Twopence Coloured (28 page)

I
T was in the summer of this year that Jackie was enrolled as a member of the Rockingham Hard Court Tennis Club in South Kensington. This catered almost exclusively for actors and actresses in their leisure hours (of which they had about twelve daily), had sixteen courts, and was
productive
of as many bandeaux, sweaters with triangular stripes; retired Majors; young men to spring like lightning from wicker chairs when ladies left the table; shower-baths; bridge-markers in the form of bathing girls; copies of “The Field,” “Vogue,” or “Punch”; or easily familiar and
technical
allusions to horses, dogs, the army, Ranelagh,
Wimbledon
, Twickenham, Fearful Outsiders, the peerage, hunting, and India — as the heart of any actor or actress might desire. It is true that there was also, unhappily, a slight sprinkling of blue-shaven cheeks, short stature, huskiness, and diamond rings — to say nothing of one or two thoughtless young men, not only unable to spring (with any abandon) from wicker chairs, but also in the habit, in the hot weather, of putting rather unpleasant white Handkerchiefs over their heads, and fixing them with four very revolting knots (to the
impotent
horror of the club at large) — but such cases were not prevalent, and were the cause, for the most part, of mere tolerant amusement.

Unhappily, also (as far as Jackie was concerned), the professional atmosphere was in no way smothered by this unprofessional atmosphere. Indeed Jackie had now begun to realize that actors and actresses, however lightly or
derisively
they might speak of their craft at times, had a certain solemn affection for it which she, if she was to take her place amongst them, would be expected mutely to share.

There was, for instance, that Curious Something about the Smell of the Greasepaint, which rather worried Jackie…. This Something (often classified with that other Something about the Sight of the Floats, or that Something about the Look of a Dressing Room) was an Indefinable Something. But if you were a real Pro. (and who would dare say she was not?) you found that, however much you complained, you Came Back to it every time and knew your destiny in life. This was taken as an axiom, and it cast an air of
absolution
and romance over any of the irregularities and
indignities
of theatrical life. There was Something about the Theatre.

Nevertheless Jackie, who, when in the presence of
greasepaint
, made continued and elaborate sniffing experiments (with the utmost faith and ardour), found that science did not endorse this theory. Or else she was not a Real Pro. — which she would have been loth to admit.

At the Rockingham Hard Court Tennis Club Jackie also found that she was not very good at Christian names, either. She did not mind calling people by their Christian names, of course: but when she knew very well-known people by their Christian names, she was unwilling to employ them too often or too ostentatiously, because it seemed (to her doubtless over-sensitive mind) that one might thus put oneself under the suspicion of sunning oneself in, or even trading upon, an intimacy. She did not know whether she was too much, or too little, impressed by fame — but in either case she felt that a little care was needed here.

Christian names, however, were lavishly in evidence at the Rockingham Hard Court Tennis Club. Indeed, what with Gerald, and Godfrey, and Gladys, and Marie, and Madge, and Norah and so forth, you barely knew where you were. They were hardly ever out of the conversation.

And when Jackie heard young men (reclining largely in
chairs) say, “As I was telling Gladys the other day ——” she could not really see how the fact that he had told it to Gladys affected the point at issue. It seemed irrelevant to her. Now, if he had said that Gladys had told it to him: that would have been all right. It would have been the opinion of a famous English beauty, which might have been worth having. Or even if Gladys had said, “That’s very, very true, Mr. So-and-so” — there would have been some value in that. But the mere telling of it to Gladys did not touch the
argument
either way, so far as she could see. You could stand outside Buckingham Palace and tell things to the King, if you tried hard enough, but the ultimate value of your
assertions
did not rest upon the status of those who listened to them. At least that was how Jackie saw it.

