Rumpelstiltskin

“I am Rumpelstiltskin and I’ve come to eat your baby,” John Bourne said, spreading foundation across his cheeks. He paused and looked at himself in the mirror. “No! Blasted thing, what a damn word salad,” he said and picked up his script from the dressing table. He turned the pages slowly. “Aha,” he tapped a line of text, “I am Rumpelstiltskin and I’ve come for your baby. I’ve come for your baby.”

He frowned at himself in the big makeup mirror. It was very bright under the glow of those white bulbs studded into the glass and his worn face looked terracotta and orange.

“Bloody nonsense,” he said and smoothed in the rest of the makeup. There was a knock on the dressing room door.

“Come,” Bourne said.

The door opened and Mr Harley came in.

“It’s filling up out there,” he said. Bourne picked up the fake ears from his dresser and began fitting them over his own.

“In the Gielgud, there were girls who bloody did this kind of thing for you.”

Mr Harley’s mouth went flat. “We’re not in the bloody Gielgud.” Mr Harley said and picked something out of his moustache, “we’re in the bloody Crewe Lyceum.”

“What is this, anyway?” Bourne turned to the manager, “can’t a man prepare?”

“You’ve got a visitor,” Mr Harley said, “paid for the VIP ticket. Food, front row seats...”

“For a fucking panto?”

Mr Harley breathed heavily and then kept on as if Bourne hadn’t spoken.

“And… A meet and greet with the stars. He’s just seen Jesse, so it’s your turn.”

Bourne turned away and finished fixing the ears with putty.

“Like you say,” Bourne said quietly, “this definitely isn’t the Gielgud.”

“Play nice,” Mr Harley said, straightening a photo of an old music hall dame on the wall. “I thought you’d be glad of a fan, considering.”

“Oh!” Bourne stood up. “What are you trying to do to a man? Rattle me? I go on in ten and you’re bringing that up.”

Bourne stood up and made to keep talking, but Mr Harley put his head out of the door, and said into the corridor, “Clifford. Come right in, sir.”

Bourne sat on his stool and picked up the long, crooked nose and primed the edges with sealant.

“John Bourne, our very own acting royalty,” Mr Harley said, “Meet Clifford O’Malley.”

Bourne turned but did not rise. In the small doorway, a thin man had joined Mr Harley. He wore thick specs and had a nice short haircut.

“Cliff. Hurrah. Just the man,” Bourne said flatly. “Come in a little, I can barely see you.”

Cliff stepped forward. Bourne saw now he was much younger than himself and Harley.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Cliff said.

“Pleasure is mine,” Bourne said, dryly, like he was ordering food over the phone, “what do you want signing?”

Mr Harley patted Cliff on the back. “I’ll leave you two get acquainted.” He said and then left quickly.

Bourne pushed the makeup paddles about on the table.

“Blast,” he said, “I haven’t a bloody pen. Have you got one?”

Cliff slid a nice gold pen from his jacket pocket. Bourne took it.

“What do you want signed?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” Cliff said. Bourne saw Cliff watching him in the mirror, he watched him for a long while, then: “I hadn’t thought that far.”

“Fear not,” Bourne said, “us actors are just like you normal folks. No need to be shy.”

Bourne looked at Cliff in the mirror. He was leaning forward as if he was trying to read very small text.

“O’Malley? An interesting name. Are you Irish?”

“I get asked that a lot.”

Cliff sat in a small wooden chair by the door. A bell pealed above, dulled by the thick roofing over them.

“Well?” Bourne said.

“No.”

“An O’Malley who isn’t Irish.”

Bourne picked up a postcard from a plastic holder on the wall, the ones the theatre left in all the dressing rooms. It was thin in his fingers and Bourne turned it and looked at the picture of the old theatre, fuzzy and bad quality. Bourne wafted it in his hand, as if he might be fanning himself.

“Will this do?” he asked.

Cliff put his hands on his knees and looked blandly at Bourne. Then, he nodded.

“Are you local, Cliff?”

“No,” Cliff said and then no more. Bourne snapped the lid off the good pen. It shone brightly in the harsh lights like fire.

“Nice little piece this one, Cliff.” Bourne said, turning the postcard. Cliff kept quite still. “Not one for chatter, are we?”

“Make it out to my sister.” Cliff said eventually.

Bourne glanced at the mirror, looking back at Cliff, still seated.

“Sister?” Bourne said, and then he looked down at the spotless gold pen. He turned it sideways and deep in the metal was a plated inscription: Gielgud Theatre. 2002.

“Aha!” he said, “a fan are we?”

“She was.”

“Glad you got to see me in something proper. Not this camp rubbish,” Bourne said and began to write. “But, one must put bread on the table. What did you see me in?”

“I took her to see the Tempest.”

“God. A classic. Did you love it?”

“She paid a lot to see you. And more to see you after the show.”

