by John Gardner
Douglas glanced through the sheets and dropped them on to his desk. ‘What’s Harper got to say? He’s crowing I suppose?’
‘Not exactly crowing, because, according to him, we’ve done better than he expected.’
Douglas gave a sour grimace, lifting his eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s only for the first three months, and it’s all happened in one week which is not entirely bad. There’s really nothing we can do except aim for the highest possible standard and spin our prayer wheels.’
‘I’ll go on pushing the box office people: keep on their tails if that’ll help.’
‘Everything helps.’ Douglas felt uneasy, a blip in the back of his mind constantly telling him that, in the end, it was the public, and the public alone, who would decide the fate of Shireston. He could knock his guts out; come to that so could every member of the company, and Adrian, David, Tony Holt and all, yet it was still possible that the whole organization would collapse, melt slowly away like a gorgeous ice-cream cake in a warm room, if there was nobody there to appreciate it, eat it up and pay the piper.
The worry was not decreased by the sudden, and unexpected appearance, during the following week-end, of Sir Basil Daley making what he called, ‘One of my quick trips of inspection’.
Sir Basil seemed pleased enough with what Douglas told him over lunch in the theatre restaurant; he asked no awkward questions and only mentioned the business of ticket sales just before he was due to take his leave.
Douglas said that they were certainly up on any previous year, at this point, but that it would take a few weeks more before any real breakthrough could be certain.
‘You’ve got plenty of time,’ smiled Sir Basil. ‘I don’t expect spectacular turnover until you’ve got a little way into the season itself, certainly not in the first week of bookings; and you don’t have to make any up-to-date report, with the correct figures, until the twenty-first of May when we hold the trustees’ meeting.’
Douglas had, naturally, known that there was a trustees’ meeting somewhere near the start of the season, and another near the end, but he had not noted that the first one came as early as the twenty-first of May. The added knowledge served to compound his growing nag of worry.
It may well have been this state of mind which brought about the director’s change of mood regarding plans for Richard III. During the meeting he had held with Tony Holt, on the afternoon of the tea party to discuss David Wills’s poetry readings, they had come to some definite decisions. Richard was the one production which seemed to be causing early worry. Right at the start, Douglas had thrown out Tony’s original designs: the standing set of wooden scaffolding which Douglas referred to as ‘Early Sean Kenny’. At that time he asked Tony to provide him with some very definite designs: up to Richard of Gloucester’s coronation the setting had to reek of decadent opulence; after Richard was in power there had to be the overwhelming suggestion of fascism.
Tony carried out the brief brilliantly, both in the settings and costumes: the set still remained a basic standing structure, but was executed in differing textures and with some ingenious moving and sliding panels which could be used to completely alter the depth and shape. This Douglas had accepted without any reservations, delighted at his designer’s skill. But now, in the second week of February, he suddenly called a meeting with Tony, Art and Ronnie Gregor.
‘Tony, you’re going to be furious with me,’ Douglas began, oozing his legendary charm.
Tony Holt’s face was splashed with a wan smile. ‘You’re throwing out the Richard designs and set,’ he said.
‘Not the costume designs, they stay, but I want the setting changed.’
Art Drays gave out an almost silent ‘Jesus’.
‘I suppose they’ve started putting it together?’ queried Douglas.
‘Yes.’ Tony nodded, tight lipped.
‘I’m sorry but it’s not right for what we have to do, mate.’ Ronnie looked up. ‘Does this mean you’ve re-thought the whole thing?’
‘No, I haven’t re-thought it. I just want some changes in the working conditions. This is between the four of us at this point, but I feel that the weight of the production has got to fall on the actors, particularly on Conrad. If you’ve talked to him you must know that he’s pretty lethargic about playing Richard. My guess is that if he could get out of the deal tomorrow he’d run a mile. He knows what I want of him, but he’s not quite certain if he can do it. We have to make him, and we do it by giving him very little to lean upon, which means that the staging has got to be sparse.’
‘You’re going to let the company find their own way: feel their own way.’ A bald statement from Art.
‘To some extent.’
‘You said we didn’t have time for that.’ Ronnie appeared quite agitated.
‘I know what I said,’ Douglas turned to Tony Holt. ‘I want dirty white walls and one movable second level. I also want a central screen which we can drop in for projections.’
‘You’re going to find some old newsreel pictures of the battle of Bosworth and run them behind the action,’ said Ronnie acidly.
