His voice trailed away, in a reverie. It seemed true, not an effect.
Then, business-like once more: ‘This theatre is about to die, Mr Galloway. You will be present at the last rites, through no fault of your own. I felt you ought to be .
warned.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate that. Tell me, were you ever an actor yourself?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘The voice.’
‘Too rhetorical by half, I know. My curse, I’m afraid. I can scarcely ask for a cup of coffee without sounding like Lear in the storm.’
He laughed, heartily, at his own expense. Galloway began to warm to the fellow. Maybe he was a little archaic-looking, perhaps even slightly absurd, but there was a full-bloodedness about his manner that caught Galloway’s imagination. Lichfield wasn’t apologetic about his love of theatre, like so many in the profession, people who trod the boards as a second-best, their souls sold to the movies.
‘I have, I will confess, dabbled in the craft a little,’
Lichfield confided, ‘but I just don’t have the stamina for it, I’m afraid. Now my wife —‘
Wife? Galloway was surprised Lichfield had a heterosexual bone in his body.
‘— My wife Constantia has played here on a number of occasions, and I may say very successfully. Before the war of course.’
‘It’s a pity to close the place.’
‘Indeed. But there are no last act miracles to be performed, I’m afraid. The Elysium will be rubble in six weeks’ time, and there’s an end to it. I just wanted you to know that interests other than the crassly commercial are watching over this closing production. Think of us as guardian angels. We wish you well, Terence, we all wish you well.’
It was a genuine sentiment, simply stated. Galloway was touched by this man’s concern, and a little chastened by it. It put his own stepping-stone ambitions in an unflattering perspective. Lichfield went on: ‘We care to see this theatre end its days in suitable style, then die a good death.’
‘Damn shame.’
‘Too late for regrets by a long chalk. We should never have given up Dionysus for Apollo.’
‘What?’
‘Sold ourselves to the accountants, to legitimacy, to the likes of Mr Hammersmith, whose soul, if he has one, must be the size of my fingernail, and grey as a louse’s back. We should have had the courage of our depictions, I think. Served poetry and lived under the stars.’
Galloway didn’t quite follow the allusions, but he got the general drift, and respected the viewpoint.
Off stage left, Diane’s voice cut the solemn atmosphere like a plastic knife.
‘Terry? Are you there?’
The spell was broken: Galloway hadn’t been aware how
hypnotic Lichfield’s presence was until that other voice came between them. Listening to him was like being rocked in familiar arms. Lichfield stepped to the edge of the stage, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rasp.
‘One last thing, Terence—‘
‘Yes?’
‘Your Viola. She lacks, if you’ll forgive my pointing it out, the special qualities required for the role.’
Galloway hung fire.
‘I know,’ Lichfield continued, ‘personal loyalties prevent honesty in these matters.’
‘No,’ Galloway replied, ‘you’re right. But she’s popular.’
‘So was bear-baiting, Terence.’
A luminous smile spread beneath the brim, hanging in the shadow like the grin of the Cheshire Gat.
‘I’m only joking,’ said Lichfield, his rasp a chuckle now. ‘Bears can be charming.’
‘Terry, there you are.’
Diane appeared, over-dressed as usual, from behind the tabs. There was surely an embarrassing confrontation in the air. But Lichfield was walking away down the false perspective of the hedges towards the backdrop.
‘Here I am,’ said Terry.
‘Who are you talking to?’
But Lichfield had exited, as smoothly and as quietly as he had entered. Diane hadn’t even seen him go.
‘Oh, just an angel,’ said Galloway.
The first Dress Rehearsal wasn’t, all things considered, as bad as Galloway had anticipated: it was immeasurably worse. Cues were lost, props mislaid, entrances missed; the comic business seemed ill-contrived and laborious; the performances either hopelessly overwrought or trifling. This was a Twelfth Night that seemed to last a year. Halfway through the third act Galloway glanced at his
watch, and realized an uncut performance of Macbeth (with interval) would now be over.