Roderick Claverham’s visit to the house and the effect it would have on Charlie was soon forgotten, for the first night of Countess Maud was almost upon us. The house was in chaos. There were feverish misgivings, momentous last decisions about changing this and that; there were fierce refusals from Desiree, impassioned appeals from Dolly and noisy reprimands from Martha. Well, we had had it all before.
And then the night itself. The day that preceded it had been one of especially high tension, when my mother had to be left alone and then suddenly demanded our presence. She was worried. Should she change the bit of business at the end of the first act? Could she try something else at that stage? It was too late, of course. Oh, what a fool she had been not to think of it before. Was the dress she was wearing in the first act too tight, too loose, too revealing or simply plain drab? This was going to be the end of her. Who would want to see her after the flop this was going to be? It was a ridiculous play. Whoever heard of a countess serving behind a counter in a linen draper’s shop!
“It’s because no one has that it makes a play,” screamed Martha. “It’s a fair play and you are going to make it a great one— that’s if you can put a stop to your tantrums.”
Dolly strode around striking dramatic poses, his hand to his head appealing to God to spare him from ever working with this woman again.
“Almighty God,” he cried. “Why did You not let me take Lottie Langdon?”
“Yes, God, why didn’t You?” said my mother. “This silly Countess Maud would just have suited her.”
Then Dolly put on one of his Garrick poses and, with the resignation of a Pontius Pilate, cried out: “I wash my hands of this affair.” And with an appropriate gesture he turned to the door.
He did not mean it, of course, but carried away by the drama, my mother pleaded: “Don’t go. I’ll do everything … everything you want of me … even Maud.”
And so it went on. In earlier days I might have believed it was all coming to disaster, but now I knew they were all too professional to allow that. They did not mean what they said. They were placating Fate. Theatrical people, I had discovered, were the most superstitious on earth. They did not say beforehand: “This is going to be a great success,” because if they did, Fate, being the perverse creature it was, would make sure that it wasn’t. You had been arrogant to think it was your decision. So if you said it would be a failure, Fate would jeer: “Well, it won’t be—it will be a success.”
At last I was there in the theatre with Charlie and Robert Bouchere in a box looking down on the stage. The curtain went up on the linen draper’s shop. There was singing and dancing and suddenly the line of girls parted and there was Desiree behind the counter, looking delightful in the dress, which was neither too tight, too loose, too revealing nor plain drab.
The audience burst into that loud applause which always greeted her when she appeared, and soon she was into “Can I help you, madam?” before she came out to dance round the stage in her inimitable way.
Dolly came into the box in the interval. He said the audience seemed to like it and with Desiree it could not fail. She had the audience where she wanted them from the moment she appeared.
“So you are not sorry you did not get Lottie Langdon after all,” I could not help saying.
He gave me that quizzical look, as much as to say, you should know by now what that was all about.
He disappeared and we settled down to enjoy the last act.
Before the lights went down I saw that someone below in the stalls was trying to catch my attention. I felt a sudden spurt of laughter rising in me. It was Roderick Claverham. I lifted my hand and, acknowledging my recognition of him, I smiled. He returned the smile. I looked at Charlie. He was discussing the show with Robert Bouchere and had clearly not seen his son. I did not inform him that Roderick was in the theatre. I had learned a lesson. I wondered whether Roderick understood.
Then the curtain went up and we watched Desiree through the final scene with the aristocratic bridegroom declaring: “I’d love you if you were a shopgirl still,” while Desiree responded with some of her most skilful top notes.
It was over. The audience was wildly enthusiastic. There was Desiree, led onto the stage by the man who would love her if she were a shopgirl still. He kissed her hand and then, to the delight of the audience, her cheek. The flowers were brought and Desiree made a curtain speech.
“Dear, dear people … you are too kind to me. I don’t deserve it!”
“You do. You do,” from the audience.
Holding up her hand in mock modesty, she told them that the greatest joy she could know was to play for them. “I knew you would love Maud. I did from the first moment I met her.”
Echoes came back to me. “This stupid creature, why do I have to play such an idiot?”
It was all part of the playacting which was her life.
People were making for the exits. I caught one more glimpse of Roderick in the crowd. He turned to look at me and smiled. I looked towards Charlie. He had still not seen his son.
I went to Desir6e’s dressing room with Charlie and Robert after that. Martha was rapidly helping her to change. Champagne was drunk.
Desiree kissed Dolly and said: “There, I did it.”
Dolly said: “You were magnificent, darling. Didn’t I tell you you would be?”
“I could feel how much the audience loved it.”
“It was you they loved.”
“The darlings!”
“Well, you are rather wonderful, you know.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. Say it again. I love to hear it. And there’s my Noelle. What did you think of your mother, pet?”
“You were absolutely splendid.”
“Bless you, sweet.”
Robert said in his amusing French accent: “Is she … Noelle … old enough to drink the champagne, eh?”
“Tonight she is,” said my mother. “Come, darlings. Let’s drink to a nice run … not too long. I don’t think I could stand Maud for too long. But enough to make it a success and full houses to the end. And may she know when it is the right time to leave us.”
We drank to Maud. It was about half an hour later when we drove back to the house. Thomas had the carriage waiting for us.
There had been a good deal of kissing and more congratulations before we parted, and in the carriage there were just Martha, my mother and myself. The streets were not very busy, for the crowds were fast dispersing.
“You must be exhausted,” I said to my mother.
“Oh, my dear, I am. I shall sleep right through until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Knowing that Maud was a great success,” I said. “It was a success, wasn’t it?”
“Of course. I knew it would be, darling,” said my mother.
Martha looked at me and raised her eyebrows.
“Oh, one’s always jittery just before,” said my mother defensively. “You have to be. If you weren’t, you’d go onstage flat. It’s the life, darling.”
As we were pulling up at the house, I noticed the girl. She was standing near a lamppost, but I could see her face. She looked rather dejected and I wondered what she was doing standing about at this time of night.
My mother was saying: “Oh, I’m so weary, and ‘Can I help you, madam?’ keeps going round and round in my head.”
Thomas had jumped down from the driver’s seat and was holding the door open. My mother alighted. I saw the girl take a step forward. Her face was still tense. Before I could alight from the carriage she was hastily walking away.
I said: “Did you see that girl?”