Cool Repentance (7 page)

But Nat Fitzwilliam was sitting literally at Christabel's feet, recapitulating for her benefit the triumph of his Sung Dynasty
Hamlet.
Despite the heat he was wearing an anorak and his habitual long scarf which completed the schoolboy look. An expression of outrage crossed his face at the mention of the name Knocky Pallett, but whether at the mere idea of someone else's liberating influence on his own production or at Knocky Pallett's in particular, was not clear. Nevertheless he did not pause in the flow of his disquisition.

Jemima thought that the whole set of Christabel's face looked rather melancholy now that it was in repose. The lines round her mouth were more obvious and there was a sad downward curve to her lips. Perhaps she did not care for the attention Gregory was paying to the flirtatious Filly Lennox: Jemima thought there might have been a gleam of jealousy there. Christabel was certainly a woman accustomed to being the centre of attention as of right. But it was impossible to tell the true expression in her eyes, behind her dark glasses, as she contemplated Nat. She looked beautiful of course - in her own style. A couple of gold chains strung with real shells set in gold hung to her waist. A leopard-skin printed scarf protected her daffodil hair from the sun. Her long diaphanous robe of the same leopard-skin printed material, worn over a matching sun-top and shorts, made the young things' display of nudity look rather odd - or vice versa, thought Jemima, depending on your taste.

As yet Christabel showed no signs of taking to the sea; although the bathing-costumes and caps discovered by Mrs Blagge - including the despised turquoise ruched number and magpie cap - remained by her side. 'Safe at last' - among a company of actors - she had told Jemima. She did not give the impression of one who felt safe.

A group of the other actors - male - were sitting by the fire discussing the Test Match with great earnestness; such was their absorption that the flames would have died down altogether had it not been for the work of
Mr
Blagge who ended by coping with both the grand Lark Manor picnic and the actors' barbecue. The actors' voices rose and fell, making soothing patterns, no two phrases absolutely the same, but all phrases remarkably similar, like Bach variations played at a distance.

Victor Marcovich, who would play Trigorin in
The Seagull
and the jailer in
Widow Capet,
looked heavily distinguished on the beach with his fine bald dome and fleshy Roman features. He also looked much older than another actor generally addressed as Tobs, who would play the ageing Dr Dorn in
The Seagull
as well as mopping up a number of revolutionary and aristocratic parts in
Widow Capet.
Tobs told Jemima that in the latter production he had to alternate between wearing a Jacobin cap and a powdered wig; as a result he had a recurrent nightmare of getting the order wrong and going finally to the guillotine wearing a Jacobin cap.

'But at least whatever scene you shoot, you can't miss me. No need to worry,' he told Jemima engagingly. 'I should say my best moment is when I come to hoik
her
- he indicated Christabel - 'off to the guillotine. You can forget Dr Dorn: there's nothing in it for me, particularly in our Nat's seaside version. In my sou'wester and oilskins I'm probably quite unrecognizable.'

'I'll remember,' Jemima promised.

The most ancient member of the company - and indeed of any company likely to be formed - was Nicola Wain. 'Old Nicola', as she generally termed herself, had survived her legendary amount of years as an actress by dint of an outwardly placid nature which concealed something altogether more ruthless beneath.

'I hear you have a part for Old Nicola in your latest,' she would murmur in the ear of unsuspecting directors - and even, when times were very bad, playwrights. 'Oh you naughty boy, nothing for Old Nicola? That's not what I hear. Trying to pull the wool over my eyes, are you, you naughty boy? Waiting for Sybil Thorndike to rise from the dead, eh? Oh, he
is
a naughty boy.'

Certain roles however Nicola considered to be her own. The jailer's mother in
Widow Capet
- a tearful old revolutionary crone armed with knitting needles - being one of them, she had resolutely imposed herself on the Larminster Festival. Even Nat Fitzwilliam had proved incapable of dislodging her. When it was pointed out that there was nothing remotely suitable for her in
The Seagull
- Tobs as a youthful Dr Dorn hardly needed a geriatric Polena - Nicola had the effrontery to suggest that they should play
The Three Sisters
instead, where audiences always loved to see her in the part of the old nanny. Hastily, Nat had settled for giving her the single role of the jailer's mother, as being the lesser of two evils. He had not reckoned on the fact that being in one production only afforded Nicola an excellent opportunity for 'observing all you naughty boys and girls' as she put it, in the other.

