Chapter Twelve #3
The scene is interrupted once again by Ned forgetting his lines.
Mr Bentley makes them go back and do it again, giving instruction every now and then, encouraging Gilda to be less stiff, and I grind my teeth in frustration because no amount of coaching can loosen her.
My eyes follow the words as they’re recited, but my mind, and heart, are in the front row of the auditorium with Cavill.
I can’t look at him, but I can feel him as if he’s glowing like the sun.
I can feel the warmth on my skin. I can sense his breath, even his heartbeat.
And I feel not an ounce of guilt that his wife is only a few feet away, because, like her, I’m playing a part.
She is not Lady Macbeth, and I am not Eddie Skipton; I’m simply going along with her script.
That gives me licence to love him, doesn’t it?
But as heady as that licence is, it only accentuates the fact that Cavill doesn’t see me, Pixie. And I cannot help but want him to see me. Those tender looks, that colluding smile, those stolen kisses, are all for Eddie Skipton. How I long for them to be for me.
At last, Mr Bentley is satisfied. He announces that we’ll take a short break and he and Gilda leave through the back of the stage. I imagine they’re going to get coffee from the kitchen. I wonder whether there’s a character like Madge who is making sandwiches and cake.
Cavill stands and I go down to meet him. He puts his hands on his hips and smiles at me. The fondness in his gaze is so bare I feel my stomach flip over. Does anyone else notice it? How can they not?
‘How is it going?’ he asks.
‘Let’s just say it’s going,’ I reply, and he laughs. He slides his eyes to left and right and then adds, in a low voice, a little pitifully, ‘It makes uncomfortable watching, doesn’t it?’
I nod. ‘There is only one person to blame for that.’
He shrugs. ‘Anything for peace.’
I want to warn him that in just over four days’ time his theatre will burn to the ground. In four days’ time there will be no peace at all.
‘Come, let’s go and get a cup of coffee.’ He nods in the direction of the foyer, and I follow him up the aisle.
‘We must be quick,’ I add. ‘Mr Bentley said a short break …’
He puts his hands in his trouser pockets and chuckles. ‘Bentley won’t need you for a while. Nessa and Robert never forget their lines.’
‘That’s very true,’ I reply, and it doesn’t surprise me that Nessa is competent. Anyone who wants the part that badly will make every effort to know it through and through.
There’s a small café round the corner from the theatre and we go in there.
It’s warm and full of cigarette smoke. It’s obviously a place Cavill regularly frequents because he’s greeted enthusiastically by a waitress in a pale pink apron carrying a tray of tea and scones.
We take a round table against the wall and sit down.
The waitress brings us a couple of menus and I’m amused to read what’s on offer: Bovril with biscuits 9d.
What’s Horlick’s malted milk, I wonder? And Chocolate Digestive Biscuits each 1d.
That amuses me, considering we buy them in packets at any supermarket.
Cavill asks me what I fancy, and I ask for Russian tea just to see what it tastes like.
Cavill smiles in surprise. ‘I didn’t know you drink Russian tea,’ he says.
I shrug. ‘I don’t.’ Which is true. ‘I thought it would be fun to try something different.’
We grin at each other like a pair of school children playing truant and knowing they’re getting away with it. ‘I love that about you, Eddie darling.’ He settles that fond gaze on me again and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.
‘You do?’
‘Yes, I love the way you see the world.’
‘And how do I see the world?’
‘As a place of opportunity and adventure. There’s a fearlessness about you that I admire.’
‘Life is precious and it’s short,’ I tell him, and I’m no longer playing the part of Eddie Skipton, but being me, Pixie Tate. ‘If you consider your mortality, you’ll appreciate every moment of life. Because you blink and it’s over. That’s how quick it is.’
My heart contracts because in my time his life is already over. This is just a replay.
He looks at me sympathetically and I realise he believes I’m alluding to Tom Skipton dying in the war.
‘Death certainly focuses the mind,’ he replies softly, and he puts his hand on the table as if he’s reaching across to take mine.
But my hands remain in my lap. I daren’t reach back in case we are seen. But how I want to.
‘We have both suffered the loss of those we love,’ he says. ‘A wise friend once told me that those we love and lose are always with us. That we have to accept what life throws at us, both good and bad. Because without sorrow, we can never know joy.’
Those are my words. On the deck of the ship, when I was Constance Fleet. Those are my words exactly. I stare at him in amazement. For a brief moment I’m speechless. Then I find my voice, and the words that might bring him back to me.
‘We are here to learn and grow,’ I say slowly and deliberately. Does he recognise those words? ‘If life was simply joyful, we’d be superficial, selfish creatures, for sure,’ I add, serious now, gazing deeply into the familiar blue. ‘Suffering drives us deeper.’
‘Suffering has led me to you,’ he says. He frowns, moved suddenly, and his gaze penetrates further into mine.
Once again our words echo through time:
‘Will we recognise each other when we no longer have our physical bodies? Will we recognise each other when we are made of light?’
And his reply: ‘Of course, I will recognise your soul. I’d recognise your soul if it was a ray of light among a thousand rays.’
I am a ray of light among a thousand rays. Does he, on some deep level of his being, recognise my soul?