Manhunt. Volume 6, Number 4, June, 1958

Stage Fright by D. E. Forbes

She was such an innocent little girl. And yet such strange things happened when she was around...

Caroline Pincher could have brushed her daughter’s hair for hours. The pleasure she felt from stroking the silky locks was a personal thing, something like a feeling she had known as a child when she had carried a fine flannel blanket held to her face. But now Caroline was a woman and the feeling had gone... except when she brushed Margot’s hair.

She wound a golden curl around a fleshy finger. It was truly golden, she thought, not blonde or yellow, but real shimmering gold. She remembered before Margot was born, how she had prayed for a beautiful little girl with blue eyes and golden curls. All the time she had prayed and when Margot was born she knew her prayers had been answered.

Margot moved her head quickly and made a little sound when the brush caught.

“I’m sorry, darling. Mother wasn’t paying attention. Mother was thinking about something else.”

The young voice, clear as a church bell from a tower, answered.

“Isn’t it about time to go, Mother?”

Caroline looked at her small watch, purchased last year from Margot’s earnings. “You’re right as usual, Kitten. We must fly.” She got up from her chair, struggling a little to raise her heavy body. “Now, you remember everything I’ve told you?”

Her daughter, slim and petite as a fairy, rose. She looked like a young princess in her rose velvet frock and her small ermine hat. Her slender feet wore black patent slippers and little white socks. Every gesture, thought Caroline, full of grace.

They put on their coats. Caroline’s was a Persian lamb which she knew tended to make her look heavier, but, my dear, so elegant. Margot’s matched her hat. Some of the other mothers, she knew, thought Margot was overdressed. But then they were just jealous. And besides, their daughters (no matter how talented) would never be a star.

But Margot would. Oh, yes. Caroline had known it the moment they placed the newborn baby in her arms. She had looked up at the little man she had married and breathed the words.

“Herb, she’s so beautiful. She’s destined, Herb. That’s what she is. Destined.”

Only of course then she hadn’t known what Margot was destined for. All through Margot’s babyhood Caroline had been watching for the signs. When she had mimicked the words of a popular song at the age of three, Caroline had thought. A singer. That’s what she’ll be. Metropolitan or musical comedy. Which shall we plan for?

At four she had sent Margot to a progressive school where one of the subjects taught was modern dance. Miss Hildgard was most entranced with Margot’s talents. The ballet, Caroline had wondered, is it to be the ballet? And she had hugged the little girl to her, whispering, “Oh, you marvelous, talented angel. There is no one like you in the whole world.”

But at five the real talent had emerged, plain and positive, for all to see. A kindergarten drama, where the little thespians had made up their own lines, emoted as they pleased. The star, the shining glorious star, was Margot. And didn’t one of the fathers present turn out to be a theatrical agent? And didn’t he come to Caroline with the suggestion that her daughter might do a small part in a Broadway production seeking a pretty little girl? Destined? Destined, indeed.

But there had been obstacles. Herb, for instance.

“Now, Caroline,” he had moved his little head in that peculiar birdlike way that he had, “I just think that you should consider this thing — very carefully. Margie,” Caroline shuddered whenever he called her darling by that common name, “is only five years old. You’re all set to put her on the stage, to toss her into competition with children years older — yes, and adults, too — who must earn their living in the theatre. It seems to me that that’s an awful tough proposition for a five-year old child.”

Caroline had been studying the script containing the two lines that Margot would speak. They consisted of, “Good morning, Mama,” and “I am a good girl, Mama.” Caroline was busy planning ways and means for her daughter to be noticed — really noticed.

“Nonsense, Herb. What you say might be true for an ordinary child. But you know yourself, Margot is no ordinary child.”

The angel in person had come in then, perched herself on her father’s bony knee, requested money for an ice-cream cone.

“And that’s another thing,” Caroline had been anxious to drive the point home, “we could use the money. Sixty-five dollars a week, Herb, just for Margot to go to the theatre every night and say two lines and come home. Sixty-five dollars a week. Why, that’s almost as much as you make.”

Herb had produced a dime, patted his daughter’s head. “Let’s not discuss it — in front of the child.”

Caroline had bristled. “Not discuss it in front of the child! It’s her future, isn’t it? She’s the one most involved, isn’t she? Do you think she wants to be a part of—,” she groped for words, “the common herd? We were awarded a precious gift when Margot was born. Made custodians of it. And you want to throw it all away when she gets her big chance.”

And then Margot, the little minx, had looked up into her father’s face with all her charm and said, “Daddykins, I’d like to. I really would. Please, daddy. Just this once, daddy. Please.”

