by Judy Nunn
Damn it, she thought angrily, he wasn’t just offhand now, he was totally distracted. He wasn’t even looking at her as he picked his keys up from the kitchen bench.
‘I’ll go home,’ she snapped.
‘Right. Want me to ring you a cab?’ He was halfway through the arch.
She called after him. ‘I can ring my own, thanks.’
‘Fine, then, I’ll see you at your place tonight.’ And he was gone.
Maddy sat, sipped her coffee and fumed for a good ten minutes. How dare he! Then she forced herself to calm down and think through the situation. Just who was this man to whom she was giving herself? Just who was Douglas Mackie? And she determined to find out.
As Maddy rifled through cupboards and drawers she tried to push her guilt aside but she wasn’t altogether successful. My God, was this really her? Was this really Maddy McLaughlan ransacking someone’s personal belongings, invading their privacy like this?
So what? the enraged part of her responded. He was sleeping with her, letting her tell him she loved him—the least he could do was share a little honesty. Besides, what personal belongings? What privacy? Each fresh invasion revealed nothing.
Douglas Mackie was a mystery. There were no letters addressed to him, no personal papers, no bills, no desk diaries. Maddy was about to give up when she found the leather suitcase under the bed.
It was of the small, overnight variety and had obviously seen a lot of use. Maddy squatted on the floor beside it, pushed the locks aside and the lid sprang open. Inside was an abundant proof of identity. But whose? Letters addressed to Donald McBride. A wallet with Mastercard, Diners Club and driver’s licence, all in the name of Donald McBride. And, in the lid pocket of the suitcase, a passport: Donald McBride, born Edinburgh, December, 1945.
She willed herself to read the details without really taking in the photograph but, when she allowed her eyes to stray to the face on the left-hand side, she already knew who was going to be staring back at her. And she was right. It was Douglas Mackie.
Julian was preoccupied as he sat back in the uncomfortable cinema seat and waited for the lights to fade.
He was thinking of the other theatre, only a few blocks away, where people would be sitting watching his play. It was Wednesday, matinee day. He wondered how many people would be there. About two dozen, he thought gloomily. It was only three weeks into the season too—another nine whole weeks to go.
David had been quite right. It was better that he was here watching a movie than there dwelling on his own failure. And his second failure at that. The first play he’d written since his split with Alex had been just as ignominiously received. Not that the critics had roasted either of them—that might even have been preferable. Their unanimous opinion had been ‘lacklustre’ and, deep down, Julian had to agree with them.
In fact, life in general was somewhat lacklustre, he thought dismally. Although they never discussed it, both he and David were aware that their relationship was on the wane. And they both knew why. David couldn’t live life openly as a homosexual. ‘I guess I’ve been closet for too long, Jules,’ he said jokingly, when he insisted they keep a low profile. ‘It’s not good for my career if people know,’ was his further justification.
Bullshit, Julian thought. So long as it was kept from the press and the general public, it didn’t matter one iota. The many actors who lived a life of openly admitted homosexuality were closely protected by an industry which looked after its own. As were the drug addicts, the alcoholics, the terminally ill and those who beat up on small dogs, he thought. You can’t adjust to yourself, old buddy, and you’re looking for an excuse. But he didn’t say anything. ‘Sure,’ he agreed.
Within a year, the relationship had been thoroughly undermined by David’s guilt. Added to the guilt of not being ‘straight’ had been the guilt of forcing Julian to live a lie. Julian understood, but then the more understanding Julian was, the more guilt David felt. It was a vicious circle and they both knew it.
Alex didn’t help. Every time they saw him, and they saw him regularly at the theatre and various associated functions, he greeted them with a warmth normally reserved for lovers: ‘Hello, you two!’, invariably loud and invariably in the company of others. Then he’d flash a quick look to Julian, a quirky look which excluded David and which said, ‘We share something special, don’t we, Julian?’
Then, on the way home, it would start. ‘You see, Julian, people know! It’s not good for my career …’ On and on, David painting himself in wimpy, unattractive colours and all because Alex had successfully goaded his guilt. Julian couldn’t tell David that Alex was doing it deliberately. After all, what was he doing? And why? It was far too complex.
