Twopence Coloured (18 page)

This, to Jackie, was at once simple and obscure. She trusted that she would be able to endow it with life, and give a satisfactory rendering of character.

The rehearsal began very quietly, with a burly gentleman putting his foot upon a chair, adjusting his pince-nez, leaning over to look at his part, and commencing a conversation, first by Reckoning that his companion was just about Right,
and then by endorsing categorically every one of his own and his companion’s previous statements. This he did with the utmost innocence, but the utmost thoroughness, establishing his disinterest by naming his drinks, lighting a cigarette, and similar airy business. It was very lucky to have caught him at such a moment, for he explained a great deal.

He was soon out of the way, however, never again to return, and the rehearsal continued quietly until twelve o’clock, when Jackie made her appearance. There was little production. The hook-nosed young man, with his eyes glued to the script, occasionally edged forward to explain positions and interpret difficulties in an amiable way; and Mr. Carters — strolling ruminatively about and having odd little chats with his employees (who all attempted to catch him) — himself made occasional suggestions, which were treated with great deference, and gave final judgments in appeals. And this was all there was of production. Mr. Carters was alluded to, in general, as the “Guv’nor.”

Jackie had become very tired from standing all this time, and she had at last ventured to seat herself upon a property chest. She was beginning to wonder whether she would be called upon to perform this morning, and if not, why she had been brought here, when the hook-nosed young man, with his eyes still glued to the script, sidled over to her and advised her to Stand By. This, he said, was where she came on.

Whereat Jackie rose, with her heart pounding of its own accord, like some steady and intelligent instrument, and stood at the edge of a group of three, which also appeared to be about to perform. Unhappily, though, at this point the last five pages were taken again (“Better have that once more‚” said Mr. Carters), and ten minutes passed before they were back again at the same place. She then very cleverly
recognized
her cue, which was given by Mr. Derek Anderson, a handsome if somewhat portly gentleman who impersonated Honest Jack. She moved forward with the other three, and gazed at her part in horrified concentration and complete
suspension of her reasoning powers. She heard voices about her, she was aware of Mr. Carters looking at her, but she was otherwise without consciousness….

She was then aware of a silence that in some mystic, swift, and hideous way was surrounding and bearing in upon herself.

“Miss Mortimer?” said the hook-nosed young man.

“Yes?” said Jackie, looking first at the hook-nosed young man, and then at Mr. Anderson.

“Why, and God bless my soul,” said Mr. Anderson, strongly but mechanically (for he was repeating himself), “if it isn’t Joan!”

“Oh,” said Jackie. “Sorry. Er ——” There was a pause.

“Why, and God bless my soul,” said Mr. Anderson, “if it isn’t Joan!”

He held his hand out with great cordiality, and Jackie, swiftly removing her part from her right hand to her left, accepted it. She was now, however, unable to see her part.

“Why, and God bless my soul,” said Mr. Anderson, “if it is n’t Joan!”

“Sorry,” said Jackie, and he freed her hand. “Why, Jack,” added the wretched girl, in a very feeble, indeed in a barely audible tone, “how long is it since I saw you last?” She blushed.

“How long?” cried Mr. Anderson with renewed gusto. “Why ——” But here Mr. Carters cut in.

“Speak up there, dear,” said Mr. Carters. “Don’t be afraid to speak up.”

“No,” said Jackie….

There was a silence.

“Why, and God bless my soul,” said Mr. Anderson, “if it isn’t Joan!”

“Why, Jack,” said Jackie. “How long is it since I last saw you?”

(“Saw
you
last,” amended the hook-nosed young man.

“Saw
you
last,” said Jackie, and looked at her part.)

“How long?” cried Mr. Anderson. “Why, it must be
twelve years at the least. When I was running about in knickers, and you were a little girl in short frocks.”

“Well, you haven’t changed. You’re just the same as ever,” said Jackie, but she was not fully alive to the cordiality of this reunion.

“Bring it right out, dear,” said Mr. Carters. “Don’t be afraid to bring it right out.
‘You’r
e
just
the
same
as
ever.
’”
“You
’re
just
the
same
as
ever‚”
said Jackie.

“Don’t be afraid to bring it out,” said Mr. Carters.

“No, I won’t,” said Jackie….

“Have that again, shall we?” said Mr. Carters.

*

At a quarter to two the rehearsal ended.

“I think you’re going to be very good in that part, Miss Mortimer,” said Mr. Carters, in his usual slow style of speech, as he met her in the passage on her way out.

