“We like beer,” said Robert promptly.
“And the flat’s in a dreadful mess. There never seems to be time to clean it properly. Not now that I’m working, I mean.”
“We don’t mind. How do we get there?”
“Well … have you got a car?”
“Yes. It’s outside.”
“Yes … well. If you go out and wait, Christo and I will join you later. If that’s all right. And then we can show you where it is.”
“Splendid. How about Johnny?”
“Oh, he’ll be along later.”
“We’ll wait for you.”
* * *
He took his hands out of his pockets and turned, and he and Jane walked back up the slight slope of the auditorium. As they reached the double doors, and Robert held one half open for Jane to go through, all hell seemed to break loose on stage.
“Where the devil is that Litton girl?” Robert was in time to see Emma scramble off the sofa as though someone had set off a firework, and try once more to move the cumbersome thing. A small man with a black beard shot on stage, looking like the worst-tempered sort of pirate. “Look, ducky, I asked you to move the bloody sofa, not to go to sleep on it. God, I’ll be thankful to see that other girl back and you safely out of this place…” One either had to go and knock him down, or withdraw. For Emma’s sake Robert withdrew.
The door swung shut behind him, but as they crossed the foyer, the voice could still be heard … “She’s a moron, we all know, but no one could be as crassly stupid as you…”
“Charming,” said Jane, as they went down the stair. Robert did not reply, because, until the white-hot blaze of anger with which he had been suddenly consumed, died down, he was not capable of saying anything. “That must be Mr. Collins, the stage manager. Not a very nice man to work for.”
They reached the street door, and went down the steps and crossed the pavement and got into the car. It was dark now, a soft, bloomy dusk had descended upon the town, but the heat of the day still lingered, held by the narrow confines of the street, by sunbaked stone and paving. Above them the Theatre sign shone brightly, but as they got into the car, someone from inside the building turned it off. The evening’s entertainment was over. Robert reached for his cigarettes, gave Jane one and lit it, and then took one for himself. After a moment he felt a little calmer.
He said, “She’s cut off all her hair.”
“Has she? What was it like before?”
“Long and silky and dark.”
“She doesn’t want us to go to-night. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I know that. But we must. We don’t need to stay long.”
“And I hate beer.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps someone will make you some coffee.”
* * *
“… It isn’t even as though it’s a job that requires any sort of brain. The most idiotic creature straight out of RADA could do it more competently than you.”
Collins was letting fly, unloading the day’s tensions and frustrations in a flood of invective that was directed solely at Emma. He hated her. It had something to do with Christopher; with the fact that her father was both successful and famous. At first, she had tried sticking up for herself, but now she knew better than to try and stem this venomous flood. With Collins, you couldn’t win. She simply listened, got on with her work, tried not to let him see how deeply he could upset her.
“… you got this job because I have to have someone to help me … God help me. You didn’t get it because Christo shoved his oar in, and you didn’t get it because some fool is willing to pay twenty thousand for a Ben Litton of red spots on a blue background. I’ve got more sense than that, as by now you have no doubt found out. So don’t start thinking you can loll around entertaining your toffee-nosed friends … and the next time they condescend to visit our humble little show, tell them to bloody well wait till we’ve finished, will you? Now come on, get that sofa out of the bloody way…”
* * *
It was nearly eleven before at last he let her go, and then she found Christo waiting for her in Tommy Childers’ office. The door was open and she heard them talking, and she knocked and put her head in and said, “I’m ready now. I’m sorry I was so long.”
Christo stood up. “That’s all right.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Good-night, Tommy.”
“’Night, Christo.”
“Thanks for everything.”
“That’s O.K., old chap…”
They went downstairs towards the stage door. He put his arm around her as they went. Their warm bodies touched, it was too hot for such contact, but she found it comforting. Outside, in the little alley that led down to the street, he stopped by the dustbins to light another cigarette.
He said, “You were long enough. Collins playing up?”
“He was furious because Robert Morrow’s here.”
“Robert Morrow?”
“He’s in Bernstein’s, with Marcus. He’s Marcus’s brother-in-law. I told you. He came down to see the show … He’s brought a girl with him.”
Christo stood, looking down at her. “To see the show or to see you?”
“I think to see us both.”
“He can’t try to take you back. Say you’re under age or anything?”
“Of course not.”
“Then that’s all right.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But, you see, like a fool, I asked them back to the flat. At least, I didn’t mean to ask them, but somehow I did, and they’re coming. They’re waiting for us now, in the car. Oh, Christo, I am sorry.”
He laughed. “I don’t mind.”
“They won’t stay long.”
“I don’t mind if they stay all night. Don’t look so tragic.” He took her in his arms, and kissed her cheek. She thought that if only the evening, the day, the endless day, could end right here and now, she would be well content. She was afraid of Robert. She was too tired to fence with him, to answer questions, to try and evade those watchful grey eyes. She was too tired to compete with his friend, who was blonde and pretty and almost indecently cool-looking in her sleeveless navy-blue dress. She was too tired to tidy the flat for them, to shovel clothes and scripts and empty glasses out of sight, to open beer cans, and make coffee, and get Christo’s dinner out of the oven.
