Voice of the Heart (9 page)

The curtain came down on the kind of applause every actor hopes and prays for and is ineluctably sustained and nourished by. Thunderous. Slowly, it rose again and the performers returned to the stage one by one, the bit players first, then the character actors, the second male lead, and the leading man. The clapping spiralled markedly upwards for him, but became a tumultuous crescendo that was deafening when finally Katharine Tempest swept on to join the two male stars in the centre of the stage. The entire cast linked hands and bowed and smiled and bowed again.

As the heavy gold-trimmed red velvet curtain fell and rose for a second time, Katharine stepped forward to ringing cheers, and ‘Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!’ reverberated throughout the proscenium. Her face was radiant, wreathed in smiles and she bowed low and blew kisses from her fingertips and mouthed, ‘Thank you. Thank you.’

Against the backdrop of the giant-sized scenery, depicting ancient Greece in all its glory, she seemed such a small, frail figure as she stood alone before the audience at the edge of the stage, graciously accepting their adulation. Yet she did not feel alone or lonely but, rather, more like the favourite member of a large and adoring family. Her family. Her only family. She belonged to them, and they to her, and nothing could ever change this fact.

Katharine’s heart crested with joy, and euphoria swarmed through her as she felt the waves of love washing over her from beyond the glittering footlights. And mingled with the joy was a marvellous sense of fulfilment, and the reaffirmation of her talent. And then it came, as it always did, the surge of relief that she had succeeded yet again. All of
the dedication and discipline, hard work and straining for perfection was worth it just for this intoxicating and uplifting feeling. It was the ultimate reward.

She longed to stand there indefinitely, savouring the triumph of her victory, basking in the fervour of their approbation, but Katharine was conscious of her stage manners, and considerate of the rest of the cast, and she knew she had to give way, to permit the other stars of the play to take their individual bows. To receive their hard-won dues.

With a grand theatrical flourish she proffered a last handful of heartfelt kisses to the audience and bestowed a final luminous smile on them, before she turned to Terrence Ogden, her leading man, and stretched out her hand. He took it and moved closer to her, bowing first to Katharine and next to the audience, who were wildly ecstatic. Katharine half turned once more, this time to her left, and John Layton, the second male lead, came forward to complete the magnetic trio, who seemingly this night had surpassed themselves. There were four more rousing curtain calls before the red velvet finally rose and fell for the last time, and the cast slowly dispersed.

Katharine hurried off stage without exchanging a few words with her fellow actors as she usually did, anxious to return to her dressing room without delay. She felt uncomfortably hot, her costume was soaked and clinging to her clammy body, and the flowing red wig was heavier and more constricting than ever; it had begun to make her head itch to such an extent that it was an unbearable irritation.

In the last act she had perspired profusely and somewhat unnaturally for her, and she wondered dismally if she was coming down with a cold. Certainly her throat ached and felt scratchy, but she was fully aware she had overworked it, both at the matinee and this last performance. The effort to project her voice effectively into the cavernous depths of the St James’s Theatre had apparently taken its toll for once. This bothered her not a little, and she resolved to increase her
lessons with Sonia Modelle, London’s foremost vocal coach. She would also make a point of doing her breathing exercises more regularly and diligently, since breathing correctly was the key to a good voice, as Sonia had instilled in her. For the past four years Katharine had worked extremely hard in the cultivation of voice technique. Through assiduousness and single-minded concentration she had developed tone, pitch, pace, range and rhythm to a remarkable degree, and had most effectively obliterated the American Midwest inflection so easily distinguishable in her speech patterns when she had first arrived in England. Sonia was amazed and gratified by her exceptional progress, and although the respected coach was usually scant with her praise, she had told Katharine only a few weeks before that there was now a peerless musicality to her voice, a quality few actresses ever attained. Nonetheless, Katharine recognized she must continue to work on her voice to strengthen it. Only absolute perfection would satisfy her.

Terry Ogden caught up with her in the wings. ‘Hey, Puss, you’re in a tearing hurry tonight, aren’t you?’

Katharine paused and swung around quickly. She half smiled, half grimaced. ‘I feel pretty done in, Terry. Giving two entirely different performances in one day doesn’t usually disturb me at all, but for some reason I’m exhausted this evening.’

