by Simon Brett
‘Well, maybe you’ve been lucky enough not to have had to do any Schools’ Matinees, but –’
This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Warnock bridled. ‘I’ll have you know, I have performed in every kind of theatre that there is. I’ve done more bloody Schools’ Matinees than you’ve had hot dinners.’
‘All right. Sorry. But then you know what I’m talking about.’
‘No.’
‘I mean the kids’ behaviour. None of them are there because they want to be. It’s just a chore. Another boring old lesson – except with the advantage that the lights are out. As a result, they do all the things they’d like to do at school. If they’re single sex schools, they fight and giggle. If they’re mixed, you’ve pretty soon got a full-scale orgy.’
‘That has not been my experience,’ said Warnock loftily. ‘I find that that sort of thing only happens when they’ve got nothing interesting to look at on stage. When they’re looking at actors of stature . . . when they’re seeing people who can properly command a stage, the problem does not arise.’
The inference was there – and it was a fairly insulting one – but Charles could not be bothered to pick it up. Warnock Belvedere was one of those people who thrives on reaction to their rudeness. Give them nothing back, and their attack is disarmed.
So it proved. After a few seconds of staring at Charles, the old actor gave up and turned pointedly towards Russ Lavery. ‘Actually, dear boy, there’s another story about Ralph I must tell you. It’s a weeny bit smutty, but I’m sure you don’t mind a bit of smut.’
At the same moment Gavin left, saying he just had to check something in the office, so Charles had to make conversation with Sandra Phipps. Under normal circumstances, this would not have been a chore. She was attractive enough, and could chatter along quite merrily at a level of harmless but covert innuendo.
However, with her husband so close, Charles felt a little awkward. Particularly as she was obviously keeping up the innuendo principally for Norman’s benefit. Charles wasn’t interested in how they brought excitement into their marriage. That was up to them. But he just wished they wouldn’t involve him.
Sandra started in the way she intended to continue. ‘So you know I’m married – in name, anyway – how about you? You tied up or are you available?’
‘Well . . .’ said Charles, very conscious of Norman’s proximity.
‘Go on, don’t be coy. Are you married?’
‘Yes. Technically.’
‘What on earth does that mean?’
Charles wished he knew. He and Frances were not divorced, but he would have been hard put to define exactly how close their relationship was. At times, although they lived apart, it could still be very close. But this wasn’t one of those times. In fact, they were probably further apart at that moment than they had been at any stage in their lives.
It was his fault. As usual. But admitting that didn’t make it any easier to accept. Basically, he had blown it. He had stood Frances up. He had invited her out to dinner, then he had got delayed and when he arrived at the restaurant, there had been no sign of her.
All right, that wasn’t such a big deal. That sort of thing had happened many times in the course of their switchback relationship. What was different this time was the way Frances had reacted to the affront. When they’d made the dinner arrangement, she’d instructed him to be there on time ‘or forget it’. But then she’d often said things like that. What made this time different was that she clearly meant it.
She actually wouldn’t speak to him on the phone. As soon as she recognised the voice, down went the receiver. Being an actor, of course, he could sometimes make it difficult for her to recognise his voice, but once he had engaged her in conversation in the spurious guise of a Glaswegian plumber or an Indian double-glazing salesman, there had to come the moment when he changed back to himself and tried to say what he wanted to. And each time he got to the point, she put the phone down.
Only once had she spoken directly to him since the broken dinner date. And her words then had been among the most hurtful he had ever heard.
‘You’re not good for me, Charles Paris.’
That was all she had said. Then, once again, the receiver had gone down.
Of course, he could have tried to go and see her. Arrive on the doorstep of her flat in Highgate, waylay her as she set out for the school of which she was headmistress. But always something stopped him. Basic inertia. The sudden need to have a drink, to go out and meet people, other actors, people he wasn’t close to.
And maybe, after all, Frances was right. Maybe he was bad for her. Maybe they were better off apart. After all, he was the one who had walked out all those years before, walked out in the search of a freedom which he knew, even as he left, would prove illusory.
