by Simon Brett
‘Not sure I would for a Tech.’
‘Look, Charles, in two days I’m going to be playing the part to a paying audience. I need to be full on for all the rehearsal time I can get.’
‘You may be right.’
‘Have you ever actually played the part?’
A wry shake of the head. Hamlet wasn’t the kind of part actors like Charles Paris got. Even when he was the right age for it, the nearest he’d come was Horatio. (‘Charles Paris played Horatio like a particularly slow-witted Dr Watson.’ – Oldham Evening Chronicle.)
‘Well, this is a big opportunity for me,’ said Will Portlock earnestly, ‘and I’m not going to waste it.’
‘Good for you.’
‘I’ve texted my father about it. He’s flying over from Baltimore for the First Night on Wednesday.’
Charles just hoped that the insurance covered last-minute cancellation of the flight if that became necessary.
‘I’m very determined to make a success of my career,’ were Will Portlock’s last words before rehearsal of the Closet Scene was allowed to resume.
The intensity with which they were said brought a new thought into Charles’s head. Will’s preparedness to take over as Hamlet suggested an unusual degree of forethought. And what had happened to the originally cast Hamlet had been nothing but good news for his young understudy. For the first time Charles Paris found himself idly wondering just how accidental Jared Root’s injuries had been.
SEVEN
Charles had been unprepared for the level of publicity attracted by the accident at the Grand Theatre, Marlborough. There was a camera crew at the Stage Door within an hour of Jared Root’s departure in the ambulance, and apparently another one at the hospital to which he had been taken. News of his injuries made radio and television news bulletins. And apparently Facebook and Twitter were alive with reactions to the subject.
This last information Charles did not find out for himself, but heard from younger members of the company. It wasn’t just Jared and Katrina who counted their followers on Twitter. It seemed that having a presence on social media was essential for every actor under a certain age. And a good few over that age. Charles Paris had been surprised to discover in conversation with Geraldine Romelle that she was on Facebook and Twitter. ‘Have to keep in the loop, darling,’ she had said to him when the subject came up.
He was slightly annoyed that the commotion following Jared Root’s injury had prevented him and Geraldine having their promised drink together. He hoped the occasion was simply postponed, but she didn’t mention it during the rest of the delayed Tech. And Charles was beginning to feel an increasing need for feminine companionship. Or actually, to call a spade a spade, sex.
He looked around for Geraldine when the Tech did finally end, but there was no sign of her. Granted, it was by then nearly two in the morning, so the thought of adjourning to some local hostelry was out of the question. But, cynical and embittered though he was, Charles Paris sometimes entertained fantasies about women as unrealistic as those he did about his career. The idea that Geraldine Romelle might have invited him back to her digs for ‘a nightcap’ was, of course, ridiculous, but he was childishly disappointed that she’d left the theatre without saying goodnight to him. He felt alone and maudlin, depressed by the knowledge that he would now inevitably go back to his digs and drink too much from the bottle of Bell’s that awaited him there.
Before leaving the theatre he went to the Green Room in the last despairing hope that he might find Geraldine. Of course, he didn’t, but sitting in there was the pretty young ASM, Milly Henryson. Like everyone else of her age who had a spare moment, she was fiddling about with her mobile phone.
She looked up from the screen at his entrance and grinned. ‘Hi, Charles.’
The thought of inviting her for a drink somewhere was instinctive but, by good fortune, quickly rejected. Milly Henryson really was too young for him, and Charles was getting to the age where unwanted advances could all too easily look like the actions of a dirty old man.
He was again struck by the ease with which she talked to him, which he’d felt from the read-through onwards. He was again sure that they must have met before that, but again totally unable to remember where. Oh dear, that kind of thing was happening increasingly as he got older.
‘I was just checking Twitter,’ the girl said. ‘Lots more reactions to what happened to Jared.’
‘Ah.’ Charles hoped the monosyllable conveyed to her his complete familiarity with what on earth she was talking about.
‘There’s even one from him,’ Milly went on.
