The Dragonfly Brooch Page 7

  ‘She had to go to a read-through,’ said Charlie, ‘but she said you wouldn’t mind if I paid you a call.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind! Although I don’t have long; I’m off to the Vineyard, later. It’s a bar where the luvvies hang out.’ Victor grinned, showing a vulpine set of teeth. ‘It’s where we go to have a drink and bitch about each other.’

  ‘Do you still act?’

  ‘Now and again. When they want a doddery old codger or stuffy army general. that sort of thing.’ His voice was mellow and deep, full of resonance.

  ‘Voiceovers?’

  Victor laughed. ‘Oh yes, when I can get them!’

  Charlie’s attention was caught by a black and white studio portrait on the mantelpiece.

  ‘That’s Melissa,’ said Victor, ‘my late wife. Anne Marie’s mother.’ His eyes misted over. ‘Melissa would have been heartbroken …’ he paused, composed himself, ‘… heartbroken if she’d seen the way our girl was hounded by the press. Awful ordeal. She’d have wrung that bloody Angus Malone’s neck, the way he spread those rumours … You know the story, I suppose. You’ve Googled him?’ He was uncomfortable with the terminology, evidently didn’t use a computer himself. ‘I’m resolutely low-tech, I’m afraid. Can just about use a mobile … It’s all porn anyway.’

  Charlie neither agreed nor disagreed.

  ‘All that guff about stage fright,’ Victor went on. ‘Papers made a right meal of it. It’s not that uncommon. We’ve all dried up at one time or another. It’s not the end of the world. I mean – the adrenalin’s part of it; your heart needs to race a little bit, otherwise you’d never get started. We’ve all been gibbering wrecks cowering in the wings. We’ve all been kicked on stage with a boot up the arse! You get through it. It’s called technique. It’s what actors are meant to do. There are ways to harness the fear; get through to the other side. Of course, Anne Marie’s technique is considered more instinctual, more spontaneous than mine ever was.’ He rolled his eyes, clasped his hand to his ‘fluttering’ chest. ‘They have to make it up on the hoof. They have to experience the trauma; absorb it, so they can respond in kind. Some of them don’t even bother to learn their lines these days … All that talent!’ He was talking about Anne Marie again. ‘Thrown away on that mediocre horseshit she faffs around with nowadays! Who sees it, that’s what I want to know? Where’s the audience for it?’

  ‘In her defence,’ said Charlie, ‘She does have a career. In France.’

  Victor wasn’t listening. ‘She could have had a short break, a holiday, or whatever; she didn’t need to take the rest of her life off! She could have come back anytime she liked, proved everyone wrong. I know I can’t fault her for marrying a French man and starting a family out there, but she’s wasting her talent. She should come home. To us. That is,’ he corrected, ‘to me.’

  ‘That’s what she’s trying to do.’

  ‘And now I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to see my grandson again. The boy’s at school most of the time, anyhow. Some expensive, progressive establishment chosen by his father. No uniform, no exams, no discipline: a recipe for disaster if ever there was one. But what do I know? Out of touch, aren’t I? Not with it.’

  Charlie put his tea down, stood up and went over to the mantelpiece. ‘And who is this?’ he asked, pointing to the photo at the other end.

  ‘Ah,’ said Victor. ‘That is Minnie.’

  It was the same woman he’d seen in the theatre dressing room and at the on-stage dinner party. Close up Charlie realised it wasn’t a photograph; it was in fact an autochrome. Recognisable by its grainy pointillist quality, the background was out of focus and it was impossible to identify the location, although the colours and textures implied somewhere Mediterranean. Slightly orientated to the left, with her ankles crossed and her legs drawn underneath, Minnie was sitting on a large fallen rock. Although the light was bright, she was buttoned up against the cold, suggesting the picture was taken in winter. She was wearing a dark olive green coat with black fur-trimmed collar and cuffs, a road-skimming skirt, and a large black hat embellished with a giant pearl-ended hat pin. Her white-gloved hands held lightly onto the chain of a small velvet bag. Was there a hint of Anne Marie in her expression? Her eyes were thrown into shade by the brim of the large hat, but her russet-coloured lips were prominent in her pale face. She was unsmiling; in fact she might even have been bored, waiting for the laborious process to be over. Autochromes took a while to set up; the camera would probably have been on a tripod and exposure times were long. Who was the photographer? Why were they abroad? Were they working, or was it a holiday? One thing was certain – her looks were striking; not delicate, not beautiful, but pronounced, expressive. No wonder she’d been a success on the stage.

