Situation Tragedy cp-7

by Simon Brett

  Situation Tragedy

  ( Charles Paris - 7 )

  Simon Brett

  Simon Brett

  Situation Tragedy

  “TELEVISION: a medium, so called because it is neither rare nor well done.”

  Ernie Kovacs

  CHAPTER ONE

  The cast didn’t see the opening titles for West End Television’s new situation comedy until just before the Dress Run on the day of the pilot recording in January. Even the Director and Producer hadn’t seen the final version till then. The titles were animated and, as every television Cost Planner in the world insists on saying lugubriously at every budget meeting he attends, animation is expensive and takes time. (From the point of view of the cast, the animated titles were a strong encouragement. A pilot show of uncertain future would often be prefaced by a cheap mock-up from Graphics, played over music from disc. The fact that West End Television had invested in animation and had commissioned a special signature tune by none other than Carl Anthony, composer of Lumpkin! and other hit musicals, suggested more than tentative confidence in the new project.)

  The animation showed cartoon figures of a tweeded Colonel and wispy wife on a golf course. The flags in the holes of the distant greens were Union Jacks. The tweeded Colonel thrashed and puffed bad-temperedly at the ball, while his wispy wife carried his clubs and seemed sweetly to offer unwelcome advice. Carl Anthony’s music, though played on steel guitars and synthesisers, had the blimpish overtones of military marches.

  Over this pleasing charade, the following words appeared, in varied sizes of type (which had been the subject of earnest discussion between the agents of the various artists involved and the Casting Director who negotiated their contracts):

  Aurelia Howarth

  George Birkitt

  in

  The Strutters

  by

  Rod Tisdale

  with

  Bernard Walton

  Nick Coxhill and Debbi Hartley

  These last two, likely to play regular parts in any ensuing series of The Strutters, had shrewd agents, who had insisted on their clients being billed at the beginning of the show.

  Charles Paris, who would play the regular part of Reg, the golf club barman. in any ensuing series of The Strutters, had as his agent one Maurice Skellern, who was so surprised at the prospect of his client being in potentially regular and lucrative employment that he hadn’t thought to ask about billing.

  Most of the cast were clustered in the audience seats of Studio A at W.E.T. House, watching the titles on the large eidophor screen suspended above them. As the music faded and the screen went blank, Bernard Walton rose to his feet. ‘I see,’ he commented shortly. ‘If I’m wanted, I’ll be in my so-called dressing room, Number Three.’

  ‘What’s got up his nose?’ Charles Paris asked George Birkitt, who was sitting beside him.

  ‘Doesn’t like the billing, I imagine.’

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with it? He can’t surely expect to be above you and Aurelia. It’s your show, after all.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t want that. He just probably thinks he should be above the title or have a ‘Special Guest Appearance’ tag. No doubt he thinks the word “with” is demeaning for someone of his stature.’

  ‘God, it must be awful to have to worry about things like that.’

  ‘Ah well, when you’re a Star, it’s important. You can’t afford to let your status slip.’

  ‘Hmm. I don’t think I’ll ever have that problem,’ said Charles Paris, with his customary accurate assessment of his own position in the theatrical hierarchy. He felt mellow. The price of alcohol was pleasingly subsidised in the West End Television bar. Four glasses of red wine, and a couple of large Bell’s to settle them, had slipped down very comfortably. Have to have a pee before the Dress Run starts, he thought lazily.

  Once you got used to the pace of television, he found, it was quite pleasant. Once you realised it was just unremittingly slow and that there was lots of hanging around. Of course, it’d be different if you had a big part, if you had to stand around in character all the time they rearranged their cameras, repositioned their sound-booms, and titivated set and costumes. Then you might be affected by the pervading atmosphere of bad temper and barely suppressed panic characteristic of television studios. But when you were playing Reg, the golf club barman, when you had mastered your fourteen lines and two moves during a lazy week of morning rehearsals, and when you had got four glasses of red wine and two large Bell’s inside you, you could drift serenely through, unaffected by your environment.

