Stratford Jewel Page 3

  'That dreadful place?' Celia sat up, forgetting her headache. 'But the stage is tiny, you can't get more than half a dozen people on it. It's completely unsuitable.'

  'Better than nothing,' Rosa said bracingly and handed Celia the cup of tea.

  Celia sipped thoughtfully. 'Surely professional actresses won't want to appear on such a tiny stage,' she mused. She reached for a slice of buttered toast and began to nibble. 'Some might go back to London. Rosa, there could be an opportunity here for me, for us both. Surely there'll be a few speaking parts for us!'

  Rosa grinned. 'I don't imagine they'll want us for the big roles,' she warned. Sometimes, when Celia became lost in her daydreams, she felt as though she were ten years older instead of eighteen months younger.

  'Of course not. Even I wouldn't be so stupid as to expect that.'

  'Have you finished breakfast?' Rosa asked. Celia glanced, rather surprised, at the empty plate.

  'Rosa, where's my copy of the Plays? I must have another look at the ones we're doing, to see what other parts I might try for.'

  'Your book's in the small parlour, I expect. That's where you were reading it yesterday morning.'

  'There are several small parts I'd like to play, where I could show them what I can do. Not in the Dream, probably, but Nerissa is quite a good part, and Anne Page, even Doll Tearsheet, to show I can do comic parts too. Oh, why did Shakespeare write so few parts for women?'

  ***

  Chapter 2

  'The auditorium is large enough, it seats more people than the Memorial theatre does – did.'

  'And there's the balcony. But the stage is far too small. It's low, there's almost no room in the wings,' another Governor said dubiously.

  'Could the stage be built out at the back, and dressing rooms somewhere before the Festival opens?' Mr Bridges-Adams asked the architect, waving his walking stick. Other doubts were voiced.

  'That's barely five weeks away if we keep our timetable.'

  'There's less time normally.'

  'We had a theatre then.'

  'We want the Festival but how much would it cost?'

  'Is it practicable?' the Director asked firmly, taking the architect's arm and walking a few paces aside.

  'I must look outside again, you may have space. Mr Higham, will you accompany me?'

  Max nodded. He'd been rather surprised to be summoned to this conference at the Picture House with the Memorial Theatre Governors and the Picture House Directors, but the architect knew of his interest in theatre design and had invited him. He helped measure distances and angles, jotting down notes, and making swift calculations. He and the architect had a hurried discussion, then announced the work would be possible at an estimated cost of a thousand pounds.

  'We'll meet at my house this afternoon, gentlemen, to discuss arrangements,' Archibald Flower suggested, his tone allowing for no dissent.

  'Thank you, Alderman.'

  'I should be thanking the Directors for their generosity. We are greatly in your debt. You will be fully recompensed, I promise,' Alderman Flower replied, 'and the whole nation will show its gratitude.'

  'Very generous,' Max said to the architect.

  'Fortunate,' the architect commented softly. 'Four, five years ago they tried to convert the theatre to a cinema for the winter. It was losing more money than usual. Then things improved financially, and two years ago the cinema equipment was sold to the Picture House in return for a major shareholding.'

  Max laughed. 'So they had little option but to offer the building. Tell me, does the Flower family own all of Stratford? They have the brewery, they seem to control the theatre even if they don't own it, and goodness knows what else.'

  'The Alderman, and his uncle – that was Charles, who was the inspiration behind the building, and probably gave most of the money to build it and to keep it running – have both given money and an enormous amount of time. It's beginning to pay off, for the town. Look at the people who come every year, from all over the world.'

  'Is that always beneficial? Stratford's a delightful little town, but much of it now seems devoted to looking after visitors. Do ordinary townsfolk like that?'

  'Those who make money do. Will you stay in Stratford for a while?' the architect asked as they emerged into Greenhill Street. He watched Alderman Flower striding away, deep in conversation with Mr Bridges-Adams.

  'There isn't a theatre for me to study,' Max reminded him, 'and that was why I came.'

  'It wasn't a good example, old-fashioned, unsuitable for modern ideas.'

  'As is any building nearly fifty years old.'

