by Simon Brett
It was this last role that Ned English had been granted. And he wasn’t very good at it.
But he clearly thought he was. He played shamelessly to the camera, milked audience reactions and went through a laboured routine of defending the contestants from the cruellest (scripted) barbs of Tony Copeland.
This played perfectly into the producer’s hands. So much so that Charles Paris began to wonder whether Ned had been given the job solely to point up the wit of Tony Copeland. The latter treated his fellow judge as an innocent child, who naively could see the good in everyone. A typical exchange between the two of them after an unfortunate aspirant had recited a Shakespeare speech would go:
presenter: Well, Ned, what did you think of Kelly-Marie’s performance of Portia’s speech from The Merchant of Venice?
ned english: I think the girl has a lot of talent. Clearly a bit of a problem pronouncing her Rs, but with elocution—
tony copeland: I’d say a bigger risk for her was falling on her Rs.
[Audience laughter. Camera cuts to unfortunate aspirant, fighting back tears.]
ned english: Now you’re being cruel, Tony. As a director, I know that every actor can improve enormously with a little encouragement.
tony copeland: I personally think it’s cruel to encourage someone who has no talent.
ned english: Are you saying Kelly-Marie has no talent?
tony copeland: I’ve seen more talent in a plank of wood.
[Shocked audience laughter. Camera cuts to unfortunate aspirant, having even more difficulty in fighting back the tears.]
ned english: Oh, that’s just unfair, Tony.
tony copeland: I agree. Yes, I apologize for what I said.
ned english: I’m glad to hear it.
tony copeland: Comparing Kelly-Marie to a plank of wood is definitely unfair … to planks of wood!
[Riotous audience laughter and applause. Camera cuts to unfortunate aspirant, now in floods of tears, being led away by a hostess in a sparkly dress.]
And so StarHunt went on, like all so-called ‘reality shows’, humiliating members of the public, an activity rather easier than shooting fish in a barrel.
Charles Paris noted that Ned English also looked different. Even back in Hornchurch days he had been completely grey, and yet for television he sported a glossy mane of chestnut hair. And his dark brown eyes now peered through round comedy tortoiseshell glasses.
Watching the repeat of StarHunt made Charles extremely cross. Is this what the theatre’s come to? he fulminated into his whisky glass. Can’t a production of one of Shakespeare’s greatest plays get into the West End without this ridiculous publicity circus? And, even more pertinent, can’t Ophelia be cast by the normal auditioning process, to reward some genuinely talented young person who has worked her way through drama school and the early dispiriting uncertainties of a professional career in the theatre? Rather than some jumped-up teenager from Essex whose Mum produced fond footage of her singing and dancing to the video camera at the age of two?
The thought brought Charles back to one of the enduring qualities of his profession – its unfairness. Like most actors, he reckoned that if talent were all, the hierarchy at the top of the theatrical tree would take a very different form. But it wasn’t the most skilled actors who tended to get the breaks. It was often the ones who came with some publicity story attached, some special detail that brought them to the notice of the public. It didn’t have to be much. Good looks were sometimes enough. Being in a relationship with someone more famous never hurt. And, of course, being born into a theatrical dynasty made you a shoo-in.
Charles Paris had lost count of the number of actors he had encountered who were more talented than the ones he’d seen become stars. And though he’d never admit it to anyone for fear of sounding as if he’d overdosed on sour grapes, he did actually include himself in that number. If only he’d had the breaks, Charles Paris’s career could have been … But no, he must stop thinking like that. It wasn’t helpful and was unlikely to improve his mood.
He thought back to a production of Hamlet he’d seen with his wife Frances not that long before. He couldn’t remember exactly how long, and he wondered whether it was actually the last time they’d met. Must ring Frances, he reminded himself. Though they didn’t cohabit, Charles liked to feel that there was a lot of warmth still between them.
