by Simon Brett
‘Oh.’ That was why she was doing it. And Charles had thought she was playing it repellent because that was the way Leslie Blatt had written the part, and untrustworthy because of her devious involvement in the murder that had to be revealed in Act Three.
‘You see, Charles, the theatre has a vital educational function. It’s one of the most persuasive forms of grass-roots agit prop that . . .’
Gay Milner droned on. She was not unattractive. Not sensational like Nella, but she had a certain sexy angularity. And seemed to be unattached. There was a time when Charles would have put up with the political claptrap in the hope of getting somewhere with her, when he’d have talked along, maybe gone back to her digs to pursue some complex crux of socialism, maybe moved aside the coffee cups and tested the reaction to a tentative hand laid on . . . But that time seemed long ago.
He felt desolately miserable.
‘Charles, old man.’
Antony Wensleigh had come down the table to him and squatted on the floor beside him.
‘Yes, Tony?’ Charles looked at the Artistic Director. The most noticeable feature of Antony Wensleigh’s face was his huge, liquid brown eyes, infinitely mournful, infinitely sensitive. They showed enduring sympathy to his casts through all the squabbles and hiccups of rehearsal. They were the reason that people liked working with him as a director.
And yet, it had to be faced, he wasn’t in the front rank of his profession. Though passionately devoted to the theatre, there was about him a certain vagueness, a certain lack of push that deprived his productions of a West End finish. He lived to some extent in a world of his own, happiest in the rehearsal room, surrounded by casts he knew well, uneasy and occasionally by default inefficient in boardroom and administrative office. Herbie Inchbald had been right: someone as frequently abstracted as Antony Wensleigh needed the incisive support of a Donald Mason.
Perhaps part of Tony’s trouble was that he had been at the Regent too long. Twelve years in the same job had set him apart from the square dance of movement from rep to rep, which is the only way by which theatrical directors rise in their profession. He was now in his early fifties, an age which made dramatic changes for the better unlikely. And he was cosily settled in Rugland Spa. He had come to regard the job as his for as long as he wanted it, the renewal of his annual contract a mere formality, almost as if he were in a normal job like the rest of humanity. And that attitude, in the world of the theatre, was a potentially dangerous one.
‘Thing is, Charles . . .’ The huge eyes looked more mournful than ever, as they did when they had something unpleasant to impart. ‘Thing is, Kathy was a bit upset . . .’
‘I know, Tony, it was unforgivable of me.’ No point in making excuses. ‘One of those ridiculous corpses, where something stupid just suddenly seems funny. And I’m afraid, stuck in that little cupboard, things seem disproportionately funny . . .’
‘Yes, well, it’s . . .’
‘Won’t happen again, Tony. Promise. Better tomorrow.’
‘Good. Thanks.’ Antony Wensleigh stood up with relief, and then articulated the prime motivation of his life. ‘It’s just, you know, I like everyone to be happy.’
‘Yes. Sure.’
Mr Pang was not so indiscreet as to look pointedly at his watch, but he did come over and ask if anyone would like a sweet. Laurie Tichbourne asked what flavours the ‘Ice Creams (Various)’ on the menu were. Mr Pang said ‘Vanilla’, so they all agreed they’d just have the bill. Its arrival prompted the customary discussion as to how it should be divided. Gay Milner produced a calculator and worked it out. Charles reached into his pocket for his share.
He had just enough. He’d been to the bank that day. Where had it all gone? In the day’s depressed drinking, he realized.
Up to his overdraft limit. Only Wednesday and not paid again until Friday. Then his agent, bloody Maurice Skellem, would get his customary ten per cent for doing his customary nothing – shit, no, Maurice had recently, after much argument, raised his commission to fifteen per cent.
Then he owed Mimi for the digs . . . Oh God, money, too. To add to his other problems.
He didn’t want to, but back at Mimi’s, in the brushed nylon sheets of his single bed, he reread the letter.
Dear Charles,
I don’t know how I’m going to say this, but presumably by the end of the letter, I will have managed somehow, so here goes.
