Backstage Nurse (4 page)

The scene came to a finish with the Dictator standing back and shouting: "Now it is settled. There is no turning back for either of us. My men are waiting for you downstairs! To shoot you, my friend Cardinal! You are going to die!"

To which, Oliver Craft as the Cardinal seemed to become taller and more filled with the regal dignity with which he had invested the part. He looked straight at the quivering, angry Dictator and answered in a calm, clear voice: "Yes. I am going to die. But everything about me you want killed will live!"

There was a hushed moment and the curtain fell. Knowing that it was childish, but unable to restrain herself, Shirley applauded. Then she hurried out to Oliver Craft. "It was wonderful," she told him. "Priceless!"

He gave her a tired smile. "Your applause was a lovely tribute. I'll go to my dressing room for a few: minutes and then we can return to the hotel."

Hugh Deering and Joy were nowhere in sight and Shirley decided they must have left as soon as the curtain had fallen. She wondered where they had gone for lunch, and if Hugh would spend the afternoon with the girl. Looking around, she saw that she was alone on the stage with Lyon Phillips.

"Like the show?" he asked.

"Very much," she said. "Still, I'm worried about Mr. Craft. It seems that Jeffrey Sayre might play his scenes with him a little less strenuously. It would help conserve his strength. Do you suppose if you spoke to him?"

Lyon gave a wry grin. "Wouldn't work! He's out to finish the Chief!"

Shocked surprise crossed Shirley's attractive young face. "Jeffrey Sayre wants to finish Mr. Craft?" she asked incredulously.

Lyon Phillips walked with her to the dressing-room side of the stage. "He'd like to see the Chief sick again, and then he'd be able to take over his part. He has wanted to play the Cardinal ever since we opened."

"How could he be so unfair!" Shirley was really distressed.

Lyon's homely face took on a grin. "In show business, anything's fair."

"Someone should tell Mr. Craft."

"Don't you think he already knows?" Phillips patted her arm. "Don't worry about the Chief. He can look after himself."

At this moment, Oliver Craft appeared from the darkened corridor and came toward them. He was dressed for the street. "What's this about me?"

Shirley smiled at him. "We were just saying how competently you played a Cardinal."

"Observation." Oliver Craft winked at her. "I've met a few in my time, you know. In fact, I understand we'll be having one in the audience when we open on Thursday."

"What will the schedule of rehearsals be?" Shirley asked.

Lyon Phillips filled her in. "Just run-throughs tomorrow and Wednesday. Everyone is pretty well set in the show and there have been no replacements."

"You'll need every minute of rest you can get," Shirley warned the star. "And I'll call Dr. Trask again to make sure he sees you before the opening."

Oliver Craft took her arm. "Just now, young lady," he said pleasantly, "I'd like you to forget you're a nurse and allow me to squire you back to the hotel."

When they got back to the suite, she gave him his midday medication, then asked, "What would you like me to order you for lunch?"

The old man's eyes twinkled as he looked up at her. "Do you know, I'm rather sick of room service. I feel so much better today and I have such a pretty young escort I'd like to show off. Why can't we take the elevator down to the grill for a snack?"

She frowned. "It really isn't wise."

"I know. But it would be a pleasant change."

Shirley sighed. "I knew you were going to be a difficult patient." Then she smiled. "All right, if I have your word you'll rest all afternoon."

He made a grand gesture. "The evening as well, if you like. Right now, I'd enjoy going downstairs."

The grillroom of the hotel was filled with businessmen and shoppers enjoying a noon-hour break. As the headwaiter showed them to a quiet corner, Shirley was aware that quite a few people had recognized Oliver Craft. There was the usual short silence and then an excited hum of voices as he passed by. The old man must also have known; he bore himself very erectly and his expression was one of pleasant confidence.

When they were seated and had their menus, he smiled at her. "You caused quite a stir. Every man in the room had an eye for you."

She blushed and shook her head. "It was you that was the attraction. I could even hear them whispering your name."

