Chapter Nineteen
A few months after our sojourn in Southsea, Henry kept his word and cast me in Tennyson’s play The Cup.
As excited as I was at being part of Bram and Ellen’s world, treading the boards, I also wondered if this was Henry’s way of proving he could indeed direct me.
Not that he did much of that, as Ellen said.
He oversaw very few rehearsals, leaving much of it to Harry and even Bram.
Henry liked to manage the big set pieces.
I never saw him run lines with Ellen or practise his entrances and exits.
He lurked around the theatre, watching, thinking, snapping his fingers for Bram to follow, barking orders, providing feedback on performances he viewed, Harry Loveday a shadow behind him.
I wasn’t given a speaking part, so there was no risk of me stealing the limelight. Along with ninety-nine other young women, I was given the very minor role of a vestal virgin. It was impossible to distinguish one from another. No doubt, Henry’s idea of humour.
When I read the play, I was underwhelmed. Not that anyone would dare say that to the poet laureate, Alfred, Lord Tennyson. It was an extravagant production, even by Henry’s standards, with elaborate sets and a literal cast of hundreds.
‘Henry takes realism too far,’ commented Bram one evening after a long rehearsal.
‘Why must there be real food, real flowers and even damn forests? The quantities of gold leaf, peacock feathers, ostrich feathers, genuine jewels, beggars belief. It’s make-believe, for godsakes.
And I’m the one who must find the money to pay for such things.
Still,’ he admitted, after a restorative dram of whisky, ‘when everyone is distracted by the staging, they’re not considering the rather woeful plot. ’
Woeful plot or not, the elation of being part of the production, the numerous rehearsals, the costume fittings, applying make-up, having my hair brushed and braided by expert hands, escaping my everyday life for a few months, was something I’ll hold onto for the rest of my days.
I couldn’t help but be grateful to Henry for that.
What I didn’t expect when I was given a role, but enjoyed equally, was observing my husband at work.
At home, Bram was an altogether different prospect.
It wasn’t so much that he ceded control to me, though in many ways, apart from handling bills, he did.
I was responsible for the day-to-day running of the house – with a great deal of help from Mrs Daw and Emma.
Matilda had moved into her own accommodation after we returned from holidays, a small flat not too far away, so we still saw each other regularly.
I don’t know where I would have been without Elizabeth either – certainly not able to perform at the Lyceum.
But seeing Bram execute his duties as acting manager, with forty-eight staff at his beck and call, as well as handling distinguished audiences every single night, made me see a different side of him – a more authoritative one.
I liked it, or more accurately, I admired and respected this side of his nature.
When one of the lads in the orchestra left his violin case in the aisle, blocking it, Bram was on the warpath.
‘Whose is this?’ he called angrily, holding the offending item aloft. A young musician held up a trembling hand. ‘Mine, Mr Stoker,’ he squeaked. The orchestra ceased tuning their instruments, the conductor glaring at the shaking lad.
‘The aisles must be clear at all times, do you understand?’ said Bram. ‘Even something as insignificant as this can cause injury.’
The lad nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He went to climb out of the pit to retrieve it.
‘Stay there, Joshua, isn’t it? I’ll bring it to you.’ Bram strode down the aisle and passed it to the red-faced lad.
‘How’s your mammy, by the way?’ he asked, his martial tone evaporating. ‘Has she recovered from the ague she was suffering?’
‘Y–yes, s–sir, thank you, sir,’ stammered Joshua, taking his case and sitting down.
‘He can be a right bastard, Mr Stoker,’ whispered one of the vestal virgins, watching the incident unfold. ‘It’s that Irish temper. I wouldn’t want to be on the end of that.’
‘I can think of something I’d like to be on the end of,’ said another of the virgins, sidling up and winking. There were giggles. Among the extras, no-one knew I was married to Bram.
‘Say what you like,’ said another. ‘But he never forgets to ask after family, does he?’
There were nods and gentle murmurs. More than a few women’s eyes stayed on Bram. Now I could add these virgins to the ever-growing tally of women who loved him. Was I the only one inured to his charm?
I was there the day his Irish temper flared again. This time, it was with Jonathan Hurst who oversaw the box office.
‘Jonathan!’ Bram hollered from the middle of the auditorium, almost bringing the rehearsal to a standstill. He was doing a check on the seating plan for the premiere. In less than two weeks, the play would open.
