by John Gardner
It was then that he realized what Julia was doing: when it was too late, when he could neither stop her impaled jogging nor his own wild flailing reply. This was the climax which had started two nights before.
He had played the matter with care, the closeness learned from childhood: making the arrangements and saying nothing until Friday night. They were paid in the afternoon and after the evening performance Asher took Julia over to the pub. Several members of the Stanthorpe repertory company were there and it developed, as it often did, into a small party. They got home, back to the Chamber of Horrors, late and elated. He was in bed first, leering while Julia, a shade tipsy, pirouetted around the bed as she undressed.
‘Do you think I’d make a good stripper, Ash?’ She stood, legs apart and arms raised wearing only bra and pants. ‘Eh? How about this?’ undulating her hips and reaching to unclasp the bra clip. She had a reasonable body on her. Asher had to admit that.
The bra came away displaying the well-known full breasts with great discoloured rings around the nipples. Strange how he loved to suck those nipples when he was all bunched up close with her after they had fucked well. She was good at that too: in spite of the peevishness and yatter, she was bloody good at it.
‘You look good enough to eat,’ said Asher tracing his thoughts into the hard line of words. ‘Come on, get your knickers down, we’ve got to make up time. Won’t have our usual Sunday morning of debauchery; I’m off to the smoke on Sunday.’
She stopped, frozen, half bending towards the bed: the long blonde hair hanging, falling across her face and the swinging breast, fingers at her waistband.
‘What for?’ Arrogance: straightening up, worry slapped over the pudgy bright face.
‘My audition, stupid. I’m auditioning in London for Douglas Silver on Sunday.’
She grinned. ‘Great. I haven’t had a day in London for years.’
‘I’m auditioning. Me.’ He pointed, stabbing his chest. ‘I am going to London on Sunday.’
‘You don’t want me to come? You don’t want me there.’ It began as simply as that and continued with rising hysteria all through the Saturday. He was trying to put something over on her, going up for the audition by himself, sly; and if he got the job he would not keep his promise to her, to make it a condition that she should also come to Shireston. It went on, like a toothache, the unrelenting pummelling stretching of the nerves until his brain became dead to the clatter of her tongue and the stagnant spew of words, until after the Saturday night performance when she suddenly seemed to have come becalmed, like a potential suicide who has made up her mind that the pain of living will end at a definite point in time.
Now, at three-thirty on the Sunday morning, with his body arching towards climax and Julia on him, humping with more concentrated effort than he ever recalled, Asher Grey knew what was in her mind. She knew him and she knew how he could be thrown. This one plunge would tire him, drain him so that his body would be conscious of it for the next twenty-four hours and his mind would remain aware of the succulent delights; there would be no more sleep tonight and he would arrive in London washed out and exhausted, certainly in no fit condition to give of his best for Douglas Silver.
The rhythm was stronger, settling down into the rapid rise to its conclusion; faster now and their breath coming as one, panting: her vagina round him tight, gripping and the tingling, low down at the base of his spine, the swirl and pattern which engulfed the universe so that he could stretch out a mental arm and pull down the stars or bring the wise philosophies of a thousand years clear and absolute into his mind. The pressure building like a wall, a damn about to break, building until he could not bear it.
The choking at the back of his throat and the automatic, ‘Now, Julia, now.’
She made some noise, shaking her head in a violent nod and increasing the burning motion of her thighs, pulling away to the fullest extent and then plunging back on to him again.
The dam burst.
Gouts and throbbing spasms as the world and its orbit cracked and erupted, all knowledge made free and spinning in a glare of colour and comprehension. Then the relaxed panting, the entwining of arms and legs, the sudden weight of Julia’s body heavy on him and the diminishing throb of life in his slackening organ as it slid from her.
‘You bitch,’ Asher panted. ‘You whoring, intriguing bitch.’ She laughed, a high bray.
Pushing her away, rolling her body from him, Asher brought up his right hand and slapped her full across the cheek.
