by Simon Brett
‘I honestly think that’s unlikely, Kathy. The play is set in a very depressed area and she’s meant to be very poor.’
‘I know that, darling, but she’s not the sort of woman who would let that sort of thing stop her from taking care of her appearance.’
‘But she couldn’t afford a silk dress.’
‘Tony love, all the great courtesans of history have dressed magnificently, it’s a well-known fact. I mean, Dubarry, Pompadour . . .’
‘But she isn’t Dubarry or Pompadour. She’s a broken-down old whore, riddled with syphilis.’
Kathy Kitson extended her long neck. ‘I don’t think that sort of language is necessary, Tony.’
‘It’s nothing to what’s in the play.’
‘No. That’s another thing I would like to have a long talk about.’
‘Yes, okay, Kathy. Later. We’d better get on with rehearsal now.’
‘I am quite ready to get on with rehearsal, Tony. I don’t want to get sidetracked by all these discussions.’
‘No. Right. Fine. Let’s take it from where the two punters come in and you offer the girls to them.’
‘Very well.’
The cast for the scene got into their positions. Charles, who was playing one of the punters, was shown where to stand. He didn’t have many actual lines in the scene, just a few lewd grunts and obscene reactions as the prostitutes were pointed out to him and a brief résumé of their special skills given by their keeper. (This scene had been hailed by Time Out as ‘a microcosm of English society, where the fat cats of plutocracy casually select which workers they intend to exploit.’ Gay Milner, as one of the whores, was finding the part a lot easier to play politically than she did Felicity Kershaw.)
Tony Wensleigh clapped his hands, a gesture of authority which didn’t suit him. ‘Okay, Kathy, you begin with “If you’re looking for a really good . . . ” erm . . . etcetera . . .’
‘Right you are, love.’
The whores posed, according to their middle-class views of how whores might pose. The punters tried to look like lecherous old men (no great effort of character acting in at least one case). Kathy Kitson gave her eternally graceful impression of a shopwalker at Harrods.
‘If you’re looking for a really enjoyable evening,’ she elocuted, ‘perhaps one of these young ladies might prove a friendly companion for you. Sharon here has a great deal of charm –’
‘Kathy, Kathy. Sorry, got to stop you.’
‘I was just getting into my flow, Tony.’
‘I know, I know. But those are not the lines in the script.’
‘You can’t expect me to be word-perfect at this stage in rehearsal.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying, Kathy. You are remarkably fluent for this stage in rehearsal. But what you are fluent in is not what Royston Everett wrote.’
‘He wrote that she offers the girls – I’m offering the girls.’ Kathy Kitson shrugged silk-clad shoulders.
‘Yes, but he didn’t write it in the words that you used.’
‘I’m sure the audience will understand what I mean.’
‘I’m sure they will. But that’s not the point. The author’s lines matter. I mean, how would you feel if Hamlet came on for his big soliloquy and said, “I can’t decide whether to do myself in or not”?’
‘This Everett person is hardly Shakespeare.’
‘No, I agree. But we are doing his play, that’s what we are paying him royalties for, that’s what the audience will come to the theatre expecting to see, and so that is the text that we should be presenting.’
‘I think what I am saying is much more tasteful.’
‘I don’t question that, Kathy. But Royston Everett is not trying to be tasteful. He is painting a picture of life as it really is, in the language which people really use.’
‘Oh, I don’t think life is really like this. This is all so impossibly sordid. I mean, Tony love, is your life like this? Do you move amongst prostitutes all the time? I mean, when did you last meet a prostitute here in Rugland Spa? Go on, tell me.’
‘That is not –’
‘Certainly, my life is nothing like this, I’m glad to say. My life’s much more like a Noel Coward play than this sort of rubbish.’
‘Kathy, all I’m saying is that we should perform the play as written. I’m not saying that your life is like the life depicted here, but then you can’t expect to be playing yourself all the time. You have to play other characters as well – that’s what acting’s about.’
‘Don’t tell me what acting’s about!’
