Volcano Street (29 page)

It was early in Roger’s matriculation year that the Old Vic Theatre Company from London made its legendary tour of Australia and New Zealand. The war was over, and here, as if to prove it, were Sir Laurence Olivier and his movie-star wife, Vivien Leigh, bearing beauty and culture to the dominions. Everywhere they went the Oliviers were received like royalty, but never so much as in these distant backwaters of the British Empire. Their journey across Australia was a conqueror’s progress: Perth, Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney. For a continent starved of glamour, here was Hollywood and the British aristocracy rolled into one. Thousands lined the pavements just to watch the Oliviers pass.

Sir Laurence told reporters he was looking for new talent. In those drab years after the war, the vast continent of Australia possessed almost no legitimate theatre and barely a handful of professional actors. But there were amateurs. There were aspirants. Now, in each state capital the tour passed through, Australia’s young performers could audition for one of the greatest and most powerful figures in world theatre. It was the chance of a lifetime. The prize was a ticket to London, and professional training at the Old Vic Theatre School.

For Roger Dansie, the day he auditioned for Olivier in Adelaide was, he would realise later, the climax of his life. Nothing could be greater. He had climbed to a pinnacle and, afterwards, could only slip inexorably. Yet the triumph, at the time, seemed no triumph at all. It was a drizzly afternoon in April. Traffic hummed along North Terrace; above, in a fussy drawing room of the South Australian Hotel, sunlight played across gilt and plush and panelling and thick green fonds of ferns and picked out the boy as if in a spotlight. At a desk six feet away, with a sandy-haired male secretary at his side, Sir Laurence sat expectantly, twinkly-eyed. Royalty’s duties need all an actor’s skills. How many products of Adelaide Ladies’ College had they seen that afternoon? How many Mrs Worthingtons had pushed forward their daughters? But this was different. Country boy, eh? Was he really only seventeen?

The moment had come. Roger glowered and assumed a twisted gait. Everything rode on this. Quentin Phelps had told him as much, squeezing the boy’s shoulder hard enough to hurt when the secretary called his name. Not any old commoner got to see Sir Larry; Mayor Gull had gone out on a limb, pulling strings with a crony at Government House.

Roger breathed deeply. Deirdre, thrilled at the news of his audition, had told him last night over a crackling trunk line that she knew he would succeed: she simply knew it. He was brilliant. He blinked; sunlight flashed in his eyes, and suddenly he was back in Jack’s theatre in the barn, the theatre his father had smashed up years ago in a drunken rage. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent …’ Roger had known the speech for as long as he could remember. Did he even consider that Sir Larry, that very evening, would proclaim it from the stage of the Theatre Royal? Olivier’s Richard III was the star turn of the Old Vic tour.

The great man sat forward, back bowed, fist pressed against tautened mouth, as cadence after cadence rolled richly towards
him. Was he insulted? Was he suppressing mirth? Impossible to tell. Afterwards, in a belated rush of shame, Roger feared as much; and yet, the audition over, Olivier spoke to him for a minute or so in a manner friendly enough, then murmured to the sandy-haired secretary, who gave the boy two tickets to the Theatre Royal. That night, six rows back in the stalls, Roger writhed in anguish. Between the acts he snapped when Phelps pressed him for more details about the audition. What, precisely, had Sir Larry said? Nothing: ‘Last year at school, eh? What sports do you play?’ Then it had been over. Yes, Roger admitted, Olivier had said he would be in touch; but that, no doubt, was mere politeness. Roger had acted in front of Olivier; now Oliver had acted in front of Roger. What more was there to be said?

The Oliviers were on their way to Melbourne when they detoured to inspect the South Australian stable, deep in the verdant southeast of the state, which had seen the nativity of their friend Robert Helpmann, greatest male dancer of his generation. The Lakes lay nearby. Was it coincidence that a special assembly had been called that afternoon at the high school? Was it by chance that reporters from the city papers, Mayor Gull in his robes of office, all his courtiers, and many a lady of the Lakes in her finery happened to crowd the hall? Not unless chance led Sir Larry, with the lovely Viv beside him, to ascend the podium and proclaim in that richest of voices that he had witnessed much remarkable talent in South Australia and had been given many decisions to make. Now he had made them. Crater Lakes schoolboy Roger Dansie was to be offered a place at the Old Vic Theatre School. Cameras flashed like a lightning storm. Roger gasped at Quentin Phelps, at Mayor Gull, at Deirdre. They had known. They had all known except him. The applause, the stamping and cheering, almost brought down the ceiling of the school hall. He ascended the podium in a daze. Never again would his life be the same. Henry V had called him to arms. Scarlett O’Hara kissed his cheek.

