Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  There was a massive opening night party after the show and, while Susannah was being feted, Alex made a point of seeking out Myra Nielson. The leading critic for the country’s foremost national newspaper, Myra Nielson’s reviews were the most feared and respected in the business.

  Myra was a wealthy woman, having received handsome settlements from her two rich ex-husbands, one an industrialist and the other a theatrical entrepreneur. She wrote purely for her love of the theatre. Despite this fact, or possibly because of it, she spared the rod for no one. She was sophisticated, well-travelled and well-read, and her knowledge of theatre was vast. The few envious journalists who tried to dismiss her as a socialite who ‘dabbled’ were quickly forced to admit their mistake.

  ‘Miss Nielson?’ She turned. For an older woman she was extremely attractive, Alex thought. She must be nearly forty.

  Myra Nielson was actually forty-eight but had avoided children and direct sunlight. She followed a rigid diet and exercise programme, regularly visited the best beauticians, hair stylists, manicurists and couturiers and wondered how it was that some women could let themselves go the way they did. With the exception of a tiny snip around the eyes two years before, she had never undergone cosmetic surgery and she was proud of that fact.

  ‘We met once before,’ Alex continued, ‘through Harold Beauchamp. He’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Harold Beauchamp, really? What a marvellous actor.’ Myra offered her hand to Alex. Once! Only once, she thought with a touch of outrage. She’d seen Alex around the traps at least a dozen times and, although they had indeed met on only the one official occasion through Harold, she had lost count of the number of times she’d watched Alex across a crowded theatre foyer or late night supper club. She felt intensely irritated, then reminded herself that of course it was never good to appear too keen, especially for a young actor. He’s probably pretending he doesn’t remember, she thought.

  But Alex wasn’t.

  ‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Myra asked.

  It was Alex’s turn to burn. ‘I played Ezekiel Cheever.’

  ‘Of course.’ Myra quite honestly hadn’t realised. Not that it embarrassed her in any way. How could such a rivetingly attractive young man so completely disappear on stage? she wondered.

  ‘Very clever make-up,’ she smiled. ‘You looked so much older with the pince nez and the grey sideburns.’

  ‘Yes, that was the idea.’ Alex was warming to her. ‘I added a bit of thickening to the nose too. I’m playing Octavius in Man and Superman, you see, so I wanted—’

  ‘Oh well, that’s a role closer to your own age.’ Several people had been queueing up for Myra’s attention and she now gracefully eased herself away from Alex. ‘I look forward to seeing it and I wish you every success.’

  Alex was aware that Myra had found him attractive but he didn’t have time to ponder upon the impact he’d made or failed to make as an actor.

  Susannah was pushing her way through the throng. ‘Alex, this is my brother Michael.’ Alex found himself shaking the hand of a tall, sandy-haired man in his late twenties.

  ‘Hi, I’ve heard a lot about you.’ The teeth were pearly white, the carriage was proud and erect and the bones were finely chiselled. Patrician to a tee, Michael was a replica of his sister except he wasn’t pencil-thin. He was perfectly in proportion and devastatingly handsome and should have been an actor, Alex thought. But he wasn’t. He was a farmer, and a wealthy one at that.

  ‘Hello, Michael. Susannah didn’t tell me you were coming down.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ Susannah’s eyes were sparkling with excitement. It was her night and she knew it. ‘Michael flew in this afternoon. He’s staying at the Hilton. He was going back in the morning but I’ve made him stay an extra night so he can come to supper with us tomorrow.’

  ‘You came down just for the opening?’ Alex was impressed. He knew Michael flew his own plane and made quite frequent visits to Sydney but a quick trip from a Queensland avocado farm just to catch his sister’s opening night was taking sibling love beyond Alex’s comprehension.

  ‘Always do. Got to keep the folks posted,’ said Michael with a smile. ‘Dad can’t travel the way he used to and Mum won’t go anywhere without him, so that leaves me.’ He shrugged and grinned at Susannah, who beamed back.

  ‘Oh.’ Alex wasn’t sure what to say; it was all rather precious and exclusive. He prepared himself to be bored but was mercifully saved by the arrival of Harold and Julian.