‘How could he do that?’
‘He’ll have his mobile with him.’
‘Yes, but I’d have thought, given how badly injured he is …’
The girl shrugged. ‘Well, it’s definitely from him. It’s got his Twitter handle.’
Charles Paris let out another ‘Ah’ which he hoped would give the same knowledgeable impression as the first one. ‘What does he say?’
‘Just thanks for all the messages of goodwill he’s had from his followers.’
Followers? thought Charles. Who the hell does Jared Root think he is? The bloody Messiah?
‘Hm,’ Milly went on, ‘he doesn’t mention Hamlet.’
‘So?’
‘Well, it could be good publicity for the show.’
‘His accident you mean?’
‘Yes, it could really give the box office a boost,’ said the girl, unaware that she was sounding a little bit callous. ‘But,’ she concluded in a disappointed tone, ‘in this tweet he only mentions Top Pop. And his new album.’
‘Ah,’ said Charles Paris.
He left the Grand Theatre without making anything that could be even vaguely interpreted as an expression of sexual interest in Milly Henryson. And that made him feel perversely virtuous.
Charles woke in his digs to a text message from the Stage Manager, saying that there would be a full company call onstage at eleven a.m. This was no surprise as everyone wanted to know the future direction of the Hamlet production as soon as possible. Would Will Portlock keep his recently won role? Or was Tony Copeland about to parachute in another big name from London? Would the Marlborough performances start in two days’ time as per schedule, or would the opening be postponed?
Predictably enough, Charles Paris had woken with a hangover. Not one of the big agonizing brain-crushers, just a local pain on the inside of his cranium, possibly adjacent to one of the parietal bones. He wasn’t so immobilized that he couldn’t face a black Americano and bacon roll picked up at a café on his way to the theatre, but it was still mildly annoying. Stupid to have been drinking so late at night. And on his own. He wondered what it would feel like to wake up without any kind of hangover. There’s a novelty, he thought. When had that last happened to him? He couldn’t remember.
There was a considerable buzz of anticipation and, in some cases, anxiety round the auditorium of the Grand Theatre, where the Hamlet company had been instructed to sit. Like Charles, a lot of the other actors held cardboard coffee cups. Those who didn’t held that other young actor’s essential, a bottle of water. Many of them were, of course, texting manically on mobile phones.
Charles looked round the assembled throng. He caught the eye of Geraldine Romelle, who smiled at him. An automatic smile, though, nothing special about it. Katrina Selsey was looking very pleased with herself, positively glowing with confidence. Maybe to her mind, Charles conjectured, the removal of Jared Root from the scene had left her as the only ‘celebrity’ in the cast …?
Will Portlock’s expression was one of understandable nervousness. Given the time pressure, his future either as Hamlet or reverting to his humble position of Second Gravedigger and ASM must be decided soon. And his father’s flight from Baltimore either confirmed or cancelled. His tense expression suggested that he had been given no prior warning of what decision had been taken.
Near Will sat Milly Henryson, her dark-blue eyes g
lowing with excitement. Charles wondered what had happened overnight to bring her that sparkle. His first thought was sex. Yes, someone as beautiful as Milly must have a boyfriend. Lucky bugger. Charles felt infinitely old. And he also again felt sure he’d met the girl before the Hamlet read-through.
The company was not kept in suspense for long. On the dot of eleven o’clock, Ned English came onstage from the wings, ushering in Tony Copeland and Doug Haye, the silent man from Tony Copeland Productions who’d been at the read-through. Accompanying them, and taking the fourth chair set on the stage, was a young man whom Charles recognized. He had blond hair and pale eyelashes, very Nordic-looking.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ said Ned. Then, recognizing his own humble and subsidiary role in the proceedings, he handed straight over to the show’s producer.
‘Good morning,’ said Tony Copeland. ‘I’ve just come from the hospital where I’ve been visiting Jared. He had surgery last night, so he’s still in a fairly woozy state, but he did ask me to thank all of you who sent him goodwill messages. I spoke to his doctor and fortunately there seems a very good prospect that Jared will make a complete recovery.’