Now Nicola sat on the shore holding forth to Major Cartwright on the subject of Anglo-Indian politics, based on a theatrical tour of the Raj in the early twenties when she had played Juliet. Something about the Major's correct but ancient white summer suit and a straw hat with faded ribbon had obviously excited her. Pointedly, the Major denied ever having been East of Suez: he failed to stop the flow.

Ketty had cornered Emily Jones, the rather sweet-looking girl who would play Masha to Filly Lennox's Nina; Ketty, like Old Nicola, was indulging in theatrical reminiscences, although hers were vicariously based on Christabel's career, not her own. Emily Jones looked younger than Filly Lennox in real life, much as the unknown Tobs looked younger than Vic Marcovich; she was beginning to have a rather desperate air as

Ketty's amber beads dangled closer and closer to her face, when Mrs Blagge acidly recalled Ketty to her duties.

'If you would be so kind,
K
atherine,
there are certain tasks for you as well as Jim and myself.'

If you looked backwards, the tall harsh shape of the Watchtower Theatre could be seen in the distance, looking down from its great height on the sylvan shore, the dark glass of its structure giving the air of enormous eyes keeping an eye on events. But no one did look back -none of the actors, or the other participants in the Festival picnic. Much as Regina Cartwright had predicted, the actors concentrated mainly on the Lark Manor food - asparagus quiches, smoked-salmon cornets filled with prawns, and cold chicken pie cut in slices. They also drank Julian Cartwright's claret which he dispensed personally with a lavish hand. He used the same formula to everyone as he poured.

'A good light Beaujolais Brouilly '76. Sorry about the plastic tumblers but we can't have broken-glass tragedies on the beach. All the same I think you'll enjoy it.'

He was quite right. The actors certainly did enjoy it.

Filly Lennox, who had definitely drunk too much - a great deal too much - became quite pink and giggly. It was in fact Filly who was responsible for one of the few awkward moments of the picnic. After announcing that she was absolutely pie-eyed, she added that she was bound to regret it. Then she started to hum a popular song, filling in a word here and there. It took those present several instants to realise that Filly was happily intoning 'Coo-ool, oh so cool repentance', and several more instants to shut her up, since Filly was quite impervious to winks and frowns. On the contrary, she seemed more than likely to plough right on through Iron Boy's repertory, one song leading to another - until Gregory Rowan saved the day by pulling her back down beside him. Then there was some much safer talk of an expedition to France when the Festival was over - 'I'd love to show you what's left of pre-revolutionary Paris', he was heard to say eagerly.

'I suppose that's France over there, isn't it?' Filly cried, waving a hand towards what was in fact the next Bridset headland. 'Take me to it.'

Emily Jones drank a little too much and, freed of Ketty's attentions, moved closer to Spike Thompson; who nevertheless showed no signs of leaving the side of Jemima Shore. Ollie Summertown drank enough to do some startling gymnastics on the beach, for the particular edification of Cherry and the general edification of anyone else who cared to watch.

'Do you fancy that sort of thing?' Spike spoke quite casually in Jemima's direction. Jemima, who was alone in drinking white wine, took first a sip and then a look. Ollie was currently indulging in a prolonged hand-stand.

'It's rather difficult to tell when he's upside down, isn't it?'

Blanche and Regina Cartwright were both poured half-tumblers of wine by their father. But it was impossible to tell how much he, as host, had drunk. Julian continued to look urbane if slightly flushed. He accepted the frequent compliments of the cast on the quality of the wine with every sign of pleasure. Nat Fitzwilliam alone lifted his glass spasmodically without any sign of noticing what he was imbibing; when Blanche, after colloquy with Tobs, tested this theory by pouring Coca-Cola into his claret, he took a sip quite happily.

Christabel definitely drank a great deal: Jemima watched her. Her hands as she held her shell-painted tumbler trembled. It was possible that her large straw bag also contained a small bottle of solacing vodka.

