by Simon Brett
‘Twelfth Night,’ Gavin Scholes began, ‘is one of the most charming of Shakespeare’s comedies, and yet at the same time it is one of the darkest. The treatment meted out to Malvolio alone prevents the play from being the jolly romp which it is sometimes portrayed.. .as,’ he added uneasily, having got a little lost in his syntax. ‘And in my production I have deliberately emphasised the –’
‘Look, if you want to have any photographs, we’re going to have to do them now,’ a harsh voice interrupted from the back of the dining hall. ‘I’m already running late.’
Since with no visual record the press conference would be even more of a non-event than it was already, the photographer’s bad manners won the day, and the five costumed cast members were trooped out to the formal gardens to strike Elizabethan poses against the statuary.
They were shepherded by a small, anxious woman who had identified herself earlier as Pauline Monkton, press officer for the Great Wensham Festival. She kept apologising for the lack of press at the conference and, while apologies were certainly in order, the way she went on about it quickly became wearing.
‘I mean, I don’t know what you can do,’ she said plaintively. ‘They all got invited – the nationals and everything. They had their invitations weeks ago. And they did say RSVP, but, do you know, hardly any of them have even bothered to reply. I mean, once you’ve invited them and given them all the information, well, what else can you do?’
Hire a professional publicist or public relations company, would have been Charles’s answer. He had encountered the fatal touch of the amateur at other arts festivals, and he knew it almost never worked. Publicity is a hard-nosed cut-throat business, there are any number of highly sophisticated organisations out there lobbying for media coverage, and one earnest middle-aged woman sending out invitations – even with RSVP on them – doesn’t stand a chance. Goodwill can only go so far. If you want a job professionally done, you have to pay a professional to do it.
Local newspaper photographers, as a breed, are not the subtlest of people, and what the one from the Great Wensham Observer was really after was a bit of cleavage. He managed to get a meagre ration from Tottie Roundwood, lolling lasciviously on Sir Toby Belch’s lap. He tried to persuade Talya Northcott to take up a provocative pose, but was quickly deterred by a righteous blast of political correctness. And he was disappointed to find Sally Luther (whose tits had once been quite famous) doubleted up to the neck in her male Cesario rather than her female Viola costume. Her face was framed by a pageboy-cut blond wig, identical to the one Russ Lavery would wear as her twin Sebastian.
Gavin Scholes fussed around, objecting to details like the fact that in the play Fabian would never put his arms round Viola – least of all when she was dressed as a man – but he was ignored. The photographer just pressed on, taking his clichéd shots against the garden features, and constantly looking at his watch. He wasn’t an exemplar of the Cecil Beaton school of photography – his was more the railway station booth approach. After about five minutes he shoved his camera back in its bag, pulled out an old envelope on which he scribbled down the cast’s names – in a way that didn’t inspire confidence he’d got them right – and hurried off to do the Wildfowl Week.
Sally Luther, had been a bit tight-lipped about the perfunctory nature of the photocall, but then she had plenty of better-orchestrated ones to compare it with. Charles Paris was unworried. In his new, benign mood, little worried him, and he quite enjoyed being photographed – even for the Great Wensham Observer. He felt secure in his costume, secure in his role, secure in his life.
And after the photographs would come the interviews. Yes, he quite relished the idea of expatiating on his past career and his current interpretation of Sir Toby Belch. Local newspapers, he knew, were always desperate to fill space, so he’d be allowed to spread himself. It was about time Charles Paris gave an in-depth interview.
When they went back into the dining hall, he was waylaid by the earnest young girl with the cassette recorder even before he had time to get a drink. ‘Tell me, Mr Parrish,’ she asked, ‘what’s it like working with Russ Lavery?’
The press didn’t stay long. They did routine interviews with Sally Luther and left, saying they’d got all the biographical information they needed on file or they’d get it from the press release.
Vasile Bogdan glowered even more darkly at their ignoring him, and Talya Northcott looked pretty miffed. She had quite fancied the idea of a nice personality interview with her for Mummy’s scrapbook.
