Distant Music

by Charlotte Bingham

  As the heat from the old gas stove steamed up the windows, as the rivulets ran down the insides of the old panes, and rain poured down the outsides in ever greater torrents, through all the winters of Elsie’s growing understanding, Dottie had acted out the greats of the theatre for her granddaughter, until there was hardly a number sung by Maisie Gay, or a speech taken at rattling speed by Noel Coward, or tragic role acted by Sybil Thorndike or Peggy Ashcroft, that Elsie herself could not perform. Most of all she could assume the inside knowledge, the know-it-all air, of the thorough professional.

  This, more than lipstick, more than mascara, could and did give her a veneer of theatrical sophistication, and she knew it. It was because of what she could pretend to have seen or heard that other people in the profession always assumed that Elsie was older than she was, even now she was seventeen. Mind you, she was still prepared to use a bit of lipstick and a few of Dottie’s hankies tucked into her brassiere where it mattered to help confirm the impression, if necessary.

  But not today, not this afternoon. This afternoon would be different, because, after all, she had no idea if there would be anything for her. Dottie was inclined to encourage Elsie to go up for too much, and sometimes anything, in the sublime belief that it was all good experience. More often than not, therefore, Elsie found herself going up for auditions just to please Dottie, whereas left to herself she would not have bothered.

  Nowadays, it all too often turned out to be a wasted journey, and Elsie would be turned away after some long bus journey with the terse words too old or too tall or worst of all dunno why your agent sent you, dear, there’s nothing in here for you!

  The truth was – and it was this truth more than anything that preoccupied Elsie to the point of obsession – she was currently going through that most ghastly of all ghastly moments in a professional actress’s life: she was changing categories. Realistically her days of being considered for children’s roles were now over, and there was nothing she could do but hope that very soon she would prove acceptable for girls’ parts. It happened to everyone in the theatre, and all the time, Dottie said, but like everything that Dottie said, it was said far too often and far too loudly for Elsie’s liking.

  Dottie also said that it could not be got over. She said that rather often too. Elsie had therefore always been horribly aware that she would be very lucky to survive this caterpillar-to-butterfly phase, and yet survive it she must, for Dottie, and for herself, and even for the lodgers, who, for some reason that she could never quite understand, seemed, like Dottie, to think that Elsie really would, with just a little effort, become a big star quite soon, at any minute, and in the not too distant future.

  Mr Dimchurch on the second floor, who had once played Polonius at Twissingham Repertory to the young John Sisley’s first Hamlet, and always maintained that he had appeared in a film before the war with Marissa Huntley, also insisted that he had high hopes for Elsie.

  ‘You have something dear. I always know, you know. You are a natural star. Just something inside you, over which you have no control, really, something very special. The temperature, as Noel Coward always says of the stars, the temperature goes up when you come on, so whatever happens, do not let anyone put out your inner light, dear. People can, you know, they can put out your light. Just snuff it out, like that—’ Here he always snapped his fingers. ‘And it can’t be relit. So guard it, dear, whatever you do, guard it with your life. Your light, your beautiful light must never be allowed to go out as mine has done.’

  Since most of the time Dottie opined that Roger Dimchurch was an untalented old fool, Elsie found it difficult to listen to him with as much reverence as was perhaps his due. Nevertheless he had his uses, always coming up with some contact or other, someone he had known before the war, always ready to help Elsie in any way that he could, because, as he kept maintaining, he really believed in her.

  ‘Next, please!’

  ‘Before I begin, Mr Gillon, Roger Dimchurch told me to say that he sends his kind regards to you.’

  ‘Mr Gillon is no longer producing this pantomime. He has been replaced by Mr Donald Bourton.’

  Despite this gloomy piece of news, and silently cursing that she had even mentioned Roger Dimchurch, Elsie smiled beautifully and charmingly into the darkness. The darkness not responding to this polite greeting, she quickly looked over to where the accompanist at the piano was seated, impatiently flattening Elsie’s music with two ancient hands, and at the same time peering at it as if the notes were not music, but ancient Hebrew. The cardiganed lady looked too old to even attempt to play the piano, and what with its yellowing keys and battered woodwork the piano looked too old to respond to anything but a can of petrol and a match.

