Others in the audience were shifting in their seats. Someone in the row ahead leaned to his companion and whispered in her ear. The restlessness was infectious. Movement from an audience so early in a play is unusual.
On stage, Clarion pulled a face.
Her mouth widened and brought creases to her cheeks. Her eyebrows popped up and ridges spread across her forehead.
Shearman sat up again.
Nothing in the script called for her to grimace like that. Sally Bowles was supposed to be in command, outspoken, a girl about town, out to impress, demanding whisky and soda when coffee was offered. Instead she was baring her teeth, staring towards the wings as if she needed help.
Stage fright?
You don’t expect it on the professional stage, not in such extreme form. Her eyes bulged and she was taking deep breaths.
Preston Barnes as Isherwood had spoken a line and Clarion needed to respond. She didn’t. A voice from the wings tried to prompt her, but she appeared dumbstruck. Gasps were heard from the audience. Few things are more destructive to drama than an actor drying.
Barnes improvised a line to cover the silence. It brought no response from Clarion.
She put her hands to her face and clawed at her cheeks. Her make-up would be ruined, but that didn’t seem to be a concern.
She was way out of character now. Nothing the other actors could do would rescue the scene. There was a bigger drama on stage.
And now Clarion screamed.
This wasn’t a theatrical scream. It was piercing, gut-wrenching, horrible. The sound echoed through the theatre, shocking everyone in it, from backstage to the box office.
Someone had the good sense to lower the curtain.
Even the house lights coming on didn’t bring relief. Behind the curtain more convulsive shrieks could be heard.
By the time Hedley Shearman got backstage, Clarion had been helped to her dressing room. Doubled forward in an armchair, she was still crying out as if in severe pain, the sound muffled by a towel pressed to her face. The room was full of people wanting to help and uncertain what to do. A St John Ambulance man was talking to Clarion, but she was too distressed to answer. The man turned to Shearman and said, ‘We should get her to hospital.’
To his credit the little theatre director rose to the challenge, saying he’d drive her to the Royal United himself. Aware of his other responsibility, to the shocked audience still out front, he asked if the understudy was ready to go on. He was told she was already getting into one of the Sally Bowles dresses and could be on stage inside five minutes. An announcement would be made to the audience that Clarion was unwell and unable to continue, but the play would resume shortly.
No one understood what was wrong. The entire theatre was awash with theories. An extreme form of stage fright? Food poisoning? Mental breakdown? Drugs? An allergic reaction?
Clarion’s dresser Denise did her best to comfort the star in the back seat of the Jaguar as Shearman drove at speed to the hospital.
There, still clutching the towel to her face, Clarion was met by the triage team and rushed inside to be assessed.
Not long after, a doctor invited Shearman and Denise into a side room.
‘She appears to have come into contact with some irritant that inflamed her skin. There’s considerable damage to the face and neck. Did her role in the play call for anything unusual to touch her?’
Shearman shook his head. ‘Nothing I’m aware of.’
‘I’m thinking of special effects. Smoke, dry ice, any sort of vapour produced mechanically?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Do you know if she recently used a cosmetic that was new to her? Stage make-up, perhaps?’
Shearman, alarmed, turned to Denise. She reddened and shrugged. ‘She didn’t do her own make-up. I looked after her.’
‘You never know with skin,’ Shearman said, to close that avenue. ‘What’s all right for one person can produce a reaction in someone else.’
‘We don’t think it’s allergic,’ the doctor said. ‘We’ll get a dermatologist to look at her, but our first assessment is that these are acid burns.’
‘Acid?’ Shearman said, horrified. ‘There’s no acid in stage make-up.’
Denise, saucer-eyed, shook her head.
‘I’m telling you what we found,’ the doctor said. ‘She may have to be transferred to the burns unit at Frenchay.’
‘I can’t understand this. It makes no sense at all.’
‘It’s not our job to make sense of it,’ the doctor said. ‘We deal with the injuries that are presented to us. All we want to find out is the likely source of the damage so that we give the right treatment.’
CLARION’S AGONY ON STAGE ran next morning’s tabloid headline. The theatre was besieged by reporters, distressed fans and, it has to be said, ticket-holders wanting refunds. Upstairs in his office, Hedley Shearman was urgently conferring with Francis Melmot, the Chairman of the Theatre Trust. Silver-haired and silver-tongued, Melmot, at six foot eight, towered over the stumpy theatre manager.
‘The latest is that she’s being treated at Frenchay Hospital, where they have a burns unit,’ Shearman said. ‘The skin damage is severe, I’m sorry to say, and could be permanent.’
‘Hedley, this is irredeemably dire,’ Melmot said. ‘How could it have possibly have happened?’
In the privacy of his office Shearman could be frank. ‘The obvious explanation is that her skin reacted adversely to the make-up. The burning is all on her face, neck and upper body, the areas that were made up. She rubbed some of the stuff off with a towel and they’re having that analysed.’
‘You’ve spoken to the make-up person, of course?’
‘Denise Pearsall.’
‘She’s a dresser, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but she was specially assigned to do the whole thing, costume, make-up, confidence-giving. If you remember, you said Clarion must be feather-bedded.’
‘Oh, I’m responsible, am I?’
‘Denise is in shock. Can’t think how it happened. She used her own make-up on Clarion. She’s been with us for years, as you know.’
‘What was it – theatrical make-up?’
‘The same stuff they all use. Tried and tested, used in theatres up and down the country.’
‘But was it new?’
‘Well, yes. It’s not good practice to use something that’s been in contact with another actor.’
‘So it’s possible it was a bad batch – the fault of the manufacturer?’ For Melmot, this was all about apportioning blame.
‘I find that hard to believe. The hospital were talking of acid burns. Acid isn’t used in cosmetics. I can understand something being wrong with the mix, only not enough to cause such a violent reaction. Denise is devastated.’
‘If this disaster is down to her, I’m not surprised,’ Melmot said.
Shearman didn’t like the way this was heading. ‘I didn’t say it was Denise’s fault. She’s a trusted member of the team.’
‘Someone is responsible. You say she’s devastated. I’m devastated, too. We could find ourselves being sued for a small fortune. A large fortune if Clarion is permanently scarred. She’s a mega earner and no doubt she had contracts lined up for months ahead.’
‘It’s too early to talk of legal action.’
‘It isn’t. This could bring us down, Hedley. I’m bound to report to the trustees.’
‘They’ll have read the papers like the rest of us.’
‘I must still inform them properly.’
Shearman’s world was imploding. He had status in this theatre, the best job he’d ever had. Sensing he was about to be unfairly blamed, he surprised himself with the force of his anger. ‘I’d like the board to know I was bulldozed into this. I didn’t like the idea of engaging the bloody woman. She’s no actor. Certain people insisted she was box office. It couldn’t go wrong, they said, but it has, spectacularly.’
Melmot chose to ignore the outburst. ‘When the make-up woman -’