Furthermore, Jackie was a little surprised to observe that — when the actual owners of these Christian names came down to the courts of an afternoon (as they very occasionally did) — the immediate chorus of joyful recognition and
acclamation
which she had expected to arise, did not arise at all. On the other hand, the news of their arrival at the
clubhouse
had a habit of running round those courts like very wild, but very silent fire, as well as bringing into being an extraordinary amount of low-toned, rather uneasy remarks, and quaint little conversations at the net. Also when the innocent cause of all this revealed himself or herself in the open (and on the occasion at which Jackie was most struck by these manifestations it was Gladys herself), there was a strange vagueness of play in the adjoining courts, and there were uncanny prolongments in the act of looking for balls (which were doubtless hiding themselves, and were
therefore
earnestly looked for, in rather suggestive corners); and young men who had told things so emphatically to Gladys only the other day, rather went off their game.

Not that the Christian name itself was submerged by this atmosphere. On the contrary it took on a slightly hysterical stress such as it did not have at normal times.

“
Gladys
here, I see.” “Ah-ha. The worthy
Gladys!
” “Gladys here this afternoon, I observe.” “My dear boy, be
careful. I’m sure you don’t want Gladys to see you like that.” “Now, look your best for Gladys, dear.”

In fact, it was Gladys here and Gladys there, and Gladys everywhere — so no one was really impressed, you see.

No one except Jackie, that is; and she was tremendously impressed.

In fact, it is believed that on one occasion this terrible girl (doubtless unhinged by the awe of the moment) was observed to go over calmly to her partner, point innocently with her racket, and utter, in a simple, clear voice, the mad, the outrageous, the unthinkable word

—but this is only a rumour.

Such a word had surely never been heard before on the courts of the Rockingham Hard Court Tennis Club, and will (let us very sincerely hope) never be heard again.

In October of this year, the fearful and
uncompromising
warning “LAST WEEKS” was pasted hysterically across the posters of “The Knocking at the Gate”: you had a vision of an improvident London populace scampering in Gadarene-like haste to the Coburg Theatre: and in a
fortnight
the play was off. The management had lost not more than fifteen hundred pounds on the entire production, which was just about the sum that Richard had taken away from it. It was then taken out on the road by Mr. Grayson, who called it a Popular London Success, beseeched the north and south of England to Hear What the London Critics Said, swore (in a fanatical spirit) that it came Straight from the Coburg Theatre, London, and fell into the excessively severe financial quandaries besetting all reformers and enthusiasts.

Jackie was only a month out of work — her next
engagement
being with Mr. Marsden at the “Barnstormer” Theatre.

Jackie did not see so much of Mr. Marsden now, but this was more her fault than his. They had not quarrelled, of
course, over her alliance with Richard. They could not do so. An appeal, barely necessary, to the academy, would have at once established that Mr. Marsden Happened to be one of those People who Greatly Believed in Minding their own Business and Not Poking their Noses into Other
People’s
Concerns. This needed no reaffirming. Nevertheless, it was possible, Jackie found, to be virtuous in this respect to a fault. It was possible, indeed, so keenly Not to Poke your Nose into Other People’s Concerns, as to ask People out to lunch three times a week purely in order Not to. Jackie often wished that Mr. Marsden wouldn’t poke his nose into her concerns such a lot, for she really felt that it was not his business not to.

“There is a certain (what shall I call it?) reticence about you at times, Jacqueline,” said Mr. Marsden.

The play which Mr. Marsden was about to produce at the “Barnstormer” Theatre was called “The Woman of
Temperament
,” and it had been translated from the French by Mr. Marsden. This is neither a very clever nor very difficult thing to do, but in conjunction with his monocle, and
double-wound
bow-tie, accumulated for him a certain prestige. Which prestige was added to by the imprint (as it were) of the “Barnstormer” Theatre. The “Barnstormer” had been gaining prestige ever since its inauguration three years ago. This it had done principally by being a Mission Hall in the first place, and subsidiarily by a sharing system amongst the actors playing there, no orchestra, an air of a rather nice Maidenhead moving-picture place, and a far situation in Hampstead, only approachable by enthusiasts…. From such causes it had become a prevalent rumour that the management was not working In the theatre so much as For the theatre. Jackie was coming across a lot of people who were working For the theatre, these days. The Rockingham Hard Court Tennis Club was all For the theatre, and so was Mr. Marsden. (It will be remembered that it was his God.)

