by John Gardner
Douglas took a pace forwards and stretched out his arms across Jennifer and Carol, drawing both of them to him in an instinctive gesture of affection. He could see Joe Thomas bearing down on them, Sylvia Kostamore not far behind and Joe overtly pointing towards Carol, seeking out an introduction. Douglas found himself grinning back inanely.
Asher Grey missed the speech. He had stumbled away from Carol Evans, feeling foolish and like some idiot schoolboy. Julia’s sudden disappearance had thrown him, pumping rage through his body as though it was mixed with his blood. Not only was she being excessively unprofessional but also she had provided acute embarrassment; if this was the way it was going to begin, he dared not think of the ending. One thing was clear, he had to put her straight on matters of public behaviour here and now, He searched through the crowd until Ted Crispin said that he thought he had seen Julia leave the party. ‘Seemed a bit upset, old boy,’ he added without malice, for already, following his short experience of Julia over lunch, Crispin felt a certain pity for Grey being saddled with such a plainly difficult woman.
Asher left the green room and headed straight for their apartment. It was the obvious place for the girl to go. She was out for an unnecessary row, a drama, one of the constant teacup storms that were entirely of her own making, so she would go to the place where Asher would most easily find her.
But she was not in the apartment, nor the deserted company restaurant, his second choice. Asher, bewildered and now uncertain about Julia’s intentions, briefly returned to the reception which seemed to have turned into a small swinging party with people starting to dance. But Julia had not deigned to show her face back there.
Asher finally went outside, into the clear night, raw cold but with the moon bright, throwing buildings and trees into sharp silhouette. Across the lawns he noticed there was a dim light coming from the theatre, as though someone was in the auditorium with a torch.
He felt the grass wet with a frosty dew as he started out over the lawn, the sounds of music and party noise drifting out of the house behind him; a car engine came to life in the drive, and to his left Asher watched its headlights bob slowly away towards the main gate. The music grew more faint and the theatre lowered above him.
The main doors to the foyer were locked, so Asher circled the building, trying each possible entrance in turn until he came to the small wicket set into the big swing doors of the scenery dock behind the stage. It was open, moving easily on its hinges. He stood for a moment, just inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He was also conscious of a noise, a drone, coming from the direction of the stage which also seemed to be the light source. Asher blundered forward and the drone became clarified, a human voice chanting, Julia’s voice. He approached the stage on the Prompt Side and the sound became less diffused. He recognized some words, lines—
‘You must sing...down-a...that stole his master’s daughter...
Julia stood in the centre of the stage, above her the light came from two of the battens, but only the whites and blue gels were up, casting an eerie light on the small, lonely figure dressed in the purple midi dress and black boots she had bought, less than a week ago, especially for this night.
He thought of what it must have been like for the girl, only a few years ago, when she was a child. The fractured life; parents who left for a day-trip and then, with final, unbelievable suddenness, the aunt with the stricken face telling her: the road accident; both dead, and after, nobody really wanting her; no member of the family willing to take on responsibility.
‘There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray you, love, remember…!’ She chanted on, swaying slightly, one booted foot forward, her head thrust upwards. No feeling, no attempt to act or create. Simply a repetition of words: Ophelia’s mad scene from Hamlet spoken to an empty auditorium.
‘...and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts’
Her hands moved to the back of her head.
‘There’s fennel for you, and columbines: — there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me...!’
Asher did not at first realize what she was doing as her right hand moved down the back of her dress.
‘... — we may call it herb-grace o’Sundays!’
Too late, he saw that the back of her dress was unzipped to her waist. Her arms dropped and the dress fell from her, a purple mound around her feet. Julia stepped forward out of the dress.
‘...O, you must wear your rue with a difference.’
Asher knew he should do something about what was going on, but he remained still for a dozen or so seconds. It crossed his mind that a young woman standing alone on an empty stage in her underwear should look seductive, alluring. Julia simply looked a mess: black boots ending just below the knees, tights, black pants and a white bra. A pudgy, tatty, untidy mess.
‘... — There’s a daisy: — I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died:’
Her hands were going to the back of the bra and Asher now moved before she completed her strip.
‘Julia,’ he called softly.
Her body went rigid, stone still, like a reaction of sudden fear, then she turned her head towards his, peering to see him through the murky light.
‘Ash?’
‘Put your clothes on.’
She nodded and bent to pick up the dress as Asher took a pace forward.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
She began to step into the dress. ‘I wanted to be on my own, wanted to get the feel of the house.’ Arms into the sleeves.
‘So you come up here, recite the mad scene and strip off.’
‘I was angry. I thought it might help to calm me. Zip me up Ash.’
‘The mad scene calm you?’
‘I often recite pieces to calm me. There’s a lot you don’t know.’
‘I’ll bet. Why were you angry?’ He pulled up the zip.
‘Because I saw all my fears coming true.’