  ‘Didn’t actually know her that well,’ Victor said with regret. ‘Can’t give you much description of a personal nature.’ He jerked his thumb skywards. ‘There’s some stuff in the spare bedroom. Not sure it’ll help you get to grips with the real woman, but it’s a start. Anne Marie says your book’s about Victorian and Edwardian actresses in general, yes?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Charlie said. They had prepared the ground with a little concoction. The book was a cover story. A man who considered stage fright ‘guff’ was not going to go a bundle on retrocognition as a means of research.

  ‘Who else are you doing? Ellen Terry? Isadora Duncan? All those frightful divas?’

  ‘The more frightful the better.’

  ‘Minnie bought this house with her earnings,’ Victor explained, ‘but she didn’t actually live here for very long.’

  He could already smell her unique perfume as though the rooms were infused with a sweet odour of grapefruit and musk …

  The slither of Minnie’s skirt, the rustle of silk as it slides over the carpet on the lower stairs, is clearly audible. Charlie goes back into the hallway just in time to catch a flash of stockinged ankle as Minnie lifts the train of the dress. He catches the glitter of light from the beading on her silk shoes, sees the slant of a bangle as it slides down Minnie’s arm and comes to rest on her wrist.

  Minnie’s gait is purposeful; someone is waiting for her upstairs …

  Charlie all but trotted up after her, past Victor’s theatre stills, and on towards the upper floor. If he was quick enough he might catch sight – but Minnie was gone. The bedrooms were empty, the scent had evaporated, all he could hear was the quiet ticking of the long case clock on the landing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie said to Victor as he joined him at the top of the stairs. ‘That was very rude of me. I should have waited for an invitation.’

  ‘Not at all. You want to get a feel for the old duck, don’t you? This is her room. Go ahead, take a squiz.’ Victor opened the door to the master bedroom.

  The room was decorated in pale blue relief-patterned wallpaper and contained a sumptuous brass bed, a vast dressing table, a suite of Art Nouveau bedroom furniture, a deep-pile rug, and a grey-maned rocking horse.

  ‘As she left it,’ Victor said. ‘No-one has occupied it since. None of the children were ever allowed to play in it – except to use the rocking horse – and even then we didn’t linger. It’s almost as if we were expecting Minnie to come back one day. She never did of course. I confess I used to tell my girls that her ghost might be haunting the place, just to give them the heebie jeebies, but it was only a bit of fun! These days the cleaner gives it a dust and hoovers the carpet, but that’s about it.’

  Charlie examined the dressing table still covered with Minnie’s silver-backed hairbrushes and glass bottles. ‘What do you know about her? What are the legends passed down through the generations? Are there any stories?’

  Victor lounged against the bookcase. ‘I heard a few bits and bobs. My mother didn’t exactly regale me with theatrical anecdotes, mores the pity. She remembered Minnie only vaguely. When Minnie wasn’t working she occasionally took her children out to tea – but only when she could be bothered. She was a mother in ornamental capa
city, you understand; not very practical. The nannies and nursery maids took care of them most of the time. And then they were packed off to school. Mother dimly recalled Minnie coming to their father’s funeral. Husband and wife had been divorced for several years by this time, but Minnie came as though dressed for the part – lashings of jet black lace and feathers. Apparently she had a deep, melodious voice; obviously trained to project on stage. She scared the horses, if you know what I mean! Not an especially demure woman by all accounts.’

  ‘When was this funeral?’

  ‘In the 1920s? Minnie herself was living in France when she died.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Couldn’t say for sure. Might have been Paris. A peacock like her would need the bright lights, I imagine. Rumour has it that she was stuck there during the war without a brass farthing to her name. Couldn’t afford the fare home even if she’d wanted to.’