  Elsie could sing the well-known number from Oklahoma! not just with gestures and slight innuendo but in her sleep, and frequently at auditions felt that this was exactly what she was doing, she had performed it so often. But today, perhaps to wake herself out of her usual trance-like state, she executed a small routine tap dance after finishing her song, ending with both a curtsy and a bow, which she thought, in a confused way, just might make the point that she could dance as both a boy and a girl.

  There was a small silence broken only by one of the two men below in the stalls lighting up a cigarette with a match.

  Elsie waited for the short sharp ‘Thank you’ which so often spun back across the footlights signifying an end to her chances, but today, instead of the usual gunshot of words, a voice from the darkness said, ‘Can I hear you in something from a play, please? If you could oblige us with a short excerpt from something.’

  ‘A speech from Antigone by Jean Anouilh, voyezvous?’

  Again the response to this announcement was silence, complete and total, but then Elsie was used to that, as she was used to most things that did, or did not, happen at auditions.

  France and all things French were all the rage in English theatrical circles at that moment, being currently very fashionable with managements and critics, and Elsie had learned several speeches, albeit in English, from plays by French playwrights such as Jean Anouilh. She also had a good supply of French phrases learned, not from Mr Dimchurch on the second floor, but from Mr Labell on the ground floor. Mr Labell had, he always said, had a French grandmother, which was why he was so proficient in the language with which the whole of theatrical England was so enamoured. Over the years of lodging with Dottie he had taught Elsie to say a great deal in French; short useful phrases only, but in the proper manner, not as English people usually pronounce French, but full of rounded, guttural sounds.

  ‘Always remember when attempting French, dear, to start as if you are clearing your throat of something rather nasty.’

  It was because of Mr Labell that Elsie had just said ‘voyez-vous’. It was also because of him that she had become so good at audition speeches from the plays of the still fashionable Jean Anouilh. Mr Labell had helped her to understand that to absorb roles written by French playwrights it was no good remaining in your heart of hearts a shy little English flower, you had to absorb the intelligence, the vibrant defiance, of the French nature. The French were much more intelligent than the English, Mr Labell had always insisted, which meant approaching the parts they wrote in a completely different way.

  ‘Could you come through to the stalls, please?’

  Elsie slipped out of the pass door and down into the auditorium. There was one working light on. The two men seated in the stalls looked taller now that she was standing on the same level as them, as people in managements always seemed to do.

  ‘What part were you auditioning for, by the way?’ The smaller and older of the two men was the first to speak. His companion seemed happy to stay silent.

  ‘Cinderella’s friend, or one of the rats in the kitchen ballet.’

  Elsie improvised quickly and efficiently, knowing that the final form of a panto was never, ever fixed, because of last-minute bookings, not to mention last-minute cancellations. Stars were a
lways walking out of panto at the last minute in a fury over their billing or their money, or just because they happened to be feeling a bit umpty.

  ‘Cinderella doesn’t have a friend in this version, I am afraid, and nor is there, I fear, a kitchen ballet, at least not at the moment.’

  ‘Cinderella always used to have a friend, most particularly, as you no doubt know, in the 1938 production at His Majesty’s Hippodrome, Blackmouth,’ came back the tart reply, followed by a small pause after which Elsie continued, ‘and I myself danced in the kitchen ballet as a mushroom in Cinderella’s kitchen in a production here, eight years ago. So I know it was there. But of course,’ here Elsie sniffed disdainfully, ‘of course, if you have lots of novelty acts and so on planned, you will never have time for the normal va et vien of the panto, as so many managements nowadays do not.’

  Elsie was artlessly parroting Dottie, chin up, eyes cool, determined as always not to be frightened of managements. You always had to show them that you knew a thing or three, and were not going to be intimidated by them, which was the reason why she now slowly lifted a slender wrist and sighed as she saw the time on Dottie’s best wrist watch.

