The Wardrobe Mistress_A heart-wrenching wartime love story

by Natalie Meg Evans

  Vanessa clutched her script to her body. ‘The director will probably want me to read after the break,’ she told the woman. ‘Wretched Clemency Abbott hasn’t bothered to get out of bed.’

  ‘Wretched Miss Abbott has been ordered to rest by her doctor. Nevertheless, she has put her health at risk to be here.’

  Cold dismay coursed through Vanessa. The fur-draped shoulders, the upswept hair and pert hat . . . the voice had misled her. Miss Abbott wasn’t using the honey-bee tone she’d used during the read-through three day ago.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

  Miss Abbott took the script. ‘You’ve had your little moment. Whatever the day job is, I shouldn’t rush to give it up.’

  Vanessa forced out a smile. ‘You’re absolutely right, Miss Abbott. For a moment, conceit got the better of me. For a moment, I knew what it was to be an actress.’

  She escaped upstairs to her room, shaking the euphoria from her system with each step. Acting was addictive. Becoming somebody else was a drug. She could imagine it possessing her father powerfully enough for him to leave a child and home. She wouldn’t be needed back on stage now, so she might as well have another go at finding Hugo. Once again, however, her search was fruitless and she returned to the theatre. Reaching her room, she found Doyle just leaving.

  ‘Beg pardon, ma’am.’ He explained that he’d taken the liberty of unlocking her door so a mirror could be fetched in.

  ‘A new, unbroken one?’

  ‘Not new, no. Though it took us an age to find it. You’d think, being a theatre, there’d be mirrors everywhere. There are some in the dressing rooms, but those can’t be removed. So the lads searched the sub-stage where the old props are kept, but they didn’t find one there, either. Seems actors won’t have mirrors on stage. If a play calls for a looking glass, the set-makers paint wood silver.’

  ‘Superstition?’

  Doyle shrugged. ‘If you ask me, actors don’t want the audience having to look at two things at once. In the end, they found you a nice cheval mirror that used to be in the ladies’ powder room. What do you want done with the old one? Firewood?’

  ‘Oh, no. The frame is beautiful. Under that green paint, anyway. Could it be stored till I find house room for it?’

  ‘Aye aye, ma’am.’ Doyle checked to ensure that nobody was nearby. ‘What’s wrong with that fellow Cottrill? I saw him on stage before I came up here. One moment, he was with Props and the carpenters, marking out the set. Next time I looked, he was staring up at the upper circle, one knee jerking as though he’d stood on a live cable. I called out, “Are you all right,” and he sort of choked. “It’s her, Flo,” he said. Do you reckon he saw her?’

  ‘Flo being . . . ’

  ‘Our ghost, ma’am. Back Row Flo. She always appears right at the top, a girl in Victorian dress and bonnet. I reckon I’ve seen her a couple of times, but I don’t like to think about it. I reckon, if you don’t bother ghosts, they don’t bother you.’

  ‘Mr Cottrill is quite sensitive. Was the figure actually wearing a bonnet?’

  ‘A hat . . . sort of lopsided.’

  ‘Ah.’ Vanessa pondered that, a suspicion forming. ‘Worn at an angle?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Come with me.’ Vanessa led the way down, and across the auditorium to the foyer, where she took the public stairs. At the top of the second flight, she paused to catch her breath and take stock. There were ladies’ and gents’ lavatories on this level and a bar called ‘The Georgian’, which was shuttered. Impulsively, she tried her key in its lock, but like the wardrobe before, the solid door swallowed it. Checking that Doyle was still behind her, she continued to the upper circle. Softly creeping inside, she heard a sound that reminded her of the distant hum of fighter squadrons returning home. Rhythmic droning. She waited for Doyle to catch up.

  ‘There’s your ghostly apparition.’ She pointed to Hugo, slumped in the middle of the front row, his beret pulled half over his face. She hadn’t the heart to wake him.

  Returning to her side of the theatre as Doyle went back to his niche, she found the wardrobe door slightly ajar. She jumped like a cat at the sight of a black figure searching inside her wardrobe.

  ‘Miss Bovary!’

  ‘Oh, you, Mrs Kingcourt. I let myself in.’

  ‘So I see. How may I help?’

