Chapter Twelve
I walk home from the party with Nessa and Lavinia, both relishing Gilda’s appalling performance and resenting the audience for giving her such a hearty applause. ‘It’s because they like her,’ I tell them. ‘It had nothing to do with her rendition, which, I agree, was wooden.’
‘Finally!’ Nessa screeches gleefully, grabbing me by the arm. ‘We get you to admit what you really think.’
Oh dear! Have I let Eddie down again?
‘If you admit that she’s wooden, Skippy, you must surely admit that she shouldn’t have been cast as Lady Macbeth!’ Nessa continues.
‘You can’t deny it,’ Lavinia adds. ‘The great Gilda Garrett is wooden.’
‘Don’t quote me on that,’ I tell them seriously. ‘She has great appeal and will fill the theatre because of it.’
‘Beneath the gilt she’s as plain as a plank of wood,’ crows Nessa. ‘Don’t you agree, Lavinia?’
Lavinia laughs. ‘But we have a plan, don’t we?’ Nessa links her arm through Lavinia’s, and they come closer in collusion.
‘Are you going to share this dastardly plan?’ I ask, but a shiver courses down my spine because in five days’ time Nessa dies in a fire. Does her plan go horribly wrong and result in her death?
‘It’s secret,’ says Nessa. The girls laugh, then Nessa offers a chilling teaser. ‘But I think you’ll find the understudy will get her moment to shine!’
We eat in the dining room, the three of us.
Bunsen has managed to mend the range, and we are offered vegetable soup followed by baked potatoes and ham with peas and cabbage.
Outside, the sky has darkened, and Nancy draws the curtains and serves the food.
Fortunately, Nessa and Lavinia are both overexcited and chatty as a result, which gives me the opportunity to learn more about this world into which I have slid.
Like a spy, I seize upon the pieces of information that are important for my quest.
Nessa is staying with her aunt Eddie because her father, who is married to Eddie’s sister, has basically disowned her.
While her brother and two sisters have all made good marriages, Nessa has shunned the ‘wet rag’ her father wants her to marry in order to pursue a career on stage.
She’s hoping that amateur theatre will lead to her becoming a professional actress.
She has no doubt that she is good enough.
Her father, Humphrey Blunt, is a successful businessman who made his fortune in tobacco.
As Nessa goes off on a rant again, I begin to get the measure of him.
The aristocratic world to which he aspires looks down on people who work, for they have all inherited their wealth; work is for the working classes.
But he is desperate to be accepted. Therefore, appearances matter tremendously.
His family must do everything with the utmost decorum.
Nessa is letting the side down – well brought up young ladies do not become actresses.
You could say that Humphrey Blunt is nouveau riche and upwardly mobile and, as Nessa airs her frustrations and really lets rip, a snob as well.
She told me in spirit that no one loves her and I’m beginning to understand why she believes that. ‘Mamma is terrified of Papa,’ she says, forking a pile of ham and potato into her mouth. ‘She’ll never stand up for me.’
I sigh and take a punt. ‘I’ve tried, my dear …’ I begin, after all, her mother is Eddie’s sister. Surely, Eddie has fought her corner?
‘I know you have, Skippy,’ Nessa interrupts.
‘But she’s not strong like you. I will have to take matters into my own hands.
There’s nothing else I can do.’ She takes a swig from her water glass and grins over the rim.
‘You and I are the black sheep of the family, Skippy. At least I’m in good company. ’
It’s only after supper, when we drink tea in the drawing room upstairs, that I learn more about Lavinia.
Lavinia Bedworth, who’s around the same age as Nessa, has been living here too, since September, and works as secretary to the pharmacist here in Seacombe.
Also passionate about theatre, she is playing the part of a witch.
Her mother is Lady Bedworth, Lady B who wrote the postcard Eddie received today from the South of France, her father the recently knighted Sir Clive Bedworth.
I managed to glean all this from one evening without Nessa laughing at me and asking me again what I had for breakfast!
I also glean that tomorrow, being Saturday, is a big rehearsal day and we will spend all of it at the Aphrodite. This will be a great opportunity for me to really find out what’s going on between Gilda and Nessa – and to see Cavill again, for surely he will be there.
By the time my head hits the pillow – the deliciously soft pillow – I’m exhausted. I close my eyes and allow my mind to drift on rosy-pink clouds to Cavill, in spite of the fact that I know this story can have no happy ending.
