith Street, off Soho Square, another woman was studying herself in her mirror and liking what she saw. Soho – the name derived from the Duke of Monmouth’s watchword at the Battle of Sedgemoor – was a dark area of London and, with its maze of courts and mean, narrow streets, squalid. This house differed from its surroundings, though. The bedroom was especially sumptuous, with thick rugs from Harrod’s store covering the floor and with a four-poster that had set its owner back a bob or two. Not that she counted cost as long as she got what she wanted. A big bed was essential since Dolly Martin seldom slept alone: she needed company and never more so than at night, when her demons started rising. Without a man beside her Dolly found the hours of darkness terrifying. There had been no man for a month and she had dealt with her terror by drinking herself into a nightly stupor.

  Her bed being too big for the narrow staircase to cope with Dolly had accommodated it on the ground floor, turning two rooms into one large area. She could of course have removed instead to Queen Square or somewhere equally fashionable, but Dolly had no time for followers of fashion. She also happened to like Soho and to feel alive in its streets, which were populated with real people, not with puppets such as that bastard Brodie who she was sure lived in Queen Square just because so many other actors lived there.

  Charles always did the expected, never the unexpected, whether in his private life or in the theatre. That was why he had not risen far above the mediocre and why he should listen to her. Yet would he listen when she tried to show him what was what? Not him, no, not even when it was obvious that she was right and he was wrong! He was a pompous, patronising pig and she had put up with his condescension, coupled with his antiquated methods, for far too long. It was no secret that he tried to mould himself on Irving just because as a boy he had once worked with Sir Henry briefly. The fool should move into the twentieth century! Yes, it was time for him to bring his thinking up to date and become an original instead of a copy. But had he the gumption to be anything other than the outlandish caricature that he currently was?

  As Dolly surveyed herself in her mirror she rather doubted that he had. She was far more woman than he could ever be man. And, at least with her make-up on, she was still a beauty. The face that she saw, set amidst the luxuriant red hair she took such care with, was flawless thanks to her expert use of eye-highlights, foundation, powder and rouge. Her green eyes, their lashes thickened and lengthened with mascara, were her most distinctive feature and were often commented on for their expressiveness by the gentlemen of the press. If she could have changed anything it would have been her nose, which she considered a trifle too long and too pointed – but skilfully applied cosmetics detracted from that, just as French chalk took ten years off her age, making her eighteen again. Dolly never ventured forth without first making herself up for the stage. Even old Sarah must not see her in an unmade-up state. One had one’s image to preserve and over the years Dolly had become adept at preserving hers.

  She was now an actress of such standing that she could have any man she wanted. Full-blooded males flocked to her and she could choose from among them. Only a man with ice in his veins could possibly resist all that she was offering. Such a one was Charles Brodie … and she did not want him!

  It would be madness if she did. No woman in her right mind would want a man who didn’t want her – and she could still hear his words. They kept echoing through her head as if he had just said them: ‘There must be some misunderstanding. I am married and not looking for a dalliance.’ Then, when – in disbelief – she had smiled knowingly at him, he had shown his indifference saying: ‘My dear, even if I were not a married man I would still be wedded to my art and my first priority would always be this theatre. I would never – no, never! – do anything to imperil my position as actor/manager here.’

  Dolly, cut to the quick, had told him he had one hell of a nerve thinking that his appetites were of the least interest to her. But how galling his refusal had been … how demoralising!

  She was not used to rejection. If there was any rejecting to be done, she did it! And she was worth ten of Charles Brodie any day, so why had she ever tried to seduce him? As for why, night after night, she kept dreaming of him holding her like Bill Sikes held Nancy – she cursed these unsettling and unsolicited images. Her dream plus his attitude toward her, both as a woman and as an actress, were making a mockery of things and making her turn to drink. But Charles, that cold fish, was blind both to his culpability and to her loss of confidence. He was a monster and with all her experience of men she should know better – even when asleep – than to have any truck with him.

  Dolly despised herself for letting him affect her as he did. She never normally let the parts she played affect her off-stage. What was it about him that made her think he would be better in bed than any other man she had ever met? He was nothing much to look at, or not in the accepted sense. His long hair and unworldliness made him seem to some a figure of fun. But Dolly suspected he had depths just waiting to be plumbed and for the past month had even wondered whether she had fallen in love.