Douglas grinned. ‘No, the Grand National — “My kingdom for a horse”. Yes, something like that. I want a screen there in case we can devise some projected stuff. Not pictures. Mobile abstracts probably. We’ve got the equipment, haven’t we?’
‘Oh yes, we’ve got everything,’ said the stage director. ‘You name it we’ve got it. The only problem is time. Douglas, if you let Conrad and that bunch off their leads they’ll probably come up with some incredible stuff. It’ll be Richard III a la Peter Brook Dream: plate spinning, acrobats, the lot. We’ve already got Joe Thomas swinging from his heels in a death sequence that’ll give everyone heart attacks. Can you afford to—’
‘I’d like to try,’ Douglas cut in. ‘Is it really too late, Tony?’
Tony Holt shrugged. ‘You’re the gaffer, if you want it all changed...’
‘I’d be grateful.’
‘Then I’ll have some rough drawings for you to see by tomorrow evening’
Later, when Ronnie and Art were alone, the stage director expressed his feelings with a violence not natural to him. ‘That production’s going to be the biggest let down of the season. It’s going to bomb something horrible. Stupid bastard.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? You know Douglas, you’ve worked with him enough. Okay, so Conrad’s heart may not be in it, but the real trouble is that Douglas has got the shakes. When he’s full of enthusiasm there’s never a dull moment; never a change of heart. When he’s not quite with it, he niggles, finds fault, and he gets unsettled. I know the signs, Art. With this Richard he’s going to give them an open space and a few props, the odd guide line and then he’s going to let them get on with it. It’ll be no more his production than fly. He’s got Othello and The Merchant buttoned up and he’ll use all his reserve energy for Romeo; Richard’s a bore for him: mark me.’
Since the Sunday afternoon in Jennifer Frost’s apartment, Carol Evans had felt uneasy, listless: an anxious, butterfly lethargy. It was a sensation which she had not often experienced in her life; not just the uneasiness which is simple to analyse; the awareness that you are black or different, or because there is no work, or that you are worried about your family. This went deeper somehow, she could not quite put her finger on it, but she was aware that some of the sensation came from the fact of finding that her emotions for Douglas had not after all completely disappeared; also, part of it was purely sensual, she knew “that bit only too well; the merely physical thing, the withdrawal symptoms, similar for men and women alike when a love affair ends abruptly. There had been no man since Douglas and, naturally, there were times when her body ached, not just for the easy pleasure of being ploughed by a male, but for the tenderness, the sense of adoration which had come with Douglas, and for which she now longed. She managed to sublimate much in working, but, with only her Nerissa in rehearsal, time hung a little heavy. She mixed well, yet found herself almost
studiously avoiding the group of black actors and actresses who, while outwardly seeming to integrate themselves, still really remained a private breakaway clique. Carol had no wish to get drawn into the kind of black militancy which she felt was bound to emerge from their behaviour; she had been lucky, rarely feeling any of the hostility which friends found a constant burden that had to be made heavier by taking up bitter attitudes.
With the start of Romeo and Juliet rehearsals still three weeks away, Carol began to spend much of her spare time doing private work on Juliet, but the strange spring-like ache and lethargy still had to be fought.
One Wednesday in early February she spent the whole afternoon going through the text without a script, lying on the floor of her apartment. By five o’clock she was boggled with the poetry and blatantly randy with the emotions expressed: the walls seemed to press in on her like some medieval engine of torture and her nerves tingled.
Outside it was chilly but dry, so, throwing her heavy coat over the jeans and turtleneck she wore, Carol left her rooms for a brisk walk in the grounds, having learned long ago that the, now ridiculed, old maxims of English public schools concerning brisk walks and cold showers, were at least a help when a woman was very much on her own.
There was still plenty of light, so she took the path behind the theatre restaurant, intending to cut through the orchard and paddock which lay behind the theatre, emerging in the drive, up by the main gates: in all a good three-quarters of a mile walk. The air felt clean and she had the sensation of being a shade intoxicated, floating through the evening shadows. As she entered the orchard, Carol was startled to see a dark, track-suited figure jogging through the trees towards her. As he drew near she recognized Joe Thomas who pulled up beside her with a broad grin on his face, though she could not help feeling that there was mockery around the eyes.
‘Hi there. Forsooth ‘tis Juliet,’ brayed the singer.
‘Hi.’ Carol slowed to a halt. ‘What’re you doing? Ruining your health or out to frighten the local kids?’