I awake to the sound of birdsong. White beams of sunshine stream in through the gaps in the curtains, illuminating this pretty bedroom with the innocent vigour of a spring dawn.
I luxuriate a while beneath the sheet and blankets and remind myself where I am and what I’m here to do.
Today is going to be a big day. I’ll have to have my wits about me.
I glance at the clock that ticks softly on the mantlepiece, above a fireplace that must be a lovely treat in wintertime.
I’d like to fall asleep to the golden glow of dancing flames.
Correction: I’d like to fall asleep in Cavill’s arms to the golden glow of dancing flames.
At that thought my heart aches for him while my mind pushes away any allusion to the terrible decision I’m going to have to make.
I’m determined to enjoy every precious moment with him, while I still can.
It’s seven thirty. I’m wondering what time they have breakfast when I hear a light knocking on the door as it opens and Crocker walks in. ‘Morning, ma’am,’ she says, then briskly opens the two sets of curtains. I squint in the glare. ‘Another lovely day,’ she declares.
‘Morning, Crocker,’ I reply and stretch.
She goes into the bathroom and I hear the gush of water as she turns the taps to run a bath.
How very luxurious to have a bath in the morning, especially when I don’t have to run it myself!
When she comes back into the bedroom, I strike up a conversation.
‘It’s going to be a busy day at the Aphrodite,’ I begin.
‘Only five days to go until first night,’ she replies, taking a purple silk dressing gown off the hook on the bathroom door and laying it over the bed. ‘I hope Ned Pollock has learned his lines.’
‘I’m sure he has,’ I reply blindly.
She frowns at me doubtfully. ‘Ever the optimist, if you don’t mind me saying. Still, you’ll be there to prompt him if he dries up.’
I take that on board. Am I the official prompter?
‘Well, he has just five days to learn them,’ I add, wondering whether Ned Pollock will be playing Macbeth.
She laughs and puts her hands on her hips.
‘Poor Nessa. A drama queen she might be, but she did have her heart set on playing Lady Macbeth, didn’t she?
And Mr Bentley assured her back in the autumn that the part was hers.
Poor lamb. Not fair to be let down like that.
Still, whatever you said to her yesterday evening seems to have lifted her spirits. It’s nice to see her smiling again.’
‘Yes, I’m going to have a word with Mr Bentley today. I think he’s treated her badly.’
Mrs Crocker shakes her head. ‘In more ways than one,’ she says cryptically.
I want to ask what she means, but she’s giving me a knowing look, as if we’re both in on a secret. ‘Yes, that too,’ I add and arch an eyebrow, hoping she’ll elaborate. But why would she elaborate on something she believes I already know?
‘You enjoy your bath, ma’am. I’ll tell Cook you’ll be down in half an hour for breakfast. I suppose I’d better wake the girls. Those two sleep like bears.’
Eddie’s wardrobe is limited. I count five day dresses, two short evening dresses, one very elaborate long one, a pile of woollen sweaters, a couple of pairs of trousers – they would call them slacks – and shirts.
I’m not sure what Eddie would wear to the theatre, but I follow my instinct and choose a pair of beige slacks and a white shirt.
No such thing as trainers, but there is a pair of brown lace-up shoes.
I appraise myself in the long mirror and like what I see.
Indeed, I like being Eddie Skipton. She has style as well as beauty.
I think I look quite chic and head on down to breakfast with a bounce in my step.
I sit at the head of the dining table and Nancy comes in with a pot of hot tea and a rack of toast on a tray.
As Pixie I seldom eat breakfast, but I’m Eddie Skipton now, and she clearly enjoys toast with butter and marmalade for the two are arranged in front of my place.
I’m tucking into my second piece of toast and glancing at the front page of The Times when the girls appear, looking like a pair of marmots whose hibernation has just been interrupted.
They mutter good morning and then take the chairs either side of me.
Nessa is wearing a cream-coloured, drop-waisted dress and a long cardigan while Lavinia is wearing slacks, and a rather lovely short Fair Isle knit sweater in taupe and green.
Nancy brings them porridge and coffee and they gradually begin to perk up.
The subject of conversation turns once again to Gilda, and Nessa’s resentment of her, and I try to remain neutral in spite of having admitted to finding her acting wooden.
Lavinia agrees with everything Nessa says, like a trusty lady-in-waiting.
For all her bluster, Nessa is a fragile soul.
I pity her for her unsupportive family and for having been let down by Mr Bentley, but I pity her most for her terrible end.
It’s hard to imagine that in just under five days’ time she will be dead.