Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  Kapstein shrugged, his whole bulky body moving as he let out a wheezing laugh. ‘These people are professionals. Of course the younger ones will have a rave up now and again, but who can blame them? No, there will be no such problems like the clash of personalities, as you put it.’ He leaned forward and whispered behind his hand, ‘As for girl actors being leaped upon, they’ve put me in rooms surrounded by married couples or ladies of uncertain age and sex. I suspect they’re limiting my field of operations.’

  The girl laughed, holding back her closest feelings, that this man was an unpleasant member of the species, warming herself with the thought that she was getting quotes from him which would please her editor, Hedley Moir.

  The Joe Thomas drugs story had come as a divine gift to the newspaper, even though they had to wait for a week to make their comment. But Moir, who did not want to use this one gun on its own, had been explicit in his instructions to the girl, Janet Ridley, twenty years old, a protege of the editor and a Methodist, alive to society’s problems and rooted in the belief that even the smallest example of permissiveness was a pathfinder towards decadence. If the local newspaper could link the drugs case with hints of orgiastic happenings among the Shireston Company a large area of public opinion, within the town and its neighbourhood, would become irritated.

  ‘Getting all you want?’ Adrian Rolfe appeared at Janet Ridley’s elbow. He had been anxious about the Gazette’s representative from the moment Moir had written to say that he was unable to attend the function himself, but would be sending Miss Janet Ridley. Yet Adrian had allowed this to slip his mind, among all the other tiny anxieties which hailed down on him in the consuming rush of a hundred things to do once the reception got under way. Spotting the girl with Kapstein and noting the actor’s intimate movements had, from the far side of the room, alerted him, and he had made his way, weaving through the groups and couples, until he could place himself strategically beside them. Now he smiled grimly down at the girl, his mind telling him that he knew exactly what she was at.

  ‘Miss Ridley?’ he asked, knowing well enough that it was her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just making sure you’re getting everything you want. I’m Adrian Rolfe, in charge of Publicity. Would you like to come and meet somebody else?’

  ‘We’re enjoying ourselves.’ Maurice Kapstein was un-smiling.

  ‘You’ve had quite a while with Mr. Kapstein,’ Rolfe addressed the girl. ‘The press have to circulate,’ then looking at Kapstein, ‘so do you.’ He had the girl’s elbow in a firm grasp and was pulling her steadily away towards Jennifer Frost who had just emerged from an intense conversation with Peter Berger, an old friend from her first acting days.

  Adrian settled the Ridley girl with Jennifer and quickly returned to Maurice Kapstein.

  ‘I should warn you, Maurice, the local press here are difficult.’

  ‘I am like dripping honey to all of them, you know that Adrian.’ The wide maddening smile.

  ‘I know it, Morrie, and I know the quality of your honey. All I’m telling you is that the local newspaper drips poison. They’re out to get us, so be bloody careful.’ He turned away abruptly, leaving Kapstein looking into his drink before swilling it back, refixing the smile and heading towards the bar. Adrian Rolfe was a small, bumptious man, he thought, Adrian Rolfe was above himself: just the kind of job Morrie Kapstein enjoyed, cutting a man like Rolfe down to his true size, all in good time, in good time...

  Felicity Durrant had been in the Theatre for forty-two years, since she was twelve years old, so the pace, laughter and fury of the reception did not fool her. She knew exactly what strains lurked behind the smiles, what shimmering nerves and fears, what hopes. That, she supposed, was one of the snares which lured you into this profession: the danger and insecurity. It was a paradox, but with some truth to it: all actors were gamblers with their talent. Some went on to the end, knowing they would make it with the chance of one more throw; others made it early, put all their winnings on the turn of a card and then dropped from the public gaze; some made it and stayed; some came to a compromise, realized exactly what talent was theirs, made use of it and moved steadily on from one similar job to another. Such a person was Felicity Durrant. She had done just about everything — comedy, tragedy, farce, the classics, music hall, musical comedy, straight theatre, cinema, television: never as a great blinding star, but always good, steady, dependable, turning in workmanlike performances, a mistress of technique. Each new part was, to her, a job, a task to be undertaken with responsibility. Certainly the two roles for which she had been cast in the current season were demanding: the Duchess of York was a nice challenging piece of fire, and Juliet’s Nurse was something in which many very great ladies of the Theatre had excelled; but Miss Durrant was under no illusions about the depths she could bring to either role, she would play them within her range and scope, no director in the world could take her further.

