‘Eleanor, pull yourself together, you’ve hardly spoken to the man for the last ten years.’
David drove me to the funeral, not because he wanted to support me in my, to him, overblown grief, but because he deemed me emotionally incapable. I’d taken the sleeper up to London, and a train less aptly named couldn’t exist. Finally we rattled into Paddington at six a.m. and I gratefully disembarked, feeling as if I’d spent the night in a tumble-drier. David was already having breakfast when I arrived home, his newspaper propped open on the marmalade. Thick-cut, Olde English of course.
‘You must have missed that in the Amazon.’
‘What?’
‘Thick-cut marmalade.’
‘Mmm.’
‘But I suppose there were compensations.’
He looked up. ‘Like what?’
‘Er…fresh fish?’
He said little about his expedition, except that the natives had been friendly, which was unexpected, as they were notorious cannibals. Perhaps the tribes of Gloucestershire couldn’t stomach him any more than I could. I made some toast but couldn’t eat it.
‘You shouldn’t waste food.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I was in no mood for a fight. ‘I’ll put it out for the birds.’
He exploded at that. ‘God, Ellie, you are so stupid.’ He didn’t even add ‘sometimes’. ‘You’ll have the place crawling with rats. Just put it in the bin for crying out loud. And hurry up. After the fuss you’ve made about this chap, it would be utterly ridiculous to be late.’
Then, apart from tutting at the amount of tissues I was using, he didn’t speak again until we reached the crematorium.
It was marginally more appealing than a Scout hut, and there was an attempt to make it look non-denominational ecclesiastical by putting modern stained-glass windows in the side doors, but this was defeated by the sign saying FIRE EXIT DO NOT OBSTRUCT. Well, I suppose you can’t be too careful in a crematorium.
Gabriel’s family, including his ex-wife, sat with his children. David and I slipped in at the back and I stared at the pale coffin, unable to believe it contained his body. During the service I concentrated on the peeling ceiling, the pock-marked floor, the shoes of the undertakers, anything but listen to the moving words of his friends or the heart-breaking music played by his nieces on their school violins.
Then my name was called and I walked along the strip of carpet to stand by his coffin, my hand on the wood above his heart. I read with tears fogging my eyes:
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finished joy and moan;
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
Then, shaking, I fumbled for the piece of rosemary I’d pulled from the bush in our garden and put it on the warm wood where my hand had been. Rosemary for Remembrance.
‘Another Opening of Another Show’ played as he disappeared from view, to be burned into our memories.
I couldn’t speak or cry as David drove me back to the station, the silence between us dead with sorrow and dislike. He dropped me off with a bare brushing of my cheek with his lips. As I was about to close the car door he said: ‘Thought I might come down to see the show.’
I felt surprise through layers of cotton wool. ‘When?’
‘Some time. I’ll ask Phyllida if she’d like to come. She could do with getting out of that house.’
Yes, I thought, having been on her back for the last six weeks, she probably has bed sores.
‘I can’t put her up at the flat. I’ve only one bed.’
‘Ghastly theatrical digs?,’ he said, indicating he was about to pull out into the traffic. ‘We’ll get rooms in an hotel.’ Even when he was cheating on me under my nose, he wouldn’t say ‘a hotel’. Pedantic little shit. ‘I’ll give you a call,’ he said as he drove away. He didn’t wave or glance back.
On the train I was like a frozen computer screen, nothing but disconnection would get me moving again. So I slept. Sleep, balm of hurt minds…half dreams of Gabriel and half thoughts of the two shows we’d done in front of paying audiences. They’d wrapped me in a love that needed no reciprocation. After the first performance we had been stunned by their cheers and the standing ovation. Dan’s glorious spoof of melodramatic excess was a triumph. Like an old-fashioned seaside postcard, they loved its glorious vulgarity. It was funny, nostalgic and as Broadway-slick as a Hovis loaf.