  ‘An Englishwoman stuck in Paris, during the occupation? Very dangerous, surely?’

  ‘How did she get away with it? Good question. Either she was exceptionally brave or exceptionally foolhardy. The bare-faced cheek of a woman used to getting her own way, I expect. A glorious naivety about her. I imagine she either made it through in one piece, or died somewhere insalubrious – prison or the flop-house. Alone, as far as I can tell. She should have come home as soon as hostilities broke out, but she was far too eccentric to think sensible, practical thoughts. I suppose she imagined she led some kind of charmed life; the Nazis wouldn’t touch her!’

  ‘You don’t sound like you care very much.’

  ‘It’s the impression my mother gave me. Justified, or not, she wasn’t exactly revered in our household. Mother was going to put all Minnie’s stuff on the bonfire. I persuaded her otherwise.’

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Charlie. ‘Otherwise my book is going to be very slim,’ he added quickly. ‘Did no-one in the family try to find her, in Paris?’

  Victor chuckled. ‘I think they were just grateful she’d left them the house!’

  ‘So what exactly do you know of her life?’

  ‘Potted biography really. Married very young to a much older man called Roger Etherege. Mismatched alliance; husband often abroad or away on business, left her alone at home, bored out of her mind. Involved herself in some sort of amateur theatricals and got a taste for it. Auditioned for a part in one of the London theatres, went on a tour; met William Farrar Fay the actor manager. He, canny man, spotted her potential; turned her into a hot property. She was the star, and he reaped the profits. But …’ he gave a pause, ‘… she wasn’t as green as she was cabbage-looking, and she managed to negotiate her own contracts. Got talking to others in the business, I expect, began to demand more rights and freedoms. A rift opened up somewhere along the line. The partnership faltered at some latter point, and off she went.’

  ‘Were they romantically involved?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Is he your grandfather?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Victor gnomically, ‘that’s a moot point. Who we think it is, doesn’t necessarily correspond with who took on the role, shall we say?’

  ‘A mystery?’ Charlie prompted.

  Victor relished the intrigue. ‘There are a couple of prime suspects; my mother hinted as much, there were whispers over the years, but no-one knew for certain. The birth certificate went walkabout for a while. It turned up again recently. I say recently, it must have been twenty years ago! Minnie’s husband Roger Etherege is down as the father, but we’re talking a man in his late fifties by then. He continued to see my mother and her brother unenthusiastically after the divorce, but I always suspected he wasn’t their biological father. None of this was discussed openly. Not like it would be today. I like to think that William Farrar Fay is my real grandfather, but it could be some young actor she took a fancy to. Or anyone in her circle.’

  Was Farrar Fay one of the men at the dinner party on the stage? He pointed to a row of sturdy grey box files stored on the bookcase. ‘Is that the family archive?’

  ‘It is, but it’s no use to you, unless you’re interested in a detailed study of late 20th century acting.’ He chuckled again. ‘If so, I’m your man. Most of the boxes contain press about Anne Marie.’

  ‘Any correspondence of Minnie’s? Letters, diaries, things like that?’

  ‘Afraid not. Her personal stuff disappeared long since.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Anne Marie tells me that Minnie was once very popular.’

  ‘Oh she was at one time, but it’s very easy for an actor to fall into obscurity, believe me!’ said Victor. ‘If I were you I’d try the Theatre Museum. I believe they might have some information. If not on her then on Farrar Fay.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea, thank you.’

  What he really wanted was to be left entirely alone in Minnie’s bedroom. ‘Would you mind,’ Charlie hesitated, ‘if I went through some of the archive anyway?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind,’ said Victor, ‘although, I do as I say, have an appointment at the Vineyard.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t keep you. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow?’

  ‘No, no,’ Victor said, considering. ‘You stay here. Take as long as you want. Show yourself out when you’ve had enough.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You’ve got something about you – makes me think I could trust you with all my secrets … Funny that. I’m usually a right old misanthrope!’

  ‘I’ll be gone by the time you get back.’