Yes, life’s a bastard, Julian thought as the lights faded to black and the screen became a swirl of colour. And one of David’s art films wasn’t going to solve things.
David was a movie buff who subscribed to every film society and attended every film festival Sydney had to offer. Julian enjoyed one in ten of the films he was dragged along to and this wasn’t going to be one of them, he thought as the title flashed up on the screen. But David was genuinely trying to take his mind off the matinee day at the theatre around the corner and Julian was grateful for that.
‘You’ll love it, Julian, honestly,’ David had urged. ‘I’ve seen it three times. Androgyne is one of the best cinéma vérité films ever made.’
Shit, muttered Julian as ‘Rodney Baines and Madeleine Frances’ appeared in tasteful print at the top left-hand corner of the screen. He sank deeper into the seat and let his mind wander.
Alex’s production of Hedda Gabler opens next week, he thought, I wonder how it’ll go? Julian hoped it would do well, mainly for the cast’s sake. Alex had, of course, surrounded himself with his old faithfuls: Susannah playing Hedda, Harold as Judge Brack and Rosie Lee as Mrs Elvsted.
Following two failed productions of new Australian plays, Alex had decided on a safer policy of well-known modern classics. Even so, he was only just scraping by. The critics accused him of egomania when he directed himself as Dr John in his own production of Summer and Smoke. And so they should, admitted Julian. Bloody stupid decision, even though he only did it to save on the budget. Susannah’s superb Alma had rescued the production, though.
In fact Susannah proceeded to rescue all of Alex’s productions as she went from strength to strength. She developed a healthy theatrical following and Alex, quickly recognising this, built his season entirely around her. He now kept himself well out of the acting and directing limelight, concentrating his energies on amassing huge publicity campaigns. He’d employed Roger Kingsley to direct Hedda Gabler, Roger only too willingly accepting a hefty cut in salary, as he’d long since been swept out of The Way In Theatre by the new young brooms.
The only production Susannah had been unable to rescue was Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Her Maggie was criticised as being ‘emaciated and lacking in ripe sensuality’. It was true, Susannah was looking anything but ‘ripe’ lately. She was being shockingly overworked, but then that was the way she wanted it, indeed, demanded it. After her roasting as Maggie she sailed through Blythe Spirit to rave reviews. Now, having played Tennessee Williams and Noel Coward, she was demanding Alex plunge her into the heavier stuff.
She’ll be a superb Hedda, Julian decided as he watched a screen full of figures in masks and period costumes swirling before him. But then she always was a superb actress, even in the old NADA days. She and Maddy were always the pick of the bunch.
Maddy! The youth on the screen lowered his mask and smiled invitingly up at the man in cavalier costume. My God, Julian thought, as the cavalier lowered his own mask and smiled back, that boy looks like Maddy.
He stopped thinking about Alex and Susannah and Hedda and concentrated on the film. David was right, it was a beautifully crafted piece.
When the youth proved to be a young woman Julian leant forward in his seat, which was no longer uncomfortable, and studied the face closely.
It was Maddy. It had to be. How long ago had the film been made? She looked incredibly young. Younger even than she had at NADA, but then the short, dark hair might account for that, and of course the lighting was superb.
‘What’s her name?’ he whispered to David.
‘Madeleine Frances. Isn’t she dynamic?’
‘How long ago was it made?’
‘About five years.’
Julian sat captivated for the next ninety minutes. As soon as the lights came up, he plied David with questions.
‘I don’t know much about her,’ David answered. ‘I think Androgyne was her first film. Well, it was the first one I saw her in. She’s done several others.’ He shrugged. ‘Variable quality, certainly none as good as Androgyne but she’s always great.’
That night Julian rang Harold. ‘What time are you rehearsing tomorrow, Harold?’
‘Not till the evening, dear boy. Full technicaldress. Shudder, shudder! Why, what did you have in mind?’