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just mean that, okay, Royston Everett’s language is not the sort of language you might use.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘No. It’s bold, and it’s frank, and it’s designed to shock. But we mustn’t be pussy-footed about it. We must just say the words, not be ashamed of them. When the script says, “If you’re looking for a really good . . . ” erm . . . then we mustn’t shy away from it. We must say the word, we must say, “If you’re looking for a really good . . . ” erm . . . and so on . . . Okay, let’s take it from the same place.’
They continued the rehearsal. Seeing the play acted did not raise the opinion Charles had formed from reading it. The cast seemed to be lost in a morass of vituperation, and Tony Wensleigh showed no signs of being able to lead them out of it. He looked puzzled and was vaguer than ever. Scenes got plotted and intonations corrected, but he had no overall vision of the play. Shove It needed a strong directorial hand to camouflage its deficiencies, and it wasn’t getting it. The cast needed the inspiration that could only be given by directorial enthusiasm, real or faked (theatre directors have to rival prostitutes in faking enthusiasm). But Tony Wensleigh seemed distracted, preoccupied, anxious even.
He certainly showed no aptitude for directing that sort of play. He was workmanlike, the show would actually go on, but it was alien to the director’s nature. He excelled at the subtleties of his craft, teasing performances out of small casts, and was lost amidst the strident brashness of Royston Everett’s work.
Not for the first time, Charles wondered how the season’s plays actually got selected. To choose one absolute stinker might be regarded as a misfortune: to choose two in a row looked like deliberate perversity.
That afternoon the cast was honoured by a visit from Herbie Inchbald. His entrance disrupted the rehearsal completely, though for the first time in the day some kind of flow had been established. With elaborate gestures and hushings he explained that he didn’t want to disrupt anything, just slip into the back of the Drill Hall and watch a bit of the rehearsal. They were to ignore him and just continue as if he weren’t there.
This was difficult. The presence of the Chairman of the Theatre Board – particularly his unexplained presence – was not easily ignored. But they did their best, and at least his being there inhibited Kathy Kitson’s meandering from the text a little (though there were certain favourite words of Royston Everett which she refused to utter).
After about ten minutes, the scene which they were running came to an end, and Herbie Inchbald interrupted, ‘Er, sorry, Tony, don’t want to interrupt but if I could just say a couple of words . . .’
‘Of course, Herbie.’
‘Erm, okay. If you could all gather round, team . . .’
Ugh. Charles didn’t like people who called the company ‘team’. It seemed to him to fit in with people who called the theatre the ‘thee-ettah’.
‘Now, the reason I’ve come along today, team, is not anything that need worry you. Fact is, you probably don’t need telling that this little show of yours is causing a bit of controversy in Rugland Spa. Its reputation has gone before it and, let’s face it, it’s got a few of the local biddies a bit upset.
‘Now this doesn’t worry me. The history of the thee-ettah has been the history of ruffling public sensibilities – that’s the only way new ideas get an airing, and the thee-ettah is a very important medium for sp
reading new ideas.’
Gay Milner, slightly surprised at the source of this remark, still nodded agreement.
‘No, it’s my belief that, so long as what you’re doing is artistically justified and is tastefully done, then it should be done. Our policy at the Regent – and particularly since Donald, our new General Manager, took over – has always been to provide varied fare. Okay, we do the standards, we do the panto, we do the Shakespeare, we do the Ayckbourn, we do a grand little thriller like The Message Is Murder. But we also have to be experimental – and that’s why we’re doing Shove It.
‘You may wonder why I’m telling you all this. After all, you know it. But I wanted to come along in person and tell you that this little show has the full support of the Board – as well, of course, as that of the Artistic Director and General Manager. Don’t worry about the opposition, don’t worry about anything you read in the local paper. This is the sort of show the Regent ought to be doing.’
Charles’ respect for Herbie Inchbald rose. His arrival at rehearsal had been a good psychological move, to revive a doubting cast by assurances of management support. But he couldn’t remove a niggling doubt about the artistic judgement of someone who liked Shove It, who could describe The Message Is Murder as ‘a grand little thriller’ (and someone who pronounced theatre ‘thee-ettah’).