  ‘Take as long as you want,’ Victor repeated. ‘Come back tomorrow too, if you like. I’m always here. Except when I’m in the Vineyard, of course.’

  *

  Charlie chose one of the boxes at random and crouched down on the rug to leaf through the cuttings and articles, mostly related to Victor’s career. Disappointingly he had spoken the truth about his grandmother; there was very little ephemera from Minnie’s heyday, not much more than a couple of playbills and a small sepia studio portrait on a postcard, showing her wearing a slender gown and a very long string of pearls …

  The rustling of the skirt is so quiet as to be almost imperceptible. He realises that the woman has been in the room for quite some time. Without making too sudden a movement, he abandons the cuttings and looks up. Her bearing is regal, her stance defined – as though she is in fact, still on the stage. This woman knows how to hold her body to advantage, how to stand without slouching; there is nothing craven or submissive about her. And the man – for yes, there is a man in the room too – is trying to hold his own against her. He is impatient, irritable that she should continue to act in his presence, in front of him! There’s no need.

  ‘It’s me, Minnie! Who do you think you’re talking to? It’s not the stage boy, the scenery hand. You can’t order me about like some lackey!’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it Will! Never think that I’d try and lord it over you. Where would that get me, hm? Never has done before, why should it start now?’

  ‘You’re impossible! Damnably impossible. I only came here to reason with you, I thought I’d talk some sense into you. I can see it’s a fool’s errand.’

  ‘You’re the fool,’ she whispers.

  He moves around to her side of the bed. With his dark curling hair, his aquiline profile and well-defined jaw line, he is the embodiment of masculine attractiveness. He is already taking off his jacket, undoing his collar. He drops them on the floor, unloops his braces and lets them dangle.

  She laughs. ‘You know it’s the middle of the day.’

  He laughs too. ‘What of it? There’s no one here, is there?’

  ‘Mary is due at three.’

  ‘Plenty of time then.’

  He reaches up, pulls a jewelled comb from the curls in her hair, glances at it, and weighs it in his hands for a moment. ‘Who gave you this? Hubbie?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Ah … then it was Baxter?’

  She assents,
but without embarrassment.

  ‘It’s very beautiful,’ he marvels. ‘He has good taste. In some things.’

  ‘You know I have admirers,’ she says. ‘Can’t very well do without them.’

  ‘Oh no,’ he agrees good-naturedly. ‘Can’t indeed. Rely on them, in fact. A favour here and there never goes amiss.’

  Her face hardens. ‘And that’s what you think of me is it? I bestow my favours? Cast them about idly?’

  ‘I really don’t care where you cast them,’ he says, ‘as long as you continue to cast a few my way now and again.’

  ‘William, you are disgusting! I wouldn’t cheapen myself!’

  ‘I’m in jest, my darling, you know I am!’

  ‘I never know with you,’ she protests, ‘you take so much for granted. You never think of my feelings—’

  ‘Your fairer feelings,’ he murmurs, stroking the line of her chin, down towards her throat, ‘are all I ever think of …’

  She half turns her head away. ‘I don’t think I am in the mood today …’

  ‘No,’ he says, utterly unconvinced. ‘Say you so? Then I’m afraid I must use a little gentle persuasion…’

  He leans towards her, tilts her face towards his own and then kisses her very gently. She responds quietly at first, then more animatedly as he puts his arms around her. She clings onto him and he leads her towards the bed. He unbuttons the dress where it does up at the side, and she slips out of it.

  The telephone rings, a shrill alarm from downstairs. It makes them both jump. ‘Oh William, you know who that must be.’

  ‘Don’t answer it, let him sweat.’

  ‘I cannot,’ she says. ‘I must go.’

  The bell rings again. She kicks the dress to one side, picks up her silk wrap instead. She hurries out of the room and down the stairs. William groans and sits down on the bed. After a minute he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and removes a small jewel case from inside. He opens the case and removes the object within. It is a delicate enameled brooch in aquamarine and gold bearing the body of a dragonfly and the face of a beautiful woman. He runs the jewel through his fingers. ‘Not the only one who showers you with gifts, is he,’ he murmurs to himself before replacing the ornament in the case and laying it on her pillow …