Edith, page 20
Pinker emerges from his office, slight, bespectacled and clean-shaven, and bows over her hand. Amid the bustle of welcomes, he ushers her into his office and settles her into a Chippendale chair beneath an electric chandelier lit up already on this wintry day. As ever, she is struck by the gentleman’s club atmosphere of his office. Pinker is dapper in a mustard-and-pink polka-dotted bow tie (only a caddish or underbred person would wear such a creation, thinks Edith). He sits opposite her rather than return to his carved-oak desk, reminisces about West Cork and extends courtesies from Mrs Pinker. Edith notices his face is flushed and his voice, always somewhat hoarse, is wheezing.
‘As you know, I’ve written a play, Mr Pinker.’
‘Naturally I’ll do what I can for you, Miss Somerville. Do you have it with you?’
‘I’m afraid not.You see, I’d like to try placing it myself.’
His smile doesn’t falter.‘Is that wise? My job is to spare you creative people the trouble of haggling and bargaining. Leave you free to direct your genius to your craft.’
‘We can’t always afford the luxury of being employers, Mr Pinker.’
‘What price peace of mind?’
‘I must put my cards on the table. I’m not ungrateful for your efforts on our behalf – quite the reverse. But the fact is, my income from writing is declining.’
‘Tastes change, alas.’
‘I simply can’t afford your commission. I have expenses to meet.’
‘We can talk about money another time, Miss Somerville.Why don’t I read your play first? Is it ready for submission?’
‘I certainly hope so. I’ve worked most awfully hard on it.’
‘Excellent.Well then, the best thing is for me to take a look at it and see what we can do.The theatrical realm is unpredictable. So many projects come to nothing there. They begin with high hopes, but the march of events intervene.’
‘I’m optimistic about my play’s prospects, Mr Pinker.’
‘As am I, Miss Somerville. As am I. But the theatre world is a jungle.
I wouldn’t like to think of you venturing into it without a guide.’
‘I’m not aware you have any experience of the theatre, Mr Pinker. Your forte is placing novels and short stories.’
‘On the contrary, dear lady. One of my authors, Arnold Bennett, has adapted the script for the biggest box-office smash in London currently. The Beggar’s Opera. It’s been running since 1920 and still no sign of the public losing interest.’
Pinker’s voice has always been whispery, but now it seems to be emanating from deep in his throat. Is he unwell? He seems most unlike himself. Fidgety and on edge.
He continues, ‘Nigel Playfair – he’s the manager of the Lyric – has struck gold. Naturally I dealt with Mr Playfair on Mr Bennett’s behalf. I could have a word with Mr Playfair about your play. Arrange a luncheon for the three of us. All managers like to be courted a little. But first, I should cast an eye over the play.’
Edith vacillates. Pinker has always been adept at spotting opportunities. But if she shows her play to him, it commits her to a business arrangement.
Pinker watches her carefully. ‘Have you met Mr Bennett? An energetic man. Almost as industrious as yourself. He reposes a great deal of confidence in me.’
‘We’ve nodded at one another.’
‘I choose my authors with care. I hope I’ve never disappointed their confidence in me.’
Edith wishes he wouldn’t witter on about Arnold Bennett – probably, she thinks sourly, he’s made a mint from him.
All of a sudden, Pinker’s face turns ruddy and he fingers his collar. ‘Stuffy in here. Need some …’ He stands up and wrenches open the window. Traffic sounds float in – horns, wheels, horse hooves. Pinker leans forward and inhales the grubby air. When he resumes his seat, perspiration beads his hairline and he blots it with a handkerchief. ‘Now, where were we, Miss Somerville?Your play. Is it a musical?’
‘No, it’s a play.’
‘Musicals are enormously popular with the public.You mustn’t think they’re lowbrow. The Beggar’s Opera is a case in point. Mr Bennett says it’s a forgotten masterpiece.’
‘I must try for tickets.’
‘Mrs Pinker and I went to the opening night. Most amusing.’
‘Is that the one about a pirate?’
‘No, a highwayman, Macheath, in a scarlet coat and long, curling wig. Mrs Pinker was very taken by him.The Lyric is an intimate little venue, of course, but I believe it’s full …’ He blinks hard, twice. ‘Full most nights.’
