Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  ‘Your mouth. Use your mouth. Kiss me. With your mouth.’

  She gave a small shudder and swung her body down. Her fingertips were touching him and gently he felt her lips encircle the tip of his organ. Then, with an intake of breath he was drawn inside, her tongue rolling around him and the lips sucking.

  She slewed her body across him, legs stretched open wide so that he was faced directly with the oval darkness between. He closed his eyes, hands running wildly up and down the shining thighs, and kissed her other lips, his tongue taking up her movement, his mouth savouring the taste of her until they both mounted to their peak.

  Later, they lay close in the small cramped bed, their heads together and bodies feeling for each other. Sleep.

  Douglas woke quickly but without the sudden start which often accompanies a fast return to consciousness. They were edged stomach to stomach and he was in her.

  Carol breathed steadily, her face composed, happy. No nightmares haunting there.

  Gently he raised his arm to look at his watch. Nine o’clock. His aircraft left at eleven.

  He kissed her on the lips and felt his erection strengthen moving. Jen’s face swam over the pillow and Carol opened her eyes.

  ‘It’s nine o’clock.’ He whispered.

  She smiled at him, moving her own stomach in response to his steady strokes.

  It was the nightingale, and not the lark,

  That pierc’ d the fearful hollow of thine ear.’

  She laughed, but the two lines struck a new fire in him.

  Delving into his mind he felt for the speech: Romeo’s lines—

  It was the lark, the herald of the morn,

  No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks

  Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:

  Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day

  Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.

  I must be gone and live, or stay and die.

  There was no falter, no pause in the movement of her body, as she continued, taking up Juliet’s reply, almost whispering the words, her fingers playing round his ear and her lips only an inch from his.

  Yon light is not day-light, I know it, I:

  It is some meteor that the sun exhales,

  To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,

  And light thee on thy way to Mantua:

  Therefore stay yet, thou need’ st not be gone.

  Their breath gave out as they arched into a mutual orgasm.

  During the long winding down, Douglas remained haunted by the way in which this dark girl had come to him suddenly and spoken Juliet’s lines with such passion. Common sense nagged at him that his feelings were fraught with emotion; yet, somewhere at the heart of all this and the guilt, fear, obsessions of the mind, an audacious idea had germinated.

  ‘When will you be back in London?’ He tried to make it sound casual as he dressed.

  ‘I said no favours.’ She was gathering her clothes together on the bed.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking about favours.’

  ‘Then you should think of your beautiful wife, Douglas. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me but I don’t sleep around. Just think of it as a mixed doubles that worked because the moon was in the right quarter. What’s a screw between friends anyway?’

  ‘I may need to see you back home’

  ‘Need?’

  ‘Yes, need, workwise — and I’m offering nothing.’

  She gave him her private address and her agent’s number, dressed and came out to Luqa airport with him.

  They said good-bye in the hot crowded entrance hall amidst a gabble of languages. Douglas went straight through to the departure lounge without even glancing back. The creative energy was already being directed into a new channel.

  He did not see Carol’s eyes or the look of fear on her coffee-coloured face.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Until 1926 the market town of Shireston had little to offer in the way of tourist attractions. It lay, a community of about four thousand souls, among farming country some twenty miles from the coast, and a good ten from the main Southampton—London road. Among its eighteen public houses it sported but one hotel, the Blue Boar, and its only real claim to fame was Shireston House: an ugly and rambling mock-gothic and massive building set in one of the largest and most beautiful gardens in Hampshire.

  Then, in the August of 1926, Richard Longwell, fifth earl of Shireston, grandson to the third earl who was responsible for the building of Shireston House, died suddenly and without an heir.

  If the unexpected death of their relatively young squire jolted the local inhabitants, his will was to shake them even more.

  The entire estate, together with a not inconsiderable fortune, was to be administered by a group of six trustees, the whole to be known as the Shireston Festival trust.

  During his lifetime, Richard, earl of Shireston, had been well known on the fringes of the theatrical world, and slightly better known among academics, particularly for his studies in Elizabethan Drama. His Will now drew up, in detail, plans that he had intended to implement during his lifetime.

  A theatre was to be built in the grounds of Shireston House, At the bottom of the long lawn where the rose garden and orchard now stand. A festival director was to be appointed every three years (though there was a provision for the director to remain in office for a period not exceeding nine years). A professional theatre company was to be engaged by 31st December each year and would perform, from April to September, the great plays of the classic English Theatre, particularly the plays of the Elizabethan Dramatists; prices of admission to the Festival theatre being kept low in order that men, women and children from the poorer classes can see great dramatic works in performance, as is their heritage.

  The scheme appealed most strongly to the first appointed trustees, as no less than half of the Trust members were successful men of the Theatre. At once they saw an opportunity to display their talents in ideal surroundings while, at the same time, giving more work to an already overcrowded profession.

  The inhabitants of Shireston were more sceptical. Who, they said, would travel all the way down to their little town and pay good money to see dusty old plays which they could just as easily view comfortably in London?

  They were also dubious at the thought of having actors and actresses living in their midst, even though the will gave instructions that members of the company were to be comfortably lodged in Shireston House itself.

