“We were all crying then,” said Maria, “each one of us in our separate way. The ferry to Birkenhead. Backwards and forwards in the ferry from Liverpool to Birkenhead.”
“Who are you talking about?” said Niall.
“Myself,” said Maria. “They were so cliquey at the theater. They none of them liked me. They thought I had been given the job because of Pappy.”
“You probably had,” said Niall.
“I know,” said Maria. “Maybe that was why I was crying. I remember the smoke from the ferry blowing in my face.”
“That’s why your face was dirty when I found you,” said Niall. “But you never told me you had been crying.”
“When I saw you I forgot all about it,” said Maria, “your funny white face, and the mackintosh much too long for you.”
She smiled across the room at him, and he laughed back at her, and it must have been then, Celia thought, that the bond between them strengthened, never to break. It must have been then, when Niall was a fugitive from the school he hated, and Maria was alone in Liverpool, pretending to be happy.
It had been a shock, Maria remembered, to discover that acting, after all, was not so easy. She had gone off in the beginning with that touring company with such confidence, and little by little the confidence was broken. No one was really impressed by her. No one was even interested. The face that drew tears from her own mirror did not draw tears from other people. The Maria who had stood alone before a looking glass with her arms outstretched, saying “Romeo—Romeo” to no one, found it hard to say the same words before the company when she was asked to for the first time. Opening a door, even, and crossing the stage required hard work and concentration. There came a queer sort of fear in the pit of her stomach that people would laugh at her, and it was a fear she had never known in her life before. It meant a new kind of pretence. She must pretend, from this moment onwards, all her life, that she did not mind what anyone said to her, or about her. It had to be smothered down, inside. They must never know. And by they she meant the rest of the company, the producer, and the manager, the critics, the audience. All the people in the new world to whom she must keep up the pretence.
“You’re hard-boiled for a youngster,” someone said. “You don’t give a damn, do you?” And Maria laughed, and shook her head.
“Of course I don’t. Why should I?” And she went off singing down the passage, and she heard the stage manager say, “The trouble with that kid is she needs her bottom smacking.”
So much was anticlimax. She would work hard, she would do what she felt instinctively to be right, and a kind of excitement would come over her, a feeling of power as she heard her voice saying certain lines, so that when the rehearsal of the scene was over, she would swagger a little, her hands in the pockets of her jacket, and think, “They will come up to me now, and say, ‘That was wonderful, Maria.’ ”
She would wait by the side of the stage, combing her hair, peeping into the little cracked hand-mirror of the bag Truda had given her before she had come away on tour, and she would go on waiting, and nobody would say anything at all. The others were whispering in a group. Were they whispering about her? One of them threw back his head and roared with laughter. It was nothing to do with her at all. It was about some other play, some show they had all been in together. And then the producer came up from the stalls, and said, “Right. We’ll break for lunch now; two o’clock, everybody.” Maria waited a moment. Surely he would turn to her and say something. Surely he would say, “Maria, that was brilliant.”
He was talking over his shoulder to the stage manager, he was lighting a cigarette. Then he saw her. He came over to the side of the stage where she was standing.
“That wasn’t so good as yesterday, Maria. You’re forcing it. Not worried, are you?”
“No.”
“Oh, I thought you looked worried. Well, run along and get some lunch.”
Worried… She had not been worried at all. She had been happy, excited, thinking only of the part. But she was worried now. The happy feeling had gone. All the confidence drained away. She could feel it seeping into her shoes, and she pulled the scarf round her neck and buttoned up her coat. She was not lunching with anyone. The day before, someone had said something about lunching all together at The Cat and Fiddle, but nothing seemed to have come of it. They had all gone off their different ways. She could either go back to the dreary digs or buy a sausage roll somewhere, and a cup of coffee.
She walked alone down the passage, and up the stairs to the stage door, and as she walked she heard footsteps just ahead of her. It was those two who had been laughing a little while ago on the stage.
“Oh, well,” the voice was saying, “the whole thing is rank favoritism, of course. She only got in because of her name. Delaney fixed it all up before he went off to Australia.”
“Just shows what influence can do,” said the other. “We sweat and toil for years, and she slips in by the back door.”
Maria stood still and waited. After a moment she heard the swinging of the door into the street. She waited until they would have crossed the street and turned the corner. She gave them time, and then passed through the swing-door after them. But they were still standing there, talking. When they saw her they broke off, looking awkward. Perhaps they were wondering if she had heard what they had said.
“Hullo,” said one of them. “Are you coming along to lunch?”
“I can’t today,” said Maria. “I’m lunching with a friend of my father’s who’s come up to see the play. I’ve got to meet him at the Adelphi.”
She waved her hand and went off singing, and she continued singing all the way to the Adelphi because the other people must be fooled too, that man driving the lorry, that woman there crossing the road.
And to show off to the world, to show off even to herself, she went pushing in through the doors of the Adelphi, to the ladies’ cloakroom so that she could say with safety during the afternoon that she had been there. When you lie, she told herself, there must always be truth in the lie. She tidied herself, and used the powder in the bowl and filled her compact with the powder when the woman was wiping the basin, and she put sixpence in the little glass jar.
