Edith, page 21
‘A Pinker pup!’ Boney screeches.
Edith winces. She sounds like a Skibbereen apple woman. Then she remembers Ethel Smyth cutting short rehearsals to collect her. ‘In fact, there are two Pinker pups.’
‘Hah! Have they inherited his wee, upturned nose and shiny button eyes?’
For some reason, the image sets them off squawking, and Boney becomes so helpless with laughter that she has to rest her head on Edith’s shoulder.
‘We’re like bacon and eggs, the way we fit together, Edith!’
They pass Woking Golf Club and arrive at her house. Boney pays off the cabbie and together they push past gorse bushes to reach the front gate. Coign is a rambling, mock-Tudor cottage. A bench rests beneath the drawingroom window, for visitors to miss none of Ethel Smyth’s virtuoso assaults on the piano when they take the air. Climbing rose bushes are trained along the walls. To the casual eye, the house has stood there for centuries. But Edith is aware that an American patron of the arts, Mary Dodge, gave Boney the money to buy a plot and build on it ten or twelve years ago. She chose the location for its convenience to the golf club.
The interior walls are white and rough cast, while none of the furniture cost more than a pound or two. Even so, Edith is surprised anew by how comfortable the setup is.The housekeeper, a Sphinx with straw-coloured hair, as economical with words as Ethel Smyth is effusive, appears in the hall when she hears Ethel’s key in the lock and waits silently.
‘Breaded veal cutlets for lunch,’ announces Boney. ‘When will they be ready, Sadie?’
‘At one, mum.’
‘Excellent. Time for a pre-prandial first.’ She leads Edith into the sitting room, where she tries to persuade her to take a glass of sambuca.
‘It’s a digestif, Ethel!’ protests Edith. ‘I’ll have to go for a siesta if I start drinking liqueurs at this time of day.’
‘Ah, what’s time? I ordered it from the wine merchant in memory of our trip to Sicily.’
‘A mouse trotted across my pillow in Taormina.’
‘You turned it over and went right back to sleep. Nothing fazes you, divine creature. Now, how about a small glass?’
Edith is obliged to acquiesce, although she doesn’t finish it.
Lunch is devoted to Ethel Smyth’s account of her investiture at Buckingham Palace, including what the King said to her and, more importantly, she said to the King. Beside her place setting rests a shoebox containing congratulatory telegrams, which she insists on reading aloud one by one.
As soon as decency permits, Edith makes a suggestion. ‘How about stretching our legs?’ The outdoors dilutes Boney’s turbulent presence. ‘I haven’t had a proper walk in days.’
They stroll along the perimeter of the golf course, Edith keeping an eye out for flying balls, her hostess in full flow about the club’s attractions.
‘Golf is the most stupendous exercise,’ says Boney. ‘It’s exhilarating.’ She rolls the r sumptuously. ‘You should try it.’
Edith’s mouth turns down.
Boney holds up her hands in surrender.‘It’s not for everyone, I accept.’
It’s a relief to Edith to be led into the clubhouse. Inside, Boney orders a pot of tea and plate of biscuits, ‘fancy ones, not plain’, but almost immediately a member engages her in conversation about caddies. Left to her own devices, Edith flicks through some newspapers on the table next to them.
In the Daily Mail, a headline on page five catches her eye.
Literary Agent’s Death
The esteemed literary agent Mr James Brand Pinker has died of influenza in New York leaving a widow and two sons. Among the authors he represented were Henry James, Joseph Conrad, Arnold Bennett, John Galsworthy and Compton Mackenzie.
She tries to catch Boney’s eye, but her friend is holding court. ‘Never lost a golf ball … utter carelessness … insist on my caddy hunting for it.’
Edith returns to the newspaper and reads through half a column about the unexpected nature of Pinker’s death and how doctors were unable to save him. The report continues:
Mr Pinker was a shrewd judge of what the public enjoyed reading. He could spot a bestseller quickly. From modest beginnings in East London, he became a clerk and later a newspaper journalist before setting up his agency in 1896. He spent the past quarter of a century in the service of some seventy-five authors, including stars in the literary firmament.
