short story At the Theatre

This story was awarded SPECIAL MENTION in an American short story competition.
Will it find a publisher? It is all internal workings. There is no sensational plot, no shocking twist, no journalistic headline, no arcane jargon. It all perception. It is my homage to Katherine Mansfield.

At the Theatre


Her laugh resonated in the gloom of the theatre; a metallic, lonely clatter coming seconds after the audience had fallen silent. Such a simple sound, like a nickel being dropped into a battered tin cup. It caused Lauren to jump in her seat.

It was cold in the auditorium. Snow was forecast but the house manager had not seen fit to turn up the heating. Lauren shifted, wrapping her sweater tightly around her midriff.

And there - again - seconds after the collective chortle of the audience had subsided – a clattering hollow ha-ha, coming...Lauren looked around, discreetly, turning her head first right, then left.

Just a row or two in front, or somewhere along the side...somewhere – ah, again. The disruption was quite unsettling. There. The offender. A row in front several seats along to the right. A woman. Young-ish. Lauren lent forward slightly...dark hair cut in a neat line below her ears. She was not alone. Next to her sat an older man, his white hair like crumpled gauze. Lauren held her breath, embarrassed on their behalf. Those sitting nearby had thrown irritated looks in their direction.



Hee-hee... Oh! Lauren’s heart skipped. A complex message was concealed in that jarring sound - who is she? The older man jerked towards his companion – so, he too was startled.

The bright theatrical sunspots bathed the stage, creating circles of white and gold and pale blue. The number was a witty duet. A handsome young hero and his voluptuous mistress rustled from one end of the proscenium arch to the other in folds of silk and satin. Laughter rolled through the theatre with the ease of a lapping wave. Lauren wriggled. Her date glanced at her... a brief flit of the eyes and a slight movement of the head. Concerned. She mouthed, ‘Sorry’. This was their sixth date. His name was Evan, and he loved musical comedy. Lauren had told him she tended to prefer Chekhov.

The following outburst was much softer, and consisted of part hoot, part giggle. It stopped abruptly when the man touched her shoulder. Evan glanced in the girl’s direction, and tsked under his breath. Tsk tsk to you, Lauren thought. They had been introduced by a colleague, a woman who thought they had a lot in common.

The girl was much younger than her companion, by several generations even. Quite suddenly, she emitted a deep sigh, as if all air was leaving her, and leaned into him, utterly deflated. Were they lovers? The thought came upon Lauren in a flash, and caused her to change position again so that she could get a better view. Are you ok? whispered Evan out of the side of his mouth, spraying her cheek with tiny droplets of spit. Yes, sorry, don’t mean to, Lauren whispered back. She was a client of the arts promotion company for which Evan worked. They had been instantly attracted to one another. Out of the corner of her eye, Lauren scanned his profile. Angular. Small jut of the chin. Nervy.

The play was dancing along, and the songs came belting from the stage, each tune a snappy composition. The atmosphere was infused with merriment. The girl’s laugh was coming more rapidly now, almost in sync with those around, but much more quietly too…was she running out of steam, disenchanted with this lark? But no, she turned around and gazed unseeingly into the dark space. A small look of delight spread across her face. Her very pretty face. Artless. Big dark eyes, clean elegant small chin, tilted up towards her small straight nose. I do so want to please, her looks said…I do so want to please you, her body added. To please him? Lauren wondered. She considered the man: he appeared big, bulky; although it was difficult for Lauren to be certain about this. His jacket appeared to be tweed. A cravat poked above the collar. Clearly, he was not amused by the frolics on stage.





At the interval Lauren stayed in her seat because they did. Evan wandered into the lobby to get an ice-cream. ‘Sure you don’t want one? Dinner’s a way off.’ No, she wouldn’t, and patted her stomach with a girlish laugh.

Lauren watched her couple. They were chatting though she couldn’t hear exactly what was being said. Then the girl stood up, and both Lauren and the man admired her slim long line. The word tailored occurred to Lauren but she dismissed it, no, not quite…there was a coltish quality...she might have been somewhere in her twenties, with a face that seemed at once younger than that and yet, also, quite…knowing. Lauren assumed she was at least ten years older, yet something in the nonchalant manner of the younger woman made Lauren feel naïve, as if she had yet to experience something of vital importance in her life.

