by Simon Brett
‘I wouldn’t mind, but I am pretty hard-up at the moment. Teachers aren’t paid a fortune, as you know.’
‘No. Still, you must have had some royalties from Taunton.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I did ask Paul about that. He said he couldn’t pay me.’
‘Couldn’t pay you?’
‘No.’
Charles could just picture Paul Lexington saying it, his plausible face earnestly puckered as he explained the situation to his gullible client.
Malcolm Harris brightened. ‘No, but he offered me a very good deal.’
‘Oh yes?’ Charles couldn’t keep the cynicism out of his voice. But the author did not appear to notice it. ‘He said that he couldn’t pay me because he had to maintain his cash flow for the London opening, but what he would do was to let me regard what he owed me as a stake in the show.’ He grinned with triumph.
‘So you become an investor?’
‘Exactly. I’m now on a percentage, with the Taunton money as my stake. So, when the play starts making a lot, I get this extra money on top of my royalty!’
And if it doesn’t make any money, thought Charles, you don’t even get what’s owing to you.
‘And you accepted the deal just like that?’
‘Oh yes, of course. I mean, it’s a good deal. And, anyway, I didn’t have any alternative.’
‘Did he offer you any alternative?’
‘Yes, he said, if I insisted on having my Taunton money, he wouldn’t be able to afford to bring the show in.’
It was all horribly predictable. Once again Charles was astonished how easily Malcolm would fall for the oldest cons in the business. And once again, his estimate of Paul Lexington’s integrity dropped a few notches.
‘By the way,’ asked the author, ‘has Micky Banks learnt the lines yet?’
‘Well. .’ replied Charles Paris evasively.
To his surprise, when they got to the pub, he found Valerie Cass sitting there over a large gin. She waved effusively and he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen her. ‘Charles darling, how lovely to see you.’
‘Yes, er. . terrific. You know Malcolm, don’t you?’
‘Of course. We met in Taunton.’
‘Did we?’
‘Yes. I’m Valerie Cass. Though you might not think it, I’m Lesley-Jane’s mother.’
‘Why shouldn’t I think it?’ asked Malcolm Harris innocently. He was not skilled in the art of complimenting ladies.
Nor, as Charles had come to realise to his cost, was he skilled in buying rounds of drinks. Resigning himself, Charles asked, ‘Get you another one, Valerie?’
‘Oh, just a teensy gin. Thank you, Charles.’
‘Malcolm?’
‘Half of lager, please.’
While he was getting the drinks, Alex Household came in to the pub, looking harassed. ‘Tomato juice, Alex?’
‘Whisky, please.’
‘Make that another large Bell’s, please. So you’re hooked on the stimulants now, are you?’
‘God knows I need something, Charles.’
‘Hmm. Look who’s over there. The mother.’
‘Oh Lord. I can’t face her.’
‘Come on.’
Reluctantly, Alex followed Charles to the table and sat down. He and Valerie looked at each other as cordially as two people who loathe each other can.
‘So where’s my baby?’ asked Lesley-Jane’s mother.
‘Don’t know,’ said Charles. ‘She said she had to rush off after rehearsal.’
Valerie looked piqued. ‘Oh, from what she said, I gathered she usually came round here.’
‘Quite often. Not tonight.’
‘You don’t know where she is, Alex?’ she asked sweetly. And then, with a touch of venom, ‘Or are you no longer the right person to ask?’
Alex spoke without emotion. ‘As far as I know, she has gone out to dinner.’
‘Oh, has she? Then we’ve both been stood up.’
‘So it would appear.’
‘Do you know who we’ve been stood up by?’
‘The version I heard was that Lesley-Jane was going out to dinner with Michael Banks “to go through his lines”.’