  George Birkitt, considering he was about to record his first starring television performance, also seemed commendably relaxed and sensible. He picked up Charles’s remark. ‘No, heaven forbid. All that star business is just not worth the aggravation.’

  ‘Will you say the same when The Strutters is top of the ratings and you can’t go into a pub without people saying, “Ooh, look, it’s Colonel Strutter”?’

  ‘I’ll face that problem when I come to it,’ said George with a grin. ‘Anyway, there’s many a slip, and all that. I’ve been in too many shows that were going to change the course of theatrical history and then closed after one night, to get too excited about this.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you must have got a frisson when you saw those titles, your name at the top with Aurelia. Must mean something.’

  ‘Not a lot. “Men are led by toys” — I think Napoleon said that.’ George Birkitt shrugged non-committally, but there was a gleam of childlike excitement in his eye. Afraid it was too transparent, he changed the subject. ‘Perhaps you ought to go and calm Bernard down. He’s your friend, isn’t he?’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Charles, though it was a difficult question to answer. He had known Bernard Walton quite well when the young man had started his theatrical career, and indeed in a production of She Stoops to Conquer in Cardiff (‘Somewhat leaden-footed’ — Western Mail) Charles had been the first director to make a feature of the natural stammer which was now such a popular butt of impressionists. But as Bernard Walton’s career had shot upwards, he had moved into a rather different league from his former mentor. Charles was quite content that this should be so, since he had never felt a great affinity for the young man, and certainly no affinity for the glamorous, social side of showbusiness in which he now moved. Bernard, however, would occasionally swoop down on Charles with embarrassingly patronising invitations or offers. Charles usually avoided the invitations, feeling, not without justification, that he would only be paraded as evidence of the star’s common touch and proof of how loyal he remained to old friends. The moment Charles dreaded was the inevitable one when Bernard became the subject of This Is Your Life, and once again wheeled out the old chum from Cardiff to testify to his genuine, unspoiled nature. Gestures like keeping Charles in tow, the charity work he did with handicapped children, fund-raising for the Variety Club and Lords’ Taverners (all discreetly leaked to the press by his Publicity Manager), together with comments in the Sun about the return of the mini-skirt and descriptions of his favourite pudding in the TV Times, ensured that the public was constantly aware of the sheer loveability of Bernard Walton.

  On the other hand, though Charles Paris could, and usually did, balk at the social invitations, he never turned down any work that came his way through Bernard. In fact, he hardly ever turned down any work from any source. His was not a career of constant decision, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of one job against another; it was a career of grabbing whatever he was offered quickly, before anyone changed their minds.

  And so, when he discovered that Bernard Walton, star of West End Television’s hit sit. com., What’ll the Neighbours Say? had recommended him for the tiny
part of Reg, the golf club barman, in one episode of the series, Charles had had no hesitation in accepting it. He was not then to know. and nor was his magnanimous sponsor, that the success of the minor characters, Colonel and Mrs Strutter (played by George Birkitt and Aurelia Howarth), would be so great that they would be promoted from Bernard’s neighbours and sidekicks into the stars of a new spin-off series called The Strutters. And that, because of the convenience of the golf club bar for linking scenes (and because the company saw an opportunity to save the expense of a new set), Reg the golf club barman would be a regular character in the new series (if it passed the test of the pilot currently in the studio).

  Bernard Walton had condescended to take a guest part, as his old What’ll the Neighbours Say? character, just for the first episode of the new show, to provide a link for the audience and speed the setting up of the new situation, but he had expected more recognition of his generous gesture. Not just to be dismissed with a ‘with’. Nor to be demoted from Dressing Room One, traditionally his on What’ll the Neighbours Say? recording days, to make way for the recently promoted Aurelia Howarth who, whatever her achievements in a long stage career, had not, to Bernard’s way of thinking, anything like his stature in television.

