Banishment

  Banishment

  Deryn Lake

  © Deryn Lake, 1994

  Dinah Lampitt has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1994 by Hodder and Stoughton.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For Amanda, Brett and Sally-Anne Lampitt – with all my love

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  Bibliography

  Prologue

  That night, after she had gone quietly to bed, the dream came, clearer and more sharply defined than ever before. Even though she had believed she would never again experience its strange and disturbing imagery, still it had come out of the darkness to haunt her once more. It began, as it sometimes did, in a hospital corridor down which she felt compelled to go, carried along like a leaf on a brook, unable to control her actions. As always, this eddying flow ceased before a room, the door of which swung open to receive her.

  The body lay inside the room, the body that over the passing years she had seen so many times before. Yet on this occasion it was different, in its natural state, all the tubes that had been attached to it, in order to help it live, removed. It lay like the Sleeping Beauty, waiting for the kiss that would awake it, the kiss that now would never come.

  There were people in the room, parents, friends, and she saw to her surprise that some of them were weeping. Two doctors were present, one of whom turned down the dials on the ventilator.

  “Will she go peacefully?” said a woman’s voice, breaking with emotion.

  “Oh yes,” the doctor answered quietly. “Now she’ll just drift away.”

  And then he raised his hand and switched off the life-saving machine.

  The dreamer shuddered as, for a second more, she hovered by the shell of what had once been a human being, then she turned and ran, on and on down the never ending corridor, on and on and into darkness. Then she sat bolt upright in bed, breathing deeply to calm herself, slowly realising that she was finally safe and that none of it could ever harm her again.

  Yet tonight there seemed a special need to think about everything that had taken place, to remember each and every occasion on which she had experienced the dream and been terrified by its sinister message. For though she truly wanted to banish the past, a compulsion was upon her to relive each moment before memory blurred and slid away and was gone for ever.

  So it was that she slowly got out of bed and went downstairs to a room where a fire still burned low in the grate. And there, sitting in the shadows, gazing into the flames, completely and utterly alone, Nichola Hall thought back to the beginning.

  Chapter One

  It had started with an ending, a theatrical last night to be precise. The West End theatre had been packed, as much with teenage girls coming to see the leading man as anything else, and the electric current passing between actors and audience had held all of them in its grip. So much so that Lewis Devine, talented and beautiful, the darling of the National Theatre, well loved by Hollywood, had broken down and wept on his final exit, reducing several of the cast, to say nothing of the onlookers, to the same state. It had been the stuff of which theatrical legend is made, the power of the play, Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, transcending all.

  After the final words of the piece had been spoken there had been a second of stunned silence before the tumultuous applause had rung out. Nichola Hall, who had played Abigail Williams so strongly that one night she had caused a woman in the stalls to faint, had been cheered, as had Glynda Howard, taking the part of Elizabeth Proctor. But Lewis had received a standing ovation, which he had accepted with studied humility, head bent, arms wide, dark hair shadowing his face. Eventually, though, he had walked off the stage while the audience were still clapping and the house lights had come back on. His final exit had been as memorable as the rest of his performance.

  Backstage, Nichola recalled, everyone had been buzzing, high on adrenalin, those who loathed one another embracing most enthusiastically of all. It had given her a sweet sly thrill to see her fellow actresses flocking round Lewis, hanging on his every word, smiling predatory smiles. For she had not really liked any one of them, a feeling they totally reciprocated, and she delighted in having an intrigue that no other female guessed at — at least none that she knew.

  Simply put, Nichola’s secret was that she and the celebrated actor were having an affair, were engaged in a highly charged and illicit relationship, the clandestine nature of which had been made necessary by the fact that Lewis was heavily married. Where Richard Burton had had his Sybil whom no mistress was allowed to displace, that is until the advent of Elizabeth Taylor, so Lewis Devine had his Marjorie, the faithful girl he had met and wed when he had been unknown and struggling.

  Nichola had never been quite certain whether Lewis’s wife exhibited supreme self confidence or was merely too insensitive to see what was going on. Because, for inexplicable reasons of her own, Marjorie preferred to bring up her family of three in the Cotswolds, far from London’s various pollutions, thus leaving the actor open to attack from the street wise marauders with whom he came in daily contact. The third alternative, that his wife might long ago have ceased to care what he did, simply had not occurred to Lewis’s mistress.

  Nor did it as Marjorie had come in through the stage door that night — she always attended first and last performances — and smiled vaguely in Nichola’s direction, aware that everybody knew who she was even though she was a little uncertain about their various identities. Feeling irrationally irritated, Nichola had gone into the dressing room, shared with two of the other leading ladies, and had started to remove her makeup.

