Sacred Hunger - Barry Unsworth [82]
‘We are all here, I think,’ Charles Wolpert said, his accustomed gravity of manner contending with a certain visible embarrassment. ‘Except for Parker, that is. He had duties in the parish – it seems the vicar has returned. And of course, Mr Adams.’ He paused on this to clear his throat before continuing. ‘I don’t want to beat about the bush. Mr Adams is threatening to leave us. In fact he talks of decamping on the spot. It appears that dissatisfaction has been expressed with his manner of directing the play. He doesn’t go into details but he names the person. I see no reason why we should not all know who it is. It is Erasmus Kemp.’
Several people glanced at Erasmus now. He looked straight before him. His face wore a slight frown but he was otherwise impassive.
‘Good heavens.’ Prospero had passed instantly to red-faced, swelling indignation. ‘That is a piece of barbarity,’ he said. ‘What, did he presume to speak for us all?’
‘It seems that Mr Adams was intercepted,’ Charles said. ‘Is there anyone here you consulted beforehand, Kemp?’
‘No,’ Erasmus said after a moment; he had had to struggle with himself to answer at all, in face of this public questioning. ‘It wasn’t the business of anyone else. I didn’t speak to Adams about his direction of the play. That is a lie. It was a personal matter. He had no business to complain to you.’
‘No business to complain to me?’ Charles paused for a moment or two as if at a loss. Then he said more loudly, ‘He is a guest in my father’s house, at my invitation. He has received discourteous treatment. Who else should he complain to? I must tell you, Kemp, I think you have behaved strangely, and you may make of that what you like.’
For the first time Erasmus turned his head to look at his interlocutor. Resentment at this public rebuke showed in his suddenly heightened colour and fixity of gaze. This was her brother, a quarrel was out of the question. All the same, it came to him now that he had suffered discomfiture enough from the Wolperts, father and son. When we are married, he thought, I will keep her from them. There was a keenness of pleasure in this thought which he did not pause to examine. For a moment he allowed his gaze to fall on Sarah. She was standing in the recess of the window with her back to the light. She was looking at him steadily but he could not detect any change in the normal composure of her expression.
‘I am fair sick of the whole business,’ Charles said. ‘I am sorry now that we thought of it in the first place. Jonathan Rigby was well out of it when he broke his leg. I swear I’ll never be in a play again.’
‘Me neither,’ the young man who played Hippolito said. ‘We have given up hours to it. To speak frankly, I don’t care for Adams much. I don’t think he has furthered the play. And he takes us for ninnies. I don’t care if he goes.’
‘Nor do I,’ Dorinda said suddenly and unexpectedly, tossing her head, perhaps remembering some slight or belittlement.
‘Well,’ Charles said unhappily, ‘now we are coming to the point. Adams has made it a choice. It is either Erasmus or him, he says. Either Erasmus withdraws from the play and ceases to attend rehearsals or he takes post from Warrington tomorrow morning.’
There was a short silence, then Erasmus said, ‘I won’t be forced out by Adams. I will resign from the play if everyone is agreed they want me out of it.’
It was the only card he had to play but it was a strong one. He could not believe Sarah would vote against him, even to save the play; and there was a good chance that dislike for Adams would keep some of the others on his side and that deliberations about expelling him would collapse in disorder, along with the play itself.
He gave the company a short bow and left the room, passing through the house and out on to the terrace. As he descended the steps and walked towards the lake he heard the wind in the high branches of the trees and