by Kiley Dunbar
Mirren switched her phone off and slid under the covers with a groan.
Chapter Eleven
‘I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood’
(Hamlet)
‘You’ve already got a copy of the paper?’ Kelsey said after Blythe let her in, and shuffled ahead of her, leading her through the purple velvet drapes and into the sitting room, which Blythe referred to with lavish French pronunciation as her salon. She’d hoped to surprise Blythe with a Saturday afternoon visit to look at the pictures in the paper but someone had beaten her to it.
‘My young man brought it round. Roses, too.’ Blythe indicated the blushing blooms in the vase by her side as she settled on her pink chaise once more.
Unsure how to respond to the idea of Blythe having a young man, Kelsey steered a safe course. ‘Did you, umm, did you like the pictures?’
‘Not bad at all considering I was rusty. Paid you, has he?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Hmm.’ Blythe raised an arch – browless from decades of over-plucking – and reached for the gin bottle on the silver tray beside her, arranging two glasses. ‘Ice is in the freezer, my dear.’
Within moments they were sipping another lethally strong batch of Blythe’s gin and Kelsey had settled on the velvet stool by Blythe’s stockinged feet which looked tiny and doll-like, and cold too.
‘Do you want me to fetch you a blanket, Blythe?’ she asked.
‘Hand me my mantoncillo.’
‘Your uh, what now?’ Kelsey followed the line of Blythe’s elegantly extended hand to the back of the door.
‘My Spanish shawl, dear. I wore it for a revival of Spanish golden age drama in the early seventies. It was supposed to be my comeback. I played some kind of prostitute if I remember rightly. Didn’t have any lines. I was out of favour by then. I liberated the shawl from the costume department at the end of the run.’
Blythe chuckled drolly as Kelsey spread the wonderful, deep-purple, fringed silk shawl embroidered with red and yellow flowers across Blythe’s lap.
‘What happened? It said in the paper you retired.’ Kelsey didn’t want to mention the ‘after a mysterious illness’ bit. ‘And it called your last season on stage “ill-fated”, what’s all that about?’
Blythe was silent for a moment as she took a swig of gin, placed her glass down on the table and closed her eyes, raising her face to the ceiling. She inhaled dramatically.
‘I’m sorry, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’
One violet eye opened and peered at Kelsey.
‘I was preparing my monologue,’ Blythe said curtly.
Kelsey muttered an apology before clamping her lips together, chastened. Blythe took another deep breath and closed her eyes again like a medium reaching out to the other side.
At that moment Blythe’s black cat prowled into the room, disappearing under her chair before slinking out between the draped folds of the Spanish shawl as though it were making a dramatic entrance at a burlesque show. Even the old lady’s moggy seemed steeped in the life of the stage.
When Blythe’s eyes snapped open she fixed them upon the glow from the standard lamp in the corner of the room. This was a woman who could always find her light, Kelsey thought, but she dared not speak again.
‘It was nineteen sixty-six when I met him. Oh, he was a handsome devil, tall and dark, matador’s waist, hips I died for, hair deep black like the winter night’s sky. We were cast together in Ben Jonson’s Volpone. I took the role of Celia; he was in the title role. Whirlwind, our romance was. We were wonderful together, on stage and off. For a little while the press were hailing us as the leading figures of the sixties’ theatrical renaissance, you know?
‘By the next season I was under the lights as the Duchess of Malfi, big-bellied and bold. The managers, and Daddy, told him to marry me, but I didn’t feel he needed to. It wasn’t the eighteen sixties, after all, and I was the Duchess of Malfi, for crying out loud! She’s a wonderful character to play, braver than any solider. She took on the ruling powers and the church all by herself, and she wasn’t afraid.’
The glaze over Blythe’s eyes told Kelsey the actress was getting lost in memories of the role. Blythe began reciting the Duchess’ lines to the lamp in the corner as though she were addressing an opening night audience.
