The Town in Bloom (6 page)

The coffee smelt marvellous but didn’t taste as it smelt; even with three lumps of sugar I found it bitter. She said that in future, I could have mine with milk. ‘They’ve got milk in the bars, for the coffee trays. But believe me, strong black coffee does more to get one through the evening.’

I asked if she would be working late – and remembered to tell her Mr Crossway wouldn’t be coming up. She said in that case she’d clear out quite soon – ‘Unless I wait till the curtain’s down and then make our peace with Brice. Poor Brice, he really suffers when anything goes wrong on his precious stage.’

‘I should have thought it was Mr Crossway’s stage.’

‘Do you know, in an odd way it isn’t? Not as much as it’s Brice’s, when a performance is taking place. Brice is like the captain of a ship and Mr Crossway’s merely the ship’s owner. Your taxi will be here now. See you tomorrow at two-thirty. And don’t worry about Brice Marton.’

I did worry a little – or rather, I still felt indignant. But soon I was enjoying the ride through the shining, rain-wet streets. We passed a coffee stall, the first I had ever seen, and in spite of my solid dinner I at once felt hungry. I asked the taxi-driver if coffee-stall food was good and he said he’d take me to a stall where I could get first-rate ham sandwiches – it turned out to be quite near the Club. I bought four sandwiches, one for me, one for Molly, one for Lilian and one for the taxi-driver. He said none of his fares had ever treated him to one before. 

I can’t believe my first spring and summer in London were as sunny as my mind’s eye remembers them; one is apt to surround memories in weather that suits their mood. But apart from specific occasions – such as my first, torrentially wet evening at the Crossway, and an afternoon of downpour in July which had dramatic results – I can only visualise myself as walking through, or looking out on, sunlight; and in the evenings watching clear skies turn to a deeper blue when lights were first switched on. As for the nights, there were always very large stars – if not a new or a full moon, my two favourite kinds.

All this indicates that I was happy; and for much of the time I knew I was. In the early days I was a little troubled because I had not yet made a start as an actress, but even then I could pass what must surely be one valid test of happiness: I was reluctant to let each day come to an end. Back in the village, after the theatre, I would willingly have talked all night.

What did Molly, Lilian and I talk about? Their theatre, my theatre, their men friends (I had none), the Club, clothes … never the state of the world. And why did we laugh so much? I fancy they laughed more than I did and
very often
at
me, but it was affectionate laughter and it encouraged me to talk more and more. I feel sure they didn’t think me witty; just funny. My schooldays and my amateur theatricals were funny. The fact that I had read many books was funny and my occasional use of unusual words was a positive scream – though Lilian would often add the word to her vocabulary. (Not so Molly, who almost invariably remarked, ‘Our Mouse has swallowed the dictionary.’) I was always telling them of things I had done which seemed to me quite normal but which doubled them up with laughter. Even my having come from Manchester was funny, though I could never discover why.

Frobisher, Macgregor and Lofty combined wistfulness at not quite being able to hear what we were laughing at with wistfulness for peace and quiet. We sometimes obliged by speaking louder; never by shutting up. But sooner or later Molly drove herself and us to silence and sleep by some such remark as, ‘We shall all look
hags
tomorrow.’

In the mornings I was far more tired than I ever felt at night. Darling Charlotte the Harlot, after waking us by the delivery of breakfast trays, would go backwards and forwards between Molly’s cubicle and mine making sure we did not go to sleep again. Lilian always woke at once; she thought it idiotic to pay for breakfast in bed and then let it go cold. Sleep seemed to me more desirable than food – until I was persuaded to sit up. Then the day took over and I was eager to breakfast, talk, wage the Battle of the Bathroom Door and get downstairs.

During my first couple of weeks I spent my mornings in the Club and got to know many members. Students and girls in jobs were mostly out, elderly members often came
down late, so the company in the lounge seemed mainly composed of out-of-work actresses waiting for telephone calls from agents and managers, which seldom came. Some of these girls were doubly out of luck as they also awaited calls from elusive men friends. (So many members were in the midst of unhappy love affairs, so few in the midst of happy ones – and even the fortunate few put in a good deal of time waiting for telephone calls.) Every time the lounge door opened girls raised their heads hoping to hear their names called; then, when disappointed, sank back into apathy.

Molly would go round rather as if visiting the sick, enquiring about jobs and men. Lilian told the girls they should be more strong-minded. Molly once said to her, ‘It’s all very well for us, we’re in work and not in love.’ Then she added reflectively, ‘Not that I wouldn’t like to be in love, if I could find someone really suitable. He must be a tall man but not a
spindly
tall man. I want a
massive
tall man – and men of that type seem to prefer cossetting some tiny girl like you, Mouse. And I can’t have any
complications
; so many of the girls here are in love with married men. I want someone who will call for me openly at the Club, and wait unashamedly in the hall.’

