Distant Music

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Prefers being an agent, I expect.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘So, who will do the sacking?’ Elsie stared up at Portly, smiling sweetly.

  ‘Donald had better,’ said Portly, just a little too quickly.

  ‘How will he do it?’

  ‘Oh, you know, in his usual way, take her out to dinner and tell her she is too good for the part, tell her it is all his fault for miscasting her. And then send her on her way with a pay-off and a promise of a much better part, very soon.’

  ‘That sounds just a little bit better than calling her out of rehearsal and throwing her coat and handbag at her.’

  ‘People don’t do that, do they?’ For a moment Portly lost his affable expression and managed to look appalled.

  ‘I once saw a leading actress – Colleen MacNaughton – remember her?’

  ‘Of course I remember Colleen MacNaughton.’

  ‘I saw her having her handbag and coat thrown at her by the producer and not at the end of rehearsals – mid line!’

  ‘That must have been quite something,’ said Portly, quickly switching off as he always did when people talked about other people’s shows. ‘Now do you want to know about all this?’

  ‘Of course not! I shan’t know anything. No, when she tells me I will be indignant on her behalf. I will consider handing in my notice, and all that.’

  ‘But not quite furious enough to do so, I hope?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  Elsie found her mind wandering to the scene ahead.

  Dottie would not cry at the reversal of fortune that was about to be meted out to her, because Dottie did not cry. What she would do was become angry. After which she would set to work on Elsie, pointing out that she too must be miserable in the production. She would tell her that Donald Bourton was a hopeless producer, that the rest of the cast was appallingly untalented and dragging Elsie down, that this was no way for her to make her grown-up debut in a straight play, and that no good whatsoever would come of the play anyway. The vogue for France and French plays was sure to pass, and it would be much better for Elsie to look for work in a musical where there would be more money.

  Elsie was sure that was exactly what Dottie would do, but as always, Dottie confounded her.

  Chapter Four

  Coco Hampton had not been christened Coco. She had been christened Marjorie Mary, but within a few years of arriving at her dark grey boarding school she had been nicknamed Coco, although for what precise reason even Coco had now forgotten. The name had stuck because it suited her, and she had kept it for the same reason, so much so that she imagined that by now not even Oliver remembered what her real Christian names were. She had made sure to put herself down for registration at Ramad as Coco Hampton, realising that Marjorie Mary, while obviously genteel to a degree, would not be in the least bit suitable for someone who wanted to play about with a bit of acting before moving on to design costumes and sets.

  The Hamptons, Coco’s parents, had been the participants in a very public, and therefore shocking, divorce; the result of which had been that they had both to agree that neither of them was particularly suitable to bring up Marjorie Mary, the still small, but perhaps happily unique product of their brief union. As a result of this Coco had been handed over to guardians who lived in London, and being childless, were only too grateful to bring her up.

  Quite apart from anything else, Coco had not liked living in the country, so being handed over to Frank and Gladys had been nothing but a huge relief. Even as a very small child she had hated ponies and riding and country life, longing only for the bright lights and fashionable environs, the cinemas and theatres of which she had occasionally heard her mother speak with such longing. She therefore had never, not even for an instant, blamed her mother for divorcing her Squire Toby father and shortly afterwards leaving with her new husband for an ambassadorial post in Paris.

  What she did sometimes blame her mother for, however, once she had fallen in love with French fashion, was not bothering to try to fight for custody of her daughter just a little harder. Coco longed passionately to go to Paris and see for herself the wealth of beautiful clothes, not to mention the women who wore them, but she quite understood that the last thing her stepfather wanted was to have an over-active stepdaughter running about his embassy demanding to be taken to the fashion shows.

  Her mother did send cheques, however, although to Gladys rather than to Coco herself; one always arrived somewhere round about the time of Coco’s birthday – never quite on the day – and another just before Christmas – a date which even she could not manage to ignore.