But Jackie, who knew her Tennis Club, and knew her Mr. Marsden, and knew her “The Woman of Temperament,” and who had no very great taste or admiration for any of
them, rather resented this altruism.
In
the theatre, if you like, thought Jackie, but not For the theatre, please.

Indeed, Jackie had lost some of her desire to get in touch with her profession, by now. Instead, she was beginning to be rather afraid that she had done so.

“The Woman of Temperament” was one of those weighted dramas in which a gentleman ends (after really hideous provocation) in calling a lady a Harlot. Which causes her to stagger, as though she has been struck, and no wonder either. Or if he does not call her a Harlot, then he says that there is Only One Name for her, and any shrewd London audience knows what
that
means. It means that she is a Harlot, and she reels just the same. Her only retaliation is that all these years he has made her his Belonging, which is the sort of thing he should most decidedly
not
have made her.

And in the middle of this type of drama, which enacts itself in private rooms or public lounges of enormous hotels in Mentone (three years later), one young person tells
another
young person, very slowly, and looking most miserably at a non-existent wall, that it is because she loves him — because she
really
loves him — she is Sending him Away…. And he froths off in high dudgeon, and there is clearly not much left in life for the young person….

This type of drama naturally gives ample scope for those in the theatre self-sacrificially For the theatre, and those associated with Mr. Marsden in this venture were all on the side of the angels….

His leading lady, in fact, was unexceptionable in this
respect
, being (it was rumoured) not only the divorced wife of a Russian Aristocrat (whatever that may have meant), but bearing the name of Jenya Poyoleff, and having the
reputation
of having acquired her reputation in Moscow and Berlin. Moscow and Berlin meant very little to Jackie, for she knew little of either place, but she was aware that these
centres, so far as the theatre was concerned, presupposed altruism. Also Miss Jenya Poyoleff excelled in her Godfather, who had been King Leopold of Belgium. This caused a great stir. The rich shadow of the monarch overhung the entire production.

The rest of the cast, which was a small one, included Mr. Percy Natton, Mr. Robert Loade, Miss Janet Logan, and Mr. Earle Scott, and a few others. Of these, Mr. Natton resembled a clean-shaven butcher, and had indeed been one — Mr. Loade was a self-effacing gentleman of enormous height and razor-like thinness who had been to America (but disapproved of it) — Miss Janet Logan was a rather pretty young girl who had never had a job before, and Mr. Earle Scott was a wavy-haired, golden young juvenile, who spoke with a lisp and kept his head in one steady, fixed, embarrassed position, as though the beautiful thing might at any moment come off.

But from these and Jackie there was no danger of eclipse for Miss Poyoleff. There would have been no danger of eclipse for her anywhere. She spread her invincible
personality
about. The company watched her from sly corners, as she lolled about on the set during rehearsals. She filled the stage as she sat there. You were seeing something. There, in the flesh, was Jenya Poyoleff — her legs languidly crossed, her voice coming lethargically from her regal throat, the smoke from her cigarette going up into the air, and her Godfather — all the time, and even as you watched her — being King Leopold of Belgium.

It was a peaceful production, for the most part.

“But — but she is charming,” said Miss Poyoleff of Jackie.

Miss Poyoleff did not say this because some one had
ascused
Jackie of not being charming, but merely because she belonged to the But school of conversationalists. “But she is quite too fresh and pretty, is she not?” Miss Poyoleff would ask, when Jackie had excelled herself. Or, “But the little
English thing is shaping excellently — No?” (She was also a member of the No school of conversationalists.) She made laborious subterranean attempts to have Jackie removed from the cast, but failed.

It was not, of course, an entirely peaceful production. Mr. Marsden, as producer, was the victim of two very
distressing
scenes. The first of these was caused by Miss Janet Logan, the young girl in her first part, who, on the fifth day of rehearsal, infuriated Mr. Marsden by her obtuseness. Which obtuseness manifested itself in an inability to
pronounce
the line “Really, this is impossible” in the manner in which Mr. Marsden desired it to be pronounced.