Ghost Song (29 page)

Sonja seemed to like the theatre; she asked about the inscription over the stage door. ‘Something about pleasing everyone, isn't it?'

‘Please one and please all, be they great, be they small,' said Toby. ‘It's attributed to Richard Tarleton—the man this place is named for. He was a sixteenth-century clown actor, and a genius at writing and performing what they called very long humorous songs. Not much different from what we do here today. It always delights me to have those words there, although I don't know who actually ordered the engraving. I'm only recently finding out how little I do know about the Tarleton. Do you like it?'

‘Yes, very much.'

‘I haven't shown you all of it—some of it's a bit dark and spooky.'

‘I should think it would have to be. It's quite an old building, isn't it?'

‘Yes, very. There's an underground room I used to think was haunted. I went down there when I was about five and frightened myself half to death. I was convinced someone was staring at me from dark corners.' Toby had no idea he had been going to say this and was rather annoyed with himself for having done so. She'll think you're the worst kind of idiot, he thought.

But Sonja looked at him thoughtfully, and said, ‘All really old buildings hold some kind of atmosphere, don't they? Sometimes it's good and happy, but if something bad has happened in a building it can hold that badness. And some people are more sensitive to that kind of thing than others.'

Toby said, ‘As an explanation for ghosts, that's masterly.'

‘Have you actually got a ghost?'

‘Certainly we have a ghost. No self-respecting theatre would be without one. But he was never especially frightening and he hasn't been seen for years, so we think he's probably moved on to more profitable haunting grounds. In here's the green room. I'm afraid it's dreadfully messy but no one ever has time to tidy it up.'

But Sonja clearly liked the green room's comfortable untidiness and the casual way in which performers and stage staff wandered around. Bunstable had brought in his evening's supply of kippers and had placed them on a cool section of windowsill to keep fresh. Encountering objections, he pointed out that they were well wrapped up, promised not to toast them over the gas fire again, and settled down tranquilly with a copy of the
Evening News
.

A Rose Romain dancer came in, searching for green cotton thread with which to darn Elise Le Brun's tights, because Elise could not be doing with holes in her tights when on stage and wanted them by six sharp. A double-act who tap-danced and sang banged the door crossly against the wall and demanded to know if Mr Chance had realized their names were spelt wrong on the poster outside, and more to the point did he or anybody else care, and really, dear, what was the sodding point of appearing in a theatre that couldn't even get your name right, excuse our French, miss.

Toby told Bunstable to take his kippers to Bob Shilling's room where the majority of the company would not have to endure the smell as well as the plaintive miaows of Codling the theatre cat who would trade his soul for a kipper, and suggested to the Rose Romain dancer that Le Brun be told to darn her own tights. He politely asked the tap-dance act how they were spelling their name that week, because as far as he could make out it changed according to the seasons or whether there was an R in the month.

‘What nationality are they?' asked Sonja when the aggrieved tap-dancers had taken themselves off. ‘Mexican or something like that?'

‘Golders Green, undiluted,' said Toby, straight-faced, and Sonja laughed.

‘You're quite strict with them all, aren't you?'

‘I have to be or they'd be like a rabble of badly behaved children. Fortunately they all have an immense respect for my mother, who was very successful at this theatre, so for most of them I've got a bit of her authority.'

‘But you also hold them in considerable affection, I think.'

‘That's rather astute of you,' said Toby. ‘Yes, I do. Not many people outside the theatre see that. Most people only see what's on the surface.'

‘What's under the surface?'

‘A sort of fellowship, I suppose. We understand one other—there might be all kinds of feuds and bitching, with people stealing jokes or songs or lovers, but we all go through the same agonies and the same doubts and panics. It doesn't matter if you're a song and dance act or a juggler or if you train performing seals to jump through hoops. When you stand in the wings waiting for your call, the stage fright's the same for everyone and that creates a tremendous bond.'

‘Yes, I see that.'

‘Would you like to come to tomorrow night's show? I've got a new song and I'm quite pleased with it.' They were going to use the
Cinderella
scullery backcloth again, but Rinaldi had had the fireplace painted out and a few gargoyles and cobwebs painted in to create a haunted-house look. He was a marvel with paint and a brush. ‘I'll get you a box all to yourself and take you to supper afterwards,' said Toby.

‘Certainly not,' said Miss Kaplen at once. ‘I haven't the time.'

‘You have to eat, presumably?'

‘Yes, but—what about Alicia Darke?'

‘She can come as well if she likes, but I was thinking of just the two of us.'

‘I didn't mean that.'

‘I know you didn't. Alicia is just a friend, Sonja.'

‘Ha!' said Miss Kaplen scornfully.

‘Do come. You'll enjoy the performance—Bunstable's on the bill on Saturday.'

‘The gentleman with the kippers?'

‘Yes. He's a bit of a nuisance over his kippers—it's almost a superstition with him, I think—but he's a good comic. Very sharp, very witty. We've got a shocking old ham actor booked for next week—he's called Prospero Garrick, would you believe that?'

‘Not for a minute,' said Sonja, laughing. When she laughed, her entire face lightened and she suddenly looked like a mischievous pixie.