  Vanessa had the impression that Barbara Bovary was replacing something, or covering something. When she turned, however, there was no sign of apology in her demeanour. ‘You can begin by explaining your conduct towards Miss Abbott.’

  Vanessa said nothing, instead making for the tea kettle. She was parched. The sight of Hugo’s drawings on the wall gave her a lift. She asked, ‘Will you take tea?’

  ‘No thank you. You were insolent to our leading lady.’

  ‘She was late again.’

  ‘Since when has it been your business to comment on the conduct of the talent?’

  Vanessa filled the kettle. The tap wheezed rudely. ‘It isn’t, and I apologised. Didn’t Miss Abbott say?’ Fed up of being yet again on the wrong side of Miss Bovary, Vanessa launched an attack of her own. ‘Why won’t you comment on Hugo’s work? It’s all around you.’ She made a gesture that implied gorge your eyes. ‘Hugo was your choice. I’d have expected more enthusiasm from you.’

  Miss Bovary looked ready to pop. ‘Mrs Kingcourt, you are on your final warning. One more word or look out of place, I’ll see to it that you’re fired and that you never work in theatre again. Understood?’

  The correct answer was undoubtedly, ‘Perfectly.’ But Vanessa had sat firm under enemy fire, flown in a Beaufighter and slapped the face of Commander Redenhall. Remembering Hugo’s enigmatic revelation about the woman’s penchant for the dead, she said, ‘Did you hear we had a ghost in the house earlier? Seems Back Row Flo is up to her tricks.’

  Miss Bovary was suddenly alert. ‘What – what do you mean?’

  ‘A faceless entity watched today’s proceedings . . . so I heard. Should we conduct a séance?’

  The woman tottered. Vanessa leapt forward. Good God, what have I done? Firm steps approached and she called out, ‘Please, help!’

  It was Lord Windermere, or rather, Patrick Carnford, who hurried into her room. He carried a long-stemmed rose. ‘Which of you is fainting?’

  ‘Miss Bovary.’

  They got her to a chair. Vanessa poured a glass of water.

  Miss Bovary’s colour gradually revived. She asked Patrick Carnford to walk her downstairs.

  ‘With pleasure, Barbara, but first I have a little speech to make.’ Patrick Carnford faced Vanessa and proffered the rose. ‘Fairest Vanessa, I humbly apologise for my colleagues’ behaviour earlier. Art is nothing without manners. Don’t you agree, Miss Bovary?’

  Miss Bovary now looked as if she was going to be violently sick, but speech was not beyond her. ‘She’s an employee, Mr Carnford. Johnny Quinnell’s girl, so the Commander says. It’s why we feel we know her but can’t place her. However, it does not confer special status.’

  ‘Quinnell’s girl . . . I wouldn’t have known it. He was a strapping fellow, whereas you – ’ Patrick bent and kissed Vanessa full on the mouth.

  She heard Miss Bovary’s gasp. She’d have gasped herself, if she could. When Patrick raised his head, she discovered she had her second audience of the day. Tanith, Alistair and Macduff made a ragged line in the open doorway. Doyle stood behind, his scarred face like a child’s drawing of shock. Alistair looked as if he’d swallowed salt water. Tanith giggled violently.

  Carnford placed two fingers against Vanessa’s cheek, and whispered, ‘Don’t let the buggers grind you down, darling.’

  With a polite ‘How-de-do’ for Alistair, he loped past them, forgetting his promise to escort Miss Bovary down the stairs.

  Miss Bovary asked Alistair instead. He said, ‘Of course,’ but made no immediate move, too occupied appraising Vanessa. ‘Why is Carnford giving you flowers?’


  Vanessa looked at the single rose. It was the colour of fresh butter. ‘He was being . . . mystifying.’

  Alistair’s voice gained its brisk quality. ‘Tanith is to play Lady Agatha Carlisle.’

  As a stand-in, Vanessa assumed. Miss Bovary was faster on the uptake.

  ‘In a professional capacity? Absolutely impossible. For one, she isn’t a member of Equity.’

  ‘She will be,’ Alistair said patiently. ‘These things can be arranged. How else do young performers get their start?’

  ‘The girl has no experience!’

  ‘Saying “Yes, mamma” and flirting wordlessly with a fellow actor is something she’s more than qualified for. The newspapers will love the fact that we have Dido Meredith’s granddaughter in the cast.’

