by Nicola Upson
For an actress in a hit West End play, Saturday was usually the most gratifying day of the week but, by five o’clock, Lydia 110
Beaumont had had enough. An unsettled air hung over the theatre as the tension which already existed among cast and crew was intensified by the shocking events of the day before; everyone seemed out of sorts because of it, herself and Marta included. As a rule, Lydia enjoyed the occasions when Lewis Fleming stood in for Terry because he brought a strained anger to the role of Richard, a rawness which gave her something different to respond to. This afternoon, however, she felt that both their performances had been distinctly below par and would not have blamed the audience for reflecting this at the end of the show. But matinee crowds were always the easiest to please and the applause was as rapturous as ever. One day they would be found out, but not today.
‘Come on, let’s go for a walk,’ Marta said, watching as Lydia wiped the last of the make-up from her eyes. ‘We both need some air and it’ll do you good to get away from this lot, if only for an hour. If you’re lucky, I’ll even buy you a sausage roll from that coffee stall on the Embankment. You need to keep your strength up –
the plague can take it out of a girl.’
Lydia smiled and took her coat from the back of the door, needing no further persuasion to indulge in a little normal living before she had to return to the stage to die all over again. ‘You know, I’ll actually be quite glad to leave this behind after next week and get out into the country for a bit,’ she said, as they climbed the narrow stairs to ground level and came out into the scene dock.
‘I see, can’t wait to get away from me already,’ Marta said in mock offence, but her playful tone was not reciprocated as Lydia stopped and looked at her.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, gently stroking her hair. ‘You know how badly I’ll miss you, but I still haven’t given up hope of talking you into coming with me, at least for some of the time.
What do you say? We could find a little guest house by the sea . . .’
‘In Manchester?’
‘All right, perhaps you’d better skip that week, but how about Brighton? We can walk on the pier if it’s nice or stay in bed all day if it’s not, then smile over dinner as the landlady frowns her 111
disapproval on us in spite of the fact that she’s only got one set of sheets to wash at the end of the week.’ Marta laughed as Lydia warmed to her theme and lapsed into melodrama. ‘Then, as the day dwindles, I’ll show you all the glamour of life on tour,’ she continued. ‘Scratchy grey blankets and shared bathrooms with no hot water, smelly dressing rooms, half-empty theatres and restaurants that close five minutes before the performance ends, leaving you no choice but to go home to cocoa from an old chipped mug. Are you really going to let me go through all that on my own? It’s tantamount to abuse, particularly for a queen of delicate disposition.’
Marta took her arm as they joined the throng of playgoers in St Martin’s Lane and headed south towards the river, taking the sight-seeing circuit which they always enjoyed whenever she met Lydia from the theatre between shows. ‘Don’t make me doubt my decision on this one,’ she said, more seriously this time. ‘I could easily be persuaded to come with you because I don’t want us to be apart any more than you do, but I’ll just be in the way.’ She held her fingers to Lydia’s lips as they started to protest. ‘You know I’m right. It’s your world, and I can skate around the edges and drag you up for air occasionally, but it’s better for both of us if we keep you and me separate from all that. At least that way you have some sanity to come home to, and thank God nobody’s thought of opening the theatres on a Sunday yet: we’ll have a lot of time to make up for on your days off.’
Lydia smiled wickedly back at her and, sensing that the crisis had passed, at least for now, Marta changed the subject. ‘Talking of delicate queens, has your lord and director found you a Bothwell to return to yet?’
‘I don’t know for sure but we’ll find out from Josephine later –
she went to the meeting with them. However, judging by the mood he was in when he came out, I don’t think he got his way so we’re probably safe in assuming that it’ll be Lewis rather than Swinburne.’
‘How miserable for you! From what I saw of him at lunchtime, he’s not exactly going to be a laugh a minute in rehearsals, and 112
there was a gaggle of adolescent girls panting over the other chap’s photograph as I came past Wyndham’s. Wouldn’t he have been a bigger draw?’