  She could not have done. Since she didn’t believe in love her feelings toward Charles must be lust. Whatever they were, she must somehow revert to how she had been before he filled her dreams. She was not cut out for living like a nun and it was unheard of for her to go without sex for a whole month. At least he didn’t know how he had affected her since rehearsals started for OLIVER TWIST. It was comforting too to remember this morning and his walrus expression as she yelled at him!

  Dolly chuckled at her reflection, remembering and picturing how he must now be feeling. At last she had him where she wanted him. The clock was ticking on and he would be agonising as to whether she meant to return in time for the curtain to rise on his precious First Night. Well, let him agonise! His discomfiture might help him see how
essential she was to him, personally as well as professionally. Yes, by the time she arrived he would be ready to grovel … and how she would relish his grovelling!

  It had gone seven when Dolly set off, wrapped up against the chill wind. She wore a cloche hat and, over her black frock, a crimson three-quarter length tailored coat with cape sleeves - its collar turned up as she stepped out into the street. It was not far to Charing Cross Road and then there was just a short walk to the theatre. Despite the cold weather Dolly preferred walking tonight to travelling by taxi-cab. Why kowtow to Charles Brodie by arriving sooner rather than later?

  The Tavistock Theatre was situated at the corner of Great Earl Street in the district known as Seven Dials. These were sundials crowning a column at the point where seven minor streets met. Great Earl Street was one of the seven and its proudest boast was the Tavistock – a pillared playhouse with plush seats in the auditorium and matching red carpet in the ornate, gilt-endowed foyer.

  Dolly Martin felt possessive toward the theatre and, approaching, experienced again the familiar warmth that the sight of it always stirred in her. She had risen the hard way, from nowhere, to top the bill here alongside Charles Brodie and those long queues for standing room in the pit and the gods were thanks, in large measure, to her. Yes, people would wait hour after hour in this bitter weather to see her and tickets for seats had sold out weeks ago because her name was up there. Before any of her admirers could recognise her, Dolly darted down the cobbled alleyway leading to the stage door.

  Like a regal whirlwind she swept in, past the startled stage door keeper who called after her: “Wait, Miss Martin!”

  She did not hear him. Her mind was on more important things. She would go to her dressing room before going to Charles’s office. She was in no hurry to tell him she was back. Best to be casual about that, removing her hat and coat before letting him know of her decision to save his show.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Gerald Atkins appeared from the shadows looking even more like a bloodhound than usual and now straddled the corridor.

  Dolly responded: “My destination must surely be obvious, even to a moron. So stand aside at once and let me pass!”

  “My instructions are to stop you passing … and to give you this.”

  She suddenly saw what he was holding. “Your instructions?” she echoed, uncomprehending. “Who issued them … and what in God’s name are you doing with my suitcase?”

  “It contains your belongings, along with two weeks’ wages. You’re finished, Dolly … finished here, anyway. Mr Brodie has had enough of your little capers.”

  “He has what?” A spasm of fear gripped Dolly. “I never heard such nonsense! Charles can’t manage without me. I’m his leading lady.”

  “Not any more you’re not!”

  “Stop it, Gerry! A joke’s a joke but you’re taking this one too far. Let me pass!” She pushed him with such force that he momentarily lost balance and then she ran the length of the corridor to her dressing room, throwing the door open. Framed in the doorway, she stared in disbelief at the scene greeting her. Someone was sitting on her chair, wearing her costume and Sarah was there, as if the usurper’s dresser. “And who might you be?” Dolly screeched at Marie, crossing the room like one possessed and lunging at her, grabbing a handful of hair. “Whoever you are, get your arse out of here before I lose my temper!”

  “It’s you who must get out,” Marie shouted, wincing at further tugs on her hair and trying to push Dolly from her. “This is my dressing room now.”

  “Over my dead body it is! Remove my costume and your impudent mug instantly, before I kick you to Timbuktu. Do something, Sarah – don’t just stand there! I tell you, I’ll kill this little cretin if I have to.”

  Dolly began punching Marie, who retaliated. Through the rain of punches they heard Sarah say: “Come orf it, Miss Dolly! Killin’ her won’t help you and you know it won’t. She’s here on Mr Brodie’s say-so … and you’ve only yourself to blame for the pickle you’re in. Don’t go makin’ things worse by losin’ your grip.”

  Kicking Marie’s shins, Dolly vowed: “He’ll swing for this. I’ll see him – and her – swing, before I’m finished.”

  “An end to your infantilism!” Charles Brodie’s voice rang out from behind her with a resonance that caused Dolly, who was twisting Marie’s ear, to loosen her grip. “An end to it, do you hear?”