‘Fears?’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about Ash. From the beginning I’ve been afraid that we’d get down here and I would have to play second fiddle...’
‘Julia this is old stuff. We’ve had it all before. This is the chance of a lifetime for me...’
‘Not your career. Of course I’ll play second fiddle to your career. It’s the other thing. The women...’
‘The fictitious women. The shadows in your mind, Julia. There are no other women.’
‘I saw it. I saw the way you looked at that black bitch...’
‘For Christ’s sake, she’s going to play Juliet.’
‘And what else is she going to do?’
‘Julia,’ he was calm, he even consciously put on a quiet understanding voice, unconsciously it was the tone he would have used had he been playing the role of a doctor with a difficult patient. ‘You’re a trained actress, you know about these things. I’m going to say it once, right at the beginning of our time here. I cannot cope with your silly unprofessional and jealous tantrums. If they persist I shall go to Douglas Silver and tell him that I cannot give of my best if you remain in the company.’
Her eyes had a hard insolent look and one corner of her mouth turned down. ‘Make sure it’s not me who goes to Mr. Silver first.’
But Asher was not going to be drawn into argument or even discussion. ‘Are you coming back to the party?’
She looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. ‘There’s nothing else to do.’
In his brain, Asher Grey repeated the question, Why this woman? Over and over like a litany. The folly of even allowing himself to be shackled to a person who could provide such nonsensical aggravation. To hell, he was not even legally shackled to her. The same old depression dropped round his mind, made worse as they walked into the green room and Edward Crispin gave him a knowing look, the kind of look men gave to one another, showing that they can feel a brotherly spirit for what is going on; that they too have had difficult wives, lovers, mistresse
s before.
David Wills felt quite flattered, he had danced for nearly half-an-hour with Rachel Cohen, and now, flushed and clutching glasses of punch, they sat together on one of the big settees which had been pushed back against the wall. Rachel Cohen was a small girl in all senses of the word: slim to the point of looking frail, with calm clear-lined features, high cheek bones and startling dark eyes, thick shoulder-length hair and a personality which seemed to radiate from her before she even spoke. Now she leaned forward and examined David’s name tag.
‘David Wills. Executive Director,’ she read in a voice which had a style of its own: clear, fresh but without any direct hints of having been trained, by instruction or custom. ‘I’m with the top brass then.’
David laughed. ‘You sound very military. The top brass.’
‘I’ve got a military background. I used to go out with a lance-corporal. No, I’ve just done three episodes in a spy epic for the B.B.C. and the scripts were loaded with that kind of jargon — “top brass”, being put on a “fizzer”, “getting your knees brown”, “jankers”.
‘Terribly masculine stuff.’
‘Oh dead boring, yes, very butch; I think the sexiest expression in the whole thing was “Divisional H.Q.” But enough of that,’ she said waggling her head like a sick robot, ‘what does the executive director do?’
‘Just about everything that has nothing to do with directing plays, which used to be my function in life.’
‘Yes, I know, I recognized your name. You did a super Miss Julie about three years ago.’
‘Four.’
‘As long as that? What happened?’
‘Fell on evil times, didn’t I?’
‘It can happen to any of us.’
‘I know,’ with a sigh which was not quite self pity. ‘But Douglas picked me up so I must be grateful. Actually he’s been good, I might even do some directing next season. He’s letting me organize some poetry readings this year, Sunday night things, but...’
‘But it’s a bit of a come down after Miss Julie.’
‘Quite.’
‘Well, apart from directing next year and doing the poetry readings, what does the executive director do?’ She leaned back, eyes sparkling.
‘I have to see that all departments are working smoothly, everything from props and the typing pool to stage carpenters and the restaurant; I make sure that everybody’s doing his or her job; I deal with all the hundred and one minor problems when I can...’
‘Like Joe Thomas getting busted?’
‘Oh no, the boss man did that one personally, though I believe I am responsible to the director for the morals of the company.’
‘That could be amusing.’
David grinned and then realized that the grin was more of a smirk. ‘The really interesting job at the moment is the exhibition.’
‘What exhibition? Morrie Kapstein?’
‘No...’ They both laughed, and David went on to tell her about the skeleton plans already made. After a great deal of thought they had decided to sacrifice the tennis courts, upon which a large oblong marquee was to be erected to house the exhibition. The marquee was to be divided into four sections: the first dealing with the short history of the Shireston Festival; the second with historic performances of the four plays of the current season, the third and fourth sections would cover a broad spectrum, presenting a long view of Shakespeare within his own period.
‘There will be four separate tapes, one for each section, music and the spoken word, but I don’t know if they’re going to let me touch any of that.’
‘Oh come on David — I am allowed to call the executive director David? You’re feeling sorry for yourself.’
‘Now you’re sending me up. Executive director.’
‘Well, it’s such a pompous title. I think that helps to get you down, holding a job with a great fat overblown appendage.’
