Chapter 38: The Second Toll
Once or twice, Troy jolted in his seat as the dialogue skipped a line or three ahead of what he remembered. The late night and early morning were catching up to him—not that he was that upset by the very late night, if he was being entirely honest—and his head occasionally drooped against his chest in the briefest of naps. He only hoped that neither Barnaby or his wife noticed; Cully might understand.
"'Good-bye, mother,'" Higgins said, leaning in to kiss her cheek, ignoring the younger woman on the stage. But before he reached her, he stepped back, greying hair shaking around his pale, thin face as he clenched his jaw. "'Oh, by the way, Eliza, order a ham and a Stilton cheese, will you?'" He waved a hand in the air, twirling his fingers as he remembered all the tasks he had meant to assign the night before, marking them off with his finger one by one.
"'And buy me a pair of reindeer gloves, number eights, and a tie to match that new suit of mine, at Eale & Binman's.'" He grinned as he glanced at Eliza—Cully—as though this was to be expected, it was normal. "'You can choose the color,'" he added, stepping towards her, happy to add this privilege to her task.
Cully—no, Eliza!—leaned away from him, but she did not move, just shaking her head, hardly enough to see. "'Buy them yourself,'" she said quietly. She stilled for a moment, just looking at the man before her as she clutched her skirt in one hand, drawing it away from the soles of her shoes; even at a distance, Troy knew that grip was firm and unafraid. Unyielding. He would not have been surprised to hear her give a quiet sigh as she spun away from Higgins, striding off stage with a few loud steps.
Perhaps Cully was born to be Eliza, he wondered. If nothing else, she did not soften her words or opinions, and she had never been afraid to walk out of anyone's life if it no longer suited her...especially his. The memory drove a shiver up his spine, and Troy found himself sitting up straighter, suddenly more awake.
"'I'm afraid you've spoiled that girl, Henry,'" Mrs. Higgins said, just touching her son's hand, the ruffled lace around the cuff obscuring what little Troy could see of her hand from this distance. "'But never mind, dear: I'll buy you the tie and gloves.'"
"'Oh, don't bother,'" the professor answered, his smile only growing broader as he tucked his hands into his pockets, elbows propped out like an overgrown boy. "'She'll buy 'em all right enough. Good-bye.'" This time, he managed to kiss his mother's lightly wrinkled cheek—how much makeup that required, Troy didn't want to know—before she too disappeared from the stage, leaving the brilliant man alone with his phonetics notes and the coins burning in his hands. Sliding his gaze back toward the audience, he laughed high and quiet before he left the stage from the opposite end.
Troy wasn't certain what to expect, now. So many times, his readings with Cully had gone on to notes the director had given, or back to a line in the text she wanted to review. But...surely this was the end? And so...what—
Around him, the applause broke forth. Glancing to either side—Barnaby on one, an unknown older woman with a hideous haircut and an old flowered dress on the other—Troy just followed their lead, clapping little by little. How loud was loud enough?
The roar was constant for at least fifteen seconds before a half dozen or so pairs of shoes scraped on the worn wood of the Causton Playhouse stage, the main cast emerging for their curtain call: Higgins, Pickering, Mrs. Pearce, Mrs. Higgins, Freddy, Clara, whatever-her-name-was (Freddy and Clara's mother), and... Eliza. Though he'd known she'd be beautiful in her costume, not really remembering it from the night before, he hadn't expected the pink and lace, the small flower at her waist, her short hair gently curled beneath her wide-brimmed hat. Though Eliza should have hair long enough to be styled, as an unmarried girl, Cully said, she had quite short hair; Pearson apparently had not budgeted for wigs.
Hand in hand, with Higgins and Eliza in the middle, the cast took a bow, then one more as the applause continued. Their hands rose, pointing up to the ceiling (Why bother?) and off to the sides of the stage (Really, they must just be tired and mad themselves.), before bowing one final time. Even at such a distance, Troy saw Cully's breathing was labored beneath a wide smile, ragged and deep as her chest rose and fell with each gulp of air.
