Oliver took the soliloquoy at a brisk clip compared to Hamlets of previous generations, as if the question was tearing at him, not as if he was thinking it over.
‘To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream …’
In the interval Clifton turned to Coco and said, ‘You know, I sometimes think those are the most solemn words ever written in any play. Surely they must be?’
Coco nodded. And Oliver had said them so beautifully, substituting heartbreak where, in other characterisations, poetry had been the sole aim of the actor. So much did he move the audience that each night you could have heard a pin drop.
Going backstage afterwards she went in front of Clifton into Oliver’s dressing room.
‘You were brilliant, Ollie, and even your old teach thought so.’
Oliver stared. ‘My old teach, Coco? Cliffie? I didn’t know he was in tonight? Cliffie, here? Where is he?’ Of a sudden Oliver stopped looking like Hamlet and started to look more like his father’s ghost.
‘Master Oliver.’
Clifton stood in the doorway of his protégé’s dressing room, his eyes filled with pride, and of course, seeing him quite hale and hearty, Oliver could not resist hugging him.
‘Coco wouldn’t say who she was bringing. She wouldn’t say. My God, it’s good to see you. And you were in, tonight. I was good tonight.’ Oliver stepped back suddenly and stared at Clifton. ‘And you are – I mean you look – quite all right. Are you quite all right, Cliffie?’
‘Never been better, Master Oliver.’
‘But I thought – I thought – well, last time I saw you, you didn’t seem very well, Cliffie. A bit white around the gills.’
‘Bad bout of flu in the winter, that’s all.’
‘I heard – I heard – well, I heard that you were not at all the thing. But you are, you are quite sure you are all right now?’
Clifton smiled. ‘Never been better, and now I am going to take you both out to dinner.’
Later, Clifton was pleased to see that Oliver ate like ten men. All in all, it was most satisfactory.
The following morning Clifton rang Coco.
‘Can’t talk for long, Coco, just about to catch my train.’
‘I know, Cliffie, and I am just about to make Master Oliver his brekker, but before I do, do tell me what you used to give Oliver such a fright about your health that time.’
‘Oh, just talcum powder mixed in with the normal daytime make-up. Nothing too heavy.’
‘And all it took was one lunch at the Betterton with Newell and all London was convinced?’
‘Hardly all London, Miss Coco, but I knew if I gave Master Newell the impression that I was not at all well, word would get back to Master Oliver—’
‘And he would stop fuffing about and give the performance of his life, which was what happened.’
‘He’s been doing bad work. It can mean you lose depth. Bad work is infectious. The new people in America – I expect you’ve heard of the Method, Miss Coco – they do this sort of counterfeiting all the time, with some very good results, I hear.’
Coco shook her head as she put the phone down. Dear old Clifton, he would never falter in his ambition to see Oliver become a great actor. Except, supposing now that Oliver knew that Clifton was not going to die, maybe he would not be Hamlet any more?
‘Come on, Holly, let’s go and take Ollie his breakfast.’
Seeing Oliver’s Hamlet had made Elsie fall in love with him all over again, and what was more it had convinced her that he was becoming just as good as she had always been. If she had not been so much the professional it would have put Elsie off wanting to act with him ever again, as it would many a lesser actress, but, far from doing that, it made her frantic to partner him once more.
The second series of Golden Days was being hurried into production when Howard Grey suddenly died. It was a terrible blow to the series and a worse one to the cast, all of whom had loved and admired him. It also meant that the series had to be rewritten, and new characters brought in. Inevitably Elsie found herself suggesting that a younger man be brought in, a younger butler, with whom she, as the maid, could fall hopelessly in love. She then urged an understandably reluctant Portly to put Oliver up for the part.
‘I am not sure that I can see Oliver as a butler, Elsie. I mean I am not at all sure he is not too much the nob to play a butler.’
Elsie laughed. ‘Oliver’s not a nob, as you put it, Portly. Good God, he’s the son of Yorkshire confectioner or something, born and bred.’
