Shadowplay Read online

  JOSEPH O’CONNOR

  Shadowplay

  Contents

  ACT I: Eternal Love I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  ACT II: Do We Not Bleed? XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  ACT III: Arriving At Bradford XXI

  CODA: Friday 12th April, 1912

  Caveat, Bibliography, Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Joseph O’Connor was born in Dublin. His books include eight previous novels: Cowboys and Indians (Whitbread Prize shortlist), Desperadoes, The Salesman, Inishowen, Star of the Sea (American Library Association Award, Irish Post Award for Fiction, France’s Prix Millepages, Italy’s Premio Acerbi, Prix Madeleine Zepter for European novel of the year), Redemption Falls, Ghost Light (Dublin One City One Book Novel 2011) and The Thrill of it All. His fiction has been translated into forty languages. He received the 2012 Irish PEN Award for outstanding achievement in literature and in 2014 he was appointed Frank McCourt Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Limerick.

  www.josephoconnorauthor.com

  Also by Joseph O’Connor

  NOVELS

  Cowboys and Indians

  Desperadoes

  The Salesman

  Inishowen

  Star of the Sea

  Redemption Falls

  Ghost Light

  The Thrill of it All

  SHORT STORIES

  True Believers

  Where Have You Been?

  THEATRE/SPOKEN WORD

  Red Roses and Petrol

  True Believers

  The Weeping of Angels

  Handel’s Crossing

  My Cousin Rachel

  Whole World Round (with Philip King)

  Heartbeat of Home (concept development and lyrics)

  The Drivetime Diaries (CD)

  For Carole Blake

  Abraham ‘Bram’ Stoker, clerk, later a theatre manager, part-time writer, born Dublin, 1847, died London, 1912, having never known literary success.

  Henry Irving, born John Brodribb, 1838, died 1905, the greatest Shakespearian actor of his era.

  Alice ‘Ellen’ Terry, born 1847, died 1928, the highest paid actress in England, much beloved by the public. Her ghost is said to haunt the Lyceum Theatre.

  In every being who lives, there is a second self very little known to anyone. You who read this have a real person hidden under your better-known personality, and hardly anyone knows it – it’s the best part of you, the most interesting, the most curious, the most heroic, and it explains that part of you that puzzles us. It is your secret self.

  Edward Gordon Craig (Ellen Terry’s son)

  from Ellen Terry and Her Secret Self

  ACT I

  Eternal Love

  Victoria Cottage Hospital,

  Near Deal,

  Kent.

  20th February, 1908

  My dearest Ellen,

  Please excuse this too-long-delayed response. As you’ll gather from the above, I’m afraid I’ve not been too well. Money worries & the strain of overwork weakened me over this wretched winter until I broke down like an old cab-horse on the side of the road. What’s good is that they say little permanent damage is done. My poor espoused saint has moved down here from London, too, to a little boarding house on the sea front & comes in on the ’bus to read to me daily so we can continue irritating one another contentedly as only married people can. We enjoy quarrelling about little things like sandwiches and democracy. I am still able to type write as you see.

  Last night, I had a dream of You-Know-Who – he was in Act Three of Hamlet – & somehow you came to me, too, like a rumour of trees to a tired bird, & so here I am, late but in earnest.

  How wonderful to know you are putting together your Memoir & how frightening that prospect will be for untold husbands. You ask if I have anything left in the way of Lyceum programmes, costume sketches, drawings or a Kodak of Henry, lists of First Night invitees, menus, so on. I’m afraid I haven’t anything at all in that line of country. (Are you still in touch with Jen?) Almost everything I had I stuffed into my Reminiscences & then turfed the lot (five suitcases-full) into the British Library once the book was published, apart from a couple of little personal things of no interest or use to anyone. You’re correct to recall that at one time I had a file of letters from poor Wilde but I thought it wise to burn them when his troubles came.