With a squeal, the heavy, ancient curtain slid across the stage, gliding in fits before it finally concealed the stage and...all of them. The lights in the auditorium slowly came up again, Troy's eyes burning as they brought back the rows of theatergoers and the occasionally scratched rows of seats. Amidst a few last claps, the audience began to talk quietly amongst themselves. Really, what was it about the theater that made people whisper? He remembered the same when he saw Pinter here with Cully so long ago— He took a quick breath, the deep knot returning to his stomach as he leaned forward. It wasn't like he had meant anything by it, beyond politeness—or that she had either—
"Well, that was lovely, wasn't it!" the chief inspector's wife said, one of those still giving a little applause in the small theater, beaming with pride.
"Very lovely," Barnaby said, though Troy thought he was struggling against a yawn, his shoulders rising as though he was desperate to stretch.
"Oh—yes," Troy said, looking back at the curtain concealing the stage. Over the last two and a half hours, he the woman he knew had disappeared. In all their readings, bar two or three, Cully inevitably resurfaced at the end of a scene, an act, a small interaction that was causing her trouble. Here, there was no coming up for air, no moment to stop and laugh about something they both found humorous. She had disappeared completely into this new person—almost unrecognizable on stage—transforming into this new woman. But this new woman was so...similar: her new manner of speaking, her forcefulness, her lack of fear, her willingness to simply leave without looking back... "But I don't know that was what I expected," he added quietly.
As they stood to leave, Barnaby sighed. "Troy!"
"What?"
"After so many weeks and reading lines?" The chief inspector pointed down the row, and Troy stumbled before following the mostly middle-aged patrons seated farther down than them, climbing around gently chafed arm rests and chairs.
Even with a sharp eye on ground, his calves still scraped against more than a few metal bars and the toes of his shoes stubbed against bolts protruding from the carpet. "Uh—what I meant—"
"Double-check what you're about to say—"
"Tom!"
At the end of the row of seats—several of which bit his legs—Troy ran a hand through his hair, just remembering to jump down a step so Barnaby and his wife could escape as well. "That's not what...All I meant was—" He swallowed. "I mean, everything on the stage."
Taking his wife's arm, Barnaby turned back. "The set?"
They were beginning to take the stairs up the aisle, and Troy was glad to be behind them. "Yes!" he said quickly, afraid he might say anything else. Well, sir, I just realized how similar Cully is to Eliza, you know, just walking away without looking back. "I didn't think I'd have to—invent so much of it in my head."
"That's part of the joy of theater," Mrs. Barnaby said, glancing back at him with a smile. "And watch your step, Gavin, there's a few that are worn right down."
"Oh, thanks." Even as she spoke, the toe of his shoe caught the front edge of one, though he righted himself without trouble. Better not have scuffed it.
The chief inspector shook his head. "You mean part of the nuisance of theater." Troy could have laughed, seeing the pair before him: Barnaby's wife glaring at him, annoyed.
"And—I mean, you're right, I've read it so many times. But it's always just been me and—Cully. It's different seeing it—" Even one day on, so many things changed from what little he remembered. The anger between Higgins and Eliza was intensified, the affection between Pickering and Eliza more delicate, Mrs. Eynsford Hill exuded more quiet disdain for her circumstances than ever..."It's just different to see it on the stage, everyone playing a different role. Not just me reading everything but Eliza's lines."
The chief inspector's wife shrugged as they reached the top of the stairs, just about to exit the auditorium for the foyer. "I suppose, if you've only been reading the script, not been in the rehearsal." Troy winced, though he knew she hadn't meant anything by it. "There's nothing like the real performance."
He saw Barnaby tighten his hand on hers as they passed through the short hallway, his other arm shuddering as he struggled to keep it at his side, shaking his head as he did, clearly holding back another yawn. A little bored. "But—it was nice, wasn't it?" Barnaby said thickly.
"It was better than nice."
"Very nice," Troy added.
"Not you, too, Gavin."
"Well—"
"You must have had a better idea than I did," Barnaby said, looking back.
"Ah..."
"After all—" Barnaby stopped as he looked at his wife. "You must be more familiar with it than—either of us."
Troy had to speak louder than he meant as they finally entered the foyer, a few dozen voices reaching his ears in a cacophony, like permission had been granted to talk here. "Guess that's true, sir." He stopped for a second and pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to stifle a yawn of his own. "Can't imagine what it takes to study drama."
