by Simon Brett
CHAPTER FOUR
The next few weeks were an education for Charles. The sort of theatre he had always concentrated on had not depended on stars. Christopher Milton was a star.
At their initial meeting he was charming. There was only a short break in rehearsal, but he devoted it all to the new member of the company. And he had done his homework. He referred to incidents in Charles’ career which he could not have guessed at, but which showed genuine interest or research. He spoke flatteringly about the one successful play Charles had written, The Ratepayer. In fact all the right things were said and Charles was impressed. He saw once again the distorting mirror of showbiz rumour at work. Reputations get inflated and diminished by gossip and scandal. One bitchy remark by a jealous actor can give the permanent stigma of being ‘difficult’ to another. Time and again Charles had encountered supposedly ‘lovely’ people who were absolute monsters and been charmed by supposed monsters. And he found Christopher Milton charming.
As rehearsals developed and he began to feel part of the company, it was increasingly difficult to take Gerald’s fears of sabotage seriously. There was an air of tension about the production, but no more than one would expect from any show at that stage of development. Charles’ role was not an onerous one, and Griff’s ever-open bar was an ideal place to toast Gerald’s excessive anxiety which had got him the job.
He had a slight twinge of misgiving as the Tuesday approached. Gerald had made such an issue of the fact that the two accidents had taken place exactly a week apart. If there were a psychopathic wrecker about, determined to ruin the show, then he would strike again on the Tuesday.
Charles went to rehearsal that morning with some trepidation but the day passed and there wasn’t so much as a cold among the cast. He decided that he had just landed on his feet in an acting job. Eighty pounds a week and sucks to the taxman.
He had not seen much of the show except for the scenes which involved him, but on the Wednesday he decided to stay on after he’d finished. They were rehearsing the Chase Scene at the end.
Now Goldsmith did not write a Chase Scene. In his play Tony Lumpkin meets Hastings and describes how he has just led Mrs Hardcastle and Miss Neville on a circular wild goose chase until, ‘with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden’. But description is not the stuff of West End musicals. Kevin McMahon had written a small chase into Liberty Hall and had been persuaded to expand it for Lumpkin! The result was a massive production number with song and dance, as Tony Lumpkin actually led the two ladies in their coach through mire and thicket. The dancers, playing a series of misdirecting yokels, buxom country wenches and a full-scale fox hunt which would have amazed Goldsmith, were rehearsing elsewhere on their own, and the special effects of fog, rain and snow were not yet available. Nor was it possible to simulate the moving trees and revolving cottages which were to add visual excitement to the scene. But it was already a complicated sequence and an interesting one to watch.
It also gave Charles his first opportunity to see Christopher Milton in action, building a part. The result was impressive. Tony Lumpkin was emerging as a complete comic character, totally different from Lionel Wilkins. The London whine of the television con-man had been replaced by a rich West Country accent and instead of sentimental incompetence, there was a roguishly knowing confidence. Charles began to feel that Dickie Peck’s claims for his client’s talent were not so ridiculous.
David Meldrum had by now been nicknamed David Humdrum and it fitted. He ordered people round the acting space like a suburban gardener laying a patio. Everything had to be exactly in place, every move exactly matching the neat plans in his script. But it was not the perfectionism of genius; it was the predictability of a man who had worked out his blocking with pins on a stage model long before rehearsals had started.
Still, it was professional and efficient. The production advanced. And for a complex commercial show it’s probably better to have a good journeyman than a genius.
Anyway, David Meldrum was only providing the skeleton; the flesh was the performances. And Christopher Milton was fleshing up nicely. He had a song called Lead ’em Astray, for which Micky Gorton had written some most ungoldsmithian lyrics.
‘Get them going
The wrong way.
There’s no knowing
What they’ll say.
Hey, hey, hey,
Lead ’em astray.’
