It Ends with Revelations (2 page)

Thornton was introducing them as Robinetta, known as Robin, and Katherine, known as Kit – ‘And this, my dears, is Mrs Miles Quentin, with whom I’ve cleverly scraped an acquaintance.’

‘Marvellous,’ said Kit. ‘Will you introduce us to your husband, Mrs Quentin?’

‘I will, indeed. Do you collect autographs?’

‘Well, I don’t – but I could,’ said Kit, politely. ‘Oh,
yes
. If Mr Quentin will start me off I’ll rush round the Civic Reception and collect the local worthies. They’ll like that, won’t they, Father?’

‘More than probably,’ said Thornton, placing a chair for Jill. ‘These two are my very determined helpers; in fact I rather think they got me nominated. Selection committees now expect to see the wives of would-be candidates. I’m a widower so my dear daughters wrote and asked if they could be seen instead of a wife. I gather they covered themselves with glory.’

‘It was even suggested we should make speeches,’ said Robin. ‘We thought that would be a bit too much, but we canvassed terrifically. Mainly preaching to the converted except in the New Town – but even there they sort of bore with us.’

‘You said “sort of”, Robin.’ Kit turned to Jill. ‘We’re trying to oust “sort of”, “I mean” and “you know” from
our vocabularies. “You know” is the worst – people never
stop
saying it in television interviews.’

‘It’s a sort of – there I go – plea for understanding,’ said Thornton. ‘An effort to get people onto one’s side. The absurd thing is that foreigners, trying to speak English, use it all the time. They think it’s idiomatic – as by now, it is.’

Robin said, ‘Actually – another word we should oust – I’m more worried about our accents than our vocabularies. We heard ourselves on a tape recorder and we
mince
deplorably. I was shocked to hear myself say “noe” for no.

‘You should talk to my husband about that. He has a hatred of what he calls pinched vowels.’

‘Can we meet him very soon, please?’ said Kit.

‘Of course. But he may be rather busy until the play gets going.’

‘Ah, yes. And he won’t care to be worried by pushing children.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Robin. ‘I’m no pushing child.’

‘Well, I shan’t be, after tomorrow – that is, not a child. I consider fifteen maturity. Anyway, I’ve left school,’ she informed Jill, ‘and with deep thankfulness. There were
compulsory
games. Still, they did teach one to read and write.’

Thornton said, ‘Your great-grandmother taught you to read when you were three.’

‘Four. It was she who could read at three; she said lots of Victorian children could. I proved something of a laggard.’

Jill said to Thornton, ‘Don’t you mind her leaving school so early?’

‘Frankly, no. She’ll have private tuition at subjects that interest her. Anyway, when these girls decide on a course of action I seldom oppose them. You might not think it on a first meeting but they’re outstandingly sensible.’

‘Sounds stodgy,’ said Kit. ‘Couldn’t you call us brilliant?’

‘Well, not when you’re there. But I’ll admit you’re not dimwits.’

‘He’s a mite besotted about us,’ said Robin, ‘but as we’re besotted about him too, it works out quite well. Have you any children, Mrs Quentin?’

‘No, alas.’ The ‘alas’ was a tribute to the Thornton girls. She did not usually hanker for children, but it had flashed through her mind that she would have liked them as daughters.

Kit, looking through to the hall, said, ‘Oh, there’s Mr Quentin. Goodness, he’s even larger than I’d remembered.’

‘But not fat,’ said Jill, a shade defensively.

‘Oh, not a bit fat. Just wonderfully tall – and wide. Could we meet him now, do you think – just for a moment? Oh, he’s getting his key. Could we catch him before he goes up?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Thornton. ‘He must be given the chance
not
to meet us.’

‘There’s no fear of that. But he just may want me to hear him in his part before dinner.’ Jill could think of few things less likely as he had been word perfect for ten days. But it seemed a tactful excuse.

‘I quite understand,’ said Kit. ‘Sorry that pushing child got loose again.’

‘I’ll see how he feels. But don’t count on his coming down now.’

