An Awfully Big Adventure - Beryl Bainbridge [23]
‘Any better?’ she asked, and he said, giving her a peculiarly defiant look, ‘My God, I suppose you think that solves everything.’
‘What’s wrong,’ called Meredith. ‘Why can’t we start?’ He sounded angry.
Stella tiptoed from the proscenium arch, shielding her eyes from the glare of the footlights. She couldn’t see Meredith. ‘There’s a spot of bother,’ she whispered.
‘Speak up,’ he shouted, and repeated, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve been forbidden to divulge,’ she said. Had she been alone she would have told him. It wasn’t right for a man in his position to be kept in the dark.
The waiting was not prolonged. After no more than five minutes Bunny announced they could begin. It went very well. During a break in which the designer’s assistant smeared the mirror above the fireplace with vaseline – Meredith had complained it reflected too much light – Dawn Allenby apologised for the drenching smell of eau de Cologne that pervaded her person. ‘Bear with me, darlings,’ she pleaded, ‘I sweat like a navvy when nervous.’
Nervy or not, she was particularly convincing in her role as Olwyn, more so than she had been in previous rehearsals. When she confessed to shooting Martin no one could doubt she had it in her to pull the trigger. Martin had considered her priggish, a bit of a spinster. He had shown her some naughty drawings, to test her prudishness. ‘They were horrible,’ she cried, wrinkling her nose in distaste; even so, her tone was that of a woman of the world and it was evident it was Martin she found disgusting, not the drawings.
Which was why, at the very end, when Gordon tuned in on the wireless to a dance band and Robert was supposed to waltz Olwyn about the room, Stella had no patience with St Ives’s reaction to Geoffrey’s ten-second delay in putting on the gramophone record. Anybody with any feeling for the drama wouldn’t have noticed. Richard didn’t say anything; he simply stood there, every inch the martyr. Dawn Allenby seemed annoyed too, though that was possibly because she’d been cheated out of those extra moments in his arms.
When they stopped for a beer rest before running through Act Two again – a fly-man was dispatched to the Oyster Bar with a hot-water jug stamped ‘Property of Sefton General Hospital’ – Meredith climbed into the orchestra pit to play the piano. Geoffrey said the piece was Sheep May Safely Graze by Bach. Whatever it was, it was very tinkly and repetitive, and often, just as he seemed to be getting somewhere, Meredith broke off and started all over again. Stella hadn’t suspected he was musical.
Uncle Vernon had paid for her to study the piano. After three weeks, during which time it became clear she might be in her dotage before she mastered the Warsaw Concerto, she’d given it up. Mr Boristan, her teacher, had a shell-shocked leg. His knee jerked up and down to the clacking of the metronome on the piano lid. Uncle Vernon had flown into a paddy on account of the seven lessons left outstanding.
She was stood in the wings refilling the whisky decanter, picturing herself seated at a concert grand on the platform of the Philharmonic Hall – Meredith was in the front row gazing up at her with adoration – when three men walking one behind the other filed through the pass-door into the auditorium. She ran to the prop room to inform George.
‘They’re dressed all in black,’ she said. ‘Like funeral directors.’
‘It’ll be the priests,’ he said. ‘Father Julian, Dr Parvin and probably Father Dooley . . . fella with carroty hair same as yours. They’re from Philip Neri’s.’
‘That’s at the end of the street opposite our house,’ Stella said. ‘It’s Catholic.’
‘What else would it be?’ said George. Strictly speaking, priests weren’t supposed to visit the theatre, but a blind eye had been turned to the attendance of rehearsals. Meredith had started inviting them last season. He was a convert to Rome. According to George, his sort were usually the worst; they were after redemption. Before the cast went home Dr Parvin would give a blessing.
‘Mr Potter’s a Catholic!’ asked