Twopence Coloured (30 page)

T
HE thing began, during the matinee on Wednesday afternoon at Sheffield, with flirtation.

“And how’s my Richard?” asked Jackie. She had just come off (to an agreeable little round of applause) and had seen him standing, with his hands in his pockets, against a flat.

It was his point of honour to be fractious when he met her coming off.

“Extremely Ill,” he said.

“Ill?” said Jackie. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Richard.”

“Extremely Ill,” he repeated. “At Death’s Door.”

“Very well, then, Richard. You must see a
doctor.”

“I won’t.”

“But you
must
see a doctor if you’re at Death’s Door, Richard.”

“I won’t.”

“But, Richard, you
must.”
And then, in the old manner:

“But you’re not
really
Extremely Ill, are you, Richard?”

It was here that it began.

“No, darling,” he said. “I’m all right.”

She looked up in amazement. Who on earth had said that he wasn’t all right? He was looking away.

She had to go on again, at this moment, and she forgot about it.

They came out of the stage door together at half-past five. He took her arm.

“Well, Richard darling, where are we going to have our tea?”

“Where does my darling want her tea?”

“Well,
she
wants to have it at a hotel.”

“Very well, then, she shall.”

They walked on.

“What about going home, though, Jackie? Don’t you think it’d be better? … Sort of freshen up?”

“No,” said Jackie, grimly. “I want it at a
hotel.”

“Very well, then, dear, you shall
have
it at your old hotel.”

Your “old” hotel? She immediately detected the flaw in his good-humoured idiom, and looked up. She found him smiling awkwardly to himself. She had never known him smile to himself.

“Richard, dear? Do you
want
to go back?”

“No, darling. Let’s go to the hotel.”

“No; but, Richard, I believe you really want to go back.”

“No, dear. I only thought we might sort of freshen up for the show this evening.”

“We’ll go back, darling.”

“No, dear, let’s go to the hotel. I’m all right, really.”

Who, in heaven’s name, thought Jackie again, had said that he wasn’t all right?

“Richard, dear? Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Absolutely. Come on. We’ll go to our hotel.”

“Darling, you’re not feeling well. What’s the matter? You look all right. What’s the matter?”

“No, I’m all right, Jackie darling. Only a bit of a chill.”

“A bit of a chill?”

“Yes.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Sort of all cold. Come on, dear. It’s nothing.”

“We’re going back, Richard. Come on. We’ll take a tram.”

She guided him in that direction, and he made no demur.

“I wish you hadn’t got to go on to-night, Richard,” she said.

“Don’t be mad, darling. I’ve got to go on.”

(Who, in heaven’s name, thought Jackie, had said that he hadn’t?)

They caught a tram, after some waiting about in the wind (“Go on, put your collar up, Richard,” said Jackie, and he did), and they went clanging up to the top of the town, where their rooms were situated.

These were expensive theatrical diggings, and, for
Sheffield
, of a high-class nature. They were placed in a rather
respectable
street adjoining a very foul slum, whence could be heard, all day, the cries of children. And there was a grocery, and a butcher’s shop, and a sweet-shop in this slum, and at the sweet-shop the children could obtain toffee-apples and skipping-ropes — both of which were greatly in favour. The rooms themselves were clean, and the dining-room contained innumerable portraits of famous variety stars, affectionately dedicated to the landlady — who was a sinister, tall, thin, widowed character in black (undoubtedly a murderess), who spoke little, and with an air of extreme forbearance and rectitude when she did. Richard and Jackie had already had much fun at her expense.

It was dark by the time they got there, but they soon had their gas alight (a very asthmatic and bright green gas), and poked the fire — and then Jackie went to the top of the stairs to see the landlady about Tea. The landlady said that she had Understood they were not coming back. (She was a great Understander of things.) But she thought something could be Managed. (She was a great Manager, as well.)

When Jackie returned to Richard, she found him sitting back in an arm-chair by the fire.

“Feeling better, darling?” asked Jackie.

