Sicken and So Die

by Simon Brett

  He was sitting in the middle of the sofa, feeling very conspicuous and only partially dressed without a drink in his hand, when he heard the front door. It was half-past twelve. Frances came into the sitting room, as if to turn off the lights. He noticed she was smartly dressed, in softer and more feminine style than her headmistress mode. She reacted with surprise to his presence, and asked tartly, ‘Couldn’t sleep?’

  ‘No, I just . . . I wanted to talk.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’ Her eyes immediately moved to her watch. ‘Can’t be long. I’m exhausted and school will open the same time in the morning, regardless.’

  ‘Yes.’ He had to get the important fact in quickly. ‘I haven’t had a drink all day.’

  ‘Well, there’s a novelty,’ said Frances. ‘Let’s hope Arthur Bell and Sons can survive this temporary blip in their profits.’

  She still didn’t sit down, but lingered by the door as if keen to be away.

  ‘I’ve been to see John B.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Pretty washed-out.’

  ‘But conscious?’

  ‘Oh, yes. On a drip. The consultant’s going to see him in the morning. Know his immediate prospects then.’

  She nodded. ‘They got any idea what it was?’

  ‘Talk of food poisoning.’ In the past Charles had sometimes shared with Frances his suspicions about criminal activities; now there were more important subjects to discuss. ‘I don’t think he’s going to make it for the show.’

  ‘Ah. Bad luck for him.’

  ‘Mm. You have a good evening?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She deliberately hadn’t volunteered any more information, which should have been a signal to him, but Charles couldn’t stop himself from asking, ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Had dinner with an American friend.’

  An interrogative ‘Ah?’

  ‘Someone I met at an international teachers’ conference.’

  ‘I didn’t know teachers had international conferences.’

  ‘Well, you learn a little something every day, don’t you, Charles? If you ever showed any interest in my work, I might have told you that, as a headmistress, I get invited to an increasing number of conferences of one kind and another.’

  The rebuke was justified. ‘And do you go to many of them?’

  ‘If the subject’s interesting and I can fit it into my schedule, yes.’

  ‘And this American you met tonight . . . does she teach in the States?’

  ‘He. Yes.’

  ‘Ah.’ A silence loomed between them. ‘Frances, about what happened last night . . .’

  ‘I thought we’d just been talking about what happened last night. John B. Murgatroyd’s conscious and on a drip.’

  ‘I meant before he got ill. The fact that I brought him back here for a drinking session. The fact that I forgot you and I were meant to be going out together, or that it was as definite an arrangement as . . . It was insensitive.’

  ‘Yes,’ Frances agreed.

  ‘And I wanted to say I’m sorry. And it won’t happen again.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think it would.’

  Charles looked up, blinking with hope. Did she actually believe him? Had she accepted that he really, genuinely intended to turn over a new leaf?

  ‘I shouldn’t think it would,’ Frances went on, ‘because by this time next week you’ll be away doing Twelfth Night at wherever it is, and I wouldn’t imagine even you would have the gall to do a repeat performance here in one of the intervening evenings.’

  ‘Frances –’

  ‘And, after that, who you bring back to drink at wherever you may happen to be staying . . . won’t be my problem.’

  ‘Oh, Frances.’ He took in the familiar outline of her face, and realised how much he loved her. Had always loved her. Would always love her. Tears prickled at his eyes, and he wasn’t even drunk. ‘I really thought we could get back together this time – you know, make it work.’

  ‘So did I, Charles,’ said Frances softly. Then, with a sharp ‘pity we were both wrong’, she turned on her heel and left the room.

  Charles did have a drink then. Quite a few, actually.

  There was no surprise in the rehearsal room when the message from the hospital came. John B. Murgatroyd was going to be out of action for at least a week, and probably a lot longer. He would be unable to play Sir Andrew Aguecheek for the Great Wensham Festival.

  ‘I have of course been prepared for this eventuality,’ Alexandru Radulescu announced to the hushed company.

  Oh yes? For how long, Charles wondered.