No mention of Somerville and Ross. Edith feels aggrieved.
He always made a special point of helping young authors in the early stages of their career, when they most needed the aid of an adviser with a thorough knowledge of the literary world and publishing trade. His sons Eric and Ralph Pinker will continue the family business in London and New York.
Edith sets down the newspaper. Now she won’t be obliged to have a confrontation with Pinker. Her relief is followed by a prickle of shame. She must write to Mrs Pinker. Perhaps a floral wreath, too. Does she have their home address? Her forehead puckers. The Pinkers leased a country house in Reigate. What’s it called? Bury’s Court, she’s almost certain of it. She’ll send flowers there. Martin stayed a night or two with them once, it must be a decade ago. Tasteless furnishings, she reported back. But opulent.‘He certainly feathered his nest,’ according to Martin. Pinker married money.
A crash of chair legs as Boney sits beside her. ‘Is anything the matter, Edith?’
She points to the headline.
‘By George, what a stroke of luck! It means he can’t interfere with your Playfair contract. The timing is perfect!’
That expression of Edith’s inner thoughts shames her. ‘In fairness, Boney, he negotiated some excellent deals in his day for us.’
‘His deal-making days are behind him now.’
—
The next afternoon, Boney travels to London with Edith. She’ll stay at her usual quarters, a hotel in Lincoln’s Inn. Meanwhile, Edith is returning to Boyle and Mabel’s place in Chelsea.
During the train journey, Boney slaps the palms of her hands against her knees. ‘I say, let’s you and me go to Hammersmith and see Playfair. Insist he make an immediate decision about your play.’
‘Stand down your war chariot, Boney. He’s hasn’t had it a week. Anyhow, it would be impolite not to make an appointment first.’
‘You and your good manners. I’d turn up on his doorstep and brook no refusal.Very well, how about this? What do you say to lunch at Simpson’s tomorrow? My treat.We haven’t celebrated my dameship properly.’
‘Tomorrow I need to spend the day at the British Museum Library. I’m researching a newspaper article.’
‘The day after, then.’
‘I can’t. Mabel has invited some friends to tea. I’m to give them a reading from Flurry’s Wedding. I need an hour to practise.’
‘Oh, may I come to tea? I love hearing you read.’
‘It’s not my place to invite you. I’m a guest there, singing for her supper. I thought you had appointments?’
Boney’s answer is shouted down by a whistle blast as the hurrying train enters the tunnel leading into Waterloo Station.
‘What did you say?’
‘I’m supposed to be at rehearsals for The Boatswain’s Mate in three-quarters of an hour. I shall have to shake a leg. Get there tout de suite, as they say in gay Paree.’
‘Gay Paree feels a universe away. Do you know, I think that’s where I was happiest in life.’
‘Because you were devoting yourself to art?’
‘Yes, at the Délécleuse and Colarossi studios. My drawing was a little weak, but my teachers were encouraging about my use of colour.’
Wheels and brakes screeching, the train draws to a halt. Someone yanks open a window and a puff of acrid smell gusts in. Edith looks out at grey-tinted London and hankers after a field of daffodils.
‘We should go to Paris,’ says Boney. ‘Why not? As soon as Playfair pays you something we’ll take off on a jaunt. You’re a real workhorse – you need a break.’
‘This is a break.’
‘Nonsense, it’s all family duty and business. I mean a break away from it all. I’ll go with you. What larks we’ll have! Oh, my dear, your knot has worked its way loose. Allow me.’ She leans forward and adjusts Edith’s tie.‘There now, I’ve given you a lovers’ knot.That’ll hold ’til the end of time.’
Edith slides to one side, levers herself to her feet and checks the seat for lost belongings. She lurches out to the train corridor, Boney in her slipstream burbling about picnics in the Bois de Boulogne.
I am not going to Paris and that’s that, Edith tells herself. Boney no sooner thinks of something than she does it – she has obligations to no one but herself. Unlike Edith.
A ticket collector takes her return stub. Behind her, Boney causes a hold-up by forgetting where she put hers.