Tottie Roundwood, of a naturally equable disposition and someone who’d been around the business a long time, was unflustered by the disregard. And Charles Paris couldn’t complain about lack of attention – even if his whole interview had been about working with Dr Mick Hobson of Air-Sea Rescue.
The two reporters departed having drunk only one glass of mineral water. The girl had that. The man had nothing. The accountable nineties were really wreaking havoc with journalistic stereotypes. Still, that does leave an awful lot of wine to be consumed by those who’ve remained, thought Charles comfortably.
Not many did remain, apart from the Twelfth Night representatives. For form’s sake, Gavin had staged a weary little tantrum to Julian Roxborough-Smith about the lack of press presence and the waste of a day’s rehearsal; and then the festival’s Artistic Director had gone off, scolding a still-apologetic Pauline Monkton for the lack of response to her invitations. ‘But they did all have RSVP on them,’ she wailed as they left the dining hall.
The locals who stayed to drink with the Twelfth Night company were all involved in the festival, and the majority of them were volunteers. Apart from Julian Roxborough-Smith, the society only had one paid employee who, in common with most people working in ‘the Arts’, was paid a pittance for her services. She was the administrator, Moira Handley, the one whose cough had saved her boss from a gaffe over the festival’s sponsorship.
Moira was fortyish, thin, with short dark hair. She wore black jeans, a sloppy red jumper, and that expression of sardonic long-suffering which Charles had seen on the faces of so many stage managers over the years. It said, ‘What you’re asking for is totally impossible, but don’t worry, I’ll do it somehow.’ It was a coping expression.
Charles had always found that look very reassuring, because of the rock-solid competence it implied. Not only that, he’d also always found it rather sexy. His career had encompassed some very pleasant interludes with stage managers. Their attitude to sex he’d found equally practical; and they didn’t cling.
As he talked to her, Charles realised he could quite fancy Moira Handley. Or, that is to say, were he not now totally fulfilled in his relationship with Frances, he could have quite fancied Moira Handley. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed.
Moira was talking about her boss. ‘You won’t see much of Julian once the festival’s up and running. I mean, he’s put in an appearance today, he’ll be there at your first night, I’m sure, pressing the flesh of the sponsors, but that’s about it.’
‘So he won’t interfere artistically with the production?’
‘Good heavens, no. He reckons the Shakespeare runs itself. His background’s music, anyway.’
‘Oh?’
‘Used to be a mildly successful baritone. Was shrewd enough to move towards management before the voice went.’
‘And what does he do when he’s not directing festivals?’
‘Not a lot. Pretty full-time job he’s got doing the two of them, anyway.’ Charles looked at her quizzically. ‘Julian also runs the Barmington Festival – or should I say has another bunch of volunteers in Barmington who run the Barmington Festival for him.’
‘I don’t detect a note of criticism in your voice, do I?’ he asked archly.
‘By no means. Julian Roxborough-Smith’s very highly thought of in the Arts world. On lots of advisory panels, you know, that sort of thing. No, he is reckoned to be wonderful – a perfect, cultured human being – by
everyone . . . who hasn’t worked with him.’
Charles wondered if it was the drink that was making the administrator indiscreet, but decided not. Moira Handley, he felt instinctively, was one of those people who were totally honest. She wouldn’t edit her views on Julian Roxborough-Smith according to the company she was in; she’d say them to his face if he was incautious enough to ask for them.
‘What makes him so difficult to work for?’
Moira puffed out her cheeks in a kind of ‘take your pick’ expression. ‘Well, in common with a lot of people who run arts festivals, he has a total inability to delegate. Julian will apportion work to others to make more time for himself, and then waste the time he’s gained by looming over the shoulder of the person he’s appointed to do the job. He will agree to binding decisions made in committee one day, and take the exact opposite course the next. He will independently commit the festival to undertakings for which he has neither the mandate nor the budget. He’s an autocrat who’s big on the notion – though not the practice – of consultation.’
