Banishment Read online

  The antithesis of a glamour girl, for all that Glynda had a certain quality of being ugly-beautiful. Articulate, clever, she was one of the great ladies of the theatre, easing her way towards a damehood without striving. In many ways Nichola envied the older woman’s style which affected not to care about clothes, to eat plenty of red meat and carbohydrates and smoke and drink prodigiously. Yet despite this, Glynda retained a lean, almost rawboned, figure and looked marvellous in anything she put on her back. Nichola also admired the leading lady’s makeup which consisted of mounds of mascara, a slash of lipstick and nothing else. At forty, the actress was her own woman, quite content to let the younger ones challenge her, well aware that nobody could usurp her unique position.

  “You were supreme tonight,” Nichola had said, and meant every word.

  Glynda had nodded. “You weren’t so bad yourself.” She had lit a black cigarette. “So what’s next?”

  “I’m to be screen tested for a Merchant Ivory production.”

  “Well, that can’t be bad. You’d probably fit in there. You’re the type.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Oh yes, they like ’em young and lively.”

  “And what about you, Glynda? What’s your next project?”

  The leading lady had flicked up one thin, expressive shoulder. “I’m going on holiday for two weeks then into rehearsal for Lady Bracknell at the Aldwych. I intend to say handbag as if it’s a four letter word.”

  Vaguely aware that Lewis had come into the room and been buttonholed by Delia, Nichola had pealed with laughter. “I must come and see that.”

  “I’ll get you some comps.” Glynda had downed the contents of her glass and held it out. “Get me another one, there’s a good girl.” She was the type of woman who was able to do this and cause no offence.

  “What is it?” Nichola had asked.

  “Vodka and tonic, darling. I can’t stand all that wine stuff. Gives me acidity. It’s a double, by the way. Saves going to and fro the bar.”

  Pleased to be seen in the role of helper to the great lady, Nichola had returned to the kitchen.

  “… my God, the energy,” one of the catering girls was saying. “A wife and two screw bags …”

  “At least!”

  “Yes, but I’d join the queue, wouldn’t you?”

  They had stopped guiltily as Nichola walked in and she knew by their very expressions, let alone the glaringly obvious remark, that they had been talking about Lewis. The unpleasant words ‘screw bags’, in the plural, repeated themselves in her brain and just for a moment Nichola had stood still, absorbing their meaning, before she got a vodka for Glynda and an even larger one for herself.

  There were two directions in which her thoughts could have gone. The first, that the girls, who knew nothing of Lewis and were merely watching avidly, were presuming that he slept with all and sundry. The second, that they had actually witnessed something from their observation post in the kitchen. Did the self-satisfied expression on Delia’s face, her strange remark about having seen Lewis’s flat before, have the unpleasant connotation which Nichola now suspected? Feeling strangely cold, she had returned to the living room, full of apprehension.

  Lewis and Delia were both in there, but not together. Nichola’s lover was standing with his wife, paying pointed attention to every word uttered by the woman who preferred staying at home and taking walks in the Gloucestershire countryside to being a theatrical consort. Nichola thought it sickening. Similarly, the girl from the North, who even her enemies had to admit was a superb actress, was holding her own court in the midst of a laughing group. Unlike Nichola, Delia had somehow managed to remain popular with her own sex, and this was now obviously paying off. Realising that she was temporarily out on a limb, Nichola handed Glynda her glass and looked round for somebody to talk to.

  The chi-chi designer had installed a small white piano in a recess near the balcony and sitting at it, idly strumming an Ivor Novello number, was James Milligan, the oldest member of the cast, a well-loved character actor who had taken the part of Giles Corey.

  “Heavens, Jim,” said Nichola, going over to him, “that dates you.”

  He looked up at her and winked. “Ah, dear Ivor. Would it surprise you to learn that I appeared in the chorus of Kings Rhapsody?”

  “It would astound me. You can’t be that old.” James was the sort of man to whom one could make this kind of remark, knowing it would be taken in good part.