‘He does very florid monologues in a highly melodramatic Victorian style,' said Toby. ‘My mother insists on booking him because she thinks it gives us a touch of class. We don't need class, of course—our audiences don't really want class.' He grinned. ‘On a Saturday night, it's Bunstable and his ilk they want. The whole place wakes up then. I'd love it if you'd come.' He suddenly wanted her to experience the warmth and comradeship that filled the theatre on those nights, and he also wanted to see her wearing a silk evening gown in place of the rather shapeless, nothing-coloured coat and skirt she had worn both times they had met. So he said, ‘And we could have supper at the Savoy Grill after the show and you can explain to me about the revolution.'

‘I have no intention of going to the Savoy Grill with you or anybody else and I wish you'd stop calling it a revolution.'

‘Isn't that what it is? What a pity. I was looking forward to shouting warlike slogans and singing revolutionary songs.'

Miss Kaplen said severely that she hoped Toby was taking the forthcoming protest seriously, because Tranz did not have time or energy to waste on people who were going to be flippant.

‘I'm not flippant at all,' said Toby. ‘I'm as serious as—as the Houses of Parliament or Magna Carta.'

‘We're simply going to march through the streets and stage a protest rally outside the reception being held for the Archduke.'

‘That's what everyone keeps telling me,' said Toby thoughtfully. ‘But does it not occur to you that it's a very long way to travel to shout a few slogans?'

Toby had not been to the Soho restaurant referred to in the note Sonja had delivered, but when, as instructed, he asked for Mr Petrovnic, he was at once conducted to an upstairs private room.

Two of the patriarchal gentlemen were seated at a table, both drinking colourless liquid from small glasses, but when Toby bade them good morning they either did not understand English or considered him too far beneath their notice to acknowledge. Or perhaps anarchists, if they were anarchists, were apt to consider such trivial exchanges a mark of imperialistic decadence.

After a few moments, one of them pushed the bottle of colourless liquid over to him, indicating that he should pour himself a glass from it. It turned out to be vodka, which Toby disliked, but he took a sip for politeness' sake and set the glass down hoping no one would notice if he did not drink the rest. No mention was made of food.

Petrovnic arrived shortly afterwards, and although he did not shake Toby's hand, he sat opposite him and looked at him very intently indeed. Then he said, ‘I am very glad to be meeting you, Mr Chance.'

‘Thank you. I'm interested to meet you,' said Toby politely. ‘I found your talk the other night very stirring.'

Petrovnic made a dismissive gesture as if this was of small importance, and embarked on a series of questions about Toby's allegiances and his political views, all of which Toby tried to answer as he thought Petrovnic would want and expect. He had been prepared for some mention of his father, but nothing was said: Toby could not decide if this meant they were treating him warily or if they had not connected him with Sir Harold Chance of the Foreign Office. Perhaps they simply did not think it mattered.

Petrovnic outlined the arrangements for the march, and the details of the main meeting point in Sarajevo itself. ‘That will be the town hall of Sarajevo,' Petrovnic said, and the two other gentlemen nodded portentously.

‘The Archduke is to direct army manoeuvres in the neighbouring mountains,' said one of them, and Toby heard that the man spoke with a stronger accent than Petrovnic's.

Petrovnic said, ‘You can travel to Bosnia, Mr Chance? You have not family commitments that would prevent that? The journey will take perhaps four days.'

Toby was unsure if this was the reference to his father he had been expecting and thought there was an undercurrent in Petrovnic's tone he could not identify. But he took the question at face value. ‘I have some commitments,' he said. ‘But in the main I'm my own master and I can travel to Bosnia or the Isles of Gramayre or the Elysian Fields or anywhere I want at a moment's notice.'

This appeared to satisfy them. ‘Before the start of our rally, we shall meet friends from Bosnia and Serbia in the Café Zlatna Moruna,' said the man who had talked about the army manoeuvres, ‘which is a much more humble place than you will be used to.'

‘Don't you believe it,' said Toby cheerfully. ‘I've eaten and drunk in a lot of peculiar places in my time. The Sailor's Retreat on a Saturday night takes some beating.'

‘Zlatna Moruna is nothing like your London pubs or this restaurant we are in today,' said the man, and Toby thought he sounded angrily proud.

‘Then it will be a new experience,' he said politely.

‘You will be given a map. Or,' said Petrovnic, ‘we may be able to arrange for you to travel in company with some of our other friends. That might be better.'

‘Thank you very much. I'll be there,' said Toby, although he was still not entirely sure if he would.

‘Good. We are very pleased to have you with us,' said Petrovnic, and again there was the searching look making Toby remember all over again that these were the people who, according to Alicia, had been ‘longing to meet him'. Unease stirred once more, because surely they were letting him into their organization very easily. Or were they simply grateful for any new recruits? Petrovnic said, ‘Soon I shall inform you of the arrangements. Have we your address?'

‘Care of the Tarleton Music Hall, Bankside,' said Toby, and saw Petrovnic's eyes flicker.

But he only said, ‘Ah yes, the Tarleton. A theatre that has much history.'

‘We like to think so,' said Toby, and this time there was no doubt about Petrovnic's reaction. But it was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and the man who had talked about the café in Sarajevo, said, ‘He must take the oath to Tranz and to our leaders.'

‘Certainly,' said Petrovnic. ‘Mr Chance, you will take the oath?'

Toby had not expected this, but he said, ‘Yes,' and when they handed him a sheet of paper, he read the words clearly and without flinching.