But he stood, spoke, walked.
From the theatre, there rose another round of applause, muted by distance. It wasn’t a real sound somehow; it came from another world, a place where emotions ruled. It was a world Hammersmith had always felt excluded from. He’d never been much of an actor, though God knows he’d tried, and the two plays he’d penned were, he knew, execrable. Book-keeping was his forte, and he’d used it to stay as close to the stage as he could, hating his own lack of art as much as he resented that skill in others.
The applause died, and as if taking a cue from an unseen prompter, Calloway came at him. The mask he wore was neither comic nor tragic, it was blood and laughter together. Cowering, Hammersmith was cornered behind his desk. Galloway leapt on to it (he looked so ridiculous, shirt-tails and balls flip-flapping) and seized Hammersmith by the tie.
‘Philistine,’ said Galloway, never now to know Hammersmith’s heart, and broke the man’s neck — snap! — while below the applause began again.
‘Do not embrace me till each circumstance
Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump
That I am Viola.’
From Constantia’s mouth the lines were a revelation. It was almost as though this Twelfth Night were a new play, and the part of Viola had been written for Constantia
Lichfield alone. The actors who shared the stage with her felt their egos shrivelling in the face of such a gift.
The last act continued to its bitter-sweet conclusion, the audience as enthralled as ever to judge by their breathless attention.
The Duke spoke: ‘Give me thy hand;
And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds.’
In the rehearsal the invitation in the line had been ignored: no-one was to touch this Viola, much less take her hand. But in the heat of the performance such taboos were forgotten. Possessed by the passion of the moment the actor reached for Constantia. She, forgetting the taboo in her turn, reached to answer his touch.
In the wings Lichfield breathed ‘no’ under his breath, but his order wasn’t heard. The Duke grasped Viola’s hand in his, life and death holding court together under this painted sky.
It was a chilly hand, a hand without blood in its veins, or a blush in its skin.
But here it was as good as alive.
They were equals, the living and the dead, and nobody could find just cause to part them.
In the wings, Lichfield sighed, and allowed himself a smile. He’d feared that touch, feared it would break the spell. But Dionysus was with them tonight. All would be well; he felt it in his bones.
The act drew to a close, and Malvolio, still trumpeting his threats, even in defeat, was carted off. One by one the company exited, leaving the clown to wrap up the play.
‘A great while ago the world began,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that’s all one, our play is done
And we’ll strive to please you every day.’
The scene darkened to blackout, and the curtain descended. From the gods rapturous applause erupted,
that same rattling, hollow applause. The company, their faces shining with the success of the Dress Rehearsal, formed behind the curtain for the bow. The curtain rose:
the applause mounted.
In the wings, Galloway joined Lichfield. He was dressed now: and he’d washed the blood off his neck.
‘Well, we have a brilliant success,’ said the skull. ‘It does seem a pity that this company should be dissolved so soon.’
‘It does,’ said the corpse.
The actors were shouting into the wings now, calling for Galloway to join them. They were applauding him, encouraging him to show his face.
He put a hand on Lichfield’s shoulder.
‘We’ll go together, sir,’ he said.
‘No, no, I couldn’t.’
‘You must. It’s your triumph as much as mine.’ Lichfield nodded, and they went out together to take their bows beside the company.
In the wings Tallulah was at work. She felt restored after her sleep in the Green Room. So much unpleasantness had gone, taken with her life. She no longer suffered the aches in her hip, or the creeping neuralgia in her scalp. There was no longer the necessity to draw breath through pipes encrusted with seventy years’ muck, or to rub the backs of her hands to get the circulation going; not even the need to blink. She laid the fires with a new strength, pressing the detritus of past productions into use: old backdrops, props, costuming. When she had enough combustibles heaped, she struck a match and set the flame to them. The Elysium began to burn.