Vic Marcovich drank the most but without any sign of inebriation at all; until the moment when he threw off his shirt and marched straight off in the direction of the sea, uttering the single superbly articulated word: 'Forward!' The picnic party watched him go. The tide was now very low. His figure, with
its
fine bull-like shoulders and short muscley legs - it could have been the figure of a wrestler - could be seen for a long while proceeding out across the rippled sands left by the sea.

Suddenly it was as though an emergency warning had been given for the whole party to abandon the site of the picnic as fast as possible. Blanche Cartwright grabbed Ollie's hand as he finished a somersault and before he could object - or cast an eye round for Cherry - pulled him off towards the distant sea. Regina too remounted Lancelot, and galloped off in the direction of the sea: she was reciting Shelley at full tilt as she went. The horse's hooves splashed Blanche and Ollie as Regina passed them. Riding bareback in her scarlet costume, with her black hair flying, Regina looked, thought Jemima, like an advertisement for something - not necessarily something as young and innocent as Regina herself.

Her protests about the tide, wind and water ignored, Ketty proceeded to don a severe but not unbecoming black costume and stalked after her charges in the direction of the sea.

Cherry, distinctly flown with wine and free of Ollie's chaperonage, saw her chance with Julian Cartwright.

'Sware for a swim?' was how the words actually came out. But it did not seem to matter since he evidently looked on the proposition favourably. 'What about you, darling?' he enquired briefly of Christabel. 'Are you going to have a dip?'

Christabel was in the throes of hearing from Nat about his encounter with J.S, Grand, editor of the powerful and prestigious
Literature,
at some elegant First Night supper party in Connaught Square, at which Nat by his own account had reduced the mighty editor to silence with his ideas on Chekhov.

'Jamie Grand is such a darling, isn't he?' broke in Christabel. 'And so amusing. I remember he once said to me that the thing about Chekhov
and sex - or was it Turgenev and sex - anyway
...'
Her voice trailed away. She was obviously relieved by Julian's interruption. 'Definitely I shall swim!' she cried with a great deal more energy. 'Definitely. But I make no promise as to exactly where and when. In the meantime why don't you join the lady?'

Nat Fitzwilliam looked a good deal less pleased by Julian's sudden appearance. He announced his intention of going back to the Watchtower to get further inspiration for
The Seagull
from its vantage point 'by seeing the shore as an empty hole' - or perhaps he meant whole, it was not immediately clear.

He was also promising darkly to rethink various Chekhovian characters by viewing them at a great distance. Arkadina, for example.

'Not Arkadina, darling, if you don't mind,' said Christabel sweetly. 'You've thought about her quite enough for one production. Give the others a turn. Why don't you keep an eye on Blanche and our Konstantin instead. Or Gregory and the lovely Miss Lennox? There might be insights into Trigorin and Nina there. Or even Julian and Miss—' she paused and gazed speculatively at Cherry in her gravity-defying costume '—Miss Cherry. So much more rewarding.'

The roar of Nat's motor-bike was heard as he left. Jemima saw Christabel's graceful figure drifting in the direction of the trees at the head of the beach in order to change. She bore a very large straw basket on her arm, containing the despised costumes and caps unearthed by Mrs Blagge. Despite picnic conditions, vodka and Beaujolais consumed in large quantities and her cumbersome burden, Christabel still managed to look immeasurably elegant: she conveyed the impression of a star leaving the stage to the minor characters - purely for the time being.

Filly Lennox now seemed loath to take to the water, even escorted by Gregory Rowan, and murmured or rather giggled a series of rather thin excuses. There was some rather prolonged and playful discussion on the subject of swimming with or without costumes which Jemima found increasingly irritating: why could not Gregory and Filly simply strip off and plunge in and be done with it? But in the end the matter was resolved differently. Filly was not so loath to adjourning with Gregory to the shade of the trees on the far side of the river bank to discuss the matter further: she confessed to the need to lie down. Their figures also vanished. Jemima felt meanly pleased that Christabel had also meandered off in that direction, a fact of which they were evidently unaware.