The show ran for just over a week. Without a doubt they were the most unhappy days of Lynette’s life. She hardly dared to go out for fear that she would bump into someone she knew who had not happened to read the notices and would ask cheerily, “How’s the show going?” Or was it worse to meet someone who had read the notices and would carefully make no mention of the show? The newspapers had really been quite kind. They slated the play for its apparent lack of point and balance. Praised Marcia, and most of them were polite enough to ignore Lynette. One of them called her a “bread-and-butter miss”, which rankled for a long time. And the elderly critic who had awarded Lyn the prize for grace and charm of movement merely said, “I prefer to draw a veil over Thursday night’s performance of Beloved Viper.”
At the theatre the atmosphere was unbearable. Marcia spoke to no-one and no-one spoke to her. She was playing the part more or less as it should have been played, but the houses were so thin that she soon hardly bothered to give a performance at all. Lynette gave a good performance every night but it was too late to save the show. De Whit and Timothy stayed well away from the theatre. Mr. Cathcart buzzed around the dressing-rooms trying to pacify everyone by telling them that if only they would hang on for a few weeks after this show was closed, the management would soon be casting something else in which there might be parts for them. But Lynette’s mind was made up.
Over supper with Timothy after the second night’s show she said, “No, I shan’t stay in town. We finish on Saturday week, and the next day I shall go back to Fenchester. For at least two years. Next time I get a part in the West End I intend to be experienced enough to hold it down, come weal, come woe!”
“Come Meredith,” added Timothy, who had cheered up somewhat now the ordeal was over and it was definite that his play was a flop. “Yes, I think you’re wise. And please may I try out my next play down at Fenchester, to see if it’s foolproof? I must never write another that can be ruined so easily.”
“But of course,” cried Lynette. “That’s a wonderful idea. Have you got any others that haven’t been performed yet?”
“Yes, but I’m a bit doubtful about them.”
“Well, once we see that we’ve got a regular sort of audience it will be fun to try out new plays.”
“I’ll be back,” vowed Timothy, eating chips with great determination. “Just you mark my words. Within five years I’ll have written a play with a star part for you, and we’ll be back at the St. Christopher’s going strong. What do you bet?”
“I don’t bet,” said Lynette stoutly. “I intend it to happen.”
“That’s the spirit. They can’t keep us down, can they?”
But most of the time it was difficult to be cheery. To realize that she had had her chance—and lost it, and with it the dreams of having a little flat somewhere and going each night to the theatre, and entertaining friends to matinee teas—it was all very bitter. Especially as it was not her fault at all.
“Marcia can afford to have a flop. She’ll soon have another success and be as popular as ever…”
Mrs. Bosham was heart-broken at losing Lyn.
“Well, Miss Maddy will soon be back to keep me company for a while.”
“But, Mrs. Bosham, you’ll have lots more Academy students soon, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes. They come and they go…”
“They come and they go,” thought Lynette. “How true.”
She spent the days mooching around London, seeing all the things that she had meant to see during her two years in town. There was something soothing about visiting the Tower of London, the British Museum, and Kew Gardens.
“Makes me feel like a tourist, and that will make it less bad having to leave.”
But her heart ached for all her shattered dreams. She realized that it was the first real failure of her life. Always previously she had been lucky and successful, so that this setback had come as an extra shock. Timothy came to tea after the Wednesday matinee, and brought her a book about Chekhov, illustrated with fascinating old photographs. He said shyly, “I’ve marked a bit that I think might be cheering.” She flipped through the pages until she found a paragraph marked with red pencil, and beside it the word “Us” and an exclamation mark. It read:
Art, especially the stage, is a region in which it is impossible to walk without stumbling. There are before you yet a good many unsuccessful days, and even whole unsuccessful seasons; there will be great doubts and immense disenchantments; but you must be prepared for all that, you must expect it, and without looking aside must stubbornly go on, fanatically bending it all to your will.
“That’s what Chekhov wrote to his wife, Olga Knipper,” Timothy explained.
“It’s terrific!” cried Lynette, with shining eyes. “It will be a great comfort.”