‘I want you to come to the movies with me in the afternoon. The Roma, downstairs.’
‘But that’s an art cinema! I’m thirty years too old for poignant films—they’re tiring.’
‘I think you’ll like this one.’
‘Oh Lord,’ he grizzled, ‘all those beautiful people wandering around wondering where they are and what they’re doing there … Must I?’
‘Yes, you must. I’ll pick you up at two.’
‘Good grief!’ Harold exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. ‘It’s Maddy!’
‘Ssshh,’ said a male voice behind him. And a woman in front turned and glared.
‘It is! It’s Maddy!’ he said again, ignoring them both.
After the movie they decided on their plan of attack and midnight found Julian waiting at the stage door for Harold as he left rehearsal.
‘Alex will be out in a minute: you sure you don’t want me to ask him back to supper too?’
‘Harold, we agreed!’ Julian couldn’t hide his exasperation. ‘We have to keep quiet about Maddy until we’ve spoken to her. She might not want any contact with Alex.’
‘I know, I know we agreed.’ Harold was obviously undecided. ‘It’s just that …’
As he tailed off Julian leapt in. ‘“Just that” nothing. She had an abortion to the bloke and then disappeared without a trace. I think we can safely assume she doesn’t want to know him, for God’s sake.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Harold agreed peevishly, ‘I know we mustn’t involve him, for goodness sake, but I could have asked him along a little later, just for supper.’ He looked hopefully at Julian. ‘Maybe next week, after the show’s opened? Maybe then the three of us could get together? What do you think?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s a great shame you two have let such a wonderful friendship drift. Good grief, not to mention partnership. You had the world …’
‘Yes, I know, Harold. It’s only temporary, though, we both wanted to try a couple of solo flights, that’s all.’
‘So you’ll come to supper with Alex next week?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You mustn’t let love affairs destroy your friendships, you know—too many people do that. David’s a lovely fellow, but one needs one’s friends. I often feel that—’
‘I’ll come to supper with Alex next week, I promise.’ Anything to shut him up, Julian thought. Harold was old now, with a tendency to nag and a tendency to forget that they’d had a conversation a dozen times before.
While Harold pottered around his kitchen Julian planted himself in the armchair by the phone and started dialling overseas directory assistance, pen and pencil at the ready.
Twenty minutes later he hung up the receiver and called to Harold. ‘I’m ready. You want to come in while I start?’
‘Coming, dear boy, coming,’ Harold answered and made his entrance carrying a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse and two glasses on a silver tray. ‘How sweet of you to bring my favourite,’ he said, kissing the bottle before he started pouring. ‘Everything’s doing a quiet simmer so we can take as long as we like. To Maddy.’ And they clinked glasses.
Julian had tried to persuade Harold to come back to his place and make the calls from there but he knew it was useless even as he suggested it. Harold could never pass up an opportunity to ‘mother’. ‘Oh no, dear boy, I prefer being in my own nest. Besides you must let me cook you a bit of supper.’
Julian put down his glass and checked his watch as he picked up the receiver again. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘ten in the morning London time. Perfect. Enquiries didn’t have a number for Pentameter Productions so—’
‘Who’re they?’
‘The production company that made Androgyne. So we’ll try Pinewood Studios first, that’s where a lot of the interiors were shot.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I checked the credits when I watched the movie, of course.’
‘Clever. Very clever.’ Harold offered a small white dish. ‘Have a cracked green olive.’
The Androgyne production company was no longer in existence as it turned out, but a helpful girl at Pinewood Studios put Julian onto a French/English production company. Another helpful girl supplied the information that, when Madeleine Frances had worked for them, her postal address had been care of a doctor in Windsor. ‘A Dr Mac something or other. Don’t know if they were on together or just sharing,’ the girl said, enjoying the chat. ‘Madeleine was always sort of private.’
So Maddy was still with her father. The address and phone number of Dr McLaughlan in Windsor were easy to find and of course it was the same address to which both Julian and Harold had previously written. Now, when Julian rang, a female voice answered.
‘Yes?’ Alma said.
