Chapter Sixteen
The waitress brings a mug of hot chocolate on a tray, along with a scone, butter and jam, and arranges it all on the table in front of Sylvia.
Sylvia takes another drag before stubbing the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray and putting the holder back in her bag.
‘I really don’t know why she chooses such a difficult life,’ she says, and sighs despairingly.
‘Humphrey is prepared to make it very easy for her, if only she would allow him. He loves her very much, you know, even though he sometimes has a strange way of showing it. He only wants the best for her, as do I. You will disagree, of course, but theatre is not a healthy environment for a young lady like Nessa. She should settle down with a good man and busy herself in the home. That’s where nice girls belong.
You’re different, Edwina. Marrying a man who owns a theatre is not the same as treading the boards yourself.
Humphrey can’t even manage the word “actress” without it getting stuck in his throat.
It’s embarrassing, and he has a reputation to uphold.
It’s taken many years, but he has built up a successful business and is now enjoying the fruits of his labour.
Nessa is a thorn in what should be a bed of roses. ’
‘I think that’s very unfair,’ I reply. I watch her take a sip of chocolate. Her hand is trembling. I sense there’s more to this conversation than she’s letting on. ‘A woman should be allowed to follow whatever path she wants to take. And not necessarily with a man.’
Sylvia puts down her mug with a loud thud and glares at me in horror. ‘Have you gone quite mad, Edwina? Not necessarily with a man! I’m not sure what your widowhood has done to you, but surely, you can see that a woman without a man is a lost and vulnerable thing. A woman is nothing without a man.’
I remind myself of the time I’m in. The Suffragettes still have a long way to go. A woman’s place continues to be very much in the home. ‘Well, Nessa can live with me and realise her dreams of being an actress,’ I suggest, and drop my argument.
Sylvia rips the scone in half with her burgundy nails and garnishes it with thick layers of butter and jam. ‘And you think you can support her forever, do you? I don’t think you understand, Edwina. Humphrey will cut her off. What will she live on when you are gone?’
I feel out of my depth, suddenly, although this conversation is actually irrelevant, bearing in mind the tragedy that is going to befall Nessa. ‘Then why is he coming to watch her on Wednesday?’ I ask.
Sylvia’s jaw stiffens and she doesn’t look at me but stares hard into her mug. ‘Because I have asked him to,’ she says.
‘And he’ll do what you say?’ Humphrey Blunt does not sound like the sort of man who will bow to the will of a wife.
She lifts her chin and stares at me defiantly. ‘He has on this occasion, yes.’
‘I’m sorry, Sylvia, but this reeks of a lie. It just doesn’t add up. Humphrey is about to cut Nessa off because she’s disobeying him and playing a part in Macbeth, but he’s coming to watch her anyway. Not buying it. Sorry.’
She stares at me with startled eyes. I don’t know whether it’s my language that’s surprised her, or my non-cooperation. ‘It’s true,’ she replies.
I laugh. ‘No, it isn’t. Come on, Sylvia. Out with it.’
She forks a piece of scone into her mouth and chews on it thoughtfully. After a long moment, she washes it down with a swig of chocolate and then looks at me fearfully. ‘You are not yourself today, Edwina.’
I sigh. The part I’m playing is far harder than any Shakespeare created. ‘I’m just weary of you both standing in the way of Nessa’s dream,’ I tell her, and hope that I sound more like the sister she knows.
Sylvia sucks in her cheeks, then brings out her cigarette case once more and, as she slips another cigarette into the holder and lights it, she doesn’t say a word.
She’s ruminating on my words and deciding whether to surrender.
Finally, she inhales the nicotine greedily.
The little end glows crimson. She exhales smoke through her nostrils like a dragon and drops her shoulders in resignation.
‘Very well, Edwina. I will tell you the truth. Humphrey does not want a scandal, and neither do I. That is the fundamental truth. We need you, no, we ask you in the strongest terms, to persuade Nessa to give it up. To walk away. To do the right thing. Humphrey and I will be there to watch her on Wednesday. We will applaud. We will smile. We will be gracious. Everyone will believe that Nessa is stepping away of her own accord. Do you understand now, Edwina? Nessa will come home, marry George Cavendish, who is a dear, and give up her silly ideas of being an actress. You must make her do it. We are counting on you.’
