by P. G. Glynn
“Otto wants what I want … and it goes without saying that this is where we’ll be setting up home. He knows that the theatre’s in my blood and that I couldn’t live anywhere but London.”
“He does? He was somewhat evasive on the subject when I tackled him about it – and as for him wanting what you want, he’s just your fiancé at the moment, not your husband. There’s a difference between the two, I can tell you, and such details as his stance on bringing up Charles’s baby, along with the little matter of where you’ll be making your marital home, are best sorted before the wedding, not after it.”
“Oh, you’re such a pessimist!” Marie said with an involuntary shiver. I know Otto’s perfectly happy about the baby, because he has said so. As for the rest, he’s like putty in my hands and that won’t change after we’re married. We’ll be back from our honeymoon and living in London before you can say ‘boo’ to a goose.”
“If you say so,” John said, sighing wearily at the sweet certainty of youth.
“I do … but if it will make you feel better I’ll talk to Otto. I’m going to miss you, Uncle John.”
“Not half as much as I’m going to miss you!”
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Tonight was to be Marie’s last performance and tomorrow she was to be married. Guy Brodie waited for her in the wings feeling as if his world were collapsing.
Impossible to imagine not having her to wait for night after night and, as for her marriage, she could not marry Guy once she was someone else’s wife. How had it all gone wrong? Everything had seemed so right and then suddenly Guy had seen tears in her eyes. He had also heard whispers about a bastard and a shotgun and had known that Marie was leaving so that she wouldn’t have one – a bastard, that is. Guy didn’t know where the shotgun came in.
As for where Marie was going after her wedding, nobody seemed to know and even she didn’t. It was to be a surprise, she had told him. He was all for surprises as long as these were nice but she had spoken with the kind of emptiness in her eyes there had been on that First Night when she forgot her lines, so she could not be expecting a nice surprise. Why did Marie look so empty and why did she sometimes cry? Guy would ask her but for the risk that he would then cry too, since this was something boys weren’t supposed to do. He must somehow put on a brave face for their ‘goodbye’, saving his crying for his pillow tonight.
“Hello, friend!” Marie suddenly said from right beside him.
Guy had been too busy thinking to hear her arrive. “Hello, friend!” he greeted her with a tremulous smile.
“We’ll stay friends, won’t we, even when I’m a married lady? I’m sorry that I couldn’t wait long enough to be … a Brodie.”
He had wondered whether she remembered. It helped a bit that she did – both helped and hindered. “I’m sorry too,” he told her, pushing the words past the lump in his throat. “But I want to be your friend for ever and ever.”
“Then you shall be!” Stooping to cup his face in her hands, Marie kissed the tip of his nose. “We’ll be the best friends there’ve ever been. There’s no need for either of us to feel lonely because wherever I am and wherever you are we’ll be together in our heads, won’t we?”
Guy liked the idea of being in her head and having her in his. He nodded mutely. Then he said: “I love you, Marie.”
“I love you, too … and thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
“For wanting me to be a Brodie and for … for not mentioning who my successor is to be.”
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“‘You can do nothing to help me,’” said the girl, weeping. “‘I am past all hope, indeed.’”
“‘You put yourself beyond its pale,’” said the gentleman. “‘The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies misspent, and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again; but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of the morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of daylight, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion, or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is time and opportunity!’”
Mr Brownlow was addressing Nancy but there was a message in his words for Marie. She gave her last performance with lead in her limbs and with dread in her heart for its aftermath. When Charles Dickens wrote OLIVER TWIST and DOMBEY & SON he was writing more than fiction. Marie was not due to die, like Nancy, but felt as if she had died. To be leaving Charles and the Tavistock behind was akin to death, yet when the curtain fell finally she would need to put on the performance of her life, playing the part of a happy bride.
Otto had insisted on giving a party for all the cast to mark Marie’s departure and this was to be held in her dressing room tonight. The whole Company would be there, agog to see her and Otto together and gauge whether she was marrying him because she wanted to or because she had to. Of course, with the wedding taking place so soon after the engagement there was bound to be gossip and conjecture, especially with Clive on hand to drop hints and stir things. How he had stirred things for her … how he had hated her since she took over from Dolly Martin!
So it was essential for Marie to play her post-performance part flawlessly. Never once must she give Clive or any of them the satisfaction of believing, even for an instant, that she was less than ecstatic at the prospect of her marriage. She must get the message across to them that she hadn’t a single regret and that if there was a baby on the way it was Otto’s. They must be helped to conclude that she was leaving from choice and that, for her, acting was secondary to the love-match she had made. Above all they must be convinced that it didn’t matter one whit to her who took over as Nancy. Better still, she must somehow demonstrate that she was glad to be handing the role of Charles Brodie’s leading lady back to Dolly!
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Sarah Hodgkiss surveyed the room with acute satisfaction. Them men from Claridge’s had transformed it, what with the long table they had set down the middle and all the flowers, food and drink. She had never thought to see so much tasty food on one table, nor so much booze. Everything was ready now for the bride and groom.