The reason they had seen the production was that the actor playing Hamlet was the boyfriend of one of his wife’s former pupils. (Frances was headmistress of a girls’ school.) The girl – whatever her name was, he’d forgotten – was playing Ophelia. But what Charles remembered was being blown away by the young man’s raw talent and the intelligence of his interpretation of one of the best parts in world theatre. What was his name? Something hyphenated … Oh yes, Sam Newton-Reid.
Charles remembered talking to the boy with his girlfriend in the bar afterwards. The venue wasn’t a particularly prestigious one, just an upstairs room in a pub in Battersea. And despite the enthusiasm of the tiny audience, no newspaper reviewers had seen the show. Sam and his girlfriend had tried to get various influential people along … Charles seemed to remember Tony Copeland’s name being mentioned … but he got the impression none of them had turned up.
So, despite having given one of the best performances of Hamlet that Charles or Frances had seen for a long time, Sam Newton-Reid looked to be going nowhere as a result of the production. He hadn’t got another acting job to go to and was talking of a return to the job he’d had since leaving university – working in telesales.
To Charles Paris that was just one more dispiriting story of many in his profession. A talent like Sam Newton-Reid’s would probably shrivel up in disappointment while some primped-up little madam from Essex would tread the West End stage as Ophelia.
The grumpiness that StarHunt engendered in Charles was another reason to hit the Bell’s hard. So hard that he hadn’t even made it to bed and had been crumpled in an armchair when the doorbell woke him at four in the morning.
TWO
Charles Paris hadn’t had time to change his clothes. A quick brush through his hair and a toothpaste scrub at his teeth (which did little to diminish the arid metallic foulness inside his mouth), and he was on his way. He hoped the part Tibor Pincus had for him wasn’t a clean-shaven one … though the girls in make-up usually had a razor around for such eventualities.
The journey out through the South London suburbs didn’t do much to relieve the dry pounding in Charles’s head, and when they turned off the A3, through some wiggly country roads, he began to feel distinctly sick.
But there was still a little wisp of excitement in him about the fact of being on location. There was something that got to an actor about working away from rehearsal room and theatre. Though all it often meant, particularly in the film industry, was hours of waiting around, the word ‘location’ still had a magic to it. Charles Paris even recalled a few romantic escapades which he had enjoyed in out-of-the-way hotels during filming. Illicit, of course, but then he’d been technically married to Frances for so long that almost all of his romantic escapades had been illicit. Besides, there’s a casuistic expression current among married actors prone to straying. D.C.O.L. Which, of course, stands for ‘Doesn’t Count On Location’.
So, through his hangover, Charles was looking forward to the day. To dream of a sexual encounter was perhaps optimistic, but at least there was always location catering to look forward to. Again his memory brought back recollections of far too many bacon sandwiches consumed, still leaving room for lavish lunches, frequently eaten in converted double-decker buses. He looked out eagerly for the distinctive small village of trucks and trailers that indicated a shoot was in progress.
He was thus considerably disappointed when his minicab stopped in the deserted car park by the Newlands Corner Visitors’ Centre alongside a single rented white van. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’
The driver shrugged. ‘This is where I wa
s told to take you. Pick-up time’s seven this evening.’ He thrust a card at Charles. ‘If it’s going to be very different, call this number.’
And the car was driving off almost before the back door had clicked shut. Abandoned, Charles Paris looked around at the early September morning. Though he’d left Hereford Road in darkness, the dawn had crept up unnoticed during the car-ride and it was now full daylight.
The scene the sun illuminated was a stunning one. Newlands Corner, near Guildford, commands splendid views over the Surrey hills, and is very popular with walkers and dog-owners. From the car park, tough grassland slopes downwards to the level of farmers’ fields, beyond which can be seen the misty gentle curves of the North Downs. The terrain justifies its description as a ‘beauty spot’. But that morning the landscape’s charms were lost on Charles Paris; he was too preoccupied by his hangover to respond to the delights of nature.