  “My dear girl, I am as old as God — well, his younger brother at least.” He had patted the piano stool and Nichola had sat down beside him. “Ah, to have your youth and my experience, to have seen it all and yet be young in body.”

  “That sounds very Faustian to me.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps. Though I wouldn’t change, really. I’m at an exciting age, peering death in the face while still keeping a foot in this world.”

  “Doesn’t that frighten you?”

  “What?”

  “The thought that your time is running out?” Nichola had not meant to put it quite that tactlessly but James remained unperturbed.

  “Not in the least. I merely await my next incarnation.”

  He had said this so straightforwardly that Nichola had gazed at him, surprised. “Do you believe in all that?”

  “Oh yes, you see —”

  He was cut short by one of the catering girls calling from the doorway, “The buffet is about to be served. All right, Mrs Devine?”

  Marjorie had visibly taken charge, a fact which, Nichola remembered, had annoyed her, because it should have been she who stood there being charming, ushering the guests into the dining room where heaps of plates and cutlery wrapped in paper napkins stood waiting.

  Nichola must have unwittingly made some little move of irritation because, glancing up suddenly, she had seen that Delia had noticed and was smirking at her.

  “… think we’d better eat now,” Marjorie was saying, “because Lee Lovage is coming straight from the Inn on the Park to play dance music and should be here at about half past one.”

  “What time is this party going to end?” someone had asked.

  “After breakfast,” Lewis had answered cheerfully. “It’s Sunday tomorrow, remember.”

  “Well, I won’t stay up till then,” Marjorie had said, not rudely but just as a plain statement of fact. “I’m not much of a night hawk. But as far as I’m concerned you can all come to Sunday lunch. I’ll cook.”

  There had been a cheer and Nichola had thought: This is her hold on him, her general affability. And yet she’s the wife who helped him rise, watched him climb the ladder, so by all the laws of show business it’s high time she was ditched.

  Yet, in her way, Marjorie was just as much her own person as Glynda. For during one of the quieter numbers played by Lee Lovage, who turned out to be an energetic black woman, she had disappeared towards the bedroom in which Nichola and Lewis had enjoyed so many delectable hours of lust, and had not come back.

  “A determined lady, that one.”

  “What do you mean?” Nichola had asked nervously, looking up to see Glynda, observing all.

  “Nothing to look at, frankly boring, but by God she’s got Lewis where she wants him.”

  Nichola had died inside. “Do you think so?”

  “Of course I do. He’ll put it about until he drops but he’ll always go back to her.”

  “But why, for God’s sake?”

  “Because she’s his safety net. She presents no challenge. She’ll always be there not asking too many questions. She keeps the home fires burning and joins in when she has to. Honestly ducky, can you see a girl like you putting up with that kind of life?”

  “But Lewis can’t be that chauvinistic!”

  “A lot of actors are, haven’t you noticed?”

  “What are a lot of actors?” Delia had asked, joining them. She had obviously had her fair share of alcohol and was hell bent on needling.

  “Selfish, sweetie,” Glynda answered. The mouth with its gash of lipstick had twisted into a grin. “Anyway, I’m not getting involved in that kind of discussion. I need another drink. I’ll leave you two to your girlish chatter.” And she was off in a swirl of mahogany hair.

  Nichola came straight to the point. “All the evening I’ve had the feeling you’re trying to tell me something. Well, now’s your chance. What is it you want to say?”

  Delia lowered her eyes. “I don’t think this is quite the place to discuss it.”

  “Very well, I’ll do it for you. Ever since I got here you’ve been hinting that you and Lewis are having a fling. Right?”

  Delia’s voice had dropped to a whisper and a poisonous gleam had appeared in her eyes. “It’s no hint. We are sleeping together. So just get out of my way before I tell him all about you.”

  “And what precisely do you mean by that?”

  “That you, my dear, are a tramp and not good enough for Lewis Devine. One of my closest friends was at drama school with you. She knew about your famous Collection —”

  Her words seemed to ring out and Lee Lovage had suddenly begun to play very loudly. Nichola realised that the party had thinned out and there were only about six people left in the room.

