by Judy Nunn
‘Can’t you see it, Pete? The crowds at the railings and the streamers? Just like the old black and white movies.’
‘Not really, I have to admit.’
‘No sense of romance,’ she laughed, ‘that’s your problem.’
They drove back via Portchester so that he could collect a fresh set of clothes; it was tacitly understood that he’d stay the night once again at the stables. ‘What will Susan say?’ Sam asked as they pulled up outside his sister’s place.
‘Nothing.’ Pete was amused by her childlike concern. ‘She’ll assume I’m having an affair and she won’t approve, but she won’t say a thing. I’m thirty-four years old, Sam.’ He got out of the car, then leaned back through the window. ‘She just doesn’t need to know with whom,’ he added protectively; gossip in village communities was rife. ‘Keep your head down a bit,’ he said, then laughed as Sam, alarmed, shrank out of sight.
There was only a week of the season to go and Sam counted the days, or more importantly the nights, as the production drew to a close. They managed to keep their affair a secret from the rest of the company, partying with the gang as always, then slipping back to the stables together when the evening broke up. Sometimes Pete stayed overnight, but more often than not he left before daylight. It was impossible to avoid the kitchen windows, he said, and he was convinced that Mrs M had seen him on several occasions, although she’d tactfully pretended not to.
‘She knows, I’m sure of it,’ he said.
He appeared to be far more concerned about Sam’s reputation than she was. ‘Who cares?’ she said when he first voiced his worries. ‘I don’t.’ Then she felt guilty. The man might be separated, but he was still married. Furthermore, he loved his wife. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, instantly contrite. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I’m really sorry.’
But Pete’s concern for her was genuine. She had her career to consider, he told her. ‘The London tabloids would have a field day with you, Sam, you’re big news over here, don’t forget. “Soapie starlet’s affair with older married man” wouldn’t stand you in good stead with Reginald Harcourt.’
Sam had made her decision from the outset, however. She had no intention of attempting to carve a career in Britain. Not yet anyway.
‘That’s exactly what I’d be known as, Pete, a “soapie starlet”, and I’d get the odd telly guest role if I was lucky.’ It was a life in the theatre she wanted. ‘And I’m not ready,’ she said. ‘I’m nowhere near ready.’ She’d return to Australia, and start from the bottom. She’d take classes and grab any stage job she could, she’d learn her craft the hard way.
And she’d make it, Pete thought. She had talent and guts and, above all, he realised as she recounted her plans with a passion, she was hungry.
The last night of the panto was an emotional experience. After the performance, they hugged and kissed and exchanged addresses and phone numbers, and the younger members of the dance team cried. It had been a happy and intense season. There was no partying on after the show – some were driving directly to London, others had early morning trains to catch – and by eleven o’clock Sam and Pete were back in the stables. Their last night together.
They shared a bottle of wine and they talked, and they made love. Then, at two o’clock in the morning, they said goodbye. It was only five hours before a driver was to collect Sam and take her to the airport.
She went downstairs with Pete to the front door. He’d told her to stay in bed, but she’d insisted. ‘The least I can do is see you out,’ she’d said, ‘even us Aussies have some sense of courtesy.’
She was determined not to cry, just as she was determined not to tell him that she loved him. But she did, she thought as they shared their last kiss. ‘I’ve had the best time,’ she said brightly.
‘So have I.’
Then, whilst she clung briefly to him, she said, her voice muffled in the shoulder of his greatcoat, ‘I’ll never forget you, Pete.’ She couldn’t help herself, and he probably couldn’t hear her anyway.
‘I’ll never forget you either, Sam.’ She heard the words clearly through the greatcoat, and she looked up at him. He stroked her hair back from her face as he did so often after they’d made love. ‘Dear Sam,’ he said, ‘you’ve taught me so much.’
He was serious; she wondered what on earth he could mean. ‘Like what?’ she asked.
He smiled his laconic smile. ‘Like “chook”, for example.’ They kissed once more. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, and he was gone.