  'Some serve their purpose for longer. Another here will be expected to last more than half a century, and be flexible enough for changing ideas. But there's no time for that now. There's much to do here in the next month, And all the sets have to be replaced. You've had experience of that?'

  'Well, yes, but not professionally,' Max demurred, 'and I have some work in Birmingham. I'll help when I can.'

  'The Director will need all the help he can get, and your architectural skills will be of great value. I shall be too busy, once the stage is extended. And it would add to your education, knowing about the needs of staging a play in nearly impossible conditions.'

  They turned towards the town centre. Max almost bumped into Rosa and stepped back with an apology before he recognised her.

  'So you'll stay?' his companion demanded, unaware of the near-collision.

  'Yes, I will.'

  *

  'Miss Greenwood.'

  Rosa smiled involuntarily, surprised he knew her. When she'd reached home the previous night she had scarcely recognised her own reflection in the mirror, under the smoke and smuts of the fire, her coat torn, filthy from handling the pictures and books. Winnie had been horrified, saying the clothes were fit for nothing but the bonfire.

  'Mr Higham. How is your hand?' she added, seeing the bandage.

  'It will heal. This is only to keep it clean. But it's Max, please, we can't be formal.'

  'Do introduce us, Rosalind.'

  Rosa bit her lip, irritated. Celia would have to be here when she met the man who'd been in her thoughts for much of the previous night. She'd tried to convince herself the attraction was no more than sympathy for his injured hand and admiration for his bravery in rescuing the child. If he consorted with a woman like Felicity Corbin, though, she ought not even to acknowledge him. She knew nothing about him. But she wanted to know more, she admitted ruefully. She needed to learn whether he was a proper person for her to know, a man her father would approve of, a man as upright as Adam Thorn. Aghast at the direction of her wayward musings, she hastened into speech.

  'Mr Max Higham, my sister Celia, and Miss Agnes Rhodes. We met yesterday, helping to move the books and paintings from the Library.'

  'Rosalind and Celia? I like it!'

  'Have you just been in the Picture House?' Celia demanded impatiently. 'What are they going to do? Did they say?'

  'Don't worry, the Festival will continue,' Max reassured her. 'We can extend the stage and erect dressing rooms. We'll start on time.'

  'We?' Rosa interrupted. 'Are you staying?'

  'I'm going to help the architect in my spare time.'

  'Come home and have tea with us,' Celia invited. 'Now, this afternoon. You can tell us all about it.'

  'I'd be delighted, but I must take these papers to my hotel first. Where do you live?'

  'He's so incredibly handsome,' Celia enthused as they walked home.

  'Better than the actor you like?' Agnes asked sharply.

  'Gilbert? They're so different. I don't know which I'd put first on my list.'

  'I prefer Adam,' Agnes said, and then blushed. 'He looks more – English,' she tried to explain, embarrassed. 'Gilbert's swarthy, like an Italian, and this Mr Higham's American.'

  'His people were probably as English as yours, generations ago,' Celia teased. 'You can't have Adam, Rosa has first claim. What about our dear brother? I thought yo
u preferred him when we were at school. You were always making excuses to visit me when you knew Jack would be there.'

  'I wasn't. Celia, you are horrid!' She gave a muffled sob and turned away. 'I won't come to tea if you're nasty.'

  'Agnes, don't be silly – ' Rosa began but Celia caught her arm.

  'Let the little idiot go. If you're devoting yourself to Max she'll try to snaffle Adam. Rosa, you're a sly thing, trying to keep Max to yourself.'

  'I wasn't. I didn't expect to meet him again,' Rosa insisted, her cheeks flushed. 'And you shouldn't have invited him for tea. That was shamefully forward.'

  'Pooh, it's only being kind to our American cousins. He didn't think there was anything wrong. He accepted quickly enough and besides, Winnie will have someone else to mother,' Celia prattled on, unwittingly echoing Rosa's thoughts. Then she giggled. 'What fun. She was so cross neither of us went home yesterday for tea with her precious Adam.'

  'Winnie loves cooking, and she'd made scones and two cakes, and produced a pot of her best strawberry jam, as she told us several times,' Rosa said, laughing.