“Why don’t you leave your coat? It’s warm in the restaurant,” said the woman. “No, thank you,” smiled Maria, “I’m having a very quick lunch,” and she swept out of the ladies’ room, and through the swing-doors, and thank heavens nobody had seen her. She was afraid one of the porters might say, “What are you doing here? You can’t use this place like a station lavatory.”
She walked down a side street and went into a tea shop, and had five buns, stale ones, and a cup of tea, and all the time she kept thinking of the sort of lunch she would have had if there had really been a friend of Pappy’s at the Adelphi. Or the lunch she would have had with Pappy himself at the Savoy. The waiters buzzing round, smiling, and people coming up and talking to them, and Pappy saying, “This is my daughter. She’s just gone on the stage.”
But Pappy was with Celia in Australia, and Maria was in Liverpool, in a tea shop, eating a stale bun, and she was only there anyway because Pappy had fixed it. She was only there because she was Delaney’s daughter.
“I hate them,” thought Maria. “Oh, God, how I hate them…” and her hatred was a seething, angry thing against the whole world, because it seemed to her suddenly a different world from the one she wanted, where everyone was friendly and happy and holding out their arms to her, Maria… She went back to the theater late, on purpose, hoping the producer would find fault with her, so that she could be scolded, but he was late, everyone was late, and because of this they started right away rehearsing a scene in which she did not appear.
She went and sat by herself at the back of the stalls.
At four o’clock the producer happened to look round. He saw her sitting there, and he said, “Maria, there’s really no need for you to wait. I shan’t want you again. Go and have a rest before this evening.”
>
Did someone snigger? Was someone making a joke about her in the corner over there?
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll go then. I’ve got some shopping to do.”
And she went out again into the street, leaving them all behind her in the theater. That was when she caught the bus to the ferry. And she went backwards and forwards on the ferry. Somehow, now it did not matter anymore how she looked, or who should see her. The wind blew, and it was cold, and she tried first one side of the deck and then the other, but the wind blew all the time, and she was crying. Backwards and forwards, between Birkenhead and Liverpool, and all the while the hard, clear-cut voice of that woman rang in her ears, “She only got in because of her name.”
Now it was getting dark, the lights were creeping up on Merseyside. It was thick and murky.
“If I went on for the rest of my life on this boat they would not miss me, back at the theater,” thought Maria. “They would get someone else to play my part, anyone; it wouldn’t matter.”
She walked down the gangway, onto the quay, and caught another bus, and then along the street to her lodgings, and she realized now that she was tired and very hungry, and she hoped with a sort of passion that there might be meat to eat, hot meat, and that there would be a brightness to the fire. She went into the house, and the landlady was coming down the stairs with a lamp in her hand, and she said, “There’s a young gentleman come, dear. He’s in the sitting room. He says he’s come to stay. You never told me there would be two of you.”
Maria stared at her. She did not understand.
“A gentleman? I don’t know anyone. What’s his name?”
And she opened the door of the sitting room, and he was standing there in a mackintosh much too big for him, his face very pale, and his hair lank and unbrushed, falling over his face.
“Hullo,” he said, anxious, half-smiling and uncertain. “I’ve run away. I just got into a train. I’ve run away.”
“Niall…” she said. “Oh, Niall…” and she ran to him and put her arms round him, and they stood there hugging each other and laughing. Nothing mattered anymore. The silly ferry was forgotten, and the long, exhausting day, and the voice of the woman at the theater.
“You came to see me act, didn’t you?” she said. “You ran away from school and you came all this way to see me act. Oh, Niall, it’s all such fun… Oh, Niall, I’m so happy.”
She turned to the landlady.
“It’s my stepbrother,” she said. “He can have that room next to mine. He’s very quiet. He’ll be no trouble. And I’m sure he’s hungry, very, very hungry. Oh, Niall.”
She was laughing again, pulling his shoulders, dragging him to the warm fire.
“Is it all right?” said Niall. “Can I stay?”
How queer, thought Maria, his voice is breaking. It’s not gentle anymore. It’s all creaky and funny, and he’s got a hole in the heel of his sock.
“All right,” said the landlady. “If you’ve got the money for your room, you can stay.”
Niall turned to Maria.
“That’s the awful thing,” he said, “I haven’t any money. My fare took the lot.”
“I’ll pay,” said Maria. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay.”
The woman looked doubtful.
“Run away from school?” she said. “That’s against the law, isn’t it? We’ll have the police here.”
“They can’t track me,” said Niall swiftly. “I threw away my cap. Look, I bought this awful thing instead.”
He drew a tweed cap out of his mackintosh pocket. He put it on his head. It was much too big. It came down over his ears. Maria burst out laughing.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” she said. “You look so funny.”
He stood there grinning, a small white face under an enormous common cap. The woman’s mouth twitched.
“Oh, well,” she said, “I suppose you can stay. Bacon and eggs for two, then. And I’ve a rice pudding in the oven.”