And that had been that — for the moment. Margot had been noticed. Perhaps it was the fact that the other children were such clods and Margot such a dainty little miss. Perhaps it was the cute way Caroline taught her to say “Mama”, not quite the European way, not quite the American way either. The director had asked her to say it like the rest, but Margot, as sweet and docile as an angel, would forget and slip right back into her original pronunciation. And after she got a hand the first night, the director hadn’t corrected her again.

When she got the part in “Avenging Angel”, a really big part with a whole scene to herself. Caroline had switched her to the Professional Children’s School. And Herb had interfered again.

“Didn’t I hear Margot crying in her room?”

Caroline had been preparing dinner and wondering if Margot’s raise in salary would warrant her hiring a part-time maid.

“Oh — that’s nothing. Temperament. She had a quarrel with one of her teachers in school. She’s just letting off steam.”

“What do you mean, she had a quarrel with the teacher? What happened?” Herb had looked so small, so bewildered, Caroline had felt almost like laughing.

“Oh, don’t worry. I gave her what for, I can tell you. She lit into Margot about some little fib she claimed Margot had told. I told her, I did. I told her my daughter was no liar and if Margot said Sarah Lane was the one who spilled the bottle of ink, then Sarah Lane was the one who did it. By the time I was through, the woman backed down.”

Herb ran a hand over his balding head.

“But why did the teacher say it was a fib? Surely she must have had some basis for making such an accusation.”

Caroline had peeled a potatoe with a vengeance. “That’s just it. She had no reason, except that she claimed the other child had been, as she put it, ‘more reliable’. More reliable. More reliable, indeed.” She threw the potatoe into the pot.

“I knew this would happen.” Her husband sat wearily at the kitchen table. “It’s just what I was afraid of.”

Caroline remembered, even now, her surprise. “You knew what would happen?” Her tones had been as sharp as the paring knife she held. “Just what, such a terrible what, has happened?”

“It’s just—,” Herb’s little mouth stretched, searching for words, “she’s too young for such an atmosphere, such competition. They’re at each other tooth and nail, these babies, on stage and even off. There was that incident when Margot and that other little girl were found fighting back stage, physically fighting, and had to be pulled apart. Each claimed the other had slapped her. A fine thing, a little lady her age involved in a brawl. I tell you, Caroline, my mind’s made up. We’re going to stop this thing before it goes too far.”

Caroline had stood very still, kept her voice controlled. “You’re mistaken, Herb. We’re going to stop nothing. She’s just beginning to get someplace. And you’re not going to throw a monkey wrench into the works.”

Herb had drawn himself up to his full five-foot-six. “I’m sorry, Caroline. I know how much pleasure you gain from it. But I am Margot’s father — and I say she is going to quit.”

And then she had called a halt to it. She hadn’t wanted to, but she’d had to. “And do you know why you’re her father — do you? Because you would marry me. You were available and I accepted you. Not because I wanted you, heaven knows I didn’t, but because I wanted a child. That’s all. And that’s the truth. Margot was the answer to my prayer,” she had stood over him then, the paring knife still in her hand, “and before I’d allow you to ruin her life, I’d... I’d,” she drew in her breath and hissed, “I’d kill you.”

She looked up then to see Margot in the doorway and after searching her daughter’s face to read her reaction, Caroline decided she was glad that she had heard.

That had been the last obstacle. From then on the sailing had been more or less smooth. In the three years that had passed Margot had, to be sure, lost a few auditions, but she had appeared in two long-run productions and gotten excellent notices.

And now — today — she was to audition for the juvenile plum of the year. The part of “Kathy” in “The Changling”.

Caroline had explained the part. Slowly and carefully. “This little girl is, on the surface, a lovely little angel. But inside she is capable of anything, anything to get what she wants. Do you understand?”

Margot had watched her with wide eyes, nodded her shining head.

“So you must remember to contrast the lines. When Kathy is with other people she is sweet, charming, an old-fashioned tintype of a child. When she is alone, she is capable of the worst sort of violence.”

Margot had smiled, such a beautiful smile, such perfect teeth, jumped up and kissed her mother. “Oh, Mummy, you’re such a help to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” And then they’d hugged each other and Caroline had answered fervently, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Caroline looked down at her now, the sedate little figure sitting beside her on the straight chair. Of all the children grouped around them, none could compare to Margot. Of that she was sure. She sat back and watched the try-outs with a professional eye.

When it was all over they took a cab home by way of celebration. “Not a one of them could hold a candle to you, darling. You’ll be magnificent as Kathy and unless I miss my guess this is the sort of thing the movies will pick up. Just think, Margot, we’ll go to Hollywood and you’ll be a move star!” She kissed the top of her head. “My own little Shirley Temple. Just imagine!”

