Chapter Twenty-One
Nessa and I have lunch together and I hold on to the image of the radiant cherry tree and remind myself that we are never alone.
We are surrounded, all the time, by those in spirit who are there to help us as we make our way blindly along our paths.
Nessa is about to complete her life. She will leave having done what she came here to do, whatever that may be.
The only trouble is she doesn’t return home; she chooses to stay.
Right now, I know that she loves Taran Bentley – or she believes she does.
It’s either an unhealthily obsessional infatuation, or a childish one.
I don’t know which. She despises Gilda Garrett.
She longs to be a leading lady of the stage.
Are all these things enough to explain her remaining here after she leaves her body? I sense that they are not.
There has to be something more.
Souls usually remain bound to the earth plane because they don’t realise they’re dead – Nessa, in the present, is very much aware that she’s dead.
They often remain because they hate too much, or love too much, or are afraid of the light that is there to show them the way home.
Is Nessa’s love too intense? Is her hate too strong?
I don’t believe so because she, as a spirit, is well aware of time having passed, and that Taran Bentley and Gilda Garrett are both long dead.
Additionally, spirits can remain because, for some reason, they can’t find the way home.
But this cannot be the case either, because Nessa claimed to have made fools of the mediums and priests who tried to help move her on, as I did.
The fact is, she doesn’t want to go home.
Why?
At four, I go upstairs on the pretence of going to my bedroom to change.
I leave Nessa in the drawing room, playing solitaire at the round table.
She declares that she needs to distract herself otherwise nerves will get the better of her.
She has managed to convince herself that Gilda won’t make it to the theatre tonight and that she will be playing Lady Macbeth in front of her parents.
She’s excited and fearful at the same time.
‘This is the biggest night of my life, Skippy. Everything depends on it.’
It infuriates me to know that her parents have already decided that they will not support her.
That they’ll turn up, play their part, applaud and smile, while secretly intending to force her to give up on her dream.
Of course, it’s simply academic, because they won’t watch her perform.
They won’t applaud and smile. There won’t be a performance.
There will just be a fire, and that misguided pair will be left with their plans reduced to ashes, along with their daughter.
I hurry up the second flight of stairs to Nessa’s bedroom. I know where to find the journal and seize upon it impatiently. Time is running out and I have not a moment to waste. I will leave this house in an hour, and I won’t be coming back.
My ears are alert to every sound, but I’m quite alone. I open the diary and flick through the pages to the latest entry. I’m disappointed, however. There’s only one line and no mention of Taran and Gilda making love in the theatre, or of Nessa poisoning Gilda, if that’s what she did.
I must be cruel, only to be kind. I think of Nessa poisoning Gilda’s tea, and shudder.
I return the diary to its hiding place and go back downstairs, dissatisfied. I change into a navy-blue dress with white trimming. It’ll be warm in the theatre, so I choose a long cardigan I can shed when I’m in the wing.
Mrs Crocker appears in the doorway. ‘I wish you luck tonight, ma’am,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Crocker. Isn’t one meant to say, “Break a leg”?’
‘To the actors,’ she replies. ‘And you gave up on that idea a long time ago, if I recall.’
‘I did,’ I laugh. ‘I’m better behind the scenes.’
‘They’re lucky to have you.’
I smile at her affectionately. I’m aware that I will be leaving her, too, and that makes me sad. I’ve grown fond of her as well.
She sighs, that sympathetic look in her eyes again. ‘It’s a connection, isn’t it, ma’am? It keeps his memory alive. Mr Skipton’s memory. No one loved the theatre more than him. You’ve made sure his legacy lives on.’
It pains me to know that it will die tonight.
‘I think he would be pleased,’ I add. ‘Macbeth is a lovely tribute to him.’
Her eyes mist and she puts a hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, ma’am. The years go by, but they don’t make missing him any easier. He was a big presence in this house and without him it feels empty. I shouldn’t say this to you, but I cannot pretend otherwise.’
‘That’s all right, Crocker. I miss him too.’
By the time Nessa and I make our way to the theatre the sun is out and the rainclouds are retreating speedily on the wind.
They scud across the sky towards the far horizon, leaving behind a gentle, watery blue.
I’m filled with dread. This is the final time I will walk this route.
The final time I’ll arrive at the theatre.
I’m seized with the urge to grab Nessa by the arm and beg her not to come.
