Chapter Forty-Four

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

J ack concentrated very, very hard. Every fibre of his being was taut. He was so attuned in that moment to every possible sound, the slightest noise, he felt briefly godlike.

‘Good God, Treadwell! Are you ill?’

The moment passed. He rolled over and looked up at Dixon’s concerned face staring down at him from the threshold of his office.

‘Good afternoon, Dixon. No.’

‘Then why are you lying on the floor like that?’

Jack crossed his ankles and put his hands behind his head. ‘I have been listening for Harry, Dixon. Your friend is tormenting me. I’m fairly sure he’s using the electrical conduits in the floor space to make his way around the theatre. More than that, when I’m at my desk, he makes a sneak approach and squeaks at me from under the floorboards.’

Dixon sat down beside him and crossed his legs. ‘So I assume Nikolai is still refusing to tell you anything about his upcoming production?’

‘Yes, he damn well is. I can’t stand it. I’ll try and cheer everyone up with Whoops, Away We Go at the end of June and Twelve Miles Out , which is coming in for the second half of July, has been getting excellent notices in London. I can make plenty of noise about The Seaside Revue coming in for August, but approaching us is this terrifying white space in the diary which simply says “Nikolai’s Play”.’

‘Little Sam says he’s working very hard.’

‘Pfft,’ Jack replied, examining the ceiling. ‘He could be doing anything.’

Dixon pulled a cigarette from his case and lit it, then lay next to Jack.

‘Did you want anything in particular, Dixon?’ Jack asked.

‘Oh, yes, I was wondering . . . With a nice girl . . .’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘A nice girl one has had a few lunches with, for example – might it be appropriate to ask her out for a picnic?’

Jack hauled himself up on one elbow. ‘Oh, are you asking Miss Chisholm out? Yes, a picnic is perfect. Hewitt will provide you with an excellent hamper. Take the bus out to Garthwaite. It stops at the pub, and there’s a lovely spot by the river.’

Dixon frowned. ‘Will she say yes?’

‘Won’t know if you don’t ask her.’

Dixon nodded, conceding the point.

Miss Chisholm appeared at the door at that moment, smoothing down her hair. ‘Mr Treadwell, I’m back from lunch . . . What on earth are you doing?’

Jack scrambled back to his feet. ‘Listening for rats and discussing picnics.’

The phone rang in the outer office. Miss Chisholm cast them a slightly worried look and went to answer it while Jack hauled Dixon to his feet.

‘All going well downstairs, though?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Dixon pulled at his cuffs. ‘Grace says Stella can come up again next week to record, and has a little time later in the summer, too. Apparently her agent’s a dragon. How is the’ – he waved a hand – ‘money side of things going?’

‘Nicely,’ Jack replied. ‘We’ll take on another couple of girls in the shop next month, and the milk shakes are becoming quite the thing. Did Tom tell you he’s selling wholesale to shops in Sheffield and Newcastle already? The terrifying Mr Fossil is turning out discs of exceptional quality, we’re told.’

‘He mentioned something, I think. Oh, and I’ve been talking to Mr Porter about using more musicians, and he was wondering about a classical list. Nothing too heavy, but what about a few string quartets, or a sonata or two?’

‘Will people like that?’

Dixon nodded earnestly. ‘Perhaps not the young ones who come in to the shop in the afternoons, but older people, who like to come in early while it’s quiet.’

Jack remembered the quartet which had played on the terrace at Lillian’s wedding. ‘Why not? We have enough in the kitty to give it a try.’ He paused. ‘Dixon, have you written to your mother recently?’

‘I get the train into Sheffield and send a postcard once a month to say I’m well.’

Jack folded his arms and leant against the desk. ‘I do understand why you might be at odds with your father, but you’re fond of your mother and sister, aren’t you?’ Dixon conceded he was. ‘Then write them a proper letter. Send them a few records!’

‘I can’t do that,’ Dixon said simply. ‘If I sent them records they’d know where I am. And I don’t think Mother would want me to be here.’ He paused. ‘But I could say I have a job, and so on.’

‘Yes, do that. It’s what mothers want most, I’ve discovered. Just an idea of what we’re up to and our general state of well-being. Forgive the avuncular advice, Dixon.’

He was rewarded with one of those miraculous smiles. ‘I like it, Jack. People only give you advice if they care about you.’

‘I’m not entirely sure that’s the case,’ Jack began, but Dixon had already put his hands in his pockets and, whistling, left the room.