They made tea on the gas ring, and ate crumpets dripping with butter which Mrs. White had popped out into Soho to buy. Lyn looked round the cosy little dressing-room and wished that it were to be hers for longer.
“They come and they go.” She remembered Mrs. Bosham’s words, and sighed heavily. Timothy seemed to read her thoughts.
“Of course,” he said, “you could have gone into an office in Fenchester. Two or three pounds coming in regularly each week, knowing you’d have Saturday afternoons off and Sunday, and a fortnight in the summer. And think of that nice bank clerk you could have settled down with.”
“Shut up!” laughed Lynette. “I’m not regretting anything—only that such a woman as Marcia Meredith was ever born.”
The days slipped by, and everyone was impatient for the show to come off. Already another company of artistes were rehearsing for the next show, lounging over the set of Beloved Viper as if it belonged to them.
“It’s awful—it’s awful,” a little voice inside Lynette kept saying, while she put on a brave face to the rest of the company.
“You’re lucky to have something to go to,” Joan told her, “even if it’s only rep. I shall have to start parking myself on the agents’ doorsteps again. What a life.”
From the Blue Doors Lyn had condolatory letters, all of which ended up by saying that they couldn’t help feeling glad that she would be coming to them after all. And Nigel put at the end of his, “We have finally decided on opening with Little Women, so as to give Maddy a nice part before she has to go back to the Academy. Will you play Jo and produce it? I feel that it is more of a woman’s play from a production angle.”
“How sweet of them,” thought Lynette. “They know that’s a part I’ve been wanting to play. And they think that a new part and producing as well will take my mind off it all. It will, of course.” And already her mind raced ahead towards the casting and the costumes and the scenery for Little Women. “Yes, it’s a good show to open with. It will draw in the family audiences.”
“I envy you,” said Timothy. “Some work to start on right away.”
“Yes, I’m lucky. But you can come down and see us whenever you like and discuss which of your plays we can try out.”
“Thanks. Writing is an awfully lonely occupation, you know.”
“It must be. But rather restful,” observed Lyn.
“Restful! Gosh, after what I’ve been through these last few weeks—”
“But that was unusual.”
“Most unusual, thank goodness.”
The last night approached. The show was to come off very quietly, no party, for there was nothing to celebrate. The Saturday matinee audience was poor, but at the Saturday night performance it was the fullest house they had had since the first night.
“Of course,” Marcia Meredith remarked to nobody in particular, “I think the management are crazy to take it off now. We’re just about beginning to pick up.”
But no-one trusted himself to reply. As they took the curtain with Marcia extending a modest hand towards the company to acknowledge the applause, Lyn felt hot tears rushing into her eyes.
“I didn’t think I could cry any more,” she thought as the footlights, the applauding audience, the sweeping line of the circle, the upper circle, and the gallery swam before her eyes in confusion as she bowed. And suddenly the injustice of the whole thing swept over her again. On her way upstairs she paused outside the dressing-room that had a gold star painted on it, and Marcia’s name in large letters. Then she walked in without knocking. Marcia was putting on a glamorous white house coat.
“I just came to tell you that if you think you’ve ruined my career you’re quite wrong. You’ve merely given me a wonderful example of how not to behave when one is successful. Goodbye. I hope I never have to set eyes on you again.”
Marcia’s face was almost laughable in its amazed horror. Lynette went out and shut the door, then ran all the way up to her dressing-room with trembling knees. “It was undignified—but worth it,” she thought.
In the dressing-room Mrs. White was bustling around packing up her things. Regretfully Lyn took off the little grey dress. The management had offered to sell them all their clothes at very reduced rates, but Lynette had refused hers.
“I could never bear to look at them again.” So Joan was to have Lyn’s.
“Terribly useful for rep.,” she had remarked. But Lyn was too much of a sentimentalist to take this into consideration.
“Now, don’t you fret, miss,” said Mrs. White, kissing her goodbye on the cheek in a motherly fashion. “You’ll be back.”