I have met someone else.
It sounds corny, but I can’t think of any other way of putting it. His name is David. He is, of all things, a schools inspector. There are complications.
I am not in a state of bliss, I am in emotional turmoil. I know that feelings don’t cut, they fray, and I am a tangle of fraying feelings.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s the first time since you left me that I’ve had this sort of problem (if problem’s the right word).
I want to see you and talk, though I know that would only mix me up even more.
I’m sorry, Charles. I am very confused. But I wanted you to know.
Love,
Francis
Chapter Three
IN SPITE OF his promise to Antony Wensleigh, Charles Paris was not better the next day. He was worse.
Self-hatred takes many forms. One of the commonest involves publicly bad behaviour, as if the sufferer is willing the world’s opinion of him to descend to the level of his own.
And that was the form it took that day with Charles. Not only did he again drink too much, he also drank too long, and was not in the theatre when the ‘half’ was called.
This was a serious professional crime. The ‘half’ is a magic moment, half an hour (plus five minutes for safety) before the curtain rises. All members of the company, except for those who have arranged special dispensations because of late entrances, must have checked in by then. If any haven’t, then the Stage Management starts to panic and frantic reorganization of understudies begins.
But in a profession which has encompassed drunkards of the stature of George Frederick Cooke (whose life Lord Byron described as ‘all green-room and tap-room, drains and the drama-brandy, whisky-punch, and latterly, toddy’) and Edmund Kean, allowances have frequently been made. Young A.S.M.s quickly learn which pubs to check out for actors who have ‘not noticed the time’.
But allowances that might be made for stars are less likely to be made for actors playing dead bodies in tatty thrillers. And Charles had compounded his felony by deliberately not drinking in the pub round the back of the Regent (so much an annexe that bells sounded there at the end of the intervals). Instead, he had sought to match his mood by searching out an hotel by the station, which was as seedy as anything could be in as genteel a place as Rugland Spa.
He knew what he was doing. It was part of a course in self-abasement, a need for some violent purgation, a flushing-out of all the pained confusion in his mind. There was no conviviality, just pointless, solitary drinking – a gesture which, even as he made it, he knew to be ineffective. Those for whom it was intended would not see it; and those who did see would misinterpret it.
And he hadn’t even the courage to make the gesture total. Having guiltily braved out the half he found his resolve weakening. The show went up at seven forty-five. His hopes of being dramatically oblivious of time were not realized. At twenty past seven he decided not to have another drink. And twenty-five past found him lumbering uncomfortably through the quiet terraces of Rugland Spa towards the Regent Theatre.
He was lucky in that there was no one by the Stage Door when he lurched in. It was after twenty to eight, Act One Beginners would have been called and be waiting in the wings for the curtain to rise. The Stage Manager would be on the desk, ready to cue lights, and the A.S.M.s would also be busy. A furtive hope, worthy of a truant schoolboy, crept into Charles’ mind, that he might yet get away with it. If he went up to his dressing room quickly, got into his costume and slipped into his cupboard, nobody might notice. After all, he was only the body; probably no on
e had bothered to check whether he was there or not.
He grasped the banister of the stairs to the dressing rooms and pulled himself upwards. The movement seemed bigger than he had expected; he swung round against the wall, which made him realize just how drunk he was.
As he swayed there, he heard the panicky clatter of shoes coming down the stairs. Round the corner of the flight Nella Lewis appeared at full speed. Her face was flushed and frightened. In her hand she clutched a duelling sword. It was the one produced as Sir Reginald De Meaux’s murder weapon in Act Two.
‘Oh!’ she panted, screeching to an ungainly halt. ‘Charles!’
‘Yes,’ Charles confirmed, though his tongue, suddenly too big for his mouth, seemed to distort the word.
‘You’re terribly late.’
A nod of the head to confirm this was easier than words.
‘We’ve been in a terrible panic. All kinds of people were going to replace you.’
‘’Sail righ’, though. I can do it now.’