Terry nodded sympathetically. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But they
were
great performances, darling,’ he exclaimed. ‘And you do adjust to the mood of the audience quite instinctively, and quicker and more expertly than anyone I know. That’s a rare talent indeed, Puss, and especially in one so young.’

‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ Katharine said. ‘You’re also very adept yourself.’ She looked up at him and smiled.

It was a smile of such genuine sweetness, and her eyes reflected such wonderment and innocence, Terry felt his heart clenching. He always experienced this feeling when
she regarded him in this particular way, for the gaze held an indefinable quality unique to her. There was also a curious vulnerability about Katharine that touched him, a frailty mixed in with the tenacity he suspected lurked beneath the surface, and he often found himself wanting to shield and protect her, as one would a defenceless child.

Becoming aware of her eyes concentrated on his face, he said, ‘I’m pretty agile most of the time, Puss, but I was certainly a bit off my mark tonight. Thanks for coming to my rescue. I can’t believe I almost fluffed that line in the second act. And such a crucial line!’

Neither could Katharine. Terrence Ogden was one of England’s greatest stage actors, comparable only to Laurence Olivier in his youth, according to the critics, who judged Terry to be an impressive and gifted performer. Matchless in declamation, he had immense depth and range, these qualities strengthened by enormous intelligence and insight. Another prince among players, he was an idol to the public, being blessed with a boyish charm and rather striking blond good looks; and his singular flair for romantic entanglements of a decidedly flamboyant nature had done nothing to diminish his professional reputation. If anything, this penchant had enhanced it to a formidable degree, endowing him with the image of the great lover. His private life aside, everyone predicted that one day he, too, would be knighted by the Queen, as Olivier had been. In essence, he was the heir apparent to the reigning king of the English-speaking theatre, and Larry himself fondly regarded him as such, was his mentor, benefactor and close friend. At the age of thirty, Terrence Ogden, the coal miner’s son from Sheffield, was, as he liked to pronounce in his native North Country dialect, ‘Cock of t’heap, by gum!’ having relentlessly nudged aside most of his rivals, the famed Richard Burton included.

Katharine leaned against a piece of scenery and her eyes narrowed, rested on him thoughtfully as she remembered how he had unaccountably dried up on stage, and had flashed
her a look that bespoke his horror and his panic. ‘What did happen?’ she asked at last. ‘It’s not like you, Terry.’

He frowned and shook his head and his irritation with himself flared, brought an irate gleam to his eyes. ‘I’m damned if I know, Puss darling. It’s not occurred since I was a kid in rep, and I can assure you it will never happen again. Anyway, you saved the old bacon with that swift and inspired prompt. I shall be eternally grateful. I must tell you, Katharine my love, you’re one of the most unselfish actresses it’s ever been my pleasure to work with. Really, I mean that.’

Katharine glowed and murmured her thanks, but nevertheless she began to edge slowly towards the fire door that led off stage. They were standing in an awkward spot, were being jostled by the other actors leaving the stage and straggling back to their dressing rooms, and by the numerous stage hands who were milling around, busily shifting scenery and joking amongst themselves. The noise, the bustle and the heat were enervating, and that peculiar fusty smell, so indigenous to every back stage, seemed suddenly malodorous and suffocating. It was a strange odour compounded of dry dust and damp, the resinous vapours emanating from the varnished sets, the grease paint, the hair spray, the mingled stale perfumes and the effluvium of the actors and the stage hands. Usually it sent a thrill tingling through Katharine’s veins, as it always had since the first day she had stepped on to a stage as a child. But at this precise moment she was filled with an immense aversion to it. And then, quite unexpectedly, she started to cough.

Terry, who was now talking about one of the other actresses in the play, stopped in the middle of his sentence. He looked down at her in alarm as she spluttered and choked and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Hey, Puss, are you all right?’ he asked worriedly.

Katharine was quite unable to utter a word. The coughing and the gasping for breath continued. She shook her head,
motioned to the fire door and moved with swiftness out of the wings. Terry helped her down the stone steps to the corridor where the dressing rooms were located. When they reached his, which was one of the first, he flung open the door unceremoniously and called to his dresser, ‘Quick, Norman, get a glass of water for Katharine, please.’ The dresser ran to the basin with a glass, and Terry pressed Katharine down on to the sofa, worry and concern flooding his face. The paroxysms eventually subsided and she leaned back and gratefully took the water, sipping it slowly, breathing deeply between sips. Terry handed her a tissue to wipe her watering eyes.