  'She always says Adam needs feeding up, living alone in that great mausoleum of a house when his mother's in Birmingham, with only a feckless housekeeper who couldn't boil an egg properly to look after him,' Celia mimicked. 'This will show him.'

  'What do you mean?' Rosa demanded.

  Celia giggled again. 'Adam Thorn,' she explained with exaggerated patience. 'He's so sure of himself, it will be deliciously amusing to see him having to compete for your favours.'

  *

  'Don't forget Mrs Finch's table,' Mr Greenwood said as he stood on a box and adjusted the harness on Mustard's broad grey back. His wife's obsession with the Bard had extended even to the naming of his horses, though he'd dropped the 'seed' from this name as he had the 'pease' from Blossom's. There were limits even a fond husband had eventually reached.

  'What table?' Jack asked, busy with the bridle.

  'Mrs Finch, in Wilmcote. She asked us to pick it up last week, and you said you'd forgotten.'

  'Oh yes, there were extra parcels from that shop in Alcester.'

  'Her sister wasn't best pleased.'

  'It slipped my mind. I was late starting back, wanted to be home before dark.'

  'Well, pick it up on your way this morning. When you've dropped the furniture at Shottery there'll be room.'

  Jack nodded, and began backing Mustard between the shafts of the big covered waggon. The huge Shire moved obediently, nuzzling Jack's shoulder as he arched his neck and stepped ponderously but surely backwards. Rosa, watching them from the kitchen window, felt a pang of envy. She'd love to be setting out for the day behind this gentle giant of a horse, resplendent in his jingling harness, with the Shire's distinctive white blaze and feathered legs. But she had to begin the enormous task of sewing new costumes for the Festival.

  Jack departed, followed by Ben driving Blossom with the lighter cart and Harry with Ceres, a young gelding pulling another large waggon. Blossom was used about the town and nearest villages, The others had regular routes, different places each day, as far afield as Leamington Spa and Evesham. Occasionally they went to Worcester or Coventry or Birmingham, but their main business was transporting goods village people had ordered from the towns and bringing back farm produce for the markets and town shops.

  Rosa turned her mind to stage costumes. Max had brought the request for help when he'd come for tea the previous afternoon. 'Everything was lost and has to be replaced. Mr Bridges-Adams will be busy devising new settings. The stage will still be far too shallow but I'm sure he'll manage.' Max grinned, and his eyes crinkled in that fascinating way Rosa was beginning to know well. 'He said that while the fire might have been a blessing in disguise he was fully preoccupied at the moment with the disguise.'

  'We'll help, of course,' Celia offered. 'I'll make my own costumes. I didn't like those they gave me anyway. Dark green doesn't suit me, I'd much rather have had azure blue to match my eyes.'

  'You ought to wait and see what they want. Once they've decided on the costumes for the principals the rest will have to fit in,' Rosa warned.

  'They want to start with the first play on the programme,' Max explained.

  Celia pouted. 'Boring Henry IV Part Two. But we were going to do six plays in the first week, one after another, then Coriolanus for the Birthday Play. They'll all have to be ready by the first week unless they have fewer plays. Oh, if they do, what will they leave out?'

  'The full programme will go ahead.' Max was reassuring, and Celia smiled tremulously.

  'There are so many, I suppose it'll be easier to keep track if we do them systematically,' Rosa said briskly. 'We have until April the twelfth.'

  'Exactly five weeks, only five days per play,' Celia exclaimed. 'Can we possibly do it?'

  'We don't usually have more, and the main actors know the productions.'

  'But there's props and new scenery, after they've extended the stage.'

  'And new rehearsals, for the settings will be different,' Max reminded her.

  'It's impossible,' Celia said, her voice shaking. 'It's absolutely impossible!'

  'No, we'll do it. The Festival must go on. When Nigel Playfair did As You Like It recently his wife made a hundred and fifty costumes in five weeks, for a pound each.'

  Celia looked thoughtful. 'Was that when they left out the stag?'

  'A stag? On stage?' Max asked, startled.

  Rosa grinned. 'A stuffed one. It was a Benson tradition, for forty years that stag was on stage. I remember it. It came from Charlecote, slung on a pole. When Mr Playfair didn't include it there was almost a riot. People are still arguing about it.'