And, since Frances had made no attempt to make contact, perhaps she was better off with him erased from the map of her life.
He only wished he felt the same.
And now here he was, working miles away from her, and she probably didn’t even know he was in Warminster. Somehow, he must re-establish contact. Send her a card, perhaps . . .? He’d have to have something to say on it, though.
‘Come on, it wasn’t that difficult a question. Not as if I’d asked you if you could remember how many times you done it or something like that.’
Sandra Phipps’ words, and the suggestive giggle that followed them, brought him back to the Pinero Theatre, Warminster.
‘Sorry, miles away.’
‘You can say that again. Naughty fantasies, I dare say.’
‘No, not in fact. I . . .’ It didn’t seem worth continuing. ‘Have you been working here in the theatre long?’ he asked, moving to a dull, uncontroversial subject that should offer few opportunities for double meanings.
‘Getting on for fifteen years in all.’
‘Really?’ said Charles, sounding impressed, because she had said it in a way that demanded an impressed reaction.
‘Yes. Well, there was a break in the middle when I went off to have my baby.’
‘Ah.’
‘Stewart. He’s thirteen now.’ She smoothed down her blouse over her waist. ‘Do I really look old enough to have a great big son aged thirteen?’
Again, Charles gave the expected reaction, though in fact Stewart’s age was no surprise to him. He wouldn’t have fallen off his bar-stool if she’d said she had a son of twenty-five.
‘Actually, you’ll be seeing Stewart soon.’
‘Oh, will I?’ Charles was all in favour of keeping the conversation going about her son; it seemed to be the only subject which she didn’t infuse with double meanings.
‘Stewart’s in the play.’
‘In Macbeth?’
‘Yes. He’s playing Macduff’s son.’
‘That must be very exciting for you.’
‘Ooh, and for him. He’s really chuffed. Has to get licensed and everything.’
‘Of course.’
‘And he’ll have to have some time off school. But, touch wood, they’re being very good about it. Say it’s fine, so long as his work doesn’t suffer. But Stewart’s a bright boy . . . not really academic, but bright.’
‘Oh, good. So we’ll see him at the read-through on Monday?’
‘Well, no. School wants him to be off the minimum time, so he’ll be coming for the first time when Gavin’s blocking his scenes. Thursday afternoon, it should be.’
‘I look forward to meeting him. Maybe the start of a great theatrical career.’ Charles provided the platitudes automatically.
‘We’ll see. Maybe the start of a great career of me as a theatrical Mum.’ Sandra let out an appalled giggle at the prospect. ‘Aren’t they the ones who have to sleep with all the producers.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Charles evenly, trying to crush that particular conversational opening at source.
‘Last orders,’ said Norman lugubriously.
‘Is it really?’ Charles looked at his
watch. Yes, it was. ‘How time flies when you’re inebriating yourself. Look, this is my round.’
Another Tia Maria for Sandra. Large brandy for Wamock. Assume Gavin would want another large white wine. ‘Russ . . .?’
‘No. No, I really must go back to my digs.’
‘Oh, come on, dear boy. It’s not that late,’ Warnock protested.
‘Sorry. Really must go.’
Abruptly the young man left the bar. The abruptness suggested either that he was going to be sick from the unaccustomed alcohol, or that Warnock had made some unequivocal suggestion to him that he didn’t like. The expression of frustrated annoyance on Warnock Belvedere’s face made Charles favour the second interpretation.
‘Bloody kids!’ the old actor grumbled. ‘Hardly out of nappies and they’re trying to get on to the stage. Huh.’ Then, in a cruelly accurate parody of Russ’s earnestly breathless voice, he parroted, “I played Richard II at Webber Douglas. The local paper gave me a smashing notice. And I’ve got this wonderful agent, Robbie Patrick.” Huh. What the hell does he think he knows about theatre?’
‘Time,’ said Norman quietly.