"A few of them remember, I suppose," he said, studying the menu. "I really don't need this, with the choice that Dr. Trask allows me. But you order something special, my dear."

Shirley settled on a steak sandwich and Oliver Craft ordered an oyster stew. Then he sat back and lifted a cigarette. "I'm glad I'm still allowed these."

"We can't cut off all your pleasures."

"How did you like my family?" he asked.

"The company?" she said. "Oh, very well. I think they work wonderfully together. Of course you would, after a season on Broadway. And they're interesting people. Charles Victor's an old dear."

The old man nodded. "Charles has been in all my shows for years. He has only one fault: he's a chronic worrier. I tell you this so you'll be armed against his gloom."

"I thought he was very jolly."

"That's the outside," Oliver Craft said, studying the pattern of his cigarette smoke, "but the inner Charles Victor is rather different. We're also lucky to have Jeffrey Sayre with us for the tour."

At the mention of the co-star's name, Shirley felt an uneasiness. She tried to find the right words to express her feelings. "He is a good actor," she said, "but it seems to me that he plays his scenes with you in a very—vigorous way. Couldn't he—" She hesitated.

"Couldn't he make it a bit easier for me?" The old actor shook his head. "No. I don't want that. If I have to underplay to do the show, I'd be cheating the people who pay out front; people who have been my followers and friends for years. I can't let them down now."

Shirley was determined to make her position clear. "Frankly," she said, "I gather from his manner that he'd like the part for himself. And I think he's forcing his scenes in an attempt to make you give up. Even though he wouldn't be a success if he did play the Cardinal."

Oliver Craft put down his cigarette and chuckled. "That's blunt enough, young woman. Probably what you say is true. That's poor Jeffrey's curse. He knows that even if stardom came to him, he hasn't the personality to be a success as a star. But make no mistake about it, he's a fine actor. That's why I'm glad we have him."

Their lunch was served and the discussion of the company postponed for a time. Shirley ordered coffee to finish the meal and the old man asked for milk. When it was served, he brought out a yellow sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it across to her. "This came while we were at the theater."

Reading it quickly, she saw that it was from the old man's grandson advising him that he would arrive in Boston at noon the day of the opening. She passed the telegram back to Oliver Craft. "He sounds like a very busy person," she said.

The actor's expression was wry as he returned the telegram to his coat pocket. "That is the thing one notices first about Roger," he said. "Mind you, he has other and excellent qualities. But he is entirely different from his father, takes after his mother's side of the family. They brought him up when my son was killed during World War Two."

"I didn't know," she said with sympathy.

He made a gesture. "It hit me very hard at the time. He was an actor, too, you know. He promised great things. And it all ended so suddenly, so stupidly, it seemed to me. But time gives one a viewpoint and the hurt eases. Had he lived, I'm sure he would have been very proud of Roger. Roger's already one of the country's leading real-estate men."

"From the telegram, I take it he's upset about you opening again in the play?"

"He doesn't understand my feelings about it. How could he? He knows nothing about the theater."

Shirley sensed a new hazard. "I hope he doesn't come bustling in and tiring you with arguments the day of the opening."

"I'll depend on you to protect me. After all, you are my nurse."

Shirley's face became determined. "He'll certainly not be allowed to undo all the good we've worked so hard for."

Oliver Craft touched his napkin to his lips. "That statement eases my nerves quite magically. It's been a very successful luncheon. I feel that I can now go upstairs and have a good nap."

Less than an hour later, Shirley left Oliver Craft quietly asleep in his room and took the elevator to the street. She planned to take a short walk through the Common and then do a bit of shopping in some of the small specialty shops that line Tremont Street in that area.

On the way out of the lobby, she saw pudgy Charles Victor nodding in a leather chair in a dark corner away from the entrance. It occurred to her that probably all the cast were registered at the Touraine since it was handy to the theater and a favorite spot with show people.

Stepping out on the busy sidewalk, she waited for the lights to change and then joined a bustling throng crossing to the drugstore corner of Boylston. It was a warmish, sunny afternoon and the drowsy magic of fall made it an ideal day. A month earlier, the heat would have made the city unbearable; now the temperature was warm but still pleasant. It was the time when shows reopened, the beginning of theatrical activity for another year, with all its exciting promise. She couldn't pretend she didn't like being a part of it again.