Still, he might be willing to. He liked meeting people. And he would, almost certainly, like the Thorntons, especially the little black cat. Jill followed him upstairs.

2

The Involving Misfortunes of Cyril (Doug) Digby

She found him leaning out of the open window. He turned as she opened the door.

‘Have you seen this preposterous lion?’

‘Yes, just before I went out. I meant to call for you but I got involved with …’ She told him about the Thorntons, concluding by saying, ‘They’re in the lounge now, if you happen to feel like coming down.’

He said they sounded nice but he didn’t want to meet them at the moment. ‘I rather need to talk to you.’

‘Something wrong at the theatre?’

‘Peter’s being difficult. I’d like you to know about it before you see him tonight. Then you can support me.’

‘All right. Lie down and rest while we talk.’

He took his jacket off and lay on his bed – so weightily that she wondered if he
was
getting fat. But after sneaking
a glance at him, before she lay down on her own bed, she decided there was no need to worry. He was merely, as Kit had said, wonderfully tall and wide.

He swept back his thick, fair hair and lay staring at the ceiling, saying, ‘Why did I ever do this play?’

‘We both know the answer to that one. You did it as a kindness to a new management, a young author and a boy actor.’

‘Not entirely. I enjoyed doing the play on television and it really was a great success.’

She refrained from telling him that successful television plays could seldom be turned into successful stage plays; it was a fact he knew quite as well as she did.

‘Anyway, it isn’t going to prove a kindness to anyone,’ he went on gloomily. ‘Frank Ashton’s going to lose his shirt, the author’s going to be torn to pieces by the critics; and as for young Cyril, I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll ever even open.’

‘Surely you can’t change him now, with the London first night next week?’

‘There may not
be
a London first night – in fact, I’m not sure Cyril will keep the curtain up here, unless Peter comes to his senses. Just imagine, the boy makes a huge success on television, starts rehearsals in a blaze of glory, is praised, coaxed and directed with exemplary patience by Peter, who’s sure he can get a great performance out of him. Well, he can’t, because Cyril hasn’t an iota of stage
technique
. So Peter gradually withdraws all approval, then gets irritable, and finally takes a real dislike to the kid.’

‘You told me you saw this coming.’

‘How right I was. But Peter’s only this afternoon
admitted
his full reason for it. You know the boy was supposed to be fifteen, which means that he’s free to act without a licence? Well, he looks so much younger that Peter got suspicious and asked him to bring a birth certificate; and, after some delay, Cyril did. It turns out that he’s
eighteen
, and his name’s not Cyril, it’s Douglas. And just when Peter had assimilated this he noticed that there was a black line at the roots of Cyril’s hair.’

‘So instead of being an attractive, fair-haired little boy, he’s a peroxided midget’?’

‘Well, that’s what Peter feels. But there was one thing he liked about that birth certificate: the name Douglas. He thinks “Doug Digby” will be a tougher, more with-it name than Cyril Digby. And he thinks Cyril will
look
more
with-it
if he has his hair dyed black – and I gather Cyril doesn’t want to, or to be called Doug. And now Peter’s decided to cut a lot of Cyril’s lines and change some of his positions so that the focus of interest is more on
me
. And this, God help us, is to be rushed through at tomorrow’s dress rehearsal.’

‘I must say it sounds tricky.’

‘Tricky? It’s insane. The child couldn’t possibly cope.’

She was silent for a moment. Then she said tentatively, ‘He’s not a child if he’s eighteen. And would a few cuts and changes of position be so very difficult for him?’

‘There’s more to it than that. He’d lose all confidence. Take the end of the second act, when the boy admits he’s an imposter. On television that scene was treated naturalistically, with normal lighting. Peter’s planned a
stunty bit of direction with most of the stage in darkness, me a hulking figure with my back to the audience, and Cyril up on the stairs brilliantly lit by a shaft of light – presumably coming direct from heaven. Well, now we’re to be realistically lit, with me in the best position. Cyril’s big speech is to be cut down and he’s to make it
shamefacedly
instead of hurling it defiantly, and the audience is to watch
my
reactions. He’ll not only feel his great scene’s being taken from him, he’ll guess why it’s being taken – and just when he needs building up, not smashing down. That scene must be
handed
to him.’

