CHAPTER SEVEN
1955-56

The next day, his show having been a success in spite of any misgivings, Paul was working on a script when the office phone rang. Angela sounded tense. “Paul? Can you come down to the Market right away? I went in to talk to Celia before class, and when I came out Stephanie had disappeared. I can’t find her.”

“I’ll grab a street car down Church and be there in ten minutes.” Paul left quickly, wearing his raincoat for the spring day was cold and tending to rain.

Getting off the streetcar, he strode quickly along King Street toward the old St. Lawrence Market where the company took classes and rehearsed once the homeless left. Beforehand, they would rehearse at the Pape Street space. Above the Market’s impressive centre entranceway, free-standing Corinthian columns rose to a Mansard roof – an historic building, compared by critics to fine Gothic churches and even Osgoode Hall. A splendid showcase in 1850s for its architect, William Thomas, now the building had clearly seen better days.

Paul began to worry. What could have happened? Had Steph fallen down stairs? An image of her lying twisted at the bottom rose, but he brushed it off. He hurried in the shabby entrance and up the worn wood staircases. On the first floor, he passed a makeshift counter for bygone ticket sales and tore up to the third floor where a corridor led to the large, grubby rehearsal room, once described as the Great Hall. Down one wall above ancient radiators, dusty uncleaned windows shed light; unused beds from the homeless still lay stacked opposite.

Angela broke out of class, her pink tights covered by hockey stockings, a rough grey woollen sweater over her black leotard, blonde hair bound in a scarf, sweat glistening. “I’ve looked everywhere!”

“The little scallywag,” Paul said soothingly, “I bet she’s hiding in some cupboard, just to spite us. I’ll search from top to bottom, then I’ll do a walk-around. You go on with class. No use both of us worrying.”

Angela flashed him a half-hearted smile and went back into class, given that day by Celia Franca. The founder of the National was petite, as befits a dancer, and still dancing major dramatic roles in Coppelia and Tudor’s Lilac Garden. Black hair, piercing eyes, and a prominent nose made her seem even more of a martinet. The company both loved and hated her. The dancers were still doing their barre, Lois and David among them, with Jury Gotshalks, but no Irene Apiné, his partner. Paul waved to Myrna Aaron and Colleen Kenney, who waved back.

He climbed onto the hall’s barren and dusty stage to check the wing spaces, then crossed to look in a cupboard. No one. His nerves jangled. Where was she?

A trapdoor caught his eyes — aha! Was she down there? He lifted it and flicked a switch. Noisy scamperings spoke of rats racing to hide. He shivered. Fortunately, no Stephanie. Those rats, Paul knew, found lots to eat from the market stalls behind the hall. Had Steph gone there to look at the produce? The next day, Saturday, was market day.

He hurried back along a corridor towards the stairs and stopped at the first door with a hastily scrawled sign: “boys dressing room”. A dancer on scholarship was cleaning. He motioned to the wet floor he’d been swabbing. “Late start this morning. Had to wait till everyone got dressed for class.”

“Do they always wear hockey stockings?”

The dancer nodded. “When it’s cold, like today... We always try to get a barre position near the radiators.”

Paul checked the handwritten tour schedule behind the door. Just as Angela claimed: a different city every day, late to bed, up again for a rushed breakfast. He remembered Myrna, Angela’s roommate on tour, telling him: “Every morning we’d come down, half asleep, and line up to check out of the hotel. After a long wait at the reception, we’d grab breakfast in the cafeteria. So listen — I would line up, check Angela out, go to the cafeteria and get her breakfast, and then down would swan Angela, eat, and waft onto the bus!” They both chuckled.

Paul went down to the second floor to try other locked doors. At the girls’ dressing room, he listened carefully and went in. Simple green curtains hung across the toilet cubicles — not much privacy there. Down the centre, a long metal trough served for the dancers to wash. He wondered when they’d get decent basins, as had the boys. Still no Stephanie.

Against the back of the door he saw a notice signed by Celia warning against the chewing of gum and a dire warning for any dancer who missed class. He kept calling Steph’s name, but no answer.

Back to the central staircase he came. Heaven’s, what a smell! Urine and stale tobacco from the winter. What now? He was beginning to panic. Go outside and tour the building? Then he thought about the cupola. Check that out first?

He went up this last unused set of stairs filled with dirt and cobwebs. Had Stephanie really climbed here?

