As for the idea that stepping onto the stage to play King Lear is as hazardous as negotiating a minefield, that’s a story put about by literary thesps about to play King Lear. Acting is basically showing off, a way of getting women to sleep with you (or men in the case of our literary thesps). Bravery is nine years in the chorus of Evita – as well as being professional suicide, of course.
“OK, people,” shouts Philip Sidney, straddling a chair at the front of the hall and opening a tattered notebook, “clear the stage, please. Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Who’s there?”
“Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself.”
I can’t help shivering when I hear the familiar opening words. Every night (over the dressing-room tannoy) they would provoke in me a sort of depression that didn’t lift until the arrival of Fortinbras, five and a half hours later. They were starter’s orders for thirteen minutes of frantic green-room bitching time with the other courtiers, before our next entrance in Act I scene ii. I shift uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair and try to remind myself that tonight is strictly for pleasure.
At least Philip Sidney has had the good sense to cut half of it. But apart from that, what can I say? The concept is both crass and ludicrous, the acting too dreadful for words, and the direction virtually non-existent. It is, in fact, all that I had hoped for.
Nikki flits in and out of the action; bending athletically to capture a close-up of Bernardo, her low-cut top enough to distract the most hardened professional. I amuse myself by rehearsing my sardonic voice-over (‘Unfortunately, good intentions are not the only prerequisite for a theatrical triumph’ ) but in the end, the whole thing is so delightfully abysmal that I slip into a sort of reverie. I can hardly wait for the first entrance of the wheelchair Prince.
Next, something terrible happens.
I’m not sure when it hits me because, as I say, I’m in a state of coarse-acting-induced nirvana. Hamlet’s entrance, the low hum of his wheelchair cutting across the chasm of Claudius’ first dry, is indeed a joy. When he finally opens his mouth (A little more than kin and less than kind’ ) his peculiar, high-pitched, badly amplified voice is so incongruous that I have to laugh out loud. When the court exit (not to appear again until II.ii) and he’s alone onstage for his first soliloquy, it’s almost as if I’ve died and gone to heaven.
But, ludicrous though he looks, I have to admit that (unlike Gertrude and Polonius) he does appear to know his lines. What’s more, he makes pretty good sense of them. Even Piers isn’t nearly as bad a Horatio as he could have been. I’m not sure how they do it, but, between them, they manage to establish a genuine sense of camaraderie, which as a thirty-nine-year-old who’s lost contact with all but one of his old friends, I find somehow rather touching.
It’s also quite a good play. Although, as I’ve said, I appeared in it for nearly a year, thank God the director wasn’t one of those cruel bastards who makes the whole company turn up for every rehearsal. Consequently, my knowledge of the chamber scenes is somewhat sketchy. But the poignant father⁄son relationship, the whole idea that you might somehow atone for the indignities suffered by a parent, is particularly prescient. I wish I could have done that for my dad – too late for that, of course.
And there’s something different about Michael. I can’t quite put my finger on it. He can only move his head, for God’s sake, and yet, though it pains me to say it, I suddenly realize I’m no longer watching the patient from hell, but a different person altogether. I suppose it must be what people call acting. Put me in a Charles Fox, eighteenth-century vicar’s costume, give me a funny Yorkshire accent and a limp, and it’s still me. I won’t bump into the furniture, they’ll hear me in the balcony, and if the line’s funny I’ll probably get a laugh. The trouble is, underneath it all, it’s still Timothy Salt in a silly frock.
I have tried it, a couple of times, feeling things, but it’s awkward and messy and, to be perfectly honest, not my cup of tea. So pretty soon I’m back to thinking, “What’s the next line?”
“Where am I going to eat between shows?”
“If he gets a move on and dies I won’t have to change at Acton Town.” What’s more, I’ve always found it pretty hard to believe that any actor could start feeling like someone else. But by the time Michael arrives at ‘what a rogue and peasant slave am F, it’s clear he’s going to be a sensational Hamlet.
