Full Dark House

∨ Full Dark House ∧

19

THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

“Ten minutes, everyone,” warned Helena Parole. “We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us tonight.” She rose and gathered her notes from the seat next to her. “Harry, where are you?”

“Over here, Helena,” called her assistant. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment.” He was standing at the back of the stalls with Olivia Thwaite, the show’s costume designer. Olivia’s wardrobe designs had graced enough Noel Coward productions to inspire new fashions at the Café Royal, but the Blitz had forced her family back to their country home in Wiltshire, and she was now thinking of retiring. She intended to make Orpheus her swan song, and would not settle for anything less than perfection. Consequently, the costume manufacture was running late, which at least kept this aspect of the production in step with everything else, even though it was giving Harry heart failure.

“It’s about Eurydice’s first-act costume,” he explained as Helena strode up to him. “Olivia would like to double the amount of flowers sewn on her dress.”

“I know the material’s in short supply,” said Olivia. “I promise you it’s entirely necessary. The bodice is transparent, and since you specified no undergarments, her breasts and buttocks will clearly be seen beneath the lights. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that the Lord Chamberlain’s rules forbid nudity except in motionless tableaux under special lighting arrangements and a special licence, a licence I understand we do not have.”

“I assure you there will be no vulgarity,” promised Helena. “The semblance of nudity is entirely as I intended.”

“But not as Miss Noriac intends.” Harry spoke for Olivia. It was something he was in the habit of doing whenever possible. It allowed him to defuse tension between stage personnel by rephrasing overheated arguments into the semblance of reasonable conversations. “She is concerned that as a woman with a voluptuous figure, she will not look her best if the audience can see her entire body.”

Eve Noriac had joined the production on loan from the Lyon Opera House, and represented a heavy investment as their Eurydice. It was important to keep her happy in order to maintain courteous relations with the prestigious French company.

“She’s somewhat on the portly side, but she has a marvellous poitrine and should be proud of it. Olivia, can’t you make her see that?”

“I don’t see that it’s my job to tell your female lead that she has to appear in the buff before one and a half thousand people every night,” reasoned Olivia.

“I think Olivia would like to add flowers in the top half of her costume for the sake of decorum,” said Harry gently.

“I don’t want her to go on looking like a walking advertisement for the Kensington Roof Gardens, thank you, Harry. Go and talk to her, would you? Tell her I’m not having daffodils sewn over her nipples just because she can’t leave spuds alone.”

“I’ll suggest she speaks directly to you about your perception of her appearance, bearing in mind her reservations about the décolletage.” Harry didn’t mind liaising between the director and her cast, but it had reached the point where he was acting as an interpreter.

He left Helena and Olivia arguing about the wardrobe and made his way backstage. The scenery for the opening tableau had arrived, and he squeezed between freshly painted scrims depicting sheaves embroidered with hand-sewn cornflowers, courtesy of the ladies of the Bank, Holborn and Aldwych underground stations, who had wanted something to do in the evenings.

Above his head hung a great globe painted a rich cyanic blue and topped with a set of opened steel compasses, a symbol of cartography and freemasonry denoting the mapping of the earthly world. The globe had been manufactured for a Glyndebourne production of The Magic Flute, then junked after the production was cancelled on account of the site’s proximity to the exposed Sussex coastline.

The shepherds and shepherdesses of the chorus had returned to the flies. The principal players were familiarizing themselves with the finer details of their roles, having taken musical direction at rehearsal rooms in Covent Garden. At this stage of the production, when the librettist was belatedly putting the finishing touches to his new translation of Offenbach’s work, it seemed that nothing would ever come together, but this was how it always was. The production would not coalesce into a performance until the dress rehearsal on Friday.

“Corinne, I don’t have you in my diary until late this evening,” said Harry. “You’re not due on for another two hours.”

“I’m recording a talking book for the blind over in Greek Street,” explained the diminutive comedienne who had been cast in the role of Mercury, a tenor role usually played by a male. “The producer’s called a break while they sort out their wiring or something, so I thought I’d come and see how everyone was coping with La Capistrania’s mysterious disappearance. I’m dying for a snout, love. You haven’t got one on you, I suppose?”

“You know you’re not supposed to smoke back here,” said Harry.

“Don’t give me that. I’ve seen you creeping out the back for an oily rag. Go on, chuck us a Du Maurier. Has anyone dared to mention Tanya today?”

“God, no. You can cut the atmosphere with a knife. I’ve only got a Woodbine, but you can have it. Helena’s still waiting to see if her replacement is up for tonight’s run-through.”