Portly stared at the telephone receiver in his hand. ‘Whoever told you that?’
‘He did.’
‘Oh.’ Portly did not want to go on, but he knew that he was already too far in to go back. ‘Oliver is John Plunkett’s son, Elsie. I thought you knew that?’
‘John who?’
‘Never mind. The point is that he is the son of an old landed family, old as the hills. The butler, Clifton, whom you met – that’s not his father, they just always pretended that he was, when he was briefly at Ramad and all that, so as he could be like the rest of them, and people wouldn’t be prejudiced. You know how it is now – if people know you’re grand, well, you’ve had it, darling.’
‘Oh. I see. Oh. Well, he never bothered to tell me, probably didn’t think it mattered, that it would matter, to me, which of course it doesn’t, not now, because why should it?’
It was Elsie’s turn to stare at the telephone receiver in her hand. Suddenly she felt such a fool. All those jokes about Oliver’s not being able to understand what a gentleman was, all that – it must mean that he had been laughing up his sleeve at her all this time. What a fool she had been, never noticing that Oliver’s accent was really too slapdash impeccable to be just a trained Ramad version; and his careless ways, his confidence, everything about him had really always been far more exaggerated than could have been perfectly possible if he had been raised in comparative poverty. He would have been more uneasy, less sure, or more assertive anyway.
‘Well, look, I mean to say, all the better,’ she went on bravely, ‘I mean who better to know how a butler goes on than someone who has grown up with one? But for the interview with the producers, I agree, he will have to go on being Clifton’s son. Never do to be a whatever – grand or anything. I agree. Butler’s son, even better.’
So, for the interview conducted by the producers over lunch, Oliver once again became Clifton’s son, and of course he got the job, because, as well he might be, he was totally convincing as the son of a butler.
Elsie and he remet at the read-through. Life on Golden Days, now it was a success, had changed for everyone. For the cast, who all wore new clothes even for read-throughs, for the crew, who all now seemed to be driving new cars, for the company who made the show. But most of all it had changed the producers, all of whom now strode about with the air of wartime officers who had won a great battle, which indeed they had, the battle of the ratings.
Perhaps because of this they now sat at a special desk, just a little removed from the cast, as officers might remove themselves from the men at a briefing. It was at this little desk that, like the military, they made special announcements which they read out to the cast in solemn tones.
Having avoided each other at the outset, carefully taking coffee at the refreshment table at different times, Elsie now caught Oliver’s eye as one of the producers stood up behind the desk to announce how thrilled they were that, fresh from his great success as Hamlet, Oliver Lowell had joined the cast to play the part of Wright, the new young butler.
During lunch in the canteen, where once again the producers ate in a partitioned-off room, well away from contact with the actors, Elsie made equally sure to put her tray down opposite Oliver’s while announcing, ‘My tray is going to marry your tray and have lots of traylets.’
‘The Traylets – not a bad name for a girl singing group,’ Oliver mused.
‘Got over Hamlet then, Oliver?’
‘Not really.’
Oliver sighed before pushing a piece of ham towards a limp lettuce leaf, concentrating on it, rather than Elsie.
‘You were great, Oliver. Truly. The Hamlet of your generation.’
Oliver looked up at that, as well he might since Elsie had never, ever praised him to that degree before.
‘Did you see it? Why didn’t you come round, if you saw it? Why didn’t you come round when you were in?’
‘I couldn’t, we had to get home.’
‘We?’
Elsie was surprised to see the familiar spark come back into Oliver’s eyes.
‘Who is we?’ he asked, once more.
‘Oh, just Howard Grey and myself – we had to go home and learn lines, or at least Howard did. Remember the first series was live, Oliver. Not funny.
‘Christ, of course, not funny. I must say I’m glad this isn’t live, but I’m also sure that a lot of the fun will go out of television if everything is going to be recorded. No more opera singers falling into the orchestra pit, no more drunken entrances, shame, shame, I say.’
