Stage Fright Page 5

  We emerged at stage level. This side was really only used for actors to make exits and entrances. The gloom was made more intense by the way that everything – walls, radiators, woodwork, pipes – was painted in a dark, reddish brown that was almost maroon. There was a typed notice stuck on the wall announcing that insecticide spraying had taken place. DO NOT BRING FOOD INTO THIS AREA, it warned. It was dated 2 September 1978: over twenty years ago.

  Stan saw what I was looking at and grinned.

  ‘The land that time forgot. Hopefully they’ll do something about all this when the next stage of the grant comes through.’

  We followed her up some stairs and through a door into the dress-circle. It was like stepping into a different world. The brick walls with their peeling paint were replaced by red-and-gold striped wallpaper. Our footsteps had been loud on the concrete floor. Now they were muffled by a thick, brand-new, red carpet. We walked up the side aisle to the back. Even with all the house lights on it was darker here under the overhang of the gallery than it was at the front of the stalls.

  ‘No one here now,’ I said.

  ‘If there ever was,’ Stan said. She peered down the row. ‘Hey, what’s that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There!’ She pointed down the row.

  I still couldn’t see anything.

  ‘What is this? The ghost scene from Hamlet?’ I only realized how much on edge I was when I heard myself snap that out.

  Stan didn’t say anything. She took my arm and pulled me closer so that I could share her line of vision. Jake and Geoff crowded up behind us. Stan leaned forward and gathered up the dustsheet. With a flourish, like a magician pulling the cloth off a fully laden table, she jerked it towards us.

  The dustsheet came flowing down the row and I saw what it was she had been pointing at.

  Chapter Five

  I drove home in a very different mood from the day before. The weather was uncomfortably hot and muggy. Grace was feeling the heat, too. She cried as I negotiated my way out of Cambridge, and she didn’t fall asleep until I turned off on to the A10. I’d gone only a couple of miles, when a lorry carrying a huge tower of hay bales pulled out in front of me. Specks and stalks of chaff and wheat dust eddied and darted about in front of me like sparks in the draught of a bonfire. I slowed right down and closed the car window. The heat was sweltering. On a day like this, the flatness of the fens and the huge empty sky were oppressive. I felt like a fly crawling across a table.

  When I’d finally seen what Stan was pointing at in the theatre, I’d felt a shiver of unease. It hadn’t been Belinda’s imagination after all. There was a seat stuck down at the aisle end of the row. Someone had been sitting there. We had searched the theatre and hadn’t found any more signs of an intruder. But we had found, right up at the back of the gallery, an unlocked door to a flight of steps that ran down to the foyer. The decorators were coming and going all the time. It wouldn’t have been too difficult for someone to slip in and out unnoticed if they’d timed it right.

  I didn’t like the way things were going at the theatre. Up to now, it had seemed to me that we’d all been one happy family – a cliché, but that was how I’d felt. I’d been surprised at how smoothly everything had gone and how different it was from the academic world, where there is so often an edge of competition in even the friendliest of exchanges. But probably Stan was right, and we’d just hit the doldrums. If only I could talk things over with Stephen … if only we hadn’t parted on such bad terms.

  Ahead of me the tower of hay bales wobbled as the lorry went round a tight bend in the road. I slowed down even more and let the distance between us increase. It was impossible to overtake: there was a constant stream of traffic coming the other way. But I’d soon be home anyway. I turned off down the track to the Old Granary with a sense of relief. Look on the bright side, I told myself. There was nearly a week to go before we opened and as for Stephen, he wasn’t the kind to bear a grudge. Generally speaking he was an easy-going sort of bloke. Probably he’d have rung from the airport and left a message on the machine. If not he’d certainly ring when he landed.

