The Serpent's Sting Read Free Page A

him with the even more grotesque spectacle of being fully made-up, but wigless.
    â€˜Darling,’ Mother said, ‘perhaps a robe might be a good idea.’
    I was in such a discombobulated state that it hadn’t occurred to me to cover myself. I did so, but almost casually, as if I saw no need to be frantic about my nakedness.
    â€˜You were marvellous, darling,’ Mother said, and then typically spoiled it, rather, by adding, ‘and isn’t it lovely that we came backstage, because I wasn’t quite sure which one you were.’
    Wrapping myself in a bathrobe only eased my discomfort minimally. Brian made no attempt to disguise his delight at finding me reduced to a pantomime dame.
    â€˜You really should learn how to walk in heels,’ he said. ‘I could’ve taught you, if you’d thought to ask.’
    He could have taught me, it was true. Brian, who’d played the femme in the Concert Party shows, had become an accomplished wearer of female shoes.
    Peter Gilbert made the formal introductions of his two children, even though Cloris had got there first, in her case. Cloris was, I recalled, twenty-eight, and John, twenty-six. Cloris must have resembled her late mother, and although she was no beauty, she had a striking face. It was strong, but not masculine. It was the face of a young Ethel Barrymore, perhaps. John Gilbert resembled his father very strongly. It pains me to say that he was a good-looking man, although his features were tensed into an unpleasant, continuous sneer. Despite his name, he looked nothing like John Gilbert, the actor. He hadn’t been named after him, as his father had once been at pains to point out to me. If he resembled anyone, it was the tragic Wally Reid, although I couldn’t imagine John Gilbert descending into morphine addiction, and dying in a padded cell, as Reid had done.
    The gathering in the dressing room was blessedly brief. Its main purpose, apart from humiliating me, was to let me know that Mother had acquired a good piece of beef — she rarely had difficulty acquiring good meat, which, although it wasn’t yet rationed, was nevertheless expensive and hard to come by. Mother had proved quite an adept at exploiting the local black market since the war began.
    â€˜Black market is such an ugly, misleading term,’ she used to say. ‘The home front is a theatre of war, too, and we all do what we can. If good meat is there, and I can get it, to do anything else would be irresponsible and wasteful. And would do nothing for morale, and morale wins wars.’
    I was glad to accept this invitation to dinner. Although I lived in the same house as Mother, I’d made it my business to be unavailable for most evening meals. I didn’t want to talk to Peter Gilbert, who seemed determined to ingratiate himself as my future stepfather — an absurd term, given my age, and his.
    This dinner would be my first opportunity to properly assess the two people who would soon be my stepsiblings. I know it’s completely illogical, but I didn’t object to that term in relation to them. Mother’s marriage to Peter Gilbert was scheduled for 15 January 1943, and although, as I think I’ve made clear, I couldn’t see myself warming to Peter Gilbert, I have a sufficient reservoir of grace to sympathise unconditionally with his and Mother’s profound grief following the death of their son, and my half-brother, Fulton. Despite such natural sympathy, it was unlikely that it would transmute into affection. With no expectation that I would develop finer feelings for Peter Gilbert, the probability that I would embrace his children was remote, particularly after our awkward and undignified initial meeting in the dressing room. I couldn’t help but feel that I was at something of a disadvantage, having been seen naked by them and not having seen either of them naked in return.
    Not long after my visitors had left, Jim Stokes