taken boldly to the boating lake. She smiled now at the blurred image, remembering how she, too, had been laughing too helplessly to hold the camera steady.
Idly, Lydia removed another chocolate from the box of Prestat which Marta – along with some innuendo about taking sweets from the lap of the Queen – had playfully arranged under the skirts of the lifelike souvenir doll that stood at the back of the dressing table. It was odd, she thought, that the only thing in the room which did not now carry a comfortable sense of the familiar was the face looking back at her from the mirror. She had not yet grown accustomed to the subtle lines of age that were beginning their inevitable dance around her eyes and mouth, nor to the implications that they carried for her career. At forty-three, as Bernard Aubrey had made abundantly clear to her less than a fortnight ago, she was fast approaching the age dreaded by all actresses, those difficult mid-life years which were played out to the tune of too old for Ophelia, too young for Gertrude. She had been lucky with Anne, and was fortunate to have persuaded Josephine to immortalise for her the tiresome, glamorous Queen of Scots but, after that, she was well aware that there could be some lean years ahead, that the cushion of Aubrey’s approval might not always rest with her.
Lost in her thoughts, Lydia did not notice that the dressing-room door had opened until she caught sight of Marta’s reflection in the glass. Such visits were rare, as Marta preferred to keep out of a theatre circle which she regarded as Lydia’s world, and the actress smiled with pleasure, her fears instantly forgotten. ‘How long have you been there?’ she asked.
66
‘Long enough to know you’ve got chocolate on your lips,’ said Marta, laughing as she bent down to kiss the back of Lydia’s neck where it had been authentically shaved to accommodate Anne’s elaborate headwear.
‘I don’t mind if you don’t.’ Lydia turned round in the chair and took Marta’s face in her hands, tasting the coffee on her mouth as she drew her into a long, intense kiss. ‘Do you feel any better?’
‘I think I’ve drunk enough coffee to kill or cure the headache once and for all, but this place is hardly likely to lift a girl’s spirits.
That Lewis chap was in the Corner House looking as miserable as sin, John Terry’s upstairs at the stage door shouting at someone, and that young boy who does all the work while your Chekhovian stage manager scribbles away at her next masterpiece nearly jumped out of his skin when I said hello to him. I can see why I don’t venture down here very often.’
‘Don’t take it personally. Hedley’s in terrible trouble with Bernard over something; he’s been summoned to his office after the matinee for a dressing down. And Lewis has been miserable for weeks now. Rumour has it that his wife’s left him and Johnny says he’s hit the bottle, but he and Lewis have always hated each other so that might just be the bitch in him talking. Who was Johnny shouting at, anyway?’
‘I don’t know – he was on the telephone. Just one of the many unfortunates who are less godlike than him, I suppose. But I didn’t come here to talk about them,’ Marta said, dropping her sarcasm and sliding her hand inside Lydia’s silk robe. ‘How quickly can you get from here to the stage these days?’
Suddenly the door was thrown open and Ronnie appeared, staggering under the weight of an extraordinary horned head-dress.
‘Oh we
‘We’ve come to let out your seams, although a little more exercise before each show might save us the trouble.’ The twinkle in her eye brought a deep flush to Marta’s face and a pink tinge to Lydia’s, and elicited a long- suffering smile of apology from Lettice, who followed closely on her heels. ‘Where would you like us to start?’
*
67
Normally, Hedley White would have been looking forward to his night off but, as he placed the furniture for the opening scene and moved to the side of the stage to run through the list of properties for each successive change, his mind was otherwise occupied. He knew he had behaved frightfully, and cursed himself again for such a rash act of stupidity, one that no amount of wishing or hoping could undo. The deed was done; Aubrey knew about it; and later he would face the consequences when he was called to the producer’s office.
Although he had only worked for him for six months, Hedley already looked up to Aubrey as the father he had never known, respecting him as someone who, through sheer hard work, had made a practical success of a profession which liked to make itself as esoteric as possible. Hedley was well aware that working-class boys like himself did not naturally enter the theatre but, in offering him a job as an assistant stage manager, Aubrey had dispelled all notions of Masonic exclusion by showing him that there was an alternative to universities and drama schools and being born into the right family, an alternative which made use of his talents and gave him the experience he craved. Working at both Wyndham’s and the New, he spent his days making tea, painting flats, sweep-ing the stage and walking around sets while electricians focused lamps. It was hard work, physically, which suited his strength and energy, and extra responsibilities built his confidence faster than he would have believed possible. If anybody had told him this time last year that he would be taking walk-on parts in front of hundreds of people and enjoying it, he would have laughed in their face.
Like all outsiders who are suddenly welcomed into a club to which they doubt their right to belong, Hedley was well versed in the peculiar language of theatre and revered its traditions and rituals. Each night, he took great pleasure in carefully preparing the ground for the Ricardians, an exclusive group, established in the early days of the production, whose membership was restricted to the three actors left on stage towards the end of
shows except matinees, and it was Hedley’s job – or McCracken’s in his absence – to place a small table and three chairs in the wings during the final act. Lewis Fleming, as Bolingbroke, was the first of the group to make his final exit, and would open a waiting bottle of claret, the quality of which had improved dramatically as the play’s success grew; the actor who played the King’s loyal servant was next off and would dutifully pour the wine into the waiting glasses while John Terry paused on stage to make the most of the bitterness and regret contained in Richard’s closing lines. As the play finished, Terry joined the other two for a toast to the next performance and, after the cast took its many curtain-calls, all three Ricardians returned to savour the rest of the bottle.
Tonight, when Aubrey took to the stage for his customary cameo appearance as the guard – a role that Hedley often played himself – the club’s membership would be extended to four and, as the producer drank nothing but Scotch, it was the junior stage hand’s task to ensure that a single malt was added to the inventory before he went off duty after the matinee. The sense of having thrown away his place in this little world haunted Hedley even more than the prospect of being handed over to the police, and he was entirely at Aubrey’s mercy. He would kill for a second chance, he thought, as he placed the decanter on the shelf next to the claret, ready for the evening performance.
69
Five
Penrose sat at his desk on the third floor of New Scotland Yard and stared at the collection of bleak
