Authors: Joseph O'Connor
Ghost Light (24 page)
You form trios for rehearsal. There isn’t time for a full runthrough. An engineer arrives to see to the cabling and test-connect the microphone. Water is poured into tumblers.
The studio is thick with cigarette smoke, a great bluish cloud of it, floating up towards the lights and the gleaming steel ducts and the pipes and the soundproofing tiles. The heavy Roman numerals of the clock on the wall tell you there are less than thirty minutes to go. And your hunger is fading. Everything is fading. You are among people you understand. All is well. You turn and notice a golden-haired girl of about seventeen come into the room, accompanied by a woman who is clearly her mother. The girl is wearing a dark-green brocaded dress. Her pale face is freckled and hopeful. She is like a girl out of a novel of Somerset or Wessex, as heartbreakingly lovely as an English cornfield in August. A necklace of amber stones. Green ribbons in her hair. If a boy kissed her lips in a summertime orchard, he’d smell forget-me-nots and apples and sweet william and sweat and he’d remember it every time he heard bees. She is holding a satchel and looking at you intensely. She purples as you meet her limpid eyes.
‘Mr Hartnett?’ says her guardian, in an apprehensive voice. ‘We’re not interrupting proceedings, I hope?’
‘Oh, Molly,’ says the producer, ‘this is Elizabeth Collins and her stepmother, Olivia. Elizabeth will be working with me soon on a production of
Romeo and Juliet
we’re doing. She is going to be our Juliet; it is her first leading role. Sort of experiment I’m having a crack at; going to play the whole thing before an audience in the Concert Studio upstairs. Miss Collins is a great admirer of yours and I happened to mention you would be with us today. She asked if she could pop by for a moment to say hello.’
Romeo and Juliet
we’re doing. She is going to be our Juliet; it is her first leading role. Sort of experiment I’m having a crack at; going to play the whole thing before an audience in the Concert Studio upstairs. Miss Collins is a great admirer of yours and I happened to mention you would be with us today. She asked if she could pop by for a moment to say hello.’
The girl comes forward nervously, her stepmother encouraging silently, and seems afraid to accept your hand. ‘You’re my absolute heroine, Miss O’Neill. I’ve read up on all your performances. In reviews and old newspapers. I can’t believe I’m meeting you.’
‘Why, you dear, dear girl. What a lovely thing to say.’
‘Elizabeth saw you when she was seven in
The Islander’s Revenge
at Crawley, Miss O’Neill,’ says her stepmother. ‘It’s no
exaggeration to tell you that you are the reason she wanted to act. Nothing we could do about it, her poor old dad and I. She’s hoping for a place at RADA. We’re very proud of her.’
The Islander’s Revenge
at Crawley, Miss O’Neill,’ says her stepmother. ‘It’s no
exaggeration to tell you that you are the reason she wanted to act. Nothing we could do about it, her poor old dad and I. She’s hoping for a place at RADA. We’re very proud of her.’
‘Well, work hard, dear, work hard. And who knows what may happen? You are pretty enough for any role, but you must work like a demon too. And attend an actual production every chance you get. We mustn’t only study. We must see.’
‘And steer clear of the boys,’ says the producer, with a frown. ‘Brutish, malodorous goats.’
‘Dad and I do our best on that score,’ her stepmother smiles. ‘But there’s one candidate we’ve not managed to shoot down just yet. He’s a nice boy, really. Poor Elizabeth is blushing. Better shut up or I shall be in trouble going home.’
‘Oh as long as it’s not too serious,’ you say to the girl. ‘Just have plenty of friends and nothing too tying. But I can tell you’re a sensible young lady, as well as a beautiful one. I find the younger people extremely wise, I must say.’
‘Could I dare to ask you to sign something for me, Miss O’Neill? If that would be all right?’
‘But of course, dear. Of course. I should be absolutely delighted.’
She reaches into her satchel and takes out a dog-eared paperback copy of
The Playboy of the Western World.
His story of a boaster, a peacock, a cosh-boy, a jolly roving ploughboy, a lover. Many lines are underscored. Tiny notes in the margins. A bus ticket doing duty as bookmark.
The Playboy of the Western World.
His story of a boaster, a peacock, a cosh-boy, a jolly roving ploughboy, a lover. Many lines are underscored. Tiny notes in the margins. A bus ticket doing duty as bookmark.
‘It’s my very favourite play of all time, Miss O’Neill. I’m learning Pegeen Mike’s last speech. As one of my audition pieces for the Academy.’
‘That old thing,’ you say, as you inscribe its yellowed flyleaf. ‘Such a fuss it caused at the time. And when you think of what’s going nowadays.’
‘They say he wrote the part for you, Miss O’Neill.’
‘Oh now, they say lots of things.’
‘It’s such a romantic story.’
‘Isn’t it.’
