I am smitten, as deep in smite as I once was, with my first love. The feelings buried deep within have come surging to the fore. She makes me feel alive again. I am positively sprightly. And all thoughts, save for this one now of course, of capricious Miss Minnie, have been unceremoniously driven from my heart and my mind. I am free again. Quite gloriously free! We have arranged to meet again, the same time next week, although I don’t think I can wait that long. I am of a mind to write her a note and request another meeting far sooner. A dinner engagement or something of that nature. A supper perhaps? I am sure her husband will not mind a few meetings with one so much mature in years. He will not suspect me. He will think I am merely offering her the benefit of my wisdom and theatrical experience. At least that is how I will couch it, should he protest.
October 1914
Insufferable woman! How she plagues me. A whiff of scandal, Minnie says, as though she herself was never tainted with such. Everyone’s talking about you, she says. You’ve become a laughing stock with your infatuation with Miss Partington. And what about poor Jess, she says, what about her finer feelings? Since when, I scoff, have you ever been exercised by thoughts of my poor Jess, and what her opinions might be? You dishonour me, she says, to think that I don’t consider other peoples’ feelings. I do! She cries. All the time. I quickly curtail this nasty conversation; I have no time for Miss Devine and her jealousy. She is nothing to me now. I wish her well. I have no need of her. I can do without. In any case no-one is interested in actors any more. All the talk is of the War and how long it will last. They say it will be over by Christmas. Perhaps I will write another play in the New Year.
Baxter’s diary entries during the First World War were of little use to Charlie, focusing mainly on his inability to get a new play off the ground, various feuds with actors and playwrights and a long discursive commentary on the state of British culture. Several diary years passed before Baxter mentioned Minnie again.
January 1923
I have had the misfortune to bump into Farrar Fay. He was quite the worse for wear. He had been invited to dine with Freebody and his wife. I think there is some familiarity between William and the wife. He is the most disgusting creature! Sniffing around any female form. No wonder Minnie dropped him. I wonder she could bear him as long as she did. His dalliances are legendary. I strike quite the hypocritical note, I know! But I have never crawled around on my ugly belly the way he does. To her credit Mrs Freebody neither encourages nor snubs him, she is as polite to him as she is the rest of us. I happened to mention Agnes at one point and they looked askance, as well they might, and instead enquired after my wife! My wife? Jess never comes to these soirees, and they know that. I gave up long ago trying to persuade her to join me in any enterprise other than Whist! She says as ever that company is not for her, she would feel out of her depth, under scrutiny, she would show me up, she says. She does indeed have a point, and if she is happy to stay at home, while I undertake my wanderings, who am I to argue! In my mariage blanc I ‘play’ the husband and avoid any kind of sexual intimacy with my wife. This accords well with her, and we go on together admirably. In fact, she might be said to encourage my dalliances, and therefore I go swanking about with impunity! Nevertheless, I might force the issue next time. I might bring Agnes with me in any case, and let Mr and Mrs Freebody deal with that shredding of etiquette, as they see fit!
February 1924
Minnie is gone to Paris they say. I heard it is a professional engagement, but knowing her as I do, I surmise the reason for her flight is personal! How quickly she dispenses with formalities! I fear I know the man in question! It will do neither of them any good. I miss her, futile to deny it. Her beauty haunts me. In character, in make-up, as full-lipped and large-eyed as Rossetti’s women, and off-stage as luminous in her own pale skin as if she was infected with an inner light. I have been drinking today, my words are over ripe, my sentiments perplexed, mixed up. I must admit it to myself; Miss Partington could never replace Minnie, never. I want to feel her near me again; I want those eyes roving around my body, the hands to join them, the fingers to caress me, as once they did. Instead I lie on the sofa, listless, giddy with alcohol, unable to turn my hand to work of any kind. I am useless, worn out, a dry withered seed case left dangling on the branch, the merest puff of breeze will send me spinning to earth where I shall lie neglected, forgotten, forlorn until the dust settles over me and I am obscured from view.