‘Huh. Define fun.’ Elsie lit a cigarette and smiled bleakly, remembering the terror and the horror of both the cast and the production team. ‘Personally, I don’t fancy making an entrance through the chimney like Santa Claus, which happened last week on The Blue Smoke. You know it was Portly who helped get this recorded? He fought like a steer to get us recorded and, thank God, he won. I am quite sure that it killed Howard Grey – an actor of his age going out live like that – such a strain, poor soul. No, as far as I am concerned you can keep the thrill of going out live, Oliver, and settle for less dangerous practices.’
‘Do you think I will be accepted as Wright, Elsie? I mean, do you think the audience will accept me? After all, Howard Grey, he’s a pretty hard act to follow, wouldn’t you say?’
‘You’re tailor made for the part, Oliver, as well you should be, considering your background – the son of a sometime confectioner turned butler. I mean to say, you’re tailor made, old love.’
Elsie rolled her cigarette between her teeth and narrowed her eyes as she said this, while staring out of the window at nothing much. This small display of acting did not fool Oliver.
‘You know, huh?’
‘Yup.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Portly, of course. He had to, if I was to – if he was to put you up for the part.’
‘He might have kept it to himself.’
‘And you might not have kept it to yourself, Oliver Lowell, you truly might. All that time I spent thinking that we were twin souls when in reality you were a toff – a nob – not a bit of blood, according to Portly, that is not stained bright sky blue.’
‘By the time I went to Tadcaster I was convinced that I was a man of the people. I had forgotten my background. I had to just get on with it. Now, I must go and study. Coming?’
‘No. Don’t have to.’
Elsie stared up at Oliver, a cheeky look coming into her eyes as she pulled a little face.
‘“One Glance Lancaster”, surely you remember, Oliver?’
‘Oh God, of course. You never have to learn lines, do you? You just read them, and there they are.’
‘Precisely – there.’ Elsie touched her temple, at the same time giving a lazy smile. ‘Watch it, Oliver, I shall soon be wiping the floor with you, Hamlet or no Hamlet.’
‘Don’t I know it.’ Oliver hurried off.
Elsie watched him, and for a few seconds she felt pleasantly sad, as if she was listening to a Strauss waltz on an old gramophone, and then she stood up.
‘Watch out, Oliver Lowell, here comes Elsie Lancaster.’
Portly watched his wolfhound romping between the trees in Kensington Gardens. It was a fine spring morning, so good that it threatened to become an equally fine spring afternoon and evening. He felt more than content, he felt happy, and having called Art to have his lead put back on he headed back to his flat, and from there to his office. A normal day lay ahead of him, not that there was such a thing in the life of an agent. Telephone calls, lunch with Coco about her new commission to do the scenery and costumes for a musical, then tea at the Ritz with a dear old actor laddie who wanted to start up again, and was hoping for a part of some kind in Golden Days. After which it was back with Art to the flat, change into evening dress, and off to the Awards Ceremonies with Oliver, Elsie and Coco.
He was therefore experiencing the usual frisson felt by those accompanying potential winners, but in his case, and he trusted in Coco’s case too, there was something extra as well, an additional excitement that had nothing whatsoever to do with prizes.
Six hours later Coco called at the office.
She looked, Portly was relieved to see, quite, quite stunning.
‘Coco.’
‘Portly.’
‘You look – stunning.’
‘As a matter of fact, I do feel quite good.’
‘Did you design that for yourself?’
‘Who else would design it for me, Portly?’
‘You are the crème de la crème, chérie, and I must be the luckiest man alive to be escorting you to the Awards Dinner.’
‘Actually, Portly, you’re not escorting me, if you remember, you’re escorting Elsie?’
‘Oh God, so I am, I’m escorting Elsie.’
‘And Oliver’s escorting me.’
Portly had the feeling that he was in the wrong play, that he was having the actor’s nightmare, that he was standing on the stage not knowing any of the lines.
‘We’re meeting up with the other two – at the Savoy.’
‘Yes, of course, so we are.’
