It was too early yet; opinions were only just forming. The usual mixed crowd: the imitation beaver and the Burton suit rubbing shoulders with mutation mink and Savile Row.
He hoped Philippa hadn’t noticed his going out. It would be so much more fun if he could tell what he had to tell as a surprise and not as an apology.
‘Why don’t people circulate instead of standing here in this fantastic crush …?’
‘My tip for the National is Benny’s Joy. An outsider, you know …’
‘They say she’s English but she came from Italy. I wonder if it’s a publicity stunt …’
‘Yes, pure silk damask, my dear. They’re absolute bliss. But I’m terrified they may fade.’
‘Are you enjoying it?’ – ‘Well, I feel I ought to be in a dinner-jacket.’
‘She trusts much more to a pure undisturbed cantilena than is usual these days. I think she’ll go far.’
‘I’ve been to the counter, but they say I have to buy a ticket somewhere first.’
‘The scene struck me as rather tawdry. Did they bring it from Italy …?’
‘Yes, it’s practically the only place to eat nowadays …’
‘So I told her. I said, if she expected an au pair to do that sort of thing …’
‘These sentimental operas. If one thinks of Otello …’
‘Come on, Leslie,’ said Nick. ‘There’s the first bell, and we’d better be getting back.’
The second act he knew would be the crucial test. Dramatically and musically the finest of the three, it offered all the opportunities of the evening. And within ten minutes of the curtain rise he knew she had ‘got’ them.
There was a different sort of interest and attention in the audience now. Before it had been a friendly one made up of two thousand separate individuals; now suddenly it had become one big approving beast. Applause broke out after each of the arias, and after the duet with Suzuki, whose lovely little mezzo voice was a perfect foil to Philippa’s, it would not be restrained. From then on there was dead silence until the end, where Philippa stood against the blue dawn of the latticed window with her servant sleeping at her feet. The curtain came down in dead silence, and then the applause burst. For a few minutes the lure of the light refreshments was forgotten and the curtain was parted and allowed to fall time after time. Then Philippa was given a curtain to herself and the whole house stood up and roared.
‘Uncle Nick,’ cried Leslie, trying to make himself heard, ‘ you’ve pulled your programme to pieces.’
Nick patted the boy soundlessly on the head and grinned at Joan and thumped the plush rim of the box. The thing he had not expected was that she should be a greater success in her own country. Strangely he felt he might start blubbering, which was a curious way of showing his triumph. When at length the interval was fully under way he did not go down into the bar or the foyer but talked in monosyllables to Joan, keeping his fingers crossed and wishing that this was the end of the whole performance. For if the second act of Butterfly holds most of the opportunities, the third holds most of the pitfalls, many of them dramatic rather than musical. But there was nothing really to fear, except a certain amount of anticlimax, and that could never really affect the judgement of the evening.
At the stage-door a crony had come across from ‘The Belvedere’ to talk about Pool results with George.
‘How’s it going?’ he said presently, with a jerk of the head towards the interior.
‘Oh, they near took the roof off after the second act. Reminds you of the old days. It’ll be a quarter of an hour yet before it’s done. What I say is, it’s always worth ’aving a gamble with one or two entries. It don’t cost you. no more, and there’s the chance … Do something for you, sir?’
The stranger in the dark trilby hat hesitated. ‘No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.’
‘Best wait outside. There’ll be a lot of comin’ and goin’ through that door soon.’
‘When I’m in the way I’ll move,’ said the man.
The doorkeeper stared coldly at him a moment, and then thought it was not worth exerting his authority – yet. He turned back to his coupons.
Chapter Three
The curtain had been down a dozen times, the clapping, at first explosive, had taken on the character of a bush fire, dying here, spreading there, fanned to fresh flames at each raising of the curtain. It was not the ovation of the second act, but it confirmed and verified Philippa’s success beyond all doubt.
Nick got up.
‘Come along,’ he said, his hands tingling. ‘We’ll get behind before the corridors fill up.’
As they walked round a number of people were already trickling out, intent on getting the first overcoat or bus or taxi. Some were talking excitedly of the performance, others vacantly, disjointedly, of homely personal things as if the opera had already dropped out of their minds.
They were held up by a press of people at the last door, and Philippa had reached her dressing-room before them.
There were people round her already. She was flushed, still tense, but happy and just beginning to relax. She was trying hard not to believe it, but she knew in her heart she had been the success of the evening. The best had happened. Paroni, who had been on the stage, was here, and a woman reporter had somehow squeezed in, together with a half-dozen notabilities.
Nick found a gap for himself and bent and kissed her. She squeezed two of his fingers.
‘Marvellous, darling!’
She nodded. ‘ I think it’s going to be all right, Nick.’
‘What do I tell her?’ said Paroni, modestly shaking his pince-nez at Nick. ‘She follow my beat and she is a star!’
‘Miss Shelley,’ said the woman reporter, ‘it’s said that you’re Italian-born; is that true?’
‘Ruggero taught her,’ came a deep voice in the background. ‘The technique is unmistakable.’