‘Oh,’ said Valerie Cass. And then, with a different intonation, ‘Oh.’ The news gave rise to mixed emotions in her. She was glad her daughter had stood up Alex Household. She was impressed that her daughter was out with someone of the eminence of Michael Banks. But at the same time, she was nettled that her daughter hadn’t told her she was going out, and the sexual jealousy, which was so much part of their relationship, was irritated by the news. She responded by testing her own sexual magnetism on Charles. ‘Had you thought about eating?’
‘Me? Eating? Oh, I’m not much of an eater. Had a pie at lunch. That does me for the day.’
‘Oh.’
‘Tell me, Alex,’ said Malcolm Harris suddenly, ‘how is Micky Banks doing on the lines?’
‘Well. .’ Alex Household pursed his lips sarcastically. And, whereas Charles had left it at that, Michael Banks’s understudy proceeded to tell the author just how much of a massacre the star was making of his play.
It was just the two of them left in the pub. Valerie Cass had left rather petulantly as soon as she had finished her gin, and Malcolm Harris, breathing imprecations against Michael Banks, had gone soon after (without, of course, buying a round). Charles and Alex drank a lot, but Charles didn’t feel the relaxation he normally experienced when getting quietly pissed with a fellow actor. Alex was too jumpy, too neurotic, too dangerous.
Towards the end of the evening, indiscreet with the unaccustomed alcohol, he suddenly said, ‘I don’t think I can take it much longer.’
‘Take what?’ asked Charles.
‘The humiliation. The sheer bloody humiliation. You take a decision rationally. You say I’ll do this or that, it’ll be hell, but I know the stakes, I’ll do it, I can cope. And then you do it, and it is hell, and you realise that you can’t cope.’
‘You mean this understudy thing?’
Alex nodded unevenly. ‘That, and other things, yes. I just feel it can’t go on much longer. There’s got to be some resolution, something that breaks the tension.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘I don’t know.’ Alex Household laughed suddenly. ‘Someone’s death, maybe.’
Thursday’s rehearsals built up to a run in the afternoon. Whatever Michael Banks had done with Lesley-Jane the previous evening — and something in their manner towards each other suggested he had done something — it had not improved his grasp of the lines. In fact, he was worse than ever. It was as if his mind had a finite capacity for lines; put in more than it could hold and they would start to overflow. He would surprise everyone by getting a new speech right, but then show that it had been at the expense of other sections of dialogue. The fact could not be avoided: Michael Banks could no longer learn lines.
He was cold and hurt at the end of the run-through, knowing what was wrong and unable to admit it.
‘Look, Micky,’ said Peter Hickton, ‘would it help if we were to go through the lines again this evening, just the two of us?’
‘No, thank you,’ the star replied politely. ‘I’ll go home and put them on tape. That sometimes helps.’
‘Are you sure there’s nothing that — ’
‘Quite sure, thank you,’ came the firm reply. ‘Don’t worry about it. I once learned all of lago in three days when I was in rep.’
But the old boast didn’t convince anyone. Amidst subdued farewells, Michael Banks left the rehearsal room.
‘Christ!’ muttered Paul Lexington, momentarily losing his cool. ‘What the hell do we do now?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ confessed Peter Hickton. ‘Just run out of ideas. Unless we start pasting bits of the script all over the set. God, if only it were television. There you can use autocue and idiot boards, but in the theatre there’s no technology that can help you out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Friday’s rehearsals followed the pattern of the previous day. Followed it even down to the detail of Michael Banks not knowing his lines.
The strain was beginning to tell on him. The casual bonhomie was maintained with more difficulty. There was no arrogance in the man; he was desperately aware that he was letting down all his fellow-actors, and by one of the least forgivable of professional shortcomings. Knowing the lines was the basic equipment for the job. Actors throughout history had staggered on to stages in various states of alcoholic debility, but they had almost always got through the lines, or at least an approximation of them. Michael Banks knew how much he was showing himself up, but the lines just wouldn’t come. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he might well have spent the entire night going through them on a tape recorder, but it hadn’t helped. Every improvement was at the cost of another speech forgotten.