  What I do have is the enclosed, a clutch of diary pages & private notes I kept on and off down the years & had begun working up into a novel somewhat out of my usual style or perhaps a play, I don’t know. The hope was to finish the deuced thing at some point before my dotage. But I can’t see that happening now that I seem to have lost the old vigour. In any case, since I have no savings & the London house is heavily mortgaged, I must marshal what forces I possess & find employment that will pay, which my scribblings have never done. The plan is to ship ourselves to Germany, perhaps Hamburg or Lübeck, the cost of living is lower there & Florence speaks the language. God knows, we are a little old to emigrate at our time of life, but there it is.

  As to the scribbles: some parts are finished out, others still in journal form. I had intended changing the names but hadn’t got around to it – your own name, being part of you, seemed too beautiful to change – & then, some months ago, I happened across a curious tome by an American, one Adams, in which he writes about himself in Third Person, as a character in a fiction, an approach that rather tickled me, & so I thought let the names be the names.

  Since you appear in proceedings yourself, you’ll find looking through the ruins a curiosity at any rate & it might raise a smile or two at the old days of fire & glory, the madness of that time. Among the pages you will encounter a couple of smidgeons from an interview given by a certain peerless actress some time ago to The Spectator: the transcription of her answers is there but not the questions, don’t know why. If any plank of the shipwreck is of use (which I doubt) for your Memoir, salvage rights are yours. Well, perhaps check with me first.

  Much of it is in Pitman shorthand, which I think you know. If you don’t, a local girl in the village will or there is Miss Miniter’s secretarial service near Covent Garden – I can see the street clear as daylight but can’t think of its name. You may remember her. She is in the Directory.

  Some of it is in a code even its maker has forgotten. I wonder what I can have been trying to hide & from whom.

  Well then, old thing – my treasured friend – it is a holy thought to imagine my words moving through your heart’s heart because then something of me will be joined with something of you and we will stand in the same rain for a time under the one umbrella.

  All fond love to you and your family, my dearest golden star,

  And Happy Birthday next week I think?

  Ever Your Bram.

  P.S.: Like a lot of thumping good stories, it starts on a train.

  — I —

  In which two gentlemen of the theatre set out from London for Bradford

  Just before dawn, October 12th, 1905

  Out of the gathering swirls of mist roars the hot black monster, screeching and belching its acrid bilious smoke, a fetor of cordite stench. Thunder and cinders, coalman and boilerman, black cast iron and white-hot friction, rattling on the roadway of steel and olden oak as dewdrops sizzle on the flanks. Foxes slink to lairs. Fawns flit and flee. Hawks in the yews turn and stare.

  In a dimly lit First Class compartment of the dawn
mail from King’s Cross, two gentlemen of the theatre are seated across from one another, in blankets and shabby mufflers and miserably threadbare mittens and a miasma of early morning sulk. Their breath, although faint, forms globes of steam. Not yet seven o’clock. Night people, they’re unaccustomed to being up so early unless wending home from a club.

  Henry Irving has his boots up on the opposite seat and is blearily studying the script of a blood-curdling melodrama, The Bells, which he has played hundreds of times throughout his distinguished career, from London to San Francisco, from Copenhagen to Munich, so why does he need a script and why is he still annotating it after all these years and why is he muttering chunks of the dialogue, with half-closed eyes, at the fields passing by the window? His companion sits erect, as though performing a yogic exercise intended to straighten the spine. The book he is reading is held before him like a shield. The train creaks onward, towards the northern outskirts of London.

  Several centuries have passed since they last exchanged a syllable or even one of those wincing, gurning, eyebrow-raised stares in which, like all theatre people, they are fluent. The sheep’s trotters and pickled eels bought hurriedly at King’s Cross remain uneaten – somehow sweating despite the cold – in grubby folds of old newspaper. A bottle of Madeira on the floor has suffered an assault. A few drops remain, perhaps to reassure the drinkers that they are not the sort of gentlemen who would start on a bottle of Madeira in the cab to the station not long before seven o’clock of a morning and finish it in the train before eight. There is between them that particular freemasonry of the elderly couple who have long sailed the strange latitudes and craggy archipelagos of monogamy, known much, seen much, forgiven almost everything, long ago said whatever needed to be said, which was never that much in the first place.

