by Judy Nunn
It had been a glorious spring and the early hot June days were promising a scorcher of a summer. Strange how she’d never thought England would be hot. As usual, the heat brought thoughts of home.
Maddy never thought of Australia when she found herself snowbound on a midwinter tour, but a summer tour of small coastal towns where boats nestled in bays and stays clinked against masts brought memories of the cosy coves of Sydney Harbour flooding back. Seven years! She’d been away seven years! It seemed an age.
It had been a good year for her so far but the journey up the ladder was a slow and sometimes painful process and there were regular bouts of ‘resting’. She’d long since given up office work as an alternative form of income. Between repertory seasons and tours she reverted instead to the role of waitress or hostess: night-time tips, she’d quickly discovered, far outweighed daytime basic wages.
Each time Maddy found herself waitressing at the Bier Keller in Trafalgar Square or hostessing at Danny’s Downstairs Nightclub in Soho, the irony did not escape her. Here she was in the heart of the West End. But doing what?
And that’s where she’d be in two weeks, she reflected ruefully. Downstairs at Danny’s. Bournemouth was the last date on the Hayfever tour—only a fortnight to go.
Maybe Phil would pull off that film job! Mentally Maddy crossed her fingers. Oh God, wouldn’t that be wonderful? Surely if anyone could do it, Phil could.
Since she’d changed agents and signed up with funny little Phil Pendlebury who worked out of a tiny room around the corner from the Aldwych, things had certainly taken a turn for the better. Three months before, when she’d done six weeks on the trot at the Bier Keller, she never would have believed it possible that she’d be playing Bessie Buchanan’s daughter in Hayfever. And yet here she was en route from Bath to Bournemouth on the final leg of a tour with one of the great stars of the forties. Well, it had certainly sounded impressive to Maddy at the time.
The rest of the cast had travelled from Bath the day before but Maddy always liked to spend the Sunday after bump-out on her own, particularly if they’d been playing somewhere pretty.
And Bath was certainly magnificent. Maddy loved the place. She’d played the Theatre Royal there twice before with Gaslight and The Hollow (good old reliable thrillers—the public loved them) and she never tired of the city.
She looked at her watch. Not much longer to go. When she reached Bournemouth she would have just two hours to dump her gear at the digs she’d lined up, get to the theatre, set up her dressing room, grab something to eat then report back for the half-hour call.
Then, compulsively, her mind went back to the movie. Phil had phoned her at Bath on Friday and promised to send the film script direct to the theatre at Bournemouth. It wouldn’t be there for several days yet, Maddy thought impatiently. It was only a test: she must keep telling herself that. Nothing definite. But they were very keen to see her on her return and she seemed perfect for the role.
‘Got to be petite, love—boyish, you know what I mean?—and they don’t come much petiter than you, do they?’ Phil was a fast-talking cockney who never seemed to stop for breath. He was fifty years old, small and beetle-like with suspiciously black hair scraped from one side of his head to the other to hide the central bald spot. Although he was a bit of a villain, he was a good agent—fast, pushy and cunning. And for some reason he seemed particularly fond of Maddy. She had no idea why; he’d certainly never made any advances toward her. In fact he seemed more paternal than anything, which was ludicrous. It was all very simple: Phil’s clients were his meal ticket and that’s why he looked after them.
The truth was, Maddy constantly forgot the effect her appearance had on people. Because she knew herself to be strong and determined she forgot that she presented a youthful fragility which brought out the protector in people—even people like Phil Pendlebury. And when Phil, always astute in his character analyses, recognised Maddy’s strength, it didn’t detract from his paternal affection. It simply made him proud. His Maddy was a fighter—good on her!
‘They saw you in that episode of “Z Cars” where you played the sixteen-year-old, remember?’ he told her over the phone. ‘And they’re mad keen to have a squizz at you, but they don’t want a blonde, so the first thing you do on the Monday you get back to London is you take yourself off to the hairdresser, you go black and short, and you have your eyelashes and brows done too, the works, because I’ve set up the test for eleven o’clock Tuesday morning. Got that?’