  A deeper anxiety, not spoken out loud but hinted at by the cast of The Strutters, may also have affected Bernard Walton’s state of mind. Though West End Television had an option on dates for a further series of What’ll the Neighbours Say?, they seemed slow in taking it up. Rumour had it that the company’s Director of Programmes, Nigel Frisch, was waiting to see how the public reacted to the spin-off before making a final decision on the parent show.

  Which posed a considerable threat to the career of Bernard Walton.

  Charles Paris was aware of all this as he talked to George Birkitt about the threatened star. So too was George Birkitt. When Charles had declined the suggestion that he should smooth Bernard’s ruffled feathers, saying it was the producer’s job, since producers must make themselves useful sometimes, George commented, ‘Pity about the dressing room, though. It would have been easier if they’d put me in Number One.’

  Responding to Charles’s raised eyebrow, he hastened to correct the false impression. ‘No, no, I’m not getting big time. I just mean that I could have pretended there was some mistake and done a discreet swap with Bernard. I don’t mind having Three. Whereas, Aurelia. . By the time you’ve got that old dear safely installed, it’d be cruelty to move her. And by the time she’s got Cocky settled, it’d be impossible.’

  Cocky was a singularly revolting, aged Yorkshire terrier belonging to Aurelia Howarth. He was said to have been named after the impresario, C. B. Cochran, one of whose ‘Young Ladies’ the actress had been.

  ‘Anyway, the dressing rooms aren’t our problem,’ said Charles. recapturing the Olympian detachment of the slightly drunk.

  ‘Suppose not. Who sorts out who gets which?’

  ‘I think the PA does a list.’ It was likely. Production Assistants are responsible for a surprising range of duties in television.

  ‘Ah, the lovely Sadie.’ George Birkitt grimaced. ‘Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were deliberately trying to antagonise Bernard. She really seems to enjoy making trouble. Do you know what she said to me this morning?’

  ‘No,’ Charles fed obligingly.

  ‘She said, ‘Enjoy your brief day of stardom — it’s the only one you’re likely to get.”

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with quite her knack for being gratuitously insulting. I mean, what she said may well be true, but it’s not the sort of thing an actor welcomes first thing in the morning on a studio day.’

  ‘No. I think she gets her name from her direct lineage from the Marquis de Sade.’

  George Birkitt chuckled politely. There was a pause. He looked at his watch. For the first time he betrayed signs of nervousness. ‘If we don’t start soon, we’re not going to get in a Full Dress Run.’

  ‘What is the time?’

  ‘Nearly five to five. We were meant to start at quarter to. They’ll stop at six, however far we’ve got.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll let us finish if — ’

  ‘No, they won’t. Got to have their forty-five minutes to line the cameras up, and then their hour’s meal-break. Union rules. Actually they’ll stop on the dot tonight. There’s a union meeting at six. In the Carpenter’s Shop or somewhere. It was announced over the speakers at lunch — didn’t you hear it?’

  ‘No, I. .’

  ‘So maybe all our efforts will be in vain. If they call a strike, the show won’t get made.’

  ‘That likely?’

  ‘No, I think we’ll be all right tonight. But there’ll be trouble soon. I’ve got friends in the know who say all the ITV companies could be out by the summer.’

  ‘What, because the BBC have just got a pay award?’

  George Birkitt nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ observed Charles Paris sagaciously. ‘The BBC went on strike to achieve parity with ITV, so it’s only a matter of time before ITV goes on strike to achieve greater disparity from the BBC.’

  At this moment the object of their earlier odium, Sadie Wainwright, the PA, appeared on the studio floor from the Production Control. She was tall, blonde and attractive in a thin-lipped way. Her tan seemed to be permanent, as if in homage to her South African origin. She was neatly dressed in beige cord trousers and a flowered shirt. Gold chains clunked round her neck and wrists. She moved purposefully, clutching a pile of white camera cards.