‘Molly was the prettiest girl in Dublin,’ the producer says gently. ‘And the sweetest, kindest heart. And the loveliest eyes. Every man in the town was smitten with love for her. Every last one of us. Always.’
‘Now Kenneth, you exaggerate.’
‘Not by much. Not by much.’
‘I declare you’ll have my head swelled if you don’t quit your absurd flattery.’
‘We have taken enough of your time, Miss O’Neill,’ the girl’s stepmother says. ‘It’s been most awfully good of you. We appreciate it very much.’
‘Have you any last word of advice you could give me, Miss O’Neill?’
‘Oh, you don’t need advice from an old squawker like me, dear. Only speak your lines clearly and be sparing with movement. Some of the younger actresses nowadays tend to rather jitter about, when there’s really no need; there’s a great power in stillness. And always love the audience, even when they’re tough on you. And earn your chances. And take them when they come.’
‘I find the movement part of it hard when I’m actually on the stage. Remembering the cues, I mean.’
‘Do you know, in my day at the Abbey, we used to have a giant chessboard painted on a great sheet on the floor – an old mainsail it was – someone bought it from a wrecked ship – and by God you were given your square and you’d better be stuck in it until the moment you were told to move. And woe betide you if you landed up in the wrong position even slightly. Oh my word, you’d have the lard cut out of you before you knew it.’
The sort of warm, courteous laughter you love ripples around the gathering. You caress the girl’s face briefly, tell her again she is pretty, but to pay attention to her schoolwork and not just the stage, for a career can be brief or may never happen at all, but an education can always be leaned on.
‘Now we’d want to be getting ready,’ the producer announces
mock-firmly. ‘This will have been a lovely experience for Elizabeth, to have met a true great such as yourself, my dear. It will be something for her always to remember.’
mock-firmly. ‘This will have been a lovely experience for Elizabeth, to have met a true great such as yourself, my dear. It will be something for her always to remember.’
‘Goodbye then, Miss O’Neill. Thank you so much for taking the trouble.’
‘Wait now a minute.’ You reach into your pocket and take out his letter. To look at it a last time? But no need. No need. You know what it says. You could never forget it. You hand it to Elizabeth Collins, who reads it quickly, eyes widening.
‘But it’s from him,’ she says. ‘This was written by Synge.’
‘Yes, it was. It’s rather ancient. I was very young when I received it – not very much older than you. He was a bossy old coot, as you’ll see from his tone. But he gave me the wisest guidance I ever received in the profession.
Permit the words to lead you to the heart words come from.
That is the finest advice of all. Because it’s loving.’
Permit the words to lead you to the heart words come from.
That is the finest advice of all. Because it’s loving.’
‘How wonderful. I’m shaking. His actual handwriting.’
‘He was a great, great man. I would like you to have it. As my gift at the start of your career.’
‘Miss O’Neill—I couldn’t possibly. I really couldn’t possibly.’
‘It’s out of the question, Miss O’Neill,’ the girl’s stepmother says.
‘I would like you to. It would honour him. Please permit me to insist.’
‘Miss O’Neill, I couldn’t, really. Just to have seen it is enough.’
‘It is an old tradition in our profession that a gift from one of us to another must never be refused, particularly when a performance is about to begin. You will bring me a great blessing if you take it, Elizabeth. Look after it for me, won’t you?’
Tears fill the girl’s eyes. ‘I can’t tell you what it means to me.’
‘Put that in some old book and take it down from time to time. And say a prayer for me when you do. Have we a bargain?’
And it is there that Death comes for you, in that unprepossessing bunker from which the waves reach all over the world. Death finds a way down the labyrinthine corridors, like an odour
of winter fog in the city of London, like a forest child who left a trail of crumbs to pursue. Past the turning reels of tape, the windowless offices, the clerks in ashen corduroy, a secretary bringing coffee, a messenger-boy with envelopes, a maintenance man sorting spanners, a correspondent wondering silently if there is anything left to say. Death drifts past all of them, for it is not their turn this evening, and he snuffles for the scent of his quarry. He sees you in the circle of actors surrounding the microphone, their eyes flitting adeptly from the pages to one another. The studio has been darkened – it is better for atmosphere – but near the microphone is a single lamp and it illuminates the faces. A man is producing sound effects with a selection of implements. Like the actors, he has a copy of the script.
of winter fog in the city of London, like a forest child who left a trail of crumbs to pursue. Past the turning reels of tape, the windowless offices, the clerks in ashen corduroy, a secretary bringing coffee, a messenger-boy with envelopes, a maintenance man sorting spanners, a correspondent wondering silently if there is anything left to say. Death drifts past all of them, for it is not their turn this evening, and he snuffles for the scent of his quarry. He sees you in the circle of actors surrounding the microphone, their eyes flitting adeptly from the pages to one another. The studio has been darkened – it is better for atmosphere – but near the microphone is a single lamp and it illuminates the faces. A man is producing sound effects with a selection of implements. Like the actors, he has a copy of the script.