‘Possibly, but I’m hardly in a position to argue at the moment.
Bernie made it quite clear the other day that I’m lucky to have a job at all at my advanced age, let alone a leading role.’
‘Don’t be daft. Look at the success you’ve had this last year –
he’d be mad to drop you. You’ve always said before that he values your opinion. He must have been having an off day.’
‘Yes, I know. He has been acting strangely recently and I’m sure he wouldn’t normally have been as blunt in the way he put it, but even I have to face up to the fact that what he said is absolutely right. I might be able to talk Josephine into writing me another role or two, but make the most of these weeks of peace without me
– you’ll be seeing a lot more of me until I’m of character age.’
‘Well I’m hardly likely to complain about that,’ Marta replied affectionately, opening an umbrella to protect them from the strengthening rain. ‘You never know – I may even scribble something for you myself one of these days, and I’m slightly more ancient than you.’
‘It’s all right for you writers, though: you can start as late as you like and go on until you drop, and no one thinks anything of it. In fact, we don’t even chide you for being lazy in not getting around to it sooner. I don’t know how you get away with it. I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen – no wonder I’m exhausted!’
‘Oh I started on and off a long time ago but if I read now what I wrote then, I’d probably be horrified. When you’re young, you only ever write romantic nonsense.’
‘And now you’re so cynical and worldly wise, I suppose? How does that tally with the woman whose idea of a first date is to take me tobogganing on Hampstead Heath to seduce me in the snow, or the one who leaves a single flower at stage door before every performance even though I’ve told her it’s bad luck, or . . .’
‘All right, all right – you win. I’m a different woman since I met you and I’ll probably never write another word because of it.
Books aren’t built on happiness, but I know what I’d rather have.’
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‘Then we shall be old and poor and illiterate together,’ said Lydia, turning to give her a kiss. ‘Now, what about that sausage roll?’
The Salisbury public house was known to its advocates for liveli-ness and companionship, and to its detractors for noise and interference. Rafe Swinburne was not bothered enough to subscribe to either party, but Terry had suggested the Salisbury as a meeting place convenient for both of them before their evening shows and he had willingly agreed, eager to discover what the future held for him. He bitterly regretted having arrived on the scene too late to make his mark in the biggest success of the year, but his debut in Sheppey – which Terry was directing at the same time as he starred in Richard – had been moderately praised by the critics and keenly welcomed by the audience, and his hopes for Queen of Scots, should he get the part, were high. He had known from the moment he met him that Terry was the future of theatre while Aubrey was the past. Always blessed with a remarkable nose for his own advantage, Swinburne had watched with interest the cooling of their part-nership, which – or so rumour had it – had been particularly tense of late. If a parting of the ways was on the horizon, he had decided very early on which horse he was going to back, and what his stage presence could not get him with Terry, he suspected his face could.
He was ten minutes late for his rendezvous, but there was no sign of Terry in the crowds that lined the
long, curved bar. The Salisbury’s clientele was made up almost exclusively of actors, playwrights and the odd agent or two touting for talent, and a dramatic heritage of sorts could no doubt be traced through the various owners of the heavy pewter tankards that hung from the ceiling. Early evening was always one of the busiest times: as the half approached, glasses would be collectively drained and three-quarters of the trade would disperse to one stage or another, gradually drifting back in twos and threes to resume where they had left off. By last orders, the bar would be full again, triumphs mixing leisurely with disasters amid the warm fog of smoke and beer but, at this earlier hour, with the most important performance of the week still to come, the 114
atmosphere was one of nervy expectation. Swinburne bought a glass of beer and found room on the end of one of the hard, horse-hair settees that bordered the room, casually taking in the conversations that came and went around him. He counted seven copies of the evening paper lying around on the brass-topped tables and, for once, none of them were open at the situations vacant pages, but rather at the latest account of the King’s Cross killing. It never ceased to amaze him that the murder of a complete stranger could be so tirelessly fascinating to so many. What difference could the loss of some girl they had never met possibly make to the ponder-ous old man in the corner or the powdery-faced redhead behind the bar? Sensation might be the public face of grief, but Londoners were a fickle bunch: there’d be a new headline along tomorrow and the world would carry on as normal through it all.