‘Are you sure?’ Nella didn’t sound convinced.
‘Of course. I’m absolutely in control.’ To emphasize this point, Charles – unwisely, as it turned out – let go of the banister and made an expansive gesture of insouciance. At the same moment the concrete steps seemed to be filched from under him, and he crumpled to an ungainly heap at the foot of the stairs.
‘No,’ said Nella decisively, skipping over him. ‘You can’t go on in that state’
‘I’ve only got to be a dead body, for God’s sake,’ the heap on the floor complained.
But the young A.S.M. was adamant. ‘No. We’d better stick to the plan we’ve made. He . . . he . . .’ Her voice was strained with emotion. ‘That bastard had better go on for you.’
‘But I –’
‘I’ve got to go. Curtain up in a second, and I’m on the book tonight.’ Then, with surprising gentleness, she said, ‘You need to get back to your digs. I’ll organize a cab for you when I’ve got a moment.’
She scuttered off.
Charles lay there. Everything around him seemed to be moving; only the contempt he felt for himself remained immovable in his mind.
Had it really come to this? Fifty-five years of development reduced to an alcoholic mess on the stone floor. A career washed away by booze, a marriage – the thought of Frances stopped him short like a blow in the face.
Whatever their relationship, what he was doing now wasn’t helping it. No, he must pick himself up, not succumb to self-pity and its attendant alcohol. He had a job to do and he would do it.
With great concentration he pulled himself to his feet and walked very carefully up to the first landing, where there was a men’s lavatory. He filled the sink with cold water and splashed it copiously over his face.
It made him feel a very little better. He walked cautiously along to the next flight of stairs, and found himself confronted by Leslie Blatt.
The elderly playwright looked extremely guilty. Charles wondered what he had been doing. Most of the actresses had their dressing rooms on the floor above. Charles wouldn’t put it past the old goat to have been doing a bit of keyhole-peeping.
But he was in no position to be censorious. As Leslie Blatt wasted no time in telling him.
‘Oh, Charles, everyone’s been looking for you.’
‘I know,’ Charles said wearily.
‘I was going to go on for you.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. I used to be an actor and director, you know, before I started writing. Kept my card up. Always ready to do the odd little bit.’ He sniggered, somehow infecting this remark with unwholesome innuendo.
‘Yes. Well, as you see, I’m here now. So it won’t be necessary for you to –’
‘Oh, I’m not going to now,’ said Leslie Blatt petulantly. ‘No, I’ve just been told I mustn’t, by young Mr Smartypants. Says it’s his job. Huh.’ The old man tossed his wrinkled head.
‘Oh, well, I –’
‘No, he’s going to do it. He’s arranged it all. So you’d just better go home and sober up.’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to watch my play from backstage. Always enjoy that. Get a completely different set of thrills backstage.’ The playwright stalked off, once again giving an unpleasantly sexual overtone to his final remark.
Inside his dressing room Charles discovered who Leslie Blatt had meant by ‘young Mr Smartypants’. Rick Harmer, dressed in the late Sir Reginald De Meaux’s tweeds, was sitting in front of the mirror, about to apply make-up.
‘Charles!’ he said. ‘You’re terribly late.’
Charles was getting sick of people stating the obvious. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘And you’re pissed.’
‘Again, yes, I am.’
‘You’d better go home. You can’t act in that state.’
‘Dead bodies don’t have to act,’ Charles argued belligerently.
‘No, but they have to keep still. You can’t have a dead body lying there with an attack of D.T.s.’
‘I haven’t got D.T.s. I’ll be fine. Now please could I have my costume?’
‘As A.S.M., Charles, I’m understudying all the male parts. And if someone isn’t in by the half, then –’
‘Rick, please.’
The appeal contained just enough dignity to prevent it from being abject, and Rick responded to its nakedness.
‘Okay,’ he said, as he started to unbutton the tweeds. ‘I shouldn’t really, but okay.’
‘Thank you.’ With great caution, uncertain of his balance, Charles started to take his clothes off.
