Chapter Sixteen #3
I return to the auditorium. Nessa is still on the chair, watching Mr Bentley giving directions and striding about the stage with the confidence of a ring master.
The dress rehearsal is tomorrow and it’s his responsibility that everyone knows what they’re doing.
These are amateurs, but there are some very fine actors among them.
Mr Pollock plays Ross. He’s a big, burly man with black curls and cocoa-brown eyes who’s presence on stage is surprising, because he’s not especially impressive off it.
Mr Swan plays Malcolm. Tall and thin like a leek, with a large nose and blue eyes set close together, he evolves beautifully in the play from weak and timid, to confident and masterful.
Mr Patterson is Angus. He’s cheeky, with the raw wit of a man who is not well educated but has a natural cleverness.
He’s short in stature, with wild red hair and mischievous grey eyes, and always looks as if he’s about to break into laughter.
Mr Bentley is constantly telling him off for mucking about.
He’s not mucking about today, however. The last of Macbeth’s cohorts, Seyton, is played by an older man with a short grey beard and thinning grey hair named Mr Ferris.
I wonder whether one of them is called Taran.
Maybe he’s not an actor, but someone backstage.
A lighting man, perhaps, or one of the boys who changes the sets between acts.
Eddie knows all these people, so I can’t ask them their names.
I take a seat in the auditorium and watch the rehearsal.
When they stop for a break, Mr Bentley comes and joins me.
‘It’s looking good,’ I say, as he takes the seat a few away from me, delves into the inside pocket of his jacket and brings out an enamel cigarette case.
Everyone seems to own one! He proceeds to light a cigarette with a flint wheel lighter.
I’m astonished by the amount of people who smoke.
But then it’s years before they learn about the connection between cigarettes and lung cancer.
‘I’m feeling confident,’ he replies, holding the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and taking a long drag. He blows the smoke out with relish. ‘Do you like the set?’
‘It’s absolutely magnificent,’ I reply.
He looks at me with a kind expression in his eyes. ‘I didn’t realise that Macbeth was Mr Skipton’s last play. Miss Redcliffe told me.’
‘He adored it,’ I reply.
‘I believe we’re doing it justice. We have a terrific cast.’
‘Gilda is anxious about her abilities,’ I say, deciding to use Gilda as an opening into discussing Nessa.
‘Miss Garrett’s beauty compensates for her lack of talent.’ He puts the cigarette between his lips again and turns his eyes to the stage. ‘She’s improving all the time.’
‘I would like to see Nessa given more of an opportunity,’ I add.
He considers this request of mine with a moment’s silence, then flicks ash into the little brass ash tray on the back of the seat in front of him. ‘As you and I both know, that will no longer be my responsibility.’
I presume he’s talking about his leaving and moving to London. I take a punt. ‘We will miss you.’
‘That is very kind of you, Mrs Skipton.’
‘Gilda will miss you the most.’
He keeps his eyes trained on the stage. ‘As we discussed, I would like to keep my leaving quiet for the time being, at least until after this run. Mr Pengower will announce my replacement when he’s ready. I don’t want to upset the cast.’
‘Of course,’ I reply. ‘I haven’t breathed a word to anyone.’
‘I must say, I will miss this place, and these people. I’ve grown tremendously fond of it all. But one must take opportunities when they arise. London will be a big change, but I’m confident I will rise to the challenge.’
‘As only you can, Mr Bentley.’
He laughs, and the lines around his mouth crease attractively. He’s very good-looking when he smiles.
‘Righty-ho, onwards!’ He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and gets up. ‘Oh, by the way, I meant to bring the programmes in this morning. They look smashing. I’ll bring them in tomorrow. I think you’ll be pleased.’
‘Wonderful!’ I exclaim. Perhaps this mysterious Taran will be revealed at last.
To my disappointment, Cavill does not show up at the theatre that afternoon.
I watch the rehearsals for most of the day, turning hopefully every time the door opens behind me.
I wonder where he is and why he isn’t coming in to see me, but then I remind myself that, for him, there is no urgency.
He doesn’t know that on Wednesday night the theatre will burn down.
He doesn’t know that I will slide back to my time.