Continuing to regard her with anxiety, he said, ‘My God, I thought you were choking, Puss. Whatever brought that on? Are you sure you’re all right now?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Terry. And I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it was the dust, and my throat was very dry. The combination of the two might explain it, but it was strange.’ Katharine stood up purposefully. ‘I know I’ll feel much better when I get out of my costume, and this rotten wig.’

He nodded, and stared hard at her, as if to satisfy himself she was completely recovered, and then said, ‘What are you doing tonight? I’ve invited a few chums to the Buxton Club for supper. Care to join us, Puss?’

Katharine declined, choosing her words with care, not wanting to offend him. An invitation from Terry was rare, and was something in the nature of a royal command when it
was
extended. ‘But it’s sweet of you to include me,’ she added. ‘Unfortunately, I have a long-standing supper date with Kim Cunningham and his sister.’

‘And Victor Mason perhaps?’ The look he focused on her was full of speculation.

Although she was rather taken aback by this comment, Katharine chose not to show it. She merely nodded. ‘Yes, Victor’s coming along. But why do you assume he would be? I don’t know him all that well.’

Terry shrugged and half turned away. ‘I heard he was paying court. You know what this business is like. You can’t keep anything quiet.’

Katharine’s eyebrows shot up. ‘There’s nothing to keep quiet. We’re just friends, that’s all,’ she said lightly. She moved nearer to the door and smiled at Terry’s dresser. ‘Thanks for helping the maiden in distress, love.’

‘Any time, Katharine.’ Norman grinned, and picked up Terry’s towelling robe. ‘Sorry it was only London corporation champagne, and not the genuine thing.’

Terry said, ‘Well, have a good time tonight.’ He sat down on the sofa, adjusted the short Grecian tunic over his knees and started to remove his sandals. His tone had been coolly dismissive and now Katharine thought he appeared to be angry for some reason, although she could not imagine why. ‘Thanks. You too, Terry,’ she replied in a low voice, and slipped out.

It was with a great sense of relief that Katharine entered her own dressing room and closed the door firmly behind her. She exhaled deeply and rested against the closed door for a moment. Unlike the cluttered and untidy quarters she had just left, here absolute order reigned supreme. Everything was meticulously in its given place. The costumes hung side by side on a metal clothes rack Katharine herself had purchased, considering the regulation wardrobe to be undersized. The collection of sandals was lined up neatly on the floor underneath it, the red wigs reposed on their wig stands on a small card table, and the theatrical make-up and creams and lotions, powders and a variety of other toilet articles were arranged with a military-like precision on the dressing table.

There was a paucity of clutter in the room: indeed it was sterile in appearance, being devoid of the usual theatrical mementos and memorabilia. Even the mandatory congratulatory telegrams, notes and cards from family and friends, which were always taped to a performer’s mirror in fluttering
profusion, were noticeably missing. Actually, Katharine had received only three telegrams on opening night, from Terry, Sonia and her agent. She had no one else to wish her luck.

The dressing room not only reflected Katharine’s neat, spruce little flat in Lennox Gardens, but was yet another manifestation of her personal fastidiousness. This excessive neatness was becoming a fetish. Her drawers at the theatre, and at the flat, were laden with piles of beautiful underwear, and without exception she changed her under garments at least three times a day during her working week. One set was donned in the morning, was replaced by another for the performance, and this was discarded for a third, fresh set to wear after the theatre. On matinee days she used up four sets, much to the continued amazement of her dresser, Maggie. Other drawers, both at home and at the theatre, contained innumerable pairs of newly laundered stockings, folded and stacked in neat piles alongside clean handkerchiefs, dozens of pairs of white kid gloves of varying lengths, and a staggering selection of silk and chiffon scarves as pristine as the day they left the store. Every pair of shoes she owned boasted shoe trees; her hats were kept on the proper stands; her handbags were stuffed with tissue paper; sweaters were folded into plastic bags; and almost every garment in her wardrobe, from day dresses to evening frocks, hung in a dust-proof bag. Every time an outfit had been worn it was given to Maggie to be sponged and pressed, or was sent out to the dry cleaners.