Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  The request was finally granted and, after much going back and forth between the parish and the Bishop’s palace, it was decided that the bell would be cast in the churchyard at Shireston.

  The narrow steps leading up to the bell tower being too difficult to negotiate, it was also decreed that the bell would be winched up to the top of the tower from the outside, and from there lowered into the chamber.

  The whole business became an excuse for several days of planned feasting and revels in which the entire town would play a part and the date was set for early June in the following year: the bell to be cast on a Friday, consecrated by the Lord Bishop himself on the Sunday and winched into position on the Monday morning.

  All began well enough in fine warm weather, with Shireston the focal point of the local countryside. The bell was cast and marvelled at for its beauty and good tone. There followed, however, a certain amount of drunkenness and lewd behaviour on the ‘Saturday night, a fact commented upon by the good Bishop in his consecration sermon: he had rather been in the thick of it for he stayed the night at the local inn, which stood, so the typescript maintained, where the Blue Boar stands today. The Bishop departed on the Sunday evening, after consecrating the bell, leaving the townspeople, workmen and their guests to lapse once more into their behaviour of the previous night — a reason held by many for the tragic events that were to follow.

  On the Monday morning a large crowd gathered in the churchyard to see the bell hauled up the tower. The winching tackle had been secured to the top of the tower on the Saturday and work began at around nine in the morning. But, after three hours the bell was only half-way to the top, some suggesting the cause of the inefficiency was the sluggardly state in which the workmen found themselves following the previous two nights of revels.

  By late afternoon the crowd had become restless, a large number drifting away to find more satisfying pleasures. However, just after five o’clock, the bell reached the top of the tower amidst great cheers of jubilation from the populace. The cheers were turned to shrieks of horror seconds later when the tackle broke and the bell came plummeting down, striking the side of the tower and bounding outwards, with much clamour and force, into the crowd. The impact of the bell killed no less than three adults and one child, Jane Bloodwell aged seven years; her mother Alice Bloodwell; Thomas Dumfries, a farm labourer and William Berry, an apprentice tailor.

  Indeed, the unlucky bell must have scythed its way through the crowd with considerable force for there were many wounded in its journey, Master Bride, the local surgeon, reporting that he attended to four broken arms, three broken legs and a multitude of gashes and bruises, some of serious matter.

  For over three hundred years the bell stood inside the church door to remind the townspeople of the disaster, until 1892 when an ingenious vicar, the Reverend Mr. Whitelaw, decided that it would be more proper to put the bell to good use, the font being damaged beyond repair; and it was this reverend gentleman who brought craftsmen to the church in order to convert the bell to its present use. So the bell, a gift of the queen, cast to call the faithful to prayer, became an instrument of death and then one of rebirth as the means to baptism.

  Below the typescript was a drawing dated 1565, ringed with an uneasy circle and showing the bell in minute detail, tilted sideways to display the fragmentation and cracks. The drawing, said a note below, was intended to be converted into a mould for a Parish Seal, but the work was, to our knowledge, never carried out.

  Tony Holt looked from the drawing to the upturned bell. Unless some obstacle prevented it, the drawing could become the symbol for the Shireston Festival. The story of the cracked bell of Shireston contained so many elements of life and death that it was a fitting enough sign for drama itself. His hand brushed against the metal of the bell and he made his way anxiously from the little church in search of the vicarage.

  Asher Grey did the balcony scene, after which Douglas Silver asked him to read Lorenzo’s In such a night with Ronnie Gregor reading for Jessica; then Cassio’s short plea for re-instatement to Desdemona—

  ‘Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you

  That by your virtuous means I may again

  Exist, and be a member of his love

  Whom I with all the office of my heart

  Entirely honour: I would not be delay’d

  If my offence be of such mortal kind

  That nor my service past, nor present sorrows,

  Nor purpos’d merit in futurity,

  Can ransom me into his love again,

  But to know so must be my benefit;

  So shall I clothe me in a fore’ d content.

  And shut myself up in some other course

  To fortune’s alms.’