Edith glances over her shoulder. ‘Inside your hat.’
‘She opens her mouth with wisdom and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue. On our next trip, Edith, you can take charge of the tickets. Parisians are less patient than Londoners.’
Edith forges ahead towards the Underground station. Saying nothing is the path of least resistance. Boney chomps through opposition like a weevil through biscuits.
—
Mabel Somerville has made a home in Netherton Grove and any member of the clan is always welcome, even when Boyle is away with his ship, as he is currently. It’s not the most fashionable end of Chelsea – too close to St George’s Union Infirmary, and distinctly un-grove-like – but Edith is glad of a berth in their three-storied terraced house.
A large, thick envelope is waiting for Edith. She doesn’t wait to unbutton her coat before opening it. Inside, a letter from Nigel Playfair rejects her play and returns it to her.
Quite unsuitable for the stage …
Far too many scenes …
Impossible to put on.
The ripple of piano scales drifts downstairs. She lifts her head from the letter. Mabel must be in the middle of her daily practice. Edith’s play has been turned down, yet life continues as normal for others. All at once, her insides feel emptied out. She sits on a hall chair, the manuscript thudding to the floor. But the letter is still gripped in her hand. She risks another look.
Old-fashioned …
Muddled message …
Unconditional refusal.
Should she have implanted more of Shaw’s suggestions? Is it possible all her efforts with Flurry’s Wedding are a misfire?
Almost at once, she overrules the thought. The play simply wasn’t what the Lyric wanted – she’ll offer it to another producer. Boney will suggest a home.
Mabel Somerville appears on the landing. ‘I thought I heard the doorbell.Welcome back, Edith. How was your trip to Woking?’
She puts the letter behind her back.‘Enjoyable, thank you, Mab.’
‘My friends are terribly excited about your reading tomorrow.’
Edith’s heart sinks. It will be an ordeal to read from a play that’s just been turned down – what was that odious word? – unconditionally.‘You are still willing, dear? The invitations have gone out.’
‘Of course, Mab.You know me, any excuse to show off. By the way, would you mind if I invited Dame Ethel Smyth? She happens to be in town this week and expressed an interest.’
‘Your composer friend? Certainly. Perhaps she’d play one of her compositions for us.’
‘The difficulty, Mab, would be stopping her.’
—
The rooms are small in Boyle and Mabel’s house – space was sacrificed for a suitable address and handsome frontage. To accommodate guests, a set of glass doors between dining and drawing rooms is opened. Edith perches on her sister-in-law’s piano seat and faces her audience of a dozen. She has butterflies in her stomach and a frog in her throat.While Mabel says a few words of introduction, she drinks half a glass of water. But as soon as she starts reading, her nerves vanish.
The guests avoid rattling their teacups and laugh on cue – especially when the script calls for a brogue. Is it possible they’re enjoying it? Her delivery gains in confidence.
Ethel Smyth sits not more than six inches away from Edith, eyes fastened on her. Afterwards, she rumbles about how the play is a tour de force because Miss Somerville strains words through a trellis of loveliness. Her increasing deafness forces people to shout back at her that yes, it’s a masterpiece. Edith cringes. After all, her magnum opus has been refused.
But at least the audience asks for an encore – and with enough persistence to make the request appear genuine. During the applause, Edith notices Mabel’s pretty face is rosy with relief. She knows her sister-in-law finds it daunting to entertain in London, having grown up in Sydney. But her Waltzing Matilda cake, topped with pineapple slices and pecan nuts, is a triumph.
After the guests have departed, and Mabel is directing her servants to rearrange the furniture, Boney whispers to Edith about the two of them taking some air.
‘It’s dark out, Boney.’
‘There are streetlights.You aren’t in the middle of West Cork now.’
‘Mind the paintwork!’ cries Mabel.
‘Look, I can’t hear myself think with your sister-on-law fussing over her furniture. She should use a spirit level and be done with it if she cares so much about straight lines. Do come out. I’ve hardly seen you. Everyone wanted to monopolize the great playwright.’