  ‘We thought we’d steer clear while you chatted Myra up.’ Julian gave him a nudge and embraced Susannah. ‘Great work, Suzie,’ he whispered. ‘Really good stuff.’ Julian had always been the only person to get away with calling Susannah ‘Suzie’. It had started at NADA. ‘That girl really does need the piss taken out of her,’ he’d insisted. And now she liked it.

  Harold too was effusive in his praise of Susannah’s performance. Alex had brought her to dine several times. Despite Julian’s approval of the girl, Harold had always maintained his reservations in deference to the memory of Maddy. But after tonight’s performance, he was prepared to rethink his opinion. He was a talent snob, after all, he told himself, and Suzannah certainly had talent.

  The quality newspapers took their time publishing their critics’ views.

  Only two newspapers carried reviews the morning after a major theatre opening and these reviews were invariably written by journalists who had been transferred from the sports section or the social columns and who were not considered to be of much worth within the profession. But awaiting their words of wisdom was still a nerve-racking business. Although they tended to play safe with the classics in order to avoid any possible display of ignorance, if they did decide to turn bold and hate the production the general public was quite likely to take note.

  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning—still two hours before the delivery of the early editions. The older members of the Company had called it a night and only the hard core remained to sweat it out: Alex, Susannah, the senior leading actors, Hugh Skiffington and Rosie Lee and of course The Way In’s artistic director Roger Kingsley.

  When the papers finally arrived Roger was the first to pounce. ‘Here we are,’ he announced, ‘the gospel according to Kitty Cusack.’ Catherine Cusack doubled as regular columnist in the women’s pages and once-a-month theatre critic and was the butt of many a joke.

  ‘Once again Hugh Skiffington as John Proctor proves himself Australia’s premiere actor in the truly heroic mould.’ Roger looked across at Hugh who was leaning over Rosie’s shoulder scanning the other review. ‘Christ alive, pet, you really should give this woman your body.’

  Hugh grinned back. Rosie nudged Susannah and read, ‘After one year of supporting leads, relative newcomer Susannah Wright proves herself a consummate actress in the demanding role of Abigail.’ Rosie gave Susannah a generous hug. Although only five years her senior Rosie’s attitude to Susannah was very maternal, but then Rosie’s attitude to everyone was very maternal. In her first term at NADA seven years before, buxom Rosie Balcock, fresh from the country, had been advised to change her name, was labelled ‘character actress’ and destined for an early middle age.

  Hugh read: ‘Roger Kingsley presents us with the definitive production of Arthur Miller’s The Crucible’. He held his hands out to Roger in mock admiration. ‘Ah, my King! My King! You’ve reached new heights. Definitive!’

  ‘Oh good,’ Roger grinned. ‘Old Bill Foley’s found a new word. I wonder how many productions he’s seen in between rugby finals.’

  But mock as they did, everyone was relieved. Particularly Roger Kingsley. Much as he berated and belittled critics, and much as he pretended such scum meant nothing to him, he secretly hung on their every word.

  Kitty Cusack and Old Bill Foley did them proud. Along with unstinted praise for Hugh, Susannah and the production, Rosie’s Elizabeth Proctor abounded with ‘a warm human dignity’, Alex was a ‘talented newcomer to watch with interest’ a
nd every other member of the sizeable cast was individually congratulated together with the set, costume and lighting designer. Just for good measure Kitty lavished praise upon the stage management for tight, speedy scene changes.

  It was a good night all round and they went off to breakfast at the Bourbon and Beefsteak and didn’t go home until nine o’clock in the morning.

  The following night the show was a little flat, but then second nights usually were.

  Alex found the after-show supper with Michael and Susannah even flatter. At least in the initial phases. All the talk about family: Daddy’s heart problem, how he really must take it easy, Mummy’s devotion to him. Hell, his heart problem was why Daddy had prematurely handed the avocado farm over to Michael and shifted to the penthouse at Surfers Paradise. Michael was bloody lucky, Alex thought. Daddy wasn’t even sixty and if his high blood pressure hadn’t been diagnosed Daddy would still be on the farm and Michael would be no more than a glorified labourer.

