Cool Repentance (9 page)

That had been Victor Marcovich's experience: and he, like Ketty, blamed himself passionately for the mistake, convinced that he might have done something to save Filly had he known.

'The trouble was I was pissed,' he groaned.

'We were all pissed,' Ollie corrected him. 'I lost the little girl altogether, she vanished. Which one was it? Blanche, the fat one—' He seemed unaware of Blanche's continued presence, standing beside Ketty. 'I dived off in search of you—' He looked towards Cherry, standing in her once-gay purple poncho, which now had the air of a funeral garment.

'It's all rocks out there, and little bays and inlets at low tide. You do lose sight of people.'

'Yes, I lost sight of you altogether', put in Cherry rather plaintively. 'Where were you? Where did you go?'

Julian ignored her. Then his calm air of authority suddenly broke and he too groaned: 'Oh my God, the poor girl, why did we swim at all? Why didn't I stop you?'

It was Tobs who was in the worst state of all: for it was Tobs who had found Filly's body floating on the surface of the sea, the face half-covered with water; the waves were propelling it inexorably towards the shore.

One of the ambulance men said, before Filly's body was rushed away to hospital, still in the vain hope of resuscitating it: 'It
is
very dangerous swimming out at the point at low tide. Someone was drowned here I believe a couple of years ago. Also from London.' There was a very faint note of reproach in his voice.

After that no one had much to say. Breaking the news to the world in general and Filly's family in particular was obviously the next painful task to be faced. And breaking the news to the world at any rate - wasn't that at least in part the concern of Nat Fitzwilliam as Festival Director? It was also the concern of the Festival Chairman. Major Cartwright departed in his Bentley to inform such bodies as his Festival Board, with a view to preparing a statement on the whole distressing episode.

'As Chairman, it was my duty to come to this festivity,' he commented gruffly to no one in particular. His gruffness appeared to hide some strong emotion, presumably disapproval of the whole Bacchanalian nature of the picnic. In the meantime, what of the Festival Director?

Nat Fitzwilliam - oddly enough, no one had thought of him in the course of the crisis. He had last been seen, still in his scarf and anorak, heading for the Watchtower Theatre where he had intended to view the shore from on high and seek further inspiration
...
first of all, someone had to tell
him.

Guthrie Carlyle, as representative of Megalith, volunteered for this disagreeable duty. Jemima Shore, in exchange, agreed to shoulder the burden of breaking to Cy Fredericks, head of Megalith Television, the news of the tragedy which had just struck at his Larminster Festival programme. Cy Fredericks was certainly the right person to handle the whole public mourning which would follow the lamentable decease not only of Filumena Lennox, but of 'Country Kate'.

But it rapidly transpired that Guthrie Carlyle had the best of the bargain. There was the noise of another motor-bike arriving, and Nat Fitzwilliam appeared in person at the head of the beach.

'I passed an ambulance,' he began. 'And then you were all standing there on the beach for so long after the swimming stopped. I saw you. I was watching you all the time. From the top of the theatre.' Jemima suddenly noticed the large pair of binoculars slung round his neck, half-hidden by his scarf.

The person who hated Christabel also noticed the binoculars. The person thought it would be a pity if it turned out that Nat Fitzwilliam had witnessed certain things through those binoculars. The person was really very sorry indeed about the death of Filumena Lennox, which had been a stupid mistake, and just showed the foolishness of giving way to impulse after so long. The person thought: you could certainly lay that death at the door of Christabel; if she had not come back to Larminster in the first place, none of this would have happened.

8

Late at Night

'What are
you
doing, flapping round here?' The question was directed at Nicola Wain - with no pretence of grace - by Christabel Cartwright. Indeed, the old woman did have something of the air of a bird, if not a vulture or a raven, still something vaguely ominous, a rook perhaps; with her bright little black eyes, and her long nose which gave the effect of a beak.

It was very hot in the conservatory at Lark Manor, although the glass windows were all flung open. Nicola was wearing no stockings. Her legs, beneath her dark print dress, looked aggressively white and at the same time gnarled, patched with v
eins and other bumps. Christabel’
s beautiful shapely legs were also bare but beneath her pristine pleated white cotton skirt, worn with a pale-blue silk shirt, they looked smooth, tanned, expensive - legs which were caressed daily by lotions and creams, things which, even in her hey-day, would never have come within reach of the old actress's purse.

The emphasis on Old Nicola's legs was due to the fact that she had stretched them out on one of the comfortable chaise-longues in the conservatory. The rich foxy scent of the regale lilies, standing everywhere in pots, filled the air. The summer cushions had lilies printed on them: just as in winter the cushions had a pattern of ferns.

