Actor-manager
As she turned into Carpet Street the girl wondered at her own obstinacy. To what a pass it had brought her, she thought. She lifted first one foot and then the other, determined not to drag them. They felt now as if their texture had changed: their bones, it seemed, were covered by sponge and burning wires.
A clock in a jeweller’s window gave the time as twenty-three minutes to five. She knew, by the consequential scurry of its second hand, that it was alive. It was surrounded by other clocks that made mad dead statements of divergent times as if, she thought, to set before her the stages of that day’s fruitless pilgrimage. Nine o’clock, the first agent. Nine thirty-six, the beginning of the wait for auditions at the Unicorn; five minutes past twelve, the first dismissal. ‘Thank you, Miss–ah–Thank you, dear. Leave your name and address. Next, please.’ No record of her flight from the smell of restaurants but it must have been about ten-to-two, a time registered by a gilt carriage-clock in the corner, that she had climbed the stairs to Garnet Marks’ Agency on the third floor. Three o’clock exactly at the Achilles where the auditions had already closed, and the next hour in and out of film agencies. ‘Leave your picture if you like, dear. Let you know if there’s anything.’ Always the same. As punctual as time itself. The clocks receded, wobbled, enlarged themselves and at the same time spread before their dials a tenuous veil. Beneath the arm of a bronze nude that brandished an active swinging dial, she caught sight of a face: her own. She groped in her bag and presently in front of the mirrored face, a hand appeared and made a gesture at its own mouth with the stub of a lipstick. There was a coolness on her forehead, something pressed heavily against it. She discovered that this was the shop-window.
Behind the looking-glass was a man who peered at her from the shop’s interior. She steadied herself with her hand against the window, lifted her suitcase and turned away.
The Vulcan Theatre was near the bottom of the street. Although she did not at first see its name above the entry, she had, during the past fortnight, discovered a sensitivity to theatres. She was aware of them at a distance. The way was downhill: her knees trembled and she resisted with difficulty an impulse to break into a shamble. Among the stream of faces that approached and sailed past there were now some that, on seeing hers, sharpened into awareness and speculation. She attracted notice.
The stage-door was at the end of an alleyway. Puddles of water obstructed her passage and she did not altogether avoid them. The surface of the wall was crenellated and damp.
‘She knows,’ a rather shrill uncertain voice announced inside the theatre, ‘but she mustn’t be told.’ A second voice spoke unintelligibly. The first voice repeated its statement with a change of emphasis: ‘She knows but she mustn’t be told,’ and after a further interruption added dismally: ‘Thank you very much.’
Five women came out of the stage-door and it was shut behind them. She leant against the wall as they passed her. The first two muttered together and moved their shoulders petulantly, the third stared at her and at once she bent her head. The fourth passed by quickly with compressed lips. She kept her head averted and heard, but did not see, the last girl halt beside her.
‘Well, for God’s sake!’ She looked up and saw, for the second time that day, a too-large face, over-painted, with lips that twisted downwards, tinted lids, and thickly mascaraed lashes.
She said: ‘I’m late, aren’t I?’
‘You’ve had it, dear. I gave you the wrong tip at Marks’s. The show here, with the part I told you about, goes on this week. They were auditioning for a tour: ‘That’ll be all for today, ladies, thank you. What’s the hurry, here’s your hat. For what it’s worth, it’s all over.’
‘I lost my way,’ she said faintly.
‘Too bad.’ The large face swam nearer. ‘Are you all right?’ it demanded.
She made a slight movement of her head. ‘A bit tired. All right, really.’
‘You look shocking. Here: wait a sec. Try this.’
‘No, no. Really. Thank you so much but –’
‘It’s OK. A chap who travels for a French firm gave it to me. It’s marvellous stuff: cognac. Go on.’
A hand steadied her head. The cold mouth of the flask opened her lips and pressed against her teeth. She tried to say: ‘I’ve had nothing to eat,’ and at once was forced to gulp down a burning stream. The voice encouraged her: ‘Do you a power of good. Have the other half.’
She shuddered, gasped and pushed the flask away. ‘No, please!’
‘Is it doing the trick?’
‘This is wonderfully kind of you. I am so grateful. Yes, I think it must be doing the trick.’
‘Gra-a-a-nd. Well, if you’re sure you’ll be OK …’
‘Yes, indeed. I don’t even know your name.’
‘Trixie O’Sullivan.’
‘I’m Martyn Tarne.’
‘Look nice in the programme, wouldn’t it? If there’s nothing else I can do …’
‘Honestly. I’ll be fine.’