“Yes,” sniffed Lyn, “I’ll be back.” Her belongings filled one large suitcase and a hatbox. It was awful to have to take down the picture of Ellen, the Blue Doors’ photo, and the Van Gogh. And then in came De Whit carrying her photos that had hung outside the theatre.
“You’d better have these. You’ll be wanting them soon, won’t you?”
Lyn packed them in her case and did up the fastenings, not quite knowing what to say.
“Now, you’re sure you’re doing right?” he persisted, “in going back to—er—wherever it is? If only you’d hang on a bit longer I’m sure we’d find something for you.”
“It’s very kind of you,” Lynette said firmly. “But I really can’t. You see, I sort of—broke a promise by playing in this at all, so perhaps that’s why I’ve been so unlucky.”
“I see. You’re a very sensible girl, I think. But I know that we shall work together again soon. In this business when you’ve worked with a person once you’re bound to again.”
“I hope so,” said Lynette. “I really did enjoy rehearsals tremendously. And learnt a lot.”
“By the way,” said De Whit, grinning broadly, “I’ve heard what you said to Marcia, and I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“How did you hear?” gasped Lynette, flushing.
“Her dresser was outside the door.”
“Oh, dear, it’ll be all over the theatre.”
“And a good thing, too. She’s got off far too lightly, to my mind. Well, goodbye, dear.” He kissed her affectionately on both cheeks, and turned at the door to say, as on their first meeting, “But let’s hope it’s au revoir.”
The rest of the company drifted in to say goodbye, and try to hear the details of her scene with Marcia, but Lynette was not talking. Then the faithful Timothy appeared to carry her cases to the stage door, and look for a taxi. Lyn chatted to the stage door-keeper while she waited.
“I’m right sorry to see this show come off,” he said sympathetically. “Saw some of the dress rehearsal, I did. And cried like a baby. Usually I don’t fancy a play much. Prefer the pictures, myself—”
Lynette giggled at the thought of a stage door-keeper not caring for plays. She tipped him and said goodnight as Timothy appeared with a taxi. She dreaded saying goodbye to Timothy, for that would be the last link with the show and everything, but as he helped her into the taxi he said, “I’ll see you off tomorrow. What time are you going?”
“Eleven-five.”
“O.K. I’ll be there.”
“Thanks a lot. Cheerio.” As she sank back on the leather seat she caught a last glimpse of the illuminated lettering on the theatre. “Marcia Meredith in Beloved Viper”, and underneath in little letters “Lynette Darwin”. And even as she looked at them the lights went out.
Mrs. Bosham comforted her with a somewhat odd-tasting steak and kidney pie down in the basement, and they listened to a music-hall programme on the wireless. Lyn huddled by the fire, looking into the flames.
“Evenings drawing in a bit, aren’t they?” observed Mrs. Bosham.
“Yes, they are—drawing in—I think I’ll go to bed, Mrs. Bosham.”
Despair stalked in the cold, shabby bedroom, so she decided to pack that night instead of the following morning. Everything she packed brought a fresh twinge of nostalgia. Her worn-out ballet shoes, copies of all the plays they had done at the Academy in the past two years, the dress she had worn when she first went to the Tiller and Webb offices. The effort of shutting the trunks and cases tired her out, and at last she was able to sleep.
Next morning all was a hustle and a bustle. So many oddments had been left out, and Mrs. Bosham kept adding things that Lyn might need on the journey—a packet of sandwiches, some back numbers of Woman’s Chat, some milk in a medicine bottle. As Lyn kissed her plump cheek goodbye she reflected sadly how over everything was. If and when she came back she would probably not return to No. 37, and she mentally said a long farewell to the blistered front door, the iron railings round the area steps, and the shabby lace curtains at the windows. And then it was all gone, and the taxi driver was rattling away down Tottenham Court Road whistling happily, as if this were a day like any other. And Lynette realized that he was going to pass the St. Christopher’s Theatre. “Oh, no,” she thought, and was about to direct him another way, but then she told herself not to be so sentimental. Already the posters for the next show were up outside the theatre. New names—new faces—fresh music—more laughter… There was no stopping it.
At the station Timothy was already waiting with a little buttonhole of rosebuds for her, and all the theatrical magazines to read on the journey.