'It was your sweet little girl invited me up,' confided Nicola. Christabel's eyes fell on a silver tray, placed on a low stool beside the chaise-longue; plates still bore the remnants of a delicate yet tasty meal. 'She knows I'm not very comfortable in my room at the Spring Guest House. Old Nicola does like to be comfortable at her age, well
youd
understand that, and the little duck suggested Mr Blagge should collect me in Larminster along with the shopping and just give Old Nicola a little, just a little taste of honey. Then she's talked to Mrs Tennant the 
manageress at the Royal Stag. Tonight that nice Mrs Tennant is going to squeeze me into a room, just a
wee
room, at a price an old lady can afford—'

'Then where
is
Blanche, since she has so kindly made herself your hostess?' Christabel had recovered her composure, but it was noticeable she still made no pretence of welcoming Nicola. For that matter the old woman remained stretched out on the liliaceous cushions without any attempt at moving.

'Little Blanche? Oh, I imagine
she's
still at the audition.' At which point Old Nicola helped herself to the remaining sandwich, popping it neatly into her mouth like a seal swallowing a fish. 'Nat is reading for the new Nina this morning. Poor little Filumena. But still, the show must go on, mustn't it? And so say all of us.' Old Nicola polished off the last macaroon with equal delicacy and even greater relish. 'As you know, my dear, I'm not in
The Seagull,
but I should have thought you at least might have wanted to be there. To see how the little duck makes out. And she
is
a little duck, too, I think it's a lovely idea to have your own real-life daughter playing Nina, even if she has absolutely no experience.

'I said so to Vic Marcovich only this morning, who didn't quite see it that way, I must admit, but then he wouldn't, would he?' Old Nicola somehow managed to munch and speak at the same time. 'Bloody unprofessional were the words he used - if you'll pardon the expression. Shall we say he's been just a
wee
bit disappointed all along that our dear Anna Maria never got to play Madame Arkadina after all? You came along at such
very
short notice, and you were
such
a big star. So we needn't pay any attention to that naughty old Vic, need we, after all he and Anna Maria are just like two kittens in a basket—'

Then Nicola went on to demolish the last two tiny creamy eclairs.

'What
are you saying?'
Blanche
as Nina? It was at that moment exactly, almost as though Christabel's anguished cry had given him his cue, that Julian Cartwright strode into the conservatory. He was accompanied by Ketty and Mr Blagge.

'Blanche as
Nina!’
He hurled the words at his wife. Ketty looked extremely nervous, Mr Blagge wore a slightly sardonic expression, and Julian Cartwright looked plainly furious. 'Is this
your
doing?' he added.

'Over my dead body!' Christabel answered, in a voice approaching a scream. 'She can't
act.
At school Blanche couldn't even play the Gentlewoman in the Lady Macbeth sleep-walking scene, and God knows that's no test of ability. Never ever have I been so embarrassed in the whole of my life sitting there. She even got her lines wrong: "It is an accustomed action with her to seem thus washing her hair
..."
and then the whole school burst into roars of laughter. And
then
she went and gave her name on the programme as Blanche Herrick Cartwright, when her middle name is actually May after your ghastly mother.' In her hysteria
,
Christabel did not seem to have grasped that she and her husband were actually on the same side.

Only Old Nicola, finding a sponge finger she had previously overlooked, continued to bear an expression of placid happiness.

About the same time, telephoning from a rather less elegantly furnished room in a Larminster hotel, Jemima Shore was trying to explain to Cy Fredericks just why the casting of Blanche Cartwright as Nina in
The Seagull
would be a total disaster. From the point of view of Megalith Television, that is. It would also, in Jemima's opinion, be a disaster from the point of view of the Larminster Festival, the King Charles Theatre Company, the present production of
The Seagull,
and last and possibly least, the future of Miss Blanche Herrick Cartwright on the stage. But since Cy Fredericks notoriously did not recognize any point of view other than that of Megalith, it was hardly worth mentioning these further considerations.

'As it happens, Blanche Cartwright is not a dish and she's not a doll either,' Jemima was explaining as patiently as possible. She kept her voice down. Cy Fredericks, like Julian Cartwright, had a tendency to shout when aroused and she did not wish to encourage him: the conversation had already lasted twenty minutes. 'But that's nothing to do with the case. You see, Cy, while you
don't
have to be a dish or a doll or a fruit or a chick to play Nina, you
do
have to be able to—'

But the word 'act' was quite drowned by Cy Frederick's amiable roar down the line:

'It helps, my dear Jem, it helps,' he boomed. 'Think of us old men leaning forward glassy-eyed in front of our sets, all passion spent, and then suddenly - what do we see? We see a lovely young woman, daughter of our greatest British actress - yes, yes, I know, she's been retired for ages, but
we
are old, don't forget, we remember her - and this lovely young woman is making her debut. And where is she making her debut, I am asking you? Why, on Megalith Television! Jem, already, I tell you
already,
I am reaching for my handkerchief.'