Summer 1925
Paris. A city of great beauty and utter squalor. The same as London, or any major metropolitan city. I had no plans to go, and yet on a whim, I went! A surprise to me, a surprise to everyone. But why shouldn’t I? A man such as myself has many reasons to visit the French capital, theatrical and cultural. I can come and go as I please. And if I happen to bump into a person of my acquaintance, then fortune smiles on us! I spent the morning in the gallery. I had done a section at a time. How strange then, that as soon as I left and sought out a place for my lunch, I completely forgot everything I had looked at! What pictures had I seen, what sculptures had I circled, what artistry had I witnessed? A Caravaggio, a Watteau, a Holbein? Perhaps all of these, I remember not. My head will not absorb what I ask it to. It is full, it says, it cannot take more.
And each morning I left my card, I left my name, I waited for the reply. And none was forthcoming. But I saw her, oh yes, I saw her. On the arm of Robert Perry. And they saw me. At least SHE saw me. Perry wouldn’t see his own mother if she pinched his cheek and did up his collar and tie. But greet me? No. Pretend that I was phantom, insubstantial, a ghost, not real? Oh yes, she did all of that. She will have it that we are through; she will have it that I am dead to her and that our relationship is well and truly over. But I am not dead. I am living. And she will acknowledge me. She MUST.
Charlie’s eyes were smarting by the time he stopped reading. There were no further references to Minnie Devine in the book, but it was clear that by the early 1920s, Farrar Fay was a spent force, while Baxter’s trajectory was still on the way up. Had Minnie caught hold of his fiery tail? Had she blazed up in his wake, a showering spray of sparks illuminating the darkening skies of her faltering career? Had they made up their differences?
‘It’s funny isn’t it,’ said Celia, ‘the similarities between Baxter the critic and Malone the critic? It’s like history repeating.’
‘You think so?’
‘Definitely.’
She was right. Baxter was like a buzzard circling, black against the white baleful sky, scattering the deer on the hillside.
Celia’s eyes were particularly striking today; flicked up at the corner with solid black eyeliner, her eyelashes were coated in thick layers of mascara and her lips were a matt shade of pink. ‘I forgot to ask,’ he said. ‘When did Baxter die?’
‘Newspaper reports are dated early 1946. Why?’
‘Do they say how he died?’
She compressed her pink lips into a rosette shape. ‘One newspaper euphemistically refers to “a seedy ending”, and another just says he was found dead in the street – although it doesn’t say what street. The coroner’s report declared it was heart failure. The newspaper makes the point that his wife didn’t attend the inquest. Presumably because of the “seediness”.’
‘Any offspring?’
‘Nope. Childless.’
‘What a dramatic demise.’
‘Yes,’ said Celia with a cool flourish of her purple fingernails. ‘You couldn’t make it up.’
She was humouring the entire enterprise, but with no family members to visit this time, he would have to try the next best thing.
Chapter Sixteen
Finding Angus Malone was easy, deciding what to ask him much more difficult. The book about the actresses was the obvious plan of action.
Charlie trotted down the steps towards the meeting point outside the National Theatre. The grey concrete building was silhouetted against a bright blue sky, while the scudding clouds patterned the concrete walkwa
ys of the South Bank with intermittent sunlight and shadow. The weaving movement of the crowds mirrored the flux and motion of the river.
‘No place like it in the world,’ said Angus Malone, simultaneously thrusting out his hand and his gut. His grip was firm, his hand warm and clammy.
Having expected a slim, suave old gent in a tailored coat, Charlie was unprepared for the dishevelled Fleet Street aura that Malone exuded in person. His bulging bag was ripped and sagging, his trousers had grubby turn-ups and his grey overgrown hair was swept greasily back over his ears. He requested an outside table where he could smoke. Charlie sipped at his coffee as the blue smoke from Malone’s cigarette wiffed and waffed in the breeze around his head.
