Jean Plaidy - Goddess of the Green Room

Dorothy walked away blankly.

What could she do? Run away with the family. Where to? Grace was not fully recovered. This would kill her.

Whereas if she gave way Grace would know nothing… She would get her big parts back…

What can I do? she asked herself.

From that day she became Daly’s mistress.

There was a clever likely lass,

Just come to town from Glo’ster;

And she did get her livelihood

By crying Melton Oysters.

She bore her basket on her head

In the genteelest posture.

And every day and every night

She cried her Melton Oysters.

And now she is a lady gay,

For Billingsgate has lost her

She goes to masquerades and Play,

No more cries Melton Oysters.

So sang Dorothy on the stage at Smock Alley and the audience roared its applause. It was not the banal words of the song nor the simple melody; it was Dorothy Francis, small, dainty, provocative, looking for all the world as though she might have carried a basket of oysters on her head at one time and now was the lady who went to masquerades and plays.

Now that she was getting better parts her fame was growing and on the nights when she appeared the theatre was full; when she sang one of her songs the audience would not let her go immediately after but insisted on several repeats.

There was no doubt of Dorothy’s popularity. Mrs Daly grumbled a little. ‘Must that young woman have all the best parts, Richard?’ ‘No, my dear, only those that wouldn’t become you. Dorothy’s a comedy actress. She lacks your dignity. Let her have the light-weight parts. You have the real drama.’ And Mrs Daly was not discontented with that. She had given up being jealous of Richard. It was well known that he was the lover of almost every personable young woman in the company, and she had grown tired of protesting about that. What she cared about was that the best parts should be reserved for her – and if that were so and the money came in, let Richard amuse himself.

The winter and spring had been a trying time for Dorothy. She despised herself and the position into which she had fallen; and her hatred of Daly, who had put her into it, was growing so intense that she felt she could not accept her position at Smock Alley for much longer.

As she lay in her bed in the room next to her mother’s and Hester’s she examined the possibility of departure. She had acquired some fame, but was it enough? Would they ever have heard of her across the Irish Channel?

Extreme poverty was something she could not face. Daly had refused to accept small payments for the loan and she knew that he intended to hold it over her. It was no generosity on his part; he liked to have women in his power particularly when they were good actresses as well as physically attractive to him.

So far she had managed to keep the affair secret from the others but could she hope to continue to do this? From a carefree tomboy she had become a woman of responsibilities. Had she had only herself to fend for everything would have been different. She thought longingly of the old days at Crow Street, and the more she thought the greater her hatred of Daly grew.

She had always been aware that something would have to be done. The question was what.

She knew that fate had decided for her when she made the alarming discovery that she was pregnant.

It could not remain hidden for much longer and Grace, ever watchful, made the discovery. She could not believe it – except that it was something she had always feared for her daughters.

Never had Dorothy’s hatred of Daly been so intense as it was when she saw the anguish in her mother’s face.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I’m going to have a child. It’s Daly’s. He forced me in the first place and after that threatened me with the debtors’ prison.’

Grace wept bitterly. ‘You did it for us,’ she said. ‘For me and for the family.’

‘I could see no other way out and after that first occasion…’

She shuddered and Grace cried out: ‘Don’t go on. I understand, my dearest child. But this must stop. I can’t have you treated in this way.’

‘But what can we do? Where can we go? Don’t forget that now… there will be the child.’

Grace threw off her invalidism and became the courageous woman who had run away from a parsonage to seek her fortune on the stage. This was her daughter whose very devotion to the family had put her into this terrible position. Grace had always feared it but now that it had come she would face it boldly.

‘We must leave here at once,’ she said.

‘But where could we go?’

‘To Leeds,’ replied Grace promptly. ‘I was reading not long ago of Tate Wilkinson’s company. I once played Desdemona to his Othello. He couldn’t refuse help to an old friend.’

Dorothy was relieved. At last she was sharing her hideous secret; and her mother knew too much of theatrical life not to understand how it had happened.

She felt happier than she had for months.

THERE WAS ENOUGH money to buy passages to Liverpool for the family and during the next few days they secretly made their preparations to leave. When the time of departure arrived they quietly slipped out of their lodgings and took ship to Liverpool; and from thence made their way to Leeds.

It was easy to discover the whereabouts of Tate Wilkinson for most people knew the manager of the theatrical company who had not long ago inherited theatres in York, Newcastle and Hull when his partner had died. He lodged at an inn near the theatre and Grace said they must lose no time in seeing him, for they had scarcely any money left and had not been able to bring all their clothes with them for fear of someone’s seeing them and reporting to Daly, who would legally have been able to stop them since Dorothy not only owed him money but was under contract to him.

When Tate Wilkinson heard that Mrs Grace Bland recently come from Dublin was asking to see him he remembered who she was at once. He would never forget that Othello in Dublin in the days when he had been a young and struggling actor.

He was kindly and as sentimental as most theatre folk so he received Grace warmly but was unprepared for the rest of the family.

He bade them be seated and when Grace told him that they had come from Dublin and that her daughter who had made a name in Ireland wanted to give her talents to the English, Wilkinson was dubious. He was like any other theatrical manager, always looking for talent; but if the young woman had been doing as well as her mother said why had they left Dublin? He was constantly being approached by impecunious actors and actresses for a chance, and he was after all a business man.

‘My daughter Dorothy is a first rate comedienne,’ declared Grace. ‘You should have seen her filling houses in Ireland. It was the same wherever she went…’

Wilkinson looked at the dejected and weary young woman, who did not look exactly like a comedienne.

He wanted to say he could do nothing, but there was the past connection with Grace and something about Dorothy, in spite of her listlessness, appealed to him. Perhaps she would recite something for him, he said. She replied that she was too tired and would prefer an audition actually on the stage in a few days’ time.

The mother was anxious; there was some mystery here, Wilkinson decided.

He sent for a bottle of Madeira wine and some food. The family, he noticed, ate heartily and while they did so he talked of the old days at the Dublin theatre; and of Grace’s sister, Miss Phillips, who was now playing with his York company.

He was studying Dorothy all the time and he mentioned that her aunt, Miss Phillips, had made an excellent job of the part of Callista in The Fair Penitent. Dorothy said she knew the part well and when, of her own accord, she started to recite some of the lines, Wilkinson was immediately aware of the quality of her melodious yet resonant voice and that she was undoubtedly an actress.

‘What is your particular line?’ he asked. ‘Tragedy, comedy or opera?’

‘All,’ she answered, to his astonishment.

Before they left the inn Wilkinson had agreed to sign Dorothy up and that her first part should be Callista in The Fair Penitent.

It had been an excellent idea to come to Leeds. Grace congratulated herself and in fact felt better than she had for a long time. The family needed her. When Dorothy was in trouble she turned to her mother and it was Grace who had found the solution to their troubles.

Wilkinson could only offer Dorothy fifteen shillings a week to start. It was a fair salary for an unknown actress and she had her way to make in England, but it was very different from the three guineas she had received with Daly. But peace of mind goes with it, said Dorothy with her usual optimism.

Peace of mind, yes, thought Grace. Provided Daly did not discover where they were and sue for breach of contract, which Grace would be the first to admit he had a perfect right to do, the scoundrel.

Remembering that it was her singing which had brought her the warm appreciation of audiences in Dublin, Dorothy was eager to introduce a song at the end of the play.

Wilkinson was dubious. ‘Callista is dead. How can she spring forth and sing?’

‘It won’t be Callista. It will be Dorothy Francis. You’ll see. Please, I beg of you, give me a chance to do this. If it isn’t a success immediately I’ll stop it.’