VII
In her room across the passage, Gay Gainsford faced her own reflection and watched Jacko’s hands pass across it. He dabbed with his fingertips under the cheekbones and made a droning sound behind his closed lips. He was a very good make-up; it was one of his many talents. At the dress-rehearsals the touch of his fingers had soothed rather than exacerbated her nerves but tonight, evidently, she found it almost intolerable.
‘Haven’t you finished?’ she asked.
‘Patience, patience. We do not catch a train. Have you never observed the triangular shadows under Adam’s cheekbones? They are yet to be created.’
‘Poor Jacko!’ Gay said breathlessly, ‘this must be such a bore for you. Considering everything.’
‘Quiet, now. How can I work?’
‘No, but I mean it must be so exasperating to think that two doors away there’s somebody who wouldn’t need your help. Just a straight make-up, wouldn’t it be? No trouble.’
‘I adore making-up. It is my most brilliant gift.’
‘But she’s your find in a way, isn’t she? You’d like her to have the part, wouldn’t you?’
He rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘Ne vous dérangez pas,’ he said. ‘Shut up, in fact. Tranquillize yourself, idiot girl.’
‘But I want you to tell me.’
‘Then I tell you. Yes, I would like to see this little freak play your part because she is in fact a little freak. She has dropped into this theatre like an accident in somebody else’s dream and the effect is fantastic. But she is well content to remain off-stage and it is you who play and we have faith in you and wish you well with all our hearts.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ Gay said.
‘What a sour voice! It is true. And now reflect. Reflect upon the minuteness of Edmund Kean, upon Sarah’s one leg and upon Irving’s two, upon ugly actresses who convince their audiences they are beautiful and old actors who persuade them they are young. It is all in the mind, the spirit and the preparation. What does Adam say? Think in, and then play out. Do so.’
‘I can’t,’ Gay said between her teeth. ‘I can’t.’ She twisted in her chair. He lifted his fingers away from her face quickly, with a wide gesture. ‘Jacko,’ she said. ‘There’s a jinx on this night. Jacko, did you know? It was on the night of the Combined Arts Ball that it happened.’
‘What is this foolishness?’
‘You know. Five years ago. The stage-hands were talking about it. I heard them. The gas-fire case. The night that man was murdered. Everyone knows.’
‘Be silent!’ Jacko said loudly. ‘This is idiocy. I forbid you to speak of it. The chatter of morons. The Combined Arts Ball has no fixed date and if it had, shall an assembly of British bourgeoisie in bad fancy-dress control our destiny? I am ashamed of you. You are altogether too stupid. Master yourself.’
‘It’s not only that. It’s everything. I can’t face it.’
His fingers closed down on her shoulders. ‘Master yourself,’ he said. ‘You must. If you cry I shall beat you and wipe your make-up across your face. I defy you to cry.’
He cleaned his hands, tipped her head forward and began to massage the nape of her neck. ‘There are all sorts of things,’ he said, ‘that you must remember and as many more to forget. Forget the little freak and the troubles of today. Remember to relax all your muscles and also your nerves and your thoughts. Remember the girl in the play and the faith I have in you, and Adam and also your Uncle Bennington.’
‘Spare me my Uncle Bennington, Jacko. If my Uncle Bennington had left me where I belong, in fortnightly rep, I wouldn’t be facing this hell. I know what everyone thinks of Uncle Ben and I agree with them. I never want to see him again. I hate him. He’s made me go on with this. I wanted to throw the part in. It’s not my part. I loathe it. No, I don’t loathe it, that’s not true. I loathe myself for letting everybody down. Oh, God, Jacko, what am I going to do.’
Across the bowed head Jacko looked at his own reflection and poked a face at it.
‘You shall play this part,’ he said through his teeth, ‘mouse-heart, skunk-girl. You shall play. Think of nothing. Unbridle your infinite capacity for inertia and be dumb.’
Watching himself, he arranged his face in an unconvincing glower and fetched up a Shakespearian belly-voice.
‘The devil damn thee black thou creamfaced loon. Where gottest thou that goose-look?’
He caught his breath. Beneath his fingers, Gay’s neck stiffened. He began to swear elaborately, in French and in a whisper.
‘Jacko. Jacko. Where does that line come?’
‘I invented it.’
‘You didn’t. You didn’t. It’s Macbeth,’ she wailed. ‘You’ve quoted from Macbeth!’ and burst into a flurry of terrified weeping.
‘Great suffering and all-enduring Saints of God,’ apostrophized Jacko, ‘give me some patience with this Quaking Thing.’
But Gay’s cries mounted in a sharp crescendo. She flung out her arms and beat with her fists on the dressing-table. A bottle of wet-white rocked to and fro, over-balanced, rapped smartly against the looking-glass and fell over. A neatly splintered star frosted the surface of the glass.
Gay pointed to it with an air of crazy triumph, snatched up her towel, and scrubbed it across her make-up. She thrust her face, blotched and streaked with black cosmetic, at Jacko.
‘Don’t you like what you see?’ she quoted, and rocketed into genuine hysteria.
Five minutes later Jacko walked down the passage towards Adam Poole’s room leaving J.G., who had rushed to the rescue in his shirtsleeves, in helpless contemplation of the screaming Gay. Jacko disregarded the open doors and the anxious painted faces that looked out at him.
Bennington shouted from his room:
‘What the hell goes on? Who is that?’
‘Listen,’ Jacko began, thrusting his head in at the door. He looked at Bennington and stopped short. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said and crossed the passage to Poole’s room.
Poole had swung round in his chair to face the door. Bob Cringle stood beside him twisting a towel in his hands.
‘Well?’ Poole said. ‘What is it? Is it Gay?’
‘She’s gone up. Sky high. I can’t do anything nor can J.G. and I don’t believe anyone can. She refuses to go on.’
‘Where’s John. Is this his doing?’
‘God knows. I don’t think so. He came in an hour ago and said he’d be back at five-to-seven.’
‘Has Ben tried?’
‘She does nothing
