Newly weds Charles (Ian Stauffer) and Ruth (Dianna Renee York) Condomine, in Blithe Spirit. Photo by Maria Vartanova
*** Editor’s Note: the following is an imaginary backstory written by playwright/actor Ian Stauffer who plays Charles Condomine in OLT’s production of Blithe Spirit ***
September 6, 1933
Something quite extraordinary happened today. I think I’ve fallen in love. I feel I must give you a little history to explain this outlandish statement.
I’ve already spent much too much of your pages, dear Diary, trying to put into words the grief, dare I say the heartache, which overwhelmed me when Elvira died. That silly, silly girl.
Burning the candle at both ends night after night only to die because of that scoundrel, Guy H.
The funeral couldn’t have been beastlier. Dreadfully solemn hymns sung by dreadfully dreary old people. Hardly knew a soul. I suspect Elvira would have laughed at the whole ceremony. Neither Guy H nor that equally sly fox, Captain B, had the guts to show their face. Only good part was Elvira’s Uncle Walter taking me back to his place and us getting high as kites on dear Uncle’s best burgundy.
After the funeral I kicked about in France for awhile, going through most of Mother’s inheritance. I could hear her screeching voice in my head every time I splurged on some woman or a new suit. Old hag. Suppose I shouldn’t talk that way about the woman from whose loins I sprang, but she really got under my skin. I understand now why Pater didn’t live to see 50!
Two weeks ago I felt the urge to come back to the old country. One can only take so much sunshine, you know. I admit it was hard leaving Mme Latoute, she who gave new meaning to ‘voluptuous’, but I started to fear she was just interested in my bank account, dwindling though it was. How many shoes does one woman need, I ask you?
She cried all the way from Nice to the dock at Calais; reminded me so much of Maud C! I practically leapt onto the boat.
I’ve taken some rooms in Sloane Square. Just couldn’t bring myself to go back to the house in Kent.
Yesterday I ran into Binky Barnes. Hadn’t seen the old bean since Eton. Never one of my closest chums, but always good for some fun. He suggested we head out to Wimbledon to play some tennis and check out ‘the talent’, as he called it. I should mention Binky was just back from New York, speaking some very strange lingo.
He had piles of tennis gear and we threw it into the boot of his Hispano-Suiza. That beauty certainly had heads turning as we headed into the suburbs.
Binky had arranged for Lady Mackinley’s two nieces, Daphne and Delphinia, to play doubles with us. We picked up the girls on the way.
I’d never met the young ladies and, quite frankly, I’d just as soon have given them a pass. All they could talk about was horses, hunting and more horses. I confess, ever since that cad, Captain B, had cast doubt on Elvira’s fidelity, I hated any mention of matters equine.
When we finally started to play, it was clear the girls had grown up on a tennis court (when they weren’t off killing foxes). By the second set I’d pulled several muscles which were screaming at me that I was a damn fool. Binky was similarly knackered, so we retired to the bar and then to the viewing stand, while Daphne and Delphinia whacked the living hell out of the ball.
But, now, to the good bits.
There were four ladies playing doubles in the court right next to us. They were all in their 30s. A regular foursome? They were certainly very businesslike, with economical strokes and little time wasted chatting between points.
I remembered back to the one and only time I’d played tennis with Elvira. It was on our honeymoon at Budleigh Salterton. She was young and lithe, seeming to float across the grass. However, her swings were wild, usually accompanied with an ‘eek!’ as the ball sailed over the fence or into a far adjoining court.
However, now that I really think about it, that was how Captain B came into our lives. For wasn’t the bounder the fella who kept retrieving her errant balls? And wasn’t it interesting that most of them went in his direction? Damn me. Was I being cuckolded on my honeymoon? Must leave that dark thought, dear Diary, and get back to Ruth. For that is the darling girl’s name, the girl who was playing doubles and sprained her ankle right in front of me.
She went for a hard forehand from her opponent and turned her ankle just after the return.
Of course, being a gentleman, I came to the rescue.
I helped her up and she hobbled over to the bench. As I tried to think what to do, Ruth lifted up a large bag, plumbed its depths and produced a roll of white bandage. She expertly trussed up her leg and then went into the bag again for some mercurochrome. She wiped down the scrape on her knee and elbow. She let me help with her arm as she couldn’t clearly see the wound. Not a wince from the girl.
I noticed how tanned she was, something not really in fashion with the smarter female set.
I was just about to ask her if she’d been abroad when she stood up and started to hobble back onto the court.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing but she explained to me that it was match point, after all.
So, I just sat there in amazement as she and her partner proceeded to win the next three points. And the match.
I had never seen anyone so capable in my life. Or so lovely. Except, of course, Elvira, but now when I think of her all I can see are the twin heads of her lovers.
I insisted on taking Ruth home in a taxi. Her tennis partner sat across from us, arms folded. Silently protective. What do I look like, really! I noticed the wedding band while we sat next to each other. Ruth saw my glance. Without a moment’s hesitation she explained that she was recently widowed. Her husband had been with the Foreign Office, some poobah or other who’d died of fever in India.
When she gave the driver her address it turned out she lives just across the park from me. When she put her leg up on the seat across from her, I commented on her expert bandaging.
She explained she had volunteered to be a nurse and had gone through all the training only for the War to end before she got to use her skills. I gently put my hand on her ankle and asked if it still hurt, only to be met with a growl from her companion.
The taxi arrived all too soon at her place and I helped her up the front steps. Her friend stood in front of the door and told me she would take over from here.
There was an awkward moment. It wouldn’t have been practical to ask her out for supper, what with her ankle and all. However, Ruth took charge and asked me if I would like to come over for supper after we’d both changed. Her aunt was currently staying with her, she stressed to her doorstep friend.
So followed a most enjoyable evening. Ruth works for a small publishing house as an editor in the City. She decided after her husband’s death to ‘forge my own way in the world’, much to her parents’ distress. They would have had her come back to Hertfordshire where some widower doctor’s apparently in need of a wife.
As we made our way through dinner, Ruth told me she’d read all four of my books. She thought my latest, Who killed Diana Archibald? to have ‘rambled’ a bit. Editors, they’re all the same! It didn’t matter, really, because all I could think of was her eyes, her swan-like neck and how long it would take her to recover. I can’t wait to get her on the dance floor.
I confess, there was a brief hiccup to the evening. I started to feel almost as inadequate in the dining room as I did on the tennis court when Ruth asked me my opinion of Einstein’s theory of relativity and the true meaning of time. I mean, honestly, where do young women get these thoughts?
The clock regrettably struck twelve and Ruth’s aunt gave me a clear ‘shove off’ look. I left Ruth with her foot up on the pouffe, but not before she’d reached up and given me a lingering kiss on the cheek.
Lord, may there be more to come!