‘Bit of a broad spectrum,’ said Malone. ‘How are you breaking it down? Eras, styles, genres? Hollywood, European, British? Film, theatre, television?’
‘Theatre,’ said Charlie. ‘Starting with Victorian and Edwardian, moving on to post-war acting and then modern day contemporary performance. Plus the study of professional relationships between writers, directors and – he indicated Malone’s goodly self – critics.’
‘Huh!’ said Malone. ‘If only. So who’s your favourite?’
Charlie was thrown. ‘Um, Audrey Hepburn?’ He and his mum had once spent a happy afternoon together watching her favourite Cary Grant film, Charade. He remembered his mum being particularly tickled when the actor got in the shower fully dressed. Malone was puzzled at the choice. ‘I meant stage. Not film.’
‘Oh, of course.’
Malone mentioned several actors Charlie had never heard of. It wasn’t a good start. All of a sudden an eyebrow arched. ‘You want me to dish some dirt about the business? You want to know what I know? What I get access to? The background stories, the smut, the scandal. Is that it?’
‘Actually …’ Charlie met his eye. ‘… that’s exactly what I want.’
Malone let out a huge guffaw of laughter, so loud passers-by turned their heads. ‘What’s your background, Mr Gilchrist?’ he asked. ‘What publications have you worked for?’
Charlie came clean. ‘I’m not a journalist. And I don’t have a theatrical background, but it’s a world that fascinates me. Do you think a publisher will be interested?’
Malone turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Depends. If you do a real thorough job, unearth some diamond details – things that no-one else has got, genuinely original facts – you might produce something a bit special; it might cross over. Then again, niche publishing might turn out to be better in the long run.’
‘And if I get well-respected, big-name contributors like you, then I could be onto a winner?’
‘Indeed,’ laughed Malone. ‘The calibre of your contributors could well be a deciding factor. Anyway, what’s your line of enquiry? What can I give you?’
He had prepared a few areas for discussion. Knowing it would be highly suss to hit Malone with anything personal straight away, he led him gently through a few stage actors’ careers before slipping Minnie Devine’s name subtly into the conversation. ‘The briefly famous Miss Minnie Devine was something of a wayward spirit, I believe. A bit of a diva with a reputation for squiring her co-stars.’
‘Well she wasn’t the first, or the last to do that,’ said Malone.
‘Quite,’ said Charlie. ‘Have you heard of George Edwardes Baxter, the Edwardian theatre critic?’
‘Yes I have. Rather fancied himself.’
‘He knew Minnie Devine, very well. They had an affair.’
‘Who says?’ Malone remarked unexpectedly.
‘Er, he does.’
‘In a memoir, is it? Claims to have influenced her, does he? Claims to have found his way to the inner sanctum of the dressing room?’
‘More than that.’
‘I’d take that relationship with a large pinch of salt,’ said Malone. ‘Very large. I would say that one or other of them, probably both, exaggerated the importance of that relationship. I would say there must have been some currency to be had by talking up the alliance. Wouldn’t you?’
Charlie hadn’t anticipated this line of thought. It was not the interpretation he had formed. He was certain Minnie and Baxter had been lovers, and for some considerable time.
‘Sleeping with co-stars and actors is perfectly normal, but sleeping with the critic?’ said Malone. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He was also a playwright,’ Charlie said, ‘and she definitely slept with those!’ He moved swiftly on. ‘I believe Minnie’s theatrical genes ran through the next couple of generations. Her grandson Victor was an actor—’
‘Ye-e-ss…’Angus growled, ‘and I know where you’re going next …’ He flicked the ash from his current cigarette rather violently onto the ground.
‘Her great-granddaughter? Anne Marie Devine?’
Angus articulated his words very carefully. ‘And you know that I have some connection with her, do you?’