‘Yes, Phil.’ That was very often all Maddy said during her phone conversations with Phil.
‘And you come in and give me a look at you first thing on the Tuesday, say around half-past eight, and then if you’ve buggered things up we’ve got a couple of hours to get you looking good.’
It wasn’t a big budget film. As cinéma vérité, it would do the circuit of the art houses only, but that merely served to boost Maddy’s confidence. After all, she was an unknown; who on earth would want her for a big budget feature? Certainly, to cut off her shoulder-length fair hair and dye it black was a pretty drastic step for a test, but Phil’s enthusiasm was contagious and Maddy would probably have shaved her head if he’d suggested it.
‘Boyish, love, that’s what they want, you’ll understand when you read the script, now you have a lovely time in Bournemouth, the weather’s nice for it, and make sure you’ve got scenes nine and thirty-six off pat, they’re the ones they’ll be using for the test.’
‘Yes, Phil.’
‘I’ll see you Tuesday, chookas for the Bournemouth run, have fun and keep yourself nice, there’s a good girl. Bye.’ And he hung up leaving Maddy breathless, excited and frustrated. There were so many more questions she wanted to ask him.
‘Hello, Marj.’
‘Madeleine! Dearie, you look wonderful!’ Maddy’s head was clutched between two matronly breasts as Marjorie Brigstock, landlady to the stars, locked her in a vicelike embrace.
‘I’ve put you in the little room at the top with the ocean view, love, I thought you’d like that. You don’t mind finding your own way, do you? Wilf can bring your case up later.’
‘It’s OK, Marj, I can manage.’
It was a constantly observed ritual. Marj never went upstairs—she had bad knees—and the actors never allowed her poor asthmatic husband Wilf to carry their luggage; the pokey little room at the top was always reserved for the younger members of the company and the ‘ocean view’ could only be glimpsed if one climbed out of the attic window.
Maddy had stayed at Marj’s guest house twice before (Gaslight and The Hollow had played the same circuit) and on each occasion she’d been allocated the little room with the ‘ocean view’.
This time, however, she was playing the juvenile lead and her name was on the posters and handbills. In small print and at the bottom, admittedly—and she was fully aware one had to be up near the title to qualify for a ground floor room—but surely she should have scored the second floor, she thought, as she wearily dragged her heavy suitcase up the four flights of stairs.
Although Marj’s rates were well below those of the average seaside boarding house, she considered her lodgings and her clientele to be elite. She had no time for the Bel Airs, the Casas del Sol and the Paradises sur la Mer that were frequented by tourists. She catered exclusively for thespians (which was precisely why her rates were low) and she was well qualified to do so.
A one-time trouper herself, Marj knew the tour circuit and the actors’ requirements: open house late into the night in case they wanted to sit around discussing the show over supper and cheap wine; quiet in the morning until ten o’clock (Wilf was banned from his vacuum cleaner until eleven); and the right food at the right time. Not necessarily good food, mind, but plentiful. She did a huge late breakfast-brunch, a substantial tea at six o’clock and a light supper at eleven. She didn’t do lunch, except on Sundays for those who wanted it. And then, although it was the traditional theatrical digs roast—beef the consistency
of wood shavings, soggy brussel sprouts and a Yorkshire pudding that weighed a ton—no one complained. Marj made an excellent trifle to follow, it was their one day off, and the air was thick with the camaraderie of old actors’ tales.
When Maddy arrived at the theatre she made her customary inspection of the posters and production stills displayed outside the main entrance, then checked out the foyer display. She feigned nonchalance in front of the middle-aged woman in the box office as her eyes flicked past the portrait shot of herself.
‘Hi, Joan. They’ve come up well, haven’t they?’ Until Hayfever Maddy had never had an exclusive portrait photo of herself in a theatre foyer; she’d always only been in the production stills.
