Deborah Crombie - Leave The Grave Green

Gemma’s furniture and most of their belongings had been stored in the back of her parents’ bakery in Leyton High Street. Her mum had shaken her faded red curls and tut-tutted. “What were you thinking of, love?”

A quiet, tree-lined street with a park at its end. A green, walled garden, filled with interesting nooks and crannies for a little boy to hide in. A secret place, filled with possibilities . But Gemma had merely said, “I like it, Mum. And it’s nearer the Yard,” doubting her mother would understand.

She felt stripped clean, pared down to essentials, serene in the room’s black-and-gray simplicity.

Or at least she had until this morning. She frowned, wondering again what had made her feel so unsettled, and the image of twelve-year-old Matthew Asherton came unbidden to her mind.

She rose, put two slices of brown bread in the toaster that stood on the tabletop and went to kiss Toby awake.

Having deposited Toby at her mum’s, Gemma took the tube to Charing Cross. As the train pulled away, the rush of wind down the tunnel whipped her skirt around her knees and she hugged the lapels of her jacket together. She left the station and entered the pedestrian mall behind St. Martin-in-the-Fields, and rounding the church into St. Martin’s Lane she found the outside no better. A gust of north wind funneled down the street, flinging grit and scraps of paper and leaving tiny whirlwinds in its wake.

She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and blinked several times to clear them, then looked about her. Before her on the corner stood the Chandos Pub, and just beyond it a black-on-white vertical sign said LONDON COLISEUM. Blue and white banners emblazoned with the letters ENO surrounded it and drew her eyes upward. Against the blue-washed canvas of the sky, the ornate white cupola stood out sharply. Near the top of the dome, white letters spelled out ENGLISH NATIONAL OPERA rather sedately, and Gemma thought they must be lit at night.

Something tugged at her memory and she realized she’d been here before. She and Rob had been to a play at the Albury Theatre up the street, and afterward had stopped for a drink at the Chandos. It had been a warm night and they’d taken their drinks outside, escaping the smoky crush in the bar. Gemma remembered sipping her Pimm’s and watching the operagoers spill out onto the pavement, their faces animated, hands moving with quick gestures as they dissected the performance. “It might be fun,” she’d said rather wistfully to Rob.

He had smiled in his condescending way and said, light voice mocking, “Old cows in silly costumes screeching their lungs out? Don’t be stupid, Gem.”

Gemma smiled now, thinking of the photo she’d seen of Caroline Stowe. Rob would’ve fallen over himself if he’d come face-to-face with her. Old cow, indeed. He’d never know what he had missed.

She pushed through the lobby doors, feeling a small surge of excitement at her own entrance into this glamorous fairy-tale world. “Alison Douglas,” she said to the heavy gray-haired woman at the reception desk. “The orchestra manager’s assistant. I’ve an appointment with her.”

“You’ll have to go round the back, then, ducks,” the woman answered in less than rarified accents. She made a looping motion with her finger. “Round the block, next the loading bay.”

Feeling somewhat chastened, Gemma left the plush-and-gilt warmth of the lobby and circled the block in the indicated direction. She found herself in an alleylike street lined with pub and restaurant delivery entrances. With its concrete steps and peeling paint, the stage entrance to the London Coliseum was distinguished only by the increasingly familiar ENO logo near the door. Gemma climbed up and stepped inside, looking around curiously at the small lino-floored reception area.

To her left a porter sat inside a glass-windowed kiosk; just ahead another door barred the way into what must be the inner sanctum. She announced herself to the porter and he smiled as he handed her a sign-in sheet on a clipboard. He was young, with a freckled face and brown hair that looked suspiciously as if it were growing out from a Mohawk cut. Gemma looked more closely, saw the tiny puncture in his earlobe which should have held an earring. He’d made a valiant effort to clean up for the job, no doubt.

“I’ll just give Miss Alison a ring,” he said as he handed her a sticky badge to wear. “She’ll be right down for you.” He picked up the phone and murmured something incomprehensible into it.

Gemma wondered if he’d been on duty after last Thursday evening’s performance. His friendly grin augured well for an interview, but she had better wait until she wouldn’t be interrupted.

Church bells began to ring close by. “St. Martin’s?” she asked.

He nodded, checking the clock on the wall behind him. “Eleven o’clock on the dot. You can set your watch by it.”

Was there a congregation for eleven o’clock services, Gemma wondered, or did the church cater solely to tourists?

Remembering how surprised she’d been when Alison Douglas had agreed to see her this morning, she asked the porter, “Business as usual here, even on a Sunday morning?”

He displayed the grin. “Sunday matinee. One of our biggest draws, especially when it’s something as popular as Traviata ”

Puzzled, Gemma tugged her notebook from her purse and flipped quickly through it. “ Pelleas and Melisande . I thought you were doing Pelleas and Melisande .”

“Thursdays and Saturdays. Productions-”

The inner door opened and he paused as a young woman came through, then continued to Gemma, “You’ll see.” He winked at her. “Alison’ll make sure you do.”

“I’m Alison Douglas.” Her cool hand clasped Gemma’s firmly. “Don’t mind Danny. What can I do for you?”

Gemma took in the short light brown hair, black sweater and skirt, platform shoes, which didn’t quite raise her to Gemma’s height, but Alison Douglas’s most notable characteristic was an air of taking herself quite seriously.

“Is there somewhere we could talk? Your office, perhaps?”

Alison hesitated, then opened the inner door, indicating by a jerk of her head that Gemma should precede her through it. “You’d better come along in, then. Look,” she added, “we’ve a performance in just under three hours and I’ve things I absolutely must do. If you don’t mind following along behind me we can talk as we go.”

“All right,” Gemma agreed, doubting she’d get a better offer. They had entered a subterranean maze of dark green corridors. Already lost, Gemma followed hard on Alison Douglas’s heels as they twisted and turned, went up, down and around. Occasionally, she looked down at the dirty green carpet beneath her feet, wondering if she recognized the pattern of that particular stain. Could she follow them like Hansel and Gretel’s bread crumbs? The smells of damp and disinfectant made her want to sneeze.

Alison turned back to speak to her, stopped suddenly and smiled. Gemma felt sure her bewilderment had been entirely visible, and thought for once she ought to be grateful her every emotion registered on her face.

“Back-of-house,” Alison said, her brusque manner softening for the first time. “That’s what all the unglamorous bits are called. It’s quite a shock if one’s never been backstage, isn’t it? But this is the heart of the theater. Without this”-she gestured expansively around her-“nothing happens out front.”

“The show doesn’t go on?”

“Exactly.”

Gemma suspected that the key to loosening Alison Douglas’s tongue was her work. “Miss Douglas, I’m not sure I understand what you do.”

Alison moved forward again as she spoke. “My boss-Michael Blake-and I are responsible for all the administrative details of the running of the orchestra. We-” Glancing at Gemma’s face, she hesitated, seeming to search for a less complicated explanation. “We make sure everything and everyone are where they should be when they should be. It can be quite a demanding business. And Michael’s away for a few days just now.”