“Oh,” said Jackie. “I ——”

“You won’t be afraid to speak out, will you?”

“No. I must try,” said Jackie…. “I’m afraid I was awful to-day.”

“No. I think you’re going to be Very Good,” repeated Mr. Carters, firmly, as he entered his doorway.

“Hope so,” murmured Jackie.

“And you’ll
look
very nice — too,” added Mr. Carters…. Who had a heart of gold. 

T
HE first night of “A Man of Steel” passed off on a close, heat-mazed night at the Shoreditch Hippodrome with a minimum of fuss and to moderate acclamation. There were no telegrams, no alarms, and no suggestions of suppers upon the stage afterwards. The actors and actresses came in, told each other how they had got there (a penny tram from Liverpool Street was the thing), changed, made-up,
performed
“A Man of Steel” through twice, changed again, and vanished into the as yet tram-thundering night for their beer and cheese or cocoa in unknown but presumably rather squalid destinations. Nor were there any serious hitches in those first two performances themselves. It is true that the introduction of a singularly white and beautiful horse (upon which Jack Lawson rode, in a slightly circumscribed fashion, into Town) was the cause of the acutest spiritual agony during the four climactic (though slippery) minutes in which the noble creature disported itself on the stage: but a firm (if quite superstitious) belief that Providence had, in its ineffable wisdom, obscurely arranged that one should
not
be trampled to death on the stage of the Shoreditch Hippodrome; together with an ineradicable faith that the curtain would (owing to some magical dispensation)
not
at any moment fall upon a shrieking populace and scenes of gore, stretchers, and death agony — saw even this predicament through with creditable calm, though a certain amount of furtive and rather
ill-balanced
backing…. It is true, also that a certain wagon in the third act — supposed to be attached to two mules, but actually attached to nothing of the sort, the stage manager and his burly assistants having charge of the matter out of sight — it is true that this wagon did, on commencing to
remove
itself with its load of cheering Boys, also commence to remove the entire out-houses of the Lazy Z Ranch — which out-houses had become entangled, and which no amount of cheering would disentangle. But here also, after a short
interval
in which a sense of an impasse was experienced, Jack Lawson, with extreme presence of mind, came forward and quietly unhooked the Lazy Z Ranch (which was after all his own), and so allowed the drama to proceed. And otherwise — apart from a minor hitch brought about by a small automatic pistol wielded by Two-Gun MacFerran, which misfired three times before behaving, so keeping his victim in a state of interesting suspense (not to say amazing forbearance) — there were hardly any hitches.

Shoreditch, Islington, Camden Town, Poplar, Woolwich, and Portsmouth and Liverpool — these were Jackie’s dates. And always at the music-hall of these districts, where their printing replaced either that of Variety or No. 2 Review, and always twice nightly, from six o’clock to half-past ten. And every night Jackie went on, in a blue frock and with a very foolish parasol (which was an Aristocratic touch Mr. Carters had insisted upon) and told Jack Lawson that he had not changed at all. Which piece of information was received with deadly silence, but apparent satisfaction, by those dark blurred patient ones who had paid their money expressly to react to enlightenment of this sort.

And if she was not performing, and if she was not sitting in her dressing-room (sewing with her more matured friends, who drank stout and sewed incessantly), then she was on the stage, sitting down, hanging about, or patting the Horse (which was a champingly acquiescent Horse when not
performing
, and susceptible, though rolling-eyed and thankless, in the matter of sugar-lumps). Jackie, indeed, never failed weakly to pat this Horse, half to express her sympathy for it in the twice-nightly quarrel, and half to curry its favour in future skirmishes. This was not, of course, the proper way to
treat a horse, as the numerous histrio-equine experts, who surrounded it at all times of the evening, clearly demonstrated — the proper way being to wallop its side, and punch its nose, and say “Grrr!” and “
Would
you!” But Jackie could never get any further than her weak pat, and though conscious of making very little impression upon the beast, remained content.

