Twopence Coloured (31 page)

Whatever else might be in store for her, there was no sympathy awaiting her in this crisis.

That night Jackie played.

The company were full of sympathy for her. “Tell him he must buck up and get
well
,”
said the woman who played the Colonel’s wife, and, “It’s this cold stage,” said the woman who played the housekeeper. “No wonder he caught a cold.”

“He shouldn’t have come down last night,” said the rather queer man who played the butler. “He ought to have stayed in bed.”

Nevertheless, it was all a bit of a lark for them all. It was great fun to see how the stage-manager was going to shape, and all agreed that he did remarkably well.

“You would have thought,” said the woman who played the housekeeper, “that he’d been playing it ever since we opened.”

“Yes, isn’t he good?” said Jackie.

And, “Well, I do hope he’s better when you get back,” said the same lady, as she smiled Good-bye to Jackie, amid the grind and clatter of almost final trams, just outside the theatre, at half-past eleven.

“I expect he will be,” said Jackie.

She had quite believed that he was going to be better when she returned. He was to have smiled weakly at her as she came in, and the nurse was to have been professionally cheerful.

But he was no better, and the nurse’s face was the same. Jackie might have been absent no more than two minutes, instead of nearly four hours. There had been no upheaval, no adventure, in the drama of his illness. It had proceeded in her absence with all its grim, feebly-lit quiet. The nurse did not so much as punctuate her duties with a smile, as Jackie came in.

He was lying there, like a drunkard thrown down, utterly unconscious, impotent and trusting in the fearful battle which his heart had been called upon, and had gallantly undertaken, to fight for him.

He was in a state of perpetual climax. Each sharp breath seemed to be the straining and decisive one, but the decision was never forthcoming….

She sat down by the bed and watched him…. For one passionate and angered moment she felt that she must shake him, wake him up, reproach him, plead with him. She must bring home to him the terrors he was bringing upon herself and himself. She must tell him where he was, what was happening, that this was Sheffield, that they were in rooms on tour. She wanted to tell him, even, that he was not married to her….

Then the night nurse came, whom Jackie did not like so much as the other. She was an elderly woman, with a slight cold, and she went about the place sniffing.

He was a little better in the morning (the doctor admitted as much), but by three o’clock she was in a panic, and had wired for Charles. She should have done this before. He
was still in Brussels, and there was no chance of getting him for another day….

Presumably she acted that night: but she was conscious of next to nothing of it. She was conscious of the faces of the actors and actresses, apprehensively sympathetic under their chromatic colouring — of the ebullient sea of the audience — and of the orchestra clashing in the intervals. The orchestra clashing, on Richard’s last night on earth…. She knew everything now.

*

And at twenty-past one that night Richard’s heart,
competent
and courageous in the emergency to the last practicable moment, abruptly accepted the fate of the organism for which it conspired, and was still.

Jackie was not in the room at the time, but downstairs in the dining-room, sipping and gulping at a cup of coffee. The nurse ran down the stairs and told her.

She arose, without speaking, and walked straight out of the room. It was not as though she had learnt that the man she loved was dead. It was as though she had been told of some domestic mishap, and was going to rectify it.

She ran firmly up the stairs, with her shoulders held back, and her slim body straight. The pall of her grief was too dense and black for tears or thought. She could see nothing beyond it, and did not try to do so.

She reached his bed, knelt down, covered her head with her arms, felt for his hand, and with the quietness of the dead man himself, was absolutely quiet.

T
WENTY to two in the morning, five months later. A train flying through Lancashire at fifty miles an hour, and Jackie huddled surlily in a corner with her eyes closed in disgust. A grey light from the terribly yellow little bulb above, and the roar of the rails, and three young men, in the same company as herself, talking to each other and drinking whisky out of the top of a thermos flask.

Three young men of about thirty — the stage-manager, the A.S.M. and the leading man — Mr. Brands, Mr. Crewe, and Mr. North. The latter, to-morrow night, at half-past nine, will smother Jackie with an alcoholic and cosmetic embrace. They have offered her whisky, but she has smiled and said No.

This is her fourth week with Mr. Edward Granger in “The Reckoning.” Mr. Edward Granger, the well-known London actor-manager, who has not been seen in London for over three years, but a great deal in Canada, and South Africa, and the provinces of England (where he is amassing a vast fortune) has heard of Jackie’s plight (it is common talk), and employed her in his company, and treated her with very great kindness altogether. She is very grateful to Mr. Granger, and Mr. Granger is rather grateful to her, for she makes Mr. Granger feel large.

But Jackie has no gratitude in her heart at the moment. The three young men are in jovial spirits, and chaffing one another.

