I heard voices, and then the girl shoved back into our dressing room, followed by Miss Crompton.
‘Look! They say this is their dressing room!’ she cried, waving at us furiously.
‘Well, it is. I put them here, Martita darling,’ said Miss Crompton. ‘They’re the newest members of the company, and they need a dressing room. They also need someone to help them adjust to the theatre, and I thought you could do that.’
‘But they’re children! They have a nurse!’ shouted Martita, pointing her finger at Bridget.
‘I’m not a nurse,’ said Bridget coolly. ‘I am a maid, and I am completing the task I have been given by my employer, which is to bring the girls to the theatre and ensure they are safe. Now that I have done so, I’ll be off to my real job. I’ll come to collect them at seven this evening.’
‘Thank you, Bridget. Now, Martita, don’t be rude,’ said Miss Crompton as Bridget left with a nod to both of us. ‘I’m asking you to do this, and you shall do it.’
‘This is Rose’s fault,’ hissed Martita furiously, and she actually stamped her foot. ‘She takes my part, she takes my dressing room and now I have to look after children!’
‘I am not discussing this any more,’ said Miss Crompton firmly, as though Martita was no older than us. ‘Anyway, it will help with your part. You will be a lovely Nurse, darling, and Rose will be a lovely Juliet. Inigo and I agree that making the Nurse and Juliet the same age is a very powerful class statement. Now, I’d better introduce you all. Daisy, Hazel, this is Martita Torrera.’
‘It’s a stage name,’ said Martita sulkily, folding her arms. ‘Not real. I’m actually Portuguese, not Spanish.’
‘Yes, darling, because no one wants to see an actress called plain old Marta Pao. That’s show business – you know that. Everyone knows where Spain is and, besides, when we put you in heels you have the build to be a Spanish beauty.’
Martita rolled her eyes and made a face.
‘Now, all of you, rehearsal begins in ten minutes. I expect you to be there. Daisy, Hazel, we’ll be on book for the next three days, so there’s still time for the blocking of your roles and for you to learn the ropes – but I expect you to be off book by the end of this week.’
She backed out of the room and closed the door behind her. We were left alone with Martita.
‘What’s off book?’ I whispered to Daisy.
‘Really!’ huffed Martita.
She turned to look at us, her arms still crossed. I wondered if she was upset about being reminded that she was having to pretend to be from a different country. People sometimes ask me if I am Japanese and it makes me furious.
‘Don’t you know anything about anything? Haven’t you ever been in a play before?’
‘No,’ I said weakly. ‘No, we’ve – we don’t—’
I had to breathe very deeply and remind myself that I was being brave.
‘How old are you?’ asked Martita. There was suddenly a rather kinder expression on her face.
‘I’m fifteen,’ said Daisy. ‘I’ve been fifteen for ages, and Hazel’s fifteen awfully soon, aren’t you, Hazel? And we do know about the theatre, I promise we do. You’ll see – we’ll be absolutely excellent!’
And she stared at Martita, the flush of colour in her cheeks deepening.
6
Martita led the way out of our dressing room to the stage for rehearsal. I expected Daisy to whisper to me about how rude she had been, but she kept her mouth shut, and only gazed thoughtfully at the back of Martita’s head. I didn’t mind that Daisy was quiet – I felt wobbly all over with nerves, washed again and again with utter terror.
We threaded our way through the wings, and then I was stepping into the spotlight again.
But it turned out to be not quite as dreadful an experience as the audition, for this time the stage was filled with talking, laughing, shouting people, and crowded together they reminded me of something.
For a while, I could not think what it was – but then I realized. The people on this stage might all be grown-ups (or at least older than us), but the way they were chattering and clustering together was exactly like a group of Deepdean pupils at the beginning of a new term. They had already made their alliances like the second form had when I first arrived at Deepdean. At the Rue, Daisy and I were the new girls.