Kelvin opened the show in a Humphrey Bogart raincoat, chewing a matchstick. He took a huge handgun out of his pocket and shot into the air. A duck fell out of the flies and bounced across the stage – the audience relaxed into appreciative laughter.
‘A duck – that’s funny. My name’s Duck. It’s like a Hitchcock moment. A homage. I like it.’
Dan, though he’d managed to stop Susan playing as if she was Vlad the Impaler doing a Judy Garland impression, decided there was no point in combating Lee’s excesses. With a feathered chorus line and mauve spotlight, he brought the house down.
‘You see,’ Lee pontificated after the first preview, which was wall-to-wall Friends of Dorothy in everything from diamante thongs to leopard-print chiffon, ‘Musical Theatre is a skill… It’s a lifetime’s work. I’ve dedicated years to my art. You don’t pick it up doing telly.’
Nicely placed dig at me. KT changed the subject.
‘Izzy’s quiet. I don’t trust him when he’s quiet.’
‘He’s got his new door knobs. He’s happy,’ I said. ‘Relax.’
Relax. Relax. Relax.
•
The word stuck like a faulty CD in my head until I woke up and realised it was my mobile ringing.
‘Eleanor?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Tizer here.’
The young union rep, Equity Dep. Twenty-one years old, first job, Scots lad from the rough end of Easterhouse. The local lads beat him up when they caught him tap-dancing in the back yard. Now a strapping six-footer, the red-headed prop forward wasn’t about to be beaten up by anyone, though he was quiveringly timid of his new responsibilities.
‘Izzy’s told me I’ve got to call the company together at five-thirty.’
‘I won’t be back by then, Tizer. What’s it about?’
‘He told us…he said…he wants us to persuade Dan to walk off the show.’
All I could say was, ‘What?’
‘Dan’s not here. He’s in Edgware and I don’t know what to do. Why would he want us to get rid of Dan? Did he do something wrong? The previews have been great, haven’t they? I mean, full houses and cheering every night… Can you help me, Eleanor? I really need your help.’
The cotton wool stripped away as if in a high wind. I sat up. Help him? I was just David’s stupid wife. Leading lady? I couldn’t lead a peep of chickens across a road.
‘Okay, Tizer. Phone Jonty and say, if the producer wants a company meeting, it’s up to him as Izzy’s representative on earth to call it. Then call KT…he’ll back you up, then, well…at this late notice no one has to go. But get KT on board, he’ll speak to Jonty if he plays up.’
‘Right,’ said Tizer, ‘I’ll do that.’ Then his tone changed; he was the insecure first-timer again. ‘Will this affect my chances in the West End? I mean, after this.’
‘No. No, of course not.’ I had no idea, but Izzy Duck was surely never going to be a big enough player to ruin even this neophyte’s career, despite his threats. ‘And don’t worry, Tizer, this is just Izzy throwing his weight about. It’ll be fine.’ I hoped I sounded convincing. ‘He’ll be back complaining about the door knobs tomorrow.’
‘Yeah. Right. Thanks, Eleanor. See you.’
I tried Dan’s mobile but it knocked on to voicemail. Perhaps he’d been arrested for murdering an elderly Broadway producer. If he had, I’d have stood in a court of law and sworn it was self-defence.
At the theatre, the corridors were deserted, no one having water fights, singing or laughing. Just an eerie quiet. KT was waiting for me.
‘Izzy’s accountants were in last night and they said the show was all right for provincial audiences but it wouldn’t hold up in London. They thought it was unsophisticated. God help us if his dry cleaner comes.’ He lit a cigarette under the This Is A Smoke Free Environment notice. ‘After curtain down there was a blood-bath. Izzy called a crisis production meeting. Dan refused to go…’
•
‘Listen, pal, my accountant says you couldn’t direct piss into the North Sea from the deck of the QE2. We gotta get this mess sorted out but I’m telling you, pal, I’m not sure you’re the man for the job. I put in a call to Trevor Nunn, you know that?’