‘Goodbye, Pete,’ she said to the closed door.
In the morning, when the driver arrived to collect her, Sam discovered Mrs M out in full force to wish her farewell, complete with a foil-wrapped package of sandwiches and a small thermos flask of tea.
‘I’m sure you didn’t have a proper breakfast, dear, and it’s a long drive to Heathrow.’
‘But what’ll I do with the flask?’
‘Oh you keep it, we’ve plenty more.’ As the driver lifted the suitcase into the trunk of the car, Mrs M hugged her. ‘You look very tired, dear,’ she said, then she stood back and surveyed the girl at arm’s length, her normally beaming face serious. ‘You look after yourself, Sam, you’re a very special girl.’
‘I will, and thank you for everything, Mrs M.’ Sam took the tiny silver statuette from the inside pocket of her shoulder bag. ‘See? My Frogmorton horse, I keep it there for good luck.’
‘What an excellent idea.’ Mrs M’s face was once again wreathed in a smile. ‘I shall watch your career with interest,’ she said as Sam climbed into the car. ‘I may even take up the telly.’
Sam wound down the back window as the car pulled out of the driveway. ‘Don’t bother,’ she called, ‘keep your eye on the theatre!’
She drank in her last sight of Chisolm House, Mrs M large and indomitable, beaming and waving as she stood between the two stone lions. Then the car pulled out into Osborn Road, past the parish church of St Peter and St Paul and down the hill.
CHAPTER THREE
‘So Red Centre at the Royal Court was your really big break?’ Nigel Daly had made copious notes throughout the interview, but he was particularly interested when Sam spoke of the Australian production that had toured to London early in the year 2000.
‘Yep. Red Centre, the Royal Court, the start of the new millennium and my first meeting with Reg.’ Sam looked at Reginald, who hadn’t said a word for the past forty minutes. ‘It was love at first sight,’ she added cheekily and he returned the compliment with a fractional lift of the eyebrows.
The successful touring season of Red Centre by Nicholas Parslow, one of Australia’s leading playwrights, had been staged at the prestigious Royal Court Theatre in Knightsbridge. It had been the perfect showcase for Samantha Lindsay, and Reginald Harcourt, impressed by her performance, had become responsible for her career, which had taken off in earnest from that moment on. But, at the time, Reg had been completely unaware of the true impact their first meeting had had upon Sam.
‘How do you do, Miss Lindsay,’ he’d said when he’d come backstage after the show. ‘My name is Reginald Harcourt. I’m an agent.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She recalled the name immediately.
‘I wondered whether I might arrange a meeting with a view to representation,’ he held out his card, ‘that is, of course, if you’re interested.’
‘I’m very interested, Mr Harcourt. What’s wrong with right now?’
‘Ah.’ It wasn’t the way Reginald normally did business. He’d actually intended to have his card sent to her dressing room with a message for her to call, but Pete Harris had insisted he go backstage. ‘Nothing, I suppose.’
‘You don’t mind if I take the slap off while we chat, do you?’ Even as she asked, she sat and started tying her fair hair back in a ponytail.
‘Not at all.’
‘Pull up a pew.’
He sat and watched her in the mirror as she applied a liberal coating of cold cream to her face. She was in a towelling robe and com
pletely unself-conscious about her appearance. It certainly wasn’t the conventional meeting between actress and agent, he thought, but it was rather refreshing.
‘I enjoyed your performance, Miss Lindsay,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled at him in the mirror. ‘It’s a beaut part of course. Please call me Sam.’
‘Yes, it’s an excellent role,’ he agreed, ‘but not an easy one. It takes a good actor to pull it off.’
She turned to face him, wiping the cream and the heavy makeup away with a handful of tissues. ‘Did you come to the show just on the off chance, Mr Harcourt …?’
‘Reginald, please.’
‘Reg,’ she said and he inwardly winced, ‘… or did someone suggest you check me out?’
‘I would have seen the show in any event,’ he said. ‘I see most of what’s on around town, but it was definitely suggested I “check you out”, as you say, and I’m very glad I did.’
