by Jean Plaidy
She was certain now that she had done the right thing in coming over to Smock Alley.
One day life changed dramatically. It was after the performance and she was about to return to her lodgings; as she came out into one of the corridors of that warren which was Smock Alley Theatre she heard her name called faintly. She paused. She did not recognize the voice but it sounded like one of the young girl players.
‘Miss Francis… oh… come quickly… up in the attic…’
She hurried up the narrow stairs to the top of the building.
‘Miss Francis…’
She opened the door of the attic; it was dark inside.
She called. ‘Who is it? Where are you? Wait… I’ll get a candle.’
She heard the sound of a key turning in a lock; and there was a chuckle from behind; she was seized in a powerful pair of arms.
She knew immediately. What a fool! she thought. Of course he could imitate one of the girls. He was enough of an actor for that.
‘Dorothy, you idiot,’ said Daly. ‘How long did you think you could say No to me?’
‘Let me go immediately.’
‘All in good time.’
‘Mrs Daly…’
‘Is not in the theatre tonight.’
‘You’re a devil.’
‘I don’t deny it.’
He was laughing as she hit out at him. She shouted and screamed, but he laughed. ‘No one can hear.’
‘I… I’ll kill you.’
‘You can try. Most of them want to smother me with their caresses.’
‘I will never, never do that.’
‘In time you will. Go on. Kick… scream. I like it. It’s a novelty… and it’s all useless.’
She fought until she was exhausted, but he was the stronger. Crying with rage, frustration and shame she was forced to submit to rape.
She crept into her bedroom. Thank God she did not have to share with Hester or Grace for if she had, how could she have kept this hideous secret? Her clothes were torn, her body bruised and battered, and she herself was bitterly humiliated.
She should have known. All that care she had taken in the beginning and then to be lulled into security, and caught like that. She would never forget; she would go on remembering every nauseating second.
And he had laughed triumphantly, knowing all the time that he would win.
What could she do?
Her impulse was to pack and leave. But how could she explain the reason to her mother? She pictured Grace’s terror. It was what she feared would happen to her daughters – only even she had not thought of rape.
I hate him, she thought. He’s a devil.
She wished she could stop thinking of it. The darkness of the attic, the losing battle virtue and decency had fought against brutal and bestial strength.
What chance had she had?
She could not stop thinking of him, brooding on him, hating him and yet… she would not admit it. She was not fascinated by him. She was not one of those silly little girls who were ready to run when he beckoned.
‘I hate him,’ she said aloud.
But what could she do? She took off her clothes and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. She could go into her mother’s room now and say, ‘We are leaving in the morning. I shall never go into Daly’s theatre again.’ She thought of the parts he had given her, playing opposite Kemble, and giving all that up. For what? To start again in England? Where? And who would give her a chance?
Time was what she needed. Time to think about the right course of action.
I have not only myself to consider, she reminded herself.
She saw him the next day and scornfully turned her head away.
‘Don’t be despondent, my dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll arrange another little rape for you very very soon.’
‘You’re loathsome,’ she cried.
‘I know.’
‘I wish I’d never seen you.’
‘My dear Dorothy hates me so vehemently that it’s almost love.’ he said.
She turned away, suppressing a great inclination to burst into tears.
She was careful never to be alone with him; but he was constantly in her thoughts. It must be so, she told herself, because she must be continually on the alert against him.
Once or twice when by some mischance he encountered her alone he would ask her to step up once more to their attic.
‘Never,’ she retorted, ‘and I am in a mind to tell Mrs Daly what has happened.’
‘She would believe you were very willing – in fact that you lured me there, for in common with every other woman in this theatre – including Miss Francis – she has a high opinion of my prowess in love.’
Dorothy turned away. There might be something in that, she had long decided. To have reported what had happened to Mrs Daly could well have meant her dismissal.
He was secretly amused because she had told no one of what had happened. That fact gave him confidence to proceed with his plans.
He ceased to pursue her. In fact he told her that he was sorry he had behaved as he had and he hoped the incident might not impair their friendship.
‘That which never existed could naturally not be impaired,’ she retorted.
And from that day she was no longer offered the best parts. She was not well known enough to insist; she was entirely in his hands; and naturally since she was not playing important parts she could not expect to continue with her salary of three guineas a week. It was promptly cut to two and, she was told ominously, even that was more than the parts warranted.
Grace was bewildered. What had happened? Dorothy had been doing so well. Why had it suddenly been decided that she should be given such silly little parts? Grace began to worry. Were the Dalys displeased? It was difficult to balance the household accounts. Worrying made her ill and it was necessary to incur doctors’ bills. They were in debt.
‘You’re looking scarcely yourself, my dear,’ said Daly one day when she saw him alone. ‘I’m getting concerned about you. Mustn’t lose your bloom, you know. The audiences won’t like it.’