It gets worse. Anna turns out to be a really affecting Ophelia. Her voice isn’t quite up to it, but she has a gauche-ness and vulnerability that’s spot on. Together, however, they have what is known in television circles as ‘chemistry’. So much so that by the time he’s packing her off to a nunnery, I feel moisture on my hot cheeks.
In my mind’s eye I see hordes of critics beating their way down to Oxford, all desperate for a piece of the action. I see him and his wheelchair shining out from the Saturday supplements, interviews with Melvyn Bragg and guest appearances as the token cripple on Inspector Morse. I cannot let this happen. I simply cannot let it happen.
Suddenly I can’t stand it any longer. I stumble, silently sobbing, from the Morley Fletcher Rooms, and I don’t stop running until I get to the Fatted Calf.
∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧
11
For this Relief
The Quadriplegic
“Where’s Laughing Boy?” says Nikki, barging in without knocking and flopping down on the sofa.
“He’s getting ready for his audition.”
“You are joking, I hope. Who in God’s name would want to waste thirty seconds of their valuable time with that old dugout?”
I’m actually in the middle of bringing a single parent in Reading to an earth-shattering climax. I stab rapidly at the keyboard with my wand, and bring up the screensaver. Looks like poor old Kelly-Marie is going to have to wait. “He’s been in his room for the last two hours. Do you want him?”
“God, no,” says Nikki, sounding as if I’ve just suggested a threesome. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s creepy middle-aged men.” I turn to face her, trying not to look guilty. Short skirts suit Nikki. When she uncrosses her legs, I get a sneak preview of black stocking tops. “It’s you I wanted to see, Mike.” She takes something from her handbag and conceals it behind her back. “I’m going to be away for a couple of days, so I got you a little pressie.”
(It’d better not be a fucking hat.) “What did you want to go and do that for?”
De Niro launches into a chorus of ‘Hey Jude’. It sounds like Mum’s horrible CD of that opera singer murdering ABBA songs.
“Shit,” says Nikki, “I hope he’s not doing that at the casting.”
I almost feel sorry for the bloke. He was pacing around the lounge at six o’clock this morning rehearsing his line. “More Stilton? Don’t mind if I do! With new fast-acting Flatuleeze, I can have my cheese without cutting it.” And it sounded terrible. No wonder he’s shitting himself.
Nikki gestures towards De Niro’s bedroom and raises an eyebrow. “That’s part of the reason I got you a present really. You’ve been bloody magnificent, Michael. I don’t know how you’ve managed to put up with him.”
“He’s not that bad.”
Right on cue, De Niro begins his vocal warm-up: “In Tooting two tutors astute, used to toot to a tune on the flute.”
“You’re going to love this, Mike. He actually thinks I’m going to let him do the commentary for Wheelchair of Fire.”
So that’s what he meant about getting into the voice-over game. “Aren’t you, then?”
She tosses back her head and lets out a deep-throated guffaw. “I wouldn’t let him near a trail for hospital radio, let alone a major new documentary. Don’t worry, John Nettles has been pencilled in for weeks.”
“I don’t think Timothy will be very happy about that.”
“This is grown-up land, Mike, not some male meno-pausee’s wank fantasy.” Nikki has these totally amazing legs that stretch right up to her armpits. “All t
he same, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention it just yet.”
“Whatever you say.”
She steps towards me, careful not to blind herself on my wand, and crouches at my feet like she’s going to propose. “Those things you said, down by the lake, about how you dream you can walk…” (If she comes any closer, I’ll get a good look down her blouse.) “They were truly humbling. And sitting in on your tutorial today was a great privilege. Pity that joker had to stick his oar in.”
He’s only here to empty my colostomy bags, but for some reason, De Niro felt the need to share his views on Restoration comedy with my tutor. “Glad you enjoyed it, Nikki.”