“There’ll probably be an air raid and we’ll all spend the evening under the stage trying to play whist by the light of a forty-watt bulb again. I suppose you know they’re saying she’s been murdered?” Corinne airily brandished Harry’s proffered cigarette. “Working as a spy for her father and assassinated by fifth columnists, apparently.”

“I’ve heard rumours,” admitted Madeline Penn, the skinny, nervous ASM. “Stan’s been putting the fear of God up everyone as they sign in, but there’s been no real news. She’s walked out of jobs before, hasn’t she?”

“He reckons she was carried out of this one in the dead of night,” offered Charles Senechal, a chubby Anglo-French baritone who, like their Eurydice, was on loan from Lyon. “Slaughtered by a lover. Body parts missing.”

“Well, if that’s the case, somebody made a jolly good job of cleaning up the blood,” said Corinne.

“If I had a franc for every story I heard circulating around a theatre I’d be rich by now.” Charles had been assigned the role of Jupiter. It was a part he had performed so many times before that his performance was in danger of becoming petrified, but audiences loved him.

“Apparently she was having a torrid affair with someone right here in the theatre,” whispered Madeline.

“I haven’t heard about that.” Harry looked shocked. “I’m sure I would have seen her with someone.”

“The trouble with you, Harry, is you never notice flirting between the sexes,” snapped Corinne. “She was being rogered by someone in our esteemed cast. I should know, because I caught them at it. Walked into her dressing room thinking she’d gone for the night and there she was with her heels in the sink and her bloomers hanging from the light. She didn’t even make the effort of trying to look embarrassed.”

“Who was it?”

“That would be tittle-tattle, Harry, and I know you don’t approve. Besides, I was fascinated by the sight of his hairy bottom poking out of his shirt-tails.”

“You should tell the detectives.”

“What, and have them hanging around all week ogling the chorus girls? You know how I feel about outsiders. Elspeth, put that thing down, love. It weed all over the stage yesterday.”

Elspeth Wynter had been watching from the wings, where she had gone to retrieve Nijinsky. The tortoise refused to stay in its box, and regularly headed for the dim warmth of the backstage areas. “Sorry,” she called, picking up the animal and putting it inside her cardigan. “Is that another air-raid warning?” She cocked her head and listened to the distant rise and fall of the siren.

“Bugger, does that mean we all have to go down to the understage again?” Corinne complained. “Quelle bore. I’ll have to get another coffin nail from somewhere, I can’t do Woodies, they slaughter my throat. Doesn’t anyone smoke Park Drives or Kensitas these days? Charles, have you got un clope, love?” Nearly all of the French contingent smoked.

“I only have roll-ups,” said Charles. “Three Nuns or Dark Empire Shag, take your pick.”

“God, no thanks, I want some voice left.”

“Then try the sparks.”

Corinne pushed past Jupiter and the young assistant, crossing to the far side of the stage, where Elspeth stood. Harry looked over and saw her searching for an electrician. As he idly watched, he noticed something was wrong. The stage had been cleared but the spotlights were still on, and the house lights had been dropped. The spots should have been off and the stalls lights raised. He could barely see beyond the edge of the stage.

“Charles,” called Corinne, her gravelly voice absorbed by the sound-deadening backcloths of the Hades set, “there’s nobody over here – ask someone on that side, would you?”

Harry turned in the direction of the shepherdesses, but they had gone down to the section of the basement that had been designated a shelter. He looked back over at Corinne, who was waiting in the flies, but could barely make her out. He felt Charles brush past him, and saw an unlit cigarette in his hand. Either he had asked someone for Corinne, or had decided to palm her off with one of his homemade specials.

Harry noticed that Charles was halfway across the stage when he heard something rip – later, he recalled the sound as being like someone tearing a sheet, which was also the noise a bomb made as it fell – and glanced up just in time to see the great blue planet break loose of its moorings.

He wanted to call out, but the words were stuck in his throat.

Charles had not noticed. The globe was swinging towards him in a graceful arc. Harry heard the impact that lifted the Frenchman off his feet. The sound was followed by a dull crack as Senechal’s head was slammed into the brick wall at the rear of the set. When Harry looked again he saw that the sphere had come to rest on the floor. It took him a few moments to realize what had happened.

As he lurched towards the giant prop he heard other shouts in the auditorium. Blood the colour of crushed blackberries pumped across the floorboards. A thick dark puddle was soaking into the backcloth. One end of the compasses had speared the baritone through his ribcage, just below his heart. Charles coughed loudly in the sudden silence, and sprayed the stage with blood. His left foot beat a reflexive tattoo on the floorboards before falling still.

He was dead before Harry, or anyone else, could reach his side.