Warnock Belvedere drained his brandy glass in one and slammed it down on the table. ‘Right, Mine Host, give me another one.’
‘I’m sorry. I just called “time”.’
‘I don’t give a wet fart what you called. I asked for another brandy.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Belvedere. I can’t serve you. I am the licensee of this bar, and I’m afraid I can’t risk trouble with the police.’
‘Oh, come on, for Christ’s sake!’ Elaborately, Warnock looked around the empty bar. ‘Look at all the police. Place is bloody swarming with them, isn’t it? Don’t be so pathetic. Give me a drink.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Norman, don’t be so bloody pussy-footed!’ Disloyally, but predictably, Sandra Phipps joined the attack.
‘I’ve told you. I can’t.’
‘Give me a bloody drink!’ This time Warnock slammed his glass down with such force that it broke.
‘I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you for that glass,’ said Norman Phipps evenly.
‘No, you bloody won’t! You’re not going to charge me for anything! Do you know who I am? I’m not just anyone, you know. I’m not some little teenage shit just out of drama school. I am Warnock Belvedere, and when I bloody ask you for a drink, I bloody get one!’
The barman shook his head. ‘No.’
Warnock’s voice had reached fever pitch. ‘Look, am I going to have to –?’
He stopped at the sound of the bar doors, which heralded Gavin’s return.
‘Any trouble?’ asked the director, with a coolness belied by the nervous glint in his eyes.
‘Mr Belvedere wants a drink and I’ve called time.’
‘Ah . . . Ah.’ Gavin Scholes for a moment looked as if he might make a stand, but quickly caved in. ‘Give him a drink, Norman.’
‘But I can’t –’
‘I’ll take the responsibility.’
‘That’s all very well, but it’s not your responsibility. I am the licensee and –’
‘Oh, shut up and give him the bloody drink, Norman,’ snapped Sandra.
Wordlessly, Norman took a clean brandy balloon from the shelf and filled it with a large measure. He placed it in front of Warnock Belvedere, then picked up a small dustpan and brush, and cleared the debris of the other glass.
‘Thank you. About bloody time, too.’ The old actor raised the glass in the air. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Here’s to the Scottish Play.’
He downed the drink in one. No one spoke as he moved to the bar-room door. He stopped and looked back ruminatively, as if selecting an appropriate exit line.
‘The Scottish Play,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, The Caledonian Tragedy . . . The Harry Lauder Show . . . call it what you like, it really is bad luck, you know. Not just superstition. Something always goes wrong with a production of the Scottish Play. Accident . . . illness . . . death . . . murder even. He laughed abruptly and triumphantly. ‘I wonder which it’s going to be this time . . .?’
He turned on his heel, surprisingly agile for a man who walked always with a stick, and pushed through the doors.
They clattered closed behind him, unnaturally loud in the vacuum of silence he had left.
Chapter Three
FIRST READ-THROUGHS are always edgy occasions and the Monday morning one for Macbeth at the Pinero Theatre, Warminster, was no exception.
The edginess arises from insecurity. Everyone present is worried about the first impression they are creating. The director and resident staff of the theatre are in the position of hosts, anxious that their guests will be happy with the facilities offered. Some of the cast may be concerned about their parts and how they’re going to play them, some still raw from their agents’ unsuccessful battles to screw more money out of the administration. And all of the company are wary, stalking round each other, antennae acutely adjusted to get the feel of the people they will be working with for the next few weeks. In the theatre there are happy companies and unhappy companies. Every actor knows how miserable it is to spend a couple of months in an unhappy company, so at the first read-through they are all trying to gauge the feeling of the ensemble.
And whereas dogs express this kind of anxiety by sniffing at potential invaders, in actors the unease is translated into a kind of flamboyant jokiness. Voices are too loud, only moderately amusing anecdotes are greeted with excessive laughter, and a lot of extravagant hugging goes on.
