by Laura Wood
He has me walk up and down the stage and then do exercises that project my voice further and further towards the back of the theatre. Finally, at the sound of a door opening in the auditorium he says, “Ah, Eileen, there you are.”
I freeze, actually freeze, my limbs unmoving, my brain empty save for a dull buzzing sound, I am like the proverbial rabbit in the headlamps, just waiting to be squashed, flattened, obliterated.
Eileen Turner is here. In this room. And unless I am much mistaken I am going to have to speak to her. A feat that will prove complicated if I cannot formulate coherent thoughts, let alone translate them into coherent words.
Eileen Turner walks down the aisle of the theatre towards the stage and Mr Cantwell meets her. She is magnificent, regal in an enormous fur coat. Her eyes are flinty, assessing. I think I’m going to faint.
Eileen Turner, my brain says. EileenTurnerEileen-TurnerEileenTurner.
She and Mr Cantwell confer in low voices, and then she turns to me.
“Miss Turner,” I say, and, unthinking, I fall into another one of those awful supplicatory curtseys, like some sort of dying swan.
There is a moment of silence.
“She does that,” Mr Cantwell says. “I don’t know why.”
“Call me Eileen,” is what Eileen Turner says in that beautiful voice of hers, her grey eyes resting on me for a long, measuring moment.
“Eileen,” I croak, lifting myself from my prone position. Of course I’ll call Eileen Turner, Eileen, I think. For some reason my teeth are chattering as though it is cold, and I have a desperate urge to laugh, which I am trying very hard to keep from doing lest I look like more of a maniac than I do already.
“I shall just go and dispose of my coat,” Eileen says, managing to imbue these words with the kind of imperial coolness with which a queen might announce she was going to dispose of several of her more annoying subjects. “And then I’ll be ready for you.”
“Wonderful,” I say airily. After she’s disappeared I turn to Mr Cantwell. “What does she mean, ready for me?” I hiss.
His shaggy eyebrows rise. “She’s going to do some scene work with you.”
“Oh god,” I murmur.
“Yes, well, get used to it. Heaven forfend lightning does strike twice and you do have to be onstage with the woman. You can’t spend the whole time gawping at her like she’s a bloody zoo animal.”
“Go onstage?” I gasp. “You mean – you mean you’re going to let me understudy?”
“There’s not a lot of choice at this point. And you’ll do. You need work, of course, a lot of work. But I think we could make you passable. In a pinch. I’d rather not cancel a performance unless we absolutely had to.”
I am too thrilled to care how lukewarm he sounds. “I’m an understudy!” I squeal, and I do a little jig on the stage.
“Hmmmm.” Mr Cantwell’s mouth turns down in a way that gives him the appearance of an angry turtle. I cease my jig at once, folding my hands and schooling my face into an expression of mild obedience that always seems to go down well with Aunt Irene.
“I mean, thank you, sir, for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”
He smiles faintly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Miss Trevelyan.”
“Well, then; I promise to try my best not to let you down and to work very, very hard.”
“I suppose,” he says, “that will have to do. Now, let’s go back to the beginning of the last scene and take it again, shall we? And this time do try not to flap your hands around; you’re supposed to be drinking tea, not conducting an orchestra.”
Part Three
On Tour
December, 1931
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
4th December, 1931
Dear Lou,
I know I owe you a good long letter because I haven’t written since Birmingham. Well, here we are in Nottingham. Do you remember when we used to play Robin Hood? You and Alice were Robin Hood and Maid Marian and I was the Sheriff of Nottingham. I always did like playing the villains best, so much more interesting.
I persuaded Kit to drive me out to Sherwood Forest this morning and a whole bunch of the others came too. Alma, of course, and Viola because she never seems to like Kit and I going off together. Russ and Dan came too, and I must say we made quite the band of Merry Men. The forest was just like I had imagined, and I longed to scramble up the trees and stage a daring ambush, but I couldn’t in front of all the sophisticated theatre types. Only think how disappointed Tom would be in me!
The play has been very well received here, and Alma continues to perform so well it makes my teeth hurt. Yesterday, and quite out of the blue, Mr Cantwell actually complimented her. She and I just stared at each other in amazement and then, as soon as he left the room, we whooped around like a pair of banshees.
Both she and Viola are in excellent health, so I continue to see no reason that I will have to fill in – for which I think Mr Cantwell is mightily grateful. My own rehearsals have not gone smoothly – even Dan lost his temper a little when I stepped square on his foot for the third time – and Viola gets truly furious with me. She has a reputation for being flakey, missing rehearsals, but she seems an absolute tyrant to me, wanting everything completely perfect. Not that I mind, I quite agree with her, only it’s galling when the thing that isn’t perfect – or anywhere near it – is me. Still, Eileen (did I mention that Eileen Turner told me just to call her by her first name?!) said she thought I was “improving”. That is something, I suppose.