  “She’ll wear a wig from now on unless you make her take off my costume,” Dolly told him, turning. “I’ll remove her every hair if need be.”

  “Miss Martin, unhand Miss Howard this instant.” Such was the authority in Charles’s tone that Dolly, for all her fury, obeyed him and rose slowly to her feet. “You are behaving like a hellcat,” he told her once she was standing. “In all my days I’ve never seen such a disgraceful display. You should be ashamed.”

  “I should?” she queried incredulously. “You, I suppose, have no cause for shame? Well, you wouldn’t have, would you, because you’re never in the wrong! You’re always so bloody sanctimonious that it’s a wonder to me you didn’t become a priest. Yes, I reckon you missed your calling. You should have been a man of the cloth, not an actor/manager who neither knows how to act nor how to manage. Come to your senses, Charles, for God’s sake! You’ve had your fun at my expense but can’t possibly be serious about putting some little Miss Nobody on in my place.”

  “I can’t?” Charles felt surprisingly calm. “The fact is that I can, Miss Martin. As manager of this theatre I decide who goes on … and who does not. When you departed earlier on you broke your solemn oath to toe the line. I told you the last time you walked out that I would not be held to ransom again … and I meant what I said. You have orchestrated your own fate, so don’t behave as if you were the injured party. It is you who have inflicted the injuries and it will serve you well to remember that. I know of no other management that would tolerate your lack of professionalism for as long as I have tolerated it, but even to my tolerance there are limits. Today you have exceeded these, which is why I have had to take steps to see that there is never a repetition of this morning’s debacle. I have standards to maintain and cannot succeed while you are trying to undermine me at every opportunity. So, because of your own shortcomings, your services at the Tavistock are no longer needed.”

  “Are you mad?” Dolly queried. “You must be, if you believe I’ll let you get away with this!”

  “I am ‘getting away’ with nothing. I am simply running, or trying to run, a professional establishment. So when any of my cast, especially my leading lady, ceases to be an asset but becomes instead a liability, I have no alternative but to replace the person concerned. On my instructions Mrs Hodgkiss has packed your things, among which you will find two weeks’ remuneration in lieu of notice. In a world known for its temperaments, you proved at the end too temperamental.”

  She saw that he meant it … saw that she must try different tactics. “Don’t do this!” she pleaded, uncharacteristic tears pricking her eyelids. “For pity’s sake, don’t do it! I meant no harm, truly I didn’t! When you think about it, all I did was go home to cool off a bit. You knew I’d be back – and in bags of time to go on tonight. I’ve never let you down and never would. You must know that.”

  Charles was not enjoying seeing her shrivel. But there was pleasure in being the man he should have been from the beginning. “You let me down by walking out. When we should still have been rehearsing you were not even on these premises. An actress has to be able to take direction without turning on the one directing her and insulting him.

  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Dolly asked with a hint of her usual spirit. “I called you a name which you couldn’t take, so now you’re making me pay. But the price is too high. You must see that it is! And not just for me – that’s what I must make you see. Our public are expecting a performance from Dolly Martin tonight, not from some … some flibbertigibbet! They’ll go wild if at the last
minute you disappoint them … and there’ll be catastrophic consequences for the Tavistock. I shouldn’t wonder if such a misjudgement were to bankrupt you. Think, Charles, if it’s the last thing you do, before the whole of London knows you as a fool!”

  “I have thought,” he told her coldly, “and the conclusion I came to is that no-one is irreplaceable – no, not even you. You believed you were, but that was where you made a grave mistake. You have been replaced. Your reign in my theatre is over.”

  “No!” The cry was wrung from her as from a tormented soul. “Don’t do it … don’t!”

  “It is done.”

  Her face changed. Eyes hardening, mouth twisted into a grimace, she flung at him: “You like ’em young – is that it? I’ve wondered, this past month, just what it is that makes you tick. I even wondered whether it was Clive Swindall’s sort you went for. Precious little, come to think of it, is known about your … your habits and … proclivities.”

  “Enough,” Charles instructed, “and my advice is to lay off the drink. I believe that to be the source of your downfall. Now leave us before I sue you for slander.”

  “You bleeder! I haven’t finished with you or your piffling theatre.” Dolly was gesticulating like some wild creature. “No, neither of you,” she glowered at Marie now, “have heard the last of me. You’ll both be sorry some day. I personally shall ensure you’re sorry and that’s a promise. Now get out of my way!”