* * *

School years in Australia, where summer comes at Christmas, run to a different schedule from those in England. Roger, Quentin Phelps decided, must cut short his matriculation year. What could he learn in Australia when England beckoned? He would sail in August.

The months of waiting were the headiest of his life. He was the Laurence Olivier of Crater Lakes. But how to celebrate him before he went away? At school, his name was placed on the honour roll, months before it otherwise would have been: ‘1948 –
R. DANSIE
’, the letters picked out in glittering gold. What other triumph remained to this darling of the gods? Only one thing would suffice: a last exhibition of Roger’s talents.

Quentin Phelps planned it all. The Players (had they not, collectively, been blessed by Olivier?) must mount their most ambitious production yet. What play? No mere spectacle! No matinee-idol flim-flam! Let Roger show the gravitas of a great classical actor, the genius that had left Sir Larry awed and envious. What role better, Phelps decided, than Dr Stockmann in Ibsen’s
An Enemy of the People
? Never mind that the play was gloomy! The after-show party would bring joy enough. The crowds that flocked to the King Edward VII Theatre that night were every bit as enthusiastic as those who had turned out for Sir Larry and Scarlett O’Hara in Adelaide.

And yet one person was unhappy. Deirdre Gull had loved Roger for years. How could he treat her like a sister when soon he would be gone? Only in
Romeo and Juliet
, with the whole town watching, had he taken her in his arms. Couldn’t he see the longing in her eyes? Of course, she knew what the problem was: Roger respected her. She was the mayor’s daughter. He needed a sign, that was all. ‘I’ll give myself to you, Roger.’ Yes, she could hear herself saying that. ‘Afterwards, I’ll wait until you come back.’ Because he must. Must. For her.

Deirdre’s role in his last performance was a disappointingly meagre one. Petra! Never would she forgive Quentin Phelps. Playing
Cleopatra, with Roger as Antony, Deirdre would soon enough have made their kisses real. Instead, Roger had to be a country doctor obsessed with drains, and she his drab daughter.

On the night of the performance she arrived at the theatre early. Her declaration could not wait. Roger’s last appearance in Crater Lakes must be fuelled by her love. In the foyer she pushed back swinging doors. She made her way down a linoleum aisle. Soon every one of these leathery seats would squeak and crack under human weight. Bellowing, whoops, the slap-slap of meaty hands would surge like a tide about these boxes, these mouldings, this chandelier that burned with brownish wattage and would fade into darkness when the curtain rose. She climbed the steps at the side of the stage; she lifted her chin to the dress circle. Where, she used to ask her mother, had King Edward VII sat? (Nowhere, her mother said. He was never here.) She pushed through the curtains. Behind them, the light was reddish. Her footsteps echoed on the barren stage. Quickly she descended into backstage passages.

Roger, as star, had the only solo dressing room. It was empty. Night gleamed behind a small window. His costume hung darkly on a rack. On the bench before the mirror, among the brushes, the powder puffs, the pots of cream, lay a book he had been reading: Huxley,
Time Must Have a Stop
. Deirdre had given him that. A shabby screen, papered with press cuttings, covered one corner. The room smelled damp; bluish mould crawled up the walls. Was she a fool? She stared at herself in the mirror: a small girl, nut-brown, not pretty. Her lips moved, whispering the words that would change everything: ‘I’ll give myself to you, Roger.’

She started, hearing footsteps. Did she dare? She could stop it now: ‘Oh, just come to wish you luck, Rog.’ But no. Soon the red rep curtains would part. They must take the stage as lovers.

Voices. The doorknob turned.

In a flash, Deirdre had hidden behind the screen. The door closed.
Mr Phelps was speaking to Roger in a voice low and intent. Deirdre peered through the crack where the screen’s hinges folded. Oh, what had she done? What would Mr Phelps think if he found her here? What would Roger? Shame burned in her like fever. Surely they must hear her heart pounding. She strained to hear their words.

‘I knew it would end.’ (Mr Phelps. He sounded sad.) ‘I’m just sorry it’s come so quick.’

‘Oh, Quentin!’ (Quentin?) ‘Nothing’s over.’

‘You’ll be back? Sure. But you’ll have changed. You’ll meet people, have experiences.’

‘I hope so.’ Roger laughed. He turned to the mirror, and Mr Phelps clutched him from behind.

Deirdre felt first confusion, then astonishment, and finally horror. Could what she was seeing be true? Here was Mr Phelps – their teacher! – running his fingers through Roger’s hair; Roger turning into his embrace; Mr Phelps shuddering, sinking to his knees, fumbling with Roger’s belt buckle … Pleasure filled Roger’s face as he stood against the dressing table, heels of his hands planted each side of him, arching his neck, head dropping back.

Deirdre screamed. Had she, in that moment, been able to think at all, she might have hoped her cry would shatter the scene like a pane of glass. Instead came the flurry of bodies springing apart, and Quentin Phelps calling out her name as she flung herself out of the dressing room.

