Finding the performance itself unengrossing he began to speculate about the lives of the actors on stage. The most accomplished of them was the woman playing the leading role of Madame de Montespan, whose name, he saw from the programme, was Jean Crowden. She was in her forties and though not exactly beautiful she had the big, blowsy but still voluptuous figure that Montespan herself must have had at the time of the poisons scandal. She moved awkwardly, but she had a certain panache. Pinson observed with amusement that she got all her laughs by the simple method of saying her wittiest lines slightly louder than she said the rest.
In spite of himself Pinson experienced a frisson of sexual interest. How would she react, he wondered, if he were to introduce himself as the great author of her lines? He shrugged away the thought. After all, he had just finished a protracted affair with Francine Allen, the brilliant actress who had portrayed Montespan in the original West End production.
Another performer attracted his attention for a rather different reason. This was the man who played the part of the Abbé Guibourg. Guibourg was the villainous renegade priest who was reputed to have sacrificed babies in black magic ceremonies so that Montespan might preserve her hold over King Louis. The Bastille records, unusually for them, describe his physical appearance in some detail. Guibourg had been a large, bloated, one-eyed man with a hideous face and a blotchy red complexion.
The scene in which Guibourg makes his first appearance is laid at night in the gardens of Versailles. His sinister figure, all in ecclesiastical black, suddenly emerges from the leafy shadows. It is a powerful moment and, on this occasion even Pinson, who was expecting it, received a shock. The actor playing Guibourg was so exactly as Pinson had imagined him: over six feet four, loose-bellied, with red-veined and pendulous jowls, one eye covered by a black patch, the other bloodshot. The effect was incomparably sinister, far more so even than the West End production. Pinson looked at the cast list in his programme. The name of the actor playing Guibourg was Alec Crowden, obviously related to Jean who played Montespan. But how? As husband, brother, or father even?
Unfortunately, Alec Crowden’s performance did not live up to the impact of his first appearance. His mind seemed to be elsewhere; he spoke his lines as if in a dream, but at least he looked the part.
For Pinson the pace of the production was unbearably slow, so, when the interval came, he decided that perhaps after all he would not stay for the second half. Seeing his work performed was a bittersweet experience at the best of times and, in this instance, bitterness had predominated. He would claim his free interval wine and then exchange the stuffiness of the Jubilee Hall for the clean sea air outside, an inviting prospect only slightly vitiated by lingering curiosity. Pinson was just draining his glass of tepid Liebfraumilch when he heard a voice behind him.
‘You are Daniel Pinson and I claim my five pounds!’
Pinson snarled angrily to himself, but by the time he had turned round to face the speaker he was wearing an engaging smile. The man who had addressed him was rather older looking than he had expected from the voice. He was bald, neat, spectacled, cardiganed and carried a clipboard. A concession to the artistic had been made by his sporting of a brightly coloured cravat around his neck.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Pinson.
‘You are Daniel Pinson, are you not?’ It was a thin, pedantic, annoying voice. Pinson would have liked to have said no, but he could tell that he would not have been believed and even more annoyance would have resulted from a denial. He nodded.
‘Ron Titlow, President and Principal Director of the Bidmouth Players,’ said the man, extending his hand. Pinson shook it. Titlow’s grip was cold, dry and surprisingly strong.
‘So!’ said Titlow, lowering his voice to a mock conspiratorial murmur. ‘We are travelling incognito, are we?’
‘You could say that.’
Titlow tapped his nose with a biro. ‘Have no fear! Your secret is safe with me. Another glass of vino?’
‘No thank you.’
Pinson saw that he would have to make himself agreeable to Titlow. He told him that he had come across the Bidmouth Players’ production quite by accident. Titlow was surprised: hadn’t he been informed by his agent or his publishers? The fact was that amateur productions showed up on Pinson’s quarterly royalty statement from French’s, the play publishers, and that was the first and last he knew or wished to know about them. Titlow seemed a little put out that Pinson had not been ‘apprised’, as he put it. (Titlow was head of the English Department at Bidmouth Comprehensive.)