And he knew fully what was at stake too. He was aware of his responsibilities as a star. One of the reasons why people in his position were paid so much money was because their presence could often ensure the survival of a production and keep the rest of the company in employment. They were responsible for the complete show, which was why stories of stars giving notes to other actors or ordering changes in sets and costumes were not just examples of megalomania, but the desire to maintain the overall standard of whatever production they put their names to.
Michael Banks knew that The Hooded Owl was not up to the required standard. It was due to open in less than a week. It was due to be shown to the paying public in a preview on the Monday evening. More important than either of these, it was due to be run again on the Saturday afternoon in front of Bobby Anscombe. And if it didn’t live up to the investor’s rigorous standards, no one had any doubt that he would make good his threat of withdrawing his backing.
Consciousness of all these pressures did not improve Michael Banks’s concentration and, together with fatigue, ensured that the lines were worse than ever on the Friday afternoon run.
The rehearsal ended in apathetic silence. The actors drifted uselessly to their belongings.
‘Micky, could we have a quick word?’ asked Paul Lexington, and the star, with the dignity of a man mounting the scaffold, went across to join the producer, director and Company Manager.
Conscious of the straining ears of the rest of the company, Paul Lexington led the little group out into the corridor. They were out for two or three minutes, during which no one in the hall spoke.
Michael Banks led them back in, saying, ‘No, I’m sorry, Paul. I couldn’t think of it. I have a reputation to maintain.’
‘Do you have any alternative to suggest?’ asked the Producer, careless now of listening ears.
The star spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘Only that somehow I’ll get the lines. Somehow.’
‘Micky, you’ve said that for a fortnight, and there’s no sign of it happening. We’ve got to do something.’
‘But not what you suggest. There must be some other way.’ And, to put an end to the conversation, he walked firmly off to pour himself a cup of coffee.
After a muttered colloquy with Peter Hickton and Wallas Ward, Paul Lexington announced, ‘O.K., everyone. We’ll break there. Ten o’clock call in the morning. There’s still a lot of work to do.’
‘You can say that again,’ murmured Alex Household, who was standing beside Charles, ‘but I fear it will all be in vain.’
‘Alex,’ said the producer, ‘could you just stay for a quick word?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m going round the pub,’ said Charles. ‘See you there maybe.’
‘Perhaps,’ Alex replied abstractedly. And looking at the glow of restrained excitement in the other actor’s face, Charles knew that Alex Household thought he was about to get his part back.
It was nearly an hour before Alex appeared in the pub, and one look at his face told that his expectation had not been realised.
He no longer even mentioned his ‘no stimulants’ regime as he took the large Bell’s from Charles.
‘The nerve! The bloody nerve! I cannot believe it!’
Charles didn’t bother to prompt. He knew it was all about to come out.
‘Do you know what they have asked me to do? Cool as you like, Paul bloody Lexington has asked me to sit in the wings for the entire run of this play and feed Micky Banks his lines!’
‘What, you mean to be a kind of private prompter, whispering at him right through the play?’
‘No, it’s a bit more sophisticated than that. This is a deaf-aid job.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, haven’t you heard of these things? It has been done before in similar circumstances. It’s a new device, whereby, thanks to the wonders of electronics, a star can still give a performance without bothering to learn the lines.’
‘Explain.’
‘Very simple, really. It’s a short-wave radio transmitter. Some lemon — me, if Paul Lexington has his way — sits in the wings feeding the part line by line into the transmitter. The character on stage, for reasons which may possibly be explained by the insertion of a line or two into the script, wears a deaf-aid. .’
‘Which acts as a receiver?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But does it work?’
‘It has worked in some very eminent cases. Has to be modern dress obviously, and ideally an elderly character. You can’t have Romeo swarming up the balcony in doublet, hose and hearing aid. But the part Micky’s playing. . why not?’
‘I’m amazed. I never heard of that being done.’