  Thinking back, she remembered how strangely silent the room had become when she had walked in. And then how the other two had burst into conversation about Marjorie. For no apparent reason, it seemed that they both thought Lewis’s wife was a wonderful woman. Just to annoy them, Nichola had put on a skin-tight cat suit and flaunted her sensational figure about the place, before applying fresh make-up and brushing her costly hair cut. Then she had lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blown smoke into the atmosphere.

  There was to be a last night party, of course. And to make it special it was to be hosted by Lewis Devine at his flat in Putney overlooking the river. Nichola, who had spent so many stolen nights there, had listened to her fellow actors as they had discussed Lewis’s home and what it would be like, with barely concealed amusement. For since his triumph in Hollywood when he had been nominated for, though not awarded, the Oscar, Lewis had achi
eved star status even amongst his peers. And he had picked Nichola, above all of them, with whom to fall in love. Smiling to herself, she had stood up, said, “See you at the party,” and left in an aura of expensive perfume. As she had been closing the dressing room door Nichola had heard one of them say “Slut”, just loudly enough for her to overhear.

  *

  That drive to Putney had been an extraordinary one, she recalled. For from the very second she had got into her car she had been filled with a sense of destiny, a presentiment that in some way or another her life was coming to a crossroads which would move her irrevocably in a new direction. And this had fired her with a desire to remember all the things that had brought her to this point. Nichola had felt a need to review her life as a whole, to see what had made her the glamorous Nichola Hall, actress and men’s woman, whose love of the stage was only equalled by her love of lovers.

  She had been born in April, 1967, a Taurus, one of the most undeniably sensuous signs of the Zodiac, child of a latter day debutante and the Deb’s Delight Nichola’s mother had married, subsequent to the season she had been given by her parents in which to secure a husband. Naturally, a union based on such flimsy foundations had rapidly fallen apart at the seams and Nichola’s mother, Frances, had run off — or bolted as was the fashionable phrase — with the Honourable Johnnie Carstairs, stockbroker and polo player. Much to everyone’s surprise, particularly her father’s, Nichola had suddenly found herself being brought up by him.

  Faced with this unexpected dilemma, Piers Hall had decided against employing nannies and au pairs, preferring to ship his eight-year-old daughter off to boarding school, then dump her on various relatives during the holidays. Eventually though, in a flurry of desperation, he had married his secretary, who thereafter had treated her stepdaughter with a kind of gushing disdain. Nichola, manipulating the situation, had consequently enjoyed an expensive lifestyle and a place at drama school, all paid for by Piers, now suffering from guilt as his second wife had produced several puny children who claimed his attention to the detriment of his first born.

  Nichola had supposed, as she drove towards Putney listening to the radio and smoking yet another cigarette, that she was a psychologist’s dream, that her adult behaviour would have been laid entirely at the door of her lack of childhood affection. But in reality it wasn’t like that at all. The reason why, from the age of seventeen onwards, she had collected men like others do stamps, was because she enjoyed the company of males and relished the carnal act as much as they did. She had once heard herself described as a nymphomaniac and though she had turned furiously on her accuser she recognised a grain of truth in the statement. Nichola was, though there was no female equivalent in the English language, an out-and-out unrepentant rake. She had even gone so far, in truly masculine fashion, as to write down the names of every man she had slept with in a notebook under the heading of The Collection.

  Now, driving along to Lewis’s party, aware that his wife was considered to be firmly ensconced, gamely devoted to supporting her man as he scaled the high peaks of success, Nichola knew that she was of necessity in the midst of metamorphosis. She wanted Lewis, not only because she loved him but also because he was a household name, known to the non theatre-going public for his unforgettable appearances on screen, from which his dark hair and piercing blue eyes blazed forth magnetically. And if she was to be successful in coaxing him out of the cosy web that Marjorie had spun for him there must be no question of Nichola’s fidelity. Good time girl she might once have been, but now she must change all that, yet retain her allure. The path she must tread would have to be that of her Taylor to his Burton, the siren who lures him on to the rocks of divorce then fitters so dazzlingly that he remains permanently besotted.

  It had all seemed a rather daunting prospect and as she had parked the car and walked carefully towards Lewis’s front door, aware of the distant sound of Marjorie’s laughter, Nichola had girded herself mentally for battle. Subtle sensuality must be the keynote from now on, she thought.

  For security reasons Lewis had not left the front door open, despite the fact that it was a hot sultry night with a hint of thunder in the air. Not quite certain who might answer, Nichola had stood braced, ready to smile the sort of smile that a mistress gives her lover’s wife, equally prepared to walk past Lewis aloofly, yet with a certain brilliance in her eye that would immediately remind him of their liaison. It had been something of a shock, therefore, when it had been flung open by Delia Hope, a thrusting young actress with Northern origins who had played the part of Mary Warren and had only been prevented from stealing the show by the force of Glynda Howard’s and Nichola Hall’s performances.