In most companies everyone will already know someone, or at least have mutual friends. These relationships are quickly re-established, and so before the read-through starts, the actors and actresses form into little clusters of badinage. Even Russ Lavery, new to the business, by having come down to Warminster a few days before rehearsals started, had made enough contacts to have someone to talk to, as the terrifying moment of his first work as a professional actor began.
Charles Paris also had the advantage of having been there a few days, though, on reflection, he felt slightly resentful about that. Gavin had specifically requested that he come early ‘so that we can have a few jars and really talk before we all get swept up in rehearsal’, but Charles was increasingly sure that the director had only suggested it because he needed moral support. Certainly, there had been no opportunity to ‘really talk’, and Charles felt he had been drafted in only as a buffer between Gavin and the potentially difficult Wamock Belvedere.
Still, he didn’t feel that much resentment. His digs were comfortable, and he’d spent a peaceful Sunday exploring the pubs of Warminster, dozing with the papers between opening times and putting off further attempts to make contact with Frances.
So he felt remarkably cheerful on the Monday morning. He wasn’t as tense as the rest of the company, many of whom had only driven down from London that morning. And, attractive though the double roles of Bleeding Sergeant and Drunken Porter were, he didn’t actually feel too much anxiety about how he was going to play them. Home in on an accent, do the moves that Gavin gave him, and count a good performance as one in which he managed to wring a single laugh out of the Porter’s dismally unfunny lines – that was how he intended to approach the job.
He was also delighted to see an unexpected, but welcomely familiar face at the read-through. It was a snub-nosed, freckled face, belonging to John B. Murgatroyd, an actor with whom Charles had worked on numerous occasions and whose career was almost exactly as successful as his own (i.e. not very).
John B., they quickly established, would also be offering a double of amazing versatility to the good burghers of Warminster. He was to give his Lennox and First Murderer. ‘Not one of the most memorable Shakespearean roles, Lennox,’ he admitted to Charles, ‘but one I feel could be profoundly rewarding.’ He slipped into a parody of thespian intensity. ‘I feel that the part is really only as good as the actor, and I’m sure, given the right performance, Lennox could become a deeply signific
ant role.’
‘Yes.’ Charles joined in the game, also adopting a manner of humourless earnestness. ‘Rather like the Bleeding Sergeant in that respect.’
‘Absolutely.’ John B. nodded sagely.
‘And, as for the First Murderer . . .’
‘One of the great Shakespearean roles.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So much depth. So much poetry.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Do you know, Charles love . . .’ The mocking intensity was becoming greater with each word ‘. . . when Gavin rang me about the production, he said, “Look, old darling, I’ll put my cards on the table. I’m doing Macbeth and I really want you to play the title role. But I know how you feel about the First Murderer, and if that’s really what you decide, I’ll have to bow to your decision. So what’s it to be, old darling – Macbeth or First Murderer?” Well, of course, Charles, there was just no contest. I said to him straight away, “Sorry, love, you’ll have to find some inferior telly starlet for Macbeth. I’m not going to throw up the chance of First Murderer for anything”.’
The fantasy spluttered to an end in laughter. Charles felt encouraged. With John B. around, there was no danger that the next few weeks would be dull.
He looked across to the ‘inferior telly starlet’ referred to. He had waved to George Birkitt when he first saw him but now the star of What’ll The Neighbours Say, the ill-fated Strutters and other sit coms too humorous to mention, was sitting in the front row of the auditorium, the centre of a little cluster of sycophants.
Charles, who had watched George Birkitt’s growth to fame, observed how the actor’s face had become permanently set in the expression of someone opening a church bazaar or a supermarket. But there was now a nobler, more serious wrinkle to the brow. This, after all, was a significant moment, the actor who had found success in the mushroom medium of television, returning to his roots, demonstrating the more profound aspect of his character, the versatility which now made him ready to tackle one of the classic Shakespearean roles.
Charles tried to curb the uncharitable thoughts that the sight of George Birkitt always prompted. He knew that to think the actor’s success was the product of a very moderate talent and a great deal of luck was probably only a sour grapes reaction.