by Simon Brett
‘Broken. This room’s been raided more than once.’
‘Actors?’ asked Charles again.
The suggestion got another small smile from Norman. ‘I didn’t say so.’
John B. Murgatroyd came bustling up to Charles. ‘Come on, ready to give your Apparition of an Armed Head?’
‘Do you know if the trap’s working?’
‘You bet. Come on.’
In the area under the stage stood a wooden framework which housed the trapdoor mechanism. At the bottom of this was a platform, supported on ropes. It was counterweighted, so that it could be raised quite easily with the full weight of a human being on it. Assistant stage managers would pull down on the ropes on the given cue, and the actor on the platform would suddenly appear up on stage. The skill in working the trap lay in controlling the speed of the ascent.
There were no members of the stage management about when Charles and John B. Murgatroyd reached the apparatus. ‘Are you sure we’re meant to be using it for this run?’ asked Charles.
‘Yes. The ASMs are all tied up at the moment, but they asked me to operate it.’
‘Oh well, if you say so.’ Charles stepped gingerly on to the platform as John B. took hold of the rope with both hands.
‘What’s the cue, Charles?’
‘Come high or low;
Thyself and office deftly show.’
‘Okay.’ John G. Murgatroyd braced himself. They were silent, listening to the heavy footfalls and muffled voices above their heads. They could hear the whine of the Witches and the booming tones of George Birkitt, but the precise words were difficult to distinguish.
‘That’s it,’ said Charles, as he thought he recognised the cue.
‘Bon voyage,’ giggled John B. Murgatroyd, and he gave an almighty heave on the rope.
Charles felt himself shoot up in the air like a rocket. He was aware of the bemused expressions of George Birkitt and the Witches as he burst into view. Then he felt the jolt of the platform beneath him suddenly stopping, and then nothing beneath his feet as his own ascent continued.
Landing back on the platform with a spine-jarring thump, he could hear a wicked, muffled giggle from beneath the stage.
‘Sod you, John B. Murgatroyd!’ shouted the Apparition of an Armed Head.
The tone of the run had been fairly giggly before this incident, but after it the floodgates of laughter were released. Hardly any scene passed without a complete break up amongst the cast. Almost all actors are susceptible to corpsing and, if the director doesn’t stamp on it firmly, it can quickly become an epidemic. Gavin Scholes did not have it in his nature to stamp on anything firmly, so the play just seemed to get funnier and funnier to the entire company.
The climax came in Macbeth’s final scene. In his confrontation with Macduff, George Birkitt had regained a kind of stature and he was rather impressive as he began his last speech.
‘I will not yield,
To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,
And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.
Though Birnham Wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou oppos’d, being of no woman born,
Yet I will try the last: before my body
I will throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,
And damn’d be he that first cries . . .’
But at this vital juncture, Macbeth’s attention wandered. He sighted something at the back of the auditorium and concluded the speech, ‘Oh, sorry, loves, there’s my car, must dash.’
This unintentional bathos brought the house down, and under cover of the laughter, George Birkitt made good his escape, ignoring Gavin Scholes’ plaintive voice following him with ‘Could you just hang on for a few notes, love . . .?’
It was the end of the run-through, stagger-through, stumble-through, tumble-through or fumble-through. The director had no hope of re-imposing control after that, and he bowed to the inevitable. ‘Okay, we’d better leave it there. Notes first thing Monday morning. Do look at the lines over the weekend. Don’t worry. There are still a few rough edges, but it’s coming.’
This understatement prompted another round of laughter, and the company adjourned to the bar in a state of high hilarity. Needless to say, there was one person who did not see the joke.
Felicia Chatterton, a few minutes later, strode through the prattling throng in the bar towards the Director, who was just hoping to relax over a glass of wine. Russ Lavery was a rather nervous acolyte in her wake.
‘Gavin . . .’ she began in a steely voice.
‘Yes, love?’
‘I’m afraid we can’t go on like this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This total lack of discipline.’