‘Miss Frances! Welcome back. Yes, it’s a lovely photo, you’ve come up a treat.’ Maddy felt herself blush; Joan had well and truly caught her out. ‘I think it’s high time too, a lovely actress like you. Next time they’ll have your name and photo right up there above the title, I’ll be bound.’ Joan nodded towards Bessie Buchanan’s portrait, which was not only above the title, but also above Noel Coward’s name. Just about as high as you could get, Maddy thought, and laughed. Of course Joan had meant no malice. Despite the fact that, in true British front-of-house and stage-door tradition, Joan refused to call any of the actors by their Christian names, she was always very maternal toward the younger company members.
‘You’re right,’ Maddy admitted, ‘it gives me a bit of a buzz every time I see it.’ And, unashamedly this time, she looked back at the photo and its caption: Madeleine Frances as Sorel Bliss.
Maddy had long since adjusted to Frances, even though the choice of her mother’s maiden name had angered her father at first. ‘For God’s sake, Dad,’ she’d argued, ‘if you don’t want my sordid theatrical career to soil the name of McLaughlan then surely the alternative choice can be my own!’ It had been just one of the many rows they’d had since coming to England and Maddy heaved an inward sigh at the thought that there was bound to be another one when she saw him on her return to London. He seemed to be becoming more and more unreasonable as the years passed.
‘Madeleine, darling! You’re so late!’ One of the doors to the auditorium was thrown open and Bessie Buchanan made her entrance. She kissed the air on both sides of Maddy’s face then leaned back theatrically against one of the foyer pillars.
‘You naughty girl,’ she scolded. ‘I’m starving and I’ve been waiting for you to have a pre-performance snack with me.’
Bessie Buchanan’s pre-performance snacks were invariably three-course meals and to Maddy, who, like most actors, ate sparingly before a show, a total turn-off. She couldn’t possibly refuse the woman, though; she never did.
The pillar against which Bessie was draped bore an almost lifesize photograph of the actress which said it all. The photo may have been taken in the fifties but more likely, the late forties. The 1977 reallife item beside it was undoubtedly the same woman and, despite the ravages of time, there was still a prettiness about her, but the sad fact was that Bessie Buchanan had got fat. It had started about twenty years ago, when her star had been well and truly on the wane, and had continued ever since.
Bessie refused to acknowledge her weight problem. She was no longer wealthy, having been bled dry by the many men in her life, so she simply had her designer gowns let out to accommodate her growth. When she reached the point where panels had to be added to the sides of her gowns she still didn’t give up and it saddened Maddy greatly when she heard the whispers and sniggers from the gallery during the dinner party scene in Act Two. For the dinner party scene in Act Two, Bessie had opted to wear the very same dress she’d worn when the foyer photograph had been taken over twenty-five years before. Not only were both the woman and the dress now twice their former size, but the added side panels were a distinctly different blue.
On ‘B’ circuit tours even the stars were requested to supply their own wardrobe should formal wear be required. In this instance however, the management had gently tried to pursuade Bessie that, for a star of her magnitude, they were more than happy to supply a new gown. ‘And what would you get me?’ Bessie had queried. ‘A Schiaparelli? A Dior? A Chanel?’ There was a significant pause. ‘Exactly,’ she acknowledged triumphantly. Thank you, but no thank you. I shall supply my own.’ And the management had to live with the mismatched panels and the foyer photo.
For some reason unknown to Maddy she had found herself adopted by Bessie Buchanan from the very outset of the Hayfever tour. ‘Oh, stuff that Miss Buchanan rubbish, you must call me Bessie, dear,’ she’d been told. And when the stickler-for-form tour manager rebuked Maddy for being too familiar with the star, Bessie overheard and was quick to dismiss him: ‘Go away, little man’. It didn’t endear the tour manager to Bessie one bit, but fortunately he was a fair man and didn’t hold it against Maddy.
So Maddy found herself living through the saga of each of the lovers who had broken Bessie’s heart, the four husbands who hadn’t, the three ungrateful children who didn’t give a fig for their mother and, the unkindest cut of all, the loss in Bessie’s life of the thousands to whom she had once been an idol.