There was no one sitting in the white van’s driver or passenger seats, so he moved round the back. Only to discover that the doors were closed. No sign of life. He checked his watch. Five to six. He was actually early for his call … which had not always been the case in Charles Paris’s theatrical career. But he would have expected more evidence of a film crew than this single van.
For a moment he felt a frisson of something almost like fear. Looking down into the darkly shadowed woodland, he recalled why Newlands Corner had rung a bell when Maurice Skellern had first mentioned the name. It was a significant location in the history of crime fiction, the place where Agatha Christie’s car had been abandoned during her famous but still not completely explained disappearance in 1926. Just down the hill from the car park where he stood was the Silent Pool, near which her Morris Cowley was found.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud to add to Charles’s feeling of foreboding. And the hangover wasn’t helping either. He stepped forward to the back doors of the white van, hand upraised to knock on them.
Then he had another thought and tried the handle. To his surprise it turned and the doors pulled outwards.
Some premonition had suggested to him that he’d find a body inside the van, but in fact he found two.
Both covered in a scrambled tartan rug. And very still.
But only for a moment. Then a head, disturbed by the sound and sunlight, poked up to look blearily at Charles. He saw the face of a girl in her early twenties with tousled dyed red hair. The way she clutched the rug to her neck suggested she didn’t have a lot of clothes on.
Woken by her movement, the other body also came to life and peered, squinting, towards the open doors.
‘Ah, Charles Paris,’ said Tibor Pincus. Though his English was grammatically perfect, he still kept the thick accent from his native Budapest.
The famed director had not worn well. Most of his hair had gone and what remained was tufted by sleep into what looked like the crest of a battered seabird.
‘Good morning,’ said Charles, noticing with longing that amongst the horizontal empty wine bottles on the floor of the van stood upright a half-full litre of Teacher’s whisky. Not his favourite brand, but that morning he was in no condition to be picky.
Tibor Pincus looked at his watch. ‘On time, Charles. There has to be a first time for everything, eh? The cameraman is due at seven thirty and we need to have you ready for shooting by then.’
He nodded to the girl who, in one graceful movement, managed to stand up and drape the rug modestly about herself. Dexterously, she gathered up some clothes, including a pair of fluorescently pink knickers, and scuttled past Charles round to the front of the van.
The removal of the rug revealed Tibor Pincus to be lying on a grubby sleeping bag, unzipped and opened out like a kipper. He wore only a pair of checked boxer shorts, over which a pale belly dusted with white hair flopped precariously. He tried to rise to his feet but had to ease himself up against the van’s wall.
The director’s hand moved painfully up to his head, and Charles found himself mirroring the gesture in sympathy.
‘A few too many last night,’ said Tibor Pincus.
‘I know the feeling.’
Instinctively, the director’s hand found the neck of the Teacher’s bottle. In a single practised movement he unscrewed the top, brought the opening to his lips and took a grateful swig.
Reading something in Charles Paris’s eyes, he then proffered the whisky towards the actor.
‘Won’t say no. Just a quick hair of the dog.’
Charles’s swig was equally grateful.
‘Ah yes, I remember,’ said Tibor. ‘Always had a taste for the booze, didn’t you, Charles?’
‘Well …’ There was nothing more to say, really. It wasn’t an observation with which he could argue. ‘But I don’t remember you as a drinker, Tibor.’
‘No.’ The director sighed, then took another long pull from the Teacher’s bottle. ‘You will find many things have changed about me, Charles.’
‘Yes, thinking way back, when we worked together on that telly play in the eighties, there was quite a drinking culture among the cast. And you sat it out with your glass of orange juice. Very virtuous.’
‘Probably less virtuous now, Charles. No, but as director I thought someone should remain in control. Also I loved the work I was doing and I didn’t want to risk spoiling it by being less than a hundred per cent all of the time. Whereas with the work I’m doing now … huh, hard to spoil that.’
‘What was the name of that actor, Tibor, who was in that play? You know, biggest piss artist in the theatre …?’
Tibor grinned. ‘Charles Paris?’
