‘Umm, no. What on earth is it for?’ she said.
‘Gin, of course. Would you care for a glass? I’ve had greater success with my other batches.’
‘Perhaps we should clear away the broken glass first?’
Blythe simply handed Kelsey the dustpan and a long-handled brush and shuffled out of the room.
It took ten minutes for Kelsey to sweep up the shards and wipe down the surfaces, and all the while she could hear Blythe singing, ‘the rain it raineth every day,’ in the next room.
‘Aren’t you done yet?’ Blythe called out just as Kelsey finished washing her hands and was on her way into the sitting room. ‘Oh, you’re not going to start gawping around the walls again, are you?’
Blythe was installed centre stage on a faded dusky pink velvet armchair surrounded on all sides by cabinets stuffed full of curious objects.
Kelsey could make out a pair of delicate lace gloves posed on elegant display hands reminiscent of a nineteen forties’ fashion house in a Hollywood movie, a white handkerchief embroidered with strawberries, a fan painted with an Arcadian scene and a strange white mask that gave her the creeps. All of these were enclosed behind glass and arranged with a thousand other dainty objects, each more intriguing than the next.
‘Sit, down, Miss…’
‘Anderson. Kelsey Anderson. I’m your neighbour, actually. I live upstairs in 2B,’ she replied as she sat on a plump green upholstered stool with gold fringing. Blythe had arranged a silver tray on the low table between them and on it sat a dish of sliced Madeira cake and two small glasses with short stems filled to the brim with clear liquid. Kelsey could have sworn there were vapours rising from the drinks.
‘This is my finest. Heavy on the juniper. Try it.’ Blythe’s violet eyes sparkled. She had removed the mad scientist goggles and arranged her hair neatly in silky white curtains pinned back behind one ear with a large pink paper rose. Seeing Kelsey’s eyes pass over the bloom, Blythe said, ‘One should make an effort for cocktail hour, don’t you think?’ before reaching for her glass, raising it to her delicately painted pink lips, and muttering a quick, ‘Good health.’ She tipped her white head back, swallowing the whole measure in one gulp, like a student downing happy hour shots at the union bar. Her glass clicking back down on the silver tray sounded like a challenge to Kelsey to do the same, so as Blythe nibbled a slice of cake, a linen napkin spread daintily over her lap, Kelsey lifted her glass and tried a sip.
‘Hough!’ The words she was trying to say burned up in her throat as the spirit headed straight for her bloodstream, stopping to remove at least one layer of skin on the way.
Blythe chuckled and dabbed at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. ‘Delicious, isn’t it?’
‘It’s certainly strong. No tonic?’
‘Too much faff goes into serving gin these days. If you so much as put a slice of lime or a head of lavender anywhere near my gin, you’d send me prematurely to my grave.’
‘You’re a purist?’ Kelsey grinned.
‘I don’t go to the trouble of distilling my own liquor for it to be namby-pambied up with a lot of unnecessary nonsense.’ Blythe’s sharp nod told Kelsey this was her last word on the subject.
‘So,’ Kelsey cleared her throat. ‘Mr Ferdinand said you were an actress?’
‘That’s right, ten years without a break on stage at the Old Vic and Stratford… and other bits and bobs here and there. Interested in the theatre, are you?’
‘Very much.’ Kelsey couldn’t help her beaming smile.
‘Well, I made my debut in a leading role in nineteen sixty-three, just a child I was then, but I’d beendiscoveredand I was going to be one of the youngest Ophelias ever to set foot on an English stage. Her Majesty the Queen was in the royal box on opening night.’
‘Wow!’
‘Exactly that. Now, where do you want me?’
‘Mmm?’
‘You’re here to take my picture, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, of course. Just there in your chair is fine. Mr Ferdinand asked me to photograph you with an old theatre prop. Is that OK?’
‘Darling, Iaman old theatre prop.’ Blythe cast her eyes over the cabinets. ‘Pass me the veil.’
Kelsey followed Blythe’s gaze to a corner cabinet housing a dummy head in a long brown wig with a dramatic black lace headdress over it; half the dummy’s face was obscured with delicate black filigree.
‘Careful with that, it must be over fifty years old. I wore this as the Duchess of Malfi, you know?’
As Kelsey lifted it out of the cabinet, she spotted a picture in its frame of a young woman wearing the very same veil with a long black gown in a medieval Italian style, a swollen stomach accentuated by the folds of the dress.