“Did you know that Professor Bradshaw was a consultant on Nuns Who Stray? He did a lovely piece to camera about sixteenth-century menstruation rituals.” She takes a green plastic object from behind her back. It looks like the gizmo for a radio-controlled car. “I almost forgot, here’s that present I told you about.”
“What is it?”
“You said something, the first day we were filming, that really moved me, Mike.”
“I did?”
Nikki nods gravely. “My heart went out to you that morning, Michael. And I just really wanted to do something to help.”
I hope she realizes I was joking about Disneyland. “What did I say?”
“You said your greatest ambition in life was to have an orgasm.”
“Yes, but…”
“So I did a bit of research on the Net, and I think I might have come up with the answer.” At the flick of a switch, the green plastic thing whirrs into life. Nikki waves it triumphantly in my face. “It’s the Fecundimatic Vibrator. I’ve heard some terrific things about it.”
“Would you mind switching it off, please? What is it, anyway?”
“It’s a revolutionary semen-retrieval system,” says Nikki, sounding like someone off the shopping channel, “specially designed for guys with SCIs. No unsightly cords,” she runs her finger along the shaft and across the tip, “it’s battery operated. That’s the applicator, and there’s the indicator light that tells you if you’re applying too much pressure.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Fantastic, isn’t it? And there’s something like a 45 per cent success rate. You see, your partner holds it against the root of your penis or perineum – or possibly,” she winces, “in the anal passage, and hey presto!”
Just for once, I can’t wait for De Niro to get his arse out here. “You’re not serious.”
Nikki is waving the thing around like a lightsaber. “Sounds too good to be true, doesn’t it, Mike? I’m not denying there can be the occasional unpleasant side-effect: dysreflexia, restlessness, phantom pain…fatality even. But it’s got to be worth it, hasn’t it?”
I ought to be more disgusted than that bad-tempered bloke in Tunbridge Wells, so why do I find myself obsessing over a pointless side issue? “I haven’t got a partner anyway.”
“That’s easy,” smiles Nikki.
“What, you mean you…?”
“Christ, no! I was thinking of the delicious Anna.”
“You what?”
“Oh, come on,” she says, ruffling my hair, “it’s perfect. I saw how great you looked together at the run-through. And anyway, I couldn’t do anything because I’d be filming, wouldn’t I?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“No, Mike,” she says solemnly, “it’s beautiful. It’s a marvellously positive image of a disabled man coming to terms with his sexuality. You know, a lot of people said I shouldn’t have shown Sister Bernadette masturbating, but it was so tastefully edited that we got some incredible feedback.”
“What makes you think Anna would be interested anyway?”
“Because you’ve got so much to offer, Mike.”
“What, like free parking, you mean?”
Nikki pretends to be shocked. “You mustn’t sell yourself short.”
“Just get that fucking thing away from me. I don’t want anything to do with it, OK?”
“I’m so sorry, Michael,” says Nikki, the hint of a tear in her voice. “I thought you were serious about this. Why don’t you think it over? I’ll pop the Fecundimatic down on the mantelpiece here. Let me know if you change your mind.”
De Niro sweeps into the room looking like the Incredible Hulk just before he burst out of his clothes. “Well, how do I look?”
“Nice suit,” says Nikki, turning towards me and slipping a finger down her throat. “What a fab decade the eighties was.”
“I bought it for my wedding,” says De Niro, fussing at the knot of his enormous tie. “Thankfully, it proved somewhat more durable than the marriage itself.”
“A little bird tells me you’ve got an audition,” says Nikki. “What are you up for?”
“Er, well, it’s a commercial actually,” says De Niro, tugging on his earlobe, “for some new dyspepsia lozenges, which is great because my agent – Bunny Michelmore at Bunny Michelmore Management – once told me that I looked like a man with permanent indigestion.” His hollow laughter doesn’t quite ring true.