  ‘Oh dear, look at the time. So hideous, quite hideous. But if you have finished, which doubtless you have, I have to be off.’

  Dottie had always taught Elsie to be in too much of a hurry to wait for any verdict from any management, whoever they might be, and however illustrious-seeming; and not only that, but to make sure to give them the impression of both supreme indifference and supreme impatience.

  Whenever she was off out to an audition even Mr Labell always called out to her from the door of his rooms, ‘Give them the full froideur dear. Always remember, artistic arrogance at all costs!’

  ‘You must speak to producers as if they are beneath you. It is the only thing they understand,’ Dottie herself always said.

  And it was true. Even if you were not suitable for the role you were up for, you had to pretend you had been offered something else much, much bigger, and you had only really come along for a lark, and for the experience, and not because you really, really wanted the role.

  It was a game, but it was a game that worked. Elsie had noticed this most particularly over the years. The young juveniles who did not play the game, the ones who ignored that advice, so freely given, and so often, by Dottie to their mothers or grandmothers, their aunts or elder sisters; the ones who settled for looking as they felt inside, humble and polite, who never yawned or sighed or looked at their watches, who did not tap their feet impatiently, as Elsie was now doing – they were the ones who ended up out of work.

  ‘You are quite tall, but not too tall.’

  Elsie made sure to nod absently. It was true. She was tall, but not so tall that the inevitable small height of so many of the male actors could become a problem.

  ‘Twirl, if you would.’

  Elsie shook her head, her expression changing from slight disdain to total contempt as she looked at the men from the management.

  ‘I do not twirl. I never twirl, twirling is …’ she paused tellingly as Roger Dimchurch had taught her, ‘twirling is – common.’

  As she said this however she curtsied instead, and then for good measure did several pirouettes up the carpet away from the two now thoroughly silenced men. Eventually, his breath perhaps rather stopped in his body by her mixture of arrogance and daring, one of them spoke.

  ‘Miss, er – Elsie, is it?’

  He glanced down at his notes, but Elsie was quickly on to him, not letting him get away with such a lack of professionalism.

  ‘Not er, and not Elsie. Elsie Lancaster. Elsie Lancaster. Remember that. You both will do well to remember it, because I am going to be terribly famous. Please, watch this space, voyez-vous.’

  After which she curtsied again, and turning on her heel started to walk away, up the red-carpeted auditorium, towards the front of the theatre and the doors to the fresh sea air, of which she now felt strangely in need, because whatever everyone at home said, determinedly braving managements always left her feeling both hot and dry-mouthed. In fact it was her experience that braving managements required more acting than acting itself ever did.

  ‘Miss Lancaster. Please, wait!’

  The taller of the two men now cantered up the carpet after her, putting out a not unfriendly hand to arrest her exit.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, I must be on my way. I am, you see, like the white rabbit in Alice, in a terrible hurry.’

  He nodded in complete understanding.

  ‘Of course you are, but so are we! We are in a terrible hurry to sign you up for Cinders.’

  Elsie’s eyes, large and slightly protruding, became if anything more of both as she stared at him.

  ‘Which role do you have in mind, did you say – was it Cinders? Did you say Cinders, Mr er …’

  Taking the sarcasm of her tone as the reprimand that he knew it to be Mr Cosgrove did have the grace to blush, but even so Elsie had the feeling that he was actually laughing at her.

  ‘Portly Cosgrove. Yes, I – that is we, Mr Bourton and I – we both think you will make a perfect Cinderella for us. You have the height, the looks, you can sing and dance, you have everything.’

  Elsie stared up at him. Of a sudden from being a rude old man of at least twenty-four or five years of age, and of no possible taste, Portly Cosgrove had been transformed for Elsie into a tall Adonis with a discerning eye for talent. No rat turned into a coachman, no pumpkin turned into a coach, could have undergone a more efficient or beautiful transformation than Portly Cosgrove at that moment.

  ‘Who is your agent, Miss Lancaster?’