  Gladys seemed to look forward to the arrival of the cheques (always signed by Coco’s stepfather) quite as much as Coco.

  ‘Ooh, look, Coco, fifty whole pounds,’ she would breathe, flashing the cheque in front of her charge, and within a few minutes they would both be dressed in their best coats and, if it was Christmas, fur hats and fur muffs and fur-lined boots, and stepping out into the busy metropolis, hearts and minds set on visiting Harrods and Fortnum & Mason, or Woollands and Harvey Nichols, in short visiting all the shops that might have clothes suitable not just for Coco, but for Gladys too.

  Because that was part of the strange pact that Coco and Gladys had made, at some point in the distant past, that if Coco was sent money, some of it always rubbed off on Gladys.

  Not that Gladys lacked clothes, or anything else. She had everything that most fashionable women would want, and could possibly ever want. No, Coco shared her money with Gladys because Gladys could not bear anyone to spend money without her spending some too, and if Harold had put an embargo on any more spending, which he usually had, Coco knew that Gladys felt horribly bored and depressed. So, pity for her, and guilt, always forced Coco to invite Gladys to choose something for herself too. And guilt made Coco happy that Gladys was always able to find something that she liked, so that both of them would be able to return home satisfied that the cheque had been shared out in the best possible way.

  ‘You shouldn’t have, really, you shouldn’t,’ Gladys would say every time, but the happy look to her, the many glances that she gave to whichever mirror she happened to be passing, always told Coco that, really – Coco should.

  Now that she was studying the strange art of acting, of how to best become someone else, Coco thought of Gladys a great deal. This was partly because she missed her effervescent guardian with her too great passion for fashion, but more because Gladys, of all people, was the person who had most encouraged Coco to go into the theatre, to fulfil her ambitions. She had encouraged her in a way that was kind and well meant, but also insistent and persistent.

  ‘You don’t want to be dependent on a man for your money, not the way I am, Coco, really you don’t. You want to have your own life and your own money, and make sure that you stay that way, with your own money and your own life, no matter what. You don’t want to end up like me, always and ever dependent on the say-so of a man. Can’t buy a pair of stockings, or a new handbag for spring, without going, cap in hand, to Frank. It is appalling. Turns one into a sort of servant, really. Please sir, could I have some money for clothes! What a thing. But nothing to be done now, not for me. Whereas for you, Coco, there is something that you can do. You can go out there and make a name for yourself, become somebody, just so that no one can ever, ever turn you into no one. That is what I have been turned into – no one. The person who goes along with Frank. His wife. A nobody. Honestly, I sometimes think that if I dressed up Mrs Gage instead of myself, if I dressed up my daily help as me, same dress and coat, same hat, no one would even notice, least of all Frank!’

  So now, when required to stand up, say, in improvisation class, Coco would think of either Gladys or Mrs Gage, and she would become them, and to her astonishment, and sometimes to her derision, she gained praise, and was even singled out.

  ‘Do you know not one girl in my class speaks to me – except to bag
a fag off me? What have I done – what?’

  ‘Trust you, Coco, you’ve put everyone’s backs up, that’s what.’

  Oliver sprinkled brown sugar over the foamed milk top of his cappuccino coffee and they both watched with some interest as it gradually sank to the bottom of the cup.

  ‘How do you mean, “trust me”? Oh, I know – you mean the opposite.’ Coco blew out a puff of smoke and watched it making its lazy way towards the new modern lighting in the coffee bar. ‘You mean “I can’t trust you”. People always seem to use phrases like that in the opposite way, if you notice. For instance, take Gladys. She is always saying “Don’t you love it?” when she means quite the opposite.’

  Oliver stared at Coco. She was like his sister. She could have been his sister, if he had had one, but since he had not he could only presume that she had been sent as a stand-in. Today she was wearing an outrageously large black hat, which she had pinned to her head with an Art Nouveau hatpin such as only old ladies seem to sport. Of course Coco looked so much the thing that it was difficult not to find yourself wondering if everyone should not wear such an outrageous outfit.