The girl leaned on the back of a seat, legs slightly splayed like a boy, and her dark eyes fluttered from him to the clusters of people moving up and down the aisles. She caught Lauren’s eye, and Lauren smiled, a spark of intimacy. The girl returned it, with a hint of disdain. She must know I have been watching her and she would not like that, thought Lauren. She has built her identity on making herself, if not exactly invisible, then irrelevant to the crowd; and now I have violated her with my curiosity. And to her, she wondered, what was this crowd…this large mass of living, chattering, breathing human matter…


The stream of audience grew thicker. They must have rung the end of interval bell. Lauren pulled her knees up, twisting to one side to let Evan pass and take up his seat.
- People seem to be enjoying it, he commented. It was a preview night, for which Evan had been given complimentary tickets. Real buzz in the air, he continued, looking around.
- Hmm, she rearranged herself. Now the old man was standing too, a hand in his trouser pocket. He was looking straight at Lauren who tugged her skirt down to her knees in embarrassment. Had he seen her underwear? His eyes were green; they were surprising, not for any extraordinary depth of expression or shock of colour but because they were not blue. In the murkiness of the first half, Lauren had imagined him with blue eyes, watered down and sad, old man eyes. Now, seeing the careful movement of his smile, she knew this man was used to being watched, like someone famous.
- I think she’s excellent, the lead, what’s her name, Evan flicked through the programme.
- Yes, very engaging. Lauren wondered if he was a politician or a writer.
- You’re enjoying it? Evan turned to her with a broad grin which reflected perfectly a nervous inclination to optimism. Lauren suppressed a twinge of irritation.
- Charming, she murmured.



Her old man jiggled the change in his pocket. Familiar, yes, but perhaps it was simply a face that conjured childhood memories of grand old men with white hair and twinkling eyes, like Santa or God, though this old man was slightly bent as if he lived in a place where a strong wind always blew.
- I think it’s a pastiche of a 1930s musical. Evan was eager to discuss it,
warmed by her apparent interest.
She nodded. Not now, Lauren thought, later, over dinner we’ll chat, and he can give me a comprehensive account of the play, and I’ll listen, I really will. She could be a good listener, and, gradually, she would be persuaded by his enthusiasm.

Lauren leaned forward in an exaggerated manner, her arms on the back of the seat in front. She could just pick up their conversation without appearing to eavesdrop. The girl was chattering about whether our hero would fall for his mousy heiress; or would she wise up to the fraud perpetrated by her handsome prince? Lauren wanted to jump in, oh surely the mistress would win the day! Her charm is splendidly vulgar, her desire so brazen. But, her response might be, the wife is so sweet, so pure, so… harmless. And you, are you his wife, you who are so young, so sweet, is this man standing next to you with unequivocal green eyes and commanding profile yours?

He grunted, seemingly unaware of the hidden message in her babble, the desperation implicit in the rub of her head against his shoulder. Lauren wanted to shake him –
Damn you! You bastard, love her! In his stance was written decades, centuries even, of learning. As they sat down, Lauren was relieved to see him run a finger across her cheek. It was a tender gesture, almost paternal. An old family friend had once done something similar to her.

Maybe this aged man in silk foulard and sports jacket was her father. If he was, the distance between them would have opened up during her childhood. She would have been a lonely, scurrilous tom boy, half defiant, half pleading, a mystery and a nuisance to her glamorous, remote parents. Was he madly in love with her mother, a late marriage, a second wife, much younger even?

Or were they lovers? Lauren wanted them to be. She relished the image of his tough old flesh cushioned between her young thighs, holding on for dear life…Lauren imagined that for those private hours, he was bewitched and grateful, ridden with desire and the sheer astonishment of her youth.

The safety screen was raised, the lights dimmed, the orchestra struck up, and the curtain opened on a party. Chandeliers sparkled; long men in polished black dinner suits swaggered; women, effervescent in gold and silver, shimmered next to them. They sang and waltzed in swirling circles round and round the stage. Evan might have a point about musical comedies, Lauren conceded silently. It was all so lovely, so much


…fun. She giggled. Evan turned to her, a broadening smile once again animating his face. Lauren had been known to snort during moments of peak drama, but, tonight, tonight...oh…she squeezed his hand. He returned it, a strong crisp grip.

The young woman (or was she really a girl, Lauren couldn’t quite make up her mind) put her arm loosely around the shoulders of the old man (but he wasn’t really old). She was so eager to infect him with cheerfulness, with her pleasure at being on this Saturday night in a fashionable off-Broadway theatre participating in its magic…Lauren could feel the high spirits seeping into her. The girl swiveled from him – ah, a peck on his cheek – to the stage, then a quick look round at the audience, then back to him, and there, a pat on his back. Look, aren’t we all having a grand time, isn’t it good to be alive?

Lauren touched Evan’s hand, stroked the cup of his palm…and she willed the old man to respond to the girl, to run his finger down her cheek again. Evan pressed his fingertips to the inside of Lauren’s thigh. She crossed her legs to avert any further come-on, to stem the desire that had flared up in her. Later.

The play was galloping to a flamboyant finale – staccato duets, rip-roaring action. The hero and his sweet heroine were falling in love; the dastardly mistress was being swept aside, eyes flashing and voice on full throttle. The old man was surrendering to the gaiety. His shoulders jigged. And finally there came a belly laugh. His thaw was not the languid melt of an ice-cube on a summer’s day; rather it was the judder of ice taking leave of its berg in the warming current of a spring floe. He had no wish to leave the comfort of this frozen place, he simply couldn’t help himself. Her draped arm circled in on him, and as the play raced to a climax, Lauren could feel the girl’s will to love was gaining ground.