‘I don’t care if you phoned Mother Teresa,’ Dan yelled back. ‘This is a work in progress and an accountant knows as much about theatre as you know about Magna Carta.’
‘Well, right now, she’d probably direct this show a damn sight better than you. You fucked up Viola’s script and the show is a laughing stock.’
‘On the contrary,’ Dan replied quietly, ‘I am trying to prevent it – and you – from becoming a laughing stock, but I think I may be too late, as your idiocy appears to be genetic. You seem determined to listen to anyone but those who know what they’re talking about.’ He turned his back on his producer and walked out of the theatre, leaving Izzy screaming after him.
‘Get back here! I’m holding a production meeting to sort out your fuck-up and you do not walk away from me. Unless you want to walk away for good. Ya hear me?’
Dan was gone and Viola was crying in the corner.
•
‘It was a nightmare, Nellie,’ said KT, his veneer of jagged sophistication stripped away. ‘We’re just a bunch of bloody muppets, aren’t we? Go there, come here, don’t think and keep your mouth shut. I can’t take much more of this crap.’
I tried to reassure both of us that, because Jonty had persuaded Izzy it was too late to call the company meeting, the genie was still in its bottle. Whatever damage had been done could be repaired.
‘It’s up to you, Nell,’ said KT. ‘You’re the only one they’ll both listen to.’
Flattering though this was, I didn’t want the responsibility of peace-making or war-mongering. Me bringing peace to our little world? Didn’t they also serve who hid behind the parapet?
The phone rang.
‘Hi, Eleanor?’
‘Izzy. How are you? I’ve just got back.’
There was a moment’s heavy breathing, then, in hushed and reverent tones: ‘Oh, right, yeah. I’m so sorry for your loss. Your grandmother, wasn’t it?’
‘No, Izzy, just a friend.’ Too late I realised Jonty must have told him it was dear old granny so I’d get permission to go. The contract said we couldn’t stray from the immediate proximity of the theatre lest we were caught up in a nuclear attack or pogrom and missed a show.
Izzy had more important things on his mind. ‘Could you meet with me, pal? In the front of house bar.’
‘Now?’
‘Sure.’
It was half-past-six, I had to start getting ready at five to seven. There was a time limit. Thank God.
•
Izzy was sitting in a corner trying to look inconspicuous, despite being the only man of pensionable age sucking a foot-long cigar and wearing a baseball cap emblazoned ‘USA’. He was bent over, head in hands, doing, as I soon found out, an Oscar-worthy performance of remorse. His large hair-filled ears seemed to droop and, had he had a tail, it would have been hanging limp within his spacious jeans.
I thought it best to seem ignorant of the previous night’s unpleasantness and pulled up a chair opposite him. The bar staff seemed oblivious. The people sipping coffee on the other side of the room were unaware of the seismic shifts in our world. It was just a bit of temperament. Everything would be forgotten by curtain down.
‘No Viola? Is she all right?’
‘She’s in the hotel. She’s a little tired.’
Of life? Of you?
‘Oh dear. I am sorry.’
Izzy was not a man to come to the point without a tour of every valley and peak of his opinions. I listened for ten minutes, then mentioned I had a show to do.
‘Sure, pal. See, let me give you the bottom line, it’s like this…’
KT had obviously misunderstood the situation. All Izzy had done was suggest some changes might be made and Dan had lost his temper, sworn, behaved like a crazy guy, and stormed out. What was Izzy to do? He’d shouted back, yes, in self-defence, but he was sorry.
‘Can I tell you, pal? I spent my life getting through on bluster but, you know, I learned my lesson last night. I learned the lesson of a lifetime. I shouldn’t shout. You Brits don’t like shouting.’
‘Yes,’ I said, almost but not quite putting my hand on his. ‘The British do tend to withdraw when faced with bullying tactics.’
He was all contrition. The little boy during his first confession. ‘I’m not a bully, I swear, but you’re right Eleanor. I’m real sorry. You gotta tell me what to do. How to handle things. What’s best with Brits.’