‘I do,’ said Charlie, ‘but we’ll avoid that subject entirely if you like. Let’s go on to someone well established like Maggie Smith or Judy Dench …’
Malone was taken aback. ‘Hang on – you don’t want to talk about Anne Marie?’
‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Charlie said blithely. ‘I have plenty of other areas we can explore.’
‘But …’ Malone was doubtful, almost crestfallen. Then his brow furrowed. ‘Nah, who wants to talk about Tragic Tom? Who wants to dwell on that unsavoury little episode? Far too awkward a subject, isn’t it? Far too sensitive an area. Best forget all about Tom Harrington, pretend it never happened. Let’s pretend the theatre world is all luvvies and champagne receptions and glittering awards bashes shall we?’
Malone was snared. Well and truly. ‘I’ve no desire to upset you,’ said Charlie. ‘But if you want to give me the background to it, then it might be an aspect I can use. It might add some colour, some depth.’
‘Oh yes,’ Malone said. ‘Plenty of colour. Of the blood red variety.’
Charlie apologised.
‘No, no, I can see you’ve got some sensitivity about you, if you’ll allow the word. Excuse me; I’m an embittered old man, still grieving the loss of my beautifully talented son. You’re about the same age, you’ve got the same kind of charisma, and a whole life ahead of you, whereas he …’ Malone lit up another cigarette. ‘I’m getting maudlin, I’m losing my thread. Put me back on track would you?’
‘When did you first hear that Anne Marie and your son were a couple?’
Malone blew a funnel of smoke over his shoulder. ‘Straight away, more or less. He was often squiring some gorgeous young celebrity. He attracted a lot of attention. Which is good when you want to be an actor, isn’t it? Nothing wrong with that. Why not have lots of girls, go on lots of dates, be seen around town with the up-and-coming, the beautiful people? I never mentioned we were related – nepotism, you know – and he wanted to make it under his own steam, so he changed his surname, but it soon got around, how could it not? But anyway I’m a critic, not a director, or a producer. I’m not here to make friends.’
‘You didn’t rate Anne Marie as an actress?’
Malone regarded him for a moment. ‘I suppose I admired her a little, even though I thought she was just another posh kid with a pretty face. She did a couple of interesting things early on, got everyone talking, did some high-profile telly; all of a sudden people who wouldn’t normally go anywhere near the theatre are flocking to attend, producers are clambering over themselves to hire her. Bums on seats, money in the coffers. Next thing I know she’s dating my son! There was a little bit of mercenariness about it on his part I suppose; he basked in the reflected glory, but there was genuine affection there.’
Charlie’s ears pricked up. ‘He used her?’
Angus looked stonily at him. ‘I don’t think it was ever that calculating. They used each other, I would say. They gave each other currency. It’s not unusual in the showbiz world now, is it? We’ve already established as much.’
; ‘No, of course not. But his problems pre-dated his relationship with Anne Marie, didn’t they? When did they first begin?’
Malone cleared his throat. ‘Yes, I was in denial about that for a long time. My wife was much savvier. She knew it didn’t all begin the second Tom found fame. In fact it began at school. Some friend of a friend, or an older sibling or something, managed to smuggle some contraband in. Quite usual. Even though it was supposed to be – ha! – a “good school”. Things got worse when he left, when he moved onto the harder stuff. And yes,’ he said, ‘I did blame Anne Marie, for not doing more to help.’
Charlie felt moved to interrupt. ‘It wasn’t her job to cut a swathe through life for him. He was a grown man. He had a brain of his own, abilities of his own; he was a sentient, capable individual able to take responsibility for his own actions, surely?’
‘All right,’ Angus sucked too hard on his cigarette and spent several seconds coughing and clearing his chest. ‘It’s a point that’s been made many times, but a successful relationship involves mutual support doesn’t it? You look out for each other. Make sure your partner doesn’t get into too much trouble, or if they do, make sure you’re there to pick up the pieces.’
The Dragonfly Brooch Page 12