The chief inspector's wife looked back. "What do you mean?"
"It's all the hemming and hawing, Mrs. B."
"Hmm?"
"All the the ways to say everything," Troy said lengthening his stride to catch up, dodging a few people here and there, some wearing sweaters and vests even he knew were inappropriate to attend the theater. Clearing up already? he wondered. "Be loud here, not there. Step here, not there. Go this way, not that way."
She shook her head, smiling as she did. "It's all part of theater."
Barnaby laughed quietly—for a moment, then coughed rather loudly, looking away from his wife as he did. "Still more trouble than it's worth, sometimes."
She took her husband's hand, squeezing his fingers. "If it's been around since the Greeks, it can't be all that bad."
"So has capital punishment."
Troy snorted. "They're hardly the same thing."
"That's not the point," Barnaby said, shaking his head.
"Sorry, sir," Troy said, glancing down at the floor. It really was appalling, to never refinish the floor. And considering how much that director—whatever the git's name was...Pason...Percy—had harped and complained about how his actors moved about on the stage, it was almost unbelievable he was willing to be seen in such a place. He's probably seen a lot nastier places. Those sorts of clubs. Troy's stomach churned a bit, remembering the only time he'd had to set foot in one, trying to chase down...oh, what was it...Well, best not to remember all of it. That...man...all tarted up in makeup, a sparkling dress, disgusting wig...*
"No need to apologize, but stop changing the subject." The younger man thought—but no, surely not—he heard Mrs. Barnaby laugh. Quietly, but laugh nevertheless.
"I didn't think I did."
"Then don't start now."
Troy shook his head; as he so often did, the chief inspector was talking in riddles. "Well, then what is the point of pages of notes at the end of the bloody play?"
As they took a turn away from the playhouse entrance, Barnaby looked back for a moment, his wife doing the same. "Hmm?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
Still following them through a painted black door just off to the side of the box office, Troy found himself in the bowels of the theater, away from the main nonsense. Beneath long fluorescent lights set flush to the ceiling, they walked down the hallway that led to the offices. Who knew if anyone ever spent any time in those office rooms; sometimes the whole playhouse ran like a family quarreling, from what Cully said. After another few paces, they passed the stock prop rooms, the costume area—and that…wardrobe manager—finally reaching the staircase that led down to the dressing rooms. With Cully's parents, he made his way to where it had all— Don't. "There's a whole lot of—some sort of sequel at the end of the book," Troy added quickly. "For something that's been around since the Greeks, doesn't seem all that perfect."
Mrs. Barnaby shifted her hand to her husband's elbow. "Sometimes, an author needs to leave notes for the performers."
"Won't the audience want that, too?" Troy asked, their footsteps louder than ever on the tiled floor, many of the corners chipped and stained under the bare lights. Here and there, a few clumps of dust betrayed the janitor's efforts at sweeping.
"It's not a book, Gavin. Sometimes, less is more."
"Doesn't read like the rest of it. Reads like an epilogue, just for a play."
"An epilogue?" Barnaby asked.
"It all seems a good thing to know, all that rubbish about where it goes in the end."
"And where is that?" the man added.
Troy ran a hand over his face. He knew most of it, but where to start. "God, I've read it a few times now, just can't remember it straight. 'We all have—'" No, not there. Like hell start there. "'She likes Freddy and Colonel Pickering,'" he finally said, fiddling with his tie as he did, "'and she does not like—Higgins or Mr. Doolittle.'" Just reaching the first doorway of the rooms occupied by the cast, he loosened the knot, finally breathing more easily, though heaven only knew why. And why had he bothered to change his tie at all after the work day was over..."'Galatea never likes Pygmalion.'" He let out a quiet snort. "'His relationship to her is too godlike to be altogether agreeable.'"
Nearly at Cully's dressing room, Barnaby stopped, catching Troy's gaze. "Who the hell is Galatea?"
"She's the statue," Troy answered, finally allowing himself a proper yawn as cold air hit his almost bare throat.
Barnaby dropped his wife's arm, crossing his own over his vest as he sometimes did when he was irritated. "What does a statue have to do with it all?"