  However, in April 1927, the architect’s plans were agreed and work began on the conversion of the house into offices, and flats for the actors, while the foundations of the theatre itself took shape over the now mutilated rose garden and orchard.

  Work was suspended for a while towards the end of the year owing to the arrival of a long lost distant cousin who steamed into Southampton from Australia, contested the will, and, several months later, steamed out again, having lost his case and gained a formidable flea in his ear.

  By the end of 1927 the theatre was completed; a large white rectangular building with a capacity for an audience of over a thousand and, unaccountably, a design which showed a marked Spanish influence. Paradoxically this blended with the phoney extravagance of the house itself. Anyone with vision could clearly see that the quiet, lovely garden, lying between house and theatre, would be an ideal place in which to spend a summer evening: picnicking on the lawn before being suspended, moved, slapped against reality, jerked to tears or tickled to laughter in the theatre.

  The first season, in 1928, opened many eyes. By the use of judicious advertising, people flocked to the cool lawns of Shireston and were not disappointed. A modern dress Taming of the Shrew slightly worried the purists, but any wrongs there were put right by a spectacular Troilus and Cressida, an hilarious and magical Midsummer Night’s Dream, and a haunting As You Like It with sets designed to reflect the local woods and fields surrounding Shireston.

  All summer, Orlando and Rosalind negotiated the barbed th
icket of wit leading to love in a Forest of Arden that could easily have been the coppice visible from the lawns of Shireston House.

  For the first few years of its life the Shireston Festival flourished. It also attracted noted actors and actresses whose skills seemed to be more clearly defined, more sharply in focus, amid the calm of Shireston.

  Then on 3rd September, 1939, the blow of World War Two fell and Shireston’s first flush of success died.

  During the war, the house was used as one of the many Combined Services headquarters, the theatre acting as a most adequate briefing hall. Both Montgomery and Eisenhower spent much time there before D-Day, and so a small and not insignificant patch of history was added.

  It was not until the early fifties that the festival got back into a reasonable stride, but that success was short lived. Money was available, if not always forthcoming from the trustees, but the right actors and directors seemed to be elsewhere.

  The decline was rapid. The other major companies — Stratford, the National, Chichester — began to make the headlines of the ‘sixties. Slowly Shireston became almost a joke. Living on a memory, always on the brink of recovery, yet dogged as a second-rate repertory company, sometimes playing to houses less than a quarter full.

  This was the situation when the trustees reached out to clutch at Douglas Silver. He was a bright talent whose personal magnetism might provide both the dynamic means to respark interest and bring Shireston back once more under the artistic microscope.

  They had made no bones about the situation on their first meeting with Douglas. They were prepared to offer him the appointment of festival director only if he came up with the answers which appealed to them.

  Now, a month after that first exploratory interview, with the ghost of summer outside, Douglas sat at the foot of the oak table which ran almost the length of the trustees’ board room, a pretentiously panelled chamber that had once been the Longwell family nursery.

  The trustees themselves were a formidable body. The chairman, Sir Basil Daley, was a kingpin of industry, as were Rupert Crown and William .Dempsey; the latter being a heavyweight in the world of big business accountancy.

  George Tupnall, a small, sad and precise looking man, was a local solicitor and son of one of the original six trustees; while only one member could claim to have ever played an active role in the theatre, Sir Lewis Roland, now a faded and fumbling caricature of the famous comedy actor he once had been.

  The sixth trustee, old Sheridan Whitney, was on his deathbed, as, in fact, he had rejoiced in being for the past three years.

  They mumbled together at the far end of the table like a Dickensian Workhouse Board. Revill Sutcliffe, who had travelled down with Douglas, more to protect his ten per cent than anything else, began to shuffle uncomfortably.

  Douglas kept his eyes fixed on the oil painting of Richard Longwell, which, inevitably, hung behind the chairman’s seat. The afternoon sun slanted in through the leaded windows as neatly as if it had been arranged by a cunning lighting expert. The smell reminded Douglas of that Elizabethan scent they had used in the Long Gallery Alan Tagg designed for the Shakespeare Exhibition at Stratford in 1964. He had a vivid picture of that room. There had been a girl then, before Jen, and they had driven down from London to see the exhibition and do some of the plays. He had been very impressed with that room hung with great portraits: Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester; Sir Philip Sidney; and Elizabeth herself, a golden queen, one hand resting on a globe, the shattering of the Armada in panels above.

  He could not remember the girl’s name which probably meant something dire and psychological because he could see her dearly: how they had stood together in the Long Gallery and looked out of the windows at the mock-up of Elizabethan London which seemed so real. He could feel her hand and, pressing back into the memory bank, recalled that he had her three times that night. Yet the vivid thing was the phoney gallery. It was probably something to do with being a director. One spent time making people believe that the unreal is real: a weaver of fantasies trapped by his own lack of stable memory.