If Gorton’s lyrics did have a fault it was a tendency to the non-specific. They had been written not to advance the plot, but to be taken out of the show and recorded by pop stars. However, Carl Anthony’s tunes were good and Lead ’em Astray, in spite of its anachronism, captured the excitement and mischief of Tony Lumpkin. In Christopher Milton’s performance, even with just the rehearsal piano, it was a potential show-stopper.
It was also very funny. His movements were beautiful. They showed the clodhopping clumsiness of the character and yet they were very precise. He darted round the two chairs which represented Mrs Hardcastle’s coach and wove his way through the other chairs which were trees. On the chorus of the song he froze for a moment, then jerked forward like a car left in gear, then stopped and flashed a look of sheer devilment at the audience. The timing made the gesture hilarious; even the cast who had seen it many times before laughed spontaneously. He seemed encouraged by the reaction and in the next verse his movements became more grotesque and jerky. He bounced up to the coach and pecked forward like a chicken with a head that suddenly seemed disconnected from his body. There was a splutter from Miss Neville, the unmistakable sound of someone ‘corpsing’. Christopher Milton rose to it and varied the steps of his dance into a strange little jig. This struck Miss Neville as even funnier and soon she was gaping, incapable with laughter, while tears flowed down her cheeks.
The laughter spread. Mrs Hardcastle started, then one by one, the watching actors caught it. Charles found himself giggling uncontrollably. It was one of those moments of communal hysteria which cannot be explained, but where everything suddenly gets funnier and funnier.
Only Christopher Milton stayed in control. The pianist was laughing too much to continue playing, but the star sang and danced on to the end of the number. His movements got faster and stranger and funnier until suddenly at the end he dropped flat on his back.
The timing was immaculate. It was the perfect end to the sequence. And it was impossible not to applaud. Charles, who was almost in pain from laughing, joined the others clapping.
As the noise subsided into scattered gasps and deep breaths, a strange stillness came over the room. Christopher Milton was still the focus of attention, but the mood had changed. Everyone watched him as he sat up, but he did not seem to be aware of them. He rose pensively to his feet, and moved slowly forward. ‘I think we can do more with that,’ he said.
The remark did not seem to be addressed to anyone in particular, but David Meldrum, as director, felt that he should pick it up. ‘What do you mean, Christopher?’
‘I mean there’s not enough happening on stage in that number.’
‘Well, of course, we haven’t got the dancers yet, and the — ’
‘Shut up. I’m thinking.’ He said it dismissively, as if he were swatting a fly. Then slowly: ‘We need more movement from me, bobbing up all over the place… Yes, we need doubles.’
‘Doubles?’
‘Yes, doubles for me. People my height, dressed in the same costume. So that I can disappear behind one tree and appear behind another, come out of trap doors, Really make it into a silent film sequence.’
‘But it works very well like this and — ’
‘I told you to shut up. That’s how we’re going to do it. The whole thing will have to be replotted.’
‘But we haven’t got time.’
‘We’ll make time.’
‘Look, it’s a tight rehearsal schedule — ’
‘Sod the rehearsal schedule. We can reblock this tomorrow afternoon.’
‘You can do those on Friday.’
‘No,’ Mark Spelthorne’s voice drawled out. ‘I can’t do Friday. I’m released for the day. Doing a pilot of a radio series.’
‘You’re contracted here.’
‘Agent cleared the release, Christopher old boy.’
‘I don’t care what your sodding agent’s done. You’re contracted here.’
‘Listen, it’s a pilot of my own show.’
‘Your own show. Huh.’ The laugh was loaded with scorn. ‘A pilot for your own show. I wouldn’t bother. Don’t do it. It’ll save you disappointment when they turn the idea down.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that you’ll never have a show of your own. You haven’t got it in you. Adequate, you are. The word adequate was invented to describe people like you.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’ Mark had risen sharply, as if he were about to strike his antagonist. Christopher Milton looked at him with contempt.
There was a long pause. Then Mark Spelthorne backed away. He muttered, ‘Bloody prima donna’ in an unsuccessful tone of defiance, and walked out of the room.