"Well, she—Galatea—is his creation—Pygmalion's, that is. And he brings her to life—" He paused for a moment, looking at the chief inspector with a slight grin. It wasn't often he knew something his boss did not. "Sir, did you even read the script?"**
Turning back down the hallway, Barnaby moved rather quicker than might be necessary. "No need to this time. That's what Cully had you for."
Quiet fell over them all, despite the click of shoes and the muffled voices hidden behind the row of doors they were beginning to pass. "Oh—I guess." He almost thought to add that it was, after all, her idea, him helping her read her lines, but he barely even finished the thought before he knew he couldn't. After all, if he had not wanted to help her—to spend that time with her—all he'd have had to do was say, "Sorry, Cully, I can't."
And he'd never considered saying it at all. Not that he didn't sometimes wonder if it had been for the best. The morning was almost a blur, now, so much like the long slow walk down the opposite end of this hallway the evening before, when his dismay at disturbing the rehearsal—and embarrassing Cully—had been the only thing clouding his already sleepy mind. Now, just twenty-four hours later, the world had changed.
Their departure was hurried: neither tea nor coffee, not a bite of breakfast, barely time for him to tie his tie and comb his hair. Cully, of course, looked rather wonderful even after taking only a moment to wash her face and dress. And the drive in town was...well, rather fast, if Troy was honest. He wanted to apologize for dropping her off so early, but she insisted opening days were filled with more than enough to do. "It's only twenty or thirty minutes early, Gavin. I'd already be on the bus," she said. "I'll find a café somewhere." As she opened the passenger door, she hesitated, her fingers tightening rather more than needed on the handle. He didn't known if he wanted her to linger, to touch her again—for god's sake, kiss her like an idiot—but after that brief moment, she just smiled. "I'll see you tonight."
"Yes—tonight," he whispered.
And with that, she was gone. Until tonight.
A rapping broke into his thoughts: the chief inspector's wife knocking on that same door he had the night before. "Just a minute!" a muted voice called, followed by a few quick footsteps before the hinges squeaked and the door fell open.
She looked rather as she had the night before: her makeup heavy enough to see from the next county, now dressed to the nines. Now so close, Troy noticed the white lace around the pink fabric clinging to her wasn't quite so white, but the lightest shade of blue. Last night, he'd been both exhausted and distracted, and without her actually dressed in that frilly thing, there was no way he'd pay it any mind.
Though her hair had been almost slicked and perfect from the center of the auditorium, Troy now saw the loose ends escaping from a myriad of pins along the edge of her face. Her massive hat already sat on her vanity, revealing her face completely, including the dark circles all the makeup her director demanded simply couldn't hide.
"Cully, you were wonderful!" her mother exclaimed, folding her arms around her rather tightly. Troy had to glance away for a moment, else he felt sure embarrassment would betray him.
"Thanks, Mum!" Cully said, a little quieter than normal. When Troy looked back at her, he saw her eyes were on him. And there it was, the flush he had dreaded coming to his cheeks. Not that anyone but Cully might have noticed, her mother facing away from him and her father's eyes on her alone.
"Wasn't she, Tom?" Mrs. Barnaby asked, releasing her daughter and turning back to him. Troy hoped his face looked much the same as it had the rest of the evening.
"Yes, spectacular." Barnaby enveloped his daughter in a hug of his own, kissing her cheek lightly. "Quite spectacular."
As her father dropped his arms, Cully took a slow step towards Troy. "Thank you again for coming, Gavin." Though he was tempted to reach out for her hand, she gave him a frown rather than a shake of her head. Not here, he knew she was saying. "It meant a lot for you to finally see everything."
"Well..." Well, what the hell did he say to that? Of course you're welcome, Cully, they were a few wonderful weeks. No, given half of the present company. Of course, we'd never have had last night. He rather liked his neck in one piece rather than snapped at an angle he'd seen all too many times in Midsomer. Of course, I couldn't say no. Still no, same problems as the first two answers. Swallowing what he wished he could say, his mouth went before his brain. "What happened to your costume?"
"My—costume?"
Her parents both turned to him, looking as confused as she sounded. "That's a curious question," her mother said.
"It's just—it was white and pink on stage, now it's almost light blue, not white."