  The portrait stared back at him and Douglas wondered what kind of man Richard Longwell must have been. One thing was certain, he would not have approved of what Douglas was about to propose. Neither, he suspected, would these five most conservative gentlemen whom he now faced. He did not have to look at them, there had been ample chance for observation during the first interview. The reason for Shireston’s descent, he suspected, lay right here among the trustees, too tied to rigid convention to risk a brave artistic gamble. Indeed, from the few inquiries he had been able to make in the City, it seemed that Basil Daley had more than once tried to find some legal method of closing the festival in order to channel the still large amounts of stocks, interest and capital into schemes which smacked of safe and large returns.

  There was a shuffling and consultation of watches at the end of the table. There was a particular exactness about these men which Douglas found irritating. To him it suggested that under the business worldliness there was a pettiness, a quibble in their minds.

  Sir Basil Daley, thin as the proverbial wraith, punctilious as God, coughed and gave Douglas a wintery smile.

  ‘Mr Silver, it is three o’clock, time for us to start.’

  Douglas could not resist taking a long deliberate look at his watch.

  ‘Exactly one month ago we asked you to prepare a report for us,’ Daley continued. ‘A summary of your plans for this festival and its company. We are now gathered to hear this summary, upon which we will base our final decision regarding the appointment as director of the Shireston Festival to your good self.’

  Douglas nodded. A far from pretty speech, but it was an accurate reflection of the type of people he had to convince.

  ‘I feel that I should tell you,’ Douglas began, ‘that I have taken certain steps, in complete confidence, to assist me in formulating the ideas I’m about to put before you.’

  The faces did not change.

  ‘I’ve talked about the nucleus of my own ideas with Sir Laurence, Peter Hall and Trevor Nunn, all of whom have had great experience in this kind of venture. But, while they have given me the benefit of their advice, I cannot claim that all, or indeed any, of them are in sympathy with my proposals.’

  As a light joke it was a frost. The five men still did not change their positions. Sir Basil seemed to be doodling.

  ‘My first proposals are, I think, obvious. It goes without saying that they’re going to cost money. Primarily you’re going to need a totally new and first class publicity machine.’

  It was the glaring thing that had struck Douglas on examining the Shireston Festival executives. Publicity had been handled, not from the house, but from the local Information Centre, a grubby converted shop attached to the Shireston Gazette, a three men and a girl type weekly newspaper.

  ‘Preferably I would want one top-rate man, an assistant of his own choice, a couple of secretaries and good office space up here where I can keep an eye on them. P.R.s and their minions are servants to an organization like this and eyes have to be kept on them otherwise they think they’re running the show. Most of you already know that, notwithstanding, a good P.R. set-up costs money.’ He paused for breath, realizing that he was playing the whole scene to Sir Basil. As if to rectify this he shifted his chair slightly.

  ‘A good publicity machine cannot operate in a vacuum. What we need is a clean sweep. A solid carefully-chosen company. Actors who are not just box-office names but capable, reliable and efficient players around whom I’d hope to build a semi-permanent company: much as Peter Hall did in his early days at Stratford. An ensemble. A company that would work and go on working together in order to develop a style, a trademark within the profession. A group of actors who would, in turn, draw other actors to them, sharing skills and abilities. Yet the company must also be flexible enough to take in the unique talents of the Theatre, the Cinema, Show-Business even.’

  He was leading up to the big
moment. The one studded with mines and traps. Overplay it and there would be no chance. Underplay, and perhaps the roof would fall in.

  ‘Given that I have my publicity machine and at least the beginnings of such a company, I am now faced with using them to the best possible total effect. One cannot hope to create style and ensemble acting in one short season.’ He glanced up at the Longwell portrait. The eyes now seemed to mirror distaste. He looked away quickly. ‘But we can create a talking point. We can open the doors of that theatre out there and let in a great rush of air followed by a purging flame. I make no apology for being theatrical in my choice of language. That’s my business. Theatre. In particular the kind of Theatre that I believe ought to be on display in this place. The Theatre of Re-examination.’ Again he paused briefly, histrionically, slapping the table with the flat of his hand as he had rehearsed it a dozen times on the previous evening. Douglas was not a man to leave things to chance.

  ‘Gentlemen, I want to inflame you with this idea. I would like you to feel for it as much as I do.’ On his feet now, leaning forward, Douglas had the whole attention of the trustees.

  ‘During my first season I would like to throw this company in at the deep end and make a public re-examination of four great Shakespearean plays. Take them apart, if you like, in the light of current, international and social problems. There’s nothing new in this, I know; but if Shakespeare is the genius master playwright, then a novel, off-beat interpretation can be of dynamic assistance: to the Theatre as a whole and to this theatre in particular.’

  ‘We don’t want gimmicks. Tell him we don’t want gimmicks’ Old Lewis Roland looked towards him with trembling lips.

  ‘What are the plays, Mr. Silver?’

  Before Douglas had time to answer Rupert Crown’s question, the chairman, Basil Daley himself, cut in—

  ‘You see, Mr. Silver, this is all very interesting but we’ve already talked to directors who have made similar passionate pleas. The problem is that their manifestoes, on examination, have always boiled down to personal whims aimed at increasing their own stature. We would not like to see that happen in your case. I will grant that this theatre needs a strong company and an efficient publicity machine. But how will that machine be used? Who will really benefit? Yourself?’