He tried desperately to think of something to say, something that might make the situation seem normal, something that would remove the expression, half of pity, half contempt, from the young man’s face. ‘How are things going with your radio pilot?’ he finally managed.
‘Oh, okay. Got a good cast together. Toby Root, Anna Duncan . . . you worked with either of them?’
‘Yes. Long time ago.’ The second name stirred memories that Charles did not wish to exhume further.
‘And George Birkitt’s very keen. But his agent’s shilly-shallying over money.’
‘Ah.’
‘Only trouble is, that bastard Wensleigh won’t release me for the day to go up to the recording.’
‘Really? That’s most unlike Tony.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Rick bitterly. ‘He likes to play the little Hitler. Jealousy, really. Typical of someone who’s over the hill and knows it.’
The A.S.M. used that as an exit line, and Charles didn’t feel he was being unduly sensitive in including himself in its application. Nor could he really feel that the aspersion was without justification.
He turned up the loudspeaker in the dressing room. On-stage James De Meaux was still reminiscing to Wilhelmina about what they had got up to in the summerhouse the previous evening, so he had plenty of time. Laboriously, he got into his costume and did his make-up. The latter took a depressingly short time; to look sixty-five all Charles had to do was grey his temples and stick on a grey moustache; to look dead all he had to do was powder his cheeks down to a horrid pallor (and the way he looked that evening even these minimal changes seemed superfluous).
Then he remembered he was meant to be impaled by a duelling sword. If he had omitted that, he would really have finished the evening. He imagined Kathy Kitson bringing down the curtain on the First Act with the lines, ‘Oh no! It’s Reginald! Killed by some method that is not immediately apparent!’
The thought made him giggle weakly. No, no, mustn’t do that. No corpsing tonight. He was already in enough trouble. With uncoordinated fingers, he started to remove his jacket and shirt.
The device for his apparent transfixion had been improvised by Nella Lewis in the props room, and was simple but effective. A broad elastic belt, of the type that used to be called ‘waspee’ (though that description was singularly inappropriate when it was buckled round Charles’ che
st), had a thin block of wood stapled to the front of it, and through this block a bolt had been fixed to stick out at right angles. The shirt was buttoned around this protuberance, and a foreshortened duelling sword with specially adapted end was screwed on to it. The area of the wound was then sprinkled liberally with stage blood (known in the business as ‘Kensington Gore’), and the effect, even from close quarters, was surprisingly convincing.
With gloomy intimations of mortality, Charles surveyed his dead body in the mirror. Then he made his way unsteadily down on to the stage.
But before he could reach the sanctuary of his cupboard, he walked into Tony Wensleigh. Rick Harmer’s description of a ‘little Hitler’ was most inappropriate; at that moment the anxiety on the Artistic Director’s face made him look more like the White Rabbit.
Unfortunately, having bumped, Charles overcompensated to regain his balance, and again found himself on the floor. Tony Wensleigh bent down to pick him up.
‘Charles,’ he whispered sadly, ‘you can’t go on in that state.’
‘I can, Tony. Be all right. Honestly.’
‘No. Donald told me what had happened, and I’ve just seen Rick, who said you’re completely pie-eyed.’
‘I’m not, Tony. Just a bit pie-eyed. And I’m very sorry.’
‘That’s not the point now. Look, Charles, you know I don’t like coming the heavy, but I’ve got to think of the play. You could ruin it.’
Charles bit back the retort that Leslie Blatt seemed to have done that already.
‘No, I’ve decided. I’ve told Rick. I’m going to go on for you.’
‘You?’
‘Yes. Rick’s needed backstage. Nella’s not experienced enough to cope without him.’
‘But, Tony . . .’
‘No, Charles. Sony, it’s nothing personal, but I’m responsible for the show and I can’t afford to take risks. I have my position as Artistic Director to think of.’
The drink was now making Charles belligerent. ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody pompous!’
‘I am not being pompous. Listen, the Chairman of the Board’s in the theatre tonight. I can’t run the risk of you ruining the show.’