‘My dear Miss Shelley, it’s never been sung better. I thought of Marcella Zembrich. And what’s more, it’s never looked better …’
At that moment there was an eruption at the door, and Ravogli, the director of the San Giovanni Theatre in Rome, who had travelled with the company, came in in great style and put his arms round Philippa in a great bear hug.
Joan Newcombe, who had managed to kiss her sister-in-law and murmur words of congratulation, withdrew slowly from the others.
Leslie said: ‘I told Aunt Phil I liked that song just before she blindfolded the little boy. I liked the twiddley bits. And that one she sang while you were out, Uncle Nick, that was a good one.’
‘I think we should be going, Nick,’ his mother said. ‘It’s been a rare pleasure to me. Such a pity John couldn’t be here to see Philippa’s triumph.’
‘Bring him one night next week,’ Nick suggested. ‘That’s if you can persuade him to face it for the sake of seeing Philippa. They’re doing this again next Saturday, and Traviata on Wednesday. I’ll get you a taxi.’
They left the dressing-room and walked to the stage door. The fine drizzle had changed to a soft gentle rain. He was lucky with a taxi, and in a few minutes he had shut the door on them and with a farewell wave turned in again at the stage entrance.
… The orchestra was leaving in ones and twos. Some of the lesser lights of the company also. A number of them glanced at the well-built, brown-eyed man as he walked through them, nodding a friendly good night here and there. He was good to look at, with a distinction of carriage, an unemphasized maleness, which would make him very attractive to women. It had done so in the past. And the past had not quite forgotten him.
As he came near the door of Philippa’s dressing-room he passed a girl carrying a violin case. She looked at him casually and then turned.
‘Nick!’
He stopped, half turned also, puckered his eyes a little in the badly lit passage. But the truth was that his eyes were trying to reassure him that his ears were wrong.
‘Elizabeth!’
She put down her violin case
.
‘I do believe you were going to cut me dead.’
‘I certainly was,’ he said. ‘Because I didn’t see you. I never dreamt of meeting you here!’
She put out one of her hands, and he took it.
‘It’s a long time, Nick. I’ve thought about you so often. Have you ever thought about me? No, don’t answer! Don’t spoil it just now.’
She was a very dark young woman, with fine eyes of a dark amber brilliance; a girl who might look ravishingly pretty sometimes and plain at others. Her mouth had little shadows about it, made by the curl of her bottom lip and the fullness of the contours round it.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said.
‘Playing in the orchestra. And you? Have you been in the army?’
‘Five years. In Libya and Italy.’
‘How’s Spot?’ she asked eagerly.
‘Dead. The year after.’
‘Broken heart?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Distemper.’
They both laughed, though not without constraint. Her reappearance was to him like an old song sung out of the past; she belonged to another life, a carefree, feckless, irresponsible, pre-war existence for which, although he had enjoyed it, he had no regrets.
‘It’s extraordinary our meeting like this,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it extraordinary? You haven’t changed at all. Have I? No, don’t tell me that either. I expect I must have in some ways, because all sorts of things have happened to me. I suppose it’s been my own fault. But what are you dong here? It’s astonishing to meet you back stage.’
He hesitated briefly. ‘I’m waiting for my wife.’
She glanced quickly up at him for a second, startled, resentful, then in another second accepting it.
‘So you’ve done it at last …’
‘I’ve done it at last.’
‘No wonder you didn’t seem very friendly.’
With his old instinct to avoid hurting people he said: ‘ Of course I’m friendly. I’m tremendously pleased to see you again, and quite honestly you’ve not changed a bit.’
At once she seized on his reassurance, the sulky lines of her mouth melting away. ‘I’ve a lot to tell you, Nicky. These war years have been a lifetime I’ve made rather a mess of things. I’d like to tell you about it. Couldn’t we – meet somewhere? It would be fun – and so like old times.’
He smiled a little in spite of himself. It was the same Elizabeth. But he wanted to end the interview. He noticed one or two of the cast glancing curiously at them as they went out.
‘You’ll be in London some time?’
‘I don’t know. I’m booked here for at least a week. It was terrific luck getting it, but so many were down with flu.’
‘Give me your address,’ Nick said. ‘Then probably one day later in the week –’
‘You wouldn’t come. If I gave it you, you wouldn’t come. And I’m in such a mess, Nick! I really need advice; sober, sensible advice of the sort you could give.’
Their eyes met again. ‘Then I’ll come,’ he said. ‘ If I can really be of help to you, I’ll come.’
She said: ‘It’s a miserable neighbourhood. Loften Street. Not far from Euston Road.’
He felt in his pocket and brought out the tattered corner of the programme he had pulled to pieces. Then he found the clean one he had bought for Leslie. ‘Write it on this, will you?’ He handed her the programme and his pencil and said: ‘Good night, good night,’ to two more of the cast while he waited. Elizabeth scribbled her address and then, seeing his preoccupied air, wrote something underneath.
Having done that she held out the programme to him, but his attention was fixed furtively upon the door of one of the star dressing-rooms. It was open and a number of people had just come out and were saying good night to Philippa Shelley, who was still in her Japanese costume but had discarded her wig and shaken out her own hair.
