Swan Song. Edmund Crispin
yes, so it is.’ Adam considered. ‘I felt sure I’d seen her with Shorthouse, but she looks very much attached to that young man.’
‘Promiscuous probably,’ said Barfield, dropping cake-crumbs on to his knee. ‘Are we doing scene one of the last act? If so, I’ve time to go out and get a bite to eat.’
Joan shook her head. ‘No, only the second scene. Just as well, too. Everyone’s a bit worn.’
Barfield was staring at the door leading backstage, which now opened. ‘Cripes,’ he said. ‘Here’s Mephisto. Turn on the charm, everyone.’
Shorthouse came up to them, sat down, and heaved a sigh. He smelled, as usual, of gin.
‘Thank God the show’s in a week,’ he said. ‘I can’t stand much more of this. Peacock’s all right,’ – he spoke with such manifest insincerity that Adam started – ‘but he can’t make up his mind about anything.’
Joan said: ‘Are you deliberately trying to harry him into a nervous breakdown, Edwin?’
‘Good heavens, Joan’ – Shorthouse looked genuinely shocked – ‘what’s put that idea into your head? I’m sorry if I’ve been holding the production up, but I must understand what I’m supposed to be doing. Yet every time I ask, I get some kind of vulgar insult hurled at me … Not that I mind, personally – the man’s inexperienced and he’s obviously nervous. But I’m worried about the production as a whole. This is the first time Meistersinger’s been done since before the war, and it seems to me that for that reason it’s more than ordinarily important to get everything exactly right.’ He paused, and involuntarily a smile flitted across his face. ‘I’ve been considering going to the management and asking them to replace Peacock.’
‘Don’t be such a damned fool,’ said Adam, more sharply than he had intended. ‘He’s under contract.’
‘So am I,’ Shorthouse countered unpleasantly. ‘But that’s not going to stop me walking out if rehearsals continue on the present lines. I can assure you it isn’t a personal matter: it’s only Wagner I’m thinking of.’
The notion that Shorthouse might be thinking of anyone but himself was almost too much for Adam; he uttered an incoherent snorting sound. Barfield was unwinding a packet of chocolate. Pogner strode across the stage, muttering fiercely to himself, and Rutherston appeared, gesticulating at the electrician in his gallery. A horn-player in the orchestra pit was engaged in a prolonged Jeremiad about some infraction of Union rules.
Ten minutes later the rehearsal was under way again. The Guilds entered; the boatload of maidens arrived; the apprentices danced (‘like a Sunday School treat,’ Rutherston remarked); and last of all came the Mastersingers, headed by a banner bearing an effigy of David and his harp. The chorus sang in honour of Sachs; as the acclamation died away, all was ready for the moving response of the cobbler-poet.
And that was when the real trouble started.
There was a minor hitch over positioning, followed by a misunderstanding as to the point in the score at which the music was to be recommenced. Shorthouse snapped at Peacock; Peacock snapped back at him, and then they went for one another, as Adam afterwards put it, ‘like a nationalization debate in the Commons’. Although it was an eruption which everyone had expected, the embarrassment was general, since the sight of two grown-up men bawling at one another like children is at the best of times dispiriting. No one, however, interfered; only, when Peacock finally stalked out, after smashing his baton on the conductor’s desk in an access of blind fury, Adam went quietly after him. He heard the murmur of released tension as he left the stage.
Peacock was in the rehearsal-room. He stood quite still, gripping the lid of the piano with both hands and struggling to control his emotions. His bony, irregular, sensitive features betrayed the strain he was undergoing, and his eyes were momentarily vacant and unseeing. Adam hesitated for an instant in the doorway; then said briefly:
‘You have my sympathy.’
There was a considerable pause before Peacock replied. At last he relaxed and said with great bitterness:
‘I suppose I should apologize.’
‘Technically, yes,’ Adam commented. ‘Humanly, no. You must realize that everyone is on your side. Edwin is behaving intolerably.’
Peacock muttered.
‘I ought to be able to control a situation like that. After all, it’s all part of my job …’ He considered. ‘You’ve more experience of these things than I … Should I resign?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Adam warmly. ‘Of course not.’
‘Naturally, I realize’ – Peacock spoke with difficulty – ‘the line it’s desirable to take. Genial but firm … The trouble is, my nerves won’t let me do it. I suppose really I’m unfitted for this kind of work.’ He looked so haggard that Adam was shocked. ‘But I’ve simply got to make a success of it. One way or another, it’s going to affect the whole of my future career.’
There was a silence. ‘What about the rehearsal?’ Adam asked.
‘Tell them it’s over, will you? I can’t face people at present.’
‘It would be better if you—’
‘For God’s sake tell them it’s over!’
Peacock checked himself abruptly, and a spasm of shame passed over his face. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ said Adam, and hesitated.
‘For the love of heaven don’t do anything rash,’ he added, and returned to the stage.
There he made his brief announcement. Shorthouse, he observed, was not present to hear it.
People drifted away, chattering in a subdued fashion. The orchestra began to dismantle and pack up their instruments. Joan Davis accosted Adam.
‘How is he?’ she asked.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Adam. ‘I don’t like it at all. Where’s Edwin?’
‘He left immediately after Peacock.’
Adam sighed. ‘Well, there’s no point in lingering here. Let’s go back to the hotel and get a drink.’
‘Do you think we should have a conference?’
‘A conference … I scarcely see what would come of it.’
Joan smiled wryly. ‘Nothing, in all probability. But it might clear the air.’
‘After dinner, then – preferably over a drink.’
‘I’ll arrange something.’ Joan nodded briskly, and went off to her dressing-room.
At the stage door Adam met Shorthouse on the point of leaving.
On a sudden impulse: ‘What the hell is the matter with you, Edwin?’ he demanded.
Shorthouse looked at him queerly, almost blankly. His thin grey hair was dishevelled, and there was sweat on his cheeks and forehead. It came to Adam, with a sudden twinge of horror, that the man might be growing insane. Irrationally, and quite unexpectedly, Adam had a feeling of pity.
But it was wiped away when Shorthouse spoke – thickly, as though the movement of his mouth were painful to him.
‘I shall telephone Levi,’ he said, ‘and get that little whipper-snapper kicked out.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Edwin.’ Adam spoke sharply. ‘Even if Levi agreed, it’d be the beginning of the end for you. You can’t