  “Shut up,” she muttered. “You’re making a scene.”

  “Me make a scene? I like that!” Delia had answered. “Darling, you’re famous in our profession, did you know that?”

  “For what?” Nichola had asked, daring her.

  “For flaunting it around, just like Vivien Leigh used to. In fact you remind me of her quite a lot. I think you must be her reincarnation.”

  There was a silence which even the pianist couldn’t fill and then Glynda, appearing with a refilled glass, had stepped into the fray. Nichola noticed that she had a look about her reminiscent of Miss Jean Brodie.

  “Now that is a fascinating subject,” she had said commandingly. “In fact, having read a great deal about reincarnation, I became so interested in the whole topic that I went for hypnotic regression.”

  “My dear,” James had added, coming to join them, “I believe in it firmly. As a boy my parents took me to Greece. I had the most extraordinary experience of déjà-vu at Delphi. It quite unnerved me. I knew damn well, even though I was only twelve years old, that I had been to that place before.”

  Lewis stepped up, his face so expressionless that Nichola knew he was furious and hoped it was not with her. “What happened during your regression?” he said to Glynda abruptly.

  “It was really quite extraordinary. I was a gamekeeper in the 1800s, living somewhere on the Yorkshire Moors. I was shot dead by a poacher.”

  “Your name wasn’t Oliver Mellors by any chance?” asked Bill Cosby, the stage manager.

  “No,” Glynda had answered with a quelling glance, “it was Joseph Fairbrother. I can remember that distinctly.”

  Lee had stopped playing, listening to the conversation, and Lewis had spoken into the sudden quiet. “I can hypnotise people, you know.”

  Nichola had looked at him in astonishment, thinking that this was an aspect of her lover she didn’t even know.

  “It’s obvious you do that to audiences, darling,” Delia had said, slipping her arm through his.

  Lewis had disengaged himself. “I didn’t mean that. I’m talking about real hypnosis. When I was in rep I played Svengali in a stage version of Trilby. The name part was taken by some obscure, noisy little creature who has since sunk into total oblivion. Anyway, during one rehearsal, loud though this girl was, she suddenly became strangely quiet and when I looked at her more closely I saw she had gone into a genuine trance. I had inadvertently put her under. It was a great temptation to leave her as she was, I can tell you.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, I counted her out of it in true textbook style, then I began to dabble in the art. Very interesting it is too.”

  “Have you ever done a hypnotic regression?” asked Glynda, slurring very slightly.

  “No, but I’m willing to try.”

  Nichola did not know, even now looking back, why she had said, “I’ll volunteer as your subject. Delia says I’m the reincarnation of Vivien Leigh, so let’s find out.”

  Lewis had hesitated. “I don’t want to take part in some private joke.”

  “It’s not a joke,” Nichola had insisted. “I’m genuinely interested.”

  “Go on, Mr Devine,” Lee had said from the piano. “This is fascinating.”

  “Very well.” And instantly, or so it had seemed to Nichola, Lewis’s voice had assumed a magnetic, compulsive timbre. “Lie down on the sofa.”

  She had done so, staring up at him as he went to the switches and dimmed the lights, aware that by candlelight her chic, elegant face looked especially beautiful.

  He had picked one candle up and drawn a chair close to the couch. “Now, Nichola,” he had said, “I want you to look at this flame. Look at it hard until your eyes grow heavy, so heavy that it is no longer possible for you to keep them open. At the same time your limbs will become so relaxed you will feel them sinking down and down into the sofa.”

  He was an actor giving a performance and his audience was spellbound. There was no sound in the room except for the occasional raising of a glass. Nichola, thinking back, remembered just how heavy her eyes had grown and how tired she had suddenly felt.

  “Is she faking?” someone had whispered.

  “No,” Lewis had answered quietly. “Look at her breathing.”