And he smiled up, rather wearily, without replying, and she went and sat on the arm of his chair, and stroked his hair.

When the tea came, she would not let him get up, but brought him over a cup by the fire. And then she herself came and sat down on the floor in front of him. And they
looked into the flames and did not speak very much.

“I’ll tell you what, Jackie,” he said, after a while. “
Suppose
I go upstairs and have a little Lie Down?”

“A little Lie Down, Richard?”

“Yes. Sort of freshen me up for the evening. We’ve got an hour before we need start, haven’t we?”

“That’s right, Richard. Will you go now?”

“Yes,” he said. And he sprang up, very suddenly….

She took his arm as they went up the stairs, and led the way into the bedroom, where they lit a candle. It was very cold.

“You must wrap up,” said Jackie.

“Yes. I’ll take off my coat, and get under the quilt thing.”

She took off his coat, and she arranged a pillow for him, and wrapped him round, and kissed him. Then, when the candle was out, she said through the cold darkness: “Call you in an hour, darling.”

“Right you are, Jackie,” he said.

And she left the room, softly closing the door.

She stirred the fire again, when she got downstairs, and brought a book down to the arm-chair, and tried to read it.

But she did not find herself able to do this. Quite apart from this little accident, there was something troubled, hushed, uneasy over everything to-night. And she had never been left by Richard at this time of evening before. They generally had such fun, and were so noisy together, at this time. And it was quite horrid to think of him lying there, alone in the dark, upstairs.

And then she found herself listening, she did not know why, to the noises in the slum near by — to the cries of the children — to the incessant echoing cries — now loud, now soft — now single and whining, now in sudden chorus — on and on…. And brisk manly footsteps came hurrying past her window, and faded away in the distance….

And how black and dark was the night outside! She could not see a light from here. Only the reflection of the room in which she was sitting, and the dirty tea-things…. She
should pull down the blinds. She had not the energy to get up and pull down the blinds….

So dark, and yet only six o’clock…. The top of Sheffield at six o’clock…. In her present state there was
something
frightening in the mere thought of it…. It seemed a wicked Universe which could have arrived at such a thing as the top of Sheffield at six o’clock…. Inexplicable event in time and eternity! A truly mysterious Universe….

And she, alone in Sheffield — and the only human being in Sheffield to feel the weight of these mysteries…. Another pair of feet went hurrying past her window….

She was getting nervous. She wished that Richard would come down and say that he was better. When she was in Richard’s arms the Universe could do what it liked.

She went up ten minutes before the time agreed.

She went over to the bed in the darkness, and said softly: “Richard.”

There was no answer.

“Richard.”

And he did not reply to that.

“Richard,” she said, more loudly, and struck a match.

With the little tearing noise of the igniting phosphorus, he sat up suddenly, and looked into her eyes.

“Hullo, Jackie,” he said. He seemed dazed. She lit the candle.

“It’s nearly time, Richard dear.”

“I’ve been right off.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Rather foul. I wish I had an understudy.”

She sat on the bed and took his hand. It was wet and clammy. And his face was flushed, now.

“Look here, Richard. You can’t go on to-night.”

“Who’s going on, then? The stage-manager?”

“Well. Couldn’t he?”

He released his hand, and got off the bed.

“Come on, Jackie. It’s no use.”

“But you mustn’t, Richard, if you’re ill. And you’re
looking
ill.”

“No, I’m not. I’m better now.” He put on his coat, and kissed her, and led her downstairs.

“Well, we must have a taxi, there and back, that’s all,” said Jackie.

“Shouldn’t think we could get one.”

She asked the landlady. The landlady had no idea where one could get one.

“Come on, Jackie, we’ll be late.”

He had his way.

On their way to the tram, and walking arm in arm (with their spirits slightly improved by the fresh air), he all at once made the most outrageous little sound in his throat. It was a kind of tremulous sob, a swift hiccoughing intaking of breath — as though in sudden horror of something, as though he had seen a spirit.