‘Doesn’t sound particularly amusing.’
‘Ah, but it is.What did you say your play was about?’
‘Flurry Knox steals a horse from his grandmother. Major Yeates is embroiled by accident.’
He scrubs at the back of his neck with his handkerchief.‘Readers are fond of that scallywag of yours. But I should warn you. These past years have left us a little out of sorts with our friends in Ireland.’
‘Ireland is my inspiration. I draw my best material from there.’
‘I suppose as long as it has plenty of intrigue, we can drum up interest. The West End enjoys action and adventure.’
She notices his handkerchief is sodden. He must be perspiring heavily. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Pinker, I’m not here about placing Flurry’s Wedding, but to explain I can’t afford to retain your services.’
‘A wedding – now that might fly.’ His speech speeds into a staccato burst.‘Plenty of spectacle in it? Matched pair of white horses, plumes on their heads, leading the wedding carriage, and so forth?’
‘There is a horse but I presumed it would be a mechanical animal. I say, Mr Pinker, are you quite well?You look a little warm.’
‘It does feel close. With your permission.’ He unbuttons his waist-coat jacket. ‘You see, audiences must have spectacle. They’ve become accustomed to real swans swimming about on stage, monkeys dressed up as pages and whatnot. Mrs Pinker and I saw some … some cowboys. From the American, ah,West. Spin … spinning ropes.’
‘I don’t believe I’d care for specialty acts.That’s not the audience I’m writing for.’
‘Excuse me.Water.’ He stands, misses his footing, catches at the chair back.
Edith is by his side in an instant. ‘Mr Pinker, do sit down. Let me help you to some.’ She guides him to his chair, before pouring a glass of water from a jug on his desk.
He slumps in his seat, the heel of his hand pressed against his sternum. His face reminds Edith of a broken doll. But he rouses himself to take the brackish London water from her, finds an enamelled pill box in his waistcoat pocket and taps out two white discs.
‘Shall I call one of your assistants, Mr Pinker?’
He shakes his head. ‘Thank you, no … tell you the truth … little under par.’
‘You do look careworn.’
He finishes the water and recovers somewhat.‘Mrs Pinker says I, ah, I fatigue myself. On my authors’ behalf.’ He mops at his face and neck again.‘But my interest goes beyond the financial. I care about my authors, Miss Somerville. I want your talents fully recognized.’
Edith can’t decide if he’s intentionally trying to make her feel guilty. Deliberate or not, it’s working. ‘Couldn’t you manage a holiday? The winter can be tedious.’
‘Not at the moment. I’m obliged to travel to New York to handle a business matter. Frankly …’ His eyes dart around the room. He lifts a magazine from a side table and fans himself. ‘Yes, truth be told, I’m dreading the journey. But I can’t postpone it.Time and tide wait for no man.’
‘Shouldn’t you ask your doctor’s advice before undertaking such a long voyage?’
‘Doctor advises against it. But, as you know, my son Eric is running our American office, and the silly boy has got himself into a spot of bother. Needs his dad to untangle things.’
‘I hope it’s nothing serious, Mr Pinker.’
He hauls himself to his feet, knocking over the glass, which shivers into fragments. She bends to lift some of the largest splinters.
‘I beg you not to, Miss Somerville. Miss Baker will take care of it.’ Skin clammy, he shakes her by the hand. His smile is as cheerful as a corpse’s. ‘Send over your Flurry Knox play and we’ll put our heads together and see what we can do with it.’
‘I don’t think—’
He cuts her off. ‘Been wonderful to catch up with you, Miss Somerville. Meeting you brings back Miss Martin to me. Such a loss to literature.’
‘It’s a poor thing to outlive one’s friends. Don’t see me out, Mr Pinker, I can find my own way.’