She went out of the room, leaving them alone together. They began to laugh again. They laughed so much that they could hardly stand.
“Why are we laughing?” said Niall.
“I don’t know,” said Maria, “I don’t know.”
He stared at her. She was laughing so much that she was crying.
“Tell me about school,” she said. “Is this new one worse than the last? Are the boys beastly?”
“It’s no worse,” he said. “They’re all the same.”
“Why then?” she said. “What happened? You’ve got to tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he said, “nothing at all.”
He wondered how long the landlady would be with the eggs and bacon. He was very hungry. He had not eaten anything for a long while. It was no use Maria asking questions. He was tired, too, now that the journey was over. And the clock on the sitting room mantelpiece reminded him of the metronome on the piano of the music-room at school.
Once again he was sitting at the upright piano, and the metronome was swinging to and fro. Mr. Wilson pushed back his glasses and shrugged his shoulders.
“You know, Delaney, you’ll really have to do better than this.”
Niall had not answered. He had sat there, stiff as a ramrod.
“I’ve had letters from your stepfather, and so has the Headmaster,” said Mr. Wilson. “In each letter your stepfather makes a great point of demanding that you have ‘individual tuition,’ as he calls it, with your music. He says you have talent. And I am supposed to further that talent. So far, I can’t discover any signs of it.”
Niall sat silent. If Mr. Wilson would continue talking the hour of the lesson would pass. And it would be over then until the next time. Niall would not have to play the piano the way Mr. Wilson expected him to play.
“Unless you can do better than this, I shall have to write to your stepfather and tell him that it’s sheer waste of money paying for music lessons,” said Mr. Wilson. “You don’t seem to grasp the basic theory of it. Not only is it a waste of your stepfather’s money, but it’s a waste of my time.”
The metronome swung to and fro. Mr. Wilson did not seem to notice it. Now that would make a tune in itself, thought Niall. If you once arranged your chords and got the tick of the metronome between the chords, you could get dancing time, irritating and monotonous perhaps, but then there might be a kind of fascination in it for all that, if you kept working in the inevitable tick-tock, tick-tock…
“Haven’t you anything to say?” said Mr. Wilson.
“It’s my hands, sir,” said Niall. “I can’t make my hands do what I want them to do. They slip all over the place.”
“You don’t practice,” said Mr. Wilson. “You don’t follow the exercises I set you. Look at this, and this. Page after page of simple little five-finger exercises that a child could do.”
He struck the pages with his pencil.
“It’s not good enough, Delaney,” he said. “You’re just bone idle. I shall have to write to your stepfather.”
“He’s in Australia.”
“All the more reason to write, then. Prevent him from pouring his money down the drain. Individual tuition. No amount of individual tuition is ever going to teach you to play the piano. You’re not even fond of music.”
Soon it will be over, thought Niall. Soon it will be over, four o’clock will strike, and he will get up and stop the metronome, because he will want to go off for his tea. That long droopy, idiotic mustache will be wet at the ends with tea. He will drink it sweet, with a lot of milk in it.
“I understand,” said Mr. Wilson, “that your mother was very fond of music. She had great hopes of you. She talked of your future to your stepfather shortly before she died. That was the reason your stepfather made such a great point of this individual tuition.”
Set Mr. Wilson’s voice against the tick of the metronome, set his droning, searing voice against the steady tick-tock, and you might get something with that. You could get the chords too, if nobody was listen
ing. The chords would come crashing in and splitting up the sound, and it would be like splitting Mr. Wilson’s skull open with an axe.
“Now, then, one more effort, Delaney, please. Try the Haydn sonata.”
He did not want to try the Haydn sonata; he did not want to touch the filthy upright piano. All he wanted was to be away from the music-room, away from the school, back again in the theater with Mama, Pappy and Maria and Celia. Sitting in the darkness, and the curtain rising, and old Sullivan leaning forward, his baton raised. Mama was dead. Pappy and Celia were in Australia. Maria remained. He thought of the picture postcard that was in his pocket, and of Maria’s careless, scrawling handwriting. Maria remained. That’s why he walked out of the place, with seventeen and sixpence in his pocket, and got on a train and found his way to Liverpool. Maria remained.
The landlady came into the sitting room with the eggs and bacon. There was a great rice pudding with a burned brown top. They held their breath to stop themselves from laughing. She went out of the room again, treading heavily.
“I can’t eat it,” whispered Niall, “not even when I’m starving.”
“I know,” said Maria, “nor can I. We’ll put it on the fire.”
They messed their plates to look as if they had eaten some of the rice, and then they scraped the rest out of the dish onto the fire. It turned black. It did not burn. It just stayed in the fire, a black mass, limp and soggy against the coals.
“What shall we do?” said Niall. “She’ll come in to put more coal on the fire, and she’ll find it.”
He tried to scrape some of the rice away from the coal with a poker. The poker got sticky too, and covered with black rice.
“We’ll put it in our pockets,” said Maria. “Look, the paper there. We’ll scrape it off the coals with the paper and put it in our pockets. Then on the way to the theater we’ll throw it in the gutter.”