‘Pete Harris?’ It felt strange saying his name out loud. Strange and slightly exciting.
‘That’s right. I believe you did a panto season together some years ago.’
‘Yes. We did.’
‘Well, he’s obviously a great admirer of your work. He said to tell you that he thinks you’re even more talented than you were then.’
‘He was in the house tonight?’ She felt breathless at the thought. Reginald Harcourt nodded. ‘So why didn’t he come backstage?’
‘He and Melaney had to get home to the babysitter,’ Reginald said. ‘But they both thought you were wonderful, and they sent their congratulations.’
She tossed the tissues in the bin, crossed to the washstand and filled the basin with hot water. ‘I didn’t know they had a child,’ she said as casually as possible.
‘Two now.’
‘Good grief, really?’ She slapped on the skin cleanser. ‘Well, of course it’s been a whole five years since I saw Pete.’
‘Yes, a boy and a girl. Susan’s just turned four.’
‘How fantastic. Are they blissfully happy?’ She dived her face into the hot flannel.
‘Yes, very much so. It’s a bit of a loss for me, of course, Melaney giving up the business. I used to represent her and she was a very good actor.’ His smile was fond. ‘But I think she’s an even better mother.’
Sam put down the flannel and looked directly at the tidy little man in the charcoal grey suit who had no idea that he had just closed a chapter of her life.
‘How lovely for Pete,’ she said, wondering with a touch of regret whether there would ever be a man in her life who would mean as much to her as Pete had during that magic Christmas at Fareham. She’d certainly met no-one in the past five years. ‘He’s a beaut bloke and I’m very glad for him.’ She was, she realised.
‘Hey, Reg,’ Sam undid the ponytail and shook her hair free, ‘why don’t we clinch the deal over supper? I’m bloody starving.’
‘An excellent idea.’ Her brashness grated a little, but he sensed she was on edge. Perhaps it was a form of selfdefence. Regardless, Reginald decided that he liked Samantha Lindsay. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he quickly added as she started undoing her robe.
The interview with Nigel Daly having finally concluded, Sam partied on with the Doll’s House gang, and she had a bit of a hangover when Reginald picked her up at the Dorchester at ten o’clock in the morning to drive her to Fareham. She’d been staying at the hotel for the past week since moving out of her rented flat in Kensington.
‘You look terrible,’ he said. She didn’t, but she was obviously tired.
‘Thanks.’
‘What time did you get to bed?’
‘Four o’clock. And if you dare to lecture me I’ll catch the train.’
At Reg’s insistence, she’d relinquished the hire car she’d driven during the London season. ‘You won’t need a car in Fareham,’ he’d said, ‘and I’ll collect you the following Monday and drive you to the airport.’ It was very generous of him and Sam was grateful. Besides, she was longing to show him the house.
‘No lecture intended,’ Reg promised. ‘You’re permitted to get legless on closing nights.’
She nodded. She had. ‘And I feel bloody terrible,’ she said.
‘The drive’ll wake you up.’
He was right. She travelled with the window down until Reg complained that he was freezing, but by then the cold blast of air had done the trick, and she was restored to her ebullient self.
‘I can’t wait to show you the house.’
‘If I had ten pounds for every time you’ve said that …’
‘I know, I know, but now you’re actually going to see it! I can’t wait!’
Reg had been taken aback when she’d told him, several weeks previously, that she’d bought the old house she’d once stayed at in Fareham. ‘Just like that?’ he’d queried. ‘On a whim?’ She hadn’t even discussed it with him.
‘It’s an investment,’ she’d said defensively. ‘You’re always nagging me about investing my money, you’ve been telling me to buy a property for ages.’
A small flat in London had been what he’d had in mind, he told her a little archly, something practical that she could lease out. A Victorian mansion was a different kettle of fish altogether, he said. ‘It’ll be a never-ending expense, Sam, you do realise that?’
