After that, she could have everything, the Royal Shakespeare Company, the National Theatre, establishing herself in a series of great classic roles. She went to Hollywood only once to star in a classy and flashy revenge thriller in which she killed several men. After that she turned down all subsequent offers except for the occasional TV appearance and returned to the National Theatre.
Money, of course, was no problem. Aunt Martha saw to that and took great pride in her niece’s achievements. She was the one person Grace felt loved her and she loved her fiercely in return, dropping out of theatre totally for the last, terrible year when leukemia took its hold on the old woman.
Martha came home at the end to die in her own bed, the windows of her room looking over the Thames. There was medical help in abundance, but Grace looked after her every need personally.
On the last evening it was raining, beating softly against the windows. She was holding her aunt’s hand and Martha, gaunt and wasted, opened her eyes and looked at her.
“You’ll go back now, promise me, and show them all what real acting is about. It’s what you are, my love. Promise me.”
“Of course,” Grace said.
“No sad tears, no mourning. A celebration to prove how worthwhile it’s been.” She managed a weak smile. “I never told you, Grace, but your father always believed the family tradition that they were kin to Robert Browning.”
“The poet?” Grace said.
“Yes. There’s a line in one of his great poems. Our interest’s on the dangerous edge of things. I don’t know why, but it seems to suit you perfectly.”
Her eyes closed and she died a few minutes later.
She was healthy now, the house in Cheyne Walk was hers, and the world of theatre was her oyster, but no one could control her, no one could hold her. Her wealth meant that she could do what she wanted. Her first role on her return was in Look Back in Anger with an obscure South Coast repertory company in a seaside town. The critics descended from London in droves and were ecstatic. After that she did a range of similar performances at various provincial theatres, finally returning to the National Theatre to do Chekhov’s A Month in the Country.
No long-term contracts, no ties. She had set a pattern. If a part interested her, she would play it, even if it was for four weeks at some obscure civic theatre in the heart of Lancashire or some London fringe theatre venue such as the King’s Head or the Old Red Lion, and the audiences everywhere loved her.
Love in her own life was a different story. There were men, of course, when the mood came, but no one who ever moved her. In male circles in the theatre she was known as the Ice Queen. She knew this, but it didn’t dismay her in the slightest, amused her if anything, and her actor’s gift for analysis of a role told her that if anything, she had a certain contempt for men.
In October 1991, she did Brendan Behan’s The Hostage at the Minerva Studio at Chichester, still her favorite theatre. It was a short run, but such was the interest in this most Irish of plays that the company was invited to the Lyric Theatre, Belfast, for a two-week run. Unfortunately, Grace was scheduled to start rehearsals at the National for A Winter’s Tale immediately after her stint at the Minerva, and so the director of The Hostage came to see her in some trepidation.
“The Lyric, Belfast, would like us for two weeks. Of course, I’ll have to say no. I mean, you start rehearsing Monday at the National.”
“ Belfast?” she said. “I’ve never been. I like the sound of that.”
“But the National?” he protested.
“Oh, they can put things on the back burner for a couple of weeks.” She smiled, that famous smile of hers that seemed to be for you alone. “Or get someone else.”
She indulged herself by staying at the Europa Hotel. She stood at the window of her suite and looked out at the rain driving in across the city, suddenly excited to be here, surely one of the most dangerous cities in the world. It was only four o’clock and she was not due at the Lyric until six-thirty. On impulse, she went downstairs.
At the main entrance, the head doorman smiled. “A taxi, Miss Browning?”
Posters advertising the play with her photo on them were on a stand close by.
She gave him her best smile. “No, I just need some fresh air and I like the rain.”
“Plenty of that in Belfast, miss. Better take this,” and he put up an umbrella for her.
She started toward the bus station and the Protestant stronghold of Sandy Row, feeling suddenly cheerful as a bitter east wind blew in from Belfast Lough.
Tom Curry always stayed at the Europa during his monthly visits as visiting Professor at Queens University. He liked Belfast, the sense of danger, the thought that anything might happen. Sometimes his visits coincided with Rupert Lang’s, for Lang was now an extra Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office, which meant frequent visits to Ulster on Crown business, and this was one of them.
He arrived back at the Europa at five-thirty, went into the Library Bar and found Tom Curry seated at one end reading the Belfast Telegraph, a Bushmills in front of him.
Curry glanced up. “Hello, old lad, had a good day?”
“Bloody raining every time I come to Belfast.” Lang nodded to the barman. “Same as my friend.”
“You don’t like it much, do you?” Curry said.
“I went through hell here, Tom, back in seventy-two. Close to six hundred dead in one year. Bodies under the rubble for days, the stink of explosions. I can still smell it.” He raised his glass. “To you, old sport.”
Curry toasted him back. “As the Fenians say, may you die in Ireland.”
“Thanks very much.” Lang smiled. “Mind you, you can’t fault them on their attitude to culture here.” He nodded behind the bar where Grace’s poster was displayed.
Curry said, “Grace Browning. She’s wonderful. Strange choice of a play for Belfast though, The Hostage. Very IRA.”
“Nonsense,” Lang said. “Behan showed the absurdity of the whole thing even though he was in the IRA himself.”
At that moment Grace Browning entered. As she unbuttoned her raincoat, a waiter hurried to take it. She walked to the bar and Rupert Lang said, “Good God, it’s Grace Browning.”
Hearing him, she turned and gave him that famous smile. “Hello.”
“May I introduce myself?” he asked.
She frowned slightly. “You know, I feel I’ve met you before.”
Curry laughed. “No, you’ve occasionally seen him on the television. Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office. Rupert Lang.”
“I’m impressed,” she said. “And you?”
“Tom Curry,” Lang said. “He’s just a rotten old Professor of Political Philosophy at London University. Visiting Professor here at Queen’s once a month. Can we offer you a drink?”
“Why not. A glass of white wine. Just one. I’ve got to give a performance.”
Lang gave the order to the barman. “We’ve seen you many times.”
“Together?”
“Oh yes.” He smiled. “Tom and I go back a long way. Cambridge.”
“That’s nice.” She sipped her wine. There was something about them. She sensed it. Something unusual. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”
“Didn’t realize it was on,” Curry said. “Only here for three days. Don’t suppose there are any tickets left.”
“I’ll leave you two of my tickets at the box office,” she said.
It was a challenge instantly taken up. “Oh, you’re on,” Lang said. “Wonderful.”