As he finished his beer, still on his own, Swinburne began to worry that Terry had been and gone without waiting for him.
Perhaps he should go and look for him? If he walked straight to the New Theatre there was no chance of their missing each other, so he gave up his seat to a pretty but excessively grateful young girl who had spotted an agent she needed to charm at his table, and headed out. He arrived at stage door without encountering anyone he knew on the way, gave a cheery greeting to the chap on duty and went downstairs. Even before he reached Terry’s dressing room he could hear raised voices behind the closed door.
Carefully, he went a little nearer until he was close enough to make out the words beneath the anger. It was Lewis Fleming speaking –
there was no mistaking that dour northern bravado – and he listened intently, confident that both men were too absorbed in the row to think about leaving the room. No one in the business would have been surprised to find the actors at each other’s throats
– their mutual hatred was common knowledge in the West End –
but this particular exchange ran deeper than professional differences. Swinburne was loath to tear himself away but, by the time Fleming began to shout again, he had heard enough. He left as quietly as he had arrived, a faint smile playing on his lips.
*
115
Fleming waited until Terry was on his way out of the theatre before making his move. He was deathly tired, but the rain and the cool evening air that ran through St Martin’s Court refreshed him a little and helped to focus his thoughts. It was all for her, he reminded himself, fixing her image – well and happy, as she used to be and as she would be again – firmly in his mind’s eye so that by the time the familiar figure emerged from stage door and moved briskly, head down, towards St Martin’s Lane, he was ready. When he stepped defiantly in Terry’s path, that famously sensitive face looked up at him impatiently, then, at the realisation that he was not merely a clumsy passer-by, the impatience turned to anger.
Noticing, in spite of Terry’s defiance, that the anger was tinged with fear, Fleming felt a surge of power that sickened him to the stomach, but he continued nonetheless.
‘Isn’t there a little something you’ve been meaning to give me?’
he asked, refusing to let the other man pass. ‘It’s a couple of days late, but everyone deserves a second chance.’
Terry looked at him and then beyond him down the passage, as if weighing up his options. ‘I told you on the telephone: you’ve had all there is to have at the moment. You can threaten me as much as you like, but it’ll get you nowhere.’
‘You don’t think so?’ Fleming gestured towards the queue which was building steadily behind him. It was just a slight move of the hand but proved enough to break Terry’s resolve.
‘All right, but come back inside. I don’t want to discuss this here.’
The bile rose once more in Fleming’s throat as he followed his victim through the backstage area, where McCracken was checking that the dice were in their box ready for the opening scene, and downstairs to the dressing rooms. He thought of his wife again, this time in that narrow bed, fighting silently, and he drew on her strength as an antidote for the conscience which made him so weak. It would be all right, he told himself, she would understand why he was doing this and she would forgive him. Then, when she was well, they would think of a way to make reparation, to Terry at least; God, on the other hand, was a different matter altogether.
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As they reached his dressing-room door, Terry played for time by feigning difficulty with the lock. He really had no idea what to do, and the meeting that afternoon had left him without any hope of an immediate solution to his problems, without any easy way to make the sort of money he needed to get Fleming off his back.