‘You do know this is the West of England Amateur Première of your play?’ said Titlow.
Pinson put on his suitably impressed expression.
‘Oh, yes. We pride ourselves on being rather ahead in terms of quality and innovation, you know. A little bit avant garde, as they say. Our production of The Dance of Death came second in the Amateur Dramatic Regional Finals last year.’
Pinson reinvigorated his features to adopt the same look as before. A bell rang to recall the audience to their seats. Pinson was not going to be able to escape.
‘Now tell me honestly,’ said Titlow. ‘Be as frank as you like. Speaking as the expert here. In your professional opinion, what do you think of our little production?’ Pinson hesitated. Another bell sounded. ‘No, don’t tell me now! Wait till you’ve seen the second half. Tell you what, we’re having a little last-night, post-show celebration. Why don’t you join us? Not a few bottles of the bubbly will be cracked, I can tell you. We’d really be honoured.’
‘Well. . . .’
‘That’s marvellous. My little company will be absolutely thrilled.’
‘Don’t tell them now,’ said Pinson. ‘It might put them off.’
Titlow laughed, a curious falsetto giggle. ‘You bet I won’t. This is going to be our little surprise. Wait in the foyer after the show. I’ll come and collect you.’ The last bell rang. With that, Pinson re-entered the hall and Titlow disappeared into the lighting box.
The second half for Pinson was even more tedious than the first, with the exception of one moment. This involved the Abbé Guibourg. In the penultimate scene Guibourg, now in captivity, languishes in a cell in the prison of Vincennes. Because of his connection with the King’s mistress he was not allowed to stand trial, but was condemned instead to perpetual solitary confinement. He has somehow acquired a bottle of wine and is singing a raucous song in his cell. It is one of those moments which playwrights create for which actors take most of the credit. The song is defiant, uproarious but at the same time utterly despairing. Done well it left an unforgettable impression on the audience.
Pinson had almost dozed off in the stifling heat of the hall when he heard the song, but something about it awakened him to full consciousness. It was as if a glass of iced water had been poured down his back. He stared at the stage where Guibourg was ranting out the song, waving his bottle in the air. Here was a man surviving in a state of living death pouring out his last maledictions upon a world he hated. Pinson realised that the actor on stage had achieved what perhaps only a non-professional can occasionally realise, a complete, unmediated identification with a character without the aid of technique or artifice. At that moment the man simply was Guibourg, the drunken, despairing Satanist, raving upon the lip of Hell. Pinson noted that the audience too were aware of it. They were watching the man on stage in an awed, alarmed silence, and, in the mortal stillness which followed the conclusion of the song, a young woman got up from her seat and ran precipitately from the auditorium, her sobbing breaths audible to all.
But it was only a moment. When the dialogue was resumed the play went flat again. At the end, however, there was much gratifying applause. All the actors, with the exception of Alec Crowden who had played Guibourg, were beaming and basking in the public approval. Then Ron Titlow came on and took a bow. He smirked exultantly and winked at Pinson. When he calmed the audience to make his little speech Pinson was afraid that he might be mentioned, but he wasn’
t. Titlow was too full of himself to leave much credit for anyone else.
Pinson had been aware of Titlow’s complacency during their conversation, but this address to the audience displayed another level of arrogance altogether. He spoke as if he and his actors were high priests and the audience their acolytes, privileged to breathe in the perfume of culture which the Players had wafted in their direction. Pinson thought that the audience took this condescension with remarkable tolerance; whether this was out of amusement or incomprehension he could not tell.
When they met again in the foyer, Pinson, who liked to push people who annoyed him to their extremes, complimented Titlow on his speech. Titlow who was obviously in one of those exalted states where praise seems commonplace said:
‘I don’t think these people fully realise quite what we do for them. And all for love. That’s what “amateur” means, you know.’
‘Thanks for not mentioning me in your speech.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t spoil my little surprise on the boys and girls for anything.’