But even if I managed to convince her that something terrible is going to happen, I believe her desire to play the lead in front of her parents would spur her on anyway.
I doubt there’s anything I could do to stop her from meeting her destiny.
And if I did, perhaps she’d meet it another way.
Maybe meeting her destiny is unavoidable, written in the Book of Life.
That thought comforts me. It makes me feel less impotent and more ready to accept that there are things I cannot change.
There are two and a half hours before the play commences, but the theatre is already heaving with people.
The air quivers with a heightened energy which is thrilling, and for a moment I forget the tragedy that is to come, and my spirits rise on the heat of it, like a paper lantern.
Ned Pollock and Lydia are chatting in the foyer over cigarettes.
They greet us warmly. ‘Tonight is the night, girlies,’ says Lydia.
She’s wearing wide-legged trousers and a colourfully embroidered peasant’s blouse with a bright red scarf tied around her head and knotted above her temple so that the tasselled arms fall over her shoulder.
She looks raffish and ahead of her time.
She can’t imagine how in the future women will all wear trousers.
Ned rubs his hands together. ‘Tonight is your night, Nessa!’
Nessa beams a smile. ‘It’s going to be tremendous,’ she replies, and trembles with excitement. ‘I’m a bundle of nerves.’
‘Poor old Gilda,’ says Lydia. ‘Such a shame to miss the first night.’
‘The show must go on!’ says Ned.
Lavinia arrives, breathless. ‘Mr Waddle let me go early,’ she says. Her cheeks are flushed, her curly red hair falling away from the pins that secure it in a low bun.
Nessa and Lavinia disappear backstage. Lydia watches them go, then lowers her voice. ‘I bet my right arm that Gilda will be here,’ she says.
Ned pulls a face. ‘That’s a hefty bet, Miss Redcliffe. You can’t do without your right arm!’
She blows smoke out of the side of her mouth. ‘Trust me, she’s not going to let Miss Blunt steal her thunder.’
‘I think you’re right,’ I reply.
I don’t know the exact time the fire starts, but I do recall Madge saying that it started during a performance, which means that it won’t happen before the play is underway.
I’m certain Gilda has something to do with it.
Perhaps Nessa is furious that she turns up and thwarts her opportunity to perform, flies into a rage and sets the place on fire on purpose, to punish Gilda.
Does Nessa, in despair, commit suicide? Is that what this is all about?
But suicide just doesn’t seem likely. Nessa might have an unhealthy obsession with Taran Bentley, but she is not mentally ill.
I go backstage. None of the actors are getting ready yet.
The ones that are here, and not all of them are, are making themselves cups of tea and standing about chatting.
Mrs Fry has made egg and cucumber sandwiches and is handing them around on a plate.
Everyone is excited. It’s a sell-out, not a single empty seat.
I’m on edge. I need to speak to Cavill, but when?
What if he turns up just before the play starts? Then I won’t get my chance.
I kick myself for not having told him earlier. I had the opportunity, but I chickened out. I regret that now. I regret my lack of courage. My weakness. So much depends on me coming clean.
Nessa is convinced now that she is going to play Lady Macbeth. There is no news of Gilda. Even Mr Bentley doesn’t know whether she’ll show up. ‘This is very unlike her,’ he says when I bump into him in the corridor. ‘She’s usually punctual and keen.’
‘But Nessa is a good Lady Macbeth,’ I remind him.
‘She’s tremendous, yes.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Between you and me, it wouldn’t be a bad thing if Miss Garrett gave Miss Blunt a chance to shine. She deserves it. I see a bright future for Nessa Blunt.’
I hold his eyes steady, disguising my misery. What potential she has. Potential that will never be given the opportunity to flower.
‘Have you spoken to Mr Pengower?’ I ask, hoping to find out when he’ll be arriving.
Mr Bentley shakes his head. ‘No. I doubt he is any wiser than us.’
‘Surely, it’s courtesy to let you know.’
‘Come on, Mrs Skipton. You know Gilda Garrett. Have you ever known her to think of anyone else but herself?’
I laugh, because his face has lit up with admiration. He finds that quality attractive. ‘I suppose not,’ I reply.
‘Miss Garrett does exactly what she wants and the rest of us fall into line behind her,’ he continues.
‘Everyone except Mr Pengower,’ I add provocatively.