He smiled weakly at her, after it had happened. It could not pass unnoticed, and there was nothing else to do.

She did not say how horrified she was.

She almost forgot about him in the hurry of changing and making up, and the next she saw of him was from the o.p. corner as he acted. She could detect no difference in his performance (his laughs were coming as pat as ever) and the paint hid whatever there was of illness in his face. Only once, during a long speech from his fellow-actor, did his look become slightly strained as he covered his mouth to give a little harsh cough.

“
He’s
all right,” thought Jackie.

But because the stage was freezingly cold, she went away to fetch her own cloak to put round him as he came off.

He was trembling a little (but then so was she) as he came off, and he let her put the woman’s thing round him without demur. And they stood together, strangely silent, at the back of the set.

The stage-manager passed them as they stood thus. He was an agreeable, smiling, youngish man.

“Wrapping him Up?” asked the stage-manager.

“Yes,” said Jackie, smiling.

And they all three smiled, and were silent.

At half-past two next morning Jackie was standing, fully dressed, in the sea-green light cast by the gas of the
sitting-room
.

She had her back to the fireplace, and she was in the silent presence of a quaint, bowed, bald, common little man, with a white moustache and watery blue eyes. This was Mr. Broggen, a permanent lodger in an attic of the house, who had just been out to knock up the doctor. That unknown, unseen, but existing and clearly conceived individual might be along any moment….

Downstairs in the kitchen the murderess, dressed in a night-gown and dressing-gown, was making Cocoa for them all.

Upstairs, in the bedroom, Richard was lying, propped up in candle-light (the gas had gone wrong and they could not adjust it), with flaming cheeks, and in the noise set up by the labour of accomplishing forty-five respirations a minute. He was, however, for all the ardour of this, surprisingly comatose.

Jackie could think of nothing to say to Mr. Broggen, as they stood there. The little distressed man, hat in hand, gazed with a kind of weak commiseration at the tablecloth….

They waited.

Jackie told herself to pull herself together as she left the house next morning at half-past ten, on her way to the theatre.

Influenza…. There was nothing the matter with that.
The only thing she had not liked had been the doctor’s air. “There’s nothing at all
serious
, is there?” she had asked him. “Oh, dear no, I don’t think so,” he had replied, as though the idea had been almost fantastic. She did not like such an idea descending to the plane of the almost fantastic.

And he was, if anything, slightly better this morning. Besides …

She had an awkward interview in front of her.

There was no one in the company down at the theatre when she arrived (except the carpenter), and she had an unpleasant quarter of an hour waiting about on the cold stage and in the colder passages. But at last there arrived the woman who played the housekeeper (with whom she had a small chat), and then the stage-manager, smiling as ever.

“Well, how are we this morning?” he asked.

“Well,” said Jackie. “As a matter of fact, I’m afraid I’ve some rather bad news. My husband’s rather ill.”

“Oh, dear. What’s the matter?”

“It’s a sudden attack of ’flu, I’m afraid. He’s been awful last night. We’ve had the doctor.”

A very great silence fell. The stage-manager looked at the floor.

“Dear, dear, that’s bad. Won’t he be able to go on
tonight
, then?”

“No, I’m afraid he won’t. He’s really too bad. His temperature’s something terrible. Is there anyone who can go on for him?”

The stage-manager pulled a wry smile.

“Well, some one’ll have to go on, won’t they?”

There was a silence.

“You’re sure he can’t get down?”

“No. I’m afraid he really can’t. You see …”

There was another silence.

“I’m very sorry,” said Jackie….

“Well, it’s not your fault, is it?” said the stage-manager. “
You’ll
be able to come down all right, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Oh, well, we’ll manage somehow, I expect. I’ll have to go on myself.”

There was yet another silence.

“Well, I must be rushing back, I’m afraid,” said Jackie, smiling weakly and moving away. “You’ll tell everybody, won’t you?”

“Yes. That’s all right.”

“Hope he’s better,” said the stage-manager, calling after her.

Jackie smiled again, and left.