As she thought back through the day, she realised that for all the lavish clothes and ceremony, she’d felt ignored. She scrabbled about, trying to recall a light moment between the two of them. She’d had good intentions. She was not in love with her husband but she was not in love with anyone else; she’d thought it might work. It was odd, cruel, that she could actually feel her good intentions break down. Shatter. Splinter into nasty shards that flew through her body and lodged painfully. As bitterness. She was on her own. It was too mordant to understand as much on her wedding day, but the fact was she’d never been more alone. A hot tear slipped down the side of her face.

I’m just tired, she told herself. Just tired.

She kept her hands above the sheets. She’d wanted to rub her stomach and lull herself to sleep, but she didn’t dare. She didn’t think that was an option any more now that she shared a room. It was a girlish thing and she’d have to cast it off.

She felt old.

Alone.

OCTOBER 1914

13

WHILST ALL ACTORS and actresses know the truth and sanctity of the old adage ‘the show must go on’, the concept had never before been put to such a rigorous test as it was in the late summer and autumn of 1914.

It transpired that Warrington was more enthusiastic about a man’s duty than many of London’s other actor-managers. In an act of generosity he offered his troupe a pound for joining the army and gave a five-shilling bonus to any of his other employees who took the pledge; he also promised to keep their jobs open for when they returned. Combined with staunch loyalty to King and country, the offer became irresistible. Besides Will and Jack, the Warrington Playhouse gave up two men from the ensemble, four from the orchestra, three stage hands and the boy who sold ices in the interval. The audience cheered enthusiastically when, at the beginning of each performance, as much was communicated. They were politely asked to ‘bear with’ and think of the boys at Sandhurst going through their paces before they were sent ‘over there’. People were patient, forgiving, but no one could pretend standards were being maintained. The company managed with simple piano accompaniment rather than an orchestra but Warrington could not take on all the male parts (although he tried), and whilst Howard was adept enough at lighting the set, he could not manage it as well as the scene changes because it was simply not possible to be in two places at once. The actresses pitched in. They wore trousers and drew on moustaches so that they could play male roles; they moved furniture and hoisted the heavy, hot lamps. They all made do.

‘Perhaps I ought to write something different,’ Howard suggested one evening after a particularly excruciating performance in which Beryl had had to play a lothario, the adversary who was supposed to come between Warrington and the leading lady. It had been impossible to ignore the accidental erotic charge that resulted from the two women kissing on stage.