Charlie Evans had lost a leg in the Second World War; even though it had been replaced by a wooden one it hurt when it rained, just as all the stories said. As stage door keeper he didn’t have to walk much, only last thing at night, to check that the dressing rooms were locked and the lights were off before he left the theatre. He was surprised Miss Abbott hadn’t handed in her key, she was often one of the first out after the show, she had to catch a train to Richmond, it wasn’t like her to linger though she’d had a visitor tonight, that young man with the rather long hair and the very noticeable blue eyes. Slowly and rather lumberingly he walked along the backstage corridors checking the doors of the dressing rooms; actors were impossible, always leaving lights on or doors open. Luckily this was a small cast and he didn’t have to go right up to the second floor. The Number Two dressing room was down a few steps, nearer the stage. He knocked on the door, and then opened it as was his habit, Miss Abbott, he said, you’re late tonight, are you all right?

In the Number Two dressing room Miss Abbott still in her dressing gown sat at her make-up table. The boy with the blue eyes stood beside her and they both seemed to be looking at themselves in the mirror. His hand rested very lightly on her shoulder.

It seemed to Charlie Evans that neither Miss Abbott nor the young man saw him at first, hadn’t heard him, hadn’t noticed him come in. And then at last she raised her eyes to Charlie’s in the mirror and said so strangely, what time is it? He looked at his watch and told her and she murmured slowly, still without moving from where she was sitting, sorry Charlie we’ll leave now, I’ll be sure to turn the lights off. So he lumbered back along the corridor to the stage door, wanting his cup of tea.

*

And so the tragedy began: Nicola Abbott’s tragedy, but also Terence Blue’s. For Juliet Lyall there were many rewards, so for a long time it didn’t seem to be her tragedy. For the rest of his life Harry Donaldson, who was not a cruel man, had to remember and live with the fact that, inevitable as it all probably was, it was a cruel action by him that set what had seemed to be the final act of the tragedy in motion.

Until the reunion proved it was not yet over.

22

In the London Clinic Terence Blue began to hover for longer on the edges of consciousness. There was almost always darkness but sometimes he could smell flowers: chrysanthemums perhaps, or something like the lemon balm that grew in his Hampstead garden.