—
Outside on the Strand, Edith pauses by a bus stop to adjust her hat pin. A figure loitering there catches her eye. Hasn’t she seen that face before? It reminds her of the road sweeper outside Boyle and Mabel’s house this morning. He bends down to tie a shoelace, and she forgets about him, tasting instead her vexation at not accomplishing her mission. Mr Pinker simply wouldn’t listen. There’s no help for it, she must dispense with his services in writing. Perhaps she should hold off until she has a definite offer from a theatre.Walking past the Savoy, she purges her guilt by remembering his admission about his son. That clueless young man has been up to something shady, if she’s not mistaken. He has educated his boys to be gentlemen but blood will out. Mr Pinker’s father was an East End barrow boy.
—
Edith consults with Boney, who saw The Beggar’s Opera a year ago and pronounced it a rattling good evening. She doesn’t need Pinker to act as go-between, she decides, and composes a letter to Nigel Playfair, manager–director at the Lyric. The missive emphasizes her connection with Shaw. ‘You’re laying it on thick,’ hisses her conscience. ‘Contacts must be harvested,’ whispers another voice. Martin’s?
Dear Mr Playfair,
Forgive this direct approach from one who has admired your work for years. My close friend and relative Mr George Bernard Shaw recommends that I offer you first refusal on my new play. He says it’s ideal for the Lyric. Might I hand over ‘Flurry’s Wedding’ to you personally? I’ll be attending ‘The Beggar’s Opera’ on Thursday night and it would be a convenience to do it then.Yours will be the first eyes, apart from Mr Shaw’s, to read my play, which is inspired by the Irish R.M. stories I wrote with Martin Ross.
I’m very much looking forward to seeing your revival – I hear it’s the toast of London. It has been remiss of me not to attend a performance sooner but I am only an Irish country mouse. However, as soon as I knew I had business in the city I made haste to purchase tickets.
Yours sincerely,
Edith Oenone Somerville
The following day he writes back, inviting her to have a glass of wine with him half an hour before curtain-up.
—
Nigel Playfair looks like a cross between a bishop and a butler, although one with bulky objects jammed into his dinner-jacket pockets. Apart from a blazing fire behind a dented metal guard, a threadbare Turkey carpet is the only concession to comfort in his office. He is genteel and deferential, pouring her a glass of decent Burgundy and conversing in a voice capable of wooing the world. She remembers he was a successful actor before becoming a manager, and still accepts character roles.
‘Your Irish R.M. stories are classics, Miss Somerville. My nephew told me they were sent out to our boys in the trenches and helped to pass some difficult times.’
‘Did he come home?’
‘Left a hand behind at Ypres – but the rest of him came back. The Great War took many men. Sad days. It’s our duty to distract the public from those unhappy memories. I look forward to reading your play. Is it your first?’
She removes the manuscript from her leather satchel and sets it on the low table beside them. ‘Not entirely. I have adapted work in Ireland for the stage.’
‘The Abbey?’
‘No, for local productions in County Cork. Charity fundraisers. Humble little affairs, but popular. This is my first professional play.’
A flicker of doubt glances off his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘We’re looking for something with bite to take the place of our ballad-opera when it runs its course. Something for my artistic team to sprinkle their fairy dust over. I don’t mind so much about the critics – The Beggar’s Opera had cool notices in its early days. No play is critic-proof, of course. But I had faith in it. And I was justified.’
‘My play is pour rire. People need license to laugh.’
‘Indeed.Well, I’ll read it as soon as I possibly can.’ He lifts it, juggling his hand as though weighing the manuscript.‘Feels a little thick.’
‘I cut it down considerably, with Mr Shaw’s assistance. Naturally, I’d be happy to effect more cuts, as necessary.’
His jowly face clears. ‘Mr Shaw – keeper of the public conscience. Still, if Mr Shaw had a hand in this, it will be a treat to read.’ Hastily, he tacks on, ‘And, of course, the same applies to anything from the pen of your good self.’The first curtain bell rings and he stands.‘Duty calls, dear lady.You have tickets for tonight’s performance?’
‘In the stalls. I’m accompanied by the wife of my brother, Admiral Somerville. She’s waiting for me in the foyer.’
‘Permit me to swap your tickets for my personal box.You’ll be more comfortable.’
‘Too kind, thank you.’