The back stage area in the Jubilee Hall had only two large communal dressing rooms, one for each sex. Titlow led him to the door of the women’s dressing room where the bottles of Asti and sparkling Chardonnay were being popped and the well-wishers were gathered. Pinson could see that the female members of the cast, having removed their costumes but not their make-up, were gleaming in gaudy dressing gowns in front of the mirror lights. Titlow clapped his hands for silence to make an announcement.
‘A little surprise for you, boys and girls. Allow me to present a special guest of honour who has come all the way down from London for the last night of our West of England Amateur Première.’
Titlow turned and winked at Pinson.
‘Our author and my friend, Dan Pinson.’
A burst of delighted applause drowned any objections Pinson might have to being called ‘Dan’—it was always either Daniel, or Danny to his intimates—or to the implication that he was here in an other than accidental capacity. He was immediately engulfed in unqualified approval and admiration, both of which, in small, controlled doses, can be very pleasant, even beneficial. Pinson could remember very little of the first twenty minutes in that dressing room. The heat and bright lights made him drink more sparkling Chardonnay than he should have; the adulation was equally intoxicating. He noticed how when the thin young woman who had played the Duchesse de Fontanges was talking excitedly to him, her husband (or boyfriend), an athletic, rugby-playing type, had his arm round her shoulder in a firm grip. Pinson’s smile in his direction was greeted with stony vacancy.
Most of the time Pinson had Titlow at his side, steering the conversation, performing introductions. Then he was being guided slowly towards one corner of the dressing room where Jean Crowden, who had played Montespan, was holding court. When Titlow had manoeuvred Pinson to within speaking distance of Jean Crowden, he performed the introductions with the air of a man presenting one head of state to another.
‘Now, Dan, I want you to meet our leading lady, Jean. I sometimes say that our Jean is the Bidmouth Players. Without her it simply would not exist? Isn’t that right, Jean?’
‘If you say so, Ron,’ said Jean placidly. Pinson, who prided himself on a sensitivity to such things, thought he could detect a long history of antagonism and power struggle behind their badinage.
Jean was sitting in a wicker basket chair at an angle to her dressing room mirror which was festooned with cards. She wore a scarlet silk dressing gown decorated with Chinese dragons, the belt of which was tied tightly so that her ample curves showed. Her hair was bound up in a bright green silk scarf, and the stage make-up that she still wore was equally violent. No beauty perhaps; but there was something magnetic about those small dark eyes that glittered like shards of jet.
She was surrounded by a group of attendant admirers. For a moment or two she stared at Pinson, then she said:
‘So you are the great author. You are naughty, Ron, not to tell us that the famous Daniel Pinson was in front. Oh, forgive me! Allow me to introduce you to some of my friends.’ She indicated first a small, almost dwarfish old clergyman dressed in clerical black with a dog collar. ‘This is Canon Doker. Retired Canon now. He’s a great stalwart of the Players. He’s the one who found our lovely costumes.’
Canon Doker nodded and smiled. Pinson was able to compliment him sincerely and asked him how he had managed to get hold of such magnificent and authentic garments. The Canon grinned and rubbed his bony little hands together.
‘Oh, I have my methods. I have my methods!’ he said.
Jean then introduced Pinson to others in her entourage, but she kept to the last the tall, bloated man who was standing behind her, the man who had played Guibourg.
‘And this is my husband Alec,’ she said. Alec extended his hand and Pinson shook something cold, slick and flabby, like a reptile’s corpse. Close-to, the age difference between the husband and wife was even more evident: at a guess late sixties to mid-forties. A brief pause followed before Pinson steeled himself to the obligatory compliment.
‘I was very impressed by the performance,’ he said, making his remark as general as possible. It was a relief to find that no further assessment of the production was required of him. Jean’s acolytes were anxious to offer praise which she accepted with languid pleasure while, from time to time, her eyes strayed towards Pinson. Whenever she did so, he looked away.