  When he finished, there was a long silence in the room.

  Asher felt the onset of nerves: the bodily quiver and droop; he had given his best, particularly in Romeo’s death soliloquy, and he should have had Silver eating out of his hand, at one point he was certain he had; but the man was like a brick wall. The edges of Asher’s earlier depression once more began to ease forward into his consciousness.

  Douglas Silver stared down at the floor: at the oilcloth. This boy, Grey, was impressively good; he could not remember when he had heard the death soliloquy done so well, even taking into account the fact that Grey was doing it as a set piece and not as the culmination of two and a half hours concentrated performance. Douglas knew he could do things with Asher Grey: he could lead him, mould him even, but a warning in the back of his mind told him to beware. Asher Grey had a supreme talent, the kind of talent that could be ruthless and turn easily on the hand that fed it. In plain thinking, Asher Grey’s talent might turn out to be more bother than it was worth. Yet he could not afford to let it slip away. Douglas Silver decided to ignore the omen in his brain.

  ‘Do you think you could leave Asher alone with me for,’ Douglas glanced at his watch, speaking to Ronnie and Art, ‘for ten, fifteen minutes?’

  They nodded, smiled at Asher and wandered from the room. Douglas offered Asher a chair which he took, sitting down politely; upright; tense; feeling the pressure building at the back of his neck, certain that Douglas could sense it.

  Douglas lit a cigarette, offering one to the actor before he began to speak.

  ‘You’re very good,’ he said at last. ‘Did you know that? You have a very special sense of Theatre; you know how to handle your body, your face, your eyes; you have a good voice — no, you’ve got a distinctive acting voice and you know how to use it. Did you know all that?’

  Asher had the feeling that it might be a trap. ‘I know I’m not a bad actor.’

  Douglas gave a tiny smile, quick as a snake’s tongue. ‘No, you’re not a bad actor,’ he paused, pursing his lips. ‘But you could become a bad actor. Any actor at your stage of development can become bad, totally worthless. You’re already slipping into tricks. Another year in a rotten environment, the kind where you would be the best actor in a mediocre bunch, and the tricks would be the only thing left; you’d rely on them; you’d start taking short cuts: walking it on your good looks and your presence...I don’t have to tell you.’

  Asher did not speak.

  ‘Asher, do you think you could work with me?’ Douglas spoke in earnest now. ‘I mean really work with me? Trust me? Go through a little hell? The purifying fires?’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘Ronnie’s already told you that we’re trying to pull Shireston up by its boot straps. A lot of people are going to have the knives out. They’re going to scoff, sneer, snarl, call me a gimmick man, a sensationalist, a spoofer. But the proof will be in whatever success we make of it.’ He quickly outlined his plans, telling Asher more about Joe Thomas, Jen, Catellier, Maurice Kapstein, Carol Evans and the general order of things. ‘It’s going to be a hard year, hard as a diamond, and as brilliant as a diamond. As well as four major productions to direct I have massive executive and administration problems: the organization ha
s been allowed to run down, the whole place has gone to seed. So I’ve got all that on top of four productions and a large company; a lot of talent to look after. What I’m trying to say to you is that there’s going to be no time for temperaments. Asher, I’m going to offer you the biggest chance you’ve ever had: if you louse it up not only do you damage your own career but a lot of other people’s. So if you’ve got any qualms for God’s sake say so now.’ Five seconds slipped by. ‘I’m going to offer you the role of Romeo in what will be the most publicized production of Romeo and Juliet since the Zeffirelli movie.’

  Asher Grey opened his mouth to speak but Douglas went on. ‘I am also going to ask you to play Lorenzo in The Merchant of Venice and Cassio in Joe Thomas’s Othello. Do you need time to think about it?’

  ‘I’ll...I’ll have to talk to my agent.’

  ‘When can you do that?’

  ‘I can call her in the morning.’

  ‘No fancy prices, Asher. You’re young and unknown. We both take risks. Who is your agent?’

  ‘Veronica Turnbull.’

