A Dark Coffin. Gwendoline Butler
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what her mood.
Behind them, in the Royal Box, the electrician was at work, testing the lighting in there. The bulbs in what he called ‘that fucking box’ seemed to burn out more than they should. Lately it always seemed to be darkness in that box.
He couldn’t find anything wrong, so once again he replaced the light bulb.
Stella was on the stage itself now, where she always felt at home, and her husband was standing on the floor below, looking up at her.
‘All right?’ he said. ‘Looks good to me.’
‘Yes, I am really pleased with all the redecoration. It was generous of Letty to finance it.’
Letty was her sister-in-law. Coffin’s half-sister, daughter of their much-married, mysterious, long-dead (one hoped) mother with a taste for moving on and finding different spouses. Although whether she married them all no one knew. Coffin hoped not, because if so bigamy must have come into it somewhere.
Letty Bingham, also much married, was younger and richer than her half-brother. Very much richer at the moment (her capital wealth did vary from time to time, and crisis to crisis), having climbed back after a time of disaster during which Coffin had feared the worst.
‘Least she could do.’
Letty had invested in the theatre and was a member of the Theatre Trust over which Stella presided.
Coffin followed the two women with as much patience as he could, while they continued the tour, inspecting the workroom where the scenery was prepared. He was always amazed how brilliantly the audience was conned into believing that bits of old wood repainted and rearranged from production to production, were a bit of the Roman senate, Hamlet’s mother’s bedroom, or Lady Windermere’s drawing room. Or even, for that matter, the kitchen in Look Back in Anger.
The two moved on, inspecting the designs for the play currently on line: Oh What a Lovely War, which would be preceded, just to get the mood right, by a scene from Journey’s End. He had thought himself that Macbeth might be a better play with which to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the last war, but Stella had let her new young producer, Monty Roland, and his Young Theatre Group, have the choice.
‘Just a quick look at the dressing rooms. I hope everyone is happy with them.’
‘Oh, very pleased, Miss Pinero. And of course, having showers and hot water makes a big difference to them all.’
‘So it should. I can remember having to change in a kind of barn, no water, not even cold, and walk across an open courtyard from the dressing rooms to the stage. Why do I say dressing rooms, we had but one, the sexes were separated by a curtain, which pulled across or didn’t as the mood took us. But that was in Scotland and it was an old cowshed.’
And a long while ago, thought Coffin, but knew better than to say so.
He had come to support Stella and be part of her audience, but now he would like to get home.
Stella had nearly finished her inspection, by which she had been pleased. ‘Came today just at this time on purpose,’ she said. ‘Not to get in anyone’s way.’
Tomorrow the last frantic rehearsals began, today was a day off. Not that the theatre was empty, theatres rarely are, except in the small hours, and perhaps not then if the ghosts are out. Someone always seems to be around.
The wardrobe mistress was checking the garments for the dress rehearsal tomorrow and her assistant, Deborah, was ironing a shirt.
She rolled her eyes at Stella. ‘The clothes those Tommies wore … I don’t know what they felt like on, but they are bloody.’
‘Don’t swear,’ said May Renier, automatically. Her face was flushed.
Deborah went on with her ironing. ‘That wasn’t swearing. And there is blood on this shirt … meant to be. It’s the one the chap gets killed in.’
She held it up for Stella to see. ‘Look, Miss Pinero, bloody, isn’t it?’
But Stella had seen stage blood before, worn it once or twice, and was more interested in soothing her wardrobe mistress who was known to become a near hysteric (while pretending to be cucumber-cool) around final dress rehearsal time.
‘How’s it going, dear?’
‘I believe we shall get through all right. Something will happen, of course, something always does, but we shall get through.’
You could almost hear May’s teeth grinding. Coffin wanted to offer her a glass of water.
‘We all know you suffer. May,’ said Alfreda, without a great deal of sympathy.
‘Your boy is looking for you,’ May came back with, knowing where to strike.
‘Where is he?’
‘Looking for a knife, I think. He thought you might have one.’
‘What for?’
‘Well, not to kill himself or you, although I wouldn’t blame him.’
Alfreda burst out laughing. ‘What for?’ She looked at Stella – Don’t take any notice of us, just our game, and it helps May let off steam.
‘He was going to cut a cake that Deb brought in.’ She nodded towards a table in the corner on which a large white iced cake sat.
‘Is it your birthday, Deborah?’ asked Stella.
‘Well, she isn’t going to be christened or married, so yes,’ said May.
‘Where’s he looking for the knife?’
May shrugged. ‘On your desk, I expect, you seem to have everything else there, so we thought there might be a knife.’
‘He won’t find one there.’ Alfreda went to the door and shouted down the corridor. ‘Look in my handbag.’
‘Knew you’d have one,’ said May.
Coffin looked at Stella. They can keep this up for ever, his gaze said, and if we aren’t lucky we shall have to stay and eat some of that cake.
Stella did the right thing, as she always did when it suited her. ‘There’s a bottle of champagne in my office. In the fridge. Send Tom for it and you three have it, with my love. Bless you all.’
She swept out, in her new blue and white Jean Muir, and Coffin followed.
In the corridor they passed Barney, plain Barney, who pressed himself against the wall politely so they could pass.
I think his mother beats him, thought Coffin, he always has a kind of bruised look.
‘Rubbish, he’s just young and nervous and in his first job,’ said Stella, as if he had spoken aloud. Well, not quite his first job, he had worked on that stall that sold sandwiches and hot dogs, but that was just to earn money as any student might.
‘What did I say?’ Coffin asked. ‘Did I speak?’
‘You said poor devil.’
‘Would you want Alfreda for a mother?’
‘She’s devoted to him. You can see it. As he is to her.’
‘I don’t know about mother love, it never came my way.’ Coffin’s parent had dumped him early in life to be brought up by a woman he called his aunt, although their exact relationship continued to worry him. His memory let him down and the evidence was perplexing. Sometimes he told one story about himself, sometimes another. Meanwhile his mother had gone gallivanting off with numerous romantic encounters to her credit. If you could believe her own diary, discovered well after her death. If she was dead. The one truth about his mother was that you could not believe everything you heard.
No, he hadn’t known much about mother love.
‘And he has me as a guv’nor,’ Stella finished triumphantly.