  It was an extraordinary phenomenon, Nichola thought. For though she had been able to hear everything that was going on, she no longer felt part of it. She recollected being certain that without Lewis’s specific instruction she would have been unable to save herself if there had suddenly been a fire.

  “Can you hear me?” her lover’s voice had asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you quite comfortable?”

  “Yes.”

  She had heard Delia audibly murmur, “She’s putting it on.”

  “Shut up,” Lewis had answered in his ordinary voice. Then the soothing tone he used to Nichola had returned. “Now I want you to imagine that you are entering a tunnel. Is that right?” he had added, obviously asking Glynda.

  “Absolutely.”

  “The tunnel is quite narrow, like the ones the old canal barges used to go through. But this tunnel will take you back in time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Nichola had answered.

  “Good. Now keep going down the tunnel until you see something.”

  Even now, Nichola remembered that first faint glimmer. “There’s a light — at the end.”

  “Probably a train coming the other way,” Delia had said, and Glynda had answered in her Miss Brodie voice, “Don’t make yourself look foolish.”

  Lewis’s voice had risen over theirs. “What’s happening now?”

  “The light’s getting nearer. It’s very bright. I don’t like it actually.”

  “Keep going towards it,” Lewis had said.

  “I don’t want to. I want to turn back. It’s too bright. It’s hurting my eyes.”

  And Nichola had been aware that her body had started to twitch, while her eyelids had fluttered wildly.

  “Are you all right?” Lewis had asked, a note of concern clearly audible in his voice.

  “No. The light is going to blind me. I want to stop now. Please stop me, Lewis.”

  She had heard him speak to Glynda. “What shall I do?”

  “Make her go on. She’s passing through the time barrier.”

  His soothing tone had come again. “You must go through the light, Nichola. Only by doing so can you discover what lies beyond.”

  But she had been in an agony of distress. “No, don’t make me,” she had screamed. “I’m afraid. Oh help me!”

  And then Nichola had suddenly gone still.

  Lewis had stared about him in consternation. “Glynda, for Christ’s sake, is she okay? Did this happen to you?”

  “I honestly can’t remember, but she’s obviously gone back. Ask her some questions.”

  “What?”

  “Well, who she is or something.”

  Before he could utter a word there had been a movement from the sofa and Nichola had let out a low moan, a sound almost animal-like in its obvious distress.

  “I don’t like this,” murmured the girl who had come with the lighting director.

  “I think it’s a bloody good performance,” said Delia scathingly, but her voice was drowned by a terrible cry.

  “Dear God!” exclaimed Glynda involuntarily.

  For on the sofa Nichola was writhing about so violently that she seemed in danger of falling to the floor.

  “She’s in agony,” shouted Bill Cosby. “For God’s sake Lewis, bring her out of it.”

  The actor had by now recovered from his initial shock and was once more in full Svengalian flight. “Tell me who you are,” he demanded resonantly. “Tell me your name.”

  There was no reply other than for another terrifying scream as Nichola gripped her body low down.

  “She’s in labour,” shrieked Lee Lovage. “Look at that! She’s having a baby.”

  “This is incredible,” Lewis cried exultantly. “I’ve actually done it!” He downed a glass of wine. “Who are you?” he repeated, but the only answer Nichola gave was one long continuous wail.

  Bill jumped to his feet. “Lewis, for God’s sake put an end to this. It can’t be doing her any good.”

  Delia, unrepentant, said, “1 think she deserves the Oscar.”

  Lewis turned questioningly to Glynda, who drained her vodka with a gulp. “Best get her back, darling. It is getting rather grim.”

  “Nichola, I’m going to count from ten to one,” Lewis stated, with just the first hint of panic in his voice. “When I reach one you will wake refreshed and well. You will remember nothing of what has taken place. I shall start counting now and soon you will be wide awake.”

  He did so, very rapidly. Yet for some reason Nichola did not respond to his words. Instead, the ghastly screams continued, chilling the blood and sending a frisson of sheer terror through the entire room.

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. You will awake refreshed and well,” Lewis repeated frantically.