  ‘And I do not at this stage wish to introduce new members into our cast. We have a good ensemble feeling here. Almost all of us . . .’ Charles looked down to avoid the inevitable glances cast in his direction ‘. . . are working together well to make a production that is really going to register with its audience.’

  If not with lovers of Twelfth Night, Charles thought for the thousandth time.

  ‘So I am not going to regard John B.’s accident as a problem. I am going to look on it instead as a positive creative opportunity. It can spur us on to a new pitch of excitement in the show, if we accept the challenge we are offered. So, we will have someone new to play Sir Andrew Aguecheek . . .’

  During the pause which Alexandru Radulescu left for dramatic effect, Charles tried to predict who would get promoted. Since he had so many scenes with Sir Andrew, the outcome was of considerable importance for him. Mind you, he didn’t think there was much chance of getting anyone who’d play the part right. Even John B. Murgatroyd had been on the verge of defecting to Alexandru Radulescu’s camp, and the rest of the company were already firmly installed there.

  He looked round the room. Everyone was expectant, but the most feverish glow showed on the faces of the youngest male cast members. Benzo Ritter, in particular, sparkled with anticipation. Charles felt sorry for the boy. He knew how potent the mythology of the theatre is. One day you’re a walk-on . . . One of the leads is taken ill . . . The director points at you . . . You rise magnificently to the challenge . . . And a star is born.

  If that was what was going through Benzo Ritter’s mind – and it almost certainly was – then he was due for a disappointment. None of the male attendants or officers had shown sufficient talent to justify their promotion to a part as important as Sir Andrew Aguecheek. No, the logical thing, Charles reckoned, would be to move Vasile Bogdan up into the role and give Fabian to the best of the walk-ons.

  In spite of his arrogance and self-regard, Vasile was a good actor. As Fabian he was in a lot of the Sir Toby/Sir Andrew scenes, so would be familiar with the lines and moves. He was tall too, which was right for the part. His complexion was a bit dark, but that could be paled down with make-up. And presumably he’d be given John B. Murgatroyd’s floppy blond wig, so that his hair could, as the text demands, hang ‘like flax from a distaff.’

  Charles didn’t relish acting so closely with Vasile. The young man was totally under Alexandru Radulescu’s spell; he’d play everything exactly as the director told him. Charles knew he was probably being old-fashioned about it, but he didn’t relish the homosexual kiss which would inevitably get grafted on at some point. Also, though he hadn’t yet cleared his mind on the subject of poisonings within the company – if there had been any, then Vasile Bogdan was way up any possible list of suspects.

  Charles was so carried away in his thoughts that it was a moment before he took in Alexandru Radulescu’s next words. ‘I’d like you to play the part, Chad.’

  ‘What!’ The word was out of Charles Paris’s mouth before he had time to think.

  ‘What’s wrong? You have some objection, Charles?’ The Director’s black eyes turned on him, teasing, challenging him to make a fool of himself.

  ‘Well, it’s just . . .’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting Chad is not good enough to play the part.’

  ‘No, not at all. I have a great respect for
Chad. He’s a very fine actor.’

  ‘Thanks, mate.’ The West Indian beamed a cheery grin at him.

  ‘It’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’ asked Alexandru Radulescu, feeding out more line to his victim.

  ‘It’s just that Chad’s wrong physically.’

  ‘Physically?’

  ‘All the references to Sir Andrew in the play are about him being long and thin. Even the name “Aguecheek” suggests he’s thin. The first line Sir Toby says about him is: “He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria.” At the end he’s described as “a thin-faced knave”. I mean, Chad, as I say, is a terrific actor, but there’s no way you’re long and thin, is there?’

  He turned his appeal to the subject of the conversation, who grinned again and said, ‘No way.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit literal, Charles?’ suggested Alexandru Radulescu gleefully. ‘Surely what one’s trying to do in the theatre is to excite, to surprise the audience by doing something different? They come to the theatre with certain expectations.’

  ‘In this case the expectation that they’re going to see Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare.’