‘So, Daniel,’ she said eventually. ‘How long are you going to be with us in Bidmouth?’
‘I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,’ he said.
Jean gave a little cry: ‘But you can’t! We must keep you a while longer. Where are you staying?’ Pinson reluctantly told her. ‘Oh, I know. Not bad as those sort of little places go. Now Daniel, leave this all to me. I’ll fix you up with a proper place of your own where you can stay for at least another week. It’ll hardly cost you a thing. I just know that you’re struggling with a new play at the moment. Am I right?’
Pinson murmured something faintly affirmative.
‘There, you see! I knew it. And Bidmouth is just the place where you can get a little inspiration in peace and quiet. Don’t you agree everyone?’
Everyone agreed. On Jean’s instructions Pinson was driven back to his bed and breakfast by Canon Doker in a car almost as small as he was. Doker told Pinson that he had been a Canon of Truro Cathedral, but had retired early, to ‘devote myself to my interests’. Pinson did not know you could retire early from the Church, but he took little interest in the Canon’s chatter because his long legs were aching from the cramped conditions of the car. The Canon was a great name dropper and seemed to know almost everyone there was to know in the theatrical world. He repeated several pieces of scabrous show-business gossip which Pinson had thought were known only to himself and a very few others.
Pinson hated being given lifts, especially when they were unnecessary, so he was relieved when the journey was over, but even when he was back in his own room at the bed and breakfast the unease remained. For a while it prohibited sleep, which, when it eventually came, was plagued by dreams of being driven in Canon Doker’s car towards an uncertain and unwanted destination. With every mile the car became smaller, his legs and arms more constricted. Several times he burst out of his imprisonment into wakefulness, but when sleep returned, so did the dream.
Pinson’s landlady was called Mrs Bread, a solid phlegmatic woman who rather resembled a loaf of the stuff. The next morning at breakfast she remarked, as she was bringing him the toast, that she had heard that he was at the Jubilee Hall last night. Pinson did not ask her how she knew, but it made him feel better about returning to London the next day. In response he told her that he was the author of the play that had been performed there. Mrs Bread shook her head, unimpressed.
‘Those amateur dramatics people,’ she said. ‘I don’t hold with all that.’
‘Why not?’ asked Pinson who found resolute philistinism intensely irritating.
‘They’re a click; that’s what they are. A click.’
It took a few moments for Pinson to realise that she meant ‘clique’, by which time Mrs Bread had quitted the room in a marked manner. He lingered over his toast, musing on the nature of clicks and listening to the distant squeal of gulls. It was a pleasant morning; he might even get some writing done. Then the doorbell rang.
Pinson listened idly through the half-open door of the front parlour where he was breakfasting as Mrs Bread and another female with an oddly familiar voice appeared to be having a mild altercation. He recognised the soft but insistent tones in which women vie with each other for supremacy. Then the struggle was over and, followed by Mrs Bread, the winner entered the room. It was Jean Crowden in a lime green trouser suit.
Something about the moment—it may even have been the trouser suit—filled Pinson with alarm. In the background Mrs Bread was apologising for Jean’s intrusion and, as she did so, Pinson felt a moment of decision pass from him. Dismissing Mrs Bread with a nod, he offered Jean a cup of tea. She shook her head and sat down.
‘It’s all arranged,’ she said. ‘We’ve found the perfect spot for you to do some writing. Spyhole Cottage. You’ll just love it, I know. Very oldy-worldy.’ Pinson opened his mouth. ‘Now don’t argue. The rent’s going to be peanuts. It’s owned by some old friends, Adela and Jim. You met them last night. Jim was the one with the withered arm, remember?’ Pinson did not. ‘Now I’m going to take you out and show you the sights of old Bidmouth. Then some of the gang are joining us for lunch at the Saracen’s Head which is the place to eat round here. Then Jim and Adela’ll show you Spyhole which you can move into tomorrow. How about that?’
The Complete Symphonies of Adolf Hitler Page 23