Death listens to the words. He has heard them before. He too has a copy of the script. He is not impressed by artistry, is far beyond catharsis. He crosses towards the circle, looks calmly in your eyes. Such a shame to take you now, but a cue is a cue, and Death has his own role to play.
You are halfway through your third soliloquy when the pain begins in earnest: softly, subtly, like a rumour of pain, but then suddenly blooming violently in the floor of your abdomen, and you press through it, thinking it will pass, as it always has before. The other actors look at you, sensing something is wrong, but you wave your pages abruptly, do not want to pause or demur when the end of the scene is in sight. You are Maire O’Neill. You do not kill a scene. The show will go on at all costs.
And the pain comes burning harder, finding a way through your veins, into nerve endings you have forgotten you ever had. A girl hurries from the booth and stares at you, transfixed, like a woman looking at a frightening apparition. You don’t know who she is. An assistant? A secretary? She shimmers and hazes in your sight.
‘Are you all right?’ she mouths. You nod, still speaking the speech, shushing her away with your script. The soundman brings a glass of water and stands by your side; your colleagues eye you
fearfully but you concentrate on the microphone. It is now the only thing that matters in the room and in the world; it seems to be growing larger or wider or smaller, or changing its dimensionality in some other way you can’t name. The leading man comes in with his reply; you know he is slowing his lines, creating time for you to sip the water, become collected. Every text has an elasticity, like a symphony or a song; in a crisis it can always be found by the experienced. The water tastes of dust. You stare at the ceiling. You spiral your hand at the leading man, encouraging him to accelerate the speech, for the hour available is limited and must on no account be overrun. And in you come again, finding the words a kind of lifebuoy. Hold fast to them, Molly. The welter will pass. Let the ocean thrash around you, and the breakers rise to mountains, but
never
let go of the text.
fearfully but you concentrate on the microphone. It is now the only thing that matters in the room and in the world; it seems to be growing larger or wider or smaller, or changing its dimensionality in some other way you can’t name. The leading man comes in with his reply; you know he is slowing his lines, creating time for you to sip the water, become collected. Every text has an elasticity, like a symphony or a song; in a crisis it can always be found by the experienced. The water tastes of dust. You stare at the ceiling. You spiral your hand at the leading man, encouraging him to accelerate the speech, for the hour available is limited and must on no account be overrun. And in you come again, finding the words a kind of lifebuoy. Hold fast to them, Molly. The welter will pass. Let the ocean thrash around you, and the breakers rise to mountains, but
never
let go of the text.
You can see that in the booth Mr Hartnett is on his feet, speaking urgently into a telephone, looking worried. He pushes his fingers through his hair and gapes at you as though lost. You smile back
Don’t worry
, gesture for him to sit. You have a sense of pushing Death away; as one would banish an unwanted admirer at a dance you never wanted to go to. India is listening. The words must be spoken. Ireland is listening. Canada. Hong Kong. Children glancing up from homework, couples seated by fireplaces, old men alone in cold rooms. And they will not be betrayed. It is not in you to stop. Death will have to wait until the closing soliloquies, for it is the ambition of every member of your profession to die with the boots on, and to be taken before the end of the show would be shameful. And so you utter the lines and wait, and the cues are taken up, and you feel Death recede resentfully into the cracks in the floorboards. It is not time, after all. It was only a rehearsal. He has departed to gather his forces.
Don’t worry
, gesture for him to sit. You have a sense of pushing Death away; as one would banish an unwanted admirer at a dance you never wanted to go to. India is listening. The words must be spoken. Ireland is listening. Canada. Hong Kong. Children glancing up from homework, couples seated by fireplaces, old men alone in cold rooms. And they will not be betrayed. It is not in you to stop. Death will have to wait until the closing soliloquies, for it is the ambition of every member of your profession to die with the boots on, and to be taken before the end of the show would be shameful. And so you utter the lines and wait, and the cues are taken up, and you feel Death recede resentfully into the cracks in the floorboards. It is not time, after all. It was only a rehearsal. He has departed to gather his forces.
‘Molly darling – what happened?’
‘Just a touch of indigestion, Ken. Heartburn. Nothing more.’
‘It looked like serious pain. Are you quite all right? … Molly? … Look at me? … I have told them to fetch a doctor. Won’t you come and sit down a moment? No, you must … you must.’
‘If there was something to eat, darling? … Just a little something small? … Silly fool, I forgot to have lunch …’
Across Brickfields Terrace, in the upper room of the bombed-out house, the light of your unknown neighbour is glowing. There is solace in seeing it. You know he is there. The cat is asleep on the floor near the cooker. Through the walls comes the voice of a man on the wireless saying tomorrow will bring a storm to the Orkneys. Humber. Dogger. Forties. Rockall. Fair Isle. Malin. Stornoway.
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