Charles shrugged. ‘There are a lot of people in the theatre who’re totally impossible to work with. Doesn’t stop them being very successful.’
‘I know.’
‘Something about channelling all that energy.’
Moira shook her head ruefully. ‘Doesn’t hold up with Julian. He is the possessor of a very small amount of energy, which he husbands very carefully. In fact, Julian is basically extremely lazy. Divides his time between booking artistes who’ve appeared at the Great Wensham Festival for the Barmington Festival and artistes who’ve appeared at the Barmington Festival for the Great Wensham Festival.’
‘But somebody must get the festivals happening.’
‘Oh yes, somebody does.’ She gave Charles a cool, appraising grin. ‘But that somebody isn’t Julian Roxborough-Smith.’
Charles chuckled. ‘Well, from the tone of what you’ve said, I wouldn’t imagine you’ll be working for him a lot longer. Is this the first time you’ve done the Great Wensham Festival?’
Moira looked shocked. ‘Good heavens, no. I’ve been working with Julian for the past sixteen years.’
‘Hello. I’m Carole Whittaker from HAN.’
‘Ah,’ said Charles, taking the thin hand the girl thrust towards him. She had, he noticed, an unnervingly offset hennaed hair style – clearly expensively sculpted – and small black-rimmed granny glasses. ‘I’m sorry – what’s HAN?’
‘Hertfordshire Arts Network.’
‘Oh yes, Julian said you’re one of the sponsors – right?’
‘Not exactly. HAN’s a body whose remit is to provide seed-corn funding which can enable and empower companies to input adequate community outreach and attain quality feedback in an arts context.’
‘Ah. Right.’
It was Charles Paris’s first encounter with Artspeak.
Because the trains from Great Wensham back into London were frequent, and because the day’s rehearsal schedule was shot to pieces anyway, there didn’t seem much point in the members of the Twelfth Night company stopping drinking. They deserved it. They’d been dragged all the way out to Hertfordshire for nothing; they might as well get some benefit from the day. And, after all, the booze was free.
Only Sally Luther, rigidly disciplining her career back on course, stayed with the mineral water.
The others – even Vasile’s glowering could evidently be converted into smiles by sufficient alcohol – just got gigglier and gigglier. Charles was quite relieved John B. Murgatroyd wasn’t there. The level of giggliness might then have become unacceptable.
Not that there was anyone left except the catering staff to find anything unacceptable. Moira and the other Great Wensham Festival Society representatives had long gone back to their offices, leaving the theatricals to get more and more boisterous.
Even Tottie Roundwood came out of her shell for once, the wine making her as raucous offstage as her Maria was on. In the illogic of alcohol, it suddenly seemed essential for her to convert everyone present to vegetarianism. Immediate support arrived from Talya Northcott who said she’d been vegetarian since she’d started drama school, ‘– and I’ve persuaded Mummy to give up meat too.’
‘Charles,’ Tottie demanded, ‘do you eat meat?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ he replied. ‘But I do eat vegetables too.’
‘Do you? Good.’ She spread her hands broadly over the Chailey Ferrars catering. ‘You’d eat the vegetable stuff in that lot?’
‘If it was something I liked, yes.’
Talya Northcott snatched up a plate of mushroom tartlets. ‘Would you eat one of these?’
‘I would if I was hungry. I’m not hungry at the moment.’
‘Go on!’ She thrust the plate up under his nose.
‘What’s going on over here?’ Gavin Scholes, also in bonhomous mood, ambled towards them.
‘Go on, eat it, Charles!’
He grinned, shaking his head away from the proffered delicacy. ‘Tottie and Talya are on a crusade, trying to persuade me to take up vegetarianism.’
‘Oh God, why?’
‘The more relevant question is: why not?’ Tottie Roundwood countered. ‘Why aren’t you a vegetarian, Gavin?’
‘Because I like meat! I actually like the taste of bloody meat!’
‘What about cooked meat?’ asked Charles facetiously.