‘Ha bloody ha! Oh, what was his name? He had a success in a telly series that was big in the States, and then he went over to live there. Haven’t heard much of him since.’
‘You mean Portie,’ said Tibor.
‘That’s right – Portie. Can’t remember his real name, can you?’ Charles was finding more names escaped him nowadays.
Tibor Pincus shook his head. He couldn’t remember either.
At least they did get bacon sandwiches. The girl, whom Tibor still hadn’t introduced – or indeed spoken to since they had both been woken up – proved to be very efficient with a little Campingaz stove. She even had an appropriate supply of ketchup, mustard and – Charles’s favourite – HP sauce.
When the two men, Tibor now dressed in denim shirt and jeans, were sitting on camping stools outside the open back door of the van with their sandwiches and mugs of dark brown tea (laced with a little Teacher’s), Charles Paris thought it was the moment to ask about the filming project for which he had been summoned to Newlands Corner.
‘Ah,’ the director replied. ‘Today, Charles, you are going to reconstruct the Battle of Naseby.’
‘Oh yes? Me and whose army?’
‘Nobody’s army. It’s just you, Charles.’ The director gestured into the back of the van to some cellophane-shielded costumes. ‘You are both the Roundheads and the Cavaliers.’
‘No other actors involved?’
‘No.’
Charles Paris’s optimism, normally suppressed by uncompromising reality, did a little flutter like a baby quickening. Even the most cynical of actors retains that flicker of hope, the conviction their careers have yet to peak, that the big break is just around the corner. To be the only actor in a television play directed by the legendary Tibor Pincus, that was the kind of career-defining job that …
It didn’t take long for the bubble to be pricked. ‘What we’re filming today,’ Tibor went on, ‘is filler stuff for one of those historical documentaries.’ And he mentioned the name of the presenter Charles had ended up watching in Hereford Road the previous night.
‘The one with big breasts?’
The director nodded. ‘The one with big breasts, yes. She’s doing a series on the Civil War. And you, Charles, are going to be all the soldiers on both sides in the Battle of Naseby.’
‘Is this one of these computer-generated things, where I’ll be cloned and made to
look like thousands of versions of myself?’ Though not strong on the details, Charles knew that a lot of work on television films was now done post-production. And that a lot of directors had a lot more fun fiddling with technical effects in the editing suite than they did dealing with the inconvenience of actors. (He also remembered a wistful line he had heard quoted from the writer Alan Plater: ‘When I started in television, “post-production” was going down the pub.’)
But Charles Paris was not about to become a component in a sequence of computer generated imagery. ‘No, no,’ said Tibor Pincus. ‘There will just be one of you, no technical trickery. I will shoot you in a variety of close-ups – a boot here, a bit of a breastplate there, your gauntleted hand gripping a pike, swords scraping against each other … that kind of thing. Then at the end of the day we’ll do lots of shots of you dying.’
‘Right.’
‘Just falling over, throwing your hands up in the air, you know. We’ll do that in both Roundhead and Cavalier costumes.’ Tibor picked up the ketchup bottle on the camping table between them. ‘We’ll use a lot of this.’
Charles nodded. ‘OK, fine.’ He looked out from their vantage point over the comforting undulations of the Surrey hills. ‘From my recollection of history,’ he said, ‘the Battle of Naseby was fought in open fields in Northamptonshire. Very flat open fields.’
‘So …?’
‘Well, I can’t help noticing that, however you might wish to describe this landscape, the one adjective you wouldn’t use is “flat”.’
The Hungarian shrugged. ‘Charles, the programme is being made by a production company based in London. They’re not going to pay to send a crew out to Northamptonshire. They want a location that’s accessible inside a day, with no overnight expenses.’
‘But you still chose to stay overnight.’
‘That was for personal reasons.’ Tibor caught the eye of the girl who had just joined them with Charles’s costume (he was going to be the New Model Army first, rather than the Royalists). The girl winked back.
