The actor, Gilbert Caister, who had been ‘out’ for six months, emerged
from his East Coast seaside lodging about noon in the day, after the
opening of ‘Shooting the Rapids,’ on tour, in which he was playing Dr.
Dominick in the last act. A salary of four pounds a week would not,
he was conscious, remake his fortunes, but a certain jauntiness had
returned to the gait and manner of one employed again at last.
Fixing his monocle, he stopped before a fishmonger’s and, with a
faint smile on his face, regarded a lobster. Ages since he had eaten
a lobster! One could long for a lobster without paying, but the
pleasure was not solid enough to detain him. He moved upstreet and
stopped again, before a tailor’s window. Together with the actual
tweeds, in which he could so easily fancy himself refitted, he could
see a reflection of himself, in the faded brown suit wangled out of
the production of ‘Marmaduke Mandeville’ the year before the war.
The sunlight in this damned town was very strong, very hard on seams
and buttonholes, on knees and elbows! Yet he received the ghost of
æsthetic pleasure from the reflected elegance of a man long fed only
twice a day, of an eyeglass well rimmed out from a soft brown eye, of
a velour hat salved from the production of ‘Educating Simon’ in 1912;
and, in front of the window he removed that hat, for under it was his
new phenomenon, not yet quite evaluated, his _mêche blanche_. Was it an
asset, or the beginning of the end? It reclined backwards on the right
side, conspicuous in his dark hair, above that shadowy face always
interesting to Gilbert Caister. They said it came from atrophy of
the--er--something nerve, an effect of the war, or of under-nourished
tissue. Rather distinguished, perhaps, but----!
He walked on, and became conscious that he had passed a face he
knew. Turning, he saw it also turned on a short and dapper figure--a
face rosy, bright, round, with an air of cherubic knowledge, as of a
getter-up of amateur theatricals.
Bryce-Green, by George!
“Caister? It is! Haven’t seen you since you left the old camp. Remember
what sport we had over ‘Gotta Grampus’? By Jove! I am glad to see you.
Doing anything with yourself? Come and have lunch with me.”
Bryce-Green, the wealthy patron, the moving spirit of entertainment
in that South Coast convalescent camp. And, drawling slightly, Caister
answered:
“Shall be delighted.” But within him something did not drawl: ‘By God,
you’re going to have a feed, my boy!’
And--elegantly threadbare, roundabout and dapper--the two walked side
by side.
“Know this place? Let’s go in here! Phyllis, cocktails for my friend
Mr. Caister and myself, and caviare on biscuits. Mr. Caister is playing
here! you must go and see him.”
The girl who served the cocktails and the caviare looked up at Caister
with interested blue eyes. Precious! He had been ‘out’ for six months!
“Nothing of a part,” he drawled; “took it to fill a gap.” And below his
waistcoat the gap echoed: ‘Yes, and it’ll take some filling.’
“Bring your cocktail along, Caister; we’ll go into the little further
room, there’ll be nobody there. What shall we have--a lobstah?”
And Caister murmured: “I love lobstahs.”
“Very fine and large here. And how are you, Caister? So awfully glad to
see you--only real actor we had.”
“Thanks,” said Caister, “I’m all right.” And he thought: ‘He’s a
damned amateur, but a nice little man.’
“Sit here. Waiter, bring us a good big lobstah and a salad; and
then--er--a small fillet of beef with potatoes fried crisp, and a
bottle of my special hock. Ah! and a rum omelette--plenty of rum and
sugah. Twig?”
And Caister thought: ‘Thank God, I do.’
They had sat down opposite each other at one of two small tables in the
little recessed room.
“Luck!” said Bryce-Green.
“Luck!” replied Caister; and the cocktail trickling down him echoed:
‘Luck!’
“And what do you think of the state of the drama?” Oh! ho! A question
after his own heart. Balancing his monocle by a sweetish smile on the
opposite side of his mouth, Caister drawled his answer: “Quite too
bally awful!”
“H’m! Yes,” said Bryce-Green; “nobody with any genius, is there?”
And Caister thought: ‘Nobody with any money.’
