Angel with Two Faces

spectacle. The actors were clad in a Motley array of holy vestments and, although her knowledge of religious orders didn’t stretch to a confirmation of the costumes’ authenticity, she had no doubt of how effective the colours would be on stage: just to her left, a dark-haired man – clothed all in white – stood patiently waiting for the play to begin, holding a brown velvet cushion and a bright red mitre with flamboyant tassels; by contrast, his neighbour wore an extravagant red outfit which draped to the floor in lavish folds and was finished off by a triangular hat in a matching shade of scarlet. The majority of the Winwaloe Players formed an army of monks, largely indistinguishable from each other in their rough, brown habits and hoods; they were gathered round a crate of ale which William had sent backstage to wish everyone luck, nervously stubbing out cigarette ends with their sandalled feet, while six angelic choirboys, dressed in white, received last-minute instructions from over-anxious parents whose pride had got the better of their composure. Faced with so many characters, she tried to remember what The Jackdaw of Rheims was about: the Ingoldsby Legends had been a favourite of one of her teachers at school, and she vaguely recalled that this particular poem told the story of a jackdaw who stole a cardinal’s ring, had a curse put on him, then repented and subsequently became a saint. It was a bit thin on plot, she thought, although she was hardly in a position to criticise – one dead blonde didn’t make a crime novel. Visually, though, it was bound to be fabulous, but she would have expected nothing less from Ronnie and Lettice.

There was very little room to move in the crowded backstage area, but she eventually found Archie sitting on an upturned bucket behind the props table. He had his head down, although he appeared to be lost in thought rather than studying his script, and she was taken aback a little at how fine he looked. He, too, wore a white habit but his was made of satin rather than wool. It was offset by a black cowl which covered his shoulders and was tied at the neck by a beautiful silver cord that matched the inner lining of his hood. The familiarity of a twenty-year friendship had taught Josephine to take Archie’s good looks for granted, but the costume lent him an austerity and remoteness which were absent in his everyday clothes, and she looked at him now with an admiration that had little to do with piety – although she was honest enough with herself to admit that it was precisely the forbidden element in his clothing which attracted her.

‘Here,’ she said, holding out her glass, ‘Dutch courage.’ He looked up, delighted to see her, and accepted her offer gratefully. ‘I hate to say it, but holy orders suit you. You’ll steal the show in that costume – I hope those cousins of yours haven’t been guilty of favouritism.’

‘You know, they made this from scratch in two hours flat – and you’re right, it is rather grander than the original. It’s not something I’d ever admit to their faces, but they’re remarkably clever.’

‘Have you only just realised that?’ She waited while he turned another bucket upside down and brushed the dust off it, then sat down next to him, grimacing as Kestrel Jacks walked past, looking as sullen as ever. ‘If you want my opinion,’ she said archly, glancing back to the playing area, ‘he’d be a grand candidate for testing the strength of that wire behind the stage. There aren’t many people I’d wish a nasty accident on, but I’d happily wave to him on his way down.’

Archie smiled, unaware that her comment had more to it than an automatic sharing of his own dislike. ‘Nice of you to be so partisan,’ he said, then lowered his voice and added more seriously: ‘I had a chat with Nathaniel earlier.’

‘The curate?’

‘Yes – he and Harry were friends. This isn’t the time or place, but I’d like to hear what you think.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It is. At least two nightcaps’ worth, I’d say.’ He shuffled his bucket forward a little to allow Jago Snipe to step past. The undertaker was carrying a hand bell and had exchanged his customary dark suit for one of the brown habits, but the lightening of tone had no effect on his demeanour, which seemed particularly dour as he headed towards the stage. Josephine watched him with interest. Rounding the rock, he bumped into Joseph Caplin coming the other way; Caplin looked unsteady on his feet and was already the worse for drink, and the collision sent him reeling perilously close to the cliff edge. In his panic, he clutched at Jago’s costume and only the undertaker’s strength and bulk saved them both from going over. There was a gasp of relief from a few of the actors, and Josephine watched as Jago shook the other man off in disgust. Impatiently, he pulled his hood over his head and continued out to the auditorium to ring the bell.