I breathed a sigh of relief. This was all right. I knew how to wait and watch until I understood the situation – and it helped that each of these people looked as though they expected to be the centre of attention. Their clothes were so gorgeous it took me a few moments to notice the patches on their knees and the rips at their hems, the places where things had been twice mended with slightly different threads. The men all wore jewel-bright cravats, and looked (I was reminded of Bertie and Harold at Cambridge) rather long-haired and terribly aesthetic, and all the women were wearing a fearful lot of make-up.
Martita looked back at us once more – and then she let out a sigh and rolled her eyes.
‘Oh, come on,’ she said. ‘I suppose I have to introduce you to the company. Remember I don’t want to be doing this at all!’
But, despite those words, her expression was kind – as was her offer to show us about. I wondered whether Martita might be the sort of person, like our friend Lavinia, whose bark was worse than her bite.
She dragged us across the stage to where a short, stocky, dark-skinned man was standing. He had a broad, smiling face and short dark hair, and he wore a shirt with brightly coloured braces. He looked very young for a grown-up too, only a few years older than Martita. When he saw her, he held out his arms to her. She put hers round him and kissed his cheek.
‘Simon!’ she cried.
I thought that they might perhaps be in love, and I saw from Daisy’s scowl and narrowed eyes that she did too, but then they began to chatter away to each other about people I didn’t know, leaning their heads together just like our schoolmates Kitty and Beanie, and I realized that they were simply very good friends. If Martita had chosen this friendly looking person as her ally, then she really might be quite kind.
‘Daisy, Hazel, this is Simon Carver,’ said Martita, turning back to us at last. ‘We were in Measure for Measure together in our last run. Simon, these girls are apparently part of the cast now. They’ve been given to me to look after.’
‘Oh, hey, poor you,’ Simon said to us with an American accent that gave me a start, for it was rather similar to Alexander’s. ‘Martita is a horrible person.’ But he winked and grinned, and Martita thumped him on the shoulder, looking furious and fond at the same time.
‘I’m kidding, obviously. Martita is amazing and we’re the best of friends – the two of us have got to stick together among all these English people.’
‘We do,’ said Martita, the corners of her mouth quirking up. ‘But it’s dreadful, Simon. It is! Rose has taken the good dressing room and now I’m sharing with these two.’
‘So? They seem great! Rose does have a lot to answer for, though,’ said Simon, his face falling. ‘I’ve got to tell you what she—’
‘Martita!’ called out another male voice. ‘My darling!’
Martita’s blooming smile shut off like a light, and I saw her draw into herself as she turned to the speaker.
This man was tall and slender, with pale skin and rather long brown hair flopping about his temples. He had his arms out to hug her, and Martita stepped into the hug – but there was something about her movements that told me she did not really want to be hugged at all.
‘Hello, Lysander,’ she said.
Simon stepped backwards, frowning.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to these two?’ asked Lysander, gesturing at Daisy and me.
‘Girls,’ said Martita, ‘this is Lysander Tollington. He’s playing Romeo.’
‘I am Romeo,’ said Lysander, stroking back his hair and smiling at the two of us with all his teeth. They were very white and even, but somehow it wasn’t a nice smile. ‘And you are …?’
‘The Honourable Daisy Wells,’ said Daisy. ‘And this is Hazel Wong.’
‘Ah, an aristocrat,’ said Lysander. ‘Sent by your papa, were you?’
‘My uncle, if you must know,’ said Daisy. ‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing, apart from the fact that you didn’t need to show any talent to get a part,’ said Lysander, sneering. ‘The English class system is ridiculous.’
Daisy was still gasping with rage at this cutting but not entirely untrue statement when Miss Crompton came striding onto the stage. She was wearing the same square brown dress as yesterday, and no make-up at all, but everyone hushed and turned to her as though she had a crown on her head. Next to her hurried a small woman with light-brown skin carrying a clipboard, her thick greying hair twisted up into a complicated plait.
This, I thought, must be Theresa – the stage manager Miss Crompton had mentioned.
Behind them both walked a man who made me wonder whether Romeo and Juliet had already begun, for he looked like a character in a play. He was old, and his skin was very dark and slightly freckled. He had a halo of close-cropped white hair and he was wearing a long purple cape. He held his arms half crossed in front of him so that the material billowed down around his body and swept away behind him.