He smiled a smile which had in the past proved disarming. ‘Yes, okay, I admit this morning was a complete shambles, but you’re bound to get one rehearsal like that. Don’t worry, everyone’s got it out of their system now. We’ll really buckle down to it on Monday.’
She was not reassured. ‘I’m afraid I can’t act with people who behave like that. I find it impossible to concentrate and build a performance.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘I am suggesting that the disruptive elements are removed from the cast.’
‘What?’
‘Either they go, or I’ll have to go.’
The director was struck dumb, but another voice took up the challenge.
‘Who does she think she is – Sarah Bloody Bernhardt?’ Warnock Belvedere sounded even more belligerent than usual. He looked angry and disappointed, and the brandy he clutched was not his first of the morning.
‘I just want to work with people who are professional, that’s all,’ Felicia explained reasonably.
This really caught Warnock on the raw. To cast doubts on his professionalism is the worst insult to any actor. ‘And who are you calling unprofessional, you jumped-up little tart?’
Felicia maintained her dignity. ‘I am talking about any members of this company who aren’t taking the play seriously.’
‘Like me, for instance?’ The old actor was now enjoying baiting her.
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re saying that I should get out of the company?’
‘Yes,’ she replied evenly. She fixed him with her fierce blue eyes. ‘One way or another, you’ve got to go.’
Chapter Six
THE SECOND MONDAY of rehearsals was a really bad day. In fact, in the long annals of theatrical disasters, there can have been few to match it.
For Charles Paris it started unfortunately, because he woke up with a grinding hangover. His in-depth investigation of the pubs of Wiltshire with John B. Murgatroyd had perhaps gone in too deep. When they met at the theatre on the Monday, Charles discovered that John B. was in exactly the same condition as he was. Their recollections of the final stages of the previous evening were equally vague.
What made it terrifying in retrospect was that John B. had actually driven them back to their digs.
But two hungover small-part actors did not pose a great threat to Gavin Scholes’ rehearsal plans. Indeed, hungover actors at morning rehearsals are such a common occurrence that he hardly noticed their bleariness and slow reactions.
What did throw his schedule into disarray, though, was the phone message that came through at ten-fifteen. George Birkitt was fog-bound in Paris. There had been no flights out of the city the previous night and, unless the weather showed a very sudden improvement, there was no chance of his putting in an appearance at that day’s rehearsals.
But troubles, as Shakespeare, that well known provider of platitudes for every occasion, observed in another of his plays, do not often come singly. Before Gavin had had time to digest his first gobbet of bad news, Sandra Phipps came into the theatre to announce that Stewart was no longer going to be allowed to take part in the production.
Apparently his blithe confidence that St. Joseph’s School wouldn’t mind about his taking the Friday of
f for rehearsal had been misplaced. Because he hadn’t even taken the precaution of telling his form master he would not be present, there had been a heated phone-call to the Phipps’ home on the Sunday evening, the upshot of which was that Stewart was forbidden to continue in the play.
So, not only had Gavin Scholes lost his principal actor for an unspecified length of time, he was also faced with the problem of finding another son for Macduff. And he knew how time-consuming booking and licensing juveniles could be.
‘Don’t you think there’s a chance if I rang up St. Joseph’s and spoke to the teacher myself, he might relent?’ the director asked plaintively.
‘No,’ Sandra replied. ‘Not in the mood he’s in at the moment. In fact, I must ask you, please, not to do it. Stewart’s in bad enough odour there already. I think a call from you could only make it worse for him. No, I’m sorry, he’s definitely out. His form master only grudgingly allowed him to be in the show in the first place – on the understanding that his work didn’t suffer, you know, with his exams coming up. And now . . .’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘He’s Head of English, this master, you see, and he’s Stewart’s English master, and I’m afraid English isn’t Stewart’s strongest subject.’