‘Well, now you know. And if ever you see an actor on stage with a deaf-aid that is not integral to the plot — be suspicious.’
‘Has Micky agreed to use it?’
‘He’s still blustering and saying he never will and he once learnt lago in three days, but he’ll have to come round. There’s no alternative. Except for the obvious one.’
‘Which is?’
‘Reverting to the original casting.’ Alex Household let out the words in a hiss of frustration.
‘Which they won’t now they’ve got Micky’s name all over the posters.’
‘No, of course they won’t.’
‘I agree, it’s a bit of a cheek, asking you to do it.’
‘Oh, you should have heard the way it was put. Paul Lexington at his greasiest. Of course, Alex old man, it could be done by an A.S.M., but you do know the part so well, you could time it properly. And of course we would raise your money for doing it.’
‘By how much?’ No actor could have resisted asking the question.
‘Fifty quid a week.’
‘That’s pretty good.’
‘Oh yes, Paul Lexington pays you well for totally humiliating yourself.’
‘So you told him to get stuffed, did you?’
‘No, I haven’t yet.’ A cold smile came to Alex Household’s lips. ‘And do you know, I’m not sure that I will.’
‘You mean you’ll accept it?’
‘I just might.’
‘Good idea,’ said Charles soothingly. ‘Take the money and don’t think about it. That’s always been my philosophy.’
‘Yes.’ Alex’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Because now I come to think about it, it could be a good job.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘A position of power.’
‘Power?’
‘Yes. How does one gain revenge for humiliation’?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Charles didn’t like the way the conversation was going. The old light of paranoia gleamed in Alex’s eye.
‘Why, you humiliate someone else.’
‘Maybe, but — ’
‘And if you’re stuck in the wings feeding lines to some senile old fool who can’t remember them. .’ he laughed harshly, ‘. . then it’s really up to you what lin
es you feed.’
By the Saturday morning Michael Banks had accepted the inevitable. He sat in shamefaced silence while Paul Lexington explained to the company what was going to be done and was still silent, but attentive, while Wallas Ward, who had encountered the deaf-aid on a previous production, demonstrated the apparatus.
They started rehearsing with it straight away. Alex Household sat in a chair by the wall, smugly reading the lines into a small transmitter with an aerial, while Michael Banks moved about the stage area with the deaf-aid in his ear.
‘We can’t really work out sound levels properly until we get into the theatre. Better just work on timing the lines,’ advised Wallas Ward.
‘Come the day,’ asked Alex languidly, ‘where will I perch? On the Prompt Side?’
‘No. You’d be too near the Stage Manager’s desk there, might pick up his cues on the transmitter. No, you should sit OP.’ Wallas Ward used the theatrical jargon for the side opposite the Stage Manager.
‘Fine,’ said Alex, obtrusively cooperative.
They started. It was not easy. Michael Banks was not used to acting with a voice murmuring continuously in his ear, and Alex Household found it difficult to time the lines right. If he went at the natural pace, Michael Banks got lost and confused, unable to speak one line while hearing the next. The only way they could get any semblance of acting was for Alex to speak a whole sentence, Michael to wait for the end, and then repeat it. This method didn’t work too badly in exchanges of dialogue, but again it was disastrous in the long speeches. With all the waits as the lines came in, the pace slowed to nothing. The lines were coming out as written, but the play was dying a slow death.
Michael Banks struggled on gamely for about an hour, but then snatched out his ear-piece and said, ‘I’m sorry, loves. It’s just not working, is it?’
‘Persevere,’ said Wallas Ward. ‘Just persevere. It takes a long time to get used to it.’
‘How long? We don’t have that much time.’
‘Keep trying.’
It was painfully slow, but Michael Banks kept trying. His memory might have gone, but he showed plenty of guts.
Bobby Anscombe was due at three. Then they would do a run for him. By then they had to have mastered the device. By unspoken consent they worked on through their lunch-break. Every member of the company was willing their star to succeed.