‘That’s Inigo Leontes!’ hissed Daisy like a prompter in my ear. ‘He’s a terribly famous tragic actor! He’s played Othello, of course, and Macbeth and Hamlet, all at the Rue, and now he’s Miss Crompton’s director, and the principal investor too. He’s put lots of his own money into the Rue, so really it’s almost as much his as Miss Crompton’s.’
‘Good afternoon, cast!’ boomed Inigo, flinging his arms out wide. ‘And to our two new members: welcome to our theatre and our play!’ He gave a deep, dramatic bow to me and Daisy.
‘My theatre, Inigo darling,’ said Miss Crompton, patting his shoulder. ‘Mine and Theresa’s. Your play.’
‘Of course!’ cried Inigo, not ruffled at all. ‘For the benefit of the new arrivals: this theatre, of course, belongs to Frances. But the production is mine. I am bringing the Bard’s great romance, Romeo and Juliet, to life at the Rue in only two weeks. I have a vision!’
‘You certainly do,’ said Miss Crompton. ‘And I agree with you on it.’ She frowned. ‘Actors have got in the habit of declaiming Shakespeare as though they’re speaking nonsense poetry and not simply talking to one another. We won’t have any of that in this production.’
‘INDEED!’ thundered Inigo. Miss Crompton blinked at him, and he coughed and said, ‘Indeed. This play will be realistic. It will be immediate. It will be GENIUS!’
There was a commotion at the side of the stage. Inigo paused, and then one more person burst out of the darkness into the glare of the lights. She was young, probably Simon’s age, and her face was beautifully painted; she had red lips and dark, long-lashed eyes. She was quite an ordinary height and size, with long blonde hair, but there was something about the way she moved that made it impossible to look away from her. She was like a magnet, and she made me gasp. She walked to the middle of the stage and shrugged her shoulders.
‘I’m here, darlings,’ she said.
‘Hello, Rose dear,’ said Miss Crompton. ‘Thank you for joining us.’ She smiled, and I felt rather surprised. Miss Crompton had not shown herself to be someone happy with lateness.
‘Darling Frances!’ said Rose, turning her hypnotic gaze on Miss Crompton like a beam of light.
‘Rose, this is the third time this week,’ rumbled Inigo.
Rose narrowed her pretty eyes at him a little and pouted. ‘I was busy,’ she said. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I? What does it matter?’
‘Perhaps she got lost in all the space in her dressing room, which is next to the stage,’ said Martita quite clearly.
Miss Crompton swung her head round. I saw Martita’s chin go up. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes glittered. And, from the middle of the stage, Rose glared straight back at her.
‘Now that Miss Tree is here,’ Inigo went on, ignoring Martita’s sharp words, ‘I can introduce our two new company members. Miss Daisy Wells will be making her debut as Paris’s Page and as the figure of Rosaline at the Capulet party, and her friend Miss Hazel Wong is playing the small but crucial role of Potpan.’
There was a roll of laughter and I flinched. Daisy bowed.
‘Girls, let me introduce the company to you. Our Romeo is Mr Lysander Tollington.’ Inigo waved towards Lysander, who bowed ironically. ‘And Juliet’s Nurse – a young woman in this production – will be played by Miss Martita Torrera. As well as directing, I will play Juliet’s confessor, Friar Lawrence, and Romeo’s bosom friend Mercutio will be played by Mr Simon Carver.’ He gestured at Simon, and as he did so an odd, disappointed expression flashed across his face.
He pointed out the actors who would be playing the Montagues and the Capulets, Paris, the apothecary – and at last he introduced Rose. As he did so, it was as though a bright light had been thrown on her. It was clear that she was the star.
‘Hazel, Daisy,’ said Inigo, ‘this tardy female is our Juliet, Miss Rose Tree. She comes to us fresh from her triumph in Happy Families last month at the Lyric, and this will be her first Shakespeare.’