‘Carrying a large bunch of roses,’ said Lilian.

After that, ‘Roses in the hall’ became a Club expression, denoting the kind of love affair perpetually longed for but rarely achieved. As many of the girls were attractive one would have expected them to have shoals of admirers, but even Molly and Lilian, who were outstandingly pretty, could only boast of three – ‘One each and one who doesn’t know the difference between us,’ said Lilian. ‘And they’re
all dull and not even rich. It’s my belief that all the best men are now snapped up by Society women. Actresses don’t stand a chance; anyway, not if they’re respectable – because Society women are so
willingly
immoral.’ Lilian had a love-hate for Society women and would spend hours studying them in glossy magazines.

One morning in my third week she took me for a walk in Regent’s Park. (Molly hated walking.) We went round the Outer Circle, where Lilian particularly longed to live, and amused ourselves by choosing houses for her. That afternoon I happened to learn from Miss Lester that Mr Crossway lived on the Outer Circle and, as it turned out, in Lilian’s favourite terrace. The next morning we again went to Regent’s Park and she decided his was her very favourite house. She insisted on walking past it so often that I was glad to feel sure he wouldn’t be there to see us, rehearsals for the new play having started.

‘I can’t think why you don’t find him exciting,’ said Lilian. She had now been to one of our matinées. ‘It’s a pity he has a wife – she’s tall, dark, and
very
Society. When men have wives it interferes with my thoughts.’ She gave a last look at the house. ‘I’d love to see inside it. Perhaps you’ll get the chance to. I do think you’re lucky, seeing so much of Rex Crossway.’

Actually, I had seen very little of him. At first he had been in and out of the office, but I had often been working in the Throne Room; and when rehearsals began, while the old play was still running, he saw Miss Lester in the mornings or she went to his dressing-room during the performance. As nothing more had happened about my understudying I asked her about it, but she said we must
not worry Mr Crossway yet. ‘He’s got so much on his mind while he’s playing and rehearsing – and directing. Just wait till the theatre goes dark.’

It went dark – a new expression to me – a few days later. Miss Lester and I went to the last night of the play, sitting at the back of the dress circle. I felt pleasantly in the know because I was aware that parts of the magnificent house were ‘papered’ – with very good-looking paper. Some of the best-looking was in a box, where Lady Warden sat; I had heard Miss Lester arranging this. She told me Lady Warden was about to go abroad – ‘Her husband’s going to govern some place.’ I studied handsome Lady Warden with interest; no doubt she was one of Lilian’s immoral Society women. Mr Crossway’s ‘tall, dark,
very
Society’ wife was not there. According to Miss Lester, she seldom came to the Crossway except on first nights.

The play closed on a Saturday. When I got to the office on Monday I reminded Miss Lester that it was time to ask what part I was understudying. She looked distressed and said she had that morning talked to both Mr Crossway and Brice Marton about it. ‘And there really is no part you could cover. You see, understudies need to be the same
type
as principals. And the girls in this play are Society types.’

‘Well, there’s such a thing as acting, isn’t there?’ I said indignantly. ‘And surely the maid doesn’t have to be a Society type? Mr Crossway told me—’

‘I reminded him of that. But he now agrees with Brice that you wouldn’t be right. Parlour maids should be tall – and quite conventional.’

‘Well, I could
act
conventionally.’

She smiled. ‘One doubts that. Anyway, understudying’s a soul-destroying job and you’d loathe rehearsals, with Brice drilling you into an imitation of whoever you were understudying.’

‘I wouldn’t let him.’

Again she smiled. ‘So he suspected.’

‘He’s my enemy. Mr Crossway would have given me something.’

She did not deny this, merely said, ‘Well, Brice has to take the responsibility for understudies and he’s right in saying they mainly need to be just solidly reliable.’

‘How dare he imply I’m not reliable – just because I fell over his blasted brace?’

She tried different tactics. ‘Is it really so bad, working with me?’

I said of course it wasn’t. ‘I’m enjoying it. But I can’t go on and on, wasting my youth.’

‘Damn it, you’ve barely been here three weeks! Now cheer up. I’ll tell you something that’ll help. I asked Mr Crossway to give you some introductions and he says that, once the new play’s launched, he’ll think about it. And he said how much he liked you.’