Coco had, courtesy of Nanny Ali’s commission, been able to create a most elegant gown for herself. And if she said it herself, her design displayed exactly the right amount of restraint and cut, which, teamed with an extremely expensive fabric – blue silk gazar – showed off her slender figure. The gown was cut across the bust in a straight line, the V beneath it meeting at a point in the middle, and continuing in a straight line to the hem, which was ankle length. Two bows to the side of the Regency-style bust line held a tiny cape of matching ostrich feathers. Naturally she wore shoes dyed to match her dress, and an evening purse of the same material, also trimmed with ostrich feathers. The whole effect was of a tailored gown which, as it should, suited the wearer to perfection.
Elsie too had been costumed by Coco. For her perfect blond beauty, and knowing that she was more than likely to walk off with the Best Actress Award for her role in Golden Days, at Portly’s request Coco had designed an evening gown in eau de nil silk satin which would catch the light quite beautifully. The skirt was full and fell quite simply from a wide belt in the same material, but the bodice had been hand-embroidered by Coco with tiny stitches and decorated with pastes in the same colour, which caught the light as Elsie moved towards them and kissed them both warmly on the cheeks, just as if she had not seen them both the day before.
‘Darlings,’ she murmured, smiling.
‘You look wonderful, darling,’ Portly murmured automatically, but his glance at Elsie was, as far as Coco was concerned, far too brief.
‘Doesn’t – Elsie – look – fantastic,’ Coco prompted, but Portly did not seem to think more was needed, which meant that Coco had to turn to Oliver. ‘Doesn’t Elsie look fantastic? She must win – surely she must win. You both must.’
Oliver swallowed hard. He wanted to win. Not that he minded Elsie winning, but he did not want Elsie to win if he was not to win.
His father had rung him just before he left for the hotel.
‘Much enjoyed the series,’ he told his youngest son, his head some way from the receiver as it always was when he was talking into the telephone. ‘I have to say that I have never seen a butler done better. Every now and then I thought there might be little touches of Clifton? Just hope he can’t see it, you sly devil. But there you are. Good luck for tonight, old chap. Hope you win. We’ll be toasting you, you can be sure of that.’
>
Elsie breathed out. She knew that she looked fantastic, thanks to Coco’s dress, which was fit for at the very least a duchess. She also knew that Oliver was mesmerised by her, because when they had met up he had not said a thing, which she knew of old meant that he was enraptured by how she looked.
‘Else.’
Oliver had not called her that for – well – years.
‘Yup?’
‘You look twenty-four.’
That had been their shorthand. Twenty-four carat gold.
‘Get on. It’s just because you’ve only seen me in a maid’s uniform for the past God knows how long.’
‘Do you think we’re going to win, Else?’
‘Yup.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re bloody talented, sweet lummox, that’s why.’
Oliver stopped and stared. Elsie had not called him that for God knows how long. Not since God knows when. Not since God was a boy, he didn’t think, not since then.
Of course none of them could eat dinner, as people never can when there are prizes in the offing, even when the food is worth eating, which is not normally the case. Elsie went to the loo several times and returned with her make-up yet more freshened. Coco, who was after all not involved, became more and more excited, not, as it happened, for Elsie and Oliver themselves, although of course she wanted them to win, but for Portly. What a coup it would be for him, she suddenly realised, a little late in the day, if two of his actors walked off with the best acting prizes. As the lights were dimmed and the first announcer strode on to the stage Coco crossed her evening-gloved fingers and waved them discreetly at Portly, while at the same time a waiter’s gloved hand slid a note into Elsie’s palm.
Please come at once, Dottie is dying and asking for you. She is at the Beeches, Kitchener Road. You may remember it’ The note was signed Richard Clough.
Elsie stared first at it, and then across at Portly. Dimly the words started to work their way into her brain, finally becoming fact. Her grandmother was dying. Dottie. Of course, her grandmother, Dottie. She was dying.
She rose slowly from her place.
‘What are you doing?’
Distant Music Page 40