He reached the door to the bell tower. Unlocked. In he went.

Stephanie! Perky as ever.

He didn’t know whether to be angry or happy. “Well, hello!”

“Could you lift me up?” Paul did so, and they both stared out at Lake Ontario and then back north over the city. “I thought I could get a nice view. But look.” She pointed. Spiders were busy on intricate webs. “I’ve been watching them,” she said. “Isn’t that fun?”

Paul nodded. “Amazing how they spin. Well now, why don’t we pop downstairs and watch a bit of class?” He had work to do, but thought he’d better pay her some attention. As they started downstairs, he asked casually, “Were you hiding?”

“No need to hide,” she exclaimed brightly as she trotted down beside him. “Nobody sees me, even when I’m right in front of them. I hide in full sight.”

“Good for you, Stephanie.” When they got into the hall, the dancers had put away the barre and were doing enchaînments. Angela broke into a big smile and waved to her daughter. Little Stephanie waved back.

***

As they walked down the wooden steps for some lunch, Angela asked, “By the way, I never asked what you saw in New York this winter? A lot of plays, I gather.”

Paul had managed another trip, staying with his psychologist friend. “A play every night. Remember the first time I went, I met Norris Houghton? So the first thing I did was go and see his Master Builder at the Phoenix. Then the new Menotti opera, The Saint of Bleeker Street. Boy, was that exciting!” Paul pulled open the heavy door and out they went onto King Street.

“Neil McCallum was there — remember him in my production of Julie the Jink? He took me to see his girlfriend, Julie Andrews, in The Boyfriend, a musical takeoff on the 20s. We all hung out afterwards. The next day I took Neil to Bus Stop, a new William Inge play. About a bunch of people gathered in a restaurant. Only so-so.”

“You were busy.”

“The best I think was Tea and Sympathy, by Robert Anderson. Deborah Kerr was in it — directed by Vincente Minnelli.” They held Stephanie’s hand as they crossed King Street. “... and The Three Sisters in a little theatre off-Broadway. Made me yearn for the stage again; so well produced, very enjoyable. Oh yes, and Juno and the Paycock, off-Broadway, with all the vigour of those off Broadway shows. I once asked Sean O’Casey to the University Poetry Society when I was president. He wrote me a nice letter, but couldn’t get away from Ireland. Oh, and I also went to Teahouse of the August Moon. Bored me to tears, though it’s the longest running show on Broadway: a bunch of Yank soldiers on a Pacific island, full of American wit which I do not admire.”

“Neither do I.”

“The Flowering Peach, the new Clifford Odets play, was kind of interesting, but poorly acted by some old Yiddish actor, a comedian who hammed it up. But a delightful idea, a contemporary handling of the flood legend.”

“There I was, dancing like mad and there you were, enjoying yourself.”

“I have to. Part of my job. I should hit Broadway every year.” They went into the greasy spoon. “So how many cities did you do on that tour? Twenty-eight or something?

“Apart from Toronto and Montreal, we did ten cities, mostly one night stands. Fifty-one performances.” A note of pride sounded. “We were exhausted, but then, so much camaraderie; we laughed a lot. That’s what saved us. And in June, we’re off to Washington, nine or ten performances.”

They sat down in the greasy spoon, and Angela read Stephanie the menu. “It was fun watching that rehearsal, Angela,” Paul commented. “I really enjoyed myself.”

“Thanks. You know, Celia is beginning to rely on Grant as her assistant. And so she should.”

“Will she let Grant choreograph a ballet?”

“She takes a while, Celia does. I’ve been waiting and waiting for her to give me that role in Lilac Garden. And I want Queen of the Wilis too, in Giselle.

Paul nodded. “I like Grant and Earl a lot. So talented, both of them. Earl is just a great dancer.”

“And a great partner. And they’re so comfortable together. I envy them.”

“What do you mean? Aren’t we comfortable?”

Angela gave him a look, which said everything. I guess not, thought Paul. Their relationship, he had to admit, was too often stormy. “They sure were nice keeping Alice until I got my room in that boarding house.”

“I think they enjoyed having her. She’s friendly.”

“I like her a lot,” piped up Steph.

“Oh yes. And now that it’s spring, she seems to be more lively. Oh! Let me tell you. A couple of nights ago, Barry Morse came over for a drink. I thought he’d like to be in my next production —”

“Which is?”