In the corridor, she collided with her father. The mayor, who was to give an introductory speech, wore his robes and chains of office; gasping, his daughter clattered into his arms. She sobbed and sobbed. He tried to hush her. Backstage was busy; the auditorium was filling; and here, skidding dishevelled from the dressing rooms … Quentin? Roger? What was this about?

In seconds, the truth had burst on the air. Why should Deirdre feel shame? With her eyes blazing, the plain girl gathered all her small
strength and flung back at the guilty parties their depravity in raw shrieked words her shocked father could barely believe she knew.

Afterwards, Deirdre’s recollection of what happened next came in indistinct flashes, like a fever dream. Where was Roger? Where was Mr Phelps? Who pushed her into her father’s car? Who drove the needle into her flesh? In the days that followed, she wandered her father’s house like a spectre. Everywhere she heard voices murmuring: Deirdre, Deirdre. Did somebody laugh? Sweat beaded on her temples and pooled beneath her armpits. She dug desperate fists between her thighs. Frequently she broke down, calling for the boy she half believed was her lover: Roger, Roger. Oh, what had she done? Only Vlad, the reffo boy, could calm her. Slowly, the young gardener helped her understand: Roger Dansie was gone, and so was Mr Phelps.

Some said the Dansie business destroyed Mayor Gull. He had hoped the boy would marry his daughter; he had counted Phelps as a friend. Then there was the question of his own complicity. Phelps, or so rumour soon had it, concealed a dark past. Once a master at Geelong Grammar, he had, it seemed, left abruptly to sequester himself in the Lakes. Why? Obvious! He had been caught out in his perversion and the school, no doubt, forced him to resign – in return for covering up the scandal.

Citizens of Crater Lakes demanded an investigation: what other lads had Phelps lured into his clutches? Why, he had coached the Magpies. He had taught at the high. And the Boys’ Club! At every turn, the picture grew blacker. ‘The law must seek out that degenerate,’ boomed hardware store owner Willard Hartley Puce across Mayor Gull’s desk. ‘Drag the bugger back to the Lakes in chains, I say, and try him in a court of law.’ Much of the town would agree; but the mayor, who had clashed often with this prominent businessman, only shook his head and said, ‘Wouldn’t you rather have him drawn and quartered?’

It was a fatal response. Mr Puce had long suspected the mayor of liberal tendencies. Now horrible suspicions assailed him. Had Gull known about the pervert all along – tolerated him, indulged him, rather than hounding him out of town with a leper bell around his neck? If so, Mr Puce declared exultantly, Gull had committed the greatest folly of his career.

Mr Puce was right. Arch L. Gull’s reign as mayor of Crater Lakes had begun in 1922 and seemed likely never to end. Now, in a matter of days, it crashed around his ears. He announced that, owing to his health, he would not stand at the next election. Soon afterwards he died, living just long enough (so Mr Puce crowed) to see his slut of a daughter marry a reffo.

The mayor’s death brought relief of a sort for the townsfolk. The scandal was over. They could forget. Nobody would speak of the vileness that had been visited upon them. Life would carry on as if there had been no Roger Dansie.

Yet his story was far from its end. The young genius was very much alive and his scholarship to England remained in force. The horror that began at the King Edward VII Theatre was all the time mounting, biding its time like an angry volcano that swells in secret with its scalding burden until at last it erupts.

Spin the globe.

Half a world away. Look, London. Focus in: Earls Court, a shabby street with barren trees where autumn slides into winter. Our scene is a big house, part of a once-grand terrace, with stone steps leading to a portico fecund with trash and splashed liberally by the piss of passing drunks. Inside, up several flights of stairs at the back, Roger Dansie and Quentin Phelps share what is known in England as a bedsit: a single room, and a small one. It is cheerless. Damp presses behind the wallpaper, wind shudders the window that faces out on a back garden of thorns and brambles, and the gas fire burbles and
plops and gutters out if coins are not fed often to its hungry meter. Saggy twin beds, a rickety chest of drawers, two squelchy armchairs with stained antimacassars and a mothball-smelling wardrobe complete the accommodation. In daytime, the light through the dirty window is brown. At night a single bulb, hanging from the high ceiling like a distant star, provides brownish light. The floor is brown linoleum. The lavatory lies two floors down and is freezing. Neighbours include a negro; a kindly old tart long past her best; several rowdy demobbed soldiers who still wear their uniforms; and two fellow Australians, a youngish would-be writer and his raw-voiced mistress whose drunken quarrels wake the house each night. The landlady, a whiskery Irish hag who should be ashamed of presiding over such squalor but is not, lumbers up the stairs for the rent each Sunday evening after attending mass.