‘Any meat. I’m a meat-eater. I’m a carnivore.’ His voice wobbled over the word. He was actually quite pissed. Maybe relief from the tensions of rehearsal made him more susceptible.
‘But you like vegetables too,’ Tottie persisted.
‘Yes, I like vegetables,’ Gavin agreed, ‘in their place.’ He paused, then giggled. ‘And their place is beside a dirty great big slab of meat!’
‘No, come on, you taste this.’ Tottie Roundwood picked up one of the mushroom tartlets.
‘Yes,’ Talya urged. ‘Go on.’
‘This is purely vegetable and yet the taste is a hundred per cent more subtle than any meat you’re ever going to find.’ Tottie Roundwood pressed the tartlet towards the director’s mouth. ‘Go on, eat it.’
‘I’m too full,’ said Gavin. ‘Too full. There’s so much meat in my stomach that there’s not mush room for anything else.’
This ancient pun made him laugh even more loudly – yes, he really was pissed – and Tottie took the invitation of his open mouth to cram in the mushroom tartlet. Talya Northcott giggled; she was quite pissed too. Gavin spluttered for a moment, but swallowed the delicacy down.
‘Well, what do you think?’ demanded Tottie. ‘What do you think of the taste?’
‘I think it . . .’ There was a silence before Gavin Scholes bawled out, ‘. . . needs a bit more meat with it!’
The alcohol endowed this sally too with infinite wit, and they all giggled even louder. It was then that the Chailey Ferrars catering staff decided they had had enough. Discreetly, they started tidying up and edging their guests towards the door.
Charles dozed on the train back to London. At St Pancras, since he seemed to have revived a taste for the stuff, he downed a couple of large Bell’s. That evening he fell asleep halfway through the meal that Frances served him in front of the television.
So he didn’t see the pursed expression on his wife’s face as she closed the sitting room door and went alone to her bed.
Charles Paris had a wretched headache the next morning when he arrived at the rehearsal room to the news that Gavin Scholes had been taken ill with severe abdominal pains.
Chapter Four
‘HE’S ALWAYS had problems with his digestion,’ said Charles. ‘One of those nervy types for whom everything goes to the stomach. Some people react to stress by getting depressed, some by getting migraines –’
‘And some by getting drunk,’ John B. Murgatroyd interrupted. ‘Same again?’
‘Well, shouldn’t really.’
Charles glanced at his watch, but John B. had already whipped up
the two pint glasses and was on his way to the bar, throwing one of Sir Toby Belch’s lines over his shoulder as he went. “‘O knight! thou lackest a cup of canary: when did I see thee so put down?”’
What the hell, thought Charles. Couple of lunch-time drinks aren’t going to hurt. We’re not doing any proper rehearsal today, anyway. The assistant director, who had taken over in Gavin Scholes’ absence, was an uncharismatic youth whose approach to the cast was too tentative to command respect. Asphodel Productions hadn’t yet told him whether he’d be taking over permanently as director of Twelfth Night, but his unassertive manner suggested he thought this was unlikely. And the more he thought it was unlikely, the more unlikely it became.
Anyway, Charles reassured himself, he and John B. weren’t the only ones who’d defected to the pub. Across the bar sat Sally Luther with Chad Pearson, the chubby West Indian who was playing Feste (which was about as controversial as Gavin Scholes’ casting was ever likely to get). Also present were Sally’s in-house fan club. These were the two youngest members of the company, who were both fresh out of the same drama school (another testament to Gavin’s lack of adventure). One was Talya Northcott and the other an assistant stage manager/walk-on, who was called, unbelievably, Benzo Ritter.
It certainly wasn’t the name he was born with – in fact, Talya thought he’d said it was a nickname from school. He must’ve chosen to use it, either because there already was an Equity member with his given name, or – more likely – because he thought it would look better on a theatre programme.
If that was the reason, Charles didn’t share the opinion; but he knew young actors have always been prone to exotic excess, building fantasies of their stage names glowing above the titles of plays and television series. It was a harmless exercise of the imagination, and one with which even a cynical old ham like Charles Paris could still empathise.
