Under the Spotlight

Under the Spotlight

Janet Baldey

When you dabble in the murky waters of the past sometimes monsters surface…

Miriam put down her pen and sat twisting her broad gold wedding band watching it gleam under the light of the lamp.  Restless, she rose and prowled her suite. Unlike the pale pastels of the tastefully decorated rooms of other residents, here anonymous walls were swathed by the rich colours of maroon, emerald and crimson velvet.  Always dark even at mid-day, it was the bane of the cleaning lady’s life and it took a good many ‘sweeteners’ to pacify her.  But, Miriam always had a taste for the dramatic and every evening escaped from the dining room, with its insipid décor and the gossipy rustling of the other guests, to her own domain where she would pace its shadows, reciting lines that rose naturally to her lips while imagining herself, once more, under the spotlight.

 Returning to her seat, she picked up her pen and looked at her last sentence.   She crossed it out, bearing down so hard the line scarred the paper.  Her shoulders slumped;  for the last few weeks, she’d been chronicling milestones in her life, praying for revelation, but as soon as she got to 1954, her mind blanked and her hand froze.  Closing her papery lids, she willed her way into the past but it was no good.  All she remembered was what she’d been told.  In the January of that year, one thousand nine hundred and fifty-four, she’d been found wandering in the swirling pre-dawn mistiness of Hampstead Heath, naked except for a full length sable.  She’d no identification and no memory. Why? It was hard to understand.  She recalled quite clearly, her childhood, her career, her wedding at the Abbey with six actress bridesmaids surrounding her as tall and proud as a phalanx of pale lilies.   That was in 1950 and she distinctly recalled thinking that life couldn’t get any better.  But the devil must have been listening, forever since there’d been a black gap in the white picket fence of years stretching towards the future. 

* * *

There is a very sweet young man living in the hotel where she waits. He befriended her when she first arrived and for some time they had long weekly conversations until the terrible day when she realised the truth.

‘So why are you here Miriam?’ He had asked.

‘That’s a strange question.  Why do people stay in hotels?  I imagine there are many reasons. In my case, I shall be gone as soon as my husband arrives to collect me.’

The man had looked at her, his eyes boring into hers.

‘Tell me Miriam, what year is it?’

She’d looked at him in astonishment, her mouth opening in a breathless gasp as her heart beat faster. Didn’t he know? Surely, everyone knew what year it was, unless…. he’d seemed so normal but all this time she’d been talking to a madman.

‘Why, 1955, of course.’    Hurriedly, she left the room.

Then, there’s the other gentleman; the one with deep lines skiing down his face.  Too old for her of course, but his eyes are kind.  At first, she’d thought he had the answer.   One day, in a fit of melancholy, she had cried over her missing year.  Taking her hand and holding it gently, he suggested a diet of 1954 films or newscasts to jog her memory.  So, every night for weeks she sat in front of the television set and with the aid of a recorder watched a parade of movies. She saw a muscular and muttering Marlon Brandon in ‘On the Waterfront’, a paranoid Humphrey Bogart twitching his way through the Caine Mutiny, The Glenn Miller Story and as many other musicals that she could stomach.   All, she found fairly enjoyable, with the exception of Bill Haley in ‘Rock Around the Clock’ – the music jangled her nerves and made it difficult for her to sleep.  But not one, not even contemporary news flashes of Roger Bannister, breaking the four-minute mile, or sickening footage of the Mau Mau atrocities, succeeded in tearing down the veil.

Occasionally, she heard snippets of conversation that piqued her curiosity.  Once, she was on her way to the lounge when she came across the two men chatting.

‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me how the human brain can delude itself.’

‘True, nature can be merciful sometimes.’

‘We could bring her back, of course…regression therapy or hypnotism.   She’s desperate to know.’

‘What would be the point?   The truth would destroy her.  It’s kindest just to let her live in the past.  At least she remembers her former success and that makes her happy enough.’

‘But she’s our oldest resident.  Don’t you think she deserves the truth before she passes?’

Miriam couldn’t help noticing that, as soon as they saw her, they stopped and smiled; their faces bland as their lips expanded.  She wondered who they’d been talking about.

And then, there were the nightmares.   In the early hours, she’d wake up, her throat tight and sore, with the reedy cries of a baby ringing in her ears together with a feeling of desolation so intense it was like teetering on the edge of The Pit.

She very rarely looked in the mirror, the image reflected distressed, but on a sudden impulse, she walked towards her wardrobe and stared into the full-length glass.   Whoever would have thought that one year of neglect could wreak such havoc?   She plucked at her greying hair and pulled taut the wrinkles on her face.    Roger will barely recognise her.  She wished he wasn’t quite so busy, she missed him so much but, at least, she was well provided for.  She opened the door and looked at her sable, still lustrous, although the fur now wore a grey patina of dust.

Her skin began to prickle, and she gasped for breath.  How hot it was.  Once more she ran her fingers through her hair hearing the crackle of static electricity.  The Gods grumbled overhead and her spirits leapt. Despite their accompanying humidity, she loved storms.   When it came to drama nothing could put on a better show than the elements.  Glancing towards the window she saw deep purple clouds racing across the heavens as the thunder roared.

   A few short paces and she was staring out of the glass watching lightening writhe across the sky, spitting out streaks of electricity that that lit the dusky hills. Suddenly, with a roar as shrill as a train whistle. a sudden gust of wind blew open the casement and a squall of rain plastered her hair to her head.  Startled, she stepped backwards and almost tripped over a bulky package lying on the floor. 

  A new wrinkle joined the others as she frowned.  The package appeared to be newspapers, yellow and creased with age, tied into a bundle that crackled as she picked it up.  She noticed that the papers were all dated 1954.  Scrawled across the top of one was a note in her cleaning lady’s handwriting.

‘Found these recently and thought you might be interested.’

Storm forgotten, Miriam sank down onto the bed and with stiff fingers worked at the frayed string.  As she riffled through the sheets of fragile paper, her excitement waned.  There was nothing of interest.  Impatiently, she tossed the package aside and got up to close the window.  As she did, a sheet of paper detached and fluttered to the floor.  Annoyed, she scooped it up.   She was just about to crush the page when something made her take a closer look.  Black spots danced in front of her eyes as the newsprint wavered and merged slowly blooming into the shape of a face.   One she recognised.  One she saw every morning in the bathroom mirror. Her legs turned to water and she collapsed back onto the bed as she read the black banner headlines underneath.

FAMOUS ACTRESS ACCUSED OF ARSON.

Family feared lost in the flames

Her heart stilled as the roaring sound of blood in her ears merged with that of the storm. Suddenly, she remembered everything. She smelled drifting smoke and heard the sound of crackling flames as the body of a tiny baby appeared, just out of reach.   Beyond, her husband, mother and father stared with accusing eyes before crumbling into ash.  Horror overwhelmed her and she covered her face with her hands.  Lost in misery, she neither saw, nor heard, the thunderbolt that flashed into the room attracted by the precious band circling the third finger of her left hand.

* * *

All who knew her agreed it was a blessing she’d died in ignorance, and all agreed it was a marvel she’d lived so long.  The general public no longer remembered the once famous name of Miriam Marr, let alone the tragedy of her crime.  Consequently, the funeral was a small affair;  a token attendance from the ward plus the lady who always makes an appearance on these occasions and  regardless of the circumstances, always says the same thing.

‘How sad to die alone, un-mourned by her family.  I’m sure the poor soul did nothing to deserve that.’

Copyright Janet Baldey

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