“The Return of Don Juan, Ronnie Duncan’s play. And suddenly, Barry jumped up and backed against the wall!”

Angela looked surprised. “Why?”

“Well,” Paul drew it out, “he was looking across the room, and…”

“And?” Stephanie insisted.

“And... in the fireplace, stuffed with newspapers, appeared a little black nose...”

“Alice!” shrieked Stephanie, laughing.

“You got it, Steph. Alice came and stood in front of the fireplace, tail up!”

Stephanie was chuckling delightedly. “He’s never seen a skunk?”

“Not in a living room... When I take her out for a walk on a leash at night, passers-by often get a fright, too.” They all joined in Steph’s delight.

The waitress put down their salads. Steph had a small plate of spaghetti.

“But I’ve been thinking... I’m out a lot, and we all want to go to Montreal... so I might put an ad in the paper. To sell her.”

“Oh no!” Stephanie was disappointed.

Three weeks later, after an ad had run in the Toronto papers, Paul answered a knock at his door.

When it opened, there stood a pianist Paul knew: Glenn Gould. “You have a skunk for sale?”

“Hi, Glenn. Yes. I’m Paul Almond, I’m a director at CBC.”

Glenn nodded. “So I’ve heard. A fair-haired boy, apparently.”

“Come in, come in, Glenn. Can I get you something?” Paul reached out his hand to shake Glenn’s but Glenn shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Paul noticed that, although it was not a particularly cold spring day, Glenn had gloves on with the ends of the fingers cut off. He wore a grey overcoat with a dark blue scarf around his neck, and a navy-blue peaked cap. “May I see your skunk?”

“Alice? Oh sure.” Paul went over to the fireplace and started to pull out the paper. “She might be a bit sooty.” She dropped down, half awake. “I read somewhere you’re going to New York to record the Goldberg Variations for CBS?”

“I will, but I have someone who can look after Alice. They’re only releasing it next winter, they told me.” Glenn was often seen around the radio building these days. He was building a reputation as a fine pianist.

Paul brought Alice over, brushing off the soot, and handed her to Glenn. He stepped back, but Paul thrust her forward, giving him no option. He took Alice in his arms and began to stroke her. She started to snuggle up and climb into his scarf, still sleepy.

“She sleeps all day,” Paul warned him. “I’m afraid at night she gets a bit lively.”

“That’s to be expected,” said Glenn. “Well, how much do you want for her?”

“How about twenty-five dollars?”

“I have a twenty here...” Glenn countered.

“Fine.” Paul took the proffered twenty and went about getting the cat food he fed Alice, and her various dishes, putting them all in a shopping bag.

With Alice round his neck, Glenn took the shopping bag and, saying goodbye, went out and closed the door.

Whew, thought Paul, she’ll have a nice master now. Listening to his piano all day. What could be better?

***

“Where are we going?” asked Angela.

“You sound like Stephanie. ‘When will we get there?’ Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies!” Paul was in full good humour as he drove northwards in the little Austin that he’d managed to buy. Beside him, Angela looked stunning in a light frock she had made. All her dresses came from patterns: stylish, perfect fits, saving money. But it meant she spent long hours at the sewing machine when not rehearsing. Stephanie sat in the back with a colouring book.

“You seem in a good mood!” Angela remarked.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Now that I’m definitely getting my first full one-hour show. All in verse — I don’t know how Sydney let me do it. But I told him it had sex, well, with a name like The Return of Don Juan. It’s written by Ronnie Duncan. After I got Pat Macnee and Toby Robins, his eyes lit up. I don’t think he even bothered to read it — at least I hope not.”

Paul slowed down and turned the car into a wooded lane. Stephanie put aside her colouring book and leaned on the front seat, looking.

Paul pulled up a few yards from a dilapidated cabin. On stilts, it jutted out over a steep hillside that led down to a small lake.

“Are we here for a picnic?” Angela asked.

“Oh goody, a picnic!” Stephanie exclaimed.

“Not really.”

“Are we going for a swim?” Angela frowned. “But I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

Paul said nothing and opened Stephanie’s door. “Come on, everyone out.”

“I still don’t see why you brought us here,” Angela said.

“Because…” Paul paused for emphasis, gestured to the lake and then to the flimsy cottage. “I rented it! Heart Lake. Owned by a nice old guy. He’s selling it all. But we can have this for a year or two...”