It was a fine kettle of fish Miss Marie was in. She might be marrying money but she sure as anything wasn’t marrying for love, poor kid. Earlier on, when the men were wanting a clear run, Sarah had stood for a bit in the wings and heard Nancy say to Rose Maylie and Mr Brownlow: ‘I am chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it.’ Bitter-sweet, them words were, seein’ as how Miss Marie would like nothing better than to be chained to this theatre and to the Guv’nor. What he’d got that Mr Berger hadn’t got was beyond Sarah but then there weren’t no explainin’ the ways of love.
She glanced round at all the flower arrangements decorating every available surface as well as the table. Ever since Otto Berger came on the scene this room had been so flowery that Sarah couldn’t rightly remember how it looked when it was bare. Well, she’d soon be seein’ it bare again. The state Miss Dolly was in no gentleman, rich or otherwise, would be wooing her with bunches of dandelions, never mind the kind of blooms the foreigner went in for. The Guv’nor wanted his bumps testing for taking Dolly Martin on again, seeing how she rubbished him and how she was still on the gin. Had Miss Dolly drunk Sarah’s fifty quid?
If she had it was her own business but it was sad. Dolly had a brain hid deep in that head of hers and could use it to be Somebody instead of a has-been. Only if she wanted to, though: folk couldn’t go from th
e down-and-down to the up-and-up without a want in them to better themselves. With Dolly still on the slippery slope the Guv’nor – if only he knew what was good for him – should’ve shut down his theatre for a week or two sooner than take the chance he was taking on Dolly Martin.
O’course he wasn’t thinkin’ straight. Neither him nor Miss Marie knew what they was doing yet kept on doing it. They didn’t know either about them three blind mice, Sarah having kept Dolly’s other visit quiet. On her visit this week, with Clive, Miss Dolly had gone straight from the stage door to the Guv’nor’s office, her head high. O’course, thanks to Clive, she had timed her visit right. Mr Brodie had been that desperate to find somebody he’d have taken on the very Devil, specially if he knew Nancy’s lines. Should Sarah have told him about them mice? They, sure as eggs, was behind all that had gone wrong at the Tavistock yet nobody knew about them except Sarah and Ben. Well, now with the damage done it was too late to tell. Besides, the Guv’nor and Miss Marie could hardly have unsung the rhyme.
Lawks – was that the time? Miss Marie, poor duck, would arrive any minute to change from her costume into that white silk dress so’s the rest would see her as a blushing bride. Good job she wasn’t bulging yet else that might’ve spoiled the effect. Not that Miss Marie’d let anybody see she wasn’t as happy as she might have been. That wasn’t her style – and my, there wasn’t a shred of doubt in Sarah’s mind but that Marie Howard had bags of style!
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Nell was waiting for Marie as the applause finally started dying. From the wings she had counted twenty curtain calls, which must surely be a record. The public had taken Marie Howard to their hearts and it had come as a shock to them when Charles Brodie announced, just before tonight’s performance, that it was to be Marie’s last for the time being. How extraordinary it had all been – the advent of Marie in this theatre and now her departure! She was a girl impossible to ignore and one who in a matter of months had made an indelible mark. There could never be any question of forgetting her.
Nell hoped that marriage to Otto would prove right for Marie and that they would be happy. Those two were both far larger than life and twice as exciting, which made them a good match – didn’t it? Nell prayed that it did and that Marie was wrong in thinking differently. If they didn’t find happiness it would be such a waste of two charismatic lives. Nell stilled her slight fear with a reminder that among Marie’s many talents was one for making the best of things. So she would make the best of this marriage … and would perhaps find that all along Otto had been the love of her life. Without Mr Brodie on the scene, she would see Otto as he should be seen and would probably be surprised. Then, with the honeymoon over and the baby safely born, Marie could in time resume her career in some other theatre – with a husband to keep a watchful eye on her.
Otto would possibly stop Marie’s impulsiveness landing her in trouble in the future and, knowing him, he might even decide to buy his own theatre, installing her as its star. Nell wouldn’t put it past him to do such a grand thing, loving Marie as he did. If the marriage was to be happy, mind, Otto would need to consult her before making decisions, even ones designed to benefit her as an actress. Marie would not take kindly to a husband deciding things first and telling her afterwards, so Otto would be in for a rough ride if ever he tried such tactics. But why was Nell worrying on their account about how they might or might not live their lives? She would just have to trust in her friend’s luck … and try not to miss her and her antics too unutterably much.
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By the time Otto arrived, Nell and Sarah had helped Marie prepare for her part as a bride. He saw her in her draped white dress, her hair – interwoven with gardenias he had sent – piled high on her head, and thought her the epitome of loveliness. There was a translucent quality to her eyes and skin, almost as if she were not of this world, and his heart lurched. He had watched from the stalls as she took all her curtain calls and had deemed himself the luckiest man in Christendom. This vision would be his from tomorrow on. Could he have wished for better from Providence?