  ‘What is that rubbish you are reading?’ Irving asks, in the tones of a maestro demonstrating ‘sophisticated boredom’ to a roomful of the easily amused.

  ‘A history of Chislehurst,’ Stoker replies.

  ‘Sweet Christ.’

  ‘Chislehurst is in several respects an interesting town. The exiled Napoleon III died there in terrible agony.’

  ‘And now a lot of people live there in terrible agony.’

  The day could be long and tense.

  A bloodstained, scarlet sky, streaked with finger-smears of black and handfuls of hard-flung gold. Then a watery dawn rises out of the marshlands, pale blues and greys and muddied-down greens, like daybreak in a virgin’s watercolour. Staggered beeches here and there, sycamores, rowans, then a stand of queenly, wind-blasted elms and the Vs of wild geese breasting across the huge sky like arrows pointing out some immensity.

  Beyond the steamed, greasy window, the beginnings of the midlands: the distant lights of towns, the smokestacks and steeples, the brickfields and quarries served by new metalled roads. Between the towns, the mellow, dreeping meadows with their byres and barns and crucified scarecrows, the towpaths by the green and calm canals, the manors and their orchards and red-bricked boundary walls, the mazes and lodges and rectories. It is so like the Irish countryside yet not like it at all. Something different, undefinable, a certain quality of light, a sadness, perhaps, an absence that is a presence. Welcome to an absence called England.

  The chunter of the train as it strains up Stubblefield Hill, the leaden sway and spring as it descends and rolls on, its momentum disconcerting on the downhill curve, and from time to time a sudden heaviness, a sort of worrying drama, as the carriage gives a skreek or a shuddering lurch. The roped-up trunk shifts in the luggage rack above them – the porter wanted it in the cargo carriage but Irving refused – and now the edges of a town.

  The backs of little houses inch by in the rain. Twines of washing slung from window ledges or strung across midden-heaps serenaded by furious dogs. A dirty-faced child waves from a glassless window. A chillingly scrawny greyhound pulls at its chain. The navy-black sky and a broken fingernail of moon and a downpour so sudden and violent it causes both men to stare out.

  Portly, bearded, in the fourth decade of life, Stoker still looks like the athlete he once was. At Dublin University he boxed, rowed in the sculls, swam. He once saved a man from drowning. His suit is a three-piece Gieves & Hawkes of Savile Row, a subtle herringbone tweed, fashionable thirty years ago. The Huntsman greatcoat is of heavy frieze, like a general’s. He has a talent for wearing his clothes, looks comfortable, always, though everything he has on this morning has been repaired more than once, re-seamed, let out, taken in, patched up, not unlike the friendship. The bespoke if re-soled brogues are newly blacked. His hands are veined and knotty, a bit obscene, like hands hewn from lumps of bog oak.

  Irving is frailer, sunken-in since his illness, skeletal about the emaciated, equine face. He is ten years older than Stoker and looks more. But flamboyant, long-limbed, uneasy remaining still. Purple velvet fez, organdie and linen scarves, fur-collared cloak, mother-of-pearl pince-nez. Lines of kohl around the lakes of his dark, tired eyes, dyed-black hair dressed in curls by his valet every morning, even this one. Walking-cane with a miniature skull as knob (‘the shrunken head of George Bernard Shaw’). Like any great actor, he is able to decide what age to look. He has played Romeo who is fourteen and Lear who is ancient, on the same tour, sometimes on the same night.

  He lights a short thick cigar, peers out at the rain. ‘Die Todten reiten Schnell,’ he says. The dead travel fast.