  ‘Why don’t you wear what all the other students wear, Coco, then they might be nicer to you? You stand out like a sore thumb – you know? None of them dress like you.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want them to be nicer to me?’

  ‘Maybe, but if it is of any interest, which knowing you it will not be, I would say your trouble is that you look too much the art student and too little the actress. That is what the trouble is with you, the way you look.’

  ‘I know.’ Coco smiled and stayed smiling as she pulled yet again on her cigarette. ‘That is my trouble. It’s not “the trouble with me”; it is my trouble, full stop. I never want to look like everyone else, not ever, not anywhere, and I just don’t know why. Of course you are right, I should look more like an actress and less like an art student, but I just cannot bring myself to look so – well – actressy!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘You’ve made a name for yourself already – at least there’s that, everyone knows who you are.’

  ‘There you go again. What you really mean is what you said before – I stick out like a sore thumb. Perhaps I should just fling the towel in and forget about Ramad altogether?’

  ‘Why? You’re teacher’s pet, you and that older student who does everything like Richard Burton – you know – Hugh Hughes or whatever he’s calling himself at the moment.’

  Coco’s eyes wandered. They both knew that the true reason why Coco had brought up the subject was not that she had any intention of leaving the Academy, but simply that she wanted to talk about herself. That was why they had lunch together every day: they wanted to be sure that they had someone to listen to them talking about themselves, and as Coco now maintained, this was a great deal easier if you had known someone – as she put it – for ever.

  ‘OK, Coco, we have fifteen more minutes until we have to go back, so now it is time to drag me on, love.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes, you must. It’s not fair otherwise.’

  ‘Oh, very well. Your turn for us to talk about you.’

  Oliver leaned over the table and tapped it. ‘Should I – do you think I should grow a beard and stop washing, that kind of thing? I mean, so I can go up for more of the character parts?’

  Coco considered Oliver’s looks. He was actually too handsome for the character juvenile leads.

  ‘It might be a good idea, for character parts, yes.’ The expression on Coco’s face was solemn. Sizing up her childhood friend with a cold eye, she went on, ‘You haven’t a chance as you look now. You look too chocolate box handsome. But on the other hand, it is no good growing a beard and stopping washing if your character remains as it is. That has to change too.’

  ‘What is wrong with my character? I’m always nice to you.’ Oliver smiled and stared in the mirror behind Coco’s head.

  ‘Stop looking at yourself in the mirror.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You can stop. It’s an awful habit.’

  ‘I’m so worried that I’m ugly – I keep having to check.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re just terrified that you’re not as beautiful as when you last looked!’

  They both laughed.

  ‘So, since it’s still my turn to talk about me, what parts do you think are for me, will be best for me? For which I will be utterly perfect?’ Oliver asked, at his most droll.

  ‘Hamlet, obviously.’

  Oliver looked sceptical. ‘With my legs, I’m not so sure.’

  ‘But Clifton is always raving about your legs. Anyway, Richard II – but we’ve been through this before, Ollie. You know the parts you are suited for, it’s just a question of having enough talent to do them.’

  ‘Oh, I think I have the talent all right. It is just whether or not anyone else will ever spot it. If I don’t make it Cliffie will be so, so disappointed in me. I don’t know what he’ll do if I don’t make it.’

  Coco, who was not as hard-hearted as she loved to pretend, promptly put out a sisterly hand and covered Oliver’s with it.

  ‘It’s not fair, really. I mean, I am here, at this peculiar establishment, just for a lark, but it’s very serious for you, and I keep forgetting that.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Oliver told her gloomily.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. By the way, did you know that – Yorkshire pudding is my favourite, favourite dish?’

  This was Coco’s new secret signal to Oliver to switch to his Yorkshire accent.

  ‘Mine too. Yorkshire pudding, all golden and crisp.’