Charles couldn’t see who started it, but this news was greeted by an apparently spontaneous round of applause from the auditorium.
‘But, of course,’ the producer continued, ‘that recovery is not going to happen overnight. We’re talking in terms of months rather than weeks, which obviously means there’s no way Jared’s going to be our Hamlet in this production.’
There was a silence, and Charles Paris was aware of the tension in the young man sitting next to Tony Copeland.
‘So we need a new Hamlet – and at this kind of notice we need someone who knows all the lines, in fact someone who has played the part recently. And I’m glad I’ve been able to find just such a person.’ The producer gestured to the young man at his side. ‘You won’t know his name yet, but let me tell you the world of the theatre soon will. I don’t often make predictions about future success, but I saw the production of Hamlet in which this gentleman played the Prince – and I saw star quality. So may I introduce to you the actor who will be taking over the part of Hamlet in this production with immediate effect – Sam Newton-Reid!’
Charles’s first reaction was one of gratified relief. So it was still possible for genuine talent to make its way through the clutter of celebrity hype and be rewarded. He remembered the young actor in the Battersea pub saying he’d hoped Tony Copeland might come and see his Hamlet. That’s what must have happened. Charles’s respect for the producer increased.
He also remembered then where it was that he had first met Milly Henryson – she was Sam Newton-Reid’s girlfriend; she had been playing Ophelia in the Battersea pub Hamlet – and he understood the suffused excitement he’d noticed in her that morning.
But his strongest impression in the aftermath of Tony Copeland’s announcement was the look of blind fury on the face of Will Portlock, who had just had perhaps the greatest part in the whole Shakespearean canon snatched away from him. And the larceny had happened in public, without anything in the way of prior warning or apology. Will’s father would have to cancel his flight from Baltimore.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Charles. Do you just not notice other people?’
‘Yes, of course I notice them, but seeing them out of context …’
‘It’s only five months ago that you spent an hour in a bar in Battersea with Milly after watching her boyfriend’s Hamlet.’
‘I knew I’d seen her somewhere. I just forgot.’
‘There seem to be quite a lot of things you forget in the evenings, Charles.’
‘Oh, and what’s that meant to mean?’
‘It’s meant to mean that during our occasional periods of cohabitation—’
‘Now that’s not fair. We lived together for a lot of—’
‘During our occasional periods of cohabitation, Charles, I remember many times when I told you things in the evening of which you claimed to have no recollection the following morning.’
‘And what do you put that down to?’
‘Far be it from me to say.’
‘Are you suggesting that the booze …?’
‘I didn’t say it, Charles. You did.’
He wondered whether she had a point. There had been times when his recollection of evening conversations had been a bit hazy the day after. Yes, he thought righteously, I must cut down on the booze. And get back with Frances on a more permanent basis. How often had he said that?
‘Anyway, Frances, I’m intrigued how you already know about Sam taking over. There hasn’t been time for the press to get hold of the story yet.’
‘Milly tweeted about it.’
‘“Tweeted”? Is that to do with Twitter?’ asked Charles.
‘Well done. Are you telling me that you’re finally coming into the twenty-first century, Charles?’
He was aghast. ‘Frances, are you implying that you – my wife – use Twitter?’
‘Of course. Remember, I’m headmistress of a girls’ school. How else am I going to find out what my pupils are up to?’ Charles was still too shocked to respond as she went on, ‘I hadn’t heard from Milly for a while, otherwise I would have known that she was working in the same production as you, but she couldn’t resist telling me about Sam taking over as Hamlet.’
‘Right.’
There was a silence. ‘Anyway, how are you getting on with your Gertrude?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Charles, I know Hamlet. The only cast member round your age has got to be Gertrude. So unless you’re doing more cradle-snatching, Gertrude must be the one you’re interested in.’
Her logic was uncomfortably close to the truth. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ he blustered, ‘don’t imagine that I try to get off with women in every production I’m involved in. What do you take me for?’