Christo rubbed his chin against her cheek. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently.
“Nothing.” He did not like her to say she was tired. He was never tired. He did not know what the word meant.
He said, in her ear, “It’s been a good day, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, of course.” She drew away from him. “A good day.” With their arms entwined, they went down the alley towards the street. Robert heard their voices, and got out of the car to meet them. They came towards him, in and out of the patches of light flung by the street lamps. They walked like lovers, Emma trailing a sweater, Christo with a bulky script under one arm and a cigarette between his fingers. When they reached the car, they stopped. “Hello,” said Christopher, smiling.
“Christo, this is Robert Morrow, and Miss Marshall…”
“Mrs. Marshall,” Jane corrected sweetly, leaning over the back of the front seat. “Hello, Christopher.”
“Sorry we’ve been so long,” said Christo … “Emma’s only just told me you were here. And she was having her nightly set-to with Collins, so we’ve all been fairly occupied. I believe you’re coming back to have a can of beer, or something. I’m afraid we’ve got nothing stronger.”
“That’s O.K.,” said Robert. “If you can tell us the way…”
“Of course.”
* * *
The flat was in the basement of a row of daunting Victorian houses that had once seen better days. They were much gabled, and decorated with fancy brick work and stained windows, but the street itself was dismal, and the curtains of bow-windowed front rooms sagged sadly and were not always very clean. Worn stone steps led down to an area where there were dustbins and
one or two dead geraniums in pots, and, as they descended, there was a scream of fury from a frustrated cat, and a black, rat-like form shot up the stairs between their legs. Jane let out a small scream of fright.
“It’s all right,” said Emma. “It’s only a cat.”
Christo opened the door, and went ahead, turning on cold overhead lights, for the flat was a furnished one, and not supplied with lamps. Johnny had started making a couple out of Chianti bottles but had got no further than buying adaptors and a pair of fancy shades. The rooms of the flat had been sketchily converted, and it was still sadly obvious that their original intentions had been kitchens, larders, and wash-houses. An old range had been torn from the wall, and the resultant void filled with shelves, which no-one had ever bothered to paint, and which acted as a catch-all for books, shoes, scripts, cigarettes, letters and a pile of old magazines. There was a divan which had been covered with an orange curtain and piled with thinly-filled cushions, but remained stubbornly a bed. There were one or two rickety kitchen chairs and a folding table, and the flagged floor was sparsely covered by an elderly carpet which had long since lost all colour and most of its pile. The walls had been whitewashed, but there were oozing damp stains like maps, and the corners of a bull-fighting poster, stuck to the bricks, was already beginning to curl. There was the smell of mice and dry rot, and, even on this hot summer evening, the very airlessness was clammy, like the inside of a cave.
Christo dropped his script on a table and went to open the window which was protected with iron bars, like a prison.
“Let’s have some air. We have to keep the place shut up because of the cats, they get in anywhere. What would you like to drink?… There is beer, if Johnny hasn’t drunk it all … or perhaps you’d like coffee. Have we got any coffee, Emma…?”
“There’s some instant coffee. I don’t get the other sort, because there’s nothing to make it in. Do sit down … sit on the bed. Sit anywhere. There are some cigarettes…” She found them, a box of fifty, handed them round, searched for an ashtray while Robert lit them. There was no ashtray, so she went down the flagged passage to the kitchen for a couple of saucers. The sink was full of dirty dishes, and for a moment she could not think when they had used them, when she had last been here, from what back-log of history they dated. Pinned down, remembered, the morning seemed three weeks away. No day had ever lasted for longer. And now, it was past eleven o’clock at night, and still it was not over. Still, the boys had to be given their supper, the kettle boiled for coffee, the can-opener found.
She found two clean saucers and took them back to the others. Christo had put on a record. He could do nothing, not even talk, without perpetual background music. It was Ella Fitzgerald and Cole Porter.
Every time we say good-bye
I die a little.
They were talking about Daisies on the Grass. “… if you can breathe life into a script like that,” Jane was saying to Christopher, “… I’m sure you’re going to go far.” She was laughing. Emma put down the ashtray, and Jane looked up. “Thank you … is there anything I can do?”
“No, nothing. I’ll just go and get some glasses. Would you like beer, or would you rather have coffee?”
“Would coffee be too much trouble?”
“No, not at all … I’d like coffee too…”
Back in the kitchen, she closed the door, so that they would not hear her clattering dishes, and tied on an apron, and put a kettle on to boil. When she lit the gas, it always backfired and frightened her out of her wits. She found a tray and cups and saucers, the tin of coffee, sugar, the cans of beer in a box beneath the sink. There were black beetles on the floor and Johnny had not emptied the trash can. She picked it up to take it out to the dustbin, but as she did so the door behind her opened, and she turned to face Robert Morrow.
He looked at the bucket. “Where are you taking that?”