The afterburn of gloom settled uncompromisingly on Asher Grey as the train ploughed south. Emotionally he was numbed: dull post-coital depression combining with the vapour trail of hysteria which had followed in the wake of his violence. His knuckles were bruised where he had brought the hand back across Julia’s mouth, while his words, hissed in uncontrolled violence, now seemed unreal to him.
‘You stupid, ignorant woman. I have work to do. I needed rest and all you think about is screwing me up, tiring me out to save your lousy skin so that we can both rot in this excuse for life.’
The hand paddling back and forth and a scream forming way back in Julia’s throat. She had tried to scramble from the bed, but he pinned her down, an arm hard over the small of her back as she twisted and kicked and he showered her buttocks with blows until they were scarlet. At least, after the first moments he had been controlled enough not to hit out indiscriminately.
‘Now stop bugging me.’ He pushed the flapping, writhing, flailing girl from him. ‘You’ll get a job. You’ll be with me: if that’s what you want. Just don’t be so bloody stupid.’
Then the recriminations, the pounding on the bathroom door while he shaved, the pounding of a neighbour on the wall. The hysterical and nonsensical shrieks.
Now he was conscious of fatigue and the fact that the train was carrying him away from her. He was also conscious of the trap: he would have to return: again take the line of least resistance and all would be calm on the surface until some other fear, real or imagined, blew the girl’s mind. She would never forgive him for the physical assault, he knew that; it would be brought up against him at every moment of conflict.
Fatigue and the sound of her voice bruising the early morning. ‘All right. Leave me. Leave me you sodding lousy actor. Leave me...Leave me...’
For two and a half hours he waited in the slow changing dark until the first Sunday bus grumbled into life; then again the interminable stretch of time at Manchester, the station sleepy and lethargic as it automatically went through the motions of its Sunday routine. The News of the World; all life was here in tiny uncoloured dramas; the People; a girl red eyed and tottering, hampered by her maxi-coat through which one glimpsed a flash of thigh, her face knotted in worry and the body sagging. A long and arduous illicit night? Children, blinking the sleep from their eyes, gleaming and awed to be out and doing something different, spent parents shepherding them into some small adventure. The Sunday Mirror, cracked in the washroom giving him a haggard reflection: O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? The Sunday Times ticking the minutes towards the 10.15, the conveyor belt that would bring Douglas Silver, Romeo, Shireston at least within his grasp. The Observer, regulation beat, pausing to look at him sitting idly on a station seat; other passengers, suspicious as television spies, and the waiting and walking and sipping coffee the colour of brown ale and the colour supplements sweeping their little piles of litter, the spoor of travellers, or taking tickets, carrying bags, overseeing, sharp shod trotting for trains.
The compartment on the London train was grubby, the feel of ingrained dirt in the seats, his companions uninspiring: a young man in crumpled, stained grey suit and with raggedly cut hair who resolutely picked his nose behind a newspaper; a girl of around twenty-five, dark hair and skin uncared for, a sullen mouth and hands constantly active, at war with the hem of her little skirt, pulled down feverishly each time she crossed and recrossed her hopeful legs.
There was no real sense of release, freedom,
if only for the day. Just the depression bordered by the pinpoint of hope. If success...He closed his eyes and thought of what that could really mean. Julia would still be there, but perhaps the problem might be easier. The fact of working among established names, a routine with people who knew what they were doing, people he could respect, the washing away of the dull grind of getting experience by performing one play each night, rehearsing another and learning a third by day; if success...then a comparatively clean and civilized way of life...the country...the passing countryside...cuttings...escarpments...telegraph poles...the whizzing silent cars...trees, sheep and cattle...far away houses...the roll of the carriage and the train noises...floating...away from reality...her voice subsiding as though it had never been...only the bumping and jarring of the train...
When he woke it was one o’clock and they were less than an hour out of Euston. Asher washed and tidied himself in the cramped lavatory, the floor swimming in water and the paper towels all gone.