“Did she?” Bourne stopped writing and neither spoke. A bell rang twice, faint and far away.

“It’s nearly time,” Bourne said, “Sadly, I must hurry you.”

Cliff didn’t move. Bourne turned and looked at him.

“Just tell me who to make it out to?”

“Yvonne,” Cliff said, and Bourne began writing. “Yvonne O’Malley.”

Bourne stopped writing for some reason and looked at the small paper square as if he didn’t know what it was, and then he began again.

“If she’s a fan,” Bourne said, “I’m glad I got to meet her then. And another fellow fan now.”

“No, no. She was the fan,” Cliff said.

Bourne signed the little card and handed it to Cliff. Bourne held on longer than he should, and both men paused, paper clutched between them.

“Was?” Bourne asked, gently.

“Yes,” Cliff said. Bourne let the card go and Cliff took it and looked at it with thin eyes.

“You don’t remember her?”

“I saw lots of folks then. Coming to see me aft-”

“If she’d have waited,” Cliff said, over Bourne, “if she’d waited just a little while longer, she’d have seen the headlines about you.”

“What the fuck is this?” Bourne said, “What the bloody hell is this?” Bourne turned to the door. “Harley!” he shouted. Cliff looked to the door. It stayed closed.

“I just wanted to see,” Cliff said and then reached into his pocket. Bourne turned away quickly and pressed a small switch on the corner of his dresser. Cliff had another card in his hand when Bourne stood to face him.

“Get out,” he said, “those articles. They landed me here, for fuck sake. It’s a witch hunt.”

Cliff held both hands up to Bourne. The new card was much nicer. Gielgud Theatre. The name signed at the top, ink grey with age, To Yvonne O’Malley.

“I remember waiting in the lobby. One of the staff said she’d gone out with you.”

A bell rang thrice upstairs. Bourne marched to his closet, took out a sack-like tunic and pulled it over his head.

“Harley, get this psycho out of here,” he shouted, “I’m about to go on.”

Cliff looked at the cursive, the neat handwriting on both cards. It was identical; as if he might have printed off two of the same.

“I’m surprised they’re letting you out there,” Cliff said.

“Bet you’re with the tabloids. Liars and bloodhounds, you lot.”

“If you go out tonight,” Cliff said, “I’ll do something.”

“Like what?” Bourne said, “is that a threat?”

“I’m in the front row.”

A bell rang above them in three sharp bursts.

“You’re bloody out. No chance.”

“I’ll watch,” Cliff took a step towards Bourne. In the new light, Bourne saw his eyes were red and wet. “I brought things with me. But they wouldn’t let me in here with the bag. If they had, I'd have -”

“Harley!” Bourne was screaming, “Harley it’s final call and this maniac is still here.”

Bourne turned and snatched up the long nose from the makeup table. There were voices outside in the hallway. Bourne fitted the long nose onto his face, two fingers on either cheek to fuse the gum and then turned to Cliff, his features huge and batlike.

The door behind them snapped open, Mr Harley came in. There was a large man in a suit behind him. Mr Harley sounded like he’d been running.

“Get this loon out,” Bourne shouted, “he’s threatening me.” Bourne took up a small case and took out white sharp teeth and slotted the moulds into his mouth. “He’s tabloids,” he lisped. “Talking about me. Threatening me. Search that bag he brought!”

“Calm down,” Harley said, panicked. “This is a family do. This is a family do!”

Mr Harley nodded at the floor and the big man took Cliff by the arm. Bourne turned to himself in the mirror. He looked sour and devilish in that costume. Cliff handed both postcards to Mr Harley as he passed him. Mr Harley took them but did not look up.

“Family do, is it?” Cliff said and then the big man took him away and he was gone. Harley turned the thin cards over in his hands. Bourne leant forward, onto his makeup desk.

“I am Rumpelstiltskin,” he said. Then, he dropped his voice in pitch and tried again, growling. “I… Am R-r-r-rumpelstiltskin.”

Something caught Mr Harley's eye. The golden pen was laid on the dresser, rich and expensive and shining.

Above the room, the dull speech of a microphone began, and it was trailed by far off, rapturous applause.

“Who’s Yvonne?” Mr Harley asked, turning the two postcards in his hands as if the ink might be wet. Then, after a silence: “Who, John?”

Bourne bared his teeth at his reflection and cleared his throat.

"John?" Mr Harley said again, and still did not look up. "We don't want any fuss here."

"Christ, who do you take me for?" John said and looked back into the mirror. Behind him, he saw Mr Harley peering at the postcards, very closely, as if possessed by them.

"Hey. Harley?" John said, but Mr Harley went out, quietly, without looking up. He did not shut the door.

Bourne sighed and refixed one of his pointed ears. “I am Rumpelstiltskin and I’ve come to eat your baby,” he said. He picked up his script from the table and turned the pages.

“Blast it,” he said, “I’m never going to get that bit right.”