  ‘Well, if you want to do it, tell her the contracts are all Equity and no messing around. You get board and lodging for the entire season, beginning the first week in January. Normal rates, half salary during rehearsals. The Merchant and Othello go in during the first week in April. Richard 111 and R.I. during the first week in May. But we start work as a company in January.’

  ‘I’ll talk with her first thing tomorrow. There won’t be any difficulty.’

  ‘Then I take it that you agree in principle?’

  ‘Of course I do, Mr. Silver, I’d give—’

  ‘Your eye teeth, I know. Just give me a first-class Romeo. I’ll expect Veronica Turnbull to call me tomorrow then?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell her.’

  They both turned as the door opened: Ronnie Gregor had returned, raising his eyebrows in query. ‘Okay Douglas?’

  ‘Okay Ronnie, come on in.’ The director was suddenly in an expansive mood.

  ‘Art’s gone back to the office. He didn’t think you’d need him again.’

  ‘Right. Meet our prospective Romeo.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Ronnie grinned at Asher. ‘I’m very glad.’

  Asher’s train did not leave until eight so Douglas asked if he would care to eat somewhere with Ronnie as he had to go on to another meeting.

  Asher still could not find the right words, he grinned, mumbling his thanks, and Douglas left feeling very happy and pleased with himself.

  Douglas Silver got outside and began to walk, looking for a cab, when suddenly there was the unexpected leap in his loins: the spring of sensuality. Asher Grey’s sample Romeo had been good but it should not have this effect, he smiled to himself, especially when he was so jammed full of work and problems. Then he realized the complete aim of the desire and the victim of the urge. The Romeo had brought Douglas back to Juliet.

  He found a telephone booth and dialled Carol Evans’s number. It rang four times and then she answered.

  ‘At last.’ Douglas put warmth in it, a shade mocking.

  ‘Who’s that? Douglas?’

  ‘Who else? I’ve been calling you for the last couple of days.’

  ‘I’ve literally only just walked in. I’ve been away, filming. On location for T.V.’

  ‘Very grand. Where?’

  ‘Would you believe Brighton beach? It was supposed to be the Persian gulf. In this heat.’ She chuckled.

  He laughed. ‘I’ve got your Romeo.’

  ‘The one you told me about?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Lemme see.’

  ‘No. Not yet, but I’ll come and tell you about him.’ There was a specific tone in his voice.

  A long silence.

  ‘My place?’ asked Carol, throaty.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know, Douglas. I thought you were off coming to my place.’

  ‘I’ve missed you. Even three days.’

  ‘Isn’t it just a case of “What’s she got that I haven’t? Nothing, but she’s got it here”?’

  ‘It may well be. But...’

  ‘I’ve missed you, too, Douglas. You coming now?’

  ‘Straight away.’

  She opened the door wearing a woollen dress, a bright orange midi with a high neck line; patent lace-up boots ending just below the knee, and she came into his arms as he stepped over the threshold. Douglas locked her close, and within seconds, as the sliding tongues met, her breathing changed to the quick nasal pant.

  Douglas scrabbled for the zip at the back of her dress and tugged right down below the waist. It slipped from her shoulders and she stepped free: the glistening coffee-coloured body with a texture that seemed as deep as some dark sea, smooth and welcoming.

  She went to the bed and fumbled, unlacing the boots as he undressed, her fingers wrenching at the laces. In the end she heaved each boot in turn from her feet and threw them from her, rising for him to help her with the tiny white cotton pants and her tights. She wore no bra and his desire was raging: a fester of coloured pictures in his head which all spoke of his need and the wish to bury himself in her.

  When they were both naked, Carol turned from him and dropped face downwards on the bed, turning her face from him as she opened her legs.

  ‘Like this,’ she whispered.

  He climbed on top of her back, the tight hard buttocks moulding into his stomach; her hand feeling for him, pulling him; their legs and bodies adjusting for her to take him into her. This way she was tight and clutching as a virgin; his hands on the breasts, nipples hard as pebbles; the pleasure frantic and all consuming.