I can’t help wondering whether my lack of worldly experience is contributing to my inability to manage a scene. The more I see of the world outside Penlyn the more I realize I haven’t the first idea of anything much at all. It’s as though life has passed me by and I feel utterly dried-up and ancient. When I said this to Nora she told me that all eighteen-year-olds feel ancient, but I think she was being facetious. Still, you should hear the stories the company tell about the adventures they’ve had, the places they’ve travelled, the endless stream of lovers and rivals. It’s thrilling and outrageous and I have nothing to contribute. Maddening!!!
The digs here are absolutely the worst yet. Even worse than the ones in Leicester. I can’t tell you how cold it gets at night. The leading cast members like Viola and Russ get their own rooms – but Alma elected to stay with me and I’m so grateful. She and I have been sleeping in one bed with all our clothes piled on top of us, and this morning the water in the sink had frozen over! She had me in hysterics with her impression of the landlord when we raised the point with him. Alma’s the most wonderful mimic, I think it’s because she really sees people – just the way you do. She’s quiet, but she doesn’t miss anything. I hope you and Robert are well, and—
I am interrupted in my writing by a knock at the door. “Come in,” I call out.
It’s Kit. He takes in the sight of me wearing my coat, scarf and gloves while under a blanket and laughs.
“Come on, before you turn into an icicle. We’re going to the pub where it’s warm.”
“Hallelujah,” I exclaim, leaping to my feet and abandoning my letter without a second glance. “Lead on, Macduff! Did you know,” I say, following Kit out into the hallway and down the stairs, “that lead on, Macduff is a misquotation?”
“In fact, I did,” Kit grins, raising his voice dramatically above the clatter of our feet. “Lay on, Macduff, and damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”
“And then, we fight,” I say, wielding an imaginary sword.
“I’d rather we went and ate fish and chips instead.”
“Fish and chips? Heaven.”
We chatter happily along the road in the direction of the pub. This week it feels suddenly as though winter has struck in full force, and the wind blusters around us with icy determination, leaving us huddling further into our coats. The sun has set, though its ghost remains behind, warming the sky to a rich navy, rather than the star-strewn black velvet it will soon become.
“How did the writing go today?” I ask.
Kit huffs out a breath that forms a white cloud in front of him. In Kit speak that means, not well. He still hasn’t offered to let me read his work, and I have to admit it’s driving me mad.
It’s a Monday, our one night off from performing. We all needed a break. The work has been gruelling, the accommodation miserable, the conditions tough, and I’ve been enjoying every moment of it.
Nottingham is a nice city, bustling and cheerful without feeling overwhelming. I like it here. We round the corner towards the pub, which is nestled at the foot of a hill, the castle on top looming over us with a faint air of menace. I didn’t have much experience with pubs before this trip. It’s not precisely the thing for young women to visit them usually, but the rules don’t seem to apply to theatre troupes, which is just fine with me.
It is a very old pub, cosy and full of hidden corners, that stays open late, and it has been adopted by the cast and crew as a source of food, drink and warmth, thanks to the horrors of our current boarding house. I don’t think I had any idea how lucky we were staying first at Del’s place, as it’s certainly been all downhill from there. Nora seems resigned to our new surroundings. “Just be grateful for the lack of rats,” was her prosaic advice.
As we push through the door a wave of warm air hits us like a curled fist, along with the deafening roar of chatter. The pub is full of people, talking, eating, and clutching pint glasses full of frothy amber beer. That now familiar hoppy smell, mixed with sawdust makes me feel happy.
“Freya! Kit!” I hear Alma’s voice, and I spot her in the back. She has climbed up on to her seat to wave at us. Several others in the pub swing around to look at her appreciatively. With her long fair hair rippling down her back and her pink cheeks she looks angelic.
Kit and I weave through the crush of people, trying not to jostle arms or step on toes.
“Phew!” I exclaim, when we reach the table where Alma, Dan and Viola are waiting for us. “It’s even busier than usual.” I begin the process of unwinding my long scarf, and shedding my many layers.
“We don’t usually come until later,” Alma points out.
Russ appears then, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. In his hands is a tray full of heavy beer glasses, which he plonks on the table, sloshing the drinks over the edges.
“Here we are, friends,” he says. “The food’s on the way too, courtesy of the delightful landlady.”
I find I don’t mind Russ’s charm so much when I’m the one benefitting from it. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m starving.” I slide into a seat and take a sip of beer, the foam clinging to my top lip. I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
“You’re always starving,” Russ says, slipping into the seat beside me and leaning close to my ear. “Why don’t you let me take you out for that dinner one night?”
It’s not the first time Russ has asked me out, but I’ve always put him off. I don’t want to be just another one of his conquests; it feels too predictable, somehow. Now, though, I’m thinking about the letter I was writing to Lou. Here I am, languishing for some experience, while all the while experience, in the very nice-looking form of Russ, hammers on my door. This is my chance to get swept away in a passionate affair, to make some stories of my own.
“All right,” I say. “Why not?”
Russ looks startled and I wonder whether he only continued to ask out of habit. He corrects himself swiftly enough, turning his smile on me. “Wonderful,” he murmurs. “I know a charming little place. Tomorrow? After the show?”
“Yes, that sounds good.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Viola asks. Trust her to notice.
“Freya is finally letting me take her out to dinner.” Russ leans back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.