  Oliver’s light Yorkshire accent was instantly and securely back in place, as they both watched a fellow student passing their table, and then smiled. They had been using secret codes since they very first met as children.

  ‘Did you know that Harold Liskeard – you know the film producer? He’s coming round this afternoon, apparently. He’s a friend of Bertrand’s and they’re having lunch together, and then coming to take a peek at us all, lucky old us.’

  Of a sudden Oliver’s eyes clouded with a mixture of anxiety and ambition. He could see himself being chosen, of course, which they both knew was a distinct possibility. He was certainly the handsomest of all the students in his year, his looks standing out in every class that he attended.

  ‘So now is your opportunity to gather stardom while you may, Oliver Lowell. There is, after all, no doubt in anyone’s mind that you are the most likely to be chosen for a film, I mean with your looks – and don’t look in the mirror!’

  ‘Oh, I know, but film acting, love? I’m not sure it’s me at all, really I am not.’ Oliver lit a cigarette and puffed out his smoke too noisily.

  ‘Much easier than acting on stage, love, really,’ Coco told him in her best off-hand manner, at the same time standing up and moving off. She herself had no interest in being a film star but she could see that Oliver would, or could, make it straight away. They had surely only to point a film camera at him and the lens would fall passionately in love with him?

  Later, as Harold Liskeard watched and listened in on their classes, as Coco had predicted, everyone could see that he had quite fallen in love with Oliver’s looks, but Oliver was not chosen.

  As Liskeard said later to the principal of the Academy, his old friend Bertrand, ‘Oliver Lowell – is that his name – yes, he would have been perfect, but we’re looking for a southerner, a public school type, and the Yorkshire accent – well, it just won’t do, and there isn’t time, now, to iron it out. On the other hand, the girl with the crazy clothes.’ He ran a finger down the list in front of them, looking for the name. ‘Ah yes, here she is. Coco Hampton, that’s her. She will be fine as the flighty Wren who falls in love with the admiral. Perfect, in fact. Typecasting, I should say. Can I get my people to get in touch with you?’

  ‘Of course. She hasn’t got an agent, but we can soon fix that up. How many da
ys will she have on the film?’

  ‘About three weeks, probably, not more. And then you can have her back.’

  ‘I don’t think we will want her back, not after a film. They’re never the same after a film, Harold, you know that. They acquire two fatal drugs while doing a film.’

  ‘Namely?’

  ‘Ideas, and salaries. The sole purpose of the Academy is to accustom them to the notion that they are destined for the theatre and starvation, nothing more and nothing less. A film, even one, ruins all that.’

  Coco stared at Bertrand. He was a tall, bespectacled man with a line in old suits that she felt sure just had to be old costumes from parts he had once played, because of course, like so many who ran classes and academies to teach the ever changing, never changing art of drama, Bertrand had once been an actor.

  ‘Why does Harold Liskeard want me?’

  ‘I gather he thinks you are typecasting, dear. Wants you to go along to see him, tomorrow afternoon. Don’t get your hopes too high. If his director and all the rest don’t like the look of you, you can still be turned away. But you know, don’t worry too much. There’s nothing much to film acting; just hit your mark and say the words, and gesture above the waist. Most of the time you’ll find you play cards and gossip, eat breakfast, lunch and tea from early morning to cocktail hour, and generally try not to get into too much trouble on Sundays, when you’re not required for filming. That’s all.’

  Coco stared at Bertrand. She could not, dared not tell him that she never wanted to act, that she still did not want to act, that she had only gone along to audition for entrance into his academy so that she could have an excuse to stay in London and not go to Norfolk with her guardians.

  ‘What about Oliver Lowell?’

  Coco always over-emphasised Ollie’s new surname to remind herself of the change.

  ‘Oliver Lowell? Oh, you mean the Yorkshire man? Oh yes, Harold was quite taken with him. With his looks, he could have been perfect, but he has the wrong accent. Shame, because he would have been ideal for the part of the fallen hero, apparently.’