She tried to push past him but he detained her and said gently: ‘I hear that your mother has been ill. Is it doctors’ bills and invalid’s fare?’
‘My mother has been ill,’ she admitted.
‘In debt?’
‘It’s my affair.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. My actresses’ good looks are my affair. And I feel guilty. You haven’t been the same since our little adventure. You worry too much. I’m sorry. I was under the impression it was what you wanted. I didn’t understand that you really meant what you said. Dorothy, will you accept a loan?’
She hesitated. She must find the money. And after all why shouldn’t he help?
‘I’d rather have my old parts back with my old salary.’
‘Have the loan first, settle your affairs… and then you’ll be able to concentrate on work.’
‘You owe it to me in any case,’ she said.
‘That’s the spirit. More like the old Dorothy. I’ll lend you a hundred pounds. You can pay me back when you’ve got it. Come to my office tomorrow and I’ll get it all signed and sealed.’
So she did and she paid the bills and she told Grace how kind Mr Daly had been. That cheered Grace considerably. ‘He must think highly of you, Dolly,’ she said. ‘I expect that wife of his is jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ said Dorothy sharply. ‘Why should she be jealous?’
‘Of your success, of course.’
Dorothy sighed. Grace must never know about that frightful scene in the attic.
A few weeks passed. True to his word Daly offered her a better part; her spirits rose. It was going to take a long time to pay off her debt but that would come.
Wherever she went she seemed to see Daly’s eyes upon her. She became alarmed because she knew that it was not true that he had lost his interest in her.
When the ultimatum came she was not unprepared for it. The kind Mr
Daly disappeared and there was the rogue, whom she had learned so tragically how to distrust, with another proposition. He wanted her to come to him willingly this time; he had no intention of using physical force.
‘An anti-climax,’ he told her. ‘The first time… that was exhilarating. But we don’t want a repeat performance. I have rented a place for us; we will go there whenever I say and you will be pleased to come, my dear, I promise you.’
‘And I promise you that you can keep your little places for others.’
‘I’ve had a surfeit of others – by no means enough of Dorothy.’
‘You are insufferable.’
‘I know it. And you are fascinating. That is why I must go to such lengths to win you. For you are too cold, my dear. I could never abide frigid women. That’s something we must change – and I think we shall. I have a notion that that experience we shared was not as repulsive to you as you would like to delude me and yourself into believing.’
She turned away, but he caught her arm. ‘Don’t forget you owe me money. I can have you sent to the debtors’ prison.’
The debtors’ prison! The shadow which overhung the poor of every class! The descent into despair from which so often it was impossible to escape. He laughed to see her turn pale.
‘No need to be afraid, my dear. Be kind instead. It’s all I ask.’
‘You promised that you would allow me to pay you back by degrees.’
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘But…’
‘I want the money now. Don’t be a fool, Dorothy. You don’t have to pay your debt in cash.’
‘Oh… you are…’
‘Insufferable! You’ve already said it. Don’t repeat yourself, my dear. Shall we say after the theatre tonight? I’ll give you the address. It’s close by. Stop being Miss Prude. It doesn’t become you because you’re not, you know. You were meant to enjoy life and by God you shall. You be there tonight, kind and loving, and I promise you you’ll have no fear of either debtors’ prisons or small parts. You’ll come well out of this, Dorothy, my dear. All you have to remember is that it does not pay to flout the manager.’
He gave her an affectionate little push. He was sure of success.
Dorothy walked away blankly.
What could she do? Run away with the family. Where to? Grace was not fully recovered. This would kill her.
Whereas if she gave way Grace would know nothing… She would get her big parts back…
What can I do? she asked herself.
From that day she became Daly’s mistress.
There was a clever likely lass,
Just come to town from Glo’ster;
And she did get her livelihood
By crying Melton Oysters.
She bore her basket on her head
In the genteelest posture.
And every day and every night
She cried her Melton Oysters.
And now she is a lady gay,
For Billingsgate has lost her
She goes to masquerades and Play,
No more cries Melton Oysters.
So sang Dorothy on the stage at Smock Alley and the audience roared its applause. It was not the banal words of the song nor the simple melody; it was Dorothy Francis, small, dainty, provocative, looking for all the world as though she might have carried a basket of oysters on her head at one time and now was the lady who went to masquerades and plays.
Now that she was getting better parts her fame was growing and on the nights when she appeared the theatre was full; when she sang one of her songs the audience would not let her go immediately after but insisted on several repeats.