‘I wonder how many stars would feel that about the end of a second act.’

He grinned. ‘Well, I did think Master Peter’s original admiration for Cyril was going a bit far. But his instincts were right. He saw that the television director built up Cyril’s importance and that it worked, made the play more unusual. It may not work so well in the theatre but we shan’t help Cyril’s weakness by making his part weaker – anyway, not in a wild rush of panic. I’m not just being kind-hearted. It’s a matter of common sense.’

That might well be true but she felt sure he was mainly thinking of Cyril’s feelings. ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’

‘Just be on my side when Peter talks to you tonight. Act as a tactful go-between. And perhaps hint that if he’ll leave things the way they are until we’ve opened here we’ll make the change he wants before we open in London. I don’t hold with actors defying directors. And you know how I
admire Peter – I persuaded him to do the job. But if he springs this on Cyril at tomorrow’s dress rehearsal we shall have a disaster. If changes do have to be made they can be put in gradually, during the week. Anyway, we shall get a much clearer picture after Monday night.’

‘What does the author feel about it all?’

‘
The author?
In a play directed by Peter? The author either stays away from rehearsals or skulks in the back row of the dress circle. And Frank Ashton’s as bad. He’s a charming man but as a management he doesn’t exist, except to foot the bills. Which makes me feel all the more responsible for coping with Peter. Oh, he may be more reasonable by tonight. This afternoon he was at his most fanatical, with his eyes trying to get together across his nose. Luckily the company was out of the way,’

‘How much do they know of all this?’

‘Well, they know Cyril’s to be Doug on the London programmes. But they don’t know he’s eighteen. That’s to be kept a secret from them, and from the Press.’

‘When’s his hair to be dyed black?’

‘Peter wants to have it done on Monday morning, but that’s another thing I won’t stand for. Cyril’s got rid of the black line and had a nice touch-up and he’d be humiliated if his pretty hair was altered. Incidentally, it is quite pretty. He’s really a very nice-looking little boy.’

‘You mean a nice-looking midget.’

‘I’m not going to think of him as a midget. In the play he’s supposed to be only twelve and that’s how I’m going to think of him.’

‘I must say it’s a confusing life for the lad. He’s twelve in the play. He claimed to be fifteen in real life but he’s actually eighteen. His name’s Douglas but he calls himself Cyril, and now he’s to be Doug. He has black hair but it’s been dyed fair, and now it’s to be dyed black again. He won’t know if he’s coming or going.’

Miles laughed but only for a moment. ‘It’s really too worrying to be funny. And I’m worried about the show as a whole.’

‘You always are, at this stage of a production.’

‘It’ll be all right on the night, eh?’

‘Well, it usually is, with plays you’re in. You’ve carried worse ones than this.’ Not that she’d really felt capable of assessing it, from either its television presentation or its padded-out stage script. And she’d been to no rehearsals. Long ago she and Miles had decided that wives of leading men were apt to be resented if too much in evidence.

A pleasantly deep gong boomed from below. Miles said, ‘Good lord, I haven’t heard a dinner gong since I was a boy. I suppose there are a lot of permanent residents. They’ll probably dress.’

‘Not even here, surely; anyway, not the men. But I’ll change. I’ve creased this thing, lying down.’

‘And wear your stole. That’ll be good for our prestige. And you’ll need it afterwards. The theatre was chilly.’

‘In this weather?’ But she was always glad of a reason to wear her grey mink stole. Miles, choosing it for her, had said it looked like an extension of her hair.

As they went downstairs he said, ‘I’ll meet the
Thorntons any time you like, now. They’ll probably be at dinner.’