So that was that. Two-and-a-half weeks to go, and another Macduff’s Son needed in a hurry. Oh dear, Gavin thought, probably have to go to a stage school now. And I did specifically want to avoid that. Stage children are so self-consciously theatrical. He looked dejectedly round the auditorium.
When the director’s eye lighted on Charles Paris, John B. Murgatroyd leant forward and whispered in his friend’s ear. ‘Watch it. I think he’s about to say, “Charles, I wonder if you’d mind . . . ?” Oh, come on, love, an actor of your wide versatility should have no problem adding the role of a ten-year-old boy to your portfolio . . .’
Charles giggled weakly. But giggling was a bad idea. It only made his head ache more.
To compound the director’s problems, Warnock Belvedere arrived at rehearsal late, and in a fouler mood than usual. Something must have happened over the weekend to upset him. He looked mean and disgruntled, and no one escaped the lash of his tongue.
But he kept his most vicious lines for Gavin and Felicia. Once, when the director tried to suggest a change of intonation to him, the old actor snapped out, ‘Come on, love, make a decision. Do you want me to do the line the way you tell me, or to do it right?’
As with most of Warnock’s lines, it was not original. Charles had heard it attributed many times to various theatrical luminaries. He had even heard it used once or twice. But never with such belittling venom.
Felicia, too, suffered from Warnock’s tongue. When she entered to welcome Duncan to her castle in Act One Scene Six, she stood for a moment locked in thought.
‘Get on with it!’ Warnock hissed.
‘I’m having a lot of difficulty with the delivery,’ Felicia said thoughtfully.
‘Oh, Christ!’ Warnock Belvedere swept downstage and boomed out over the stalls, ‘Is there a bloody midwife in the house?’
Felicia recoiled as if struck in the face, and turned appealingly towards Gavin. The director seemed suddenly to have found something deeply riveting in his script.
The moment passed, but the bad feeling didn’t.
From its bad start, the day deteriorated. After the debacle of the Saturday run-through, Gavin Scholes needed a really hard-working, concentrated rehearsal to re-establish his authority, but the absence of George Birkitt had made that impossible.
Instead, the concentration of the cast wavered. Silly mistakes were made, there was more giggling. But this time it was not a genial hilarity, just a kind of niggling, annoying fooling-around, a joke that had outlived its humour. It was difficult, under the circumstances, to get any constructive work done.
Charles Paris participated in this silliness, which did not improve his mood, but merely increased the self-distaste engendered by his hangover. Then, because it was the only thing likely to make him feel better, he overindulged in the bar at lunchtime. The new drink topped up the old drink of the night before, and he felt quite drunk when he returned for afternoon rehearsal.
It became clear, as the afternoon progressed, that he wasn’t the only member of the company in that condition. The silly giggling continued through the rehearsal, until Gavin Scholes was driven to stage an ineffectual and embarrassing tantrum.
Charles felt despicable as the company spirit deteriorated. He could sense the burning resentment of Felicia Chatterton for what was going on, but seemed incapable of turning the tide of childishness in himself, let alone in anyone else.
He knew that actors very rarely behaved so badly. Most of the time they are diligent professionals. But, like anyone else, they need discipline and, in the face of uncertainty and indecision, they can get out of hand. The limpness of Gavin Scholes’ manner was doing nothing to put them back on the right track, and Warnock Belvedere seemed to be taking malicious glee in exploiting the situation, constantly pointing up the director’s weakness and, presumably by implication, his own strength.
When Gavin finally gave up the unequal struggle and ended the rehearsal soon after five, it was to reactions of universal relief.
But days which start that badly rarely demonstrate sudden improvements. And, true to form, this one got decidedly worse. Charles knew that the sensible thing to do at the end of rehearsal was to go out and have a brisk walk to clear his head; then go back to his digs for a plain supper and early night.
Equally, he knew that what he would do would be to make everything worse by hanging around the theatre until Norman’s bar opened at six, and then stay there far too long.
Which was exactly what he did.
In fact, he stayed in the bar until closing time.
