“Please.”
“Personally escorted tour abaht to commence. Follow in single file and don’t talk to the guide. I thank you.”
She followed him to the stage and round the back of the set. He warned her of obstructions by bobbing his torchlight on them and, when she stumbled against a muffled table, took her hand. She was disquieted by the grip of his fingers, calloused and wooden, and by the warmth of his palm, which was unexpectedly soft. She was oppressed with renewed loneliness and fear.
“End of the penny section,” he said, releasing her.
He unlocked a door, reached inside and switched on a light
“They call this the Greenroom,” he said. “That’s what it was in the old days. It’s been done up. Guv’nor’s idea.”
It was a room without a window, newly painted in green. There were a number of armchairs in brown leather, a round table littered with magazines, a set of well-stocked bookshelves and a gas fire. Groups of framed Pollock’s prints decorated the walls: “Mr. Dale as Claude Amboine.” “Mr. T. Hicks as Richard I.” “Mr. S. French as Harlequin.” This last enchanted Martyn because the diamonds of Mr. French’s costume had been filled in with actual red and green sequins and he glittered in his frame.
Above the fireplace hung a largish sketch — it was little more than that — of a man of about thirty-five in mediaeval dress, with a hood that he was in the act of pushing away from his face. The face was arresting. It had great purity of form, being wide across the eyes and heart-shaped. The mouth, in particular, was of a most subtle character, perfectly masculine but drawn with extreme delicacy. It was well done: it had both strength and refinement Yet it was not these qualities that disturbed Martyn. Reflected in the glass that covered the picture she saw her own face lying ghost-wise across the other; their forms intermingled like those in a twice-exposed photograph. It seemed to Martyn that her companion must be looking over her shoulder at this double image and she moved away from him and nearer to the picture. The reflection disappeared. Something was written faintly in one corner of the sketch. She drew closer and saw that it was a single word: Everyman.
“Spittin’ image of ’im, ain’t it?” said the night-watchman behind her.
“I don’t know,” she said quickly. “Is it?”
“Is it! Don’t you know the Guv’nor when you see ’im?”
“The Governor?”
“ ’Strewth you’re a caution and no error. Don’t you know who owns this show? That’s the great Mr. Adam Poole, that is.”
“Oh,” she murmured after a pause, and added uneasily: “I’ve seen him in the pictures, of course.”
“Go on!” he jeered. “Where would that be? Australia? Fancy!”
He had been very kind to her, but she found his remorseless vein of irony exasperating. It would have been easier and less tedious to have let it go but she found herself embarked on an explanation. Of course she knew all about Mr. Adam Poole, she said. She’d seen his photograph in the foyer. All his pictures had been shown in New Zealand. She knew he was the most distinguished of the younger contemporary actor-managers. She was merely startled by the painting because… But it was impossible to explain why the face in the painting disturbed her and the unfinished phrase trailed away into an embarrassed silence.
Her companion listened to this rigmarole with an equivocal grin and when she gave it up merely remarked: “Don’t apologize. It’s the same with all the ladies. ’E fair rocks ’em. Talk about ’aving what it takes.”
“I don’t mean that at all,” she shouted angrily.
“You should see ’em clawing at each other to get at ’im rahnd the stage-door, first nights. Something savage! Females of the speeches? Disgrace to their sexes more like. There’s an ironing board etceterer in the wardrobe-room further along. You can plug in when you’re ready. ’Er royal ’ighness is over the way.”
He went out, opened a further door, switched on a light and called to her to join him. g>
As soon as she crossed the threshold of the star dressing-room she smelt greasepaint. The dressing-shelf was bare, the room untenanted, but the smell of cosmetics mingled with the faint reek of gas. There were isolated dabs of colour on the shelves and the looking-glass; the lamp-bulbs were smeared with cream and red where sticks of greasepaint had been warmed at them; and on a shelf above the wash-basin somebody had left a miniature frying-pan of congealed mascara in which a hair-pin was embedded.
It was a largish room, windowless and dank, with an air of submerged grandeur about it. The full-length cheval-glass swung from a gilt frame. There was an Empire couch, an armchair and an ornate stool before the dressing-shelf. The floor was carpeted in red with a florid pattern that use had in part obliterated. A number of dress-boxes bearing the legend Costumes by Pierrot et Cie were stacked in the middle of the room, and there were two suitcases on the shelf. A gas heater stood against one wall and there was a caged jet above the wash-basin.
“Here we are,” said the night-watchman. “All yer own.”
She turned to thank him and encountered a speculative stare. “Cosy,” he said, “ain’t it?” and moved nearer. “Nice little hidey hole, ain’t it?”
“You’ve been very kind,” Martyn said. “I’ll manage splendidly, now. Thank you very much indeed.”
“Don’t mention it. Any time.” His hand reached out clumsily to her arm. “Been aht in the rain,” he said thickly. “Naughty girl.”
“It’ll soon dry off. I’m quite all right.”
She moved behind the pile of dress-boxes and fumbled with the string on the top one. There was a hissing noise. She heard him strike a match and a moment later was horribly jolted by an explosion from the gas heater. It forced an involuntary cry from her.
“ ’Ullo, ’ullo!” her companion said. “Ain’t superstitious, are we?”
“Superstitious?”
He made an inexplicable gesture towards the gas fire. “You know,” he said, grinning horridly at her.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand?”
“Don’t tell me you never ’eard abaht the great Jupiter case! Don’t they learn you nothing in them antypodes?”
The heater reddened and purred.
“Come to think of it,” he said, “it’d be before your time. I wasn’t ’ere myself when it occurred, a-course, but them that was don’t give you a chance to forget it. Not that they mention it direct-like, but it don’t get forgotten.”
“What was it?” Martyn asked against her will.
“Sure yer not superstitious?”
“No, I’m not”
“You ain’t been long in this business, then. Nor more am I. Shake ’ands.” He extended his hand so pointedly that she was obliged to put her own in it and had some difficulty in releasing herself.
“It must be five years ago,” he said, “all of that. A bloke in Number Four dressing-room did another bloke in, very cunning, by blowing dahn the tube of ’is own gas fire. Like if I went nex’ door and blew dahn the tube, this fire’d go aht. And if you was dead drunk, like you might of been if this girl-friend of yours’d been very generous with ’er brandy, you’d be commy-tose and before you knew where you was you’d be dead. Which is what occurred. It made a very nasty impression and the theatre was shut dahn for a long while until they ’ad it all altered and pansied up. The Guv’nor won’t ’ave it mentioned. ’E changed the name of the ’ouse when ’e took it on. But call it what you like, the memory, as they say, lingers on. Silly, though, ain’t it? You and me don’t care. That’s right, ain’t it? We’d rather be cosy. Wouldn’t we?” He gave a kind of significance to the word “cosy.” Martyn unlocked the suitcases. Her fingers were unsteady and she turned her back in order to hide them from him. He stood in front of the gas fire and began to give out a smell of hot dirty cloth. She took sheets from a suitcase, hung them under the clothes pegs round the walls, and began to unpack the boxes. Her feet throbbed cruelly and she surreptitioasly shuffled them out of her wet shoes.