Barnaby actually smiled, truly smiled for a brief second as he nodded. "Troy—that is actually a good question." His eyebrows crinkled for another second. "A—worthy observation."
"It's the lighting, Gavin." Cully pointed to another dress, its coloring slightly off from what he would have expected in a professional theater. Part of the fabric was yellow, but not quite what he recalled, almost a green tinge to it. "Anything white under the lights comes out a little yellow, so these costumes were made just a little bit blue."
"Oh. Do they do them all up that sort of way?"
Neither the chief inspector or his wife spoke for a few seconds; Cully merely rolled her eyes, a gesture he now knew well. Even this morning, when he insisted there was no time for a cup of tea, he had watched her do so.
"Well, blue lace or not, better than Audrey Hepburn!" Barnaby finally said, settling his arm on his daughter's shoulder. Troy still wished he could melt away into the wall than be in the room.
Cully sighed. "She was never in Pygmalion, Dad. My Fair Lady was a musical, then movie."
"Movie or play, close enough."
"No, it's not and Mum knows it," she said, sinking into her father's embrace once again.
"I'm trying to be nice, Cully."
She kissed his cheek, just as he had done for her so recently. "Well, in that case, compliment accepted."
"You'll never stand at the Olivier Awards if you don't start taking them."
"I don't think that's going to happen any time soon."
"But it could," he added, releasing her once again, stepping back as a small lopsided smile spread over his face.
"Tom..." His wife shook her head briefly before turning to Troy. "But—what did you think, Gavin?"
The lights around the vanity mirror burned his eyes, like every person in the room was suddenly glaring at him. Waiting, ready to pounce on each word. "Um—very good. Yes, really good." Standing still was suddenly an ordeal: all he really wished for right now was to be the last person to kiss her, to embrace her, to whisper to her that she had been fantastic, that he'd never imagined seeing Eliza up on that stage so...alive.
"Well, you would know by now," Barnaby said, and Troy almost stumbled, his thoughts broken.
"Dad!" Like she had read his mind, she closed that small distance between them, taking his hand in a loose grasp, leaving Troy to swallow back...well, he didn't really know what. "Gavin was very helpful."
"Yes," her mother said, "thank you—again."
"Ah...It was nothing. Really." Her hand was warm and sweaty—how could it not be, spending hours under those blinding lights—and Troy fought the desire to tighten his fingers around hers like they had last night as— No! He tugged his hand away, pressing it to his side, safely alone.
"No—it was a lot," Barnaby said quietly, twisting one of the buttons on his jacket for a moment. "Thank you—Gavin. It was very good of you."
Troy's face warmed as his mouth opened briefly, then closed again. What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn't remember the last time DCI Barnaby had called him by his first name. "I was happy to help," he said after a second, the words broken as he found Barnaby's gaze.
For a few seconds, no one spoke. Mrs. Barnaby's gaze danced around the room, from her husband to her daughter to Troy, then back again, her eyes narrowing. He knew very little about her, really, and what he did know for certain—that Barnaby would rather have a breakfast at CID's canteen than whatever his wife might cook him—was hardly anything. But he had seen that same look before from the chief inspector: questioning, thinking, debating...analyzing.
"I'd best get going," Cully finally said quietly, Troy's face jumping toward her. "Edith will never forgive me if I don't get these back to her before she's shut down for the night." She touched her pink and blue trimmed dress. "She still thinks I'm her best charge." He almost smiled, remembering the chatty woman the night before.
"Of course," Barnaby said, sliding one arm around his daughter's shoulder for a moment before he turned to Troy. "So I shall see you tomorrow morning—on time?"
He heard what he knew he was meant to hear. "Um..."
"Tom..."
"Yes, sir," Troy said. Cully had a small smile for him. "See you," he said quietly, just stepping toward her—hadn't he given her a kiss each night for so many weeks—but he stopped. Remember where you are, he thought.
"Sure," she whispered. It was impossible to know what lay in her mind, and after this evening, he feared he would never be certain again.
"It was lovely to see you again, Gavin," Mrs. Barnaby said, that quiet observant gaze gone, replaced with just a smile. She usually had one for him.
"And you." Turning to the chief inspector, he forced himself to look the man in the eyes. "Sir."