They were soon greeting their guests. The first to arrive were Michael Wickenden and Clive Swindall who, determined not to be impressed by the lavish spread, said in unison: “How very pleasant!” Then Clive, shaking Otto’s hand, commented: “I’m never sure on these occasions whether to congratulate or commiserate.”
“In that case,” Otto said easily, “commiserate with Marie and congratulate me.”
“The wedding seems to have been arranged in rather a hurry.”
“Does it?” Otto asked him innocently.
“Well … yes. I mean, speed has been of the essence, hasn’t it?”
“It always has been, with me,” Marie said brightly. “Or have you forgotten the speed with which I took over from Dolly?”
“That would take some forgetting,” Clive admitted, his eyes narrowing to slits. “And from tomorrow dear Dolly will be back in our midst. Whoever would have thought it? One out, one in, same as in the beginning.”
“Not quite the same,” said Marie, slipping her arm proprietorially through Otto’s and smiling up at him as if he were the centre of her universe. “Whereas Dolly went off into oblivion, I am marrying the man of my dreams who has completely swept me off my feet. Not that you’d understand about marriage, being of a persuasion that perhaps rather frowns on it, so Otto and I won’t look to you for understanding. Nor shall we expect you to think of us as we honeymoon for months in the lap of luxury. But maybe you’ll tell Dolly from me that she’s more than welcome to the part of Nancy … and to all the other parts she’ll be playing in this flea-bitten Company.” Smiling sweetly at Clive, Marie ended: “Now do excuse us while we greet our other guests … and help yourselves to lobster, or quails’ eggs, or whatever else tempts you – along, of course, with a glass or few of Krug.”
“Of course!” the two chorused, looking bemused and accepting glasses of champagne from Sarah before mincing off to inspect the heavily laden table. Spooning generous servings of caviar on to two plates, Clive was heard to say: “It pains me to think that after all our efforts the little minx might have come off best. We’ve yet to see the lovebirds with dear Charles, though, haven’t we … and to establish which of her beaux is the father of her baby?”
As the guests assembled they were mostly agog to witness the expected tensions between the three. With partridge, unseasonal turkey, an almost obscenely sized side of Scotch beef and a host of other delicacies to select from, they were also anxious not to miss out on food or drink. So they helped themselves with ill-disguised delight while also keeping an eye on new arrivals. Charles Brodie would put in an appearance, wouldn’t he? He would, surely, seeing how Marie – whatever else she had done or been – had excelled as his leading lady.
He had her to thank for the fact that OLIVER TWIST was still playing to packed houses long after it would normally have made way for another play, and for the Tavistock being more on the map than ever before. It had to be admitted, if grudgingly, that in taking over from Dolly so spectacularly she had done wonders for this Company. There were few present who honestly considered it would be a blessing to have Dolly back. It might prove to be a curse, in fact. As for Marie and Charles on a personal level: he had certainly not been himself this week. If there was a baby, and if it was his, was he heartbroken at Marie’s going or vastly relieved that she would not be bringing a paternity suit, under the Bastardy Act, as some women would have done? She most emphatically would not be in need of money from him, considering that she was marrying it. Otto Berger must be a millionaire twice over to afford this spread, that bobby-dazzler of a ring and to stay for so long at Claridge’s. “Just look at her,” said Hannah Hamilton who, after being greeted by Marie and Otto, had piled a plate precariously high and joined Molly Pearson and Pearl Francis in a far corner. “Talk about the cat that swallowed the cream! She’s set up for life, isn’t she? But fancy going off to live with him in Germany!”
“Is
that a fact?” asked Pearl. “Is Mr Berger definitely German?”
“I’d heard he was Austrian,” said Molly, quaffing champagne as if it were water, “which isn’t much better, but what does she care? Rich is rich the world over. In her shoes I’m not at all sure that I’d care, either, although of the two I’d obviously prefer Austria.”
Germany was generally seen as the villain of the war, it having been Wilhelm who – after the Austrian heir’s assassination – began pushing the Habsburgs toward invasion of Serbia and Wilhelm too who later proclaimed ‘a state of imminent threat of war’. So, as a victim to start with and later a seeming pawn in the game, Austria was viewed in a more kindly light than Germany, but both countries were alien territory.
“From the look of her, she hasn’t a care in the world,” Hannah observed. “I reckon she’s leaving Charles without a backward glance – and what woman wouldn’t, with a gent like Mr Berger holding her arm? I know which of the two I’d choose, given half a chance. Ah, now the fun’s due to start!”
Charles felt the eyes of the room on him and wanted to be anywhere else. Could there be a worse prospect than having to shake the hand of the man soon to succeed him in Marie’s bed? He could think of nothing worse, unless it was seeing Marie as that other man’s bride. She looked ethereal, as if about to play Titania in A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT’S DREAM … or as if love were illumining her from within. Christ, how was he going to get through this?