  ‘OK. And it’s up to us to surprise them. They expect Sir Andrew Aguecheek to be tall and thin – then he isn’t. They are surprised, yes?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s wrong. And it’s not just that,’ Charles plunged on. He knew he was getting into deeper and deeper water, but he couldn’t stop himself. His resentment had been building from the moment that Alexandru Radulescu took over the production. ‘Sir Andrew’s meant to be pale. That’s what “Aguecheek” means. Just before his first entrance Sir Toby even calls him “Sir Andrew Agueface”, which is a comment on his washed-out complexion. Then his hair’s described as hanging like flax, there’s the line about him not having “so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea.” It’s obvious that the Sir Andrew Aguecheek Shakespeare intended was tall, thin and anaemically pale.’

  ‘Pale?’ echoed Alexandru Radulescu quietly. ‘Charles, you’re not saying Chad’s the wrong colour, are you?’

  Which of course was what Charles was saying; but was also, in the theatre’s current climate of political correctness, totally unsayable.

  Chapter Twelve

  NOW THAT HE was identified not only as an actor unreceptive to the Romanian boy-wonder’s ideas but also as a racist, Charles Paris’s position within the Twelfth Night company became even more uncomfortable. Normally, in the week before a show’s opening, he would share in the communal mood, the giddy excitements when everything seemed to be coming together, the swooping despairs when it all fell apart. Now, though he was aware of all that going on around him, Charles felt painfully isolated from the process.

  But he still thought he was right. He was still of the opinion that Alexandru Radulescu was systematically destroying the finely tuned comic machinery of Twelfth Night. And no amount of pressure towards political correctness would ever convince him that Sir Andrew Aguecheek should be played by a short, tubby West Indian. He had seen some very successful mixed-race casting in Shakespeare productions, but only where the individual actor was right for the individual part. Alexandru Radulescu’s choice of Chad Pearson had been simply perverse.

  So had his elevation of the Indian sitar player to Chad’s part (another disappointment to the dreams of Benzo Ritter). Alexandru’s arguments that the most important function of Feste the Clown was to provide music were let down, in Charles’s view, by the fact that the Indian could not act for toffee. His accent was so strong that few of his words were compre hensible, particularly in the songs, which were his supposed raison d’être. And his singing style demonstrated none of Chad Pearson’s magical charisma.

  But Charles was too canny to point any of this out. He’d already offended the Afro-Caribbean contingent; he wasn’t about to take on the Asian lobby too.

  Even under pressure of the last week of rehearsal, the director still managed to find time to experiment, and Charles was once again grudgingly forced to admire Radulescu’s efficiency. Alexandru continued to explore the Viola/Sebastian duality, constantly recasting their scenes in rehearsal so that Sally Luther and Russ Lavery became as familiar with each other’s roles as they were with their own.

  And the benefit of the exercise was evident in both performances. Greater depth and texture came into their interpretations, and the possibility of the one being mistaken for the other became infinitely more plausible.

  Yes, even Charles admitted, some of Alexandru Radulescu’s ideas were very good indeed. It was the rest of them that drove him mad.

  The latest example of the Director’s sheer gratuitous gimmickry affected the production’s wardrobe. Charles had assumed, after the intervention of the Asphodel representative, that at least the sets and costumes were sacrosanct. But he had reckoned without Alexandru Radulescu.

  The first hint of trouble came when they were rehearsing Act Two, Scene Three, in which the late-night carousing of Sir Toby Belch, Sir Andrew Aguecheek and the Clown is interrupted by a furious Malvolio entering with the line, ‘My masters, are you mad?’

  ‘This is not working,’ Alexandru Radulescu interrupted, waving his arms discontentedly. ‘We are not getting enough offence. Why is Malvolio so angry?’

  ‘Because we are making a drunken row late at night in a court that he runs on rigidly puritanical lines,’ Charles answered, reasonably enough.

  ‘Yes, but we need more than this. When he comes in, Malvolio’s eyes should be offended by what he sees.’

  ‘Surely three drunken men singing bawdy songs is offensive enough?’

  ‘No, no. We need something visual. The three should look in a way that somehow outrages his sensibilities. It is something they are wearing, or how they are wearing it . . .’