A long silence followed. Everyone except Christopher Milton looked horribly embarrassed. But they all waited for him to speak first.
When he did, it was as if the argument had never happened, as if he had just been thinking. ‘We’ll reblock this Chase Scene tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Yes,’ agreed David Meldrum. ‘Fine.’
Charles was glad when the rehearsals were over that day. The atmosphere was uncomfortable, although Christopher Milton seemed oblivious of it.
By chance, Charles found himself leaving at the same time as the star. They walked out of the Welsh Dragon Club in silence. Charles felt ill at ease, as though he were about to be asked to take sides, to say what he thought of Mark Spelthorne.
But that was not at all what happened. As they emerged from the Club, Christopher Milton was suddenly surrounded by small boys from the tower blocks opposite. One of them must have seen the star go in earlier in the day and spread the word. They were a rough lot, of various colours and degrees of scruffiness. They all clamoured up to Christopher Milton with scraps of paper for autographs.
As the kids moved in, a stocky figure in a dark suit detached himself from a parked Rolls Corniche and moved forward as if anticipating trouble. A gesture from Christopher Milton stopped him and he moved back to lean against the metallic brown flank of the car.
‘All right, all right. Who’s first?’ The voice was instantly that of Lionel Wilkins.
It was exactly what the audience wanted. They all howled with laughter and clamoured even louder for autographs. ‘All right, all right. Give me a pen,’ whined Lionel Wilkins. A biro was thrust into his hands. He dropped it with a distinctive Wilkins gesture. The audience howled again.
‘All right. You first. What’s your name?’
‘Mahendra Patel.’
The timing was immaculate. An eyebrow shot up, the mouth dropped open and Lionel Wilkins said, ‘I beg yours?’
The catch-phrase produced screams of delight and the little crowd jostled and shouted as their hero signed all the grubby comics, pages torn out of school books, and cigarette packets they thrust at him. He was punctilious about getting every name right and signed nearly thirty, by the time he had supplied sisters and cousins (and a few imaginary sisters and cousins to be sold at school for profit).
Eventually, they were all done. With a few more Lionel Wilkins lines and a demonstration of the Lionel Wilkins walk, Christopher Milton edged towards the back door of the Corniche. The driver opened it smartly and the star was inside. The electric window came down and the cabaret continued. The car started, the kids shouted louder, Christopher Milton waved, called out, ‘Cheerio, Charles, see you tomorrow,’ and the car drew away.
Charles had felt awkward during the autograph session. He didn’t want to sneak off quietly, nor to come too much into the centre of things in case it looked as if he wanted to be asked for his signature too. But now Christopher Milton had drawn attention to him by mentioning his name, he felt the focus of a dozen pairs of questioning eyes.
He made a vague wave in their direction and started to turn, hoping something wouldn’t happen.
It did. Two little Indian boys, Mahendra Patel and a younger brother, came towards him. ‘May I have your autograph?’ asked the elder in perfect Cockney.
‘Oh, you don’t want it.’ He tried to laugh it off, but the lolly wrapper which had been thrust forward was not withdrawn. Blushing furiously, he signed. The other boys stood and stared. With an ineffectual cheery wave, he gave the paper to Mahendra. Then he turned and hurried away. But not fast enough to avoid hearing the little Cockney voice say, ‘No, it isn’t him.’
He drank rather more than he should have done that evening at his depressing local in Westbourne Grove. He felt emotionally raw, on the edge of depression for the first time since the rehearsals had started. And, as he knew from experience, when he felt in that mood, things got out of proportion.
The afternoon’s flare-up had left a nasty taste. It cast doubt on the whole atmosphere of the show. Charles realised the fragility of what he had taken to be such a good company spirit. Maybe he had condemned himself to nine months of unnecessary unpleasantness.
But after the third large Bell’s he felt more able to analyse what had happened at the rehearsal. All Christopher Milton had done was to be rude to David Meldrum and Mark Spelthorne in a good cause — he had only been thinking of improving the show. And David Meldrum’s passivity positively invited rudeness. So did the affectations of that little tit Mark Spelthorne. In fact, all Christopher Milton had done was to express the opinions held by most of the cast. In fact, he had shown pretty good judgement in his choice of butts.