“Have you been playing anything great? You were so awfully good in
‘Gotta Grampus’!”
“Nothing particular. I’ve been--er--rather slack.” And with their feel
around his waist his trousers seemed to echo: ‘Slack!’
“Ah!” said Bryce-Green. “Here we are! Do you like claws?”
“Tha-a-nks. Anything!” To eat--until warned by the pressure of his
waist against his trousers! Huh! What a feast! And what a flow of
his own tongue suddenly released--on drama, music, art; mellow and
critical, stimulated by the round eyes and interjections of his little
provincial host.
“By Jove, Caister! You’ve got a _mêche blanche_. Never noticed. I’m
awfully interested in _mêches blanches_. Don’t think me too frightfully
rude--but did it come suddenly?”
“No, gradually.”
“And how do you account for it?”
‘Try starvation,’ trembled on Caister’s lips.
“I don’t.”
“I think it’s ripping. Have some more omelette? I often wish I’d gone
on the regular stage myself. Must be a topping life, if one has talent,
like you.”
Topping?
“Have a cigar. Waiter! Coffee and cigars. I shall come and see you
to-night. Suppose you’ll be here a week?”
Topping! The laughter and applause--“Mr. Caister’s rendering left
nothing to be desired; its ---- and its ---- are in the true spirit of
----!”
Silence recalled him from his rings of smoke. Bryce-Green was sitting,
with cigar held out and mouth a little open, and bright eyes round as
pebbles, fixed--fixed on some object near the floor, past the corner
of the tablecloth. Had he burnt his mouth? The eyelids fluttered; he
looked at Caister, licked his lips like a dog, nervously, and said:
“I say, old chap, don’t think me a beast, but are you at
all--er--er--rocky? I mean--if I can be of any service, don’t hesitate!
Old acquaintance, don’t you know, and all that----”
His eyes rolled out again towards the object, and Caister followed
them. Out there above the carpet he saw it--his own boot. It dangled,
because his knees were crossed, six inches off the ground--split--right
across, twice, between lace and toecap. Quite! He knew it. A boot left
him from the rôle of Bertie Carstairs, in ‘The Dupe,’ just before the
war. Good boots. His only pair, except the boots of Dr. Dominick, which
he was nursing. And from the boot he looked back at Bryce-Green, sleek
and concerned. A drop, black when it left his heart, suffused his eye
behind the monocle; his smile curled bitterly; he said:
“Not at all, thanks! Why?”
“Oh! n-n-nothing. It just occurred to me.” His eyes--but Caister had
withdrawn the boot. Bryce-Green paid the bill and rose.
“Old chap, if you’ll excuse me; engagement at half-past two. So awf’ly
glad to have seen you. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” said Caister. “And thanks!”
He was alone. And, chin on hand, he stared through his monocle into an
empty coffee cup. Alone with his heart, his boot, his life to come....
‘And what have you been in lately, Mr. Caister?’ ‘Nothing very much
lately. Of course I’ve played almost everything.’ ‘Quite so. Perhaps
you’ll leave your address; can’t say anything definite, I’m afraid.’
‘I--I should--er--be willing to rehearse on approval; or--if I could
read the part?’ ‘Thank you, afraid we haven’t got as far as that.’ ‘No?
Quite! Well, I shall hear from you, perhaps.’ And Caister could see his
own eyes looking at the manager. God! What a look.... A topping life!
A dog’s life! Cadging--cadging--cadging for work! A life of draughty
waiting, of concealed beggary, of terrible depressions, of want of food!
The waiter came skating round as if he desired to clear. Must go! Two
young women had come in and were sitting at the other table between him
and the door. He saw them look at him, and his sharpened senses caught
the whisper:
“Sure--in the last act. Don’t you see his _mêche blanche_?”
“Oh! yes--of course! Isn’t it--wasn’t he----!”
Caister straightened his back; his smile crept out, he fixed his
monocle. They had spotted his Dr. Dominick!
“If you’ve quite finished, sir, may I clear?”
“Certainly. I’m going.” He gathered himself and rose. The young women
were gazing up. Elegant, with faint smile, he passed them close,
managing--so that they could not see--his broken boot.
1922.