He has no idea how precious these grains of sand are that are slipping through the neck of the hourglass. Grains of sand we can never get back.
I leave the theatre feeling down. It’s early evening, almost everyone has left.
Nessa, who accompanies me home, is in a lively mood.
She has a skip in her step and is full of chatter.
I don’t tell her that I asked Mr Bentley in a roundabout way to give her a better part in the next production, because I doubt she knows that he’s leaving.
I’m grateful that he told me it was a secret, because otherwise I would most certainly have let the cat out of the bag!
This timesliding business if full of Pooh traps.
If I’m not on my guard, I’ll step blindly into one!
It’s a beautiful evening. The setting sun has turned the sky to a dusky pink and streaks of purple-bellied cloud hover unmoving above it.
The first star twinkles faintly in the depths of limpid blue and I know I’m not mistaking it for a plane or a satellite.
The quiet is a delight for me too, and I feel resentful, suddenly, that the modern world I know has lost this simplicity, this peace.
I feel cross at the devastation to come.
At the madness of mankind who will bring so much misery upon itself.
How utterly irrational and unwise humans can be! How blind!
And I look across at Nessa, so happy and carefree beside me, and the ache in my heart intensifies. How will I bear to stand aside and let her die in the fire, when I could so easily prevent it?
I will bear it because I have to. Because I’m not here to save her now. I’m here to save her later. I take a deep breath and try to rise above the sick feeling in my stomach.
I’m here to save her soul.
‘Oh bother!’ she exclaims, putting up her hands. ‘I’ve left my manuscript at the theatre.’
‘Do you need it?’
‘Yes, I do! I’ll run back.’
I suspect she’s up to something. ‘I’ll come with you,’ I suggest.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘I want to. I’ve got nothing else to do.’
‘Silly me!’ She laughs. ‘I don’t know where my head is today.’
We set off the way we came at an accelerated pace.
When we reach the Aphrodite I follow her round to a side door.
I discover that it’s locked. Nessa puts out her hand expectantly, and I assume I must have a key in my bag.
I rummage around and find Eddie’s set on the keyring.
I give it to Nessa, and she unlocks the door with the natural ease of someone who has done this many times.
We enter into a rather dingy corridor. I haven’t come in this way before.
She flicks on the lights, then turns to me and says, ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ and heads off down the corridor towards backstage.
I let her go a moment, and then follow. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find, but I sense she’s up to something. She’s a woman on a mission and I imagine it has something to do with Gilda.
It’s eerily quiet in there. The old theatre seems to be asleep.
Like an arthritic old man in uneasy slumber, it creaks deep in its bones.
There are shuffling sounds, probably mice beneath the floorboards.
But the theatre sleeps on. I pad softly down the stone floor.
I try to work out what I’m going to say to Nessa when she finds that I’ve followed her.
I could use the excuse of my lost book again.
I realise that’s not a good enough reason. She’ll sniff a rat. She’s not stupid.
The shuffling and creaking get louder. I realise it’s not the sound of mice, or the old bones of the place, but human beings.
I stop and cock my ear. Yes, human beings, gasping and moaning.
My heartbeat suddenly accelerates. The hairs prick up on the back of my neck.
The muscles in my stomach clench. I sense danger.
Is it Nessa? Did she return for a clandestine meeting?
Could she, while I’m waiting by the door? Would she … ?
I follow the sounds.
It doesn’t take long. The theatre is not very big.
I see Nessa. She’s hiding in the wing, holding her manuscript, staring in horror at something on stage.
She turns to look at me. Her eyes are wide and frightened.
I hurry softly to her side. There, in plain view, standing up against the wall at the far end of the stage like a strange four-limbed creature, are a man and woman making love.
I’m stunned at the brazenness of it. The reckless abandon.
The golden hair is unmistakeable, as is the shapely figure and pale pink tea dress.
One leg is wrapped around the man, the black top of her stocking shocking somehow against the white of her skin. And he is Mr Bentley.
I hurriedly draw Nessa away, lest we are seen. She grabs my arm, looks miserably into my eyes, and utters in a guttural whisper the word I’ve been waiting to hear. ‘Taran!’