  ‘Well, they could have their doublets undone and drink spilled all over them.’

  ‘Yes, this is good, Charles, good.’

  ‘Oh.’ He was taken aback. It was the first time since they’d met that Alexandru Radulescu had described any of his ideas as ‘good’.

  ‘Doublets undone – yes, good, I like it. And with their doublets undone, what is it that Malvolio sees?’

  ‘Well, their shirts, grubby linen, I suppose . . . though I’m not actually sure that it would be grubby. I mean, Sir Toby may be an old rake but –’

  ‘No.’ The lines around the black eyes tightened, as they always did when the director produced another of the ‘radical ideas’ for which he was so famed. ‘What Malvolio sees under their doublets,’ he pronounced triumphantly, ‘are T-shirts.’

  ‘T-shirts?’ came the feeble echo from Charles Paris.

  ‘Yes, T-shirts. They would offend his puritan sensibilities I think, no?’

  ‘Yes, they probably would. They’d also confuse him totally, I would imagine, since they weren’t due to be invented for another three hundred years.’

  But, as ever when Alexandru Radulescu was following the thread of a new idea, he did not even hear counter-arguments. ‘Excellent, good, yes. They are wearing T-shirts that would offend his puritanism. “Legalise cannabis”, this would be a good one, I think.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or “Fuck the Pope”. You can, I think, get T-shirts that say “Fuck the Pope”.’

  ‘Except it’s a sentiment that Malvolio, as a puritan, would probably agree with, anyway,’ Charles couldn’t help objecting.

  ‘Good point, good point. So we won’t have that one. “Guns ‘n’ Roses”!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You will have a “Guns ‘n’ Roses” T-shirt under your doublet. That would certainly offend Malvolio.’

  ‘But, Alexandru . . .’

  It was hopeless. Once the director had got the bit between his teeth, nothing could stop him galloping over the horizon with his latest brainwave. Anachronisms began to erupt all over the play.

  Viola, as Cesario, was taken out of doublet and hose and put into doublet and Levi’s, ‘To stress t
he refreshing informality of her approach to Olivia.’ Antonio was to wear a leather peaked cap and biker’s jacket over his puff-sleeved shirt and slashed hose, ‘To emphasise the gay thing.’ Benzo Ritter and the First Officer were armed with pistols in holsters, ‘So that the audience realise the real threat to Antonio.’ Feste, in his disguise as the parson Sir Topas, was given a clerical dog-collar and, of all things, a laptop computer on which to note down Malvolio’s answers to his questions. Maria, when flashing a leg, would reveal sexy stockings and a suspender belt.

  It was only with reluctance that Alexandru Radulescu was dissuaded from having Orsino deliver his opening ‘If music be the food of love . . .’ while listening to a Walkman.

  It was the end of their last day’s rehearsal in London, the Saturday. Sunday off, then all reassembling at Chailey Ferrars on the Monday morning for a no doubt agonising sequence of technicals and dress rehearsals before the Tuesday night opening. They’d done a full dress run in the rehearsal room that day and the general view was that it had gone very well.

  Charles Paris did not share that general view. Chad Pearson had been encouraged to put all kinds of new business into his performance as Sir Andrew Aguecheek, and the whole balance between the dominant, manipulative Sir Toby and his petulant dupe had been lost. Alexandru Radulescu’s policy of ‘challenging accepted stereotypes’ had resulted in something merely eccentric.

  The homosexual kiss had not yet been written in, but it had already been discussed. Charles had the ominous feeling that its inclusion was only a matter of time. And no doubt if, when the moment arose, he objected, he would be once again branded as racist. And homophobic. People of Charles’s age found mere survival tricky, bulls in the china shop of modern political correctness.

  The cast dispersed quickly at the end of the run. Benzo Ritter was once again left droopy, like a rejected spaniel, as Sally Luther shot off with only the most perfunctory of goodbyes. But everyone was in a hurry. Once they moved to Great Wensham, the tour had effectively started. Most of them had sex-lives to put on hold or partners to placate.