Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong in the box office.’

  ‘I’m only your P.R. man, I shouldn’t...’

  ‘And as my P.R. man you have to be very close to the box office. Your job is to sell the season, theirs is to sell the seats, and I need every seat sold for every performance...’

  ‘Otherwise you’re a dead duck.’ It was the kind of impertinence for which Adrian was famous.

  ‘Not quite, Adrian, not quite. But I’ll level with you because you’re the sharpest man on the team. I’m running this place on a budget of £500,000, the bulk of which is already spent, or at least spoken for. The trustees know they’ll not see all their money back, but they’ve put it to me quite plainly that I have to retain a minimum of three-quarters of the original investment, that’s £375,000, otherwise it’ll be difficult for them to put money into a second season, and a second season has got to show profit. Now you don’t have to be a great mathematician to work out the figures. A house full on one night represents a cash intake of £1,647. One week, with six evening performances and a couple of matinees brings in £13,176 — if every seat is taken for every performance. The figures are engraved on my heart.’ Douglas thumped his chest. ‘If the house is full for the entire season we take £349,350, a sum that is below that which I have got to make back for the trustees; and it’s going to cost me another £100,000 to keep this season propped up anyway, so that means I have to get every ticket sold throughout the season, and make around £150,000 over the top — out of the restaurant, from the exhibition, sale of programmes, odds and sods. So, Adrian, I rely on you to sell the season for me and to tell me when something is wrong at the box office even though it is the executive director’s problem and he’s my protege.’

  Adrian looked stubbornly at his plate. ‘I can see why we had the happy ship is a good ship bit this morning.’

  Douglas snapped back. ‘We had it because I happen to believe in it.’ He dropped his hands palm downwards on the table, looked up and gave a shy grin, ‘In part anyway. I do believe the equality thing’ll keep our political friends happy. There must be some comrades of Marx or Mao among the younger brethren and I don’t want to waste time on side issues. Look chum, when you open up a company like this you’re starting a new society and the extremists are only too willing to get on to the band wagon. I don’t like taking chances, so what’s wrong with the box office?’

  Adrian gave him a nervous smile. ‘I’m making a big drama out of very little, Doug. But the present situation in the box office is one of utter inefficiency. I could be nasty and say that really you should have gone into the matter at the outset, but it’s only just come to my notice.’

  ‘I talked with Harper very early on.’ Graham Harper was the box office manager and now Douglas realized that he had not seen him around the place much: a fat, sleek individual with darkening blond hair. ‘He gave me all the right answers then. Seemed to know his way around; know what he was about.’

  ‘I dare say,’ Adrian said it quietly, without any hint of irritation. ‘I dare say, but it’s part of the old regime, isn’t it? In a very short time here I discovered that, in practically all areas, the old regime was riddled with incompetence. Christ, Douglas, you did as well, and yet you’ve gone and taken the box office at its face value.’

  It was true enough, the box office did not come into operation until the beginning of February, and Douglas knew deep down that he was guilty of simply assuming it would operate properly and efficiently, when his experience so far should have told him differently.

  ‘Have you examined, I mean really examined, the staff situation in the box office?’ Adrian asked.

  Douglas shifted as though his chair was uncomfortable, a sigh leaking from his lips. ‘No. No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well I’ve seen it all this last week and I’ve been checking back. You want to hear what we’ve got?’

  Douglas, tense across the table nodded.

  ‘We’ve got Graham Harper, a man of forty-nine who was appointed box office manager here nine years ago and immediately brought in his girlfriend as a number two. He is now uncertain and vaguely embittered, she is now forty years old, tired and fed up. She’d leave at the drop of a ticket...’

  ‘I know her, Elsie...’

  ‘I don’t know her name and I don’t want to know, it doesn’t matter. Douglas, between the two of them they’ve run the box office, nice and quietly, with the help of a couple of girls who change from year to year. All they’re interested in is keeping things ticking over, and nobody’ll convince me that they’re going to adapt to our bustling, booming new image. If any one person in the box office over the past nine years has gone out of his, hers or its way to sell a ticket then I’m the president of the Cube Shaped Earth Society.’