‘I’m meant to own this house, Reg,’ she’d insisted. ‘I can’t explain it, but it’s just meant to be, I can feel it.’ His look was decidedly sceptical and Sam couldn’t blame him. She knew she wasn’t making much sense.
Reg was genuinely annoyed that she’d taken such a major step without consulting him, but he was also mystified. It was unlike Sam to eschew commonsense and behave in such a fanciful fashion. Certainly, like many actors, she adhered to theatre superstition – she didn’t whistle in dressing rooms or quote from Macbeth and she even touched wood each night before she went on stage – but Reg suspected that was due to her love of tradition more than anything else. Sam was, at heart, a practical girl.
‘You’re lucky Torpedo Junction came in,’ he’d said, and he stopped nagging. What was the point? The deed was done. But she was damn lucky, he thought. She’d landed the movie at the very last minute, and she’d been a rank outsider.
Now, he glanced sideways at her and proffered a smile which he hoped looked eager. ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ he said, before returning his attention to the road ahead.
Sam was aware that he was humouring her, but she wasn’t offended. Reg didn’t know the half of it, she thought as she looked out the car window at the countryside speeding by, the frost still glistening on the ground, the trees magnificent in their rusty autumn foliage. Reg knew nothing of the chain of events. How things had all linked together. And she couldn’t have told him. Not only because she knew he’d be cynical, but because she knew he’d have every right to be.
It had started with the leaflet. A month ago. It had arrived at the theatre on a Monday, in an envelope addressed to her and marked ‘personal’. A glossy little brochure from a real estate firm, with no note included. ‘FOR SALE’, it said, ‘VICTORIAN TOWNHOUSE IN PICTURESQUE FAREHAM’, and there was a photograph of Chisolm House with ‘open for inspection’ printed beneath. She hadn’t pondered the identity of the sender. Some enterprising real estate salesperson who’d discovered she’d lived there years ago, she presumed – she’d been approached by many businesses and charities following the play’s extensive press coverage. But, as memories flooded back, she wondered why she’d never returned to Fareham. Just for a visit. For old times’ sake. She’d intended to, she recalled, during the run of Nick Parslow’s play at the Royal Court several years ago. But then perhaps Fareham, like Pete Harris, had been relegated to a past which should remain past.
She’d decided to drive down the very next morning. Early. A leisurely wander about the town and the old house would be enjoyably nostalgic, and she’d have plenty of time to rest before the evening performance.
But, when she turne
d off Osborn Road into the side driveway of Chisolm House, she was surprised to discover that the property was not open for inspection at all. There was no-one in sight, the doors were closed, the garden overgrown, the house apparently deserted, and there was no ‘for sale’ sign to be seen. How odd, she thought as she got out of the car.
She rang the bell, no-one answered; she tried the door, it was locked, so she walked around to the front bay windows. It was sad to see the garden so untidy and neglected, buried beneath a burden of early-fallen autumn leaves, the fountain mouldy and choked with decaying foliage. She peered through the bay windows into the front drawing room. There were no drapes and, despite the grime on the panes of glass, she had clear visibility. The room was bare. Only the fixtures remained, the mantelpiece and the fireplace, and, without the chandelier, even the ceiling looked naked.
She walked down the side drive to the gravel courtyard at the rear and her heart skipped a beat when she saw the stables. The huge wooden doors set into the sandstone arch, the slate roof, the multi-paned glass windows. She looked up at the loft and remembered staring through those windows at the snowbound courtyard that lonely Christmas Day. And she remembered Pete and their nights together.
The front door was locked and she peered through the windows. The interior of the stables, like the house, was devoid of furniture, but somehow it didn’t seem as abandoned. The sandstone walls and the timber beams were warm and inviting, a cosy assurance that nothing had changed, and Mrs M’s voice came back to her. ‘This was the tack room,’ she could hear the thick Hampshire accent, ‘and over here, this was the actual stables, four of them I believe, although the Chisolms themselves never kept horses.’ Sam’s gaze wandered up the staircase, following Mrs M’s voice, ‘… up here was the loft.’