I then had the grace to thank her for doing her best, but I doubt if I fully appreciated her invariable kindness to me. I was apt to take kindness for granted. This was mainly due to the confidence which was the outcome of my upbringing. I was like a much-loved dog that counts on affection from everyone. (Hence my astonished resentment of Brice Marton.)

It was true that I enjoyed working with Miss Lester. She preferred to cope with most letters herself so I did little
typing and even less shorthand, though she sometimes dictated to me simply so that I should not forget all I had learnt. As a rule I did quite interesting and varied jobs, answered the telephone, and occasionally went shopping for her in the small streets around the theatre. And if I had any time to spare I read plays; there were always piles of scripts on the old leather office sofa. They had already been turned down by Mr Crossway’s play-reader but Miss Lester always feared he might have missed
something
good.

I tried not to sulk about not understudying but my depression must have been obvious. Miss Lester coaxed me into eating a specially good dinner at the pub that night. (I remember those pub dinners as richly brown, whereas Club lunches were likely to be pale beige or dim pink.) And she kept me amused by telling me about her early days at the Crossway. She seemed so modern that I was surprised she could remember Edwardian London. She said the atmosphere was very gay then and there were more flowers about.

I said, ‘But there are lots now, surely? I’m always seeing them – in shops and on barrows and in flower women’s baskets; and of course in Regent’s Park. Window boxes, too.’

‘Are there? I don’t seem to notice them now. Remind me to have those tulips in the hanging baskets replaced by geraniums.’

‘Even though the theatre’s dark?’

‘Yes, indeed. One must always give a particularly good impression when a new play’s in production. It encourages the advance booking.’

The theatre
felt
dark when we went back to the office. I asked if we were the only people working in it. She said Brice Marton would be back-stage somewhere – ‘He spends as much time here as I do. We’ll knock off early tonight.’

But we didn’t. When we had finished work we sat talking over our coffee. I now drank it black – having got bored with carrying up milk – and was becoming an addict.

‘Are you still miserable about not understudying?’ she asked, pouring me a third cup.

‘A bit. You see, while I thought I’d get an understudy, I could tell myself I’d made a start on the stage.’

‘Shall I send you home in a petty-cash taxi?’

‘No, thanks. I’m not eager to get back. I shall have to break my bad news to Molly and Lilian.’

‘Poor Mouse.’ I had told her the girls called me that and she now did, too. ‘But we really should go. It’s nearly eleven.’

On my way to the bus I decided to walk part of the way home; walking had often helped me during my aunt’s long illness. I went now along Shaftesbury Avenue and saw the audiences coming out of several theatres. Not one theatre had I been to since arriving in London. I had been too absorbed to worry about this, still … ought I to let myself settle down as a secretary? Those introductions from Mr Crossway might never materialise.

I intended to take a bus at Piccadilly Circus but they were so crowded that I went on walking. I was half-way up Regent Street when a large chauffeur-driven car stopped beside me. One of its rear doors opened and Mr
Crossway leaned out and told me to get in. As I sat down beside him he said I ought not to be walking alone at this time of night.

I assured him I hadn’t minded at all.

‘Well, I mind for you. You’re too young – and you look even younger than you are. Someone might kidnap you. What’s the address of this Club you live at? I’ll drive you home.’

He relayed the address to the chauffeur, then told me he had been to a first night. ‘My wife went on to the management’s party but I said I had work to do. There’s nothing, nothing, worse than a first-night party after a doomed play.’

‘Is this one doomed?’

‘I fear so. And I keep thinking, “But for the grace of God there go I” – in three weeks. Oh, I’ve just remembered: you’re prob ably out of friends with me. I take it Miss Lester’s told you I can’t let you understudy?’

I nodded. ‘It was a bitter blow.’

‘You’re well out of it, really.’ He then said everything Miss Lester had, about the dreariness of understudying.

‘But even so, I’d have had all the interests of rehearsals – of seeing you bring the play to life.’

‘You flatter me – and the play, judging by this morning’s rehearsal. But I’m always pessimistic at this stage of things.’

‘I suppose I couldn’t slip in sometimes, when Miss Lester could spare me?’

He said he was afraid not. ‘No one unconnected with the play is supposed to be there. It makes the company jumpy if there are strangers around, not to mention what it does to me when I’m directing.’

Would I count as “strangers”?’

He laughed. ‘Well, not to me. But I couldn’t break the rule for you.’

‘Suppose I sat with the understudies? Then the company wouldn’t notice me.’

‘
No
, young woman. Not that you’ve yet learned to take no for an answer, for which I admire you. I wonder …’

As he didn’t go on, I said after a few seconds, ‘Did you have some idea?’