  I slowed right down when I got to the gate. This time no black-and-white shape came hurtling out. I parked and got out of the car, plucking the shirt from my body. It was damp with sweat. Grace woke up and began to complain as I got her out of the car. I went up the path with her in my arms and sat down on a bench by the house to cool off. It was warm enough for Grace to be wearing just her nappy and T-shirt and her small body was hot against mine. Bill Bailey, my long-haired cat, came round the corner of the house. Grace stopped crying when she saw him. He stretched out on the grass at a discreet distance while Grace murmured nonsense and waved her hands at him. He blinked and yawned. He didn’t object to her as long as she kept her distance; the little grasping hands were apt to fasten round his tail or to grab a handful of fur. I drank in the scent of the summer garden: honeysuckle on the wall nearby, a bed of sweet peas. The only sound was the gentle sigh of running water. I calculated the least I could get away with doing this evening. I could tuck Grace up in our bed and get in beside her with a sandwich and a peach, perhaps even a glass of wine, though not more than one. Then sleep, possibly even six or seven hours of it, if I was very, very lucky. Getting between those sheets would be like diving into a cool pool on a suffocating hot day. I could hardly wait. I gave a yawn, the kind that makes your eyes water.

  I stood up and hoisted Grace on to my shoulder. Inside the house the phone began to ring. It was awkward holding Grace with one hand and fumbling in my bag for my key with the other. The thought that it might be Stephen made me even more butterfingered and when I did find my key I immediately dropped it and had to grope around in the laurel bush by the front door. I finally got the door open, and rushed into the kitchen.

  I grabbed the receiver, afraid that I’d be a split second too late.

  ‘Yes, hello?’

  There was silence on the other end of the line – then an exhalation of breath and with a quiet click the caller hung up.

  Almost immediately the phone began to ring again. I snatched it up.

  ‘Who is this?’ I snapped.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The voice on the end of the line was a woman’s, unfamiliar and rather husky. ‘Is this Dr James?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve been selected for a complete make-over of the façade of your house.’

  ‘I’m really not interested – look, did you ring me just now and hang up?’

  ‘Just now? No, but if I could just tell you about our offer: completely free, I assure you, no strings attached. We ask only that you allow us to take before and after photographs and—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I live in a beautiful old weather-boarded house and there is nothing that you could do to it that wouldn’t make it less attractive!’

  ‘You could save pounds on your fuel bills. May I ask, do you have double-glazing—’

  ‘Double-glazing! You must be joking! It’s a Grade II listed building!’ I slammed the phone down.

  Grace had got bored and was beginning to cry again.

  ‘Oh, hell,’ I muttered.

  Perhaps if I put her in her cot, she’d settle down, and then I could have a nap myself. I toiled up the stairs. As I passed through my study, the little red light on the answering machine winked at me from my desk. I picked my way over the piles of books and papers on the floor, resolving for the hundredth time to clear up and deciding for the hundredth time that it would have to wait until the play had opened.

  I pressed rewind. There was one call. It was from Cathy, my departmental secretary in college. She sounded worried.

  ‘Cass. I’m so sorry. There’s this young girl in the office on work experience. She was only trying to be helpful, but she answered the phone to someone yesterday and I’ve only just found out that she gave them your mobile number. Apparently this chap said he was a visiting fellow at St John’s and he sounded very disappointed
when he heard that you weren’t likely to be back in college until September. The name was Baldassarre. Professor Baldassarre. I hope you do know him. It’s not the kind of name you’d be likely to forget, is it? See you soon. ’Bye.’

  I sat down abruptly on the swivel chair by my desk.

  No, indeed, I thought, it certainly wasn’t a name I’d easily forget.

  Not when it belonged to a man who had once been my husband.

  * * *

  Grace wasn’t asleep by eight o’clock, nor by nine. Neither was I. I was pacing up and down my bedroom with Grace against my chest, her cheek on my shoulder. She had a clean nappy, she was full of milk, and as long as I was walking up and down or rocking her, she was a happy gurgling baby. But the instant she stopped moving she began a thin, high wail. There was something about it that reminded me of the cat on a car journey, something obdurate and measured about it. There didn’t seem to be any reason why she should ever stop. Probably my own state of mind had something to do with it. My brain was seething and I couldn’t settle to anything. It was so long since I’d seen Joe – since I’d thought of him, even. We’d completely lost touch after the divorce. And when had that been? Fourteen years ago? fifteen? We’d been so young when we got married. How had he tracked me down? It wouldn’t have been difficult. I’d resumed my maiden name. I’d kept that through my second marriage. And with Stephen, well – I hadn’t got round to tying the knot yet. It was a case of twice bitten …

  And why hadn’t Stephen rung yet?