‘… As men in some great battles by apprehending danger have achieved almost impossible actions (I have heard soldiers say so) so I through frights and threatenings will assay this dangerous venture.’
Blythe sighed wearily as the Duchess’ strength left her. ‘Oh, the scandal! You couldn’t imagine it. It was dangerous to speak your mind and refuse to be ashamed in those days. The theatre managers wanted to bring in my understudy when my condition got too obvious, but I bit back, told them they couldn’t control me. I was lucky. I had a little status and a little money. Some of my girlfriends weren’t so fortunate. I’d seen the laundry girls and the seamstresses who’d fallen pregnant disappear one by one. Some of them came back after a few months away, without their babies, left at some nunnery or hospital or other, taken from their hands they were, to avoid the shame, you see? The ones that fought for their babies never came back and we never heard of them again. It was as though they fell through a crack in the pavement and stopped existing. Well, I wouldn’t go into one of those homes for the “ruined” to wait for my baby’s birth, not on your nelly, and anyway I was of age. I stayed in town, I got up on that stage every night, and I wouldn’t be budged.
‘I answered every question the newspapermen asked me at the press calls. “Will we hear the sound of wedding bells soon, Miss Goode?” they asked. “Not bloody likely,” I said, bold as brass, waving my cigarette around. Oh, I was magnificent. I was a tour de force, even if I did cry behind the scenes every now and then.
‘I was reprimanded for my unseemly conduct and for bringing the company into disrepute but my lover didn’t hear a word of it, of course. The men always got off scot-free, just like the sneaky thief Volpone himself. I didn’t mind. I loved him.
‘I bore the brunt of the anger and the gossip and I bore his child. I’d signed a contract by then for the next season and what with Daddy being a QC, the managers didn’t dare try to oust me. My son was born right there in the dressing room; just me, my lover and the company seamstresses. I was back onstage a week after. The show must go on, no matter what, my dear, but…’ Blythe’s voice thickened with an ominous, weary tone. ‘My body had different ideas. I fell ill. No one was sure what it was; it started as a simple case of measles, the doctors thought, but I ended up quarantined for weeks, drifting in and out of fevered states. I don’t remember any of it. They told Mummy and Daddy to prepare for the worst, but I surprised everyone as is my way,’ she smiled indulgently, ‘and I got back on my feet. Well, almost.’ Blythe tapped her hip. ‘Whatever it was, it damaged my joints, ate away at my pelvis. I struggled through my Cleopatra and Queen Margaret roles the following winter, but the pain was something sinister. I was so thin with it. I hope you never come to learn how pain steals away your appetite.
‘Then Wagstaff fell off the stage on Cleopatra’s opening night, straight into the orchestra pit, almost crushing that poor bassoonist! Wagstaff was in the role of Antony, blind drunk on stage, thinking he was Oliver Reed. The damned philanderer broke both his legs and that was that. We struggled on with the understudies but no one could command a stage like Wagstaff, and he was devilish handsome, everyone adored him, if only he’d been sober for long enough to grasp the fact, and so the audiences dwindled. The press called the season “ill-fated”, and it certainly was for me. The managers saw my illness as their opportunity to get rid of me at last. They never fired me but they stopped giving me lead roles, in fact, they stopped giving me lines! Apart from a few bit-parts in the years afterwards I didn’t act again, not properly. Not as a star.’
A moment of silence fell for Blythe’s brig
ht career and Kelsey made sure to observe it. Eventually, Blythe blinked as though waking from a dream and sipped her drink.
‘What, umm, what happened to your baby?’ Kelsey asked, softening her voice.
‘Ah, he’s in Granada in Spain. He didn’t take to the acting life. You could say he had his fill of drama in his early years and he went looking for something less… bohemian. He lives a steady life there, sends postcards every now and then.’ The sadness showed in her eyes before a stoic smile chased its shadows. ‘But I’ve no regrets, not a one.’
‘And his father abandoned you both? That’s terrible.’