And then abruptly, he stood. In front of him on stage, under the glow of a silver round moon, our hero and heroine were singing a gentle tune, wrapped in each other’s arms. The audience was silent, rapt in these final moments of poignancy. The old man was creating a kerfuffle in the small area around his seat…shush! He persisted and motioned the girl to follow him. Flustered, they scrambled along the row to the right, away from Lauren.

Lauren jumped up, and pushed her way to the central aisle. There were grunts and harrumphs, but she didn’t care.

They had disappeared through the exit at the top of the theatre. Hurry, Lauren thought, or I will miss them. Damn you woman, move your bag. Ooh, she almost tripped over sprawled legs. Then she was clear. She ran to the lobby – just in time to see them push through the front doors of the theatre into the cold night.



She was right on their heels. The passenger door of the taxi slammed shut and the cab pulled into traffic, its left indicator blinking. Round the corner and – they were gone.

Light flakes had begun to fall, covering the sidewalk in a delicate film of white. The soft wet snow dissolved on Lauren’s flushed cheeks. She was breathing heavily.

She returned to the lobby. Alone again, save for a couple of ushers gossiping in a corner. Suddenly, Lauren felt so tired she was afraid she might sink slowly to the ground. Little tears of melted snow rolled off her chin.

And he came back to her, handsome and cheerful, down the years. It was a long and delicate face, set off by high cheekbones. Ah, my Tartar ancestors, he would joke, nose in the air to show off those bones, and then he would run his hand through a tuft of curly brown hair, always slightly tousled, even in later years when it began to recede. You look exactly like a mathematics professor, her father would tease. That’s because I am, he would retort, a typical joust in their friendship which had dated back to way before Lauren was born, to a time just after he’d escaped as a boy from Stalin’s Russia, and her father from Franco’s Spain, to wash up on the east coast of America. And he would chuckle… such a sweet noise.



He lived across the continent to Lauren and her family, on the other coast, California. Hal, her father would chide, Hal what are you doing there in all that sunshine? You should be here with us, in these dark, crowded streets. I like the palm trees, he’d reply indignant. They are strong and green, and they don’t ever die. He rolled the r of ever-rr for special emphasis, traces of his mysterious accent still audible.

He was the first adult Lauren saw cry. She was about six or seven at the time, hiding behind the kitchen door because she couldn’t sleep, late one night in their small suburban home. Hal had arrived unexpectedly that morning looking very unhappy. His girlfriend had left him. Don’t worry, she heard her mother comfort, a hint of exasperation in her voice, don’t worry, there will be others, you will find another. Lauren peeked through the opening of the kitchen door, and saw tears coursing down his beautiful cheeks as he slumped at the table. With a child’s uncanny sense of doom she thought it was much more than a silly girlfriend that was causing these tears to flow. Risking her parents’ wrath, she had skittered into the kitchen, jumped onto his lap, and had given him what had felt like the strongest hug of her short life. She still remembered the feeling of his wet nose on her small neck, burrowing for solace.

And there they were again. Lauren was fifteen, decked out in jeans and short t-shirt, on her way to a first date. And he had walked through the front door, swinging his familiar battered leather suitcase, and exclaimed in surprise on seeing her, what a woman, my god, you will one day rule the world! Followed by an appraising look and stern advice, remember they are a bunch of sniveling cowards, these young boys. Delivered with that sweet chuckle.

Summer. Lauren was just home from university. It had been hot and humid, a thunderstorm minutes away. She was stretched out on the hammock in the screened porch, too lazy to move, half-asleep. Even the birds had fallen silent. She did not know how long he had been watching her and whether he had intended to do anything. She doubted it. He was too correct. He bent down beside the hammock and murmured, Lauren, lovely Lauren, and then, in an even lower voice, how the young can be so indolent, so carefree. And gently pushed a curl off her forehead, damp with sweat. It was only a look between them, a second, perhaps two or three. Not more. It was enough. It never crossed her mind they could actually be lovers. She had been too young, too conventional. He had been too old, too responsible. Three years later he was dead. Road accident. And then just like that it was too late.

The front of house doors opened and people poured into the lobby, pulling on coats, stuffing programmes into bags. Evan appeared, looking anxiously at the milling crowd. She waved her hand, attracting his attention. Inexplicably, she was just so very happy to see him emerging from the horde, so lively and attentive and handsome. He waved back, with a small look of relief, and made his way to where she stood, her coat in a


bundle on the floor. He picked it up, and helped her into it. He did not make any comment about her sudden exit from the auditorium, just ‘You OK?’ She laced her arm through his, and said, ‘Let’s eat’. He hesitated, ‘You sure?’ She nodded. ‘It was a good play. Thank you.’ Reassured, he clasped her arm tightly to his body, and together, they went out into the slowly falling snow.