Herbie Inchbald had not yet finished his team-talk. ‘You know, a few weeks back, I was talking to Michael Timson – you know, the M.P . . .’
They knew. The name had been all over the newspapers three months earlier when he had resigned on an issue of principle over defence spending.
‘We’re members of the same club in London . . . Blake’s . . .’
The name was dropped very casually, but still had the desired effect of surprise. Blake’s was one of the most exclusive clubs in the country. Obviously there was more to Herbie Inchbald than met the eye. He was, Charles had discovered, Managing Director of a local haulage company, fairly prosperous and socially acceptable in Rugland Spa, but not Charles’ idea of a clubman. Still, the deceptiveness of appearances was a continuing source of amazement.
‘And Michael and I got talking about his resignation, and, you know, he said something to me which I thought was very relevant to us here. He said, if you know you’re right, do what you have to do, and all will turn out for the best.’
Usual politician’s vacuous rhetoric, thought Charles with reflex cynicism.
‘So let’s all have the courage of our convictions, eh? The Regent Theeettah has weathered a few storms in its time, and I’m sure it’ll weather this one. It’s been closed down, it’s been bankrupt, it’s nearly been brought up for development I don’t know how many times. But it’s always survived and it always will, so long as we stick to our policy of choosing the best plays and putting them on according to the highest artistic standards of the British thee-ettah.’
Experience of many council meetings had taught Herbie Inchbald to bring a speech to a climax demanding applause (a device known in eighteenth-century theatre as a ‘claptrap’), and he didn’t fail this time. The company clapped dutifully.
‘Thank you. And just remember, the best you can do for me, and the rest of the Board, and for Donald, and Tony is to do this show so well that our critics and the Massed Wet Blankets of Rugland Spa haven’t got a leg to stand on. Make Shove It an artistic landmark in the history of the Regent Thee-ettah!’
Again, he got his applause.
And Charles felt the same unease that he had on his earlier encounter with Herbie Inchbald.
The Chairman of the Board’s enthusiasm for the theatre was unquestionable and admirable. But did he actually know anything about it?
Chapter Eight
REGENT THEATRE ‘HANGING’ – COUNCILLOR CONDEMNS
‘NEGLIGENCE’ – CALLS FOR ENQUIRY
by our Arts Correspondent, Frank Walby
The fortunes of Rugland Spa’s beleaguered Regent Theatre suffered another setback last Wednesday with a near-fatal accident on stage to Gordon Tremlett, one of the theatre’s regular actors (and former manager of Barclay’s Bank in the High Street). A stage hanging in the Regent’s current production, The Message Is Murder by Lesley Bratt turned out all too realistic for poor Gordon, who, in his own words, ‘found the noose tightening round my neck’.
Speaking from his bed in the Chambers Kenton Hospital, where he is now recovering, the former Bank Manager is aware of how lucky an escape he had. ‘I don’t remember much about it, but I gather I spent two days in Intensive Care and it was touch and go for a while.’ He paid tribute to the nursing skills of the doctors and nurses of the Chambers Kenton.
Gordon, who lives in Harfleur Avenue with his wife Anita and two children, Robert and Libby, and was a former star of the Rugland Spa Players before turning professional, says he won’t let the accident deter him from continuing with his theatrical career. ‘As soon as I’m fit, I’ll be back. When the right part comes up. If you’ve really got the theatre in your blood, it takes more than a hanging to get you off the boards. Just for the time being I’m resting, but I’ll be back,’ he joked.
The incident, however, has a more serious side. Councillor Thomas Davenport, already severely critical of the running of the Regent Theatre, sees it as ‘just another in a long line of disasters caused by mismanagement and negligence. Obviously the equipment had not been checked properly’. He complained that the theatre received a large grant from the Council ‘which is just wasted money. Rugland Spa is not a wealthy town, and recent government spending cuts have put a serious strain on resources. Essential services like Meals on Wheels and pre-school playgroup facilities are having to be cut back, and there is a lamentable lack of sports facilities in the area. Maintaining the council’s grant to the Regent is just pouring good money after bad. An enquiry should be held into the running of the theatre.’