  However, when the filial duty to Mummy and Daddy had been duly paid and Michael and Susannah continued to gaze into each other’s eyes and talk fondly about their childhood, this favourite horse and that favourite dog, to the exclusion of all else, Alex started to find it interesting. It was almost incestuous. Michael had a wife and a one year old baby but, apart from courteous enquiries en passant, they formed no part of the conversation. They’re mad about each other, Alex thought. How fascinating! He charmed his way into the conversation and decided to take a great deal more interest in the relationship of Mr and Miss Wright from then on.

  Two days later the national weekend newspaper was on the stands. In it was the review everyone was waiting for.

  Alex opened the first page of the Arts section to reveal a large photo of Susannah and a veritable rave about her performance. Such a rave, in fact, that the critic considered the production to be a little uneven. However Susannah was not to be held responsible for this—it was a flaw in the play’s direction, the critic insisted, and a stronger actor should have been cast as John Proctor. Bloody right there, Alex thought, and he read on approvingly until he got to the end of the review and discovered that his name wasn’t mentioned at all. The critic was Myra Nielson.

  She might at least have commented on his effective make-up, Alex thought churlishly. He knew he was being childish but he didn’t want the woman to ignore him. She was too interesting.

  He frowned as he reread Myra’s appraisal of Susannah’s talent: ‘Although I have respected the perception and intelligence of Susannah Wright’s previous performances, I have remarked upon a certain remote quality, even a coldness, which in my opinion could limit the progression of her talent. At last Wednesday’s opening night performance of The Crucible she dropped these barriers completely and unleashed upon us an Abigail of immense passion driven by a sexuality which was positively mesmeric, not only to John Proctor, but to the entire audience …’

  Alex was irritated. He was responsible for that ‘mesmeric sexuality’ he was the one who had unleashed that ‘immense passion’. If it wasn’t for him … He remembered the afternoon of that preview performance when Susannah had played her seduction game and been even more insatiable than ever.

  In fact, Alex now recalled, her sexual demands had grown proportionately stronger as the production of The Crucible intensified. Then he realised: he’d been used. He’d never been used in his life before. He didn’t like it much.

  A grudging form of respect started to outweigh his irritation. Myra was right; Susannah was a very talented actress and it was quite likely that she wasn’t even conscious she was using him. He decided not to say anything to her but it would be very interesting to observe just how much of their relationship Susannah channelled into her work in the future.

  In the meantime there was something far more important to concentrate on. There was a test he must set himself. And that test was Myra Nielson. He wanted to impress her as an actor. He wanted a review like Susannah’s. But more than that, he wanted to impress her as a man too. He wanted to arouse in her an ‘immense passion’. She could hardly ignore him then, could she?

  ‘The woman’s a fucking idiot!’ It was Saturday afternoon, half an hour before the two o’clock matinee and Roger Kingsley was stomping around backstage, bursting in and out of the dressing rooms, waving aloft the newspaper containing Myra’s review. ‘A fucking idiot! Unbalanced production, my arse!’ He loomed over Susannah as she added the second layer of mascara. ‘Haven’t been giving her a bit on the side, have you, pet? It reads like the Susannah fucking Wright show.’

  Rosie glanced at Susannah and hoped that she wasn’t getting upset by Roger’s ranting. Personally Rosie agreed with Myra’s review. Magnificent as Hugh’s voice was, the big, butch roles like John Proctor were just a little beyond him, but then Roger always cast him because they were an ‘item’. She also agreed with Myra that she herself was a little too healthy and buxom for Elizabeth Proctor. Yes, the production was uneven and Susannah shone.

  ‘An ignorant cunt, that’s what she is. One who likes a bit of skirt now and then.’ Roger really is a bitch, Rosie thought, and she glanced again at Susannah, ready to leap to her defence. But Susannah wasn’t taking a blind bit of notice as she started on the third layer of mascara.