“Anyway,” says Nikki, “I’ve got a plane to catch. I’m flying out to Paphos for a couple of days. The lesbian holiday reps are getting married, and Sheena has asked me to give her away.”
“How very elevating,” sneers De Niro.
“I’ll see you guys later then,” says Nikki, resting her hand on my shoulder. “And don’t forget what I said earlier, Mike. You could be an icon for disabled men everywhere – wouldn’t that be fab?” She walks slowly to the door. “Oh and Timothy, have you ever thought about working out? It might do you good.”
De Niro is so preoccupied with his audition that he doesn’t seem to register Nikki’s parting shot. Flushed and slightly breathless, he paces the room like a bad actor, pausing in front of anything shiny enough to bear his reflection, and breathing on his hand and sniffing it. “All right, Michael, this is it. Now listen carefully. Philip and Anna are coming here at eleven for a rehearsal, and then Anna’s going to stay on to give you lunch and see to your…ablutions. But don’t worry, she’s raring to go, and I promise I’ll be back before six.”
Every morning for the last week, Anna has been observing my bowel and bladder management. If I’d been at all squeamish about having an audience, I would have died of embarrassment years ago. But I still hated having her there. It didn’t help that she seemed so fascinated by the whole thing. “Good luck for the audition.”
“Fingers crossed, eh?” He checks his flies for the umpteenth time. “Right, I’d better be off. Are you still using the computer, or do you want me to take your Dalek thing off?”
I suddenly remember Kelly-Marie. “No, thanks, there’s something I need to finish first.”
∨ The Opposite Bastard ∧
12
The Secrets of My Prison House
The Quadriplegic
Herr Director crouches against the wall, roll-up glued to his bottom lip, occasionally sharing some of the wisdom he picked up at the Nazi Academy of Dramatic Art – or was it Winchester? “For fuck’s sake, Anna, just act better.”
“I’m doing my best,” she says, flopping over at the waist and slowly coming up again (vertebra by vertebra) just like Piers does in his warm-ups. “I told you I wasn’t really an actress.”
Philip says the Hamlet⁄Ophelia thing isn’t really working, so we’re having some private, remedial rehearsals in my rooms. I just want to smash the arrogant bastard’s face in. Why does she let him talk to her like that?
“It’s no use; you’ll have to find another Ophelia.”
Philip morphs into ‘good cop’ directing mode whenever it suits him. He takes Anna in a sickening embrace, wipes away her tears and plants a tender kiss on her forehead. “Trust me, babe, you can do it. Look, I’m sorry I shouted. It’s only because I care so much. You don’t know how much this thing means to me.”
“It means a lot to all of us,” sniffs Anna.
“Well, I th
ink you’re doing really well,” I say, hating the way she rests her head on his shoulder. “Even Timothy said he thought you were going to be a brilliant Ophelia.”
“And we all know what an expert old Fuck-face is,” snorts Philip. “Look, it was a bit better that time, but I still don’t believe in you as a couple.”
“Funny that,” I say, “I thought we were perfect casting for one of those coffee ads.”
“Yeah, nice one, Mike. Now, why don’t we try it again? And this time, make it more real, OK.”
Anna begins in a feeble whisper, “My lord, I have remembrances of yours that I have longed long to redeliver.”’ But it looks like Ophelia’s going psycho about twenty pages too early. She tugs at the roots of her (recently hennaed) hair. “It’s all very well to say make it more real, but couldn’t you give us a tiny clue? You are the fucking director.”
Philip Sidney head butts the wall, satirically. “How many times do I have to say it? It’s all in the punctuation. Shakespeare tells his actors everything they need to know.”
“That’s rubbish,” says Anna, “and you know it. I mean, who is this girl? What’s happening in this scene? I just don’t get it.”
“Well, that’s pretty obvious,” says Philip.
“And what does she see in a nutter like him?” she says, pointing in my direction.
“Frailty, thy name is woman,” intones Philip, like it’s the answer to everything.
The Opposite Bastard Page 11