I nod slowly, deliberating whether to mention Taran. If I do, will I let Nessa down? Will I set the cat among the pigeons? Will I make the situation so much worse? I make a quick decision and hope that it’s the right one. ‘Do you know a man named Taran?’ I ask and then hold my breath.
She shakes her head. ‘Should I?’
I shrug. ‘Well, you clearly don’t.’
‘No, I don’t. Who is he?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me.’
‘Someone I think Nessa is fond of,’ I tell her carefully.
She looks horrified. ‘Good Lord! What sort of a name is Taran? What is his last name?’
‘That I don’t know.’
‘How did you come across the name Taran then?’
‘I overheard the girls talking.’
‘Lavinia and Nessa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Taran might be Lavinia’s lover,’ she suggests hopefully.
‘Perhaps,’ I agree, happy to put her off the scent.
She gives her head a little shake. ‘It’s academic, really, because one way or the other Nessa will come home, and she will marry someone suitable.
I cannot understand why she doesn’t like George.
She’s not a great beauty herself. She should consider herself lucky that he likes the look of her.
Suitors are not exactly knocking down her door, are they?
’ She taps ash into the tray. ‘I want to avoid things escalating out of proportion,’ she continues.
‘I don’t want it to get nasty. The washing of one’s dirty linen in public must be avoided at all costs.
That is frightfully common, and we will not descend to that.
Humphrey has not worked his fingers to the bone to be tarnished with that. ’
‘Very well. I will do my best,’ I reply, because she’s right, it really is academic, but not in the way that she thinks.
I watch her tight face and pursed lips as she draws uneasily on her cigarette, and feel sorry for her, because in just over two days’ time her daughter will die.
It’s too horrendous to imagine. And once Nessa is gone, will Sylvia and Humphrey regret their lack of support, or will they blame Nessa’s ambitions for destroying her?
That is something I will never know.
Sylvia drops her shoulders. ‘Thank you.’
‘But Nessa is stubborn,’ I add.
She chuckles joylessly. ‘You’re telling me?’
‘Our children don’t belong to us, Sylvia.
’ I want to quote from Khalil Gibran’s beautiful book The Prophet but I’m not sure whether it’s been published yet, so I paraphrase the part about children.
‘We bring them into the world and guide them as best we can. But we must allow them to go their own way. To make their own decisions. To fail. That’s what life is about.
Making mistakes and learning from them. We mustn’t make them live in our shadow, as little versions of ourselves. They must be free to be themselves.’
She stares at me, cigarette poised. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Edwina. You don’t have children.’
I laugh then, because she has totally missed the point. ‘It doesn’t matter, Sylvia. Why don’t you have another scone? A horse would gobble up at least ten.’
She departs as nervously as she arrived.
I think I’ve baffled her with my opinions and the language I used to express them.
I obviously didn’t sound like the Edwina she knows.
It doesn’t matter, for I’ve learned two important things: one, Taran is not someone she has ever heard of, therefore, he must be involved in the theatre.
Two, Nessa’s parents have no intention of allowing her to be an actress.
Her determination to show them how good she is in order to win them over is futile.
Wasted energy. They’re never going to be won over, because they don’t want to be.
My heart goes out to her for the limited freedom she has.
Right now, she believes she’s treading her own path, but the truth is, if the fire hadn’t cut her life short, she would probably have been forced to conform.
What other choice would she have? Her father would cut her off financially, and how would she then earn a living?
Is Eddie’s bank account large enough to support the pair of them indefinitely? Would Eddie want to?
As I walk to the theatre, I ruminate on the situation thus far: Nessa longs to be an actress, hence her presence, as a spirit, on stage in Joseph Lightwater’s production.
She loathes Gilda Garrett, which explains why she transfers that loathing on to Isadora Nash in the present.
Both women are glamorous American leading ladies, although one is talented, the other is not.
Nonetheless, I’m yet to discover how the fire starts, and I’d really like to know the role Taran plays in her life, if he has a role at all.
For a woman so besotted with a man, she is very good at hiding it.
I arrive at the theatre to find that the set has been put up.
It’s astonishing. I stand at the back of the auditorium and stare in wonder at the magic of it, and that’s even without the effects of lighting.
The stage has come to life and is now a dark and foreboding forest of tall trees, twisted branches and a spooky-looking castle. Lydia has done a tremendous job.