  ‘This is your quarter-hour call, ladies,’ the assistant stage manager said, tapping on the door. And, frustrated, Roger stormed into the men’s dressing room to stir up some support there.

  Despite Myra’s review, The Crucible played to packed houses and rehearsals for Man and Superman commenced with a positive zest. It was hard work for the actors who were in both productions, rehearsing one show in the daytime and then reporting back to the theatre at the half-hour call for the evening performance, but nobody minded. The Way In’s 1973 season promised to be one to remember.

  Sundays were precious: the one day of the week the actors had for themselves. To Harold’s delight, Alex and Susannah invariably chose to spend their Sundays with him.

  It was a pity Julian wasn’t here, Harold thought as he lifted a fresh jar of quail eggs out of the carton. He always bought quail eggs by the carton these days; they were one of the few foods Susannah seemed to genuinely relish. No wonder she stayed so thin, Harold decided.

  ‘So, when does the tour finish?’ Susannah asked, sipping the chilled white wine Harold had just poured for her.

  ‘In three weeks.’ Harold poured a glass for Alex. They were discussing Julian. ‘Pouilly Fuisse, you dear boy. I adore you.’ Alex took great pleasure in arriving with one of Harold’s favourite wines every time they visited.

  ‘Three weeks? As soon as that?’ Alex was surprised. ‘Cheers.’ He toasted the table.

  ‘Salut.’ Harold returned the toast. ‘It was only a two-month tour you know. Poor lamb, he’s hating every minute of it.’

  ‘Well, they say never work with children.’ Susannah toyed with the fragment of smoked salmon and lettuce leaf remaining on her plate, then carefully cut the lettuce leaf in four.

  ‘It’s not the children, it’s the parents. Apparently they’re following the tour around being absolute monsters.’

  Although Julian had graduated from NADA with flying colours, his first directing job had been slow in coming and he’d finally accepted a country tour of The Sound of Music for the Elizabethan Theatre Trust. Along with his contract as director he also had to accept the position of tour manager, a task which he was sure he’d loathe, but it was that or no job at all. After all, it was not a huge budget show and he was new to the industry. C’est la vie, he thought, as he prepared to go on the road.

  It wasn’t his favourite musical, it wasn’t his favourite cast and being stranded in country towns in the company of people with whom he had very little in common was as trying as Julian had anticipated it would be. Harold received regular phone calls and blow-by-blow accounts of just how trying it was.

  Every country town reminded Julian of Wagga Wagga. Indeed, one of the tour dates was Wagga Wagga
and the week he spent there reinforced not only his reasons for leaving in the first place but his determination never to go back.

  That very Sunday evening, as Susannah meticulously wrapped her smoked salmon in a piece of lettuce, Julian accepted a third cup of tea from his mother and sat back to watch his father watching television.

  ‘Come on, Mum, sit down and stop waiting on me.’

  ‘All right dear, I’ll just finish the last of the washing-up.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me do it?’ Julian half rose but the look of horror on his mother’s face made him hastily sit back again.

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it. You sit and watch the TV with your father and I’ll bring us in some nice shortbread.’ Gwen Oldfellow disappeared to complete yet another leg of the washing-up marathon.

  Two hours before, on the dot of six-thirty, the three of them had sat down to a roast dinner followed by apple crumble with ice cream; intermittently ever since then, his mother had leapt from the table to clatter about the kitchen in a fever of activity.

  Julian had managed to persuade her to let him dry the pots. ‘And the cutlery, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, all right, dear, if you like. But just the cutlery. The dishes I drain.’

  He felt very much an intruder in the kitchen and sensed his mother’s relief when he rejoined his father.

  ‘You sure you won’t have a port, son?’ his father now asked for the third time.

  ‘No thanks, Dad, the tea’s fine.’

  Norman Oldfellow settled back to watch his favourite current affairs show but he didn’t feel totally at ease. Even if the boy did join him in a coffee and a port it probably wouldn’t make any difference. They didn’t have much in common and they never had. Norman wondered guiltily whether he should turn the telly off and try to make conversation—but then it probably wouldn’t work out, he thought, so he decided not to.