‘Of course, there’s still my loyal fan club,’ Bessie would say, dabbing at the irreparable damage her mascara had caused. ‘They send me a copy of their newsletter once a month and that’s a comfort.’ It was usually well after midnight and well into the second bottle of white wine when the fan club was invoked, and Maddy always knew what to expect next. ‘If only Biffy were alive everything would be all right. Oh, why did he have to die?’ At the mention of her old song and dance partner and the great love of her life, who had died thirty years before, Bessie gave up all attempt at stemming the flow of mascara-streaked tears and threw herself upon Maddy, weeping uncontrollably.
Bessie Buchanan was a desperately unhappy woman, it was true, but she was also a survivor. If it was necessary that her life take such a tragic turn, then it was only fair she be allowed to wallow in it. She had twice attempted suicide, once with pills and once with gas—and both times with the sure knowledge that she would be discovered well and truly in time. The pills attempt made a short column (no photo) on the entertainments page which was very disappointing. When the gas attempt six months later received no response whatsoever she decided she would have to gain attention and sympathy on more of a one-to-one basis. That was when she took to adopting a female junior member of whichever company she was touring with at the time. (Bessie spent her life touring the ‘B’ circuit.)
Maddy was one of the most sympathetic listeners she’d ever cultivated and Bessie had grown genuinely fond of the girl.
‘Come along now,’ she said to Maddy. ‘We only have an hour before the half.’
‘Can you wait five minutes? I have to set up my dressing room.’ Maddy turned to go but Bessie grabbed her by the arm and bustled her towards the auditorium doors. ‘It’s much quicker if we go through the house. I’ll come with you.’
Most stage managers frowned upon actors arriving or leaving via the auditorium. Even when the theatre was deserted the correct approach was through the stage door. The crew was busy setting up for the evening performance and, as Bessie bustled her down the aisle, Maddy shrugged apologetically to the stage manager. He gave her an understanding nod in return. The world-weary stage manager knew that stars, even those well and truly on the wane like Bessie Buchanan, had to be indulged by the lesser members of the company. It was a recognised fact.
But in this instance, the stage manager was wrong. Maddy certainly did indulge Bessie, but not out of a sense of duty; she actually liked the woman. Bessie might have been irritating, but she was protective, generous-spirited and enjoyed teaching Maddy everything she knew about the business, which was considerable. Maddy was not only extremely grateful, she was fully aware that, in the years to come, there would be many a time when she would apply the lessons she’d learned from Bessie Buchanan.
Maddy was sad when the tour came to an end. It had been, without a
doubt, her most successful job to date and she would miss Bessie and the gang. But in true actor’s style her feelings were mixed—she also couldn’t wait to get on to the next job. And the possibility of the film role was awesome.
The script was wonderful—warm and humorous, sad and tragic, threatening and violent, and boldly sexual throughout. So much so that if it wasn’t brilliantly directed, it could end up being messy, melodramatic and decidedly tacky. When Maddy voiced this worry to Phil over the phone he immediately placated her.
‘Ever seen Viktor Hoff’s work?’ he demanded.
‘Well, of course I have; what actor hasn’t, but—’
‘Exactly, so he’s a master, isn’t he, so you trust him, don’t you, the man’s a genius. Now you come straight round the agency next Tuesday and show me what you’ve done with the hair …’
Maddy was staring at the long blonde curls on the floor of the hairdresser’s but she didn’t see them. She was going over and over scenes nine and thirty-six in her head. The first scene was the meeting between the boyish fifteen year old Francine and the middle-aged man who was to become her lover. It was a cheeky, humorous scene with only a hint of the sexuality to follow. Scene thirty-six took place three years later and it was harsh and sadistic. As the true femininity of the eighteen year old Francine emerged, the man was forced to question his sexuality. His guilt and turmoil were directed against the girl, creating the path to their destruction.
Androgyne was a brilliant script and Francine was a fascinating and complex character. Like Nabokov’s Lolita, there was an ambiguous quality to her sexuality. Just how aware was she of the power she had over the man? Just when did Francine realise that the man’s agony over his possible homosexuality was a weapon she could use against him?