By now, Playfair has his fob watch in his hand, checking the time. He guides her to the corridor outside his office, beckons to a junior stage manager and instructs him to take good care of Miss Somerville and her guest. Another staff member approaches Playfair and complains about some missing props.
Quickly, Edith asks, ‘When might I hope to hear back from you, Mr Playfair?’
‘I could promise you the sun, moon and gingerbread, Miss Somerville. But whether I could deliver them is another matter. The best I can say is that I’ll read it at my earliest opportunity.’
—
Edith and Mabel Somerville are transported. Light massed into a single beam is trained on the dashing Macheath’s face. He is pleading with Lucy Lockit, the turnkey’s daughter, a young woman whose virtue he stole before abandoning her and their unborn baby. The highwayman needs her help to escape from Newgate Gaol or he’ll dance at the end of a noose. Edith has to acknowledge that, visually, the show is daring and innovative, while the fusion of song, dance and drama is a crowd-pleaser. She has never seen anything to compare with the pared-back simplicity used to recreate Georgian London in all its glamour and squalor – there are scarcely any scene changes.
When the final curtain falls, Edith and her sister-in-law wait for the crowd to thin out before leaving the box. Engrossed in possible stage sets for Flurry’s Wedding, she lends only half an ear to Mabel’s prattle about the daisy-fresh appeal of Polly Peachum’s pink-and-green gown. On the street, she recalls her leather satchel left under the seat and hurries back into the almost-empty theatre. She finds it where she left it, in Nigel Playfair’s box.
‘Wouldn’t do to lose that.’
Edith whips around. It’s Flurry Knox, lounging in the doorway.
‘It’s empty. Mr Playfair has my play on his desk.’
‘Don’t you mean my play? Whose name is on it?’
‘You’re the inspiration, you silly boy, but you’re not the author.What are you doing, frivolling around London?’
‘Taking a look at the place. So this is the theatre where you’re planning to make a fortune from me. It’s on the small side.’
‘If it’s a hit, we can transfer to a bigger theatre.’
‘If you were going to start small and build, you could have begun in Dublin.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Flurry. Success in Dublin doesn’t count. It’s London that matters.’
sixteen
While she’s waiting for news from Nigel Playfair, Edith takes a run down to Surrey to spend a night at Ethel Smyth’s house. It’s only half an hour from Waterloo Station, but when she steps out at Woking it feels like an entirely different corner of England. Through a swirl of steam on the railway platform, Boney’s face emerges.
‘All hail the dame!’ Edith performs a mock curtsey.
‘I’ve ordered new calling cards. I’m furious they haven’t arrived yet. Come on, I have a hansom waiting outside for us.’ She links arms with Edith and stumps her towards a bay horse with protruding ribs. ‘It’s not everyone I’d cut short rehearsals for. I’m conducting the Woking Choral Society Choir. We have a performance in two weeks, and they aren’t ready yet. Not by a long chalk. The only thing they’ve learned properly is my Hey Nonny No. Hardly surprising when it’s head and shoulders above everything else in the programme.’ She addresses herself to a burly cabbie, pudding rolls at the back of his neck. ‘We’re ready to go now. Hook Heath. No luggage. I hope you did as I told you and gave that horse a drink of water.’
‘He’s better fed and watered than me, missis. Can you hop up under your own steam or do you need a hand?’
‘We can manage.’ Boney rolls her eyes at Edith.
They heave themselves into the cab and Boney raps on the roof with her knuckles.
‘Walk on,’ calls the cabbie.
‘There was no need to meet me,’ says Edith. ‘I could have found my own way to the house.’
‘Of course, you could. But I didn’t want to miss a minute of your visit.What news of Flurry’s Wedding?’
‘It’s with Nigel Playfair of the Lyric.’
‘He’ll snap it up if he’s any sense.’
‘I shouldn’t count my chickens before they’re hatched. But he was most encouraging.’
‘He knows what’s what. I’m glad you sacked little Pinker and took charge yourself. A writer of your stature needs no agent. Your name is your entrée.’
Edith is ashamed to admit she hasn’t exactly parted company with her agent – although neither did she send her play to his office. ‘He was about to go to New York when I saw him. Some difficulty or other involving his son.’
