speech: ‘Thanks. Good evening, Lady Chiltern.’
Then she realized what she had said and what it meant. It was a painful moment. Oh God, I must have gone through almost an act on autopilot. This could happen, all actors knew the phenomenon, but it would not do. She gathered herself together and carried on.
Stella Pinero as Mrs Cheveley – she had naturally given herself the female lead – went backstage and sought comfort. Alice Yeoman was standing in the wings, watching.
Stella had been persuaded to employ Alice by her husband, John Coffin. ‘She’s the child of a chap I served with,’ he explained. ‘We did a job together, he saved my life, got hurt himself. When he died last year, he asked me to look after the girl … he’d been too old a father and her mother was gone. I don’t see myself as a father-figure, but I promised I would see the girl through.’ There had been a bit more to it, but this was not something to talk about. Alice was like Bill Yeoman and yet different.
‘That was the time I was out of touch with you,’ said Stella.
‘I wasn’t in touch with anyone much, I was fighting my way back.’ After a bad time in his life and career, but he did not say this aloud. ‘I owe her, give her a chance.’
‘Sure. She will have to be a good worker.’ But Alice was quiet, alert and industrious. There was a private side to her: the easy, all-knowing, uncensorious commonwealth of the theatre observed that Alice trawled the town a bit. Stella wondered whether Coffin knew – but did it matter?
Alice was a tall, well-built young woman, not a very good actress but not one to be underrated. Stella grabbed her, physically took her by the arm and stared in her face. Alice opened her eyes wide with surprise. ‘Tell me, quickly, was I terrible?’
‘No, just the same as usual. Good, I mean. Stella, you’re always good,’ said Alice quickly. Alice was a minor member of the company with a few lines that prevented her being a mere walking understudy, but she was also deputy stage manager and helped with props; in short, a humble member of the theatre, while Stella Pinero was a famous actress with a long career behind her and this very theatre named after her. But this was a democratic company in which leading lady and minor actress could talk to each other on friendly terms. Alice admired Stella and also feared her. Not only was Stella famous and practically the owner of the Pinero Theatre in the old church, together with the Theatre Workshop and the small Experimental Theatre – all great things in themselves – but her husband was Commander John Coffin, Head of the Police Force of the Second City.
Stella went into her dressing room, sat down in front of her looking glass where she stared at her reflection. She was still a beauty, would be till she died; she had grown into beauty, a rare benefaction of nature but one given to her.
Her make-up needed touching up, and mechanically she redid her lips and puffed on some powder. Her mind was not on it, but her hand was so used to the job that it smoothed her eyebrows and checked the line of her lips with its usual skill.
She was not on for some time in the next act so she could sit back, breathe deeply and give herself good advice. Such as:
Stop going into a panic.
Pretend it’s all a joke.
Tell your husband.
Oh, no, not John, not yet.
Her call came, the first call, to remind her she should soon be in the wings awaiting her cue. Stella remembered the days when a boy came round to bang on your door with the news: you’re on, Miss Pinero. Now, the word came over the intercom.
She moved towards the wings, not waiting to be prompted.
She could hear the dialogue. Here was Lady Chiltern (acted by Jane Gillam, a beautiful girl, very nearly straight out of RADA where she had won an important prize). Lady Chiltern was a difficult part because she was so humourless and stupid, but Jane was doing what she could with it.
‘Mrs Cheveley! Coming to see me? Impossible!’
And here was Fanny Burt as Mabel Chiltern – she had better lines and even a few jokes, but Wilde reserved the best dialogue for the men: ‘She is coming up the stairs, as large as life and not nearly so natural.’
Not brilliant dialogue, Stella thought as she moved forward, but it got you on stage.
Here she went: ‘Isn’t that Miss Chiltern? I should so much like to know her.’
Stella stayed alert through the rest of the play. She had come to a decision. Speed seemed necessary, so she was off the stage as soon as the applause finished – to her pleasure there was a good show of enthusiasm – and slipped away to her dressing room without a word to the rest of the performers.
There were thirteen members of the cast; in the original production there had been fifteen, but money was easier then, and Stella had been obliged to cut out the two footmen. Of the remainder, ten were what she thought of as her ‘repertory company’ inasmuch as they performed for her whenever she produced a play herself and did not buy one in. Most of these actors were young, and local, from the drama department in one of the nearby universities. Stella had early realized the importance of cultivating your neighbourhood to win affection and bring in the audiences. She had a lot of support always from the friends and families of her young performers.
But you also needed an outsider to provide some extra excitement and here Jane Gillam, a star in the making, and Fanny Burt came in. The two men, Michael Guardian and Tom Jenks were attractive performers. Stella Pinero herself provided glitter.
In her dressing room, Stella let her dresser remove her hat and garments as Mrs Cheveley. She did not appear in the last act, but had duly turned up for the last curtain. ‘You pop off, Maisie,’ she said to her elderly dresser. ‘I know you want to get home. I will finish myself off.’
‘I’ll be dressing Miss Bow next week?’
‘That’s right.’ Stella was creaming her face, removing the last of her make-up – she never used much, the days of heavy slap were over.
Stella had introduced a fortnightly change of programme to entertain her limited audience in the Second City, which made a frequent change of programme an economic necessity.
‘A bit of an unknown quantity,’ said Maisie, hanging up a green silk mantle. As an old hand, she was allowed a certain freedom of speech. ‘But she’s done well; starring roles straight from college.’
‘Yes.’
Irene Bow was a graduate of the University drama department; she had been lucky with parts and had performed well in the Theatre Workshop production of Barefoot in the Park, and her crisp, rapid style of delivery would go down well in Michael Frayn’s Noises Off. Stella now had two weeks to herself.
‘You have a nice rest then, Miss Pinero,’ said Maisie. ‘You’ve earned it.’
If only, thought Stella.
Maisie turned round at the door. ‘Are you all right, Miss Pinero?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You look a bit white.’
‘Don’t you worry, Maisie.’ Stella was rapidly doing her face, repairing what ravages she could and concealing any paleness