  ‘In some countries they’d put you in jail for that,’ she said as they lay together, on their backs, naked and holding hands, the glow subsiding.

  ‘No, it’s the thing with the mouths they...’ Douglas began and then realized she was talking about race and colour. ‘South Africa’s a long way off, baby.’

  ‘Is it? I don’t know. Douglas. What are we going to do?’

  ‘We’re going to give them the most spectacular Romeo and Juliet of all time.’

  ‘Not that. You know I didn’t mean that, and I know I started it, out in Malta when I said if two people wanted to and needed it they should go ahead: but things have changed for me.’

  Douglas propped himself on to one elbow and looked down at her.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well, that’s how I’ve always felt about sex. I’m not promiscuous, Doug, I promise you, but I’ve always thought that if the right guy comes along and you fancy him, and the opportunity’s there, then you should go ahead. What do they say? Lie back and enjoy it?’ She closed her eyes, turning her head away, voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Then you should go on your way rejoicing. That’s how I thought it would be with you; but the other night, when you came over and I saw you again, I just wanted you so much. I’ve never felt that big physical thing before. I was soaking wet for you, Douglas. Then you came in and it was like I had nothing between my legs. You’d had your wife in L.A. and that was like slapping me in the face.’

  ‘But Carol, love, I thought—’

  She put up her hand to check him. ‘I know what you thought, and you’re quite right. I’ve no hold on you. I’m not going back on my word either: not asking for favours. But I’m in trouble, Douglas, because I’ve got to come down to Shireston and work under you, and I know that half the time I’ll want to be screwing under you. You. Your wife’ll be there, you’ll be harassed half to death.’ She turned back to him, almost violently. ‘What I’m trying to say, Douglas, is that I don’t know if I can give you even a good Juliet, because I’m totally involved with you in the most basic way a woman can be. I don’t know if I can do it.’

  She did not sound, or look, hysterical, but Douglas felt the fear strike in his guts. As a professional his reputation was at stake with the festival. Things were too advanced to make major side steps and alterations. His own sexual irresponsibility had bro
ught him into this situation and he felt abnormally guilty. There was, indeed, abnormality here, because usually when he became involved in work he did not either need, or desire, sex. No purpose would be served by making light of Carol’s physical and emotional feelings, but, on the other hand, he did not want to upset her any further by lecturing on professionalism.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ was all he said. ‘Easy words, baby, I know.’

  ‘They’re bloody easy. Like saying I love you. They should ban those two phrases — I love you and I’m sorry.’ She continued to talk, but Douglas only heard her with part of his consciousness: Asher Grey’s potential Romeo, which had temporarily slipped to the back of his mind, now came clawing through and he saw, on the screen of his perception, this beautiful black girl and the gutsy Asher Grey melting stone with the romantic lasers of Shakespeare’s tragedy.

  Asher Grey did not mention Julia until it was almost too late. Ronnie Gregor had been friendly and very complimentary, urging Asher to talk about himself and his work, at the same time, filling in pieces of information about Douglas’s plans for Shireston. They had a light meal together and Ronnie came back to Euston, queued up with Asher, and went down on to the platform to see him off.

  There were only five minutes left before departure when Ronnie said casually, ‘I almost forgot, Asher, we’ll need to know what kind of accommodation you’ll be wanting. A single bed-sitter or...?’

  All right. Leave me. Leave me you sodding lousy actor. Leave me...Leave me...There in the middle of the leave taking, crammed platform, the rush to catch a train North, the clatter and the tired lovers, strained after a weekend and each wanting the other to be gone, the porters, aggressive travellers, the worried, sad and happy, Julia’s voice plunged through Asher Grey’s head, a crimson streak of discord, the sound of cacophony from which he knew he would never be free.

  ‘Well there is this girl...’ he began.

  Ronnie’s face registered the memory.

  ‘This actress,’ Asher fumbled, ‘you might remember. Julia Philips...We live together...Is there any chance of...?’ He did not even like to frame the question.