  The thought of being Nurse to the black child appealed to her as she watched Carol Evans threading her way through the party, alone and looking, Miss Durrant thought, a shade lost. As Carol came within her reach the older woman put out a hand and touched her on the arm. ‘Carol Evans?’

  The girl nodded shyly, her lips together in a close smile.

  ‘I’m going to be your nurse. Felicity Durrant.’

  ‘Of course. I knew your face...’ Carol thought she looked a comfortable woman.

  ‘But you couldn’t put a name to it. That’s the problem people like me have to live with.’ Felicity Durrant laughed, a pleasant ring.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you.’

  ‘I hope we have a good season together. Have you met your Romeo yet?’

  ‘No, to be quite honest I was looking for him. You know, lurking around and squinting at likely men’s labels.’

  ‘Come on, he’s over here.’ Still with her hand on the girl’s arm, Felicity Durrant moved to where she had left Asher Grey talking with two other actors, and his young woman, a few moments before.

  ‘This one here?’ whispered Carol as she identified the group they were approaching.

  ‘With his back to you, dear.’

  She saw the back and took in the fact that there were two other men, one of them she vaguely realized was Murray Fleet, whom she had worked with in television, and a girl with soft pastry-textured cheeks. Then Felicity Durrant spoke again.

  ‘Asher, come and meet your Juliet.’

  Asher Grey turned and Carol was looking into dark eyes and a face transparently lived in. For some unaccountable reason she shivered.

  ‘Hallo.’ His hand extended. Carol had the sense that she was being publicly stripped: not a simple sensual disrobing, but a wrenching away of the protective covering of her mind: it was, she reflected later, a purely emotional reaction.

  Their hands locked; a firm grasp.

  Asher felt the unfamiliar tremble within him, deep in the gut. What had Douglas Silver said? You two should make a singular commixture. If it works you might just blow all the fuses. Deep in the centre of her eyes he could dimly detect moving figures, and through the touch of her skin a burning.

  ‘I’m Julia Philips,’ the girl with him brayed, but Carol and Asher stood transfixed. Carol began to identify with the character of Shakespeare’s Juliet: a production she had once seen: was it the Zeffirelli? Where, at the lovers’ first meeting at the ball, everybody but Romeo and Juliet froze as their eyes locked.

  Asher knew that it was absurdly dramatic, but could not resist the moment. He spoke softly, so that only those very close could hear:

  ‘O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

  Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night

  Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;

  Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!’

  A small laugh, barely a chuckle, before continuing—

  ‘So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,

  As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.’

 
; A flashgun flared and died, those near applauded the theatrical moment, behind the small knot the party babbled on, oblivious. Carol relinquished Asher Grey’s hand and turned to where Julia Philips had spoken. But the girl had gone, so she brought her eyes back to Asher’s face and was puzzled to see it livid with rage. Felicity and the others melted away.

  ‘What on earth’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I must apologize for my friend. She was here a moment ago.’

  ‘Julia Philips? The girl who introduced herself? Oh, I’m sorry, I must have seemed terribly rude to her. I didn’t mean...’

  ‘It’s all right.’ His face lined with what could have been anxiety or fury. ‘I’d better go and find her. Can we...Can we talk later?’

  ‘Of course’

  He moved away and Carol turned, scanning the faces for Felicity Durrant. Conscious of the foolish, girlish sensations, she needed her nurse, but, as she moved, all she could see was Douglas Silver a half-a-dozen paces away, Jennifer Frost beside him.

  All day Carol had put off the moment, creeping into Shireston and then into the House, finding her rooms and staying in them, unpacking and hanging up clothes, stacking the bookshelves, bathing and dressing, eeking out the time until she could not prevaricate longer and had to show her face, knowing their meeting was inevitable.