  Miss Bovary said through clenched teeth, ‘I have never heard of Dido Meredith.’

  ‘She was a Gaiety actress,’ Tanith informed her. ‘And a PB.’

  ‘What is that?’ Vanessa demanded.

  ‘A ‘Public Beauty’. Granny was ever so popular in the olden days. I bet you had postcards of her on your wall, Miss Bovary.’

  Alistair buried a cough in his sleeve. His face gave nothing away.

  Tanith piped up again, ‘And she was Edward the Seventh’s mistress when he was Prince of Wales.’

  Miss Bovary rose unsteady, then pushed past them all, saying as she went, ‘A story that will guarantee an audience of gawping scandal-mongers and outrage the Royal Family at the same time. I congratulate you, Commander. I will see myself to my office.’

  ‘It’s no trouble, Miss Bovary.’ Before following her, Alistair said to Vanessa, ‘The design of Lady Agatha’s dress won’t suit Tanith. I recall the shoulders are very wide.’

  ‘You came here to tell me that?’

  ‘No.’ He leaned very close and said softly, ‘Two plain clothes policemen came to my office, asking for Hugo. I said we hadn’t seen him for a while.’

  ‘He’s up in the Gods, sleeping. What’s he done?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say. But I’m afraid I can guess.’

  Tanith stepped forward. ‘Nessie, can we ask Hugo to draw me something that won’t make me look like a fairground tent?’

  Vanessa nodded. ‘’Course we can, but don’t say “draw me something” – he’s a designer, not an illustrator. Come in and look at the pictures.’

  With an approving nod, Alistair went. Macduff remained, his mind perhaps on Vanessa’s biscuit tin. Doyle seemed in no hurry to go, either. While Tanith was occupied on the other side of the room, Vanessa asked, ‘Did you tell Cottrill that his ghost was a six feet tall, exhausted Irishman?’

  ‘I did, ma’am. I went to check on Mr Brennan again, but he’d gone. I too have my suspicions what this police trouble is. We’re meant to be a family theatre, but ghosts, dead bodies, now the cops . . .’ Doyle scratched his mutilated ear.

  ‘“There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” From The Picture of Dorian Gray, and I’ve never believed the sentiment. Sometimes, gossip is poison.’ Vanessa went to her cupboard. After a short search, she ascertained that Miss Bovary had rifled among the letters she’d concealed under a wad of material. They were those from her to her dad, which Ruth had passed on. None seemed to be missing, but what had Miss Bovary been hoping to find? What so disturbs her . . . Am I too much alive for her liking?

  ‘Doyle, how long have you worked here?’

  ‘I started a week before you did.’

  ‘Who was your predecessor?’

  ‘Mr Kidd, who works nights here, looked after the theatre while it was closed, before Commander Redenhall took over. Any particular reason you need to know, ma’am?’

  ‘I’d like to speak with someone who was here the night Mr Bovary died.’

  ‘That would be Miss Bovary, Mr Rolf and his lady.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Who else, Doyle?’

  ‘Well, there was one who witnessed the whole night, start to finish.’

  ‘You don’t mean Back Row Flo?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about her.’ Doyle pointed to Macduff. ‘This fellow was found outside the stage door, lying across his master. He’s a good dog. His only shortcoming is, he don’t talk.’ Doyle gave him a pat, then nodded towards the rose that Vanessa had forgotten she was holding. ‘A nice, well-mannered gent, that Mr Carnford. Generous. All the ladies say so. Well, best be getting on. I just wanted to mention that it’s the Commander’s orders that I sign everyone in now, staff, actors, policemen. It takes a bit of time, see, writing down names at the door. Asking their business, keeping them waiting, if you get my drift.’

  ‘I think I do. More to the point, I’ll try and ensure that Mr Brennan understands.’ She watched Doyle leading Macduff away, then called to Tanith who was studying a drawing of Lady Windermere’s ball gown, her head cocked to one side. ‘Let’s see if we can run Hugo to ground.’ After another futile trip to Great Portland Street, they called at his flat. Hugo wasn’t there either.

  He made no further appearances at the theatre that week.

  Three evenings in a row, Vanessa went to Old Compton Street and knocked at Hugo’s door, even though there were no lights on in the flat. She even tried an early morning visit, hoping to catch him sleeping. A man unlocking a dance-wear shop below the flat told her in a low voice, ‘The police can’t find Mr Brennan either.’