  I paused at the window and looked out towards Ely. The sky seemed too light for the darkening landscape, it was like one of those trick paintings by Magritte where a blue noon-day sky is matched with a dark, lamp-lit street. There was a prickling of little lights where Ely stood up from the plain. As I watched, automatically rocking Grace against my shoulder, the floodlights around the cathedral came on. The single tower at the west end and the elegant octagonal crossing tower sprang into relief. It was a sight I never tired of.

  It was strange to think that where Stephen was the sun would be setting eight hours later. I pictured the plane high in the sky racing westward ahead of the night. It made him seem terribly far away. My own day seemed to have been going on for ever too. Having a small child is like having permanent jet lag. Time slows down and the boundaries between day and night become blurred. I tried to work out what time it was in Los Angeles. About 1.30 in the afternoon. And what time was his flight due in? I couldn’t quite remember. I tried counting from the other end. The flight was leaving at ten o’clock and Stephen had said it was an eight-hour flight, so he must have landed hours ago.

  On the bedside table Stephen had left details of the hotel where he was staying.

  I punched in the number. The phone was picked up on the third ring.

  ‘The Four Seasons Hotel. How may I help you?’ said a singsong female voice.

  ‘Oh, hello. I wonder if I could speak to Mr Newley.’

  ‘Mr Newley. Certainly, madam.’

  I heard the rapid pattering of fingers running over a keyboard. The voice returned.

  ‘I’m sorry. Mr Newley isn’t here.’

  ‘He probably hasn’t checked in yet. Can I leave a message for him, please?’

  ‘We’re not expecting him. He rang a short time ago and cancelled his reservation.’

  Of course there had to be a perfectly straightforward explanation. I was still trying to work out what it was when a minute or two later the phone rang. At first I couldn’t make out who it was at the other end of the line. There was a sound of – what was it – gasping, sobbing?

  ‘Who is this?’ I said sharply.

  ‘Cass?’ The voice was high and quavering.

  ‘Melissa?’

  ‘I think there’s someone prowling around the house. I heard a clattering noise outside.’

  ‘Oh God.’ The hairs were standing up on my arms. ‘What can I do? Shall I call the police? No, hang on, I know. I can see your house from here. Go round and switch on all the lights. You have locked all the doors, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m putting the phone down now, while I go and look through the binoculars, OK?’

  I put Grace down on the middle of the bed and put Woolly Bear in her arms. Stephen’s bird-watching binoculars were lying on the sill. I lifted them to my eyes and fiddled with the focus. I saw a clump of tussocky grass hugely magnified and realized that I was looking at the bottom of my garden, then I swung the binoculars too high and caught a pylon on the horizon. I pulled them down and at last I was looking at the cottage. It was surrounded by a windbreak of trees. The upper windows were fully visible, every one of them glowing with light, but lower down I could see only shreds of light through the trees. I scanned the lane by the house and this time I saw something – or thought I did: a patch of white near the ground which disappeared into the hedge as soon as I focused on it. Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  I went back to the phone.

  ‘Melissa? Could that noise have been the dustbin going over? There was a dog hanging around here yesterday. I nearly ran over it.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. I can see the dustbin if I go to one of the upstairs windows.’

  Grace might have been momentarily diverted by all this activity, but now it struck her that she was being neglected. She began to cry.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ I picked her up and joggled her on my hip.

  When Melissa came back, her voice was full of relief. ‘That’s what it must have been. There’s stuff strewn all over the patio. Silly of me. I don’t know why I got the wind up so much.’

  ‘Are you all right now?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ But she didn’t sound it.

  Grace was pumping up the volume again and her face was going red. I made up my mind.