  ‘You’ve met your Romeo then?’ His voice sounded incredibly calm and unemotional. Carol had the flash in her mind, picturing their last meeting: her tears, the farewell intimacy which had left her spent and wretchedly alone; the minutes and dragging hours since when her whole body seemed full of him and he was not there. Now she looked and wondered because she felt nothing. She opened her mouth to speak and it was like a fish gasping, she could not believe that such emotions and feelings could alter with so complete and sudden disintegration.

  Douglas was speaking again. ‘Then meet my wife, Jennifer Frost. Carol Evans.’

  My wife...My wife... Repeated in a descending scale within her head as though from an echo chamber.

  ‘I’m so glad to meet you. I’m sure we’re going to be good friends.’ Jennifer with her hand extended.

  Carol shook hands and at that moment the situation was broken by Adrian Rolfe at Douglas’s shoulder.

  ‘Time for your speech Doug.’

  Joe Thomas had found himself a place near the bar, and after a few drinks, and some adoration, was feeling much more his old cocksure self. The press spent some time with him: Thomas either glittered or glowered when the press was about; tonight he glittered; but his most natural attraction was for the other black actors whom Douglas had cast. Sylvia Kostamore, a tall, lithe young negress with striking looks who, among other parts, was to play Lady Capulet, made a straight line for Thomas early in the evening and introduced herself with, ‘I hear we’re going to play at being Momma and Poppa Capulet.’ To which Joe had made the most obvious and crude response. Sylvia had laughed delightedly and never left his side for the rest of the party. Lonnie Barnes, a big and handsome Jamaican actor came up and introduced himself with little Tom Soota. Later they were joined by William Ontora and the thin Adam Domine, both of whom had made their mark on British television.

  Others came and went, paying their respects to Joe Thomas, but the black faction stuck together.

  ‘You not going to circulate, Joe?’ Ontora asked after they had been in the same spot for the best part of an hour.

  ‘Nah, man. Why should I? Let them come to me. There’s enough of us here to form a Shireston branch of the Black Panthers anyhow.’ He looked through the crowd to see Douglas and Adrian Rolfe were heading towards the small rostrum at the far end of the long and packed room.

  ‘Hey now. The Man’s going to talk...’ Thomas broke off and stared. ‘...And who’s the sweet chick with Jen Frost?’

  Lonnie Barnes replied. ‘That’s our Juliet. That’s Miss Carol Evans.’ Stressing the Miss.

  ‘Is that right?’ Joe spoke almost to himself. ‘Maybe I will do a little circulating after all.’

  There was a general shuffling, the conversation running down as Douglas mounted the rostrum.

  From his vantage point, Douglas had a quick opportunity to judge how the party was going. Well, he considered, as they were taking a while to settle down. His gaze took in Carol and Jennifer standing just below him with Adrian. He had to look away, his feelings mixed and disturbed. To have had most intimate and passionate relationships with two beautiful women and then see them together for the first time was a strange experience: pride mingled with guilt and some sadness, which, he told himself, was probably sentiment. He lifted his head, looking out into the mid-ground of the crowd, which, from his viewpoint reminded him of those scenes they used to have in American big band movies: Glen Miller or Tommy Dorsey shot from behind with the dance hall clientele jammed hard against the stand. But this crowd contained faces you just would not see in any crowd sequence in a modern movie: he felt the rush and glow of admiration as he picked out the faces which had made some kind of theatrical history: Catellier, Elizabeth Column, Maurice Kapstein, Joe Thomas tucked away in the corner, his own Jennifer Frost; and the faces known to millions even if they could not put names to them: Peter Berger, Laurence Pern, Edward Crispin, Murray Fleet, Mark Lynton, Felicity Durrant, the beautiful little Rachel Cohen. He could not spot the, as yet, unknown Asher Grey but he was probably out there somewhere. Sir Basil Daley was talking quietly to Catellier, and Douglas quickly rescanned the room to see how many more of the trustees were present. He spotted the sad-faced George Tupnall, and Rupert Crown, but could not see Dempsey, the one trustee the director had any cause to fear.