With the members of the company Jackie had very little sympathy. She knew very little of them apart from the theatre and out of costume, and she was almost consistently ignored. She dressed with two others — Mrs. Leeson and Mrs. Grover — middle-aged ladies, with middle-aged
husbands
who brought the beer into their dressing-room and were chaffingly domestic. But since these four had apparently known each other and been in the business since the
beginning
of their days she knew herself out of place. And she had very little liking for any of the rest — handsome Mr. Anderson himself, who went about in strong breeches, a blue shirt, and a self-conscious obliviousness of her existence — Mr, Lindsey (Big Bill Granger) who sometimes said “Good evening” on the stairs, but mostly conferred with Miss Jean Crewe (Sadie Hicks), who ignored Jackie without any
self-consciousness
whatever — Mr. Lovat, the assistant stage manager, who flapped about in cow-boy costume and was civil — Mr. Brough, the hook-nosed stage manager, who gave her incessant hook-nosed advice in tactful corners on the subject of Speaking Up (she became Much Better after a time) — Mr. Crabbe, a large man who, in the black suit and silver star of the Sheriff, threatened all the ladies vulgarly with
smackings
, but particularly Miss Jean Crewe, whom, amid gigglings and screams from her room, he was once heard actually to smack — Mr. John Clayton (Two-Gun MacFerran), who would have smacked as well, had he not been burdened by a wife (which necessarily precludes smacking) — Little Joan Newte (Little Bill Lawson), who was thirteen and a petted
and precocious little girl, but no friend to Jackie, who was not much good at that style of thing — with all these Jackie had very little sympathy.

Nor did she have any greater sympathy with the Boys themselves — the supers. These strange creatures she would observe, from her dressing-room window during the interval, trundling over in all their costumes and paint to the nearest public-house over the way, where they would spend ten
minutes
and return, to the astonishment of the public at large, but with manifest pride in their vocation. She also heard a great deal of them in their dressing-rooms, where they appeared to be arguing incessantly. On the stage they let her pass first, and called her “Miss,” or (if drunk) “Madam,” when they generally begged to be Pardoned. And when she had passed they commenced to titter and make worldly soft comment. Indeed, they appeared to have a permanent little joke on, when it came to Jackie — this being their indirect way of demonstrating their admiration for her attributes — which was extreme.

Shoreditch … Poplar … Woolwich … Islington … Camden Town … And Portsmouth and Liverpool ahead…. And not a line from Richard, and the weeks flying by…. And every night a train-ride home, with a tired powdered face, and tired aching limbs, and a blue
advertisement
of Bovril opposite, and the roar, roar, roar of the rails — the incessant roar of the rails, and a blue
advertisement
of Bovril…. Life was reduced to that.

A
T half-past three one morning, in a downy and
extremely
large double-bed, which was in a small room feebly glimmering in the light of a lamp in the street outside, which was concealed somewhere in the slums of Portsmouth — Jackie lay awake having an imaginary conversation with Miss Iris Langham, her old school-friend at Brighton. This conversation was conceived as taking place at an imaginary five years hence, at the Bedford Hotel, Brighton; and Miss Langham’s eyes were conceived as being affectionate but deferent.

“And seeing you like this,” Miss Langham was saying, “I sometimes think I wish I’d tried to do the same, Jackie. Do you remember how we used to talk about it all?”

“Yes. I remember, all right‚” said Jackie. “But you ought to think yourself jolly lucky that you did n’t — honestly, Iris. You don’t know — you can never
understand
— what one has to go
through
….”

“Yes. I dare say‚” said Miss Langham.

“Just because I
happen
to have got to the top,” said Jackie….

“And you’ve done that all right, Jackie.”

“Oh, I don’t know….”

“It’s getting simply funny. I don’t seem to be able to ever pick up a
paper
without seeing your name somewhere.”

“Yes,” said Jackie, who wished only to be fair-minded. “I know all that. But I still
say
— that all things taken into
consideration
— it’s not
worth
it. You don’t know the
sufferings
— I can’t tell you the
humiliations
. I literally wouldn’t advise anybody, however talented, to try to go through with
it. And that’s what I
do
say, of course,” added Jackie, “when they
do
come along….”

Miss Langham was gazing intently at her.

“You’re wonderful, you know, Jackie,” said Miss
Langham
. “All that you’ve done.”

There was a smiling and difficult pause.

“Oh, not wonderful,” said Jackie. “Just not being
discouraged
, and sticking to it….”

And it was profitless to say anything further….

She returned to Portsmouth, looked at her wrist-watch, and went to sleep.

And after Portsmouth, Liverpool again. Jackie arrived at Liverpool at half-past five on a freezing summer’s evening, made her way to the bleak drab heights where the
Hippodrome
lay, and found rooms near by. Here she was given a cup of tea by the landlady. She was to be given thirty-nine cups of tea before leaving the town — her landlady (a
black-eyed
, black-haired, drudging little Italian woman) having no other way of expressing her goodwill than by a taciturn but incessant supply of this stimulant. And that it was a gesture of goodwill, and that this floundering little woman, in whose eyes still sometimes flashed the lost sunny lands whence she came, was attempting to manifest her unhappy kinship with Jackie in this cold and God-forsaken domain, Jackie had no doubt. Indeed, her heart was so touched that, apart from a futile little episode in which Jackie endeavoured to tempt a geranium with tea, she accepted the lot without demur, and praised it highly.