  Douglas had been feeling reasonably pleased with the way things were shaping. The reception, his speech to the company, and the first rehearsal had gone better than he had dared expect, hence his buoyant sense of confidence. Also, in the weeks that had just passed they had, he knew, made a lot of headway with things like the mailing list, brochures, posters. Knowing Adrian’s ability, Douglas had been certain of a good, strong selling position; that part of his mind which held pictures of the future had retained a constant image of applications for tickets flooding in from the general public, agencies, tourist organizations and hotels, all being handled with, what he fondly imagined, customary efficiency: after all, once the season was fully promoted the actual sell was a simple, straightforward job. Now, to be jolted into the reality that the most important factor in the operation was not only badly staffed, but also ineffectual. His personal anger, bottled for a few moments, was natural enough and aimed at himself. ‘Jesus Christ, Adrian, what a way to run a bloody railway. Are they really that bad in the box office?’

  ‘Deadbeats, chum.’ The P.R. man grinned. ‘And I’m telling you that if all my arrows strike home they just aren’t going to know what’s hit them. They’ll be up to their arses in applications for tickets and they’ll think the roof’s fallen in. Sorry to give you a shock, but I thought you should be warned.’

  Douglas Silver played with his fork for a moment. ‘They’re going to think the roof’s fallen in anyway when I get through with them.’ He said coldly, ‘Don’t get mad at David, I’ll put him in as a beater straight away; if he hasn’t got them properly organized within a week then I’ll go in with the guns. Now, what other terrors have you got for me?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  From the outside The Lion and Lamb was a typical picture postcard English inn: standing back from the road in its own garden, with a grey stone terrace which in summer was always filled with customers, the place looked like a large, expensive whitewashed country cottage complete with small windows set at uncertain angles, great hanging eaves and, one of its main attractions for tourist photographers, a beautifully kept thatch. It sported five double bedrooms and so qualified as an hotel, but it was the bar and grill which gave the place its reputation and drew regulars from thirty or forty miles away.

  The bar itself acted as a natural room divider, being a large three-sided affair jutting straight out from the rear wall, the third, short side running directly parallel to the glass double-doored entrance.

  Nobody could be quite certain about how much of the interior was original. Certainly the main cross beams, and at least part of the large open hearth, were seventeenth century, but for the rest it was rather like the broom that has had three new heads and a couple of new handles yet still remained the one great-grandmother bought.

  To the left of the doors, the room opened up into the main bar parlour which was almost too much the English dream with its Windsor chairs and matched prints. Yet nobody could accuse it of lacking atmosphere, that strange blend of bonhomie and the sense of being a privileged member of a closed shop; plus all the more natural things, the smells and pipe smoke, the bursts of laughter from regulars and the non-stop clash of the till.

  Straight across the bar in the parl
our, one could see through to the other open section which, while still a bar, was mainly designed as a restaurant.

  At lunchtime, The Sheep was usually quite full and Archie Swimmer eyed the scene from his almost legendary standpoint, the far end of the parlour bar. The Sheep had been Archie’s local almost from the first day he began work at Shireston, and hardly a lunchtime went by which did not see the stage carpenter in for at least a couple of pints.

  In the many years that actors had used The Sheep as their pub during the festival, Archie Swimmer had seen many men and women make fools of themselves in that bar parlour, but he could not bring to mind any big name who had brought himself to the brink of folly so quickly as Maurice Kapstein.

  Kapstein had obviously been in the place since opening time and, while he was not particularly loud as yet, there were definite signs of alcoholic deterioration in his gait and speech.

  It was amazing, thought Archie, how people reacted to television faces. Kapstein had a half dozen regulars around him, all obviously basking in the reflected glory of spending an hour in the pub with the live flesh and blood character they had all watched weekly on television in The Game Game. They were no more interested in Maurice Kapstein than in their local grocer, it was Solly Jacobs the ruthless fight promoter walking the corridors of sporting power, ousting villains, pulling off half-million deals with intrigue, adroitness and underhanded skill, which interested them. It was also plain to see that Morrie was in his element, even reverting to character, his accent becoming thicker, in the vein of Solly Jacobs.