  In her wake, hesitant but not daunted, came the trainee PA who was trailing her. At outside rehearsals, where Charles had first registered that she was rather attractive, he had discovered that her name was Jane Lewis. By contrast to Sadie, her skin was almost white, sprinkled with tiny freckles. Her eyes were water-colour blue, but their paleness, together with that of her face, gained distinction from the defiant blackness of her hair, which was centrally parted and cut short.

  Sadie made a considerable production of handing out the white cards to the cameramen. ‘The Director,’ she pronounced, ladling contempt on to the word, ‘has changed so many shots in that Sitting Room scene that I’ve just had to type all these out or you’ll never find your way around.’

  As she did her tour, she was followed by a tall angular figure in pale green trousers and sympathetically green striped shirt. This was Mort Verdon, the Stage Manager, who was in charge of the outside rehearsals and the organisation of props and a thousand and one other small duties around the studio. One didn’t have to see the diamond stud in his ear or hear the swooping drawl of his voice; his every movement had the desired effect of advertising his proud overt gayness.

  As he followed behind Sadie, he kept trying to get her attention. ‘Sorry, boofle. Sorry, lovely. Quick whisper, eh?’

  When she had distributed all her cards, he got his quick whisper. But, though he may have wanted to be discreet, she had no such desire. When she’d heard Mort’s request, she snapped, ‘No, of course we can’t do anything about the dressing rooms at this stage. He’ll have to lump it.’

  Another fluttering whisper.

  ‘No, the bloody dog has to stay there. Now can we get on with this bloody wake?’

  The Floor Manager, a hearty young man called Robin Laughton, who had ambitions to direct, took this as a cue for the start of the dress run. ‘Okay, boys and girls, let’s have a bit of hush. We are in a Dress Run situation. Can we have all the artistes for — ’

  ‘Not yet!’ blazed Sadie Wainwright. ‘I’m not in the box. You can’t start till I’m in the box.’

  ‘But Scott says — ’ Robin Laughton gestured ineffectually to the earpiece which kept him in direct communication with the director in Production Control.

  ‘Sod Scott! You can’t start till I’m in there to do the count-down.’

  ‘Scott says we’re pushed for time.’

  ‘And if we are, whose bloody fault is
that? What do you expect with directors who don’t know what they’re doing? Scott Newton — huh. He couldn’t direct piss into a pot.’

  This colourful invective impressed the studio into silence. The cast stopped muttering in the audience seats. The cameramen disengaged themselves from their cameras. The sound-boom operators hung expectant from their mobile platforms. The assembled throng of scene-shifters, painters, carpenters and men whose only function seemed to be to wear lumberjack checked shirts, suspended their discussion of racing and overtime rates. The dressers stopped bitching and the make-up girls arrested their powder-puffs.

  Only one man seemed unaware of the atmosphere. Rod Tisdale, author of many television comedy gems, including What’ll the Neighbours Say? and The Strutters, stepped out of the shadows towards Sadie. He was a man totally without distinguishing features, so ordinary as to be indescribable. The only thing that distinguished him from the archetypal man in the street was the huge amount of money he made from his well-tried writing formula. But since he never spent any of it, even the money was hardly distinctive.

  ‘Sadie,’ he said in his toneless voice, ‘while there’s a lull. I wonder if you could just give a note to Scott. In the Estate Agent’s Office scene, I think it’d be better if the Colonel said, “Not in these trousers”, rather than “Not in this suit”.’

  ‘What?’ demanded Sadie scaldingly.

  ‘Should have thought of it before,’ Rod Tisdale continued, impervious and without inflection. ‘Old rule of comedy — suits aren’t funny, trousers are. See what Scott thinks.’

  ‘Suits, trousers — what does it matter?’

  ‘Oh, it matters a lot, Sadie. One’s a joke, one isn’t.’

  ‘Well, don’t bother me with it. Tell your “joke” to little Jane. Maybe she’ll write it down in her immaculate shorthand — there must be something she can do.’ Sadie turned to leave, but thought of one more parting shot. ‘Maybe sometime, Rod, you’ll point out the other jokes in this script to me — I was damned if I could see any!’