Arriving in London was the first exhilarating sensation of the day since the bursting orgasmic pleasure. The smell of London and its feel brought pleasure more solid than any penile spurt. It was to this clawing, brutal, beautiful, ugly city he had first escaped from the guerrilla warfare of home, and it was here that he had dreamed the unfeasible dream while people taught him about acting. London had always been the imagined springboard for Asher, who, during his time at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, had never doubted for one moment that natural talent would fly him with immediate accuracy to the top of his profession; indeed, it had come as something of a shock, once he left R.A.D.A., to find himself out among that great amorphous mass of actors collectively ‘resting’.
The rehearsal rooms were within walking distance of Euston Station, above a double-fronted reach-me-down ready-to-wear tailor’s establishment off the Euston Road and Asher had a good half-an-hour until two-thirty and his appointment with Douglas Silver, so he set out in the watery sunlight, taking deep breaths, clearing his head, trying to will the remains of fatigue from his body and concentrate on the important matter: his Romeo.
Access to the rehearsal rooms was by a narrow flight of stairs to the right of the tailor’s shop. A small card, attached to the Wall with Sellotape, just inside the door at the foot of the stairs, informed prospective clients that this was the gateway to Sampson’s Rehearsal Rooms. Available to professional and amateur theatre companies. Also wedding breakfasts, committee meetings and social functions of all kinds. For Bookings Phone D. W. Sampson 378-4929.
For a brief moment Asher’s stomach clenched and turned over as he began to climb the stairs, remembering other decisive moments, climbing stairs in a far from outstanding career. Stairway after stairway: to agents who asked what work he had been doing and told him to come back when he had got some experience; to managements who said they had nothing for him; a week of hope with a movie producer, shattered in a few seconds; then the final one, the audition for Stanthorpe Rep’ on a grey afternoon with twenty other hopefuls.
Now this, like a gallows climb. Ronnie Gregor had told him of all the plans, and the money that had been made available to Shireston, and it crossed Asher’s mind that they should be using more salubrious quarters for their auditions. He quickly blotted out the thought, recalling that he had read an article about the Royal Shakespeare Company rehearsing in a church hall and that the idea of glamour in the Theatre was a myth he should have exploded by now.
The door at the top of the stairs was firmly closed (a further Sellotaped card reiterated that this was Sampson’s Rehearsal Rooms. Below it a list of bookings for the month,. He hesitated, not knowing whether to knock or walk straight in. He knocked, only loud enough for a person of acute hearing to detect. There was no reply so he pushed open the door.
It was a long room, the walls lined with tubular chairs, not of recent design, a black upright piano, grey-green oilcloth covering the floor, the faint smell of powder and stage make-up.
Two big windows at the far end of the room, in front of which stood a table around which three men formed a silhouetted tableau: two sitting with their backs to him, the third, whom he vaguely recognized, perched on the table itself. Far gone in conversation they did not notice Asher’s arrival, and it was only when he began to walk slowly towards them that the figure sitting on the table raised his head. Asher recognized Ronnie Gregor.
‘Here he is now.’
The other two men turned so that Asher had to walk a good ten paces under their gaze. He felt uncomfortable; not self-conscious, that was a luxury which actors soon learned to do without, but he was aware of his appearance, knowing that he should have taken more care, had the worsted suit cleaned and pressed, chosen a shirt instead of the turtleneck that he had grabbed in the middle of the brawl with Julia.
One of the seated men rose, a tall well-proportioned man with thick curly black hair, eyes which seemed to take in everything, restless, and a smile which, while tentative, had the makings of real warmth.
‘Hi. Asher Grey? I’m Douglas Silver.’ He extended a hand and Asher felt a strong firm grip.
‘You know Ronnie Gregor,’ said Silver, ‘and this is Art Drays our productions’ manager.’
Asher and Art Drays exchanged nods and Douglas Silver indicated a chair. ‘Sit down Asher, Ronnie’s told us a lot about you. You have a good journey?’
A nervous smile, he was trying to sum up the famous cultural whizz-kid. ‘You know British Rail.’