Jonathan appeared at the back of the theatre, before he scurried down the aisle to where Bram stood, sheets of paper in his hand. The carpenters and upholsterers repairing some seating darted out of his way.
‘These seats belong to Lord Southby and his party,’ said Bram, his voice carrying. ‘Not as you’ve allocated here, the duke and his entourage.’
Jonathan stared at the page Bram showed him. ‘I … I thought a duke should be given precedence, sir.’
‘Not in my theatre,’ said Bram darkly. ‘Lord Southby is not only a loyal and frequent patron, he’s a Beefsteak Room regular.
They always get preference, understand? Now,’ he continued in an ordinary tone, his anger forgotten, ‘here’s the names of those Henry wishes to be given complimentary tickets.
See they’re sent an invitation.’ These were issued on specially printed cards, like a summons to a ball or royal event. Another Bram innovation.
‘Yes, sir.’
Was it only me who saw the flash of bitterness Jonathan levelled at Bram when his back was turned? He wasn’t the only one. Bram set high standards and expected others to follow them.
I marvelled at Bram’s vitality, knowing that once he finished here, he still had correspondence to deal with, plus all the social engagements Henry organised. How he managed to spend any time at home or focus on his own writing was indeed a miracle.
Perhaps I was too hard on him. Perhaps my expectations were too high.
Yet, having seen my husband take command when Henry wasn’t to be found, watching him in a subservient role the moment the man materialised became increasingly repugnant. He trailed after Henry; ‘Yes, Chief’, ‘No, guv’na’. It pained me to see him reduced so.
It was only when he was in Henry’s company that Bram became somehow diminished.
He was like a puppy, tail wagging, slavishly devoted.
My husband was quite the conundrum. At times, he was all manliness and leadership; at others, womanly and eager to be led.
It was confusing and it troubled me in a way I couldn’t articulate.
I wondered how long Bram could tolerate such a situation.
I could scarcely stand it.
The opening night of The Cup is seared into my memory. Not so much for the excitement of being on stage before a full house, at one moment alive with noise and movement and the next, as the lights dimmed and the music commenced, falling silent – but because of Oscar.
Over the months, apart from occasionally hearing his name in relation to salons or as part of a Beefsteak dinner (to which I hadn’t been invited), I’d managed to push him (mostly) to the back of my mind.
Married life and motherhood didn’t allow room for the perfidious ideas that used to crowd my head.
Oscar began to fade into the background as a fond memory of what might have been but wasn’t. Or so I told myself.
Until The Cup.
It was half an hour before curtain call.
I was sitting in a corner of the large room given over to the extras for dressing and make-up, when I saw Ellen’s maid, Judith, push her way through the crush.
I was dwelling on what I’d be doing had I been at home and feeling more than a little grateful I was here, about to embark on an adventure instead of putting the babbie to bed or sitting by the fire reading.
I wasn’t aware Judith sought me until there was a light tap on my shoulder.
‘Miss Terry is asking for ye, missus,’ she whispered.
‘Ohhh! Who’s important then?’ drawled one of the virgins beside me. A ‘virgin’ who usually made her living in the music halls, and we all knew what that meant. If Mother or Father could see me now, they’d be mortified.
Grateful Judith hadn’t called me by my name, I swiftly followed her, wondering what was so important Ellen was asking for me this close to the curtain rising. Was something wrong? Had Henry changed his mind and decided I wasn’t good enough to make my debut?
‘Look what arrived for you,’ said Ellen, as I entered her dressing room.
Filled with flowers and gifts from admirers, screens draped with sparkling, bold costumes, a heady, wild fragrance that was all Ellen’s, as well as dozens of pairs of shoes, hats, wigs, bright jewels, and the oily smell of make-up, her room was an Aladdin’s cave – a place where magic happened.
A snowstorm of powder-dust enveloped me.
As I reached her side, she thrust an arrangement of beautiful flowers into my hand.
Judith shut the door and busied herself folding Ellen’s regular clothes.
Dressed as Queen Camma, Ellen was resplendent in a gown that wrapped around her fine figure.
It appeared to have been woven from the wings of a dragonfly.
Bands of gold circled the lower part of her arms, and a bejewelled cap sat atop her golden locks.
I couldn’t speak; I was stunned by her regal beauty.
Ellen looked pointedly at the flowers, clearing her throat. ‘For you.’
‘Why, Ellen, that’s so very kind of —’