Sentence The Fortyseventh
By this time, Dearest Maudie, together with Cecilia, Lettice, Grizzel and Tuffy, was ensconced in the bar of the Lyceum Theatre, and all five friends were getting quite quietly inebriated; they had taken a taxi from the Copper Kettle Tearoom, having eaten their fill of scones and pastries and drunk enough tea and coffee to keep the scones and pastries well afloat in their tummies; now they were on their
third bottle of Pinot Rigio and were celebrating Tuffy Ladywood's Birthday which had occurred just two months before, with toasts and cries of “for she's a jolly good fellow,” which none of them could deny; which was when, through a slight haze, or smearing of the lenses of her spectacles, Maude rather thought that she recognized one of the small knot of actors standing at the bar, drinking either whisky or Irn Bru – in this light, thought Maude, it was quite difficult to distinguish between the two; the actors appeared to be wearing their costumes for the current production of Gay's The Beggar's Opera, alternating with Brecht's The Threepenny Opera, performances of which Maude and Daphne had seen on consecutive nights just a week ago – oh, gosh, she reflected, so much has happened in the past week, it feels more like a month since we were last here, and she began to concentrate her attention on the one particular actor (or actress, the now non-pc appellation which, to be honest, came more readily to her mind and lips in the context of the theatre, than the non-sexist replacement, which she always felt more masculine in its tone) and tried to identify her familiar – and very strikingly
attractive - face, and now reclining on the bar-counter, in a divine parody of dear Marlene Deitrich, and lo! for some curious reason she could not identify, she recalled meeting lovely John Gielguid when she was a very young student at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama, before she realised that 'play-acting' (the pejorative her mother always applied to the stage) was actually, to be brutally frank with herself (not that she'd ever encountered a truly Brutal Frank deo gratia) was not quite her forte and devoted her energies and talents to History and a professional, as well as romantic, partnership with her beloved Darling Daphne, and she wondered where Daphne could be now, thinking that she will be disappointed to find she had missed this opportunity of an afternoon with some of their closest and dearest of friends; now why had Sir John popped into her head, as he had
once popped into her bed – not for sex, she almost laughed out loud as he recalled the incident, quite like something out of a French farce, because the poor man wanted a Director to think he was straight and had come up with the proof of it, apparently seducing one of the pretty young girls from the Academy- when everyone knew that the boy, aged up by his make-up and wig, playing the Sexton in Hamlet (she gave an involuntary shiver as she remembered handling Yorick's skull backstage and having it whispered in her ear that it came from a murderer, hanged a few years earlier) was his true inamorato - but the Director never looked into the room and so the charade was all for naught, but still brought a smile to her lips and she remembered that the actress she had recognised was Bunty Longformacus, playing Polly Peachum in both productions and giving spirited, committed performances in each – they were the kind of roles Maude would have loved to play, if she had been talented enough, for she was, still, an extremely feminine woman, who loved to wear silks and satins, felt extremely comfortable in her afternoon Tea Dress, so different from her usual working clothes which, though not so rugged as those Daphne was obliged to affect – for how could one work on archaeological digs in a flowery print frock and sheer stockings – oh she rather liked the stridulation made when silk-legged thighs rubbed together as one walked, and how the sound could be increased in volume, just one of the many skills she had acquired at the RSAMD – were still chosen for practicality more than looks and style; Maude missed the backstage life, the wardrobe with its rack upon rack of costumes and clothes, shoes, boots, hats of every hue, suits of chain-mail (silvered string knitted by an army of out-workers) - which any dealer fingering the fabrics and paste jewellery, and giving not a whit for their place on the stage, in the people they clothed and the characters they helped create, would have valued them by sheer commercial floccinaucinihilipilification, as worth but a few sheckels a pound-weight, so sad, so sad – then the smell of greasepaint and all the wonders of modern make-up; was that it, she wondered and her eyes sought out the girl she had recognised earlier, found her and concentrated intently on her face- yes, she was sure, it was not really from the performances she had applauded last week that she recognised her – though that was still true - it was from the day that Daphne had been trapped in the oubliette far below the bustling High Street, when Maud had been sitting on a bench tackling a crossword; she remembered glancing up and noticing the girl – dressed very differently now, but with the same dramatic make-up, hurrying from the direction of the City Chambers, checking a wristwatch and then taking out from her handbag a mobile phone and answering a call; to Maude, she had seemed distracted, intent, and very determined – speaking quickly into her phone and then making another call, before turning on her heel and hurrying away in a slightly different direction from whence she had come; there was something in the little cameo that disturbed Maude, which had caused her to fold up her newspaper, replace it in her bag, and make her own way towards the door through which Daphne had entered the warren of store-rooms, closes, ancient dwellings and cells, down endless flights of stairs, in search of Daphne and desperately hoping all the while that she would be in time – she had encountered her niece Roxy Davidova and together they had followed a route which eventually led them to the trapdoor in the floor which was double bolted and, once opened, revealed her adored soul-mate - in what could, so easily have been her swan song, the very thought of which brought involuntary tears to Maude's eyes; so was this girl, Bunty Longformacus (that name, how strange, thought Maude) involved somehow; she closed her eyes briefly, opened them and scanned the group of actors and actresses, in vain – Bunty Lonformacus had gone!