  Now he had been joined by Ronald Escott, a character actor of much experience and of the same vintage as Kapstein. Archie had been watching Escort rehearse Brabantio, Desdemona’s father, all morning (he usually sat in on some of the rehearsals), and he was much aware that Escott would be required that afternoon, as he was playing Old Gobbo, the sand-blind father to Launcelot Gobbo, the major clown in The Merchant. Ronald Escott knew The Bleeding Sheep well, Archie considered, for he had been in at least two Shireston Festival companies since World War Two. Archie took a sip of his pint and tried to remember what Escott had played; he recalled a buoyant Touchstone in As You Like It, and one of the rustics, Snug the Joiner he thought, in The Dream.

  There was a bubble of laughter around Kapstein and Escott, then a bustling with heads turning towards the door. Archie Swimmer shifted his position to see Joe Thomas and Jennifer Frost standing in the doorway.

  Kapstein saw them a little later than most of the people in the bar, but as soon as the fact of their presence had registered upon him, the actor let out a whoop of recognition. ‘Here comes more of the suppressed minority. Joe Thomas, you unliberated negro you, come and have a drink with one of the unliberated Jews.’

  Jennifer felt Joe Thomas’s body stiffen as Kapstein shouted. For a second she experienced the brief alarm, thinking that the black and legendary singer was about to head into some violent unpleasantness; but he replied in a cool voice.

  ‘Hold it, man,’ raising a hand to Kapstein, fingers spread wide. ‘I got to get food organized.’

  Jennifer had already caught the eye of the young woman obviously in charge of the restaurant and who had begun to advance towards them, when the landlord, Jack Wedlock himself, hurried across the room to greet the couple personally. A large, pleasant man, Wedlock seldom lost the opportunity of making people feel at home when they visited his hostelry; now he poured out a flood of effusive welcome: what an honour it was to have two such distinguished names under his roof; what a personal accolade it was to him; how good it was of them to choose this particular public house. In the end Joe stopped him, almost abruptly, by asking for the menu.

  The head waitress, or overseer, or whatever she was, had been standing quietly behind Wedlock and now stepped forward with two large, blue and rather pretentious looking menus.

  They chose a simple meal: farmhouse soup, steaks, French fried potatoes and mixed salads, then excused themselves saying that they would be ready to eat in ten minutes.

  ‘We’ll be in the bar. If we’re any longer than ten minutes would you call us through?’ asked Joe.

  The smart young woman nodded understandingly.

  Jennifer could not figure why she was so surprised at Thomas’s common sense or the tactics he had employed to avoid any lengthy involvement with Kapstein; to her, she supposed, it seemed out of character with the man she really only knew through his recordings, newspapers and magazine stories.

  She realized now how much the force of publicity could create the image of a public figure, even on the minds of those who knew the profession well. At the same time she could understand that the tall black man might well be quite a hell raiser should the circumstances prove favourable: no person living under the strain of constant public appearances, riding in trains, boats, planes and cars, living out of suitcases, exposed to all kinds of incredible flattery, public and private adulation, could come out of it all unscathed. Looking at the back of his neck, as he led her through into the bar, she could well imagine how insecure and explosive he might be.

  Once in the bar they were engulfed by people and a dozen introductions. Kapstein was perched unsteadily on a stool, with Escott, looking a shade worried, leaning against the bar. The Jewish actor smiled drunkenly at Jennifer.

  ‘Mrs. Silver taking time out with our black brother already. Nice to see you here, my dear.’ He closed his eyes slowly and reopened them, focusing on Joe Thomas. ‘And what’s Mr. Thomas going to drink? You are allowed alcoholic refreshment aren’t you, Joe? As well as the smokes I mean?’ There was an undertow to his manner, as though he was spoiling for a fight.