‘Here you are, Nick,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Er – thanks,’ Talbot answered, taking the programme and stuffing it into his pocket without glancing at it.
‘I’d like your help,’ Elizabeth said, fingering the pencil and trying to regain his attention. ‘ Truly. It’s not just ‘‘one of my tricks’’.’
Then she saw that the crowd were dispersing, but that Philippa Shelley had seen Nick and instead of going back into her dressing-room was coming towards him. Almost at once Elizabeth jumped at the truth.
‘Had I better go?’ she asked, under her breath.
‘No, of course not,’ Nick said.
‘Oh, Nick,’ said Philippa pleasantly, smiling at him as she came up, ‘I think we shall need an extra taxi for the flowers. I was wondering if they’d keep better here till morning … Er …’ She glanced at Elizabeth.
Nick said: ‘This is an old friend of mine, Philippa. We met quite by accident. May I introduce you to my wife, Elizabeth.’ He glanced suddenly from one to the other. ‘Or have you already met?’
He thought he had caught a glance of recognition pass between them, but in fact it was recognition of another kind, recognition of an implacable understanding instantly formed.
‘No, we haven’t met.’ Philippa said, her eyes a shade cooler. ‘How d’you do, Miss – er –’
‘Rusman, Elizabeth Rusman. How d’you do, Miss Shelley. I’d no idea you were Nicky’s wife … I thought you sang beautifully tonight.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind. You were – in the orchestra?’
‘I’m afraid as a deputy only. Yes, I knew Nicky well a few years ago. It doesn’t seem as long as that, does it?’ She appealed to him.
‘It seems a long time to me,’ he said. Elizabeth laughed. ‘ That’s very nice of you, Nick.’ Deliberately or accidentally she had turned his words round to
mean the opposite.
‘The war has upset so many things,’ she went on slyly. ‘Almost
everyone’s plans went awry. I know mine did. You’re very lucky,
Miss Shelley.’
‘Thank you,’ said Philippa, not showing any special gratification.
‘Have you been married long?’ Elizabeth asked.
Nick said: ‘Yes. Quite a good while.’
Philippa had glanced at her husband. ‘D’you mind if I drag Nick
away?’ she said to the other girl. ‘I expect you’re tired as well.
We’ve had a frightful day.’
‘Of course. I quite understand. I was just going.’ Elizabeth glanced
swiftly at Nick, who had assumed a poker face. ‘ Good night, Nicky.
See you again, I hope? … Good night, Miss Shelley.’
She picked up her violin case and moved off with a quick, easy
step – a provocative step, Philippa thought – towards the stage
door.
Chapter Four
He waited for her while she changed, and then they left by taxi for their flat. She made no reference to Elizabeth, and they chatted amiably enough, though not without some restraint on his side. He was irritated by the exceptional bad luck of Elizabeth’s sudden appearance, he was annoyed by her sidelong glances and innuendoes, as if what had happened had been last week and not five years ago. Philippa would expect some explanation; so would anyone; but for the life of him he could not begin it. He wanted to make her an apology without seeming to apologize; and he didn’t know how to.
There was the pleasant surprise for her of his telephone call; but here again he was tongue-tied. It seemed that he could not tell her this without falling under a suspicion of trying to divert and placate her.
Altogether it was a most peculiar position, for, normally highly strung and full of nervous energy as she was, it was she who was inclined to be edgy after a concert.
For a few moments they were held up in a traffic block, and at that point she suddenly mentioned what he had avoided. It was not, however, in jealousy but in good-tempered mockery that the first question came.
‘She’s rather pretty, isn’t she – Nicky?’
>
Philippa had never called him Nicky before in her life. ‘ Who?’ he said obstinately.
‘Elizabeth.’
‘Oh, yes. In a way.’
‘Is she one of your old names?’
Nick felt anger rising in him, fought it, and lost. But his voice was still quiet when he said: ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’
The taxi started with a jerk, and Philippa looked in surprise at her husband’s profile temporarily lighted by a passing car. It was not like him to be on his dignity.
‘Are we likely to find many of them scattered about London?’
‘What makes you imagine that we shall?’
‘Well, we’ve only been in England three weeks.’
Nick said: ‘I’ve not seen or heard of her for five or six years. I’d almost forgotten her.’
It was Philippa’s turn, a little offended by his lack of humour, to struggle with the next words on her tongue. But they came out.
‘Was that why you were taking her address?’
‘Look,’ said Nick. ‘She came on me quite suddenly. I never dreamt of seeing her. I’d no idea she was even in London. What would you want me to do, sock her on the jaw?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Philippa, really offended now. ‘ I’m sure you did quite the right thing.’
Talbot blew out a deep breath. ‘Good Lord, can’t you see I was taking her address simply because she insisted on giving it to me. There was nothing else I could do. I’d no idea you had such a jealous nature.’
‘I’d no idea you had such a past.’
He stared out at the traffic. ‘ When I met you I was twenty-nine. I never told you I was a plaster saint. I never deceived you in the least. You married me with your eyes open.’