Jean Plaidy - Goddess of the Green Room

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.’

‘Sing for me now,’ said Wilkinson, expecting a moderately good voice, for had it not been so she would not have wished to use it.

But when she sang Melton Oysters she won his instant approval. This young woman had all the gifts an actress needed for success – an exciting personality which was entirely individual; a trim figure, neat yet voluptuous; a face that while not beautiful was piquant, jaunty and irresistible when she smiled; a voice that made her rendering of her lines a joy to listen to; and in addition she could sing with such feeling, charm and sweetness that she must enchant all who heard her. He was beginning to be glad her mother had brought her to the inn that day. But why had they left Dublin? Why hadn’t some manager there determined to keep such a talented creature?

He had billed her as Dorothy Bland and she told him that that must be changed. She was Dorothy Francis. She was talking of this to Grace when she suddenly realized that if she made a success of a part it was not unlikely that Daly would hear of it; and he would then know where she was.

‘I must change my name at once,’ she declared. ‘Dorothy Francis must not appear on a play-bill that could fall into Daly’s hands.’

Grace agreed that this was so and Dorothy who had in this short time found that she could talk over her problems with Wilkinson went to see him.

‘There is something I must tell you,’ she said. ‘I am to have a child.’

His face fell. Actresses constantly became pregnant and usually did not manage to lose much working time because of this event, but he had not considered this would happen to Dorothy and that it was already about to was a shock. On the other hand it might explain her flight from Dublin, and if it were an emotional entanglement that was not so disturbing to him as a theatrical upheaval.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘In six months’ time.’

‘Six months… well, that gives us a little time.’

She was relieved. ‘I shall work up to the last minute. But I wish to change my name.’

He nodded. ‘That shouldn’t be a great difficulty.’

‘In the circumstances I prefer to be known as Mrs.’

‘Naturally. You don’t want Bland?’

‘No, my father’s people object to that.’

‘And you can’t be Phillips because of your aunt. We don’t want two actresses of that name. It could be confusing. I might call you Jordan because you’ve just crossed the river.’

He had spoken jocularly, but she said: ‘Mrs Jordan. Dorothy Jordan. That’s as good as any other.’

So from then she was known as Mrs Dorothy Jordan.

She was a success. No sooner had she appeared in a simple muslin dress and a mobcap and had sung The Greenwood Laddie than she knew she had made an excellent start. What did it matter that the tragic Callista had died? She was resurrected in the enchanting form of Dorothy Jordan, and she sang for them so delightfully that they would not let her stop in a hurry.

She stood accepting their acclaim. One of these days, she thought, I’ll play comedy; I’ll sing and dance; and I’ll refuse to play parts like Callista.

For the time, though, she would be glad of what she could get; and she could not believe that it was a short while ago that she had been planning her escape from the villainous Daly.

If that man did not exist, if she did not carry the fruit of his lechery within her, she could be completely happy. But she would be happy. Although the child had been forced on her she would love it when it came. As for her contract with Daly, she would do her best to forget it. Tate Wilkinson was pleased with her.

Life in the theatre had taught her not to expect too much, and while her success pleased the family and Mr Wilkinson it was not received so enthusiastically by some members of the company. Who is this Dorothy Jordan? some of the female members of the company wanted to know. Why should she appear from nowhere and suddenly take the best parts? How had she managed to win public approval? Wilkinson has done more for her than he ever did for us.

The old envies were beginning to rise.

‘The devil take them!’ cried Dorothy. ‘They’ll get as good as they give.’

‘Mrs Jordan,’ said Mrs Smith, one of the leading ladies who had not only a following with the public but a husband to substantiate her right to the title of Mrs. ‘Where is Mr Jordan then – for I’ll swear the woman’s pregnant!’

Mrs Smith herself was in that condition and, as she said, proud of it. One did wonder about Mrs Jordan who had appeared suddenly in their midst with her faintly Irish accent which some people seemed to find so fascinating, and her forward ways. And if she were pregnant that might account for her sudden appearance. She was running away from the scene of her shame with some tale of having recently become a widow. Or at least if she had not deigned to tell such a tale, it was what she implied.

Mrs Smith would stand in the wings while Dorothy was on stage and criticize her acting audibly. Dorothy laughed. She could always do the same for Mrs Smith.

Mrs Smith imitated Dorothy and went round singing Melton Oysters and Greenwood Laddie; but her singing voice was not of the same calibre as Dorothy’s and this attempt was a failure. She talked to her friends of the poverty of Dorothy’s acting. Grace was furious and joined in the battle on behalf of her daughter. She would come to the theatre and groan whenever Mrs Smith appeared, demanding of all within earshot what the theatre was coming to when people like that were allowed to perform. Tate Wilkinson turned away from these battles, which were familiar enough in the theatre.

Meanwhile Dorothy had scored her greatest success to that time as Priscilla Tomboy in The Romp. There was no doubt that this was the kind of part in which she excelled. Small and dainty with great vitality and a rare ability to clown she had the house shrieking with laughter. She followed that with Arionelli in The Son-in-Law; and the fact that she wore breeches and took this male part enhanced her reputation. Audiences wanted to laugh and Dorothy Jordan could make them do so. They wanted to see a fine pair of legs and she could offer these as well. No member of Tate Wilkinson’s company looked quite so well in male costume as Dorothy Jordan.

‘In a few months it will be different,’ said Mrs Smith gleefully. She was delighted because though Dorothy might be able to get ahead of her during her enforced absence Dorothy would have one of her own to follow, when she could be reduced to her proper place.