Then followed a verbal game of hide and seek as Alma evaded every question Julian flung at her. The only definite information he ended up with was the fact that Miss McLaughlan no longer lived with her father but had moved to London. And Alma promised to pass on a message when next she saw Maddy.
‘When will that be?’ Julian asked.
‘I really couldn’t be sure,’ Alma replied sharply. She found this young man’s persistence suspect. The call was from Australia—he could well be Jenny’s father and Alma knew how strongly Maddy wanted to avoid any contact with Jenny’s father.
‘I’ll tell Miss McLaughlan you rang.’ And she hung up.
Julian heaved an exasperated sigh as he put down the receiver. He was sure the woman wouldn’t give Maddy the message.
For once Harold knew better than to jump in with advice. Telephones really were infuriating instruments and Harold loathed them. Always had. He clucked sympathetically and topped up their glasses.
Julian looked at the next number on his list. British Actors Equity. He was certain he’d be able to get hold of Maddy’s agent via Equity, presuming she had an agent, of course, but he knew full well it was every agent’s strict policy to withhold clients’ addresses and phone numbers.
Sure enough. ‘Sorry, old son, no can do, client details strictly confidential and all that.’ Phil Pendlebury’s voice was honestly apologetic. ‘Tell you what, though. I’ll be speaking to her some time today, I’ll make sure she gets a message.’
‘Thanks. Tell her Julian and Harold called.’ Julian left both their phone numbers. ‘Don’t forget, will you? Please!’
‘Don’t you worry, son, she rings in every day.’ Phil sensed the disappointment in Julian’s voice and felt sorry for him. The call was from Australia—maybe it was Jenny’s father, who could say? But agency policy was agency policy and it was none of his business, after all, and Maddy never spoke about the father of her child so … Yes, you keep your nose well out of it, Phil, he told himself.
Nevertheless he wanted to offer some reassurance, so he said, ‘Tell you what I’ll do. If she doesn’t call today I’ll go around to her place and slip a note under the door, she only lives a couple of blocks away, how does that grab you?’
‘Tha
nks very much,’ Julian said, ‘I’d appreciate that.’ The man at Actors Equity had told him that Pendlebury’s office was in the West End. So Maddy was living in central London. Knowing where she was somehow gave him more hope. And he believed that Phil Pendlebury would give her his message. Things were looking up.
Julian wasn’t sure why he felt such a strong urge to renew acquaintance with Maddy. Something to do with his disenchantment with Alex and his fading relationship with David, maybe. Perhaps something to do with the fact that those NADA days with Maddy and Alex were among the happiest days of his life. Whatever it was, now that he’d started his enquiries he was damned if he was going to give up.
As Phil Pendlebury replaced the receiver at his end he wondered whether he should have told the young man that Maddy was flying out to Australia with her daughter next week. No, he reminded himself, it was none of his business.
Julian had been wrong about Alma. Alma was always very reliable with messages. In fact, by the time Phil Pendlebury hung up, Maddy already knew of Julian’s contact.
‘I was a little evasive with him, Miss McLaughlan.’ Alma always spoke louder into the phone and her Midlands accent was always more pronounced. ‘After all, I wasn’t sure who he might be.’
Alma wasn’t fishing and Maddy knew it but she felt the need to reassure the woman. ‘It’s all right, Alma, he’s not Jenny’s father, just an old friend.’
‘Oh dear, I do hope he wasn’t insulted.’
‘He wouldn’t have been, I’m sure. Don’t you worry, you did the right thing.’
Maddy received Julian’s message with mixed feelings. She was deeply touched that both he and Harold thought of her as much as they obviously did. Should she contact them when she was in Sydney next week? Was Alex still very much a part of their lives? Yes, she told herself, he was bound to be. Oh hell, Maddy thought, life’s so bloody complicated these days.
The main complication was, of course, Douglas Mackie. Or was it Donald McBride? Or David McGuinness? Or a number of other aliases he admitted to assuming when she’d confronted him about the passport she’d discovered. My God, could that really have been a year ago?