  Elsie’s grandmother was her agent, of course, but it would never do to say so to Mr Cosgrove. It would give a far too homely impression, and bring Elsie’s salary tumbling right down.

  ‘Dorothy Temple is my agent, Mr Cosgrove.’

  Although the family name was Richards, Dottie always operated as an agent under Dorothy Temple, which was fine except on those occasions when Dorothy Richards was being represented by Dorothy Temple, putting herself up for some role in which, humiliatingly, she would then not be cast; as a consequence of which, on more than one occasion, Elsie had heard her berating some producer in the wrong name, thereby bringing the agency, and therefore Elsie, into disrepute. Producers were notoriously thin-skinned when it came to taking offence. They had long ago changed Elsie’s surname from Richards to Lancaster, which they both thought had more ring to it.

  ‘And Miss Temple’s telephone number, Miss Lancaster?’

  Elsie gave it quickly and clearly, as she always did. Ever since they had moved into the house they now thought of as home, Dottie had made sure that they had a separate number for the agency. The number belonged to the telephone in the hall, and when it rang Dottie answered it for everyone in her official agent’s voice. She always said, ‘Hallo, Temple and Mead, Theatrical Aaa-gency.’

  ‘Good. I am glad you came to see us, Miss Elsie Lancaster.’ Portly gave Elsie a sudden and bright smile. ‘Do you know I really think we were just beginning to despair of ever finding our Cinderella?’

  Being the hardened little professional that she was, Elsie made it clear that the brilliant smile from the tall, handsome young man did not cut any mustard with her.

  ‘Mr Cosgrove,’ she said, pausing to give a small sigh, ‘because nothing is as yet signed or sealed I have to tell you that I am shortlisted for another role, as it happens. At Tyningham Repertory Theatre, so if you want to sign me this week, I would say that you are going to have to get your skating boots on and telephone Miss Temple, and as soon as may be.’

  Of course Elsie was not shortlisted for anything, not even for a piece of longed-for but rarely tasted Fullers cake, but since she was at least hoping to go up for an audition at the repertory theatre she was happy to be ruthless. She knew managements only too well; they were quite happy to promise a girl a role in the morning, and by the afternoon find that they had changed their
minds when they saw someone else. They had no feelings, had management, and the best, the only way to treat them was as if you had none either.

  ‘We will telephone through to Miss Temple at once, you may be sure of that, Miss Lancaster.’ Portly shook Elsie’s hand, but as she turned on her heel once more he called out to her, ‘Are you sure I can’t show you to your motor car, Miss Lancaster?’

  Elsie turned back, and for the first time she smiled as she drew her caped coat tighter around her neck.

  ‘No, thank you, Mr Cosgrove. I have sent my car home. I always like to walk after auditions. I find it clears my mind – for the next one.’

  After which she walked off with determined insouciance, strolling through the various sets of doors confronting her, until she was out in the open once more and opening up her child’s umbrella, and starting to battle against rain so fierce that it took all her concentration not to let it soak her.

  As a consequence it was only after she reached home that she remembered she had in fact been promised the leading role in the pantomime, which, if it came off, meant that she would be able to buy Dottie and herself more than a turkey for Christmas, she would be able to buy everyone in the house presents, and a cake – everything.

  Back at the theatre Portly Cosgrove turned to his business partner, Donald Bourton, and shaking his head, sighed with sheer pleasure.

  ‘How about that, Donald?’

  Donald, a jovial-looking, round-faced man in his early forties, soberly dressed but with a habit of holding a smoking cigarette and rolling it slowly and methodically backwards and forwards between his teeth, now also shook his head.

  ‘I know, how about that!’

  ‘A star is born.’

  ‘It certainly is, Portly, it certainly is.’

  They stood on, staring vaguely ahead at the place where they had last seen Elsie as she vanished through the swing doors at the top of the auditorium.

  ‘It is all there already, Donald, did you notice?’

  ‘I did. And as always we do not have to do a thing, not a thing. Just costume it, put it on stage, and watch the audience taking Miss Elsie Lancaster to their hearts. How about that, nothing to do.’