  ‘Give me a free day and an equal start and I’ll drink you under the table any time,’ said Joe with an easy grace. ‘To be going on with I’ll have a gin and tonic, but what about Jennifer?’

  Jen ordered a tomato juice, adding that she was driving and had a lot of work to do that afternoon.

  ‘So have I got work this afternoon,’ challenged Kapstein, ‘much work I got to do with your husband, but it doesn’t stop me having a little drink at lunchtime.’

  ‘He’ll be the first alcoholic Shylock in the business,’ muttered Ronald Escott. ‘My daughter, my ducets and my gin.’

  ‘Ah Mr. Kapstein, you’ve had more experience than I,’ Jennifer smiled.

  ‘Sure, sure I’ve had more experience. I suppose in all fields, Mrs. Jennifer Silver, or should I call you Frost? Morrie Kapstein could teach a young girl like you much in all fields.’ He spluttered, rocking on his stool. ‘In any field I could teach you much. Give me a summer’s day, a field, and a young girl...’

  ‘Cheers Morrie,’ Joe Thomas cut in raising his glass.

  ‘Cheers to you; you black bastard,’ Kapstein gave him what was supposed to be a friendly grin.

  There was a lull during which Ronald Escott asked Jennifer if she had settled in and liked Shireston; Joe Thomas stood glowering at Kapstein who now seemed wrapped in his own thoughts, lost for words.

  ‘We’ve got a super apartment and I think—’ Jennifer began, but Kapstein cut across her.

  ‘What’s this Othello going to be like then?’ He sounded aggressive. ‘You’ve been working with the great man all morning. How’s it shaping?’

  Joe looked at Jennifer, lifting his eyebrows as though asking permission to have a go at Kapstein. Jennifer shook her head.

  ‘Secret signals, already,’ boomed the fat actor intercepting the look between them. ‘You don’t need to have any secrets from Morrie. I am as a closed book.’

  ‘The Othello’s going to be okay,’ Joe said quietly.

  ‘It ought to be okay,’ Kapstein laughed loudly as though he had just thought of the joke of the century. ‘It ought to be, it’s got the right colour to it. I mean nobody has to black up or anything. That makes a change.’

  Joe Thomas took a step forward and the atmosphere became charged with possible menace, which was only broken by the appearance of the head waitress from the re
staurant who had come in to say their lunch was ready.

  Joe nodded and Jennifer turned away, but before he followed her, Thomas pushed his head close to Kapstein. ‘I’ll see you again.’ There was no warmth in the way he said it, holding his stance for five seconds or so before following Jennifer out of the bar.

  Archie Swimmer, watching the whole thing over his pint in the corner of the bar, smiled to himself. Sparks, he thought, would fly in one direction or another before much longer, and, if Maurice Kapstein kept on knocking it back at this rate the sparks would undoubtedly leap from him.

  Thomas was magnificently cool about the whole business. ‘Sorry about that,’ he smiled pleasantly across the table when they were settled.

  ‘I detest that sort of behaviour at the best of times, but within the profession it’s unforgivable.’

  ‘The profession makes no difference,’ Joe laughed.

  ‘How do you keep your nerve, your cool?’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t. That’s my trouble, baby, I’m often too quick to pick up that kind of cheap crack. That’s when I hit the headlines. Aw forget it, the bum was drunk anyway.’

  ‘He’s drunk all right, and I can’t see Douglas taking too kindly to that this afternoon.’

  ‘Kapstein’s experienced, I should imagine he knows well enough how to sober up quickly when he has to. Even I can do that.’

  Jennifer took a long look at him. ‘Do you have to face a lot of racist talk? A lot of things like Kapstein said? I would have thought a man like you would have been protected to a certain degree.’

  He thought for a moment, a faint curve on his lips. ‘You’re right of course, I realized that when I arrived over here all by myself; that is without the characters I usually have around. Yes, I’ve been protected, but they can’t do it all of the time, and I wouldn’t want that anyhow, I’m not an Uncle Tom you know.’