  ‘Look, why don’t I come over for an hour or two.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t let you…’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘It’s OK. Really. I’m having trouble settling Grace. A drive in the car is sometimes the only thing that will send her off. And I could do with a bit of company myself.’

  It was only when I’d hung up that I realized that I might miss Stephen’s call. A watched phone never rings, I told myself, and it would be better to distract myself by going over to Melissa’s than to sit here brooding. I switched the answer-machine on. I wrapped Grace up in a shawl and took her out to the car. I left the lights on in the house and double-checked that I’d locked the door properly. The evening air was unexpectedly cool and a few stars had appeared now over towards Ely.

  The Fens are so flat and level, the huge fields so precisely squared off that it’s like driving across a giant chessboard. The Alice in Wonderland sensation was increased by the way that I first had to drive a couple of miles in the opposite direction and then double back. A railway line and a couple of drainage channels, one of them several feet deep, lay between the Old Granary and Journey’s End. Melissa and Kevin’s cottage was the only house beyond the railway line and the barrier was operated manually by a pump. By the time I’d slowed down for the red light Grace was already asleep. This was the Ely to Cambridge line, so it was busy. Far away, towards Cambridge, a light appeared. There’s something fascinating about watching a train go by. I could hear a thrumming now as it rushed towards me. As it went past it pushed a gust of wind through the open window of the car. I caught a glimpse of people sitting by the lighted windows. Then the train was gone. The thrumming receded. The red light on the crossing turned to green. I got out and raised the barrier. I looked carefully both ways before I drove over the track. I never felt at ease doing this, especially with Grace in the car.

  A rutted track led from the cottage to the level crossing. As I drove up to Journey’s End, the door opened and Melissa appeared, outlined against the light. She came out to meet me. It was almost dark now, a rich soft blue August darkness. She was wearing a pale dress of some soft, filmy material and her face seemed luminous in the dusk. She looked sp
ectral, almost wraithlike. I remembered how Belinda had described the stranger whose face had seemed to float in the dark. No point in telling Melissa about that when she was already feeling jittery.

  I got out of the car and she gave me a hug and a kiss. The scent of roses enveloped me. It seemed like an emanation of the night air, and then I realized. ‘You’ve managed to get hold of some rose-water.’

  ‘Not exactly. I remembered I’d already got one of those rose-based scents. Tea-rose, it’s called.’

  ‘Mm. It’s lovely.’

  I followed Melissa into the cottage. It was a converted agricultural labourer’s cottage and had just one main room downstairs into which the front door opened. There wasn’t much furniture, just a wicker sofa and chairs with cushions of a coral-red that toned in with a brightly coloured kilim and the terracotta tiles of the floor. The house belonged to a couple of anthropologists who had let it while they were away on a field trip. The few ornaments, a tribal mask, a sculpture of a mother and child in some dark, unfamiliar-looking wood were theirs. Kevin and Melissa hadn’t left much of a mark, but then they weren’t here very much. When they did have a day or two off from rehearsals, they drove down to London and stayed in their flat there.

  When Melissa turned back towards me I saw that it wasn’t just the dimness of the light in the garden that had made her face seem white. She really was very pale.

  ‘You look tired,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I’m all right. It’s so sweet of you to come over. Fancy a cup of tea?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop Grace in with Agnes?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Melissa headed for the kitchen. I climbed the steep staircase to the first floor. There were just two bedrooms and a little bathroom. In the smaller bedroom Agnes was asleep in her cot. I tucked Grace in at the other end, arranging the cellular blanket so that it covered Agnes’s feet, but left Grace’s face clear.

  I strolled over to the window and looked out. Light was spilling from the house, illuminating the garden like a stage set. Beyond the pool of light was darkness, but across the fields I could see the tall narrow shape of the Old Granary. Knowing that I’d be returning in the dark I’d left some lights on, one of them in my bedroom window. The house stood out like a beacon in the landscape. And suddenly I had the strangest feeling that if I could look in through those windows I’d see myself there, in bed maybe, or sitting at my desk. And Grace would be there, too, asleep in her cot. It was as if I was standing outside my own life looking in.…