“No, honestly, old boy, why don’t you write a book?” Mr. Brands is saying. Mr. Brands is an embarrassed little man, not much good as a good fellow, and given to flattering the leading man. “That was really jolly good — that bit in that letter there.”

“And come to you for the copy, eh, old man? Come on. Drink up. Drink up.”

“Oh, well, you might do worse, old man. (Thanks, old boy.) But honestly, old boy — why don’t you? ‘The Diary of an Unsuccessful Actor.’ What about that?”

“The Diary of a
What?
” cry both the other young men, simultaneously, and Mr. Brands looks a little sheepish.

There is a gust of laughter in the compartment, and then Mr. Crewe comes down.

“My Dear Old Boy! My — Dear — Old — Boy! You have
Dropped
it, old boy — this time all right. Poor old North! Poor old boy! Did he ever think he’d be called that!”

“No, old boy. Just a good title, that’s all,” says Mr. Brands, but Mr. Crewe will have none of that.

“You — have —
Dropped,
old boy,
The
Brick! The Pro Verbial
Cube
— of Baked Clay, old chap! I mean I’ve never heard anything like that.
The
Pro Verbial Cube, old boy, I mean!”

“No, old boy, don’t be an ass,” says Mr. Brands, but Mr. Crewe will have none of that, either.

“The
Historic
Oblong,
old boy!
The
Identical and Actual
Oblong!
Well I
Never!
”

“No, old boy ——”

“I mean Absolutely Ripped it up, old man. I mean you left nothing Undone, old chap. Ruthless, I mean. Poor old North. I don’t think he’ll ever get over that. Too bad. Cheer up, North, cheer up.”

“No — listen, old man ——”

“As an Actor, old chap — doubtless very fine. But for Tact, old fellow…. For pure Diplomacy, old man…. I mean to say we won’t mention Corns, old boy. Nor
Sensitive
Spots, old man. I mean we actors have our
Susceptibilities
, you know. I mean one Simply Doesn’t, old fellow. Not straight to a fellow’s face. Of course it’s what we
all
think really, but there are certain Well-defined Limits, if you understand…. Oh, that was too good…. I say, we’re getting up a pace.”

“Be in by two,” says Mr. North.

And Jackie listens, and the train roars on, and the time is ten to two. And she supposes the landlady has got her letter, and she trusts the landlady will be up, and her
headache
is fearful, and she thinks she has a cold coming on, and she’ll take some Aspirin when she gets there, if she hasn’t forgot to pack them (which she rather thinks she has)…

And she is without love or protection in this world. She is utterly desolate, and ill, and alone. But she doesn’t care two pins. She will never have another emotion.

She looks at a photographic advertisement of a
watering-place
in Wales.

It is half-past eleven in the morning. Jackie is in the front room of her Margate lodgings, and Little Minnie, her
landlady’s
daughter, is going to do the Charleston.

There has been a lot of talk about it, and Jackie’s landlady thinks that Jackie wouldn’t be half amused, just to see it like.

But Little Minnie, standing there by the door, is Shy. Little Minnie is three feet high, and eats her thumb.

“Now then, dearie,” says Jackie’s landlady. “Show the pretty lady how you do the Charleston. Go along, dearie. Show her! Don’t be Shy.”

But Little Minnie continues to eat her thumb.

“Go on, dearie. Do the Charleston. Do the Charleston, dearie.”

But Little Minnie continues to eat her thumb.

“She won’t do it, will she?” says Jackie’s landlady.

Jackie smiles.

“Go on — like you did it before, dearie…. Oh, you silly girl! Are you Shy of the Lady? She won’t eat you. You’re Shy of the Lady, aren’t you?”

But Little Minnie, not committing herself on this point, continues to eat her thumb.

“Silly little girl,” says Jackie’s landlady….

And then, all at once, and before they are ready, the spirit moves Little Minnie. And Little Minnie’s arms are suddenly lifted up, and a strange and awe-inspiring spasm shakes Little Minnie’s body, and a hideous silence falls, and Little Minnie’s face takes on a horrible smile…. And Little Minnie’s legs begin to turn outwards and inwards.

Little Minnie is Doing the Charleston.

“Look! She’s doing it! She’s doing it!” cries Jackie’s landlady. “She’s doing the Charleston!”

“Oh,
isn’t
that good?” says Jackie, with enormous glee. “
Isn’t
that good?”

“Go on, dearie. Don’t leave off! Go on, dear. Do the Charleston!”

But Little Minnie wouldn’t stop the Charleston now, if you asked her.

“That
is
good, isn’t it?” says Jackie. “I’m sure I couldn’t do the Charleston like that.”

“Look — she does it just like them, doesn’t she?”

