“Henry!” Erica snapped. “That’s not like you.”
“Well, serves her right. Getting all our hopes up like that then upping sticks and moving. I bet that’s why she went.”
“She went because she got a job in Edinburgh,”
“She went because she was a coward. I never liked her.”
“Anyway,” Erica said, putting on a polite smile. “The reason we were all so excited was that there’s been this big hoohaa over the years about persuading him to let the play be performed again. There’s a trust in London that have offered a big grant to whoever performs it first and it can’t have escaped your attention that we’re not in the most palatial of locations.”
“You can say that again,” Henry said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the roof caves in while we sit here. Especially as Nigel said the name of the Scottish play last week.”
“I did apologise for that,” Nigel replied.
“Who wrote it?” I asked.
“Shakespeare of course.”
“No, About Last Night.”
“George Atherton. He lives at the old farm along Westcott Lane. Do you know it?”
“Of course she doesn’t know it,” Erica snapped. “She’s only just moved here, Nigel.”
“We’ve all asked him,” Nigel said. “Practically every theatrical company in the country has asked him at one time or another.”
“We should put something else on,” Henry said. “We’ll raise the money from ticket sales.”
“It’s twenty thousand,” Erica replied. “It would take us years to get that sort of cash together and by then the roof really might have caved in, that leak by the changing rooms is getting worse. The wall was soaked after last night’s storm.”
“What about the new girl?” Nigel asked, nodding towards me.
“What about her?”
“Why doesn’t she ask him?”
“Oh, Nigel, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“She’s young, she’s pretty, she’s as much chance as anyone else.”
“That’s a bit sexist, Nigel,” Henry said.
“Thank you.”
“No,” he sighed. “That’s not a good thing.”
“We’re wandering from the point,” Erica said.
“What happened when you asked him?” I asked. “Did he say why he wouldn’t give you permission?”
“He didn’t answer my letter,” Erica replied.
“You mean you didn’t go see him?”
“I didn’t dare.”
“You need to be more bold,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’ll go up there now and speak to him if you like?”
“Are you sure?” Erica asked. “I’m not sure that would be wise.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked. “He can only say no, right?”
FIVE
DONNA
I left the theatre ten minutes later with directions up to George Atherton’s house. I had no idea whether he’d let the group put the play on but my logic was that there was no harm in asking, especially asking in person. It was easy to ignore letters and phone calls, it was far harder to ignore someone standing on your doorstep and batting their eyelashes at you. That was exactly what I intended to do.
I went home first, rummaging through my boxes to find an outfit that was suitable. Something a bit low cut should work, show off a bit of cleavage, maybe that skirt I normally wore in the summer. It was red and clung to me, working to show off my hips in the best possible way. I paired it with a blouse, deliberately leaving the top button undone. I wore sheer tights. It might have been a warmer evening than last night but it was still September in the north of England.
The walk up to his house was pleasant enough. As the town fell away, I found myself on the edge of a quiet lane that ascended up a hillside towards trees. Just before the trees, there was a turning on the right and I followed it, seeing a house appear further up on the hilltop overlooking the town. It was once a magnificent building, that much was clear. But it was equally clear that it had been neglected for a long time and the closer I got, the more dilapidated it looked.
The front garden was overgrown, a few tiles were missing on the roof and the window frames desperately needed replacing. It was the perfect house for a misanthropic playwright to hole up and scowl at the world. I doubted he ever went out, probably just sat in front of a rickety old typewriter with an overflowing ashtray and a half drunk bottle of whiskey, endlessly redrafting a follow up to About Last Night.
Apparently, he’d not written anything since. It had been his debut play, a huge hit, bringing in enough money to buy him somewhere palatial and filled with servants. Instead he’d remained right there in that farmhouse, closing himself off from the world after the death on stage. But that was nearly twenty years ago. It was strange to think I would have been just three years old when it happened. Surely that was long enough to give consent again? And weren’t we in with a good shot? Who better to put on his famous play than the drama group in his hometown?