There was no doubt of Dorothy’s popularity. Mrs Daly grumbled a little. ‘Must that young woman have all the best parts, Richard?’ ‘No, my dear, only those that wouldn’t become you. Dorothy’s a comedy actress. She lacks your dignity. Let her have the light-weight parts. You have the real drama.’ And Mrs Daly was not discontented with that. She had given up being jealous of Richard. It was well known that he was the lover of almost every personable young woman in the company, and she had grown tired of protesting about that. What she cared about was that the best parts should be reserved for her – and if that were so and the money came in, let Richard amuse himself.
The winter and spring had been a trying time for Dorothy. She despised herself and the position into which she had fallen; and her hatred of Daly, who had put her into it, was growing so intense that she felt she could not accept her position at Smock Alley for much longer.
As she lay in her bed in the room next to her mother’s and Hester’s she examined the possibility of departure. She had acquired some fame, but was it enough? Would they ever have heard of her across the Irish Channel?
Extreme poverty was something she could not face. Daly had refused to accept small payments for the loan and she knew that he intended to hold it over her. It was no generosity on his part; he liked to have women in his power particularly when they were good actresses as well as physically attractive to him.
So far she had managed to keep the affair secret from the others but could she hope to continue to do this? From a carefree tomboy she had become a woman of responsibilities. Had she had only herself to fend for everything would have been different. She thought longingly of the old days at Crow Street, and the more she thought the greater her hatred of Daly grew.
She had always been aware that something would have to be done. The question was what.
She knew that fate had decided for her when she made the alarming discovery that she was pregnant.
It could not remain hidden for much longer and Grace, ever watchful, made the discovery. She could not believe it – except that it was something she had always feared for her daughters.
Never had Dorothy’s hatred of Daly been so intense as it was when she saw the anguish in her mother’s face.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m going to have a child. It’s Daly’s. He forced me in the first place and after that threatened me with the debtors’ prison.’
Grace wept bitterly. ‘You did it for us,’ she said. ‘For me and for the family.’
‘I could see no other way out and after that first occasion…’
She shuddered and Grace cried out: ‘Don’t go on. I understand, my dearest child. But this must stop. I can’t have you treated in this way.’
‘But what can we do? Where can we go? Don’t forget that now… there will be the child.’
Grace threw off her invalidism and became the courageous woman who had run away from a parsonage to seek her fortune on the stage. This was her daughter whose very devotion to the family had put her into this terrible position. Grace had always feared it but now that it had come she would face it boldly.
‘We must leave here at once,’ she said.
‘But where could we go?’
‘To Leeds,’ replied Grace promptly. ‘I was reading not long ago of Tate Wilkinson’s company. I once played Desdemona to his Othello. He couldn’t refuse help to an old friend.’
Dorothy was relieved. At last she was sharing her hideous secret; and her mother knew too much of theatrical life not to understand how it had happened.
She felt happier than she had for months.
Tate Wilkinson’s company
THERE WAS ENOUGH money to buy passages to Liverpool for the family and during the next few days they secretly made their preparations to leave. When the time of departure arrived they quietly slipped out of their lodgings and took ship to Liverpool; and from thence made their way to Leeds.
It was easy to discover the whereabouts of Tate Wilkinson for most people knew the manager of the theatrical company who had not long ago inherited theatres in York, Newcastle and Hull when his partner had died. He lodged at an inn near the theatre and Grace said they must lose no time in seeing him, for they had scarcely any money left and had not been able to bring all their clothes with them for fear of someone’s seeing them and reporting to Daly, who would le
gally have been able to stop them since Dorothy not only owed him money but was under contract to him.
When Tate Wilkinson heard that Mrs Grace Bland recently come from Dublin was asking to see him he remembered who she was at once. He would never forget that Othello in Dublin in the days when he had been a young and struggling actor.
He was kindly and as sentimental as most theatre folk so he received Grace warmly but was unprepared for the rest of the family.
He bade them be seated and when Grace told him that they had come from Dublin and that her daughter who had made a name in Ireland wanted to give her talents to the English, Wilkinson was dubious. He was like any other theatrical manager, always looking for talent; but if the young woman had been doing as well as her mother said why had they left Dublin? He was constantly being approached by impecunious actors and actresses for a chance, and he was after all a business man.
‘My daughter Dorothy is a first rate comedienne,’ declared Grace. ‘You should have seen her filling houses in Ireland. It was the same wherever she went…’
Wilkinson looked at the dejected and weary young woman, who did not look exactly like a comedienne.
He wanted to say he could do nothing, but there was the past connection with Grace and something about Dorothy, in spite of her listlessness, appealed to him. Perhaps she would recite something for him, he said. She replied that she was too tired and would prefer an audition actually on the stage in a few days’ time.
The mother was anxious; there was some mystery here, Wilkinson decided.
He sent for a bottle of Madeira wine and some food. The family, he noticed, ate heartily and while they did so he talked of the old days at the Dublin theatre; and of Grace’s sister, Miss Phillips, who was now playing with his York company.