‘That’s five minutes to go,’ Archie said, draining the glass. ‘You’d better get back to your seat and pour yourself a drop of this. Go up that way,’ he added, pointing to a narrow set of steps which led up one side of the auditorium, out of view of the audience. ‘You don’t want to make an appearance on stage now or they’ll think we’ve started early.’

‘I don’t think this outfit is quite old enough to qualify as period dress,’ she said in mock indignation. ‘Where do the steps come out?’

‘Up at the back of the seating area. There’s a set the other side, as well – it’s designed so that an actor can exit one side and make his entrance at the other without the audience noticing, but you have to be fit to do it. Getting round in time is one thing, but having enough breath left to speak your lines is something else altogether.’

She picked up the glass and gave him a kiss. ‘Good luck. You can have my critique later over a large malt.’

‘I can’t wait, but I need a favour first.’

‘Of course – what is it?’

‘I’ll introduce you to Morveth when the play’s over, and no matter how terrible it is, or how long an evening you feel you’ve had, would you congratulate her? She’s put such a lot into it and a word of praise will really mean something if it comes from you. ‘

‘You know me,’ she said, smiling mischievously. ‘Sincerity is my middle name.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ he called after her. ‘And don’t take your eyes off the action – you wouldn’t want to miss the moment when our jackdaw takes flight.’

Intrigued, Josephine set off back to her seat. As she paused to catch her breath at the back of the auditorium, mourning the days of her early twenties when she taught physical education and would have thought nothing of such a steep climb, she noticed that the blanket which Morwenna and Loveday had put down was empty, except for a hamper and a dog-eared copy of Tennyson’s poetry. It would be just like Loveday to run off now and steal the show, she thought, and, although she didn’t particularly like Morwenna, she sympathised with her for having to spend so much of her life worrying about where her sister was. She could still remember how terrified she’d been every time she was left in charge of her own little sister – and Moire was an angel, so God knows what sort of responsibility Loveday must be.

In deference to the drop in temperature, the chink of glasses on the air had been replaced by the unscrewing of thermos flasks, and William welcomed her back with hot coffee and pastries. ‘Everything all right back there?’ he asked, unscrewing a silver hip flask and passing it over.

‘Fine, in a chaotic sort of way, and the costumes are wonderful,’ she said to Lettice and Ronnie, settling back in her seat to enjoy the performance. ‘I’ve just seen Archie in a whole new light – very ascetic.’

As twilight fell, and a flock of jackdaws flew noisily home to roost in the cliffs, oblivious to the story about to be played out in their honour, the shadows lengthened on the rocks and stage area. Moths, and a bat or two, fluttered past the lanterns which were dotted about the stage and, with the auditorium shrouded in dusk, the magnificent backdrop came into its own. Josephine didn’t envy any playwright the task of inventing lines which would compete with such splendour for the audience’s attention, but how Shakespeare would have loved this setting, she thought, watching as a small fishing boat followed its familiar course back to Newlyn, pulled on as if by a magnet. The moon seemed determined to play its part in the performance, effortlessly providing a light more intense and somehow more illusory than any lighting designer could devise, and she could only imagine how wonderful The Tempest must have been when it was played here. The goodwill of the elements seemed to underline the transient nature of the performance and intensify the anticipation amongst the audience, and their excitement was infectious. Josephine had seen many of the finest productions that London had to offer, in theatres peopled by stars of today and ghosts of past triumphs, and she had herself been the centre of attention at many of them – but tonight, caught up in the scent of the sea and the magic of the evening, she could not imagine a grander scene.

The call of a trumpet heralded the beginning of the play, and Archie had the unenviable task of appearing first on stage. Carrying a large, leather-bound book which looked like one of those hefty family Bibles found in every well-to-do Victorian household, he walked out to the circular patch of grass at the edge of the stage, where a