  ‘Why do they want him?’

  The shopkeeper gave her a considering look. ‘Are you a friend of Mrs King?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Never mind, treasure.’ They got chatting about matters theatrical and Vanessa explained her costume sourcing predicament.

  ‘Have you thought of Stage-Stock?’ the man said. ‘They hire anything and everything. They’re in the City, Clerkenwell.’

  Vanessa went straight there, and spent the remainder of the day being shown around a massive warehouse that contained every period costume imaginable.

  A heavy shower fell as she made her way home and when she woke the following morning, her hair resembled a bunch of dried hops. She telephoned Mr Stephen from the phone at the back of Anjeliko’s and asked for the earliest possible appointment. Mr Stephen’s assistant remembered her. ‘Mrs Redenhall’s little friend? Come at four. He’ll squeeze you in.’

  She left work early to be in good time.

  It started well, a vigorous hair wash ridding her of London grime. And then she overheard something that trampled her peace of mind and threw her future into doubt.

  Chapter 18

  Stuart, the shampooist, massaged a pulp of fuller’s earth, linseed oil and vinegar into her hair, made her a turban from a towel and asked her if she’d like refreshment. ‘Ginger beer, if you have it.’ He brought it with a back copy of Time Life magazine and Vanessa settled down to let the oils penetrate. She was reading a piece on the actress, Vivienne Leigh, when Mr Stephen brought a client to the mirror next to hers and began removing her over-sized hair rollers. The woman, a stranger to Vanessa, was talking about a friend.

  ‘. . . not even enough to buy herself a hat or a pair of gloves. Her selfish, selfish husband has spent the lot.’

  ‘Awful, but what can she do?’ Mr Stephen murmured, teasing out a curl.

  ‘Plenty. It’s not the Dark Ages. We women have choice now.’

  Vanessa listened with half an ear, more interested in Miss Leigh, until she heard –

  ‘He’s violent, did I say? Hit her in a churchyard of all places. She kept a brave face.’

  Mr Stephen tutted. ‘No woman should have to tolerate that. And she has no money, you say?’

  ‘Old money, but that’s a fancy way of saying it’s run out. She’s having to do her own cleaning.’

  ‘No lady should put up with that. Shall we try a softer style today? A parting would be a start.’

  ‘I don’t like them. I mess them up.’

  ‘A parting for them, not for your hair. Has she got another
man in her sights?’

  ‘There is an admirer.’ The client’s voice dropped, and Vanessa missed a segment until the woman spoke up again. ‘The title will come to him in due course, and naturally, she’d like to be safely hitched to him before it does.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Mr Stephen echoed. ‘I’m glad we trimmed a little off the back. You’ll get a nice bounce on the shoulders. What do you call the people who invest in theatre shows?’

  ‘Angels?’

  ‘Because if the lady you’re talking about is who I think she is, her husband’s angels are about to take flight. One of my regular ladies has a husband who manages a bank, and the rumour is –’

  Vanessa didn’t learn what the rumour was as she gulped her ginger beer too fast and had to cram her hand over her mouth to stop herself burping. Stuart came to her at that moment and unwrapped her head. ‘Time to rinse, Mrs Kingcourt.’

  She left the salon with her hair restored to sleek waves, and without any actual proof that she’d overheard a warped version of Fern and Alistair’s lives. But there couldn’t be many theatre managers in the throes of marital strife. What she’d heard was sickening and worrying. Alistair was relying on outside investors to fund Lady Windermere. His angels must not take flight!

  The following day, a memo appeared on the stage door notice board.

  To all cast and staff

  Thursday, October 3rd, 1946

  The date for the opening of Lady Windermere’s Fan is the last Thursday of November. The first technical rehearsal is scheduled for November 21st and the first dress rehearsal for the day after. The final tech rehearsal will be Monday, November 25th, and the final dress rehearsal the following day. Crew start-time on each occasion is eight a.m. Cast start-time is nine-thirty. There are fifty-two days to go to opening.

  B Bovary on behalf of Cdr A Redenhall

  A copy had been pushed under her door. Alistair had added a line: ‘Have you heard from Hugo? Please report.’ The memo proved that Alistair still had faith in his show. Faith that proved short-lived.