“Why are you so sweet to me?” Lynette demanded as they struggled with her luggage, “when I’ve been instrumental in ruining your play?”
“Because,” said Timothy, “I see in you my future leading lady. You have inspired ideas in me for at least six plays, in the last six weeks. That’s why I carry your cases for you.”
The train was crowded, but at last Lyn found a seat, stowed her luggage in the guard’s van, and got out on to the platform again to talk to Timothy. They were deep in a discussion on Bernard Shaw when the whistle went, and Lyn had to dash back into the train. She smiled while she waved, but as the figure of Timothy became smaller and smaller her smile disappeared gradually, until she was leaning out of the window staring at the rails that slid relentlessly by, taking her away from London. For how long?
“Can’t we have that window shut?” grated a pernickety voice. Lyn turned a face of such acute despair to the speaker that she added:
“Oh, aren’t you feeling well?”
“No,” quavered Lynette, and pushed her way out of the carriage to the toilet.
“Train sickness, I suppose,” agreed her fellow-travellers.
But it was heart sickness that Lynette suffered in an atmosphere of disinfectant and train wheels. Fragments of wisdom came to her aid—“Progress on the stage is often crab-like…” “Without looking aside, you must stubbornly go on, fanatically bending it all to your will…” “You’ll be back…” “I see in you my future leading lady…”
At last she was able to face the carriage full of sandwich-eating, newspaper-scanning travellers, and she buried herself in the books that Timothy had given her. The carriage got stuffy and smoky and full of snores, and Lynette lapsed into a miserable semi-coma.
About three o’clock the scenery became familiar. She recognized Fennymead Castle and began to tidy herself. Already London seemed far behind and a new chapter begun.
She had not let anyone know what time she was coming, so there was nobody to meet her. She left her luggage in the cloakroom, had a wash and brush up, and decided to walk through the town via the Blue Door Theatre, to see if anyone were there. It was a clear autumn Sunday, with the children coming out of Sunday school. Fenchester seemed clean and small and quiet after London. She noticed everywhere there were posters advertising the opening of the theatre in two weeks’ time, and in the photographer’s window were large portraits of all the company. At last she was in Pleasant Street, and there was the theatre, bright and clean as a new pin, with a little box office built on to the front. In it sat Mr. Chubb, looking as proud as a captain at the wheel of his ship. He was going over some accounts and looked up when Lynette tapped on the window pane.
“Ah, dear young lady! How very nice to welcome you home. We’ve been half expecting you all day. They’re having a little read through on the stage.”
“I’ll go in, then,” said Lyn. “Doesn’t the theatre look lovely? And you’ve got out some awfully good posters.”
“Colourful, aren’t they?” agreed the business manager proudly.
Inside, the theatre seemed much larger, and the tip-up seats had taken away all resemblance to the chapel that it used to be. The six Blue Doors were up on the stage reading Little Women. Myrtle was there too, and Ali and Billy were doing something on step-ladders at the back of the stage. Lyn stood and watched. They were too engrossed to notice her. She sat down and looked around her. Yes, this was where she belonged all right. She looked around the walls, at the Seymore Trophy on its bracket, the photos of previous productions of their amateur days, and she sighed. Maddy glanced up.
“There’s Lyn!” she shouted. Everyone peered into the dimness of the little auditorium.
“So it is,” said Nigel. “Hi ya! Be with you in a minute. Let’s just finish this scene.” And they continued as if it were the most normal thing in the world for Lyn to have deserted them, to have taken part in an outstanding failure in the West End, and then to return to them once more.
“O.K.,” said Nigel. “Let’s break.” And they jumped down off the stage, which had now been built higher and wider. They chatted happily to her, obviously sincerely pleased at her return. No-one mentioned Beloved Viper. The conversation was all about the Blue Door Theatre, and what ideas had she on the production of Little Women. Terry, from Tutworth Wells, appeared from nowhere, up to his elbows in paint as usual, and said, “Hullo, you,” as if he’d last seen her the day before. He seemed perfectly at home with the rest of the company.