  His audience were now quiet and waiting, faces looking up at him, full of expectancy, doubt and even, he seemed to detect, cynicism. Douglas cleared his throat and his mind. Public speeches were not the easiest thing for him, he did not like standing up and talking to a bunch of people, though the fact that he did not find it easy had long since forced him to adopt a formula. He preferred to think about short speeches a few days beforehand, not commit himself to paper but allow the thoughts to lie fallow, hoping they would come out fresh from his subconscious when the time came. It was a method which Douglas had found effective over the years and now he summoned all his charm.

  ‘My duty tonight is to welcome you to Shireston,’ he began. ‘I wanted to do this with a quote from the Bard himself, but the only one I can think of at the moment comes from the Scottish play, and, quite honestly, though I’m a lucky man, I don’t trust my luck that far. So I simply say to you — welcome.’ Pause, before adding, ‘And I would like to take this opportunity to make a public denial to the rumour that, since we announced the company for this season, the National Theatre is planning a takeover bid for Shireston.’

  It was a weak joke, but there was laughter and loud applause. Everyone seemed to settle back and relax.

  ‘Seriously for a moment. Around us we hear cries of gloom: alarms and excursions off. The Theatre is in a shaky and fast dissolving state; the commercial Theatre is, we are told, on the rocks; the Cinema industry is in the grip of a slow fade,’ he gave a quick grin, ‘Television doesn’t look too good to me either.’ He waited for the ironic chuckles to die. ‘If all this is true, and there is no use denying that a large proportion of it is accurate, then we find ourselves in a unique position. We are a new company, a refurbished company, we’re not so well established as the National or the Royal Shakespeare, but, thanks to the good management of the Shireston Trust, we don’t have to go begging for money. Mind you, our source of supply is not a bottomless well, but we have certain advantages and I am convinced that these can be used to thrust a fresh injection of confidence into the Theatre as a whole. We are going to present a festival this year which will explode like the biggest firework display ever known in the history of English Theatre. It is going to make headlines all over the world, and I put it to you that we are going to draw record crowds to Shireston.’

  Douglas paused, again looking out over th
e now intent crowd. He saw Ronnie and Art, both smiling, together with young Frank Ewes; Elizabeth Column was with them and David Wills hovered in the background. Douglas took another breath.

  ‘Most of what I’ve just said was for the benefit of the press, who we’re more than pleased to see here tonight. But, even though I’m saying it for the press to hear, I do not indulge in idle dreamer’s boasting. We are going to have an exceptional season here;’ he barked the stressed are as though making it a command. ‘We are going to see a real company, an ensemble, emerge from this glorious mulch of talent we’ve assembled here; a company which will reinstate Shireston as a major theatrical festival and a natural focal point, both for visitors to this country and for people who draw their emotional, spiritual and intellectual reserves from the experience of living theatre. Our efforts here at Shireston will, I believe, be of value, not just to the Theatre in this country, but to the country as a whole, and we should all feel proud that we have this opportunity to begin building for the future within the very changing, complex world of the communicative arts.

  ‘I’ll have more to say about that when we meet for the first time as a company at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Until then — mingle and enjoy yourselves.’

  For a second there was silence, then the warm blanket of applause wrapped around him. Douglas felt it was not a case of polite hand clapping but a true gesture of solidarity. As he stepped from the rostrum his mind quickly reflected on what he had just said, that he absolutely believed it all was incidental; he had pointed up Shireston, made a small humbling gesture towards the press, asking for their help and, without being tough or hard (as he would have to be in the morning) suggested to the company that they were going to be called upon to do some pretty hard work which could result in high glory. He desperately needed them on his side, from the big names to the smallest and most insignificant walk-on. At this moment they were with him, applauding, smiles of hope and success on the faces close around him. Douglas realized that he was walking towards Jennifer and Carol, and the emotionalism of the past weeks and months did not seem to matter that much, his personal problems shrank under the vastness of the project now fully set in motion. Someone, he presumed it was Adrian Rolfe, had provided music, now switched on for the first time and brought up from the applause and sea of conversation. He registered that if it was Adrian then the P.R. man had been very clever, the tune was What The World Needs Now Is Love Sweet Love, and the opening bars, pounded out on brass, strings and percussion, were instantly recognizable as the first track on Joe Thomas’s latest album: sloe Thomas Loves. There was a whoop from the corner, where the black faction were grouped as Joe’s voice came singing out and the general noise level rose several decibels.