By then he really was woozy. He hadn’t been on a continuous bender like that for some years.
But it had not been a joyous inebriation. It had been one that he knew he would regret, one that he regretted even as he nurtured it. With the looming of each new round, he knew he should stop, quit while he was . . . well, if not exactly ahead, at least not as far behind as he would be if he had another drink.
But each time he weakened and succumbed. A kamikaze recklessness took hold of him, and his own spirits sank as alcoholic spirits fuelled his self-disgust.
John B. Murgatroyd had been with him at the start of the evening, but he, showing better judgement than his friend, had left after a couple of pints.
Charles was not the only member of the company still in the bar when Norman called his impassive ‘Time’. Warnock Belvedere had left only a moment before. Gavin Scholes was sharing his troubles and a bottle of Riesling with Lady Macduff and two of the Witches. And, surprisingly, in a corner booth over a glass of Perrier, Felicia Chatterton remained, vigorously dissecting her art to the unquestioning ear of Russ Lavery.
Alone, her back pointedly turned to the bar and her husband, Sandra Phipps sat, balefully nursing the last dregs of her Tia Maria.
As ‘Time’ was called, Charles, also by now sitting on his own, decided he must go down to his dressing room to fetch his coat and then, finally, get back to his digs. But, as he shifted his bulk off his bar-stool, the floor seemed suddenly and vindictively to have been moved. He sprawled in an ungainly heap, the bar-stool tumbling after him.
‘Are you okay?’
The figure of Gavin loomed over him. Russ Lavery’s anxious face was also just on the edge of his field of vision.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’ Charles knew the words were coming out slurred, and hated himself for it. Without dignity, he pulled himself up against the bar and, in an unsuccessful attempt at insouciance, waved a furry ‘Goodbye’ to the assembled throng before making his ignominious exit.
The stairs to the foyer had taken on the quality of an escalator, and he moved down them gingerly, hand gripping what seemed to be a moving rail. He staggered through the pass-door and strode resolutely but elliptically along the passage.
This involved passing the open door of Warnock Belvedere’s dressing room. The old actor’s huge body was piled on top of a defenceless plastic chair. He was swigging from a full bottle of Courvoisier, but he cocked his monocled eye at Charles’s erratic approach.
Finishing his swallow, he observed with relish, ‘What a bloody shambles of a day.’
‘Hear, hear.’ Charles’s hand found the support of the door-frame, which proved to be further away than it looked.
‘Nothing you can do with a day like this but get well and truly plastered.’
‘That,’ Charles agreed, with a bizarre attempt at poise, ‘has been my solution to the problem.’
‘The ideal now, in fact, to complement this bottle . . .’ He waved the Courvoisier. ‘. . . would be a nice juicy little bumboy.’
‘Ah,’ said Charles.
‘Not your sort of thing, is it . . .? By any chance . . .?’
In his fuddled state, it took Charles a moment to realise that he was in fact being propositioned. The idea seemed incongruous. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.
But he wasn’t too drunk to know that he should refuse the offer. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled apologetically. “Fraid it’s never appealed . . .’
‘Ah well,’ Warnock mused. ‘Don’t know what you’ve been missing.’ He took another swig from the bottle. ‘I’ll have to content myself with just the booze.’ He looked appreciatively at the Courvoisier. ‘What it is to have a generous friend.’
Charles suddenly felt almost faint from weariness. ‘Must go. Tired out. Just get my coat and . . .’
He eased off the door-frame and propelled himself towards his own dressing room. His eyelids were weighted with lead.
He pushed through the door. The light from the passage illuminated the chair in front of his mirror, and he made towards it without bothering to switch on the dressing room light.
At the third attempt, he slumped into the chair. By then the door, self-closing as the fire regulations demanded, had clicked shut and he was in the dark.
But he didn’t mind. He lowered his head gratefully on to the table in front of the mirror, and, in a matter of seconds, Charles Paris was asleep.