I—’
‘Not me, my dear, not me.’ Percy was strangely quiet.
‘What?’
‘Well, you never asked me. I think dear Florence is perhaps right, wanting it slower.’ His bright eyes were innocent, his face angelic, but he carefully avoided looking at Edward.
Hargreaves stared at him.
‘But, Percy – you—’
Florence smiled. Percy was on her side. Quite rightly. He would defend her against that horrid Hargreaves. Graceful, restored, reassured, Miss Penelope swept out, billowing wafts of perfume, closely followed by the dresser, still vainly attempting to adjust the folds of the dress gathered over Florence’s retreating victorious backside.
The two men faced each other.
‘You’ve betrayed me, Percy,’ said Edward Hargreaves hoarsely.
‘Just because we live together, Edward,’ said Percy softly, ‘it doesn’t mean you’re right all the time. I’ve got my integrity as a pianist to think of.’
He was like a stranger to Hargreaves, this boy he’d lived with, loved, for three years.
‘Percy, take care,’ Hargreaves said suddenly. ‘Don’t let this go on. You persuaded me to come up here. Now you’re stirring things up. Take care. If this gets to Archibald, if he finds out about us—’
‘Phooey,’ said Percy, tossing back his hair petulantly. ‘He’d never take any action. It’s all the rage in London now. The police don’t care. You’re just a fuddy duddy.’ And he walked off.
‘But what about those dolls?’ Hargreaves called after him.
Florence tripped happily down to the stage. Percy had been an unexpected ally. Now everything was all right. The last little thing had been attended to.
‘We’ve won, Herbert,’ she said gaily, seeing him in the wings.
‘Won, Florence?’ he replied, his expression unreadable under his clownish make-up.
‘The song, silly. We’re going back to the original tempo. Slow, all the time. Percy supports me, so now it’s three of us against Mr Hargreaves.’
‘No,’ said Herbert, matter-of-factly, his expression strangely remote. ‘Two.’
‘Two,’ said Florence, puzzled.
‘Yes,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I told Mr Hargreaves I liked it faster. Like this: “Pom, pom, pom, what I’d sing to you. How I’d sing to you, my dear”.’
She stared at him, speechless.
‘You never asked me, you see. I do have to sing a verse too.’
‘But I thought—’ She stopped. How could she say she took his devotion, his acquiescence in what pleased her, for granted? So in the normal way she could. But not tonight. Herbert, in his own way, intended to pay Florence back.
The performance flagged. Perhaps this was inevitable after the triumph of last night. It was not noticeable to any but the cast; to the audience it would seem another triumph, perhaps a little pale by the side of
Lady Bertha.
But to the cast, and more particularly to Robert Archibald, it flagged: it was lifeless, it was uncoordinated; a chorus girl was out of step here, a beat missed there, the orchestra’s playing a trifle ragged, a wrong note on the piano, a top note insufficiently held, a humdrumness about the comedy. But not noticeable to the audience. Not, that is, until Florence’s solo at the end of Act 2, in which she was joined by Herbert for the last verse.
Miss Penelope clutched her marionette to her, and gazed fondly into its wooden face. She was riding on a pinnacle of exultation; she was adored by the gods, by the stalls, by the pit. She had forgotten she was apparently not so adored on her side of the Galaxy footlights.
‘If you could only hear what I’m saying to you,’ she whispered to the puppet’s calico-clad body. ‘If only
he
could hear—’ throwing a wistful glance towards Lord Harry, at present lingering in the wings beside Edna Purvis. ‘If only, if only . . .’ A tinkling note sounded on the piano. A chord from the orchestra.
‘If you could only hear,
What I sing to you—’
Alas, no one
could
hear. Least of all the audience. For
‘Not me, my dear, not me.’ Percy was strangely quiet.
‘What?’
‘Well, you never asked me. I think dear Florence is perhaps right, wanting it slower.’ His bright eyes were innocent, his face angelic, but he carefully avoided looking at Edward.
Hargreaves stared at him.
‘But, Percy – you—’
Florence smiled. Percy was on her side. Quite rightly. He would defend her against that horrid Hargreaves. Graceful, restored, reassured, Miss Penelope swept out, billowing wafts of perfume, closely followed by the dresser, still vainly attempting to adjust the folds of the dress gathered over Florence’s retreating victorious backside.
The two men faced each other.
‘You’ve betrayed me, Percy,’ said Edward Hargreaves hoarsely.
‘Just because we live together, Edward,’ said Percy softly, ‘it doesn’t mean you’re right all the time. I’ve got my integrity as a pianist to think of.’
He was like a stranger to Hargreaves, this boy he’d lived with, loved, for three years.
‘Percy, take care,’ Hargreaves said suddenly. ‘Don’t let this go on. You persuaded me to come up here. Now you’re stirring things up. Take care. If this gets to Archibald, if he finds out about us—’
‘Phooey,’ said Percy, tossing back his hair petulantly. ‘He’d never take any action. It’s all the rage in London now. The police don’t care. You’re just a fuddy duddy.’ And he walked off.
‘But what about those dolls?’ Hargreaves called after him.
Florence tripped happily down to the stage. Percy had been an unexpected ally. Now everything was all right. The last little thing had been attended to.
‘We’ve won, Herbert,’ she said gaily, seeing him in the wings.
‘Won, Florence?’ he replied, his expression unreadable under his clownish make-up.
‘The song, silly. We’re going back to the original tempo. Slow, all the time. Percy supports me, so now it’s three of us against Mr Hargreaves.’
‘No,’ said Herbert, matter-of-factly, his expression strangely remote. ‘Two.’
‘Two,’ said Florence, puzzled.
‘Yes,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘I told Mr Hargreaves I liked it faster. Like this: “Pom, pom, pom, what I’d sing to you. How I’d sing to you, my dear”.’
She stared at him, speechless.
‘You never asked me, you see. I do have to sing a verse too.’
‘But I thought—’ She stopped. How could she say she took his devotion, his acquiescence in what pleased her, for granted? So in the normal way she could. But not tonight. Herbert, in his own way, intended to pay Florence back.
The performance flagged. Perhaps this was inevitable after the triumph of last night. It was not noticeable to any but the cast; to the audience it would seem another triumph, perhaps a little pale by the side of
Lady Bertha.
But to the cast, and more particularly to Robert Archibald, it flagged: it was lifeless, it was uncoordinated; a chorus girl was out of step here, a beat missed there, the orchestra’s playing a trifle ragged, a wrong note on the piano, a top note insufficiently held, a humdrumness about the comedy. But not noticeable to the audience. Not, that is, until Florence’s solo at the end of Act 2, in which she was joined by Herbert for the last verse.
Miss Penelope clutched her marionette to her, and gazed fondly into its wooden face. She was riding on a pinnacle of exultation; she was adored by the gods, by the stalls, by the pit. She had forgotten she was apparently not so adored on her side of the Galaxy footlights.
‘If you could only hear what I’m saying to you,’ she whispered to the puppet’s calico-clad body. ‘If only
he
could hear—’ throwing a wistful glance towards Lord Harry, at present lingering in the wings beside Edna Purvis. ‘If only, if only . . .’ A tinkling note sounded on the piano. A chord from the orchestra.
‘If you could only hear,
What I sing to you—’
Alas, no one
could
hear. Least of all the audience. For
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