It Ends with Revelations (4 page)

Jill, peering, said, ‘There’s a row of bells at every front door. That must mean the houses are divided into flats now. Seems sad.’

‘Still, as long as they’re well taken care of, as they obviously are …’

‘I wonder which house Geoffrey Thornton’s
grandmother
lived in. Did you really like the Thorntons or do you want me to protect you from them?’

‘Oh, I liked them well enough. We might give the girls some little outing, a picnic or something.’

‘Not Thornton?’

‘I imagined he might be too busy with constituency work. But by all means give him the chance.’

‘We must see how the week works out. You’re bound to have a few rehearsals.’

‘More than a few, I’d say. Yes, I may not have much time.’

They were leaning, now, on the stone balustrade at the top of the grassy slope. She noticed that he was looking troubled – his face was so expressive that, when playing in films or television, he often had to school it into immobility to avoid giving the impression of overacting. She said, ‘Are you still worried about Peter’s behaviour to that boy?’

‘Not now. We can sort things out once Monday night’s over.’

But his expression remained clouded. After a few seconds she said, ‘Then what
is
worrying you?’

He smiled. ‘Read me like a book, can’t you? Jill, things
have
worked out for you, haven’t they? I mean … well, us.’

‘Miles, dear!’ She looked at him in blank astonishment. ‘Surely you know they have? What made you ask?’

He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Oh, perhaps it was seeing you in this place, imagining you as a girl here. I just wondered.’

‘Well, you can stop wondering. That girl who stood here twelve years ago couldn’t have believed such luck would come her way. Funny, I was thinking about that … well,
something like that, this afternoon, walking along Spa Street.’

‘What did you think exactly?’

‘It added up to the fact that I’m contented. I am, indeed. And you, Miles?’

‘As if you didn’t know. I still say prayers every night simply so that I can thank God for you.’

‘Do you say prayers? I’ve never seen you.’

‘Well, I
think
them, before I fall asleep.’

‘Then you must think them jolly fast, seeing how quickly you can fall asleep. And it’s time you set about it. Come on.’

‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to going down those steps. Almost worse than coming up.’

‘We can go by the road. It’s longer but one can walk fast as it’s all down hill.’

When they were approaching the hotel, Miles said, ‘I suppose it’s too late to get any food. I could do with some, in spite of that solid dinner.’

‘Well, it’s five hours since you finished it. There’ll be a thermos of soup and some sandwiches in our room. I ordered them when I arranged about breakfast.’

‘Marvellous woman.’

When they eventually got to bed, Jill found she could see one of the pollarded chestnuts, silvered by moonlight; both she and Miles liked to sleep with the curtains drawn back. Then she remembered coming face to face with the lion. What colour would moonlight turn his gold? Other brief memories of her day came back to her: strolling along
Spa Street, meeting Geoffrey Thornton – and then the theatre, young Cyril-Doug gazing at his photograph. How kind Miles had been about the boy! But when wasn’t Miles kind?

She looked across at his bed. He was already asleep. The room was light enough for her to see his face clearly. She had often thought that he did not really look like himself when asleep, any more than he did in a still photograph. In absolute repose his features were almost too classical to be interesting; it was his constantly changing expression, particularly the liveliness of his eyes, which gave them charm. She wondered if an Impressionist painting could capture some of that charm. But Impressionism, she believed, was out of fashion – and, anyway, Miles disliked the idea of being painted; he was the least vain actor she had ever known. Dear Miles! She remembered his troubled expression when he asked if things had worked out for her. Never before had he seemed in need of such assurance. Why now?

A possible explanation flickered in her mind – and no more than flickered, for she turned her thoughts away from it, both finding herself faintly distressed and knowing she had no right to be. The tiny unease dwindled. She slept.

3

Night of the Long Gloves

Guessing they would stay late at the theatre she had given instructions that they were not to be disturbed until ten. She woke some little while before that and had time to tidy her hair, put some make-up on, and awake Miles before their breakfasts arrived. He always woke unwillingly but, within seconds, would be smiling – at her and at the prospect of a new day.

This morning he remained relaxed until he had finished breakfast and taken a very cursory glance at a Sunday paper. Then he sprang up with a suddenness which almost brought disaster to his breakfast tray. She knew that from now on he would be mentally at the theatre – and physically, too, as soon as he could get there, and hours before his presence was needed. Nothing but the theatre would now exist for him until after the first night.

When he had gone into their bathroom she decided to
find another, to use herself, partly to save time and also because she liked the idea of wandering about the old hotel. After walking some way along the wide corridor outside their room, she turned into a narrow passage, one wall of which had windows looking onto the hotel’s courtyard. Almost at once she came to a door open onto thin air. No steps led up to it and only an iron bar
discouraged
one from stepping into the courtyard some fifteen feet below. She stood looking down at the cobbles; then turned, on hearing a nearby door open.