“Nowhere,” said Emma, furious at being caught. She turned to sling it back under the sink again, but he caught her arm and took it from her, looking with distaste at the mixture of old tea-leaves and opened tins, and wet paperbags.
“Where does this go?”
Defeated, Emma told him. “In the dustbin. By the door. Where we came in.”
He bore it off, down the passage, looking ridiculous, and Emma went back to the sink, and wished that he had not come. He didn’t belong in Brookford; at the theatre; here, in the flat. She didn’t want him to be sorry for her. For after all, there was nothing to be sorry about. She was happy, wasn’t she? She was with Christo, and that was all that mattered, and how they managed their affairs had nothing whatever to do with Robert.
She prayed that he and his immaculate friend would be gone by the time Johnny Rigger returned.
When he came back with the empty bucket, she was clattering dishes, trying to give the impression that she was being busy. She half-turned over her shoulder and said coolly, “Thank you. I shan’t be a moment,” hoping that he would take the hint and leave her alone.
But it was no good. He shut the door, put the trash can down on the floor, and taking Emma by the shoulders, turned her round to face him. He wore an unrumpled and cool-looking suit, a blue shirt, and a dark tie, and Emma had the dish-mop in one hand and a plate in the other, and had to make herself look up and meet those probing grey eyes.
She said, “I wish you hadn’t come. Why did you come?”
“Marcus has been worried about you.” He took the dish-mop and the plate from her and leaned over to tip them back into the cluttered sink. “Perhaps you should have let him know where you were.”
“Well, now you can tell him, can’t you? And, Robert, I’ve got a lot to do, and there’s just not room for two people in this kitchen…”
“Isn’t there?” He was smiling. He settled himself on the edge of the table, and now his face was on a level with hers. He said, “You know, this evening, when I first saw you in the theatre I didn’t know it was you. Why did you cut your hair?”
He could be very disarming. Emma put up a hand to stroke the stubbly nape of her neck. “When I started working at the theatre, it was such a nuisance. It got in the way, and then it was so hot, and it was always being splashed with paint when I was doing scenery. And there’s nowhere here to wash it, and even if I did wash it, it took hours to dry.” She hated talking about her hair. She missed it; missed its weight and familiarity and the soothing therapy of brushing it each night. “So one of the girls in the theatre cut it off for me.” It had lain on the Green Room carpet like skeins of brown silk and Emma had felt like a murderer.
“Do you like working in the theatre?”
She thought of Collins. “Not much.”
“Do you have to…?”
“No, of course not. But Christo’s there all day, you see, and there’s nothing much to do here, on my own. Brookford’s terribly dull. I didn’t know such dull places even existed. So when this other girl went ill with appendicitis, Christo fixed it for me to go and help out.”
“What will you do when she comes back?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought.”
Behind her, the kettle boiled over. Emma turned swiftly to put out the gas, and lift the kettle on to the tray, but Robert said, “Not just yet.”
She frowned. “I was going to make coffee.”
“Coffee can wait. Let’s get everything sorted out first.”
Emma’s face closed up. “There’s nothing to sort out.”
“Yes, of course there is. And I want to be able to tell Marcus what happened. For instance, how did you get hold of Christopher?”
“I rang him up—early that Sunday morning. I went to the call box and rang him up. They were having a dress rehearsal, so he was at the theatre. You see, he’d already asked me to come to Brookford and be with him, but I couldn’t, because of Ben.”
“You’d already spoken to him that morning, when I came to say good-bye?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
>
“No, I didn’t tell you. I wanted to start something quite new, a whole new life, without anybody knowing.”
“I see. So you rang Christopher…”
“Yes, and that night he borrowed Johnny Rigger’s car, and he came down to Porthkerris and brought me back here. We closed up the cottage together, and we left the key of the studio at the Sliding Tackle.”
“The landlord didn’t know where you were.”
“I didn’t tell him where I was going.”
“Marcus phoned him.”
“Marcus shouldn’t have. Marcus isn’t responsible for me any more. I’m not a little girl now.”
“What Marcus feels is not simply responsibility, Emma, but a real fondness and you should realise that. Have you heard from Ben?”
“Yes, I had a letter on that Monday morning, before I left Porthkerris. And one from Melissa, too … asking me to go out and visit them.”
“And did you write back?”
Emma shook her head. “No.” She was ashamed of this, and swiftly looked down, to fiddle with a jagged thumb nail.
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought I’d be in the way.”
“I should have thought that even being in the way was preferable to this…” His gesture embraced the littered kitchen, the whole seedy flat.
It was not the most fortunate of remarks. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s not just this place, it’s that crumby theatre, the lunatic with a beard who was yelling at you to move the sofa…”
“Well, you told me to get a job.”
“Not this kind of a job. You have a good brain, you speak three languages, and you appear to be moderately intelligent. What sort of a job it is pushing furniture around a third class re…?”
“My real job is being with Christo!”
After this outburst, there was a terrible silence. A car passed in the street outside. Christopher’s voice came up the stone passage, backed by the soft-playing record. A cat started yowling.
Robert spoke at last. “Do you want me to tell your father that?”