“Come on,” said Jeremy. “We’d better get home. Mother is sort of expecting you in time for tea.” The five new-comers to the company had found digs in the same road as the others.
“They were a bit doubtful about having me,” laughed Ali. “I think they expected me to wear a loin cloth and beat on a tom-tom or something. But when they discovered that I spoke English, and that they’d seen me in films, they decided I must be all right.”
Lynette’s parents welcomed her without fuss.
“Eat up your tea, now,” said her mother as if she were ten again and had never left home to be an actress.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to have a home to come back to,” she thought, remembering how home ties and duties used to irk her in the early Blue Door days, before she had ever been far enough away to appreciate her parents and all they had done for her.
She had been prepared to be quite unhappy for the first few months, but the two rehearsal weeks for Little Women were so crammed with work that she literally did not have time. With a long part like Jo, and also the production to contend with, her hands were full. Maddy was playing Amy; Vicky, Beth; Sandra, Meg; Nigel, Laurie; Bulldog, Mr. March; Jeremy, Mr. Lawrence; Myrtle, Mrs. March. They had called a few ex-Academy students down for the small parts left over, and it seemed to be perfect casting. Sandra insisted that they should hire the correct costumes from London.
“We’re professionals now, so we must do things in a professional manner,” was the phrase on the lips of all of them. There was great excitement in the town over the coming first night of the repertory.
“We’ve been booked out for weeks,” Mr. Chubb told Lyn, “and there’s going to be a whale of a queue for the cheap seats.”
“Two weeks really is the perfect rehearsal time for rep.,” remarked Vicky. “Neither too long nor too short.”
By the dress rehearsal they were word perfect and beautifully produced. The costumes were charming, and Terry had surpassed himself with the set.
“And there’s nothing in the play to offend anyone,” said Nigel. “It’s a safe bet.”
On the night, the front half of the theatre was filled with their parents, friends, and relations, and they had all chivalrously paid for their seats. The Bishop was there, benign as ever, the Mayor and Corporation, “in mufti” as Maddy put it, and most of the Town Council, Miss Gaunt and all the staff of the girls’ school and the grammar school, Mr. Smallgood and Whittlecock, and Mrs. Potter-Smith with her yes-woman, Miss Thropple, both wearing ridiculous hats. Lord Moulcester and a party of friends were there, and a bevy of the Blue Doors’ old school friends. Timothy Carew, too, had come down for the occasion. The unbookable seats could have been filled six times over and some late-comers were standing at the back. Ali and Billy were completely dependable on the stage-management side, so there were no worries for the players, except their own performances. In the new dressing-rooms that were light and spacious and well-equipped they took stock of things.
“Well, we’re here, where we always hoped to be. Let’s make a go of it,” said Nigel. And with wishes for good luck in all directions they went into the tiny wings and said to Ali, “Take it away.”
The curtains swished up and the Blue Doors’ professional first night had begun. Lyn was horribly, horribly scared. She had not realized how much the first night of Beloved Viper had shaken her nerve, but a glance round the stage at the dear old familiar faces of the Blue Doors reassured her. Here she was among friends, among real people, and no-one would let her down.
The audience lapped it up, laughing and crying in the appropriate places. Even Mrs. Potter-Smith had to admit it was good. In the laughter they could each distinguish that of their own parents and particular friends, which added zest to their performances. And then came the final curtain, and with it a burst of applause and cheers that left no doubt that the Fenchester Repertory was to be a success.
“The first of many,” said Nigel to Lyn as they beamed round at each other. Everyone seemed to be smiling as they took the curtain: Lyn, Nigel, Jeremy, Sandra, Maddy, Bulldog, Vicky, Mr. and Mrs. Fayne, Mr. and Mrs. Halford, Mr. and Mrs. Darwin, the Bishop, the Vicar and his wife, Lord Moulcester, Miss Gaunt, Timothy, Terry, Myrtle, Ali, Billy, Mr. Smallgood and Whittlecock, the Mayor, the town councillors, the school children, the whole theatre was one broad smile, and looking round at it all Lynette was glad, so very glad, that she had come home.