The Hippodrome was within fifty yards of her bed-and sitting-room, and as it was raining all day long all the time, her day was spent almost exclusively between the two — a queer figure, in a queer latitude of the world, and engaged in rather queer business altogether. But she was now numbed to its queerness, as she was numbed to all else.

“A Man of Steel” played to very poor business at the
Hippodrome, and the fact that the auditorium and stage of this theatre were quite twice the size of those of any of the London halls they had come from, added to the bleakness of its reception. There was no mass, no collective will, in those sparsely scattered blobs which were faces; and there was a feeling, on both sides, of a formal rather than vital function. Nor did the numerous photographs of Mr. Anderson — in rancher’s, apache, costermonger’s, priestly, or ordinary
costume
— which littered the shabby front of the house, have the same impressive effect as they had in London or Portsmouth. “A Man of Steel,” in fact, was to Liverpool less of an event than a vague and slightly inexplicable and sordid incident. The actors, however, were able to keep their courage up in the dressing-rooms behind, where there was as much beer,
sewing
, and smacking as heretofore.

And then, one night, the clash of Mr. Anderson’s spurred boots along the stone passage outside, and the sound of Mr. Anderson’s deep voice:

“HulLO, Gissing!”

“Hullo, Anderson.”

The boots clanged down the passage and no more was heard.

“Sounds welcoming, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Grover.

“That’s Mr. Gissing,” said Mrs. Leeson. “He’s taking over the part next week.”

“What? At Brighton?”

“Yes. Johnnie’s just told me. Our Mr. Anderson’s got a job in Town.” Mrs. Leeson introduced a “My, we
are
becoming great!” flavour into this latter statement.

“And
we’ll
have to
rehearse,
I suppose,” Mrs. Grover spoke bitterly.

“Yes. To-morrow. Eleven-thirty, my dear.” Mrs. Leeson was acidly resigned.

“You’re running it close, aren’t you, Lady Joan?” asked Mrs. Grover.

“Yes. I must fly,” said Jackie.

Trembling so that she could scarcely see, she left the room, and ran along the passage to where he was standing. His
hands were in his pockets, he had no hat or overcoat, and, as he stood there talking to Mr. Anderson, he seemed very much at home already.

“Hullo‚” she said weakly. “I’ve got to fly on now. See you afterwards.”

She ran down the stairs before he could reply.

Ten minutes later she returned. He was standing in the same place, but alone.

“Hullo,” she said.

“Hullo?” He was taken by surprise. He looked
involuntarily
down, for a lightning moment, at her forefinger. This forefinger was horrifyingly, and with ludicrous trembling exactitude, prodding the middle button of his waistcoat. She withdrew it in mad haste, clasped her wrist and looked up at him.

“Well, how are you?” she asked, and smiled.

“I’m all right.” He smiled back. “We’re in the same show now, Jackie, aren’t we?”

“I know,” said Jackie….

Jackie looked vacantly down the passage. The loose change in his pocket set up a hideous din. He looked vacantly down the passage.

The next morning, which was Saturday morning, Mr. Gissing ran hastily through his part with the company on the Hippodrome stage. He did not fail for a word — though he beat his forehead with his knuckle, every now and again, and begged not to be told. He ran through his long speeches with enormous rapidity, and was clearly going to play with less emphasis than Mr. Anderson had employed. As he was on nearly all the time, he hardly spoke to Jackie at all. And he was compelled to have lunch with Mr. Carters.

There was a matinée in the afternoon, which (with the two performances after it) meant that Jackie, with a short
interval
for tea, remained in the theatre from two till twelve. (Twelve, instead of half-past eleven, because it was Saturday
night, which involved packing.) At about a quarter-past seven in the evening you had practically forgotten all your previous existence, and had difficulty in imagining any future. You were a painted part of the painted scenery, in the glare of which you moved about with blind, unconscious instinct, as a mite would move in cheese, hardly differentiable from the substance. And if you were asked whether this was the first, second, or third show, you would have had to go back and work things out before replying.

He spent his time between the stage and the front, and she occasionally spoke to him. At the end he came to her
dressing
-room, and saw her to her lodgings. But these were only fifty yards away, and it was raining very hard. Also she had a serious headache, and told him as much.