Having rationalised that, Charles felt better. He went and got another large Bell’s.
The next day Christopher Milton was all over the Sun newspaper. ‘It’s Nightshirt Week in the Sun!’ said the front page and the centre-spread was a large photograph of the star in a long Dickensian nightshirt and drooping nightcap, holding a candle. He wore the familiar Lionel Wilkins expression of appalled surprise.
When it comes to nightwear, Christopher Milton, better known as Lionel Wilkins, says a nightshirt’s the answer — so long as it’s a long one. ‘Otherwise you get very cold round the… round the… um, er… round the middle of the night. It’s no fun waking up in December with your nightie round your neck.’ 34-year-old Christopher is currently rehearsing a big new musical, Lumpkin! which opens in the West End late November. ‘The part I’m playing’s a bit different from Lionel Wilkins. Tony Lumpkin’s a chap who likes making trouble for everyone — oh yes, he’s always getting the girls into trouble — Ooh, that’s not what I meant. I beg yours!’ With lovable Christopher Milton around, Lumpkin! should be a show worth seeing.
Lovable Christopher Milton’s behaviour at rehearsals became more erratic. There were more breaks in the flow, more orders to David Meldrum to shut up, more long pauses while he worked out how a comic effect should be achieved. It was intolerable behaviour on the part of a professional actor, and yet Charles could forgive it, because he was gaining an increasing respect for the man’s theatrical instinct. Christopher Milton was always right, he knew what would work for an audience. And, given David Humdrum’s total lack of this quality, Lumpkin! needed some inspiration.
But it wasn’t popular with the rest of the cast, because Christopher Milton’s comic instinct was only applied to his own part. The rest of the action was hurried through and substantial cuts were suggested. Only occasionally would there be a long discussion about one of the straight scenes, and that was only if the opportunity was seen for another entrance by Tony Lumpkin.
‘Um, Christopher…’
‘Shut up, David. I’m thinking.’
‘Look, we want to get on with this
first meeting between Young Marlow and Kate.’
‘Yes, I was thinking it might be better if Tony Lumpkin overheard this scene. I could be behind the screen and…’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ snapped Mark Spelthorne. ‘This is one of the most famous scenes in English drama. It would make nonsense of the plot if Lumpkin overheard it. It wouldn’t add anything.’
Christopher Milton did not seem to hear the objection; he was still working the scene out in his own mind. ‘I mean, it’s not a very interesting scene, no jokes or anything. I think it could be improved with Lumpkin there.’
Mark Spelthorne grew apoplectic. ‘That’s a load of absolute balls!’
‘Um, Christopher,’ said David Meldrum tentatively, ‘I think we probably will be better off doing the scene as it is.’
‘Hmm.’ Again he was distant, still mentally planning. There was a long pause. ‘I’ll have a look at it.’ He moved from the centre of the stage, picked up his script and sat quietly in a corner looking at it. The rehearsals continued.
Such confrontations were not conducive to good feeling. Griff’s bar became a centre of disaffection and at any time of day there would be a little knot of actors there discussing their latest grievance against the star. Mark Spelthorne was always one of the most vociferous. ‘I mean, let’s face it, when Goldsmith wrote the play, he intended Young Marlow to be the hero. There’s no question about that. Which was why I took the part. Of course, my bloody agent didn’t check the script, just assumed that I would be playing the lead. At least one has the comfort that all this mucking about with the show is making a complete nonsense of it. It’ll never run. Doubt if we’ll actually come in, die quietly on the tour, I shouldn’t wonder. And that won’t do a great deal for the career of Mr Christopher Milton. Maybe teach him the dangers of over-exposure.’
‘I don’t know, Mark. He doesn’t actually do that much work. He’s very selective in what he does. Anyway, you can’t talk. You’re doing plenty yourself.’