‘Abandoned is too hard a word. What passed between us was all our own. I wouldn’t change a moment of it. In any other era we’d have lived a whole life together and the world wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.’ Blythe drained her gin glass in one quick swig while Kelsey was struck by the impression that the old woman was suddenly smaller and frailer than she had been as she was telling her tale. ‘Anyway, what’s done is done,’ Blythe added. ‘The whirligig of time brings in its revenges and all that. Goodness, is that the time, darling?’
Kelsey turned to the clock on the wall between the framed black and white photos of glamorous actors she couldn’t put names to. ‘It’s after six. Are you getting tired? I should go. I’ve intruded, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly, my dear. It’s almost cocktail hour. I’m expecting company.’
Kelsey didn’t say anything about Blythe’s cocktail hours seeming to fall at all kinds of irregular times. ‘Is it your, erm, your young man? The one who brought you the roses?’
‘That’s right. He’s a sweet thing.’ Blythe smiled thinly, her eyes heavy.
‘Oh, right. I’ll be going then… let you get ready.’ But as Kelsey rose to leave, Blythe simply stretched herself in her chair and tucked the shawl around her knees, showing no sign she intended to move from her spot. The room was growing dull as the autumn light from the windows faded. Kelsey felt increasingly convinced Blythe’s young man was a figment of her vivid imagination.
‘Is there anything you need before I go?’ she asked.
‘Nothing, my dear,’ Blythe said sleepily. ‘Pull the door so it locks, won’t you?’
After she climbed the stairs to her own flat, Kelsey opened the window at the head of her bed, crouched on her pillow and watched for the visitor Blythe had spoken of, but no one came – or at least they didn’t let themselves in at the side of the building down Blythe’s overgrown garden path.
Soon the cold air had filled the room and made Kelsey shiver. Pulling the window closed she thought of the dozing Blythe all alone downstairs, surrounded by memories of her theatrical glory days, and the way she’d been written off for nothing more than falling in love with a stage scoundrel. Was her seducer her co-star; the drunken, stagediving John Wagstaff that she’d spoken of? There was no way of knowing without prying, and did it really matter? What mattered was that life had thrown Blythe and Kelsey together and even though Blythe seemed self-sufficient and happy enough with all her memories around her, Kelsey hoped they could become friends. As well as being fabulous company, Blythe clearly knew a thing or two about love and longing, and so would be the perfect person to spend time with while she waited for her own leading man to come back to her.
Chapter Twelve
‘My unsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my vouch against you,
and my place in the state, will so your accusation overweigh,
that you shall stifle in your own report and smell of calumny’
(Measure for Measure)
Monday morning in Edinburgh brought the first dewy frost where breath turns to swirling vapour in the chilly air and the pavements shine with the silver sparkle of autumn. The last of the summer begonias in the municipal flowerbeds along Princes Street gardens had been touched by the sudden change and the edges of their fading petals were dark and shrivelled.
Mirren had awoken early, showered, and taken care over dressing, choosing her best black suit with the flippy skirt. For the first time in months she put on her glasses, leaving her contact lenses in their case. Her eyes were tired and dry after a restless night worrying over what her meeting with Mr Angus would hold.
She couldn’t face any breakfast even though her stomach ached with hunger, and the toothbrush made her gag, but Mirren smiled to see that her mum had made her a packed lunch of cheese and pickle sandwiches and left them in the fridge before she’d gone to bed the night before. Jeanie often did this on her better days and it gave Mirren a moment’s comfort and hope that calmer times were ahead for them, at least for a short while.
As usual she switched her phone on before heading out for the bus, and logged in to the Broadsheet’s staff email app. As her inbox loaded onscreen she told herself to breathe deeply. In for five, out for seven. And again. But the counter-current of anxiety was too strong to resist, and as one unread email revealed itself, a vicious rip curl and the twisting waters receding under it hit her, impossible to swim against. Reading Jamesey Wallace’s words felt like drowning.
