At the stage door Mr Gawber said, ‘I feel such an ass doing this.’
Hood said, ‘I’ll ask for her.”
A porter in a peaked cap said, ‘Help you?’
‘We’re looking for Miss Nightwing.’
‘Come in. I think she’s still inside,’ said the porter. He spoke to another man. ‘Has she turned in her key?’
The other man, at the window of a booth just inside the door, glanced up at a board on which were a number of keys with tags. He said, ‘It’s not here. She must be changing.’
An old man walked towards them, carrying a leather satchel. He moved slightly stooped and his head shook. He wore a thin brown overcoat and a small trilby hat. His face was deeply wrinkled and pale and he looked very tired as he passed and handed a key to the man in the narrow booth. ‘Night, George.’
‘Night, Mister Penrose. Mind how you go.’
Mr Gawber whispered, ‘Dick Penrose.’ He saw the old actor struggle with the door and pull his satchel through, and he thought: Poor old fellow, he must be seventy. He felt a tug of pity seeing the actor alone, so exhausted, stepping into a damp wind gusting from Drury Lane. He had never seen an actor after a performance, and he could not separate the two men in his mind. He watched the battered door, sorrowing for the man, then turned to face Araba Nightwing, who tripped into him and burst into tears.
‘Mister Gawber!’ she held him tightly and sobbed.
‘This is my friend. Mister Hood, I’d like you to meet Miss Nightwing.’
Araba’s crying ceased. She smiled at Hood. Suddenly she said, ‘Your wife — what’s happened to her!’
‘Under the weather, I’m afraid. A bout of flu. Nothing serious.’
‘I was going to suggest a drink,’ said Hood.
‘God, I need one,’ said Araba. She wiped at her tears and wiped away that mood. She gave her key to the man in the booth and they started through the door. There was a shout from the hallway.
‘Has my old man ditched me again?’ The speaker was a short fat woman with a face the colour of plaster. The voice was Blanche Very’s and she was still shouting as the stage door banged shut.
They went up Catherine Street to the Opera Tavern, Araba wrapped in a black cape, speaking slowly in her deep attractive voice, repeating how kind it was for Mr Gawber to have come to the play. She did not speak to Hood directly, and it was not until they were in the pub and seated under the old theatre posters and signed photographs that he was able to get a good look at her face. The shine, the pinkness she’d had in the play, was gone — that mask was off — but there remained traces of the make-up flecking her long cheeks. She was tall, with large perfect features forming true angles and sloping planes which, because they fit so exactly, did not give the impression of largeness. She had the sort of beauty that is at once familiar and strange, a remembered face, full of clues. Her lips were full and she spoke emphatically without noticeable effort, but with an anger she hadn’t used in the play. The scarf she’d wrapped tightly on her head in imitation of the great Twenties’ actress she was often compared to, hid her hair, and tailing to drape her shoulder gave her the look of a desert princess. But it was her eyes that struck Hood — they were green, and she seemed to be able to intensify their light to give a point to her words. She still spoke to Mr Gawber — he was jammed against the wall — but she watched Hood with those green eyes, studying him closely, almost suspiciously.
‘Sometimes I don’t think I can bear it a minute more. It’s such a fag, and there’s a matinée on Wednesdays. I don’t know how I do it — I have to suck sweets to keep awake. It’s dreadful.’
‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself,’ said Hood.
‘I am an actress,’ said Araba.
‘Yes, the play was very interesting,’ said Mr Gawber.
‘Interesting?’ she said, using her voice to doubt it. ‘No one’s ever said it was that.’ She addressed Hood. ‘What did you think of it?’
‘I’m not a very good judge of plays,’ said Hood. ‘The audience seemed to like it, though.’
‘I don’t want to talk about them,’ said Araba.
‘We’ve heard your good news,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘About Peter Pan.’
‘It was the boy-girl part in this thing that did it. It’s just a gimmick. Peter Pan is a big play — I wonder if you know how big? I hate some of the audiences, so many queers think of it as their own vehicle. I’m only doing it for the kids. They understand it — they go out hating their parents. That’s how it should be. God, I love acting for kids! They really appreciate what you do for them. They don’t have any hang-ups. They’re terrible critics — if they think it’s a lot of old rope they say so; if they feel like screaming, they scream. I love that.’
They were seated near the door, drinking half pints of beer, and from time to time young men with blow-waves and backcombed hair, and girls peeking from beneath wide-brimmed hats, had called out ‘Araba’ and ‘Darling’. Araba had smiled and gone on talking about acting for children (‘There’s no ego-trip involved — they’re not interested in stars and personalities’). Now they were approached by a short woman pushing through the crowd, holding a small dog Hood had first taken for a handbag — it was square and still, with tight curls. The woman had freckles on her thin face and chewed an empty cigarette holder. Under this veil of freckles the woman — who was no larger than a child — had the sly mocking face of an old elf. But there was about her size and the way she was dressed a neatness that was sharp and unconcealing: the small body showed through the green coat as the slyness had through the freckles. She said in a high voice, ‘Poldy wants to say hello.’ She spoke to the dog: ‘Say hello to Araba, my dear. Get on with it — don’t just sit there.’
‘McGravy, I’d like you to meet one of my dearest friends, Ralph Gawber.’
Mr Gawber said, ‘Very pleased to meet you. This is Mister Hood.’
‘Mister Hood is not a very good judge of plays,’ said Araba.
McGravy said, ‘Send him to Tea for Three.’
‘I just saw it,’ said Hood.
‘What’s the verdict?’ said McGravy.
Hood considered for a moment, then said, ‘It’s got a lot of food in it, hasn’t it?’
‘It’s all about food,’ said McGravy.
‘And that was one damned hungry audience. I could see them licking their chops.’
‘Everyone’s starving nowadays,’ said McGravy, looking uncertainly at Hood, who was smirking. ‘It’ll get worse.’
‘I sometimes think that,’ said Mr Gawber.
‘It’s the system,’ said Araba, and her eyes flashed. ‘All this deception. All these hangmen. And these leeches — bleeding people to death. It makes me want to throw up.’
‘Parasites,’ said McGravy, cuddling her dog until he growled his affection. ‘Well, they’ll get what they deserve.’
‘I think that needs saying,’ said Mr Gawber.
‘Bloodsuckers,’ said Araba. ‘It’s a Punch and Judy show, but it can’t go on like this.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Mr Gawber.
‘It really is rotten,’ said McGravy. ‘It’s like a boil that needs lancing — then it’ll all come gushing out, all the corruption and lies.’
‘I’m so glad you said that,’ said Mr Gawber. He leaned forward, encouraged. Two hours of sleep in the theatre had rested him. He said spiritedly, ‘No, the workers have had it all their own way since the War, but now they’re simply malingering, holding industry to ransom. A period of recession wouldn’t be a bad thing. A crash might even be better — a dose of salts. I agree unemployment’s a bitter pill, but the workers have to realize —’