By this time, Dearest Maudie, together with Cecilia, Lettice, Grizzel and Tuffy, was ensconced in the bar of the Lyceum Theatre, and all five friends were getting quite quietly inebriated; they had taken a taxi from the Copper Kettle Tearoom, having eaten their fill of scones and pastries and drunk enough tea and coffee to keep the scones and pastries well afloat in their tummies; now they were on their
third bottle of Pinot Rigio and were celebrating Tuffy Ladywood's Birthday which had occurred just two months before, with toasts and cries of “for she's a jolly good fellow,” which none of them could deny; which was when, through a slight haze, or smearing of the lenses of her spectacles, Maude rather thought that she recognized one of the small knot of actors standing at the bar, drinking either whisky or Irn Bru – in this light, thought Maude, it was quite difficult to distinguish between the two; the actors appeared to be wearing their costumes for the current production of Gay's The Beggar's Opera, alternating with Brecht's The Threepenny Opera, performances of which Maude and Daphne had seen on consecutive nights just a week ago – oh, gosh, she reflected, so much has happened in the past week, it feels more like a month since we were last here, and she began to concentrate her attention on the one particular actor (or actress, the now non-pc appellation which, to be honest, came more readily to her mind and lips in the context of the theatre, than the non-sexist replacement, which she always felt more masculine in its tone) and tried to identify her familiar – and very strikingly
attractive - face, and now reclining on the bar-counter, in a divine parody of dear Marlene Deitrich, and lo! for some curious reason she could not identify, she recalled meeting lovely John Gielguid when she was a very young student at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama, before she realised that 'play-acting' (the pejorative her mother always applied to the stage) was actually, to be brutally frank with herself (not that she'd ever encountered a truly Brutal Frank deo gratia) was not quite her forte and devoted her energies and talents to History and a professional, as well as romantic, partnership with her beloved Darling Daphne, and she wondered where Daphne could be now, thinking that she will be disappointed to find she had missed this opportunity of an afternoon with some of their closest and dearest of friends; now why had Sir John popped into her head, as he had
once popped into her bed – not for sex, she almost laughed out loud as he recalled the incident, quite like something out of a French farce, because the poor man wanted a Director to think he was straight and had come up with the proof of it, apparently seducing one of the pretty young girls from the Academy- when everyone knew that the boy, aged up by his make-up and wig, playing the Sexton in Hamlet (she gave an involuntary shiver as she remembered handling Yorick's skull backstage and having it whispered in her ear that it came from a murderer, hanged a few years earlier) was his true inamorato - but the Director never looked into the room and so the charade was all for naught, but still brought a smile to her lips and she remembered that the actress she had recognised was Bunty Longformacus, playing Polly Peachum in both productions and giving spirited, committed performances in each – they were the kind of roles Maude would have loved to play, if she had been talented enough, for she was, still, an extremely feminine woman, who loved to wear silks and satins, felt extremely comfortable in her afternoon Tea Dress, so different from her usual working clothes which, though not so rugged as those Daphne was obliged to affect – for how could one work on archaeological digs in a flowery print frock and sheer stockings – oh she rather liked the stridulation made when silk-legged thighs rubbed together as one walked, and how the sound could be increased in volume, just one of the many skills she had acquired at the RSAMD – were still chosen for practicality more than looks and style; Maude missed the backstage life, the wardrobe with its rack upon rack of costumes and clothes, shoes, boots, hats of every hue, suits of chain-mail (silvered string knitted by an army of out-workers) - which any dealer fingering the fabrics and paste jewellery, and giving not a whit for their place on the stage, in the people they clothed and the characters they helped create, would have valued them by sheer commercial floccinaucinihilipilification, as worth but a few sheckels a pound-weight, so sad, so sad – then the smell of greasepaint and all the wonders of modern make-up; was that it, she wondered and her eyes sought out the girl she had recognised earlier, found her and concentrated intently on her face- yes, she was sure, it was not really from the performances she had applauded last week that she recognised her – though that was still true - it was from the day that Daphne had been trapped in the oubliette far below the bustling High Street, when Maud had been sitting on a bench tackling a crossword; she remembered glancing up and noticing the girl – dressed very differently now, but with the same dramatic make-up, hurrying from the direction of the City Chambers, checking a wristwatch and then taking out from her handbag a mobile phone and answering a call; to Maude, she had seemed distracted, intent, and very determined – speaking quickly into her phone and then making another call, before turning on her heel and hurrying away in a slightly different direction from whence she had come; there was something in the little cameo that disturbed Maude, which had caused her to fold up her newspaper, replace it in her bag, and make her own way towards the door through which Daphne had entered the warren of store-rooms, closes, ancient dwellings and cells, down endless flights of stairs, in search of Daphne and desperately hoping all the while that she would be in time – she had encountered her niece Roxy Davidova and together they had followed a route which eventually led them to the trapdoor in the floor which was double bolted and, once opened, revealed her adored soul-mate - in what could, so easily have been her swan song, the very thought of which brought involuntary tears to Maude's eyes; so was this girl, Bunty Longformacus (that name, how strange, thought Maude) involved somehow; she closed her eyes briefly, opened them and scanned the group of actors and actresses, in vain – Bunty Lonformacus had gone!
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