Chapter Eleven #2
Lydia, the young woman with big blue eyes who had lunch with Wallie, now rushes up to join us.
Her smile is uninhibited and her blue dress, covered in tassels and sequins, appears to move all on its own, even though she looks decidedly uncomfortable in it.
She carries a glass of champagne in one hand and between the fingers of the other, a cigarette in a long ebony holder.
‘Thanks to Aunt Wallie’s generosity,’ she gushes, ‘darling Aphrodite will steam on for another year. Isn’t that marvellous? ’
‘Oh, it really is,’ I reply, smiling broadly to show how very excited I am. ‘You are incredibly generous, Lady Faversham. I can’t thank you enough.’
The elderly lady frowns at me. ‘Good Lord, we’re not standing on ceremony now, Eddie dear.’
I assume she’s referring to my use of her title. I laugh and shrug off yet another faux pas. ‘Habit,’ I state simply. But would Eddie call her Wallie? It feels wrong somehow, akin to calling our Queen Elizabeth, Lilibet. I decide not to call her anything.
Lydia draws on her cigarette and exhales a puff of smoke.
In spite of the elegant ebony holder, she fails to make the action feminine.
‘Owning a theatre is an expensive hobby,’ she continues.
She looks beyond Lady Faversham and puts her cigarette holder between her lips again.
I follow the line of her gaze. She seems to be looking at Cavill, who stands head and shoulders above everyone else in the middle of the garden.
He senses he’s being watched and lifts his gaze off his companions.
Those familiar eyes find mine and we lock together with the almost audible click of a pot whose lid fits to perfection.
I watch his face light up and, without pausing his conversation, his lips curl at the corners into a small smile.
At the sight of it, my stomach flips over with joy, and I have to restrain myself from fighting my way through the crowd to be with him.
I return to my senses. Does this woman mean that Cavill owns the theatre? Surely not.
Is he Mr Garrett?
‘My dear Lydia,’ says Lady Faversham in the tone of a teacher talking to a rather dim student. ‘Even Pengower’s wealth has limits. His wife is doing her best to burn her way through it. Poor man. Keeping her happy is an expensive hobby, indeed.’
I find it hard to believe they’re speaking of Cavill Pengower, but what other Pengower could it be?
I try to remember his references to his wife while Lydia and Lady Faversham move on to discuss the merits of marriage.
It’s clearly one of Lady Faversham’s favourite subjects and one that Lydia is only too happy to indulge.
It’s a relief when the butler announces in a loud voice that the show is about to begin and can the esteemed guests please make their way into the drawing room.
The crowd moves obediently back into the house and people begin to take the seats set out for them in front of the stage.
I find myself drawn into brief salutations with various people who obviously know Eddie well.
Mercifully, the dialogues are short, owing to the movement of the guests which, like a stream, carries me forward, and are little more than enquiries after my health, comments on the glorious weather and the anticipation of the up-and-coming performances of Macbeth.
I want to talk to Cavill, but I don’t know where he is.
My heart sinks. I’m lost in this sea of strangers who greet me with familiarity, expecting the same level of familiarity in return.
It’s a disconcerting feeling. I imagine this is what it must be like to lose one’s memory.
It’s a shame I can’t feign a fall and then claim amnesia.
I spot Nessa and Lavinia in one of the middle rows and make my way towards them.
They seem surprised when I sit with them.
I say nothing but notice them put their heads together and speak in low voices.
The row fills up. The middle-aged man who takes the chair beside mine is porcine with red hair and a red face and bushy yellow eyebrows that remind me of hairy caterpillars.
He bows and greets me enthusiastically. ‘By Jove, this is a fine way to spend a Friday evening, is it not?’ he exclaims in a fruity voice.
‘Ever since Gilda Garrett came to Seacombe, it’s been one long party.
Viva L’Americana,’ he says in a very English accent and chuckles heartily.
Just then Cavill walks up the aisle. I spot him at once. He’s looking at me with a perplexed expression on his face. ‘Eddie, what the devil are you doing there?’ he asks.
