Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

G race arrived at the theatre an hour before rehearsals were due to start, to hear the sound of music from the large room where the chorus would be going through their numbers. She peered round the door, to see Tom in his shirtsleeves at the piano, and her chorus of ten men and women in the midst of a group number, tapping away in a tight phalanx. Watching them for a moment, Grace had the distinct impression they were all trying to dance behind one another – even the dancers in the front row, which seemed a bit of a challenge.

‘Enough! Tiny elephants! Cease!’ called a thin male voice, and something thumped on the floor. The dancers came to an immediate halt and stared at the floor. ‘Mrs Treadwell, do come in.’

The invisible person spoke with unquestionable authority.

Grace stepped into the room. Terrence Fortescue, the choreographer, was sitting on a low wooden bench in front of the mirror. He wore long, loose black trousers, which stopped just above his ankles, and a thin black sweater. His chin rested on the top of a solid-looking black cane. His hair was the colour of old ivory, plentiful, and coiffed. Grace was reminded of a particularly delicious syllabub she’d once had at the Metropole.

He turned his perfectly round face to Grace; his small eyes were almost invisible within the caves of their sockets.

‘The read-through begins at ten,’ he purred, ‘is that correct, Mrs Treadwell?’

‘It is, Mr Fortescue.’

He smiled, thinly. ‘I am putting them through their paces. They are acceptable.’

Grace glanced at the chorus members. They looked sweaty and mildly alarmed.

‘I’m delighted to hear it.’ She turned to go, then looked back over her shoulder. ‘Please don’t break them.’

His smile widened, but he made no promises.

In the main rehearsal room she found Nikolai sharpening pencils, and two men chasing each other round one of the trestle tables set out for the read-through.

As Grace stood in the doorway, the older of the two men reached across the table and hauled the younger man across it towards him, then dealt him such a blow around the ears he spun round. As he did, he straightened his legs, which caught the older man by surprise and threw him to the ground. He rolled over and saw Grace staring down at him.

‘Morning, Mrs Treadwell.’ He sprang back up and spoke to the young man on the table. ‘That’s it, Frank. You’ve just got to sell the spin, I’ll sell the fall.’

The younger man pushed himself off the table. ‘I get it, Harold. We’ll pop it in if Mrs Treadwell approves.’

Grace walked over towards them, hand outstretched. Frank, the younger man, was cast as Idle Jack, and Harold Drabble was their star - Sarah the Cook.

‘I absolutely approve.’

Harold beamed at her. Though he moved with rubberish agility, he was a barrel of a man. As he took her hand between his own, Grace felt she was being welcomed into her rehearsal room by a courteous grizzly bear.

‘Young Frank will charm their socks off. God, I love the first day of rehearsal. All these new faces, and such drama to kick us off with. Is it true Archibald Flynn absconded with the Sudley Baldington wardrobe budget?’ He towered over her, teeth bared.

‘I believe it was something to do with his taxes, Mr Drabble. Welcome to The Empire. Are your digs comfortable?’

‘Call me Harold, dear. Yes, very nice.’ He swung away from her and sauntered off towards the tea urn with a strange rolling gait, as if he had a beach ball between his knees. ‘Taxes! I sympathise!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Well, I think we shall all get along famously without him. Directing panto is mostly about remembering everybody’s names.’ He poured his tea and returned. ‘I think I’d better use the line at once, don’t you think? On my first entrance.’

‘Ooh, where is my tiffin?’ Nikolai supplied proudly in his rolling Marakovian accent, from the pencil sharpening station. Harold raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down.

‘Just so, Your Dukeyness. Don’t wear it out.’

Nikolai became immediately very serious. ‘I shall indeed, not wear it out.’

Before Grace could say anything, the door opened and Marmaduke Smythe made his entrance. His face – narrow, with a long nose and large, dark eyes – gave him the look of a suspicious crow rather than a rat. He looked around the room, turning his head and taking them all in, then lighted on Grace like a spotlight.