He cursed Aubrey for his intransigence, but only because it was easier than blaming himself. His private life had always been a discreet matter – it would have been dangerous to allow it to be anything else and, anyway, it was of secondary importance – but he had believed himself to be safe in theatre circles, to be among if not like-minded people, at least tolerant ones. How foolish that now seemed! If Fleming did as he threatened to do, all he had worked for would be lost. He would have let everyone down – his family, his friends, the stage itself. Gossip and chatter would follow him everywhere until the worst was suspected of his most innocent friendships, until even he began to believe his behaviour to be wrong. He held Fleming in precious little esteem but he would be lying to himself if he said he was unaffected by the man’s evident loathing of all he was, so how would he feel when those he cared for turned away in disgust? When the police were brought in and he faced an exposure so public, so humiliating?
Since Fleming had made that first crude and unforeseen threat, his life had been a continuum of sleepless nights and days full of fear.
How was he expected to go on smiling and frisking about the stage as if everything were fine when he really felt wretched and despairing of the years ahead? He had to bring an end to it one way or another: violence he could cope with, but shame was more than he could bear.
Once inside the room, Terry took his crown from the chair and threw it on the floor, sitting to face Fleming with more nonchalance than he felt. ‘You’ve got no proof.’
The other man laughed. ‘I’ve got all I need. And you’d be surprised who’ll crawl out of the woodwork once the idea’s out in the open. Let’s face it – there’s no shortage of candidates.’
He was right, of course. Terry knew that no matter how careful he had been, he could not rely on everyone to protect him forever 117
and it would only take one loose mouth to ruin him completely.
‘How much do you want this time?’ he asked, defeated.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Another five hundred should do for now.
When you’ve got your new projects underway, we can renegotiate.
But hurry up: I haven’t got all the time in the world.’
‘Then you’d better learn some patience, because there aren’t going to be any new projects. At least, not immediately.’
‘What? Has Aubrey started to tire of his golden boy at last?’
Fleming sneered, his professional jealousy for a moment overcom-ing his other concerns. ‘Dear, dear. Well, you’ll just have to find another way because believe me – that little fall from grace will be nothing compared to the one you’re heading for if I don’t get what I need.’
‘Need?’ Terry retorted, suddenly raising his voice. ‘Are you seriously trying to grace that pathetic habit of yours with some sort of necessity? Look at you! You drink your nights away and turn up here to this stage – my stage – to sleepwalk through another performance, and then you expect me to fund your next . . .’
‘What?’ Fleming was shouting now, and his fury drowned out any level that Terry could manage. ‘You think I’d dirty my soul with your money just for a drink? Christ, you’ve got no idea what normal people have to live with, have you? Locked up here in your own little world, with nothing to care for but your own ego, nothing to lose but another role, another bit of make-believe.’ He picked up the discarded crown and threw it across the room, where it crashed against the dressing-room mirror and shattered Terry’s startled reflection. ‘It’s not just kings, you know. Real people suffer, too, and it would do you good to find out just for once how that feels.’ His voice dropped again, but the change in volume brought no respite for Terry. ‘So yes,’ he continued, ‘I do need that money, and I do need it quickly. And for something much more important than a bottle, which makes things rather more dangerous for you.’
‘I can’t give you five hundred. Fifty’s all I’ve got – take it or leave it.’ He held the money up. ‘Anyway, it’s Aubrey you should be playing your dirty little games with. You’re going to need more than my money when you’re out of work.’
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‘What?’
‘Hasn’t he told you yet? He’s going to sack you at the end of this run. Says he can’t rely on you any more, that you’ve lost whatever it was you had. I could never see it myself, but at least he’s come to his senses about something. So that’s you out of the running for the next show. You’ll have to think again.’
It was a cheap trick to buy himself some space and he knew it was only a matter of time before the lie was revealed. Fleming recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to prevent Terry from realising he had scored a small victory. ‘Then we’d better think of a way to make Aubrey change his mind about me, hadn’t we?’ he snarled, snatching the money and leaning close enough for Terry to feel the spittle on his cheek. ‘After all, two murders this weekend would look like recklessness.’ He stood up and went over to the door. ‘And in the meantime,’ he said mockingly, ‘we must stop meeting like this. You know how people talk.’