Geoffrey Thornton was coming out of his room. He greeted her, then said, ‘Excuse me a moment,’ went to the next door room, knocked on the door and called, ‘Hurry up, girls,’ then came back to Jill. She commented on the open door she was standing by and he told her it dated from the days when luggage from the bedrooms would be loaded through it onto the tops of stage coaches.

‘Fascinating,’ said Jill, gazing round the sunny courtyard.

‘If you’re looking for a bathroom there’s a gem on the next floor, with a huge porcelain bath surrounded by mahogany. Most of the bathrooms are new, or modernized.’ Church bells began to ring. ‘If my daughters don’t get a move on, we shall be late. It’s the done thing here to
walk
to church, so as not to litter the Close with cars; one’s entitled to park there but it’s highly unpopular with the residents.’

‘Vote-losing?’

‘Oh, not as bad as that. The inhabitants of the Close would vote Conservative even if the candidate was a double murderer.’

Out of their room came Robin and Kit, rather conspicuously holding Prayer Books. They greeted Jill enthusiastically and she remembered to wish Kit many happy returns of the day. Then Robin said, ‘Do we look all right? Meek enough for church but smart enough for church parade? I’ve forgone my white boots.’

‘Good,’ said Thornton. ‘I find those white boots a bit much.’

‘But they give Robin such confidence,’ said Kit. ‘I’m sure white boots have a psychological effect.’

Jill said, ‘An elderly actress once told me much the same thing. She was showing me a photograph of herself during the First World War, with white boots up to her knees, and she said, “My dear, when I’d me white boots on I could have kicked God’s throne from under him.” But perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that, especially when you’re on your way to church.’

‘We only go to church to help Father make a good impression,’ said Kit. ‘And none of us believe in a God who would have a throne. Anyway, it was a lovely remark. I didn’t know white boots had been in before. I must do some research.’

Robin said, ‘I think I can risk my white
satin
boots at the Civic Reception, don’t you, Mrs Quentin?’

‘Valuable as Mrs Quentin’s views on boots would be, we must now go,’ said Thornton. He steered his daughters along the passage, then called back to Jill, ‘Do try that vintage bathroom on the second floor.’

‘But make sure the water’s really hot,’ Kit shouted.
‘That bath can be chilly to sit on.’

Jill settled for the first bathroom she came to; she was anxious not to keep Miles waiting. He was fully dressed when she got back to their room, so she told him to go on without her – ‘While I organize food to get you through the day. I suppose there’s no hope you’ll come back for an early lunch?’

‘No, thanks, I’ve a lot to do. And I want to be around to help Cyril with his make-up.’

‘Peter said he’d do that.’

‘Peter may be a brilliant director but he’s never been an actor. He knows practically nothing about make-up. I’m not having him turning the boy into a freak.’

Which wouldn’t be too hard, thought Jill. Poor Cyril! If Miles and Peter started arguing about how he was to look, it would be enough to make any boy embarrassed. Well, she’d plenty to do, as she would undoubtedly have to feed others besides Miles. Few members of a company ever organized food for themselves during a dress rehearsal. After seven or eight hours they would be existing on chocolate – if they’d even brought that – and sending out for cups of tea carried in by none too willing dressers.

The hotel, having supplied a hamper of food and drink, provided a car to take it and her to the theatre. She asked the driver where church parade was held and learned that it took place in the gardens surrounding the Pump Room. She felt a slight wistfulness to be there, and a whiff of regret at going out of the bright day into the theatre’s
semi-darkness
. Never had she been stage-struck; in her youth
the theatre had merely meant work. Any play Miles was in was of interest to her but mainly on his account; and one did not, merely by attending a dress rehearsal, become part of the little closed world of a play’s production.

Miles was not in his dressing room and his dresser did not know where he was. She deposited her supplies of food and then went to the front of the house where she had a long and what she found to be depressing conversation with Frank Ashton, who assured her how honoured he was to be presenting Miles, and in a play which was to re-open this wonderful old theatre. Everything was so splendidly worth-while – ‘whatever happens.’ She wondered if he knew what
could
happen in the way of monetary loss to himself, poor, pleasant, inexperienced young man; but she loudly agreed with him about the worth-whileness and expressed great optimism – and even more when the play’s young author arrived to sit beside Frank Ashton.

Time passed. Long after the rehearsal was due to start the curtain remained down and the silence was only broken by sporadic hammering. Jill returned to Miles’s dressing room and found him arguing fairly fiercely with Peter Hesper about Cyril-Doug Digby’s make-up, which both of them seemed to have worked on. She persuaded them to eat a few sandwiches and then, on being assured by Peter that the rehearsal would now start, went back to the auditorium. Forty-five minutes later, the rehearsal did start.

The television play, like so many television plays, had begun with a noisy party presumably intended to establish important characters but actually, Jill often thought,
establishing nothing but a noisy party. As no stage production could afford the cost of a score of players to be seen for only three minutes, the stage adaptation began at the end of the party when only characters who would pull their weight later were still lingering. After some
complicated
exposition which Jill, in spite of having read the script, found hard to follow, Cyril-Doug arrived with credentials from his allegedly dead mother and Miles came to believe he had a son. This scene was well written and Jill thought Cyril-Doug was surprisingly good, if difficult to hear. Peter interrupted the rehearsal to tell him to speak up, after which Cyril shouted and was less good. Still, by the time the curtain fell on the short first act Jill felt unexpectedly optimistic. She would go round and tell Miles so.