Thank you for your email. I’m sorry if you got upset. I thought we were having a friendly, informal chat and suddenly you got very emotional. I’ve been thinking about all the things we discussed and I can’t fathom what prompted your reaction. I hope you feel better now, but if you took something from our conversation that was offensive to you then that is a shame.
All the best, Jamesey.
* * *
Mr Angus was busy when Mirren arrived at his door, knocking once and walking in as was the custom. He stopped her and sent her back out to wait. She chose the same chair in the same spot where she’d waited for her job interview five years before, when she’d been so full of hope and excitement and ambition. She was glad she’d already submitted her feature on festive theatre breaks on Friday, anything to win her brownie points with her boss and make him more inclined to excuse her emailing faux pas.
She was surprised to find Mr Angus was the one to open the door after a few minutes’ wait during which her heart fluttered in her chest.
‘Come in, Mirren. You don’t mind if Mandy from HR sits in with us, do you?’
‘No, that’s great.’ In fact it was a relief to see Mandy there. She was a true ally, having once warned Mirren that Mr Angus was known to get ‘a wee bit handsy’ after a few whiskies on a work weekend away.
That was how the news spread in organisations like this, Mirren had learned. Similarly, she had heard on the grapevine (via Selina, one of the PAs) that Mr Leonard, the sub-editor had a propensity for making jovial remarks about the hem lengths of the women in the office and so it was best not to wear heels around him because that only encouraged him.
As Mirren sat down, Mandy threw her a quick smile and that helped settle her nerves even more. Perhaps Mandy’s presence meant they’d taken Jamesey’s behaviour seriously? Maybe he’d been suspended, or fired even, and this was her chance to state exactly what happened and how long he’s been treating her this way. Mirren sat a little straighter in her chair and took a deep breath.
Mr Angus clasped his hands on the desktop. ‘Miss Imrie, I don’t appreciate staff sending inappropriately worded emails, especially over the weekend.’
‘Umm, OK, that’s fair. I was angry. I could have worded it more appropriately,’ Mirren murmured. ‘But I’m glad you mention that, Mr Angus. You see, I had my phone switched off all weekend and when I put it on this morning, this is what appeared.’ Mirren handed over her phone with Jamesey’s email open on the screen.
It took Mr Angus a few moments to read it. He seemed to be having trouble with his spectacles and held the phone at varying distances until he settled on an oddly close scrutiny of Jamesey’s message.
‘Ah, I see,’ he said blandly.
Mirren interlaced her fingers and let her hands settle over her crossed knees. Any minute now it’d be over, she’d be sent out the room, perhaps having been praised for her courage in bringing thi
s matter to her boss’s attention and she’d be able to function at work normally without the creeping spectre of Jamesey Wallace haunting her. He’d been released from his previous employer for some kind of dubious behaviour – although Mirren had never heard that confirmed – and now he’d struck again and was about to be sent off into the world, unemployed and chastened once more. Good riddance, Jamesey Wallace!
‘I’m pleased to see Mr Wallace has had time to rethink his unfortunate phrasing and has offered an olive branch.’ Mr Angus clicked his gold pen shut and slipped it into his jacket pocket, signifying the meeting was over. ‘It would be seemly of you to accept it.’
Mirren’s eyes bulged. ‘Seemly? An olive branch? Mr Angus, will you please read it again. You’ll see that’s not actually an apology. It’s him blaming me for taking his friendly banter the wrong way, like I’m some irrational, over-emotional harpy who insists on being offended by perfectly innocent behaviour…’
Mr Angus took off his glasses, and squeezed a finger and thumb across his screwed-tight eyelids, as though utterly fed up with this nonsense. Mandy looked down at her court shoes.
‘Miss Imrie—’ he began, with a weary tone.
Mirren pressed on regardless. ‘I hope now you can see how awkward this makes things…’
‘Miss Imrie.’ This was delivered sharp and loud, cutting Mirren off. Mr Angus raised his hand in the space between himself and Mirren, spreading his fingers wide like a police officer stopping traffic. ‘James Wallace is harmless.’