  'It was moth-eaten and dreadful,' Celia added. 'I imagine that was burnt too. Good thing.'

  'Well, we won't be having a new one, so that's one less problem. If they could make new costumes so can we. There'll be lots of people willing to help.'

  'Of course we'll do it, Rosa,' Max said. 'The builders start in the morning on the stage extension. Within days you'll be able to rehearse there.'

  'Meanwhile where do they want helpers?'

  *

  'Brr! I'm cold,' Celia complained.

  'Let's walk across the bridge and along the river. It's more secluded there.'

  'Gilbert, tell me more about the Old Vic. Would I have a chance of acting there?'

  'It's possible, but Lilian Bailey is even more demanding than Mr Bridges-Adams. Could you tolerate that? Careful!' he added, and pulled her to one side as a cart being driven across the bridge swung close by them.

  'Thanks.' Celia clung to him and looked apprehensively at the driver, who swore under his breath as he halted.

  'You shouldn't drive so close to the parapet, my man! You almost crushed the lady,' Gilbert said furiously.

  'Lady? Bet she'd pay me fer the chance ter get crushed by a man.' He drove off, and Gilbert stared after him in fury.

  'Impertinence! Who the devil was that maniac? He should be reported.'

  Celia drew away, forcing herself to smile. 'Oh, only Harry Stubbs.'

  'You know the fellow? I'll complain to his employer. He can't be allowed to get away with that sort of disrespect.'

  'He works for my father, and – he's angry with Jack, that's all,' Celia said hurriedly. 'I wouldn't want to complain or it might get Jack into trouble. It was something he forgot to do. Let's walk on, it's colder than ever.'

  Gilbert eyed her closely. 'As you please. Celia, we don't have to meet by the river. You could come to my room.'

  She laughed. 'Gilbert, people would talk. I live here, remember, everyone knows me, and most of the old cats would love to try and damage my reputation.'

  'You won't need to worry about them when you're a famous actress. You can snap your fingers and do exactly as you please.'

  'But until then I must be discreet. I can't be seen coming up to your room. Gilbert, do you know that American, Max Higham?'

  'The fellow who's been hanging
round the theatre? He's a designer, isn't he?'

  'An architect. He came to tea yesterday. I want to know more about him.'

  'So I've a rival? Shall I challenge him to a duel?'

  'Silly. It's sweet Rosalind he's interested in.'

  'And you're concerned for her reputation?'

  Celia tossed her head. 'My dear sister can look after herself. He's going to be around for several weeks, though, and I wondered whether he's interested. If he is, the man she's practically engaged to will have his nose put out of joint, and serve him right.'

  'What's the poor fellow done?'

  'He's boring. What do you know about Max?'

  'Almost nothing, but if it will amuse you I'll ask around. Then you might reward me. There are places more private than my room, you know. In fact I was thinking of renting somewhere by myself for the season.'

  *

  Adam Thorn stopped his car in Greenhill Street. He looked across at the Picture House, busy with people coming and going. In the distance he heard shouts and the noise of hammering. Already, it seemed, within a few short days, work on the temporary home of the Festival was in full swing. Rosa seemed to live there. He'd called at her home twice since Saturday, but Winnie had said she was busy at the Picture House helping to make new costumes.

  'Has a real flair for designing clothes, does Rosa,' Winnie said proudly. 'She could make a living at it. Not that she'd need to, if only she'd be a sensible girl and forget this acting nonsense.'

  Adam walked across the road. 'Watch it, gaffer!'

  He jumped aside, narrowly avoiding two men carrying large rolls of canvas, and followed them inside. In the auditorium chaos reigned. To Adam's bemused eye a hundred different activities were taking place. Workmen wielded hammers and saws, chisels and measuring tapes, dodging two duelists who were occupying the only relatively clear space while choreographing their dance of death. Women, swamped in seemingly endless lengths of material of every possible hue, chattered shrilly, while others, men and women, stood patiently as swathes of materials were draped across them. At least two dramatic scenes were being rehearsed, in one corner musicians tuned up and in another someone was singing soundlessly while peering into a large, flyblown mirror.