The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

4

Atmospherics

“There’s nothing more exhausting than an entire roomful of people calling each other darling,” declared Mona Williams. The veteran actress cast a jaded eye around the crowded penthouse apartment. “God, when I was in Brecht’s Caucasian Chalk Circle the conversation was a bloody sight more enlivening than tonight’s, and I was playing a goat farmer. Is there any more red wine?”

“They’ve probably run out. You know how cheap our host is. Oh, he’s clever, of course, but so unbearably common.” Neil Crofting ran a hand ineffectually around the crown of his head, a habit he had lately picked up to indicate that his hair was real, although everyone knew it was not. Before curtain-up it sat on a false head in his dressing room and was carefully brushed prior to every performance. Neil and Mona had once been a successful song and dance double act, but by the eighties they were cajoling uninterested punters through lounge sets in third-rate supper clubs. They continued to audition with grim dignity, but now listed only Shakespeare and Noel Coward roles on their CVs. After her third drink, Mona would reminisce about the time Olivier coached her through ‘Gertie’ in Hamlet. After his third drink, Neil would reach for a fourth.

“What time do you make it?”

Mona squinted at a tiny gold watch. “Eight-thirty. I shan’t be staying late. I’m voice-coaching in the morning, teaching a class of Essex girls not to use glottal stops. They hardly need elocution to work in nail salons, but the money’s good.”

The vast semicircular lounge had a sweeping curve of glass overlooking the Palladian streets below Trafalgar Square. All along the blue silk back wall were arranged dozens of theatre souvenirs: playbills, autographed head-shots, programmes and props. At any one time there were over two hundred plays booking in London, and their convoluted histories were well represented here. The Duchess, the Duke of Yorks, Wyndhams, the Garrick, the Aldwych. Gielgud, Olivier, Richardson and Bernhardt, they all smiled down at the guests. There were Indonesian silhouettes and Chinese shadow puppets, Italian harlequins and French Guignol dolls.

On one side of the lounge door stood a grotesque cast-iron minstrel that grinned and rolled its eyes when fed coins. On the other side was a Jolly Jack Tar in a wooden case. The Victorian seaside amusement was a museum piece that seemed designed for the specific purpose of giving children nightmares. Its skin was just plaster, its rictus smile mere painted wood, but it looked leathery and cancerous, like an embalmed corpse. When a ten-pence piece was inserted, it rocked back and forth squealing with laughter while a crackly organ recording of ‘I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’ played. The sailor grinned and eyed the guests from the side of its moulting head, as if to say I know what you’re up to.

It was, everyone agreed, an extraordinary apartment.

But then, it belonged to an extraordinary man, the host of this evening’s event.

“I used to love the theatre,” Mona Williams said. “So many British playwrights wrote eloquently about the human condition. Griffiths, Ayckbourn, Brenton, Nichols, Barnes – they created proper parts for real women, but where are those parts now? These days I’ll settle for a play that’s got a practical meal in the first half and a sofa in the second, so long as it’s closer to the West End than Harrow-on-the-Hill.”

Always bitching, thought Neil Crofting wearily. She’s hardly been off the stage all her acting life, and still she complains about being hard done by. The West End is full of dreadful old musicals starring teenagers from TV talent shows. She should be glad she’s still working.

A dull rumble of thunder tinkled the glasses on the sideboard, like an approaching earthquake. A moment later, rain drummed against the great windows of the penthouse. The conversation lowered its volume for a moment, as if in respect to the gods above.

A knife rang out against the side of a delicate Lady Hamilton wineglass.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention for a moment.”

The host, Robert Julius Kramer, glared at the room’s inhabitants until they became more stilled by him than by the storm outside. “Thank you all so much for joining me here tonight in celebration of our first production, The Two Murderers. As you know, we took the unprecedented step of providing the critics with a special matinee today, in order to guarantee simultaneous reviews for the production. So far their advance comments have been, shall we say, unequivocal.” A ripple of uneasy laughter pulsed through the room; the reaction of the critics as they filed glumly out into a miserable afternoon on the Strand had been absolutely horrific. “However, our producer, Gregory Baine, has just handed me a spreadsheet of the advance bookings, and I can safely say that we already have a guaranteed three-month run ahead of us. A clear indication that the public has much better taste than the critics.”

Everyone turned around and stared at the critics in the room, who squirmed awkwardly. When it came to creating nervous tension, the party’s host was a master of his art.

“It matters not,” Kramer continued, “because there’s always a new Hamlet at the National for the critics to enjoy, and there’s always something in the West End to please the sensation-seekers, so everybody wins. Although I’d happily stage Shakespeare with pole dancers if I thought it would get more bums on seats. I’m a showman, not an intellectual.”

“You can say that again,” murmured Mona.