“Just,” says Jackie.

Little Minnie suddenly reverts to thumb.

“And
what
did you say the Lady was yesterday, dearie?”

Little Minnie looks flirtatiously at her mother, but does not reply.

“Go on, dear. What did you say?”

Little Minnie pauses. “Pri,” says Little Minnie.

Pretty! The child has surpassed herself! There is an explosion of laughter and the little thing is bundled out. “You must come and do the Charleston again before I go,” says Jackie. And then Jackie, by herself again, walks over to the window.

And she stays at the window for a long time, gazing out. And then she comes back to the sofa, and looks at the fire.

And then she puts her head into the cushion, and begins to cry, and tell the cushion things.

“Oh,
why
weren’t you here, Richard?” she asks. “To see Little Minnie do the Charleston? You shouldn’t have left me to Little Minnie, Richard. I do hate her so….”

And, “Richard dear, it’s my birthday to-day…. And
I’m twenty-seven, Richard dear! I am…. Oh, Richard, Richard,
Richard!
…”

Sometimes Jackie would wake in the night and wish him back just to round it off. She wanted just one little word of exposition and farewell.

He would come in the dark and be close to her. And, “That’s all right, Richard” she would say. “There’s nothing to fret about. It was quite wonderful while it lasted, wasn’t it? And we got the best out of it. If we’d only known we had such a little time, we might have wasted it less, but it was perfect while it lasted…. It was a perfect year. Do you realize it was just a year and five months? … And it’s quite all right, isn’t it, Richard?”

And he would say, “Yes. That’s right, Jackie. There’s nothing really to regret. It’s only over. Good-bye, darling.”

Then, she thought, he could go back, and she could go on. It would be a mere aching tragedy — no worse.

And if he could kiss her, in the dark, once, for the last time….

But then Jackie was always waking in the dark these days, and it was wearing away her spirit.

She had worries now — even earthly and monetary
worries
— things which had not touched her before.

And nowadays Jackie’s mind would continually revert to the days when she had first arrived in London — to the days when she had come up with all the dignity of her virginity and youth behind her — to the days when life had been too simple for her conquering. And nowadays she would
examine
that early attitude, and see it for what it was. And she would see it as one enormous bluff, an astounding optimism which had so far borne her up — a colossal
assumption
that she was to take the prizes and rare things
of life. And had she taken them? No. And was she going to take them? And was there any reason for supposing she was going to take them?

She wished she could recover that early dignity.

And in twelve years’ time one would be forty. What did one do then? It was all getting too much for her.

It was in the o.p. corner of the stage of the Theatre Royal, Brighton, and at about 10.15 at night, and on the last night of the tour, that Jackie hit upon a temporary solution to life. She would succeed.

She would succeed in this business. She had always meant to do it. Her ambition had been temporarily diverted. Now she would return to it — with renewed vigour and wisdom.

The solution came quite suddenly. She was watching, with wide eyes and a dreamy air, Mr. Robert Granger
driving
his wife round a very tropical-looking hut with a whip.

There was a great deal of cracking and screaming going on, and the audience were looking up with a strained, serious, pince-nez’d, and rather anxious expression, as much as to say Tut Tut, he shouldn’t do that (though they knew to what drink led a man, in the tropics).

She would succeed. She would start right again from the beginning and succeed. She would be back at West
Kensington
to-morrow, and out of work. But she had her art. Yes, she had the right to say that now. She had her art, and could live for that alone.

She would write letters to every manager or producer she knew, and force herself upon London. And she would come to the top.

And when she had got there? … She could not answer that…. But she now had something to work upon. She would use all her forces and die in the attempt.

By the time she had reached this conclusion, Mr. Granger, having swallowed (on the mistaken impression that it was whisky) a large tumblerful of what was not, was rolling
about, in a painful and arsenical manner, upon the floor. And at this point Jackie was joined by the company’s carpenter.

“The Old Gent’s Busted himself,” murmured this
carpenter
to Jackie.

That this carpenter, after having witnessed the Old Gent Bust (even if that was the right word to employ) himself in this way for over fifty nights at the least, should now have the naïveté, the effrontery, the spirit even, to announce, to the leading lady on the last night of the show, that his
employer
had done it again — was a surprising thing to Jackie. Nevertheless, Jackie felt a peculiar sympathy arising towards this sardonic carpenter. He had an attitude towards the drama which appealed to her.

“I know,” said Jackie, and smiled at him. He smiled back. He was the most winning carpenter.

She was surprised by that smile. It brought her back to life again. She was one with human kind, after all.

*

When she had taken her call (and the Saturday applause was reassuringly violent) she ran up to her dressing-room with quite a light air — humming. She was going to succeed.