And, in a way, an extremely important part. The success of the play would depend entirely on Oliver Craft's health. And it was her task to protect and coax his faltering strength so that he would be able to go through with the tour. His vigor at luncheon had given her hope that she might be successful. He had survived the tiring experience of the morning run-through with little apparent ill-effects. Just so long as the cancer didn't flare up suddenly, he might be able to do it. She hoped and prayed that he would. He deserved the chance to end his great career in dignity. And then she wondered about his grandson and what sort of person he would actually be and if his appearance would upset the old man.

"Hi, Nurse!" The pleasant male voice came from behind her.

She turned, and Hugh Deering quickly caught up with her. He looked almost boyish in his sports coat and fawn trousers. He waved to a bench in a walk that cut across from the edge of the Common toward the Public Gardens. "Care to share a bench with me for a few minutes? You look as if you had weighty problems."

Shirley laughed and drew her purple nurse's cloak about her uniform. "I'm playing hookey from my job, really. But Mr. Craft said I might. He's sleeping."

"Too nice an afternoon to waste," he said, as they walked slowly up to the bench.

"We celebrated by having luncheon down in the Grill," she informed him proudly. "I think my patient's doing very well." They sat down.

Hugh stretched out comfortably with a groan. "Better than I did. Joy dragged me right over to Jordan-Marsh's. She's on a shopping spree. We did manage a couple of sandwiches and coffee at the lunch counter between departments, and that was that. Finally, she tired me out and I ran for the great outdoors. She's still at it."

"I have a few things to pick up myself," Shirley remembered.

"Spare me the pleasure of joining you."

She gave him a roguish look. "I like to shop alone, but if you really insist."

"I do not," he said quickly. Then: "How did you like the menagerie?"

"The—" She stared at him.

"All right, be formal. The freaks, your associates on the tour. I suppose you'd call us actors."

"That's better." She smiled. "It helps to know what you're talking about. I liked everyone very much. Joy is a striking person!"

"Un-huh." He studied her with lazy, amused eyes. "That statement could mean almost anything. I'd tag it as cautious and catty."

"It wasn't meant to be."

"I'm sure it wasn't. Anyway, you're right. Joy
is
striking. A bit too much so for her own good. She pounds everything a bit too hard, and that follows in her work as well. You've probably noticed, since you were once an actress yourself."

She stared out across the grassy, rolling expanse of the Common, the far-off red brick buildings of Beacon Street with their white colonial columns and the ancient, leafy trees that set them off.

"I hadn't actually felt that," she said quietly. "Though I did recognize her as a type. I've met lots of girls like Joy in the theater. They build up a front of loudness and assurance for protection. Unfortunately, the act often gets to be second nature."

"Say!" He sat forward, his face showing interest. "You've really hit it. That's the story of Joy Milland with brevity. Underneath, she's a pretty good sort who's had a hard time."

"Show business is rarely easy."

"And Joy isn't a beauty," he went on, warming to the subject. "Makes it harder for a girl. She's not homely enough to be a character type; yet too plain to become a leading lady."

Shirley's eyes met his. "I'm sure she's very nice when you get to know her."

"She is. I worked with her in a company year before last. We did a few months on Broadway and a short tour. She was good fun." He paused; then went on with a smile: "But why all this talk about Joy? I'm interested in hearing about you."

"A very dull story. I'm me. And that's it."

"Think you'd like to come back on our side of show business again?"

She pursed her lips. "No. I honestly don't. Of course all this thrills me. Show business is my second love. But nursing is my first."

"You sound very definite about it."

"I am." She paused and looked directly at him. "Don't you have any second love that you might consider going back to?"

His face became a mask. He looked away. "I'll be definite, too. No."

She pretended an amusement that she didn't feel, knowing that she had perhaps made a mistake in saying what she had. "You see, we both know our own minds."