Jemima prayed for patience. Her voice grew lower still. 'To begin with, as I told you from the beginning Blanche Cartwright is
not
a lovely young woman. She's a stocky, rather plump, teenager, who, when she's fined down in a year or two, will be lucky if she's half as good-looking as her mother is now—' Jemima ignored an interruption which sounded like 'the first fresh dawn breaking' and ploughed on relentlessly: 'She's stagestruck and she's sulky and she's jealous of her mother, and Cy, listen to me for a minute, just listen, none of these things matter in the least compared to the fact that
she can't act for toffee
! I was there at the audition. It was
painful
.' Jemima allowed herself at last a higher register on the final words.

Satisfied she had secured if only for a moment Cy's attention, Jemima
moved in for the kill: 'Listen to me, Cy. Something is going on here. Something I don't understand. Something unpleasant. Someone has set this girl up, or rather set up the production and Christabel Herrick along with it. You see,
someone
suggested Blanche should read for Nina in the first place, and now everyone denies it.

'It certainly wasn't her mother, let alone her father, who hates all things theatrical for obvious reasons, and the girl herself says she simply got a telephone message from the Director telling her to turn up for the audition. The Director - Our Nat - utterly denies having sent the message, and I must say I very much doubt whether he would take any step quite so liable to ruin his precious production. The death of Filly Lennox was trouble enough, with all the publicity it caused: the postmortem showing death by drowning, and the coroner's inquest -accidental death, but still most unpleasant, with all those revelations about wine drunk at the picnic. Then the funeral and then back to the rehearsals and no Nina. But
he
thought it was Christabel's own personal request to include Blanche; he got a tip-off that she was on the point of withdrawing from the production altogether, because of Filly's death and all the newspaper coverage, unless Blanche got the part.'

Jemima paused. It was time to use her trump card: 'There's some kind of plot here, Cy, a conspiracy and I don't want Megalith to get mixed up in it.'

'A plot!' There were two words Cy Fredericks recognized in any language; one was 'plot' and the other was 'conspiracy'. Associated with the name of Megalith, these were a lethal combination. After that double invocation, it was not really too difficult for Jemima to get her way. Was that not indeed one of the reasons why Cy Fredericks employed her? Trumpet, cajole, bluster - and on occasion break down and weep as he might, he could rely on Jemima Shore not to give in to him, if she believed that by so doing a programme would be ruined.

On this occasion Cy Fredericks ended by giving Jemima
carte blanche
to deal with Nat Fitzwilliam. Megalith would finally withdraw from the filming of the Larminster Festival - having honourably weathered the death of Filly Lennox - if Blanche Cartwright was allowed to play Nina.

Under these circumstances the footage of film already taken would be consigned to that special limbo reserved for fragments of Megalith programmes which had been scrapped. This included rehearsals of
The Seagull
which was well advanced and early rehearsals of
Widow Capet.
The same would go for the long interview already filmed with Nat Fitzwilliam and the short interview with Major Cartwright as Chairman of the Festival (so short it scarcely amounted to more than two questions and three hostile looks). Even some of Spike Thompson's fine work on Larminster sunsets illuminating the Watchtower Theatre in Blakean fashion would similarly be scrapped.

Jemima apprised Spike Thompson of Cy Fredericks' decision. They were sitting in the bar of the Royal Escape at the time. Spike was drinking Scotch. He offered Jemima a drink.

'Come on, my lovely love, what shall it be? You can't be serious with all that white wine you keep knocking back, no better than cat's piss in a pub like this. Come on then, what's your heart's desire?'

'Truthfully, champagne. But at the moment, nothing. I have to go back to the Watchtower to have a little talk with Our Nat which
may
be awkward, then on to Lark Manor for a talk with Little Blanche which
will
be. Champagne wouldn't help.'

'You don't mean she got the part? Guth and I had an idea of covering the audition, but Jesus when she came on - the poor kid - it was pathetic. Look, darling, if you're worried, I could drop a word in Equity's ear—'

But in the event Jemima found her interview with Nat Fitzwilliam unexpectedly easy. While her interview with Blanche she decided to postpone to another day, to let at least one night pass before crushing the poor kid's ambitions.

Nat Fitzwilliam was sitting in the third row of the stalls, gazing raptly at the stage, on which for once nothing whatsoever was to be seen. He did not hear Jemima approach: the theatre was thickly carpeted in cinnamon-colour which extended all over the seats and walls, making it in some ways more like a cinema than a theatre.

Jemima had found the dark-glass front doors unlocked. A girl with long straight hair was sitting in the little glass booth which served as a box office. For a moment Jemima had the impression that all girls in Larminster had the same drifting hairstyle and were attired in the same pre-Raphaelite patterned muslin. Then she realized she was gazing not at Poll's double, but at Poll, she of Flora's Kitchen, herself.

Poll, away from Moll, was surprisingly chatty, to the point of being effusive. She confided to Jemima that bookings for the Festival were brisk and that the death of Filly Lennox had not affected them, despite her popularity as a television star; newspaper reports of the drowning had simply called further public attention to the event itself. Above all, declared Poll, the general public wanted to be on telly.