‘I try not to.’
‘You should have come down by air like I told you.’ Laconic from Ronnie.
Asher could not recall Ronnie mentioning the possibility of making the trip by air. Why didn’t they get on with the real business? Asher felt the kind of tension he could not ever remember experiencing, not even before the most difficult first nights. But Silver was inclined towards petty conversation. Asher tried to cut through the words, forcing his mind away. The oilcloth on the floor with the light making it appear to be a map of seas and rivers, land masses shaded with mountain peaks and smooth plateaux; papers on the bare wooden table and a couple of books, half hidden; a deep brown circle stained into the wood, the careless work of some tea drinking committee member, amateur or professional; the tiny black burn, a cigarette left balanced precariously on the table edge and then remembered, snatched quickly away to save the deeper scar; a motor-cycle burning it up in the street below, shaking the windows; Romeo burning it up in Asher’s brain, somewhere right at the back, behind the thrusting prominent thoughts which still took in the presence of this trio of neat men, who, on the surface at least, seemed calm and assured, self-possessed, controlled.
But Asher was not going to be allowed to settle down, to take in the landscape and then retreat to prepare his Romeo. Douglas Silver was relaxed and comfortable. He chatted on amiably, then, suddenly, began to insert questions, making Asher Grey turn from that particular point of clothing himself in the character of Romeo to the general terms of his real self, his abilities and his personal attitudes as an actor.
‘Why on earth did you ever become an actor, Asher? It’s a godforsaken profession. Why choose insecurity at a time when there’s so much going on outside the arts?’ Silver’s question was phrased uneasily: like a question in some set examination paper.
‘I suppose I wanted to communicate.’ Tentatively, not wanting to go too deep.
Silver laughed. ‘But as an actor you’re communicating other people’s ideas. They’re other people’s words you have to speak. You have to clothe yourself with other people’s personalities, characters.’
‘I suppose that part of it is escape.’ The actor stretched out his long legs, accepting the inevitable and trying to take the question seriously. ‘I had to get away from a pretty horrific home environment. I used to fantasize a lot at home, so it seemed the natural thing to do, to become a professional fantasist: and, no, I don’t agree that the actor only communicates other people’s ideas. His way of communication is his own way, it belongs
to nobody but himself.’
‘You see yourself as a star performer?’ Silver did not smile.
‘I don’t like the word star.’ That was a sentence which Asher Grey had instilled into his consciousness over the past few years. ‘We don’t look for star actors in the theatre any more, it’s a sloppy way of thinking. We only look for great actors.’
‘You see yourself as a great actor then?’
‘If you mean a technically responsible professional actor then I’m trying to learn to be that, yes. I’m not interested in the phoney stuff.’
‘Phoney?’ Silver raising an eyebrow.
‘Opening fetes, laying foundation stones, being seen with the right people. I want to be known simply as an actor.’
Douglas Silver made a quizzical gesture with his head. ‘And as yet you’re not even known as an actor.’
Ronnie Gregor looked up sharply. Douglas was showing a cruel streak.
‘Okay,’ said Silver. ‘What about working in repertory? Have you found that a dulling experience or has it been worthwhile?’
Asher made a throw away motion with both hands. ‘It’s all experience. Nowadays we need all the live experience we can get. Older actors and directors have always told me not to throw away opportunities, but there’ve been times when I’ve felt it was a waste.’
‘You get anything tangible from it?’
‘Oh, of course. Acting’s like driving, you don’t really begin to learn until you’re out there alone on the road with the others. I’ve learned a lot about technique, and I’ve forgotten a lot of crap I used to believe about the feel of a part and inspiration.’ He paused, realizing that he was about to move into inner thoughts: thoughts he normally did not share with others. ‘I’ve learned that the curtain goes up at eight o’clock and you have to be there and do it right. I think I’ve learned to listen: to the other people on the stage and to the audience. Occasionally I’ve touched the power, known how to regulate a performance; I’ve sometimes felt the wonder of a game of emotional tennis.’