The embarrassed amusement turned to forced applause. Kramer air-patted his congregation back into obedient attention. “As you know, my plan is to establish a permanent company at this theatre, starring in at least three repertory productions throughout the next winter season, four if we can manage it. And I am pleased to announce that we will begin casting for the second of these productions within the next few weeks. I’d like to thank our wonderful leads, Delia Fortess and Marcus Sigler; my producer, Gregory Baine; our director, Russell Haddon, who has guided us through perilous seas; our brilliant set designer, Ella Maltby; our genius writer, Ray Pryce; and especially my lovely wife, Judith, whose handbag habit requires that I continue working later in life than I had intended. Oh, and to the critics here who were happy to take our bribes, stay and enjoy your free champagne. Now, I’d like you to charge your glasses to The Two Murderers – long may they continue to bring death and destruction to the West End.”

“The Two Murderers!” Thirty-five champagne flutes were raised aloft, and the casual conversation resumed, more excited than it had been before.

“I notice we didn’t warrant a mention.” Mona Williams sniffed. “My agent told me I’d be required for the second lead, not a character part. I shall have a word with Robert about that.”

“Perhaps you should have a word with your agent,” said Neil Crofting, turning aside to talk to a spectacularly endowed young lady who was shaking herself out of a wet jacket.

The thunder rumbled, and a sharp crack of lightning turned the room into a dazzling tableau. The wall puppets stared down at the crowd with shining dead eyes. The room unfroze and glanced uneasily towards the windows. Chatter faltered. The storm had moved directly overhead.

“I haven’t seen you before.” Crofting directed his attention to the attractive girl who had just arrived. “I take it you’re not part of our disreputable production.”

“Not yet, no,” replied the girl, smiling pleasantly. “Mr Kramer hired me to start on Monday as the ASM.”

“But we already have an assistant stage manager,” said Crofting.

“She’s leaving to have a baby?” The girl looked at this pair of old actors as if she were their carer. Crofting noticed that she inflected her sentence upwards, as so many young people did these days. He vaguely recalled seeing an assistant stage manager hovering in the background, complaining about the players’ timekeeping habits, and struggled to conjure up a face. The stage manager, a hateful old haystack called Barnesly, gave the impression that he detested actors, and never socialized with them. “You know, I never even realized she was pregnant. She’s so thin. The director drives us all so hard that we never get time to eat. I’m Neil Crofting.” He held out his hand and waited for a glimmer of recognition from the girl to show that she had seen him in the BBC’s recent Sherlock Holmes series, but none came. Admittedly, it had only been a small part.

“Gail Strong.” She shook his hand and peered over his shoulder, already anxious to move on.

“Well, I daresay we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in the weeks ahead – welcome aboard.” But Gail Strong had already slipped away.

“She was in a rush,” he complained to Mona. “The young always are, aren’t they?”

“Only when you talk to them,” said Mona, draining her red wine. “Don’t you think there’s an odd feeling in here tonight?”

“What do you mean?” Crofting was immune to sensitivities. In his experience, most actresses went mad after they hit fifty and started believing in all sorts of New Age rubbish.

Mona sniffed and studied the guests. “Is there any trouble among the cast that you’re aware of? Apart from the usual old bollocks, I mean.”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“There’s a bad atmosphere in the room. A kind of tension. I don’t like it.”

“Storms always put people on edge.”

“Only if you’re doing Regent’s Park open-air theatre. No, this is something else. It’s hard to explain. You truly don’t feel it?”

“No. Honestly, Mona, I don’t know why you can’t just relax and enjoy yourself like everyone else, instead of worrying about – atmospherics. Not everything has to be theatrical, you know. Shakespeare was wrong. All the world is not a stage, not really.”

As if to disprove him, an immense bellow of thunder sounded, like a tumble of boulders rolling across the roof. A woman shrieked and Mona started, but the shriek turned into a laugh.

“You must learn to accept, Neil, that some people are more sensitive than others. We all feel things differently. The older we get, the thinner the wall between life and death becomes.” Mona was suddenly serious. “I can sense when someone is about to die.”

“And you can sense that now? You can feel death in the air tonight?” Crofting looked around. “Who’s giving you this feeling? Where is it coming from?”

Mona glanced down at her shoes and shook her head. “I don’t know. Everyone’s being thoroughly ill-tempered; they’re just pretending things are fine. Robert’s over there saying hateful things about his first wife. Our writer is talking about moving to Australia where the money is apparently better. I overheard Russell complaining that he thought everyone’s performances were off this afternoon.”

“Oh, he’s just the director. Everyone ignores him.”

“I’m sorry – take no notice of me, darling. It’s been a long day. I didn’t think the matinee went especially well. Marcus was put out when that woman’s mobile went off, did you notice? He lost a whole page in the fourth scene. He doesn’t seem to care that it throws the rest of us off.”

“You know matinees never get the reaction they’re supposed to. It didn’t help to look out and see a row of critics sitting there making notes. I wonder if Robert really did try to bribe them. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Do you mind if I sit down for a minute? I’m tired and it’s hot in here.”

“Really? I was just thinking how oddly cold it was,” Crofting replied. “There’s a draught coming from somewhere.”

“Someone just walked over your grave,” said Mona, raising her glass. “Be a darling and get me another drink, would you?”