"Good night, Troy."
Just as he passed through the door into the hallway, Troy looked back once. Standing in between her parents, finally yawning as the weight of her exhaustion struck...it was as though she was finally Cully once again. No longer Eliza or an actress, just a young woman at work, worn out by a long day. Nothing less, just something more. Before anyone could catch him glancing back through the door, he stepped around the corner, ready to walk back down the path he had just taken.
"Shall I met you in the lobby?" he heard Cully ask.
Barnaby coughed. "Oh, yes. Late rehearsal last night?" Though Troy had meant to walk on quickly, he paused, needing to hear what she would say, her answer.
"Of course. It couldn't be anything else. And of course it was an early start today."
"I wasn't—"
"It was the final dress rehearsal—"
"Cully—" her mother began, before she broke in again.
"—and the end of a very busy week."
"You don't need to snap, Cully," Mrs. Barnaby went on.
"Well, I don't know why you're so worried about it."
"It's not worry."
The chief inspector cleared his throat. "Yes, it is—"
"Tom!"
That was enough to send Troy down the hallway, the bottoms of his trousers brushing together as his shoes clicked on those same chipped tiles. God, he hoped they hadn't heard his footsteps pause. But it was always the same, wasn't it, somehow. Since she had come into his life—really come into it, not just as DCI Barnaby's daughter, but as Cully—everything had somehow always been ready to fall apart, like whatever forced them together could not hold.
Just in the car park, ready to be off at the end of the day, he heard Barnaby call out to him. "Uh, Troy."
"Sir?"
"Can you spare me a minute?"
Even as he was gathering his keys from his pocket, Troy gave a small nod. "Of course." But Barnaby was silent for a second, as if he was waiting for...something. "Is something wrong, sir?"
The older man snorted quietly as he took a step closer. "Yes, Troy, there is."
"Sir—"
"You and Cully." He was quiet a moment, perhaps waiting for Troy to say anything. "I don't think I need to tell you more. Or I shouldn't."
"Sir, I don't know—"
"Yes, you do! You know she'll end up hurt somehow."
Troy had to stop, swallowing to wet his parched mouth. "I won't—"
"I know you won't mean to, but you will."
"Sir—"
"It's hard: you and I both know that, Joyce knows it—Maureen knew it."
One hand began to curl into a fist before Troy commanded it to relax. He was not his father. "You can leave her out of it—"
"Why should I?"
"It's different—"
"You're damn right it is." Barnaby stopped, and in that moment, Troy saw a father, not the chief inspector, peering at the pavement beneath their feet for the shortest second. "I don't want this for her. All the worry and the late nights waiting up. Everything you miss. It's hard to understand."
"I think Cully does," Troy said quietly, passing the keys through his fingers one by one before he found the proper one for his car. "She's lived it all her life."
"It's not the same! She has a choice, now, and she didn't before."
"Then it's her choice—"
"And we usually make foolish ones when we aren't thinking. Go home and think about it, Troy."
The memories of that argument with Barnaby rang in his ears as Troy walked faster down the hall, past the prop room, the offices, finally out into the lobby where only a few theatergoers were left, dawdling as they waited for cabs. Already, the staff—maybe volunteers—were beginning to sweep and close down the theater, tables disappearing as they were folded flat, the box office window closed, only enough lights on to keep people from wandering into one another.
Passing through the door to the concrete steps that would lead him down to his car, Troy shivered. God, he couldn't face any of them again tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Choice, the man had said, so long ago. But whose?
* "Written in Blood", S01E02
** Mr. Deity reference, across several episodes.
A/N: It's probably intuitively obvious, but I intentionally butchered Troy's quote of the notes from Pygmalion. Also, I think it's still in character, but there feels like a part of this where Troy merged with Larry from Mr. Deity, which obviously isn't right. Both are the underlings, but Troy is usually lovably clueless, whilst Larry knows what is actually going on. (Role reversal and all that good jazz.) And the only reason I say that is that I want to plug Mr. Deity, because it is hilarious and underappreciated. But maybe being a failed Christian or Mormon helps...Go watch it, it's free, it's on YouTube! And yes, I know the lights over the audience in the auditorium are house lights, but let's be honest, Troy wouldn't know.