‘Out there. The top box, stage right.’
Gisella’s role was so demanding that she never had a chance to look anywhere beyond the footlights. She was aware of the audience, as any actor is, yet her concentration had been all on what was happening on stage. ‘I wasn’t looking.’
Schneider’s part involved a lot of business moving about the set, tidying up, picking garments off the floor, answering doorbells, so that was how she had opportunities to sneak a look at the auditorium. ‘I didn’t believe my own eyes,’ she said, ‘but there’s no question. Look at me. I’m not suggestible.’
This had seemed self-evident up to now.
‘I don’t know what this is about,’ Gisella said, ‘but I must get to my room. If you don’t mind –’
‘The lady in grey. She was there.’
There was a pause while Gisella tried to overcome her disbelief. ‘The theatre ghost?’
‘Staring at me, watching.’
‘That’s what an audience does. They stare at us all.’
‘She was not flesh and blood. She was quite alone.’
‘In the box? I expect it’s just some member of the public.’
‘The boxes haven’t been used all week,’ Schneider said. ‘The sight-lines are too restricted. That box is where the ghost is always seen. I promise you, she was there, pale as death, and all in grey. What does it mean if you see her? Is it bad luck?’
‘I’ve no idea, but…’ Gisella looked around for support, anything to shake off this crazy woman. The curtain had just come down and Preston Barnes was walking off.
Schneider caught him by the arm. ‘Did you see her?’
‘Who?’
‘The grey lady.’
He wasn’t as polite as Gisella. ‘Let go of me.’
‘The theatre ghost.’
‘For Christ’s sake, I don’t have time to piss around.’ With that, he marched on, past them both.
Gisella wished she’d been as firm as that. She needed the interval break herself, and more than ever on this important night. She had to be on again from the opening of Act Two. All Schneider had to do was announce a couple of visitors. ‘I’d forget about it if I were you,’ she said, taking a step away. ‘You don’t want it affecting your performance.’
‘I’m scared,’ Schneider said in a little-girl voice. ‘Doesn’t anyone believe me?’
‘There’s nothing to be scared of.’
‘Someone else must have seen her. I’ll ask stage management.’
‘Do that. I must get to my room.’
Soon, the news of the sighting circulated backstage. Sceneshifters tried peeping through the slots in the curtain. The grey lady was no longer on view. ‘She must have gone for her interval drink,’ was the quip. The word got through to the Garrick’s Head, where Titus O’Driscoll was holding court with a few friends. Titus was never going to treat the theatre ghost lightly.
‘This has to be investigated at once. A sighting of the grey lady is an event.’ He left his half-finished wine and hurried round to the foyer. The interval was still on and the usual smokers were standing in Saw Close. None looked as if they’d seen a ghost. The royal circle bar was the obvious place to check first and Titus headed there. The talk in the bar was all about the play, not the grey lady. Deeply disappointing to a ghost-hunter. Recalling that earlier sightings had been from the stage itself, Titus hurried to the pass door at the end of the corridor and let himself through to the backstage area.
He had an immediate success. One of the crew who recognised him told him exactly what Schneider claimed to have seen.
‘Marvellous,’ Titus said. ‘This has all the hallmarks of a classic encounter. Where is she now – in her dressing room?’
‘Probably on her way back. The second half starts in five.’
‘Is she on at the beginning?’
‘Quite early in the scene.’
Torn between getting Schneider’s account at first hand and trying for a sight of the ghost, he chose the latter, returning through the pass door to the royal circle. The five-minute bell had gone and the audience were coming back to their seats. The house lights were still on. A clear view of the box could be had from here. Disappointing. No grey lady. The box was unlit and to Titus’s keen eye had a look of disuse. He asked some people who had just returned if they’d noticed anyone occupying the upper box before the interval. They had not, but then they were foreign tourists and all their attention must have been on the play, trying to follow the dialogue.
He was deeply frustrated by knowing someone had reported a sighting just a short time ago. Perhaps he was fated never to see the grey lady, to be an expert reliant on other people’s experiences. He went backstage again, still hopeful of a firsthand account from Schneider.
No question: the place was charged with nervous energy. Preston was on stage ready for the second half and Gisella stood in the wings ready to make her entrance. The deputy stage manager’s urgent voice was coming over the tannoy system. ‘I’m not raising the curtain without her. We’ve been through this a dozen times. She has to be out here and ready. Will someone please put a bomb under her?’