Angela turned and stared. Then she threw her arms round his neck and gave him a big kiss. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Stephanie and I will love this.”

Stephanie clapped her hands, delighted. Paul got out a key, opened the door and they went in.

During the winter, colonies of mice had thrived under cobwebs spread by armies of spiders. The three of them surveyed the room. “I guess we have our work cut out for us...” Paul looked a bit bleak.

Angela walked around. “Don’t worry, I’ll soon make it bright, just some paint, and I’ll make curtains...” — probably remembering Paul’s decorating job — “I see exactly what to do.”

“I bet.” Paul felt lucky to be with such a talented designer. Though being two such creative people, they found it hard to keep a balance sometimes; this new life did occasionally get a bit rough.

***

After his first one hour-long drama, Paul made an important contact with the smart, fair and freckled Rev. Brian Freeland. He ran the Religious Department of the CBC, which he made unusually active, often through devious means. Their first task, Brian explained, was to devise a play on the biblical Ruth, about whom Keats had written: “When sick for home, she stood in tears amid the alien corn”. They commissioned the American writer now in Toronto, Charles E. Israel, rather shy (as befitting a writer) and the son of a well-known American rabbi. Paul, being the son of a clergyman, rather hit it off with “Chuck”.

Paul found a gorgeous young actress, Sharon Acker, long brown hair framing perfect features with liquid and innocent brown eyes — delectable and just right for Ruth. And he’d been given a new script assistant, Eileen Jack. Attractive, with red hair and freckles, but very slight, almost stick-like, she was a bit stand-offish as befitted one from the educated classes of Old Scotland.

After their morning’s work, Paul suggested, “How about a bite of lunch? We should get to know each other...”

Off they went to Old Angelo’s on Elm Street where directors sometimes ate, often as not with script assistants as a prelude to some budding romance — but this was not that.

Paul talked about On Camera switching Studios, as they walked over to Bay and then down to Elm. “Four is much bigger than Studio One, so I’m really looking forward to that. Better dressing rooms, more space for sets, and that wonderful crane camera. At last we can do top shots and splendid swooping movements...”

Eileen kept up with his long strides, listening.

“For my next play, The Walking Stick, I’ve found a new actor, Charles Jarrott, he’s staying with David Greene. Awfully nice. Very British, he’ll play the lead. I think you’ll like it. We’re getting better scripts this year.”

They went into an interior appropriately darkened to conceal the many trysts: producers out to seduce script assistants and businessmen their secretaries. The place seethed with adventures about to happen. The head waiter showed Paul to a discreet corner. “He thinks that we’re here to begin an affair. So unusual to have just a business lunch.” Paul laughed. Eileen did not.

After they had given their order, Eileen chatted about her background: her degree from Edinburgh University pleased Paul. “Now, Paul, tell me what else might be in the wind.”

“The rumour is that the great Esse W. Ljungh and Andrew Allen are coming over from radio to do television. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes, everyone has. But tell me...”

“Andrew Allen ran a series of radio dramas on Sunday nights, The Stage Series: Stage 48, Stage 49 and so on.” Paul leaned forward, and sipped his wine. “The thing is, I’m helping Esse do his first show, Hedda Gabler. You and me both.”

“How will that work?”

“Esse is Swedish, so he’s an expert on Ibsen. We should learn a lot!”

“Very exciting!” Eileen beamed. “Just the reason I wanted to get into the CBC.”

“It seems Esse would direct the actors, and I would put it on camera. He wants Barbara Chilcott as Hedda. There’s Indian blood somewhere, so she has fantastic features.”

“And... are you married?” she asked, matter-of-factly, though with concern.

“No, but I live with Angela Leigh. She’s got a tiny apartment on Church Street, just behind the television building. I live out at Heart Lake.”

Reassured, Eileen went on, “After we do Hedda Gabler, what then?

“Probably another religious play at Christmas, Our Lady’s Tumbler, by Ronald Duncan. I worked on his farm in North Devon, you know. From a story by Anatole France, in turn based on a 13th-century medieval legend. Very touching.”

Eileen was gratified. “So both Ruth and this are religious?”

“Sort of. Brian and I are kind of sneaking them on. He works on Sydney from his end, and I do from mine. I always try to get some kind of message, or thought, into my productions.”

“Good for you, Paul.” Eileen started into her plate of spaghetti and salad. “I’m going to enjoy working with you.”