I try not to look lost.
‘Come on, your seat awaits you at the front.’
I turn to the girls. They are looking at me with the same bewilderment. ‘I’m not sure what Skippy had for breakfast,’ says Nessa and laughs. Lavinia laughs with her, not unkindly.
I get up and the porcine man has to get up also. I only just manage to squeeze past his barrel belly. Cavill puts out a hand and I take it, allowing him to guide me into the aisle. He shakes his head and lets me go. ‘You’re beside me,’ he tells me softly. ‘Where else would I seat you?’
He stands aside and I make my way to the front row, the fond way he looked at me still creating butterflies in my stomach.
I can feel my face burning. I’m not sure Eddie Skipton would blush so easily.
There are two empty seats. One is beside Lady Faversham, the other on the aisle.
I take the latter, assuming that Cavill will sit next to Lady Faversham.
Thank goodness I get that right. No one seems surprised when I take that chair.
I cross my legs and try to calm my frantically beating heart.
Cavill goes and stands in front of the stage.
The chatter dies down and the room eventually goes quiet.
He sweeps his blue eyes over the audience and then speaks.
‘Lady Faversham, lords, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce my wife Gilda Garrett, who needs no introduction, to be sure, and to thank you all for your continuing support of the Aphrodite.’ I feel the blood drain to my feet.
So Cavill is married to Gilda! She is the glitter, the bauble on the Christmas tree, the woman he doesn’t love.
Gilda Garrett is obviously her stage name.
‘As you know,’ he continues. ‘I bought it a year and a half ago for Gilda so that she could realise her dream of being a leading lady of the stage. And a leading lady she most certainly is. I am very proud of her, and grateful to you, my dear friends, for welcoming us so warmly to Seacombe, for making us feel at home in this new town, and for generously giving, so that our small band of dramatics enthusiasts can pursue their art and their dreams.’ He drops his eyes onto me, and I flinch at the sudden unexpected beam of attention.
‘The theatre is new territory for me,’ he says without averting his gaze.
‘And I have had to learn the ropes. Therefore, I thank Mrs Skipton – Edwina, Eddie, Skippy – she has various names, because you are all so terribly fond of her, as are my wife and I – for her guidance, support and tolerance, because we arrived from America and took it over. She has never once shown impatience or, indeed, regret. It is with great respect to Tom Skipton, who was a cherished member of this community, that we keep the Aphrodite going, so that you may enjoy many evenings of entertainment, and my dear wife many opportunities to express her art. Tonight she expresses it in a slightly different manner. I do hope you enjoy it. Thank you.’
There’s an enthusiastic round of applause as he takes the seat beside me.
I feel the pressure of his arm pressed to mine and am acutely aware of his every movement.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to focus on the show, so intense is his presence.
There’s a brief pause as the audience takes an expectant breath and I mouth thank you.
He holds my gaze for a lingering moment and then the curtains part.
There, seated serenely in a rowing boat in a white dress with her long Titian red hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back is Gilda Garrett as, unmistakeably, the Lady of Shalott.
At once I recognise the echo of the famous painting by John William Waterhouse for it hangs in the Tate, which Ulysses and I have visited on many occasions.
Gilda sits upon a pink patterned throw similar to the one in the painting which is draped over the side of the boat, and the backdrop is rendered to resemble the trees and the stage floor the river.
As the audience show their admiration with another round of applause, Gilda lifts her chin and begins to speak.
‘On either side the river lie …’ she begins, and I wonder whether she’s going to recite the entire poem by Tennyson, which has about twenty stanzas, or whether we might be spared, for as beautiful as she undoubtedly is with her milky white skin, high cheekbones, full, sensual mouth and vivid green eyes, she simply cannot act.
Her voice is flat and her movements wooden.
I want to see whether I’m the only one who has noticed how talentless she is, but I dare not take my eyes off the stage.
Surely Cavill cannot be so blinded by her beauty to fail to see how very bad she is.