Voice of the Heart. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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to such an extent that it was an unbearable irritation.
In the last act she had perspired profusely and somewhat unnaturally for her, and she wondered dismally if she was coming down with a cold. Certainly her throat ached and felt scratchy, but she was fully aware she had overworked it, both at the matinee and this last performance. The effort to project her voice effectively into the cavernous depths of the St James’s Theatre had apparently taken its toll for once. This bothered her not a little, and she resolved to increase her lessons with Sonia Modelle, London’s foremost vocal coach. She would also make a point of doing her breathing exercises more regularly and diligently, since breathing correctly was the key to a good voice, as Sonia had instilled in her. For the past four years Katharine had worked extremely hard in the cultivation of voice technique. Through assiduousness and single-minded concentration she had developed tone, pitch, pace, range and rhythm to a remarkable degree, and had most effectively obliterated the American Midwest inflection so easily distinguishable in her speech patterns when she had first arrived in England. Sonia was amazed and gratified by her exceptional progress, and although the respected coach was usually scant with her praise, she had told Katharine only a few weeks before that there was now a peerless musicality to her voice, a quality few actresses ever attained. Nonetheless, Katharine recognized she must continue to work on her voice to strengthen it. Only absolute perfection would satisfy her.
Terry Ogden caught up with her in the wings. ‘Hey, Puss, you’re in a tearing hurry tonight, aren’t you?’
Katharine paused and swung around quickly. She half smiled, half grimaced. ‘I feel pretty done in, Terry. Giving two entirely different performances in one day doesn’t usually disturb me at all, but for some reason I’m exhausted this evening.’
Terry nodded sympathetically. ‘I know exactly what you mean. But they were great performances, darling,’ he exclaimed. ‘And you do adjust to the mood of the audience quite instinctively, and quicker and more expertly than anyone I know. That’s a rare talent indeed, Puss, and especially in one so young.’
‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ Katharine said. ‘You’re also very adept yourself.’ She looked up at him and smiled.
It was a smile of such genuine sweetness, and her eyes reflected such wonderment and innocence, Terry felt his heart clenching. He always experienced this feeling when she regarded him in this particular way, for the gaze held an indefinable quality unique to her. There was also a curious vulnerability about Katharine that touched him, a frailty mixed in with the tenacity he suspected lurked beneath the surface, and he often found himself wanting to shield and protect her, as one would a defenceless child.
Becoming aware of her eyes concentrated on his face, he said, ‘I’m pretty agile most of the time, Puss, but I was certainly a bit off my mark tonight. Thanks for coming to my rescue. I can’t believe I almost fluffed that line in the second act. And such a crucial line!’
Neither could Katharine. Terrence Ogden was one of England’s greatest stage actors, comparable only to Laurence Olivier in his youth, according to the critics, who judged Terry to be an impressive and gifted performer. Matchless in declamation, he had immense depth and range, these qualities strengthened by enormous intelligence and insight. Another prince among players, he was an idol to the public, being blessed with a boyish charm and rather striking blond good looks; and his singular flair for romantic entanglements of a decidedly flamboyant nature had done nothing to diminish his professional reputation. If anything, this penchant had enhanced it to a formidable degree, endowing him with the image of the great lover. His private life aside, everyone predicted that one day he, too, would be knighted by the Queen, as Olivier had been. In essence, he was the heir apparent to the reigning king of the English-speaking theatre, and Larry himself fondly regarded him as such, was his mentor, benefactor and close friend. At the age of thirty, Terrence Ogden, the coal miner’s son from Sheffield, was, as he liked to pronounce in his native North Country dialect, ‘Cock of t’heap, by gum!’ having relentlessly nudged aside most of his rivals, the famed Richard Burton included.
Katharine leaned against a piece of scenery and her eyes narrowed, rested on him thoughtfully as she remembered how he had unaccountably dried up on stage, and had flashed her a look that bespoke his horror and his panic. ‘What did happen?’ she asked at last. ‘It’s not like you, Terry.’
He frowned and shook his head and his irritation with himself flared, brought an irate gleam to his eyes. ‘I’m damned if I know, Puss darling. It’s not occurred since I was a kid in rep, and I can assure you it will never happen again. Anyway, you saved the old bacon with that swift and inspired prompt. I shall be eternally grateful. I must tell you, Katharine my love, you’re one of the most unselfish actresses it’s ever been my pleasure to work with. Really, I mean that.’
Katharine glowed and murmured her thanks, but nevertheless she began to edge slowly towards the fire door that led off stage. They were standing in an awkward spot, were being jostled by the other actors leaving the stage and straggling back to their dressing rooms, and by the numerous stage hands who were milling around, busily shifting scenery and joking amongst themselves. The noise, the bustle and the heat were enervating, and that peculiar fusty smell, so indigenous to every back stage, seemed suddenly malodorous and suffocating. It was a strange odour compounded of dry dust and damp, the resinous vapours emanating from the varnished sets, the grease paint, the hair spray, the mingled stale perfumes and the effluvium of the actors and the stage hands. Usually it sent a thrill tingling through Katharine’s veins, as it always had since the first day she had stepped on to a stage as a child. But at this precise moment she was filled with an immense aversion to it. And then, quite unexpectedly, she started to cough.
Terry, who was now talking about one of the other actresses in the play, stopped in the middle of his sentence. He looked down at her in alarm as she spluttered and choked and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Hey, Puss, are you all right?’ he asked worriedly.
Katharine was quite unable to utter a word. The coughing and the gasping for breath continued. She shook her head, motioned to the fire door and moved with swiftness out of the wings. Terry helped her down the stone steps to the corridor where the dressing rooms were located. When they reached his, which was one of the first, he flung open the door unceremoniously and called to his dresser, ‘Quick, Norman, get a glass of water for Katharine, please.’ The dresser ran to the basin with a glass, and Terry pressed Katharine down on to the sofa, worry and concern flooding his face. The paroxysms eventually subsided and she leaned back and gratefully took the water, sipping it slowly, breathing deeply between sips. Terry handed her a tissue to wipe her watering eyes.
Continuing to regard her with anxiety, he said, ‘My God, I thought you were choking, Puss. Whatever brought that on? Are you sure you’re all right now?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you, Terry. And I don’t know what happened. Perhaps it was the dust, and my throat was very dry. The combination of the two might explain it, but it was strange.’ Katharine stood up purposefully. ‘I know I’ll feel much better when I get out of my costume, and this rotten wig.’
He nodded, and stared hard at her, as if to satisfy himself she was completely recovered, and then said, ‘What are you doing tonight? I’ve invited a few chums to the Buxton Club for supper. Care to join us, Puss?’
Katharine declined, choosing her words with care, not wanting to offend him. An invitation from Terry was rare, and was something in the nature of a royal command when it was extended. ‘But it’s sweet of you to include me,’ she added. ‘Unfortunately, I have a long-standing supper date with Kim Cunningham and his sister.’
‘And Victor Mason perhaps?’ The look he focused on her was full of speculation.
Although she was rather taken aback by this comment, Katharine chose not to show it. She merely nodded. ‘Yes, Victor’s coming along. But why do you assume he would be? I don’t know him all that well.’
Terry shrugged and half turned away. ‘I heard he was paying court. You know what this business is like. You can’t keep anything quiet.’
Katharine’s eyebrows shot up. ‘There’s nothing to keep