‘No, I don’t care what they call me and I like dealing with the exhibition, it’s only that Tony Holt and Adrian Rolfe both think they’re doing the bulk of work on it so there’s a bit of a leadership snarl up.’
Rachel sensed it was time to get less serious. She swallowed the remainder of her punch. ‘Come on, let’s have another dance, then you can take me back to my quarters, as they say in military circles. At least I know I’ll be safe with the executive director in charge of the company’s morals.’
Elizabeth Column looked down at Frank Ewes. ‘You seem terribly young to be assistant to the director.’ Her voice plummy, almost as though the gastric juices were running wild over some choice dish.
‘I’m only a glorified office boy, Miss Column.’
‘Nonsense, you’re assistant to the director, and stop calling me Miss Column. I’m Liz to everyone.’
‘Yes, Miss Column.’
‘We will get ourselves a drink and you can tell me all about yourself.’
Douglas Silver surveyed the scene from the doorway. The party spirit seemed to have exploded with a vengeance: even though the crush was starting to thin out the atmosphere was undeniably that of a successful evening.
Most of the press had got their pictures and stories and left; only a small rearguard remained: he noticed that the local girl, Miss Ridley, not as naïve as she tried to make out, was still in the centre of things pouting, preening among the knot of reporters as if she was Miss Provincial Journalist nineteen seventy-one.
Douglas flicked his eyes at Adrian, signalling that the press should be eased away, this was the danger period when someone could say or do something foolish. Adrian nodded in reply, also inclined his head towards Morrie Kapstein, now quite drunk and being very heavy with two of the younger girl supers: that was definitely a flash point.
There were others, notably a large group of the young supers and lower billing people who were now starting to settle in for the evening, pair off and do their own relaxed free thing to the music. Douglas noticed that more and more members of the company were joining in and if that was allowed to develop he would have a heap of tired actors on his hands tomorrow. Give them a little bit of rope, half-an-hour, then he should turn it all off, he thought, his mind springing forward and checking off his list of items which had to be dealt with first thing in the morning; at the same time he continued to scan the room, trying to see who had settled for whom among the more important names.
Catellier was nowhere to be seen; Adrian had gone over to Kapstein and was doing his best to get rid of the girls without causing a scene; across the room he could see that the dancing group had swollen to include most of the black people: Carol Evans was in the thick of it, her face displaying the trance-like look of one totally involved in the music and erotic movement; Joe Thomas was near her and, for the second time that evening, Douglas experienced the sense of unease, a dissatisfaction in the pit of his stomach which had to be quelled with conscious effort.
Rachel Cohen was obviously getting sweetly linked with David Wills, and, a tweak of apprehension here, Elizabeth Column was head to head in conversation with young Ewes. If he knew anything about Liz, the lad would have a backful of painful scratch marks by morning.
‘I’ve got the not so innocent children away from your Shylock and I think the message is penetrating the ranks of the National Union of Journalists.’ Adrian was at his side. ‘If you haven’t got any other plans, why don’t you take Jennifer and drop out, Doug?’
‘Are you sure?’ He spotted Asher Grey enthusiastically moving with his girl, Julia whatever her name was. At least she looked happier and they seemed to be talking a lot.
‘You must have had enough of this,’ Adrian charmed. ‘Besides, if you went now, it would give the kids half-an-hour or so to let their hair down.’
‘They’ve got it down already.’
‘You know what I mean. How about it?’
‘I think it’s past my bedtime. I’ll find Jen.’
‘She’s with my wife. You stay here, I’ll bring her to you.’ Adrian was gone. However difficult he co
uld be, Douglas considered, Adrian was a most smooth professional operator: a man who cared for the people with whom he worked. The P.R. chief was laughing as he returned with Jennifer who looked flushed and beautiful.
‘Here you are then Miss Frost,’ Adrian almost giggled, ‘you wanted to meet the director, Mr. Silver.’
Douglas laughed and took her hand. ‘Seen all you want to see?’
‘Yes,’ she gave him a grimace, ‘but I haven’t done all I want to do.’
‘Then it’s definitely time for me to take you home.’
The music and dancing went on for an hour after they left, even though Douglas was unaware of it.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Shireston House fell to silence.
Conrad Catchier stretched out uneasily on his bed; sleep was not the simplest of matters for him these days, a state which had to be induced with a little sodium amytal. Tonight, even that was not working as quickly as it usually did, keeping him hovering between consciousness and the dark, his mind crowded with words and images, fears and anxieties: a stage peopled with freaks and monsters, the audience unseen yet physically present: he could hear his own voice warped in the ear—
‘I pray you all, tell me what they deserve
That do conspire my death with devilish plots
Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed
Upon my body with their hellish charms?’
Then a vision of himself among the monsters, his back horribly misshapen; a mirror, and his face pocked and rutted; he could feel his heart thud and the voice fade before thankful blackness took over.