How about throwing yourself under a train?
‘You think I should talk to the kids? I want to talk to them. We don’t need directors making trouble. Am I right?’
No. You’re an idiot.
‘Of course, Izzy, but, you see, actors are like horses…’ No more than dog meat if they’re discarded. ‘You spook them and it takes a while for them to calm down. Leave well alone for a couple of days. It’ll be fine. Just let us, and our director, Dan,’ I added, looking away, ‘get on with making the show as great as you want…’ Slight pause. ‘…and deserve it to be.’
‘Sure. I hear you, pal.’
Yes, Izzy – but you’re not listening.
He sat forward, our knees almost touching. ‘You know what I think? I think Dan’s sick.’
Oh here it comes: psychologically damaged. Mentally fragile. Invalided out.
‘It’s been too much for him. You know he doesn’t look after himself, doesn’t eat properly, smokes too much. I’ve seen him drunk more than once. And you know?’ He lowered his voice to a deaf man’s whisper and raised his index finger to his head. ‘It’s getting to him. This is making him crazy.’ By chance he tapped the A for America on his cap. I doubted he realised the irony. ‘You think maybe someone else should take the show into town? I mean, I care about Dan, I don’t want the guy having a breakdown.’
Kill off Dan with kindness, you poisonous toad? How sweet.
‘I shouldn’t worry about him, Izzy, he’s tougher than he looks. Oh…’ I looked at my watch extravagantly. ‘Look at the time. I’m late for the half.’ I stood up. ‘And you will patch it up with him, won’t you Izzy?’ I looked down at him steadily. ‘For the good of the show.’
Izzy oozed sincerity. ‘Sure, whatever you say, Eleanor. Like I say, I’ll be guided by you.’
‘Promise? And no more fighting. All right?’
‘Sure, Eleanor.’
‘I have your word?’
‘Sure.’
I had averted a small war. Wasn’t I the hero? What would David have said?
Walking through the pass door, the first person I met was KT.
‘Game on,’ I said with a grin.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ he said. ‘You is a goddess. Well done.’
Behind him, Karen was marking up a pile of music. She looked up and said: ‘Did you know that’s what we call you? The Goddess.’
I didn’t ask who called me that. But I was sure if Lee and Susan did, they were thinking of that ugly piece with the arms.
After the show, growing in self-satisfaction and basking in the heat of yet another standing ovation, I was thinking more along the lines of Pallas Athene. I changed into my dressing-gown, poured some wine and joined Dan on my dressing-room sofa. He looked exhausted, grey with tiredness – Byronic to my infatuated eye.
‘Ellie, I want you to try the “Leave me. I need to be alone with my urn” line while clearing everyone off the stage. Do it furious. Wave the jar about. Then you can start your number straight-away. Bang. At the moment, the way I directed it, you look like an embarrassed actress wearing a six-egg omelette.’
‘Not a goddess…? Karen said the cast call me The Goddess.’
‘Really? Mmm…I’ve never kissed a goddess,’ he said, leaning close.
‘Ever slept with one?’
‘Not yet. But…’ He put his hand on my breast, two fingers gently stroking the nipple. We sprang apart as KT marched in, hard on his brief knock on the door.
‘You coming to the pub? Oh…you’re not shagging, are you?’
‘Not yet, KT.’ I hoped it didn’t show that my breasts were no longer in the cups of my bra. ‘Look, I’m knackered, I think I’ll go straight back to the flat. Two shows tomorrow and the voice is a bit tired.’
‘Right. See you then. Nothing like a melba cocktail for a limp larynx.’
Dan looked blank.
‘It’s a blow job,’ I said helpfully. ‘Apparently Dame Nellie…never mind.’
‘And Dan, don’t you go leaving us to the mercy of Uncle Fester.’
‘Fester?,’ said Dan, now completely confused.
‘Yeah, Fester and Gonzo. Izzy and Viola.’