‘Do you really want me to answer that, Charles?’
‘Well, no, I …’ He converted his confusion into laughter, as if what she’d said was a very good joke. ‘Anyway,’ he continued joshingly, ‘why would I need to be interested in other women when I’ve got you?’
‘And to what extent do you think you’ve “got” me, Charles?’
Another question that didn’t invite an easy answer. Imbuing his voice with maximum sincerity, he said, ‘I really think we should meet.’
As she had during their previous phone conversation, Frances asked, ‘Why?’
EIGHT
Ned English’s rehearsal plan for the Tuesday afternoon was to walk through the whole play, integrating Sam Newton-Reid into the action. Though the young actor knew the lines, his previous Hamlet had been performed in the small upstairs room of a pub, not on the stage of the Grand Theatre, Marlborough inside his own cranium. He needed to learn the moves that Jared Root and the rest of the cast had been rehearsing for some weeks.
That work would stop in time for the actors to have their Equity-required break before the evening’s scheduled Dress Rehearsal. But, accommodating a new Hamlet, that Dress Rehearsal was bound to be a much interrupted affair. With such minimal preparation, there was no way the play could open the next day, as scheduled. So the Wednesday evening would witness a hopefully less disjointed Dress Rehearsal, and the First Night in front of the paying public would be postponed till the Thursday. Given the publicity surrounding Jared Root’s accident, no one in the general public would be much surprised by the change of plan.
The new production timetable was communicated to the company by the stage management, who said that Ned English had made the decision to postpone – though Charles was of the view that the director was just passing on the orders he’d been given by Tony Copeland. Even with the extra day, it remained a tight schedule, particularly for the new Hamlet, Sam Newton-Reid.
The company were called to start work at two o’clock on the Tuesday afternoon, so after Tony Copeland’s pep talk, Charles Paris reckoned he had time for a couple
of pints for the necessary irrigation of his brain. He had worked in Marlborough before and remembered a small pub not far from the theatre where he had filled many an idle hour on his previous visit. He hoped it was still open. So many pubs had given up the unequal struggle and closed during the past few years.
As he snuck out of the Grand Theatre’s Stage Door, Charles realized it was the first time on this visit that a break in rehearsals had given him the chance to go out into Marlborough, and he was reminded what a pretty place it was. The archetypal English market town, its very wide High Street was flanked by tall, mostly Georgian buildings in mellow red brick, with the Town Hall at one end and Marlborough College at the other. The school was so much part of the town that there always seemed to be lots of pupils milling about the place. Except on market days, the central strip of the High Street was filled with parked cars.
But it wasn’t one of the posh tarted-up tourist pubs on the main drag that Charles Paris was looking for. Relying on a distant memory, he set off into the back streets down towards the River Kennet.
To his relief he found the pub was still there, looking as unprepossessing as ever it had. Charles was pleased about that. He hadn’t welcomed the gentrification and gastrification which had been the fate of so many pubs (like those on Marlborough High Street). Charles Paris took the old-fashioned view that fine dining should be done in restaurants and that pubs should stick to their traditional role of supplying alcohol and tasteless bar snacks. Sometimes, when he was with people, he enjoyed a bit of atmosphere in his drinking hole. On his own, the drabber the venue the better. When he drank alone, he needed shabby surroundings to match his mood. He recalled that during his previous stint at the Grand Theatre Marlborough he’d nicknamed the pub The Pessimist’s Arms.
From recollection of that time Charles might have expected to see other members of the company in the bar when he entered. But his earlier visit to Marlborough had been a long while ago and times had changed. Now almost no actors would go out for a lunchtime drink on a working day. A distressing number of them didn’t even have any alcohol when unwinding at the end of a working day. They just all walked round with their eternal bottles of water. And spent any spare time they had in the gym. Unless you were bulking up for some part that involved taking your shirt off, Charles couldn’t understand what business it was of an actor ever to step inside a gym.