  “Oh hello,” Delia had said, and had given Nichola a replica of the smile she had been planning to bestow on Marjorie.

  Momentarily, she had been caught off balance. Delia’s dislike of her was profound and only just disguised by the thinnest veneer of cordiality. Why then, Nichola had thought, was she smiling like that? Somewhat warily, she had gone up the stairs to Lewis’s flat.

  It was a gorgeous apartment, matching him perfectly. Occupying the whole of the first floor in a spacious Victorian house, it had a balcony embellished by wrought iron lacework overlooking the river. To crown this Lewis had had the interior created by a chi-chi out-of-town designer who had practically rendered the place impotent by his dazzling display of good taste. Colours, fabric and lighting blended in self-conscious harmony, even down to the fresh flowers that were banked everywhere.

  “Lovely place, isn’t it,” breathed Delia. “Have you been here before?”

  “Many times,” Nichola had answered.

  “So have I,” the other girl had informed her sweetly, before drifting away.

  Nichola had stood still for a moment, wondering what she was meant to presume from this remark, in fact exactly what it might be Delia was trying to convey to her. Yet a swift glance in Lewis’s direction had done little to reassure her. He was earnestly engaged in conversation with Bill Cosby, their stage manager, and had not even looked up when she had come into the room. Undaunted, Nichola had collected herself and sailed into action.

  “How do you do,” she had said, going straight up to Marjorie and holding out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Nichola Hall who played Abigail Williams.”

  The eyes which looked into hers, dull shade of grey though they might be, were tougher than she would have expected, belonging to a woman who lived in the country as they did. To Nichola, urban dweller, anyone who resided further out than Bromley was a bucolic, a hick, and it was surprising to see that Marjorie might be intelligent despite all that. And then Nichola remembered that Lewis’s wife had been an actress before she had given up her own career to run her talented husband’s household for him. Just for a moment it occurred to Nichola that her rival, the woman she wanted to see off, was a sight shrewder than she had imagined.

  “You were very good,” Marjorie had said. “Particularly in the possession scene. I loved the way you and the other girls all collapsed on the floor like a pack of cards.”

  “I am so glad you enjoyed it, Mrs Devine,” Nichola had answered over-pleasantly.

  “Well, it’s a wonderful play of course,” Lewis’s wife had continued, “but so hard to do. They say it always brings out the worst in people.”

  Nichola had gazed at her in surprise. This was a gambit she had not expected. “Do you mean as actors or individuals?”

  “Oh not as performers, tonight proved that. No, I’ve heard it said that the play itself causes unrest. Just as the reality must have brought all the beastliness and brutality in people to the surface so does its mirror image.”

  Nichola had been astounded that the woman could hold a conversation on this level. But then, she considered, Lewis would not have stayed with a bore, however good a homemaker. It would appear that his wife might not be so easily disposed of after all.

  “But do let me get you a drink,” Marjorie was continuing.
“What would you like?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll help myself. Is the bar in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.” Marjorie had smiled, looking amazingly ordinary and unglamorous. “Hope to speak to you later, Nichola.”

  “Right.”

  It had all been a great shock to her, Nichola recollected, and she had been glad to leave the spacious living room and make her way to the superbly appointed kitchen where two girls from a catering company were labouring over the last of the buffet.

  “Wine?” said one.

  “Yes, please. Dry white.”

  “Here you are.”

  And a glass had been poured, none too graciously Nichola thought. Just then both of them had visibly brightened, suddenly all sultry pouts and simpers. Without turning her head, Nichola knew that Lewis had come into the room and a second later she felt his arm slide round her.

  “All right?”

  She had tensed so that the touch of her perfect body — supposedly one of the most beautiful around — was tight against him. “Fine. And you?”

  “Wishing we were alone.”

  “Really?”

  Lewis had smiled. “I saw you in deep conversation with Marjorie. What was all that about?”

  “She was telling me how horrible it is to wash your socks.”

  Lewis had ruffled her hair with a lazy hand, causing the two catering girls to quiver. “I don’t believe a word you say.”

  Nichola had turned to look at him, sure of herself, aware that she was ten times more attractive than Marjorie could ever be. “That, my darling, is entirely up to you. Now I must go and circulate.”

  And with that she had made her way back to the living room and looked round for someone to talk to. Her immediate instinct to join a group of men had been tempered by her new resolve not only to be faithful but to be seen doing so. Smiling, she had approached Glynda Howard, knowing that the leading lady at least tolerated her.