‘Mrs Treadwell,’ he said, crossing the space between them. ‘I am distraught for you, to be cast in such a demanding role at a moment’s notice.’ He clasped her offered hand in both of his own. ‘I am more than willing to support you in any way I can. I have a few little ideas, gleaned through my many, many years of experience. All of them, I place most humbly at your feet.’ He released her hand and bowed. ‘The Rat, you see, in my interpretation, is an aristocrat, a creature of great sophistication forced out of polite society by petty rules, now maddened by the cruelties visited on him.’

‘How fascinating!’ Grace said.

‘I shall look forward to chasing you with a rolling pin,’ Harold announced from the tea urn. Marmaduke ignored him, his attention still fixed on Grace.

She fluttered her eyelashes a little. ‘That’s most wonderfully kind of you. I am so grateful to be supported by an actor of your experience. And you know,’ she leant forward and put a hand on his arm, ‘we have Terrence Fortescue for the choreography. He’s already putting the chorus through their paces next door.’

‘How wonderful,’ Marmaduke said in a voice which made the floorboards vibrate. ‘Though, of course, King Rat does not cavort.’

Miss Chisholm came into the room, half hidden behind a stack of mimeographed copies of the script. She set them down on the table, then began to arrange them. The brass butterfly clips in the corners glimmered.

Josie Clarence pushed the door open, already in her playsuit. ‘Grace, is it true that Stella Stanmore is in Highbridge? Do I still have a job?’

Grace turned towards her. ‘Josie, darling, of course you do. You are our Dick! Stella is only visiting us.’

Josie frowned, then tossed her hair. ‘Fair enough. As long as she’s not sniffing after my job.’

Grace froze, then stared at Josie till her cheeks went a little pink, and spoke quietly.

‘Josie, dear, you’re our star, just as you were in Cairo Nights , but if I hear you say one word against Stella – to anyone – or mention that terrible business in London, I’ll put your understudy on in a heartbeat. Do you understand?’ Josie looked as if she was about to protest, then caught the steeliness in Grace’s expression, and simply nodded. ‘Good. Now go and sit with Harold.’

The rest of the cast made their entrances, then just before ten the befuddled chorus were led in by Terrence Fortescue. Like a goose and his goslings.

Grace joined Nikolai at the head table. ‘Are you ready, Grace?’ Nikolai asked quietly.

She breathed in. Marmaduke Smythe needed to be flattered, and Josie Clarence checked when her nerves made her spiteful. Harold Drabble would be a collaborator and friend; Terrence Fortescue needed respect and room to work. The characters of Jimmy and Mrs Carstairs, and Grace’s months of misery trying to write, seemed to disappear. Here she was with her cast settling into their seats, the wintry light streaming in through the tall windows. She looked between them, imagining each face in make-up, each costume, from Fairy Bow Bells to the cat, to the King of Zanzibar, to Josie – Dick Whittington himself – and Alice; then she looked down at the script in front of her.

‘Yes, Nikolai,’ she said. ‘I’m ready.’ She lifted her eyes. ‘Good morning, everyone, and welcome to The Empire. We’ll begin with a read-through. If you could hold your comments to the end, please. The rehearsal schedule is on the blackboard behind me, as is a list of available times for your first wardrobe visits. For all administrative matters, please speak to Nikolai here first. For anything about the show, come to me. Now, shall we begin? Nikolai, if you’d be so kind.’

Nikolai cleared his throat. ‘London,’ he read, with such enjoyment that even Josie smiled. ‘May Day celebrations outside the shop of Alderman Fitzwarren. As the alderman readies himself for breakfast, the apprentices pass behind him carrying large sacks and barrels labelled “Wine from France”, “Eggs from Essex”, and “Broadcloth from Highbridge”.’

At the mention of the town’s name, the company cheered.

‘Enter Dick Whittington with stick and bundle over his shoulder,’ Nikolai finished.

‘So this is London!’ Josie exclaimed from the other end of the table. ‘And to think that I was told that all the streets were paved in gold!’

‘Enter Alice Fitzwarren and her father.’ Nikolai’s delight was infectious.

Harold leaned in towards Josie, touching shoulder to shoulder, and she grinned. King Rat nodded once.

And they were off.