“How nice,” Viola says drily, at the same time as Alma’s doubtful, “Really?” rings out.
“Don’t fall for it, darling.” Dan leans across the table towards me, a cigarette clasped between his elegant fingers. “You’re the first wardrobe assistant yet to resist his charms. He’s only looking to cross you off his bingo card.”
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Russ splutters indignantly.
“Perhaps,” I say, “I am looking to cross him off mine.”
Dan smiles at that. “In that case, good luck.”
“I think I’ll grab some water,” Kit says abruptly.
“I’ll come to the bar with you.” Viola jumps up, and the two of them walk off together.
“What is going on with those two these days?” Russ asks, leaning forward so that Dan can light a cigarette for him.
“Well.” Dan lights Russ’s cigarette with a flourish. “You didn’t hear it from me, but apparently Viola told Daphne before we left London that she was going to win Kit back over the course of the tour by fair means or foul.”
“I still can’t really believe they were together,” Alma says, her eyes lingering curiously on the two of them.
“Oh, yes, love’s young dream for a while,” Dan says.
“Until she chucked him over for a producer who could do more for her career,” Russ snorts into his glass.
“No!” Alma exclaims.
Russ nods. “David Spelling – he’s pretty small fry, actually, but I think he made her a lot of promises. After things didn’t work out the way Viola hoped she went back to Kit. I think she expected he’d welcome her with open arms.” He pauses. “She was wrong.”
“Oh.” Alma’s mouth softens. “She broke Kit’s heart.”
It has become clear over the last few weeks that Alma has a soft spot for Kit. After Nora spoke about Kit’s appeal I started to notice the way girls look at him. She’s right; there’s more than one girl in the company who’d be happy to step in to Viola’s shoes should she fail in her quest.
I look over at them now, standing at the bar. She’s talking animatedly, her eyes smiling up at him. He laughs. They look good together, I admit.
“Did she?” I ask quietly. “Break Kit’s heart?”
Dan purses his lips. “Not sure,” he admits. “It’s hard to tell with Kit. He doesn’t give much away.”
I feel a sharp pain in my stomach then, at the thought of Kit being hurt.
“And now I hear she’s seeing Marco.” Dan’s eyes narrow thoughtfully. “I wonder why she’s still got an eye on Kit?”
“Perhaps she’s still in love with him,” Alma says.
“Perhaps she likes the challenge.” Russ is far less generous.
“Let’s change the subject,” I say, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “It’s not good, all this gossip.”
“Darling,” Dan drawls, “if you’re going to work in the theatre, you’re going to have to get used to it. It’s a small world and it absolutely runs on the stuff.”
“Speaking of which,” Russ murmurs, glancing surreptitiously around, “did you hear about a particular leading man and his problems with – shall we say – certain recreational substances?”
“No!” Dan leans forward, delighted. “Do tell.”
They keep talking about people I don’t know, in that funny, coded way. Alma smiles politely.
Kit and Viola return, and behind them comes a barmaid with steaming plates of fish and chips. We fall on the food, snatching at the hot, greasy chips. I lick salt from my fingers and take a swig of my drink as I relax against the battered red leather seat that smells sweetly of tobacco.
“This is so good.” Russ pats his stomach. “Nora’s going to be taking out all my trousers by the end of the week.”
“Do you remember last summer, when I stomped on my hem and tore that dress onstage?” Viola asks.
“It made that awful loud ripping noise, and you were so into your performance you barely noticed,” Kit chuckles. “The audience thought it was part of the scene.”
“And then I came off and Nora drew herself up like the Queen of Hearts, about to order my beheading!” Her eyes dance, and she leans back against her chair. “I
thought I was going to get such a scolding. But before she could get going I told her I’d stay behind and sew it up myself.”
“Which you never thought she’d agree to.” Kit takes a swig of his beer.
Viola grins at him. “But she called my bluff and stood over me while I tried to mend the wretched thing with stitches like great gap-teeth because I’m so useless. I thought she was going to make me wear it, but the next night of course the dress was perfect, and she’d taken all my hems up. She’s not let me wear anything the least bit trailing since.”
She laughs, and her laughter is genuine, infectious. We all join in. That’s the thing with Viola, she’s mercurial. She can be cold and sulky, but she can be so charming too. You never quite know what you’re going to get with her.
The conversation around the table turns to other things, including the new Frankenstein film that everyone’s been talking about. The pub is warm and I’m starting to feel sleepy.
“Film is the future,” Viola says, her eyes glowing. “Hollywood, that’s where I’m going. That’s where we should all be aiming for.”
“Don’t let Rhys Cantwell hear you say that,” Russ says.
Dan makes a murmur of agreement. “Chewed him up and spat him out, the poor old darling.”
“I don’t think film could beat the theatre, though, could it?” I ask. “Acting in front of a real-life audience…”
“And what would you know about that?” Viola asks dismissively. “When you’ve never acted in front of an audience before?”
“No, but I’ve been there when you do,” I point out. “It’s like there’s something electric snapping between you and them.”
“That’s because I’m good,” Viola says, not boastful, merely dispensing facts.