(In recent years the council has matched the grant made to the Regent by the Arts Council. But the Arts Council too is being forced to cut back, and the continuation of their grant is by no means certain. If that was withdrawn, the Council would be unlikely to find the full amount of the subsidy, and the theatre might be forced to close. This nearly happened five years ago, when the theatre was again threatened and nearly sold for development, but it was saved by a campaign of local people.)
Councillor Herbert Inchbald, answering Councillor Davenport’s allegations, said Rugland Spa needed its theatre. As Chairman of the Theatre’s Board, as well as a councillor, he felt a duty to provide this cultural amenity for the people of the area and not ‘give way to the forces of philistinism’.
The theatre is also in the news at the moment, because of the controversy surrounding its next production, the outspoken West End success, Shove It, by Ryton Everitt, a play reputed to contain scenes of nudity and a great many four-letter words. Already opposition to the play is growing. Mrs Erica Feller, who is organizing the campaign against the production, says she is ‘receiving up to ten phone calls of support a day’. She says the play, which she has not read, is ‘disgusting and representative of all that is worst in this country at the moment’. Mrs Feller, who lives in Ronston Gardens with her husband Norman and has won prizes for flower arrangement led the successful campaign to stop the opening of a sex shop on Station Parade last year.
Councillor Inchbald said that the Regent Theatre has ‘nothing to be ashamed of’, but announced that there would be a special meeting of the Theatre Board on Friday ‘to discuss ways of improving the Regent’s public image, which has recently undergone a quite unnecessary battering’.
Grapes were not really Charles’ style, but they were more his style than flowers or chocolates, so he took grapes to the Chambers Kenton Hospital on the Wednesday afternoon of the third week of The Message Is Murder. (Wednesday was matinée day, which meant no afternoon rehearsal for Shove It, It so Charles changed straight out of his costume after his appearance as the defunct Sir Reginald De Meaux. He thought the matinée audience coul
d cope without seeing him at the curtain call. Actually, he doubted whether they’d notice; the average age at the matinées was even older than usual in Rugland Spa – in other words, about a hundred and fifty.)
The nurse told him he shouldn’t stay long and tire the patient, but Gordon Tremlett looked indefatigable. He looked very fit and rosy in his room in the private wing. (Retired bank managers can afford health insurance schemes in a way that very few actors can.) He was surrounded by enough cards for a royal baby, enough flowers for the Guernsey Carnival and enough grapes, Charles noticed as he added his meagre offering to the pile, to start producing his own Chateau Tremlett.
Gordon had recovered sufficiently from his shock to appreciate its dramatic possibilities and was more than ready to relive it for the benefit of any pair of willing ears. Most of the Rugland Spa Players had already been to pay their homage and listen to the action replay, so he was glad to see Charles as a new audience.
‘It was my heart, you see, that’s why I was so ill. The shock to the heart would you believe, it actually stopped three times.’ He indicated the bandages round his neck dismissively. ‘Nasty rope-burn round here, you know, but that wasn’t what did the damage. No, it was the old ticker, love. Touch and go, for a time, it was.’ He clearly enjoyed this phrase, because he repeated it. ‘Touch and go, you know, love.’
‘But you feel okay now?’
‘Fit as the proverbial. Quacks say I’ll have to take things a bit easy, but I’m sure once I get back on the green, Dr Theatre’ll sort me out.’
Charles tried not to wince visibly at this barrage of theatrical slang. ‘And any idea how it happened?’
‘Who can say, love? One of those things. One of the A.S.M.s got the tensions wrong, I suppose. They’re not very experienced, those two. Need a few years before they’re real theatre people.’
‘They always fixed it, did they?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I mean, you never went up into the flies yourself to check the ropes?’