They were, at the far end of the room, which was almost full. Visitors to the Festival looked up at Miles with frank interest. Permanent residents, easily identified, were less frank; but equally interested, Jill noticed by degrees, once she and Miles were settled at the table reserved for them. The Thorntons were too far away for her to do more than respond to Kit’s wave. But after the meal, which was unspectacularly good, she and Miles followed them into the lounge and she introduced him. Both girls instantly rose, as when meeting Jill.

‘Hey, ladies don’t rise to shake hands with mere males,’ said Miles.

‘They do when their admiration is intense,’ said Kit.

She spoke with sincerity but also with a hint of
playfulness
. Miles responded to the playfulness with a wink, then sat down between the sisters and made himself pleasant to them, while Jill talked to Thornton. Eventually the conversation became general and Kit asked if the Quentins would come to her birthday lunch next day. Miles, after explaining that they would be busy at his dress rehearsal, added, ‘If I’d known about your birthday I’d have stood you some champagne at dinner tonight. What can we do about it now? How about some crème de menthe?’

‘No!’ said Kit, surprisingly loud. ‘Thank you, but Robin and I never drink anything intoxicating.’

Miles laughed. ‘It’s the first time I’ve known crème de
menthe to be thought intoxicating. Oh, come on!’ He looked from one to the other of the girls.

‘No, thank you,’ said Robin, more quietly than Kit but no less firmly.

‘You’re obviously not going to be faced with any alcoholic problems in your family,’ said Jill to Thornton.

Miles then suggested that Thornton should join him in a brandy but Thornton refused as firmly as his daughters had done, adding, ‘Not that I’m teetotal but I do drink very little.’

‘Then we really ought to be getting to the theatre,’ said Miles – who, Jill knew, would have no desire for brandy on his own account. She thought he had been slightly deflated by the complete dismissal of his attempt at conviviality but, if so, he swiftly recovered. As he got up, he booked the girls to dance with him at the Civic Reception – to which, as Jill had expected, he had agreed to go.

‘Such a pity I didn’t bring my stilts,’ said Kit, smiling up at him.

He smiled down on her. ‘Well, we’ll sit out, which was really what I meant. I never dance if I can help it.

‘Charming family,’ he said to Jill, as they went into the hall. ‘But Kit might be a bit much in the early morning, I think we’ll breakfast upstairs.’

‘I’ll arrange it, and order the Sunday papers.’

‘Do. While I slip into the gents’.’

It was dusk when they went out into Spa Street. The delicate old street lamps cast pools of light between the chestnuts. It was cooler and Jill was glad of her stole.

‘I saw a good hat across the road, this afternoon,’ she told Miles.

‘Shall we go over and look at it?’

‘Oh, let’s wait until the shop’s open.’

When they came to the café Jill said, ‘That’s where I met Thornton. As Cyril’s really eighteen is he too old to be given chocolates?’

‘He’s not
supposed
to be eighteen, remember. And anyway, he’s always eating sweets, and asking one to have what he calls “a toffee”. I had to rehearse once with a humbug in my cheek.’

‘Perhaps he’s mentally arrested as well as physically.’ They crossed the road to the theatre, outside which framed photographs were already displayed. One was of a
flaxen-haired
boy looking upwards with a heaven-seeking expression. ‘Peter’s mad if he thinks that calling him Doug and dyeing his hair will turn that cherub into a tough guy.’

‘It’s really quite a charming little face,’ said Miles.

‘I see the front of the house is open. Let’s go in this way.’ They went into the little foyer. ‘I can’t remember what this used to be like. Probably I always went in through the stage door, which was at the end of a passage smelling of cats and worse. This is pretty now. I like the Wedgwood plaques.’

‘The whole theatre strikes me as pastiche rather than the real thing, but I dare say it was too spoilt for a simple restoration. Thank God they’ve left some lights on. I’m always expecting to break an ankle just before a first night, stumbling down stairs in a pitch-black theatre.’

‘I’ve a torch if we need one.’

After a few paces along a passage Miles peered through the glass half of a door and said, ‘The set’s up. Let’s take it in before we’re tackled by Peter.’