‘Nikolai, I am your wife and your employer!’

‘Yes, isn’t it marvellous? Now, go away, please. I shall see you at supper.’ The rehearsal room door was shut in Lillian’s face. She stared at it. It opened once more, and Nikolai leant out to put a piece of paper in her hands, kissed her on the forehead, then shut the door again.

Lillian’s day was not going particularly well. Nikolai, who had once been so voluble about his dramatic ambitions, had stopped talking to her about his work entirely.

Jack was waiting in her office. He raised an enquiring eyebrow, and she shook her head.

‘But we have to know some time, Lillian! We have programmes, posters to print! An audience to find! For crying out loud, he opens in two weeks.’

‘I’m well aware of that, Jack.’

He brandished a heavy-looking volume at her. ‘This is Danny’s day book. You wouldn’t believe the number of people Nikolai has coming in for rehearsals. How much are they all being paid? All I know is that he’s insisting on tuppenny tickets for the stalls for the whole run, and for the whole theatre on opening night! Honestly, Lillian, what is your husband playing at?’

‘Well, he’s doing something!’ She handed him the piece of paper. It read The Seven Trials of Septimius Grey. Conceived and performed by The Highbridge Theatre Collective.

Jack ran his hand through his hair. ‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’ Lillian crossed her legs and looked sideways out of her window across the yards and back alleyways of the city.

‘And he’s still insisting on the “special prices”?’

She nodded, and heard Jack sigh. ‘Very well. I shall do what I can.’

‘You both look terribly mournful,’ a voice said from the doorway, and they turned to find Agnes, wearing an emerald cape that almost reached her ankles and a hat with a bobbing peacock feather. ‘Nikolai’s play, I presume. Go away, Jack, I need to speak to Lillian.’

Jack took the piece of paper and left.

‘Do you want tea, Agnes?’ Lillian asked, as Agnes settled on the chair Jack had just vacated.

‘No. I’ve come to tell you I think the visit here in July will go ahead. But this little detour to Highbridge will not be announced until the tour is already underway. Then arrangements will be made. David has come up with some nonsense story to give the Marakovians, to build a little leeway into things. Nikolai should make sure he is available on perhaps the twenty-seventh, and certainly the twenty-eighth of July. Put something on here. A concert. Stefan wants to hear you sing “The Sunrise Song”. Apparently it’s become incredibly popular in Marakovia.’

‘I see. Yes, we can manage something. But who is David?’

‘The Prince of Wales, dear.’

‘I see,’ Lillian said, looking down at the green leather top of her desk. ‘Agnes, how do you get word of these things when Nikolai cannot?’

‘Old school friends, Lillian. The fascists think we’re gossiping old women, and one learns to work useful information into a jam recipe with a little practice. The censors get bored and don’t realise what they’re reading.’

Lillian smiled. ‘Nikolai is afraid Stefan coming to meet him is a sign of weakness.’

‘It possibly is. He obviously has few allies in the palace beyond some old ladies like me. But when one is weak, one should ask for help, don’t you think? Stefan needs Nikolai’s advice. He’s taking some risks to get it.’

‘Is there any more news out of Marakovia? I know the papers are writing terrible things about Nikolai.’

‘The king’s brother grows more authoritarian and more powerful every week.’ Agnes stopped and leant across the table; the peacock feather in her head swooped and bobbed. ‘You are having the Marakovian papers sent to you?’

Lillian sighed and shook her head. ‘We don’t need to. Someone has been kindly sending them to us all year, especially the ones with photographs. At the Metropole, at the Playhouse . . . and their notices of our turn at the pantomime were something special. Actually, I’m only guessing that, as Nikolai wouldn’t translate it for me, but I saw the cartoon. They had a lovely shot of Nikolai leaving the police station after our wedding. God knows how – I didn’t even see a photographer.’

Agnes frowned at her. ‘Lillian, do you understand what you are saying?’

‘I thought I did, Agnes,’ Lillian replied, ‘but judging by your expression, I suspect I’m missing something.’

‘Dear girl! You’re supposed to be the sensible one. Someone in Highbridge has been spying on you, and sending the information back to the Fascist sympathisers in Marakovia.’

‘Oh,’ Lillian said, more shocked than she had expected. ‘Do you think Nikolai knows?’

‘Probably. Perhaps he’s another of these husbands who run around in elaborate rings while attempting not to worry us.’