  Stoker’s response is a disapproving glower.

  The train enters a tunnel. Flicker-lit faces.

  ‘Put your eyes back in your head, you miserable nanny,’ Irving says. ‘I shall smoke as and when I please.’

  ‘The doctor’s advice was to swear off. You know this very well. I may add that the advice was expensive.’

  ‘Bugger the doctor.’

  ‘If you could remain alive until tonight’s performance, I’d be grateful.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘It is rather late to cancel the hall and we’d forfeit the deposit.’

  ‘Rot me, how considerate you are.’

  ‘But if you wish to be a suicide, that is your affair. The sooner the better, if that is your intention. Don’t say I didn’t try to prevent you.’

  ‘Yes, Mumsy. What a caring old girl.’

  Stoker declines the bait. Irving pulls insipidly on the cigar, rheumy eyes watering as though leaking raw whiskey. He looks a thousand years old, a mocking impersonation of himself.

  ‘I say, maybe I’ll be lucky, Bramsie, old thing.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll turn out like the feller in your ruddy old potboiler. The un-dead, my dears. Old Drackers. Mince about Piccadilly sinking the tusks into desirable youths. Chap could meet a worse fate, eh?’

  ‘I am attempting to read.’

  ‘Ah, Chislehurst yes. The Byzantium of the suburbs.’

  ‘We are thinking of moving there, if you really must know.’

  ‘You mean Wifey is thinking of moving there and you’re thinking of doing what you’re told, as usual.’

  ‘That is not what I mean.’

  ‘The lady doth protest too much.’

  ‘Do shut up.’

  ‘She’d look jolly good wearing the trousers, I’ll give her that. Tell me, how do you squeeze into her corset?’

  ‘Your alleged witticisms are tiresome. I am now going to ignore you. Goodbye.’

  Irving chuckles painfully in the back of his throat, settling into a fug of smoke and sleepiness. Stoker reaches out and plucks the cigar from his fingers, extinguishing it in an empty lozenge-tin he always carries for the purpose. Thing like that could cause an accident.

  He watches the wintry scenery, the swirl of snow among oaks, the long stone walls and hedgerows. All the endless reams of poetry this landscape has inspired. Burn an Irishman’s abbey and he’ll pick up a broadsword. Burn an Englishman’s, he’ll pick up a quill.

  Ellen is with him now, her mild, kind laugh, one evening when they walked nea
r the river at Chichester, one of those streams that is dry in summertime. What is the word for that? He blinks her back into whatever golden meadowland she came from.

  An old song he heard years ago in Galway has been with him all morning like a ghost.

  The sharks of all the ocean dark

  Eat o’er my lover’s breast.

  His body lies in motion yon

  His soul it ne’er may rest.

  ‘I’ll walk the night till kingdom come

  My murder to atone.

  My name it was John Holmwood,

  My fate a cruel wrong.’

  Who can explain how it happens, this capability of a song to become a travelling companion, a haunting? In the dark of early morning the strange ballad had swirled up at him out of his shaving bowl or somehow stared back at him from the land behind the mirror, for no reason he understands. And now, he knows, it will be with him all day. He is trying to recollect more about the first time he heard it.

  All writers who have failed – and this one has failed more than most – develop a healing amnesia without which their lives would be unbearable. Today, it isn’t working.

  Carna. County Galway. His twentieth birthday. Near the townland of Ardnaghreeva. He’d been there for his work, attending the courthouse, taking notes, when an adjournment was announced in the trial for murder of Lord Westenra’s land-agent, one Bannon. The planned twenty minutes became an hour, then two. He went out to find a drink.

  The people were speaking Gaelic. He felt lost, uneasy, frightened of something he couldn’t name. Many were barefoot. The children gaunt as old keys. He couldn’t understand it. Twenty years had passed since their wretched famine; why were the people still cadaverous and in rags? Why were they here at all?