It was the next morning when the news came. She twinkled at Margot as she answered the phone. “Yes, this is the residence of Margot Parks.” They had thought it wise to change Pincher to Parks. And then to Margot, “It’s them. It’s they. Oh dear,” and she giggled. “Yes. Yes, we’re available.” They had long ago abandoned the agent. He had turned out to be third rate. “Yes... oh, I see.” Her words were slower now, the twinkle had gone. “Yes. Of course.” She tried to make her tone pleasant again. “Certainly. We’re delighted. Monday at ten. Of course. We’ll be there. Thank you. Thank you, very much.”

“We got the part, Mama? We got the part. Oh, I know we did, Mama. We got the part.” And Margot began a wildly graceful series of pirouettes.

Caroline clutched the door jamb. “Stop it, Margot. And stop saying ‘Mama’ in that ridiculous way. Stop it. Now.”

Margot halted on one toe, her blue eyes enormous. “But... they want us at rehearsal. So we did get the part. What—”

Caroline sank into a chair. “Vivian Maynard got the part. You’re her... understudy.”

Margot wrinkled her smooth young brow. “Understudy!”

Caroline could only nod.

Margot stamped her tiny foot. “Well, I won’t, I tell you. I won’t! That’s as good as being dead and buried, and I won’t do it.”

“That’s what I thought at first, baby. I almost told them to get somebody else. But then I remembered — if anything ever happened to Vivian, you’d still get your big chance.”

Margot’s pretty pink mouth drooped in a pout. “You know nothing will happen to Vivian. She’s as strong as a horse. And looks like one as well.”

Caroline sighed, reached out to gather her in. Margot moved away.

“You must have told me to do it wrong. They didn’t like my interpretation and I did just what you told me. You coached me wrong. It’s all your fault!”

Caroline’s mouth dropped open and she stared at the gold and pink package of fury confronting her.

“Margot,” she said and stopped. Her pale eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

They stared at each other, mother and daughter, and then Margot let out an anguished cry, turned on her patent leather heel and ran from the room. Caroline heard her door slam in agony. Margot stayed there the rest of the day. Caroline suffered.

But by Monday morning the world had turned right-side-up. They went, in harmony, to rehearsal and Margot behaved exactly right with just the right amount of deference for Vivian Maynard. Caroline breathed a sigh of relief and began a series of daily prayers.

“Measles. Or a broken arm. Nothing too serious, please. Just enough to keep her out of the play for awhile. Please. I know Margot’s future was plotted in the stars. I know something will happen. Because Margot was born to be a star.”

She was very sure, but as first night opening drew near it seemed as though the gods had forsaken them. Vivian bloomed in the part. She played it in a much lower key than Caroline would have preferred, but Al Peters, the director, seemed absurdly pleased. Margot didn’t seem to care — at all.

And then — bolt from the blue — it happened. At dress rehearsal. Peters was struggling with a difficult bit between husband and wife that had never come off well. Vivian had gone to her dressing room and Margot was sitting quietly in the wings, watching. Caroline took the opportunity to go to the ladies’ room and freshen her face.

She was just coming out when she heard it. A shrill childish scream, starting out full-bodied and thinning as it rose up and up. It ended in a crash, a thump, and dead silence. Then there was movement from all around. People ran from the stage, from the dressing rooms above. And, while Caroline stood rooted, there were more screams.

She moved forward and suddenly Margot was at her side.

“What is it, Mama? What happened?”

Caroline shook her head and they moved more quickly, came upon the circle of spectators, saw Vivian Maynard’s mother, sobbing, being led away.

“Call the ambulance.” Al Peters’ face was grim.

The circle parted then and Vivian lay on the floor, in an awkward position, still and white. One braid lay stretched out from her head. Like a big, broken doll, dropped and discarded.

Caroline tugged at Peters sleeve.

“What... what happened?”

He turned dull eyes on her.

“She fell. God know how. She fell from up there.”

Caroline looked up to the winding metal staircase, to the narrow balcony that edged the dressing rooms. “Is she hurt bad?”

Peters shrugged. “I’d say it didn’t do her any good.”

Caroline was surprised to hear Margot’s voice, firm and clear. “She looks dead.”

Peters turned slowly, looked down at her. His face was inscrutable. “Get ready,” he said. “We’ll call a special rehearsal this afternoon. You’ll have to go on.”

Margot smiled up at him, her most winsome smile. “I’m ready,” she said.

Peters’ eyes narrowed for a moment. “Incidentally,” he said and his voice was low, “Where were you when it happened?”

Caroline felt her heart stop.

“Why—,” the blue eyes were wide, “I was in the ladies’ room. With Mama. Wasn’t I, Mama?”

Caroline felt her head move up and down. Inside a blackness was spreading and the lights grew dim. Then, after a long time, her heart beat again, but not the way a heart should beat at all. Oh, so slowly. Oh, so hard. Somehow it felt as though it were incased in ice.