But as she reached the back of the stalls she was intercepted by a short, bald-headed, rubber-featured man who embraced her warmly.

‘Tom, darling! Were you there for the whole act? I thought it held splendidly.’ She then whispered, ‘Take care. Frank Ashton and the author are in the front row of the dress circle.’

‘Admirable first act,’ said Tom Albion, loudly and clearly. ‘Even better than I thought it was.’ He then steered Jill out of the stalls and added, ‘Actually, it
is
a little better, but then you know how abysmally bad I thought the script was. Why, why, did we let Miles get involved with this play?’

‘I don’t attempt to dictate to him,’ said Jill.

‘
I
do – but I don’t have much luck; anyway, not when
your dear husband’s notorious kindness of heart is involved. But never mind. As you know, I’m keeping a film offer on ice for him.’

‘You’re a money-grubbing old ghoul, Tom – just
ill-wishing
this show because you want him to do the film.’

‘I should be a bad agent if I didn’t want him to. And not so much of your money-grubbing, my girl. It’ll be a
worth-while
film and this is hardly a worth-while play.’

‘Don’t say that to Miles, will you?’

‘Not again. But I don’t tell him lies. I shall just say he’s superb and leave it at that. All I hope is that this thing won’t limp on too long. My guess is that Ashton will tide it over for three weeks, to entitle him to a share of any film offer for it – not that there’ll be one. He’d be well advised to cut his losses and never open in London at all.’

‘You could be wrong, Tom. We may get a respectable run.

‘Three weeks,’ said Tom firmly.

They went round to Miles and were tactful, then returned to the auditorium and worked hard on tact to Frank Ashton and the author. Then the second act began.

Jill had three categories in which she placed dress rehearsals. There was the truly dreadful rehearsal, in which every conceivable thing, and various inconceivable ones, went wrong. This was often followed by a smooth and triumphant first night. There was the almost faultless rehearsal, often followed by a faulty and/or lifeless first night. And in between these extremes was the thoroughly mixed rehearsal, partly good, partly bad, from which it was
impossible to prognosticate anything. Today’s rehearsal went into the mixed category. Her hopes rose in the second act – to be shattered by the ending, which Cyril certainly could not carry. (Peter was right about that.) Act III had a melodramatic confrontation between Miles’s wife and the mother of the boy which Jill found highly embarrassing, but the end of the play, when Miles accepted the boy as his son while knowing that he wasn’t, was extremely moving. Jill could, with sincerity, praise it to the author and Frank Ashton.

‘Let’s get a breath of fresh air before we go round to Miles,’ said Tom Albion.

They went out through the foyer and stood blinking in the late afternoon sunshine.

‘Well, at least it’s over earlier than I expected,’ said Jill. ‘What did you think of the boy?’

‘I think all child actors are ghastly – on the stage, that is; on television they can be marvellous, as this kid was. He’s got a certain amount of appeal. I suppose he just might make a hit. But even so, I only give it three weeks.’

‘You
want
only to give it three weeks.’

They found Miles cheerful. He had already asked Peter to dine with them at the Lion, and Tom of course joined them. The whole of the evening was spent discussing the rehearsal and the play in general. Tom praised Miles’s acting and Peter’s direction but otherwise was
non-committal
. Jill voiced her optimism and kept her pessimism to herself. But neither she nor Tom really needed to say very much. Peter and Miles did most of the talking and
seemed oblivious of the fact that they were covering the same ground over and over again. It was after midnight before Tom was able to coerce Peter back to the station hotel with him, and Jill got Miles to bed.

Most of her Monday morning was spent in sending wires to the company and ordering flowers; and at the last moment she remembered to buy chocolates’ for Cyril’s understudy – he, anyway, was a real child and would welcome them. Miles had dug himself in at the theatre by eleven o’clock, ostensibly to ‘be around if needed’ but really to continue his conversation with Peter. Jill
considered
their shared capacity for practically non-stop discussions was the main reason they so much liked working together. And she was thankful that, while still disagreeing about Cyril, they were on their usual good terms with each other. After coaxing them out to lunch she left them on their own.

She had tea with the Thornton girls, Geoffrey Thornton being absent, and was impressed on hearing that Kit had already done some research about boots – ‘There’s a good library here with a pet of a librarian. White boots
were
worn during the First World War but they were laced, and often only the tops were white, with patent leather toes and heels.’ Jill was then shown the sisters’ dresses for the first night and the Civic Reception which was obviously going to be a grand occasion; she rather wished she had brought a grander dress for it. But the sisters admired her grey chiffon and mink stole. She found the gals’ gossip
atmosphere
pleasant; the girls somehow managed to treat her
with deference and yet almost to co-opt her into their own age group.