I glanced around and saw that everyone was staring at Rose. Miss Crompton looked amused and fond, Lysander looked – the polite word, I suppose, is romantic – Inigo looked annoyed, and both Simon and Martita looked furious. Rose, meanwhile, stared straight out into the empty auditorium, posing for them with a little smirk on her face – and I wondered then whether all was well at the Rue Theatre.
7
‘The actor playing Romeo was a horror, wasn’t he?’ said Daisy to me that evening.
‘Don’t be awful, Daisy!’ I said, although privately I agreed with her. Lysander had made me uncomfortable. He stood too close to people and stared at them for too long, and there was an angry energy to him that I did not like.
‘He was, though,’ said Daisy. ‘He’s a nasty man. You’ll see.’
‘Well, at least you’re only in two scenes with him,’ I said. ‘And it’s all just acting, anyway.’
‘Life is acting,’ said Daisy. ‘That doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to complain when you have to act with someone dreadful.’
I thought to myself that, if life was acting, it was a pity that I was no good at acting at all.
Mercifully, I was only required for one speaking scene, and a few more as a silent, lurking part of the crowd, and so most of the time, I quickly realized over the next few days, I could simply wander around the Rue Theatre with Daisy.
Once we were through the stage door and past Jim and his book, and Bridget had waved us off each morning and gone to run her mysterious errands for Uncle Felix and Aunt Lucy, we were swallowed up in the strange world of the Rue. It became all-consuming, and I almost forgot, for the time I was there, that the rest of London existed.
I discovered that what a theatre had been in my head – the red seats, the golden arch like a picture frame, the stage itself – is only a little slice of the real theatre. A theatre stretches out in all directions beyond what the audience can see – back, up and down – and, although it seems so simple and glossy, it is really made up of endless secret places. Even the stage is not one single space but levels that can be hidden or revealed like peeling an onion.
The top of the gold proscenium arch, which hides the curtains, is not really the top of the theatre. Instead, you can stand in the middle of the stage and tip your head back and look up and up and up into the flies, hanging with lights and pulleys and ladders. It’s like staring up into the sky and seeing another world suspended above you. The stagehands all run and jump about on the ladders in a way that, quite frankly, makes me feel sick, although Daisy sighs longingly as she watches them.
Below the stage is the under-stage area and basement, and below that, after another turn of the stairs, are the service rooms: the generator room, the cellar and the old da
rk room that holds a well – a real one, we learned from Jim, that drops down into London’s water table.
I got a creepy feeling when I found out about it. I wondered what else might be far beneath the Rue’s floor and it made me feel wriggly, just as I do when I stare down into the sea and imagine all the creatures swimming about in it, too far down for me to see.
Everything in a theatre is backwards and oddly skewed, like a mirror version of life. There’s no left or right, but only stage left and stage right, upstage and downstage, prompt side and opposite prompt. The prompt box is in the corner at stage right (the other side to most theatres, for the Rue is built oddly to block off the noise from the street outside), and that is where the stage manager, Theresa, usually sat during rehearsals, clutching a copy of the play to her chest and hissing at the players whenever they forgot a line.
Often Miss Crompton came to stand next to her, one hand on her shoulder, watching the play. When Theresa wasn’t acting as prompt, she was dashing about the theatre making telephone calls and ticking things off on her clipboard and arranging for the rips in the heavy velvet stage curtains to be mended.
Theresa and Miss Crompton, I realized, managed all the guts and muscles and blood of the theatre, while Inigo only hovered beatifically out in the stalls and on the stage itself, directing rehearsals in a most godlike way. But with every day he became more and more like the Old Testament God rather than the gentle New Testament one, for rehearsals were not going particularly well.
8
Partly this was my fault. The first few days of our rehearsals at the Rue reminded me of what I already knew: that, although I have been getting better and better at being myself, even the thought of pretending to be someone else still sends me into hot and cold horrors. As Potpan, I forgot how to move my hands and feet. I forgot what to do with my face, and how to open my mouth and allow words out.
‘Good grief, girl, SPEAK!’ Inigo shouted at me again and again. ‘It’s a few simple lines! You know how to speak, don’t you?’
Death in the Spotlight Page 3