‘Let’s sit in the morning room,’ says Edith. ‘It’ll be quiet in there. As a matter of fact, I want to show you something.’
‘Rather,’ says Boney.
Edith raises her voice. ‘You don’t mind, do you Mab, if Dame Ethel and I have a little chat in the morning room?’
‘Go right ahead.’
When they are seated in the small, bay-windowed room overlooking the street, she produces the damning letter. The paper feels forlorn between her fingertips, as if knows its contents are unwelcome. She watches Boney read it.
‘How beastly, Edith! I shall boycott his theatre.’
‘He takes rather a dim view of Flurry’s Wedding.’
‘Pearls before swine.’
‘I thought casting might be the issue – suitable Flurrys can’t be found under every gooseberry bush. But I never dreamed the work itself would be rejected.’
‘He’s talking nonsense.You are Edith Somerville! You have magic in your fingertips!’
‘But Mr Playfair isn’t even willing to give me a short run. I could have undertaken rewrites, I could have, I don’t know, done whatever was …’ Edith’s voice trails off.
‘Don’t be downhearted, dearest. He’s not the only impresario in London.’
‘Can you recommend one?’
‘Of course.Your play will have its day in the sun. But first, you must stand up for yourself. March straight over to the Lyric, tell Playfalse he’s an imbecile and plant a tomahawk in his skull!’
‘What good would that do, Boney? Other than relieve my feelings? I’m not really in a position to stick in the spurs here. I don’t have the power.’
‘Never underestimate relieving your feelings.’
‘Maybe he has a point …’
Boney is on her feet and stamping from one end of the room to the other. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. You and I will call on Mr Playfair and ask him to indicate the scenes which he regards as’ – she consults the letter – ‘“self-indulgent”, “unfunny” and “laboured”.’ A little humiliating, I admit. But his feedback will help you to reshape the material and find it a more deserving home. He’s a boor, but he knows his onions.’
Edith sifts her options. Boney has a knack for quarrelling with people. Equally, she gets things done. But it’s mortifying to ask for help from someone who has just rejected her play in the bluntest terms.
‘I say, Edith, how about changing the setting? Make your characters Cossacks instead of Irish.You lot really are out of favour in Britain. That might be why he’s turned you down.’
‘I know nothing about Russia, Boney.’
‘Haven’t you read their novelists? Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy?’
‘Afraid not.’
‘Their playwrights? How about Chekhov?’ Edith shakes her head.
‘Really, Edith, you ought to be more systematic about your reading. It can’t all be Shakespeare and the English classics. The Russians are exhilarating. There’s a Russian saying, “The Cossack will starve but his horse will have eaten its fill.” See? Just like your precious Irish. Converting your play would be no trouble.’
Edith is transfixed by an image of Flurry in a fur hat, racing across the steppes. It’s tempting. But no, she couldn’t manage it. ‘I’ll have you know this is an Irish play, not a Russian one, Boney. But some feedback from Mr Playfair would be useful. Maybe I should go and see him. I’ll think about it.’
‘I’ll meet you at Hammersmith tube station tomorrow evening at six. Fricassee Playfair as an hors d’oeuvre, and we can dine together afterwards.’
‘I said I’ll think about it, Boney. Don’t rush me.’
Boney looks off to the side. Uncharacteristically tentative, she says, ‘Do just bear something in mind about Stage Land, Edith. It’s a hairtrigger business. No one can ever predict whether the public will take to a play. If I were you, I’d start work on another novel. You know what you’re doing there.’
‘You mean give up on Flurry’s Wedding?’
‘Good heavens, no. I mean don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Get going on another novel while this theatre business rumbles away in the background.’
—
That night, Edith consults with Martin.
youwill set the westend alight
She studies the automatic writing, wondering why she doesn’t find it reassuring.
seventeen
Edith stutters about London, licking her wounds and reflecting on whether or not to beard Nigel Playfair in his den. She feels ghosted – insubstantial, humiliated and out of step with this world which once appreciated her talents.When she looks around, she sees faces where the features are blurred. But perhaps she is the one being rubbed out?