‘I’m learnin’ to run so’s I’ll be in good shape after the first night of Othello. What’s your excuse for being out alone in the woods? You lookin’ for a man to leap on?’
‘I don’t need to look,’ she laughed uneasily.
‘No?’ He raised his eyebrows and thickened his accent. ‘I seen yo lookin’ at that white boy.’
‘Which white boy?’ It came out with an unexpected rush, as though she had not realized that he was fooling around.
‘Hey, that really caught you. Which white boy? Well I’ll tell you, Carol Evans, there’s a choice of two from where I sit looking at you. There’s our esteemed director, Mr. Douglas Silver, or there’s your Romeo, Mr. Asher Grey.’
For a moment she could not get her mind straight. Joe Thomas had to be either a lucky guesser or a very observant man and the first question was, did he simply watch her, or was it everybody? She wondered about that: he had detected something in Douglas Silver’s manner, or her manner; that was clever, but the Asher Grey thing was even more astute because nobody but herself could know about it. Nowadays when she allowed her fantasies to roam uncontrolled, Douglas was usually the first to claim her attention; not unnaturally, for she knew his body and mind in detail, but Asher Grey was something else, occasionally the shadowy centrepiece to her sensual dreams. In rare moments she let herself admit to fancying him as a man, yet in reality she was far too aware, as indeed were the whole company, of Julia Philips’s watchful omnipresence.
‘Well?’ Thomas was waiting for her answer.
She mentally pulled herself together, gave what might just pass for a coy smile and said, ‘Don’t tell me you never have little ding-a-dings with white women.’
‘All the time, baby, we’re all brothers and sisters under the skin; but I also have room for my own kind. I’m not an Uncle Tom.’
‘Implying that I am.’ Unconsciously she had fallen into step beside him, walking back towards the theatre restaurant.
‘You don’t spend much time with your soul brothers and sisters.’
‘They’re all around me, Joe. They have been all my life. I’m British, man, and my father and mother are British. They were born here and I was born here, we’re not even immigrants.’
‘Maybe, but you’re black.’
‘Tough. Doug Silver and Miss Frost are white: they’ve got colour too.’
‘Don’t give me any of that shit.’
She stopped walking, half-turning, looking up at him. ‘Joe Thomas, you are just about the most irritating, self-opinionated, bumptious, stupid, overbearing, vain, crass, man I’ve ever met.’
‘I’m kinda pretty too. Flattery don’t rate any with me, kid.’
‘You and your kind make me sick. Sure, the black people have got to fight. But, over here, what have they got to fight? A minority of bigots, and they are a minority, Joe. This country may be screwed up about a lot of things, but on the whole its racial problem stands more chance of getting sorted out than lots of other places.’
Joe held up his hand, the ‘V’ sign, palm outward. ‘Right on. Peace, baby, peace. I don’t have to argue with you: but may I give you just one small piece of advice? The situation may well be marginally better here, but we’re getting it all together on a world wide scale: it has to be settled that way so’s we don’t get the ultimate conflict; the one where it isn’t West versus East, or Communism versus Capitalism, it’s the one where black versus all other colours and that would be the clincher, the big one.’
‘Joe...’
‘No, let’s not argue. You’re too pretty. Come on, I’ll show you something that’s really too much’
‘What?’ She began to move with him again.
‘Just a small thing I’m going to do in Othello. In the rehearsal hall. I got to finish my workout. Come on, I’m not all that bad.’ Already Joe Thomas was feeling the challenge which, secretly, always took pride of place over politics, everything. At the reception for the company he had set his mind on making Carol Evans, if only for a one-time ball. This might just be it.
The deserted rehearsal hall seemed oddly still, unused; Carol felt nervous and out of place, like a child trespassing on school property after hours.
‘You often come here in the evening?’ she whispered to Joe. ‘Most every night,’ he whispered back, grinning and picking up her mood. ‘I got permission from the superintendent.’
Carol realized what she had been doing and laughed aloud. What’ve you brought me here for?’
‘To have my evil way with you, kid. Just stand over there and watch while I do my party trick.’ He started towards the spiral staircase and gallery.
‘That’s part of the Othello set, isn’t it?’
‘This is part of Desdemona’s boudoir, would you believe?’
He began to climb. ‘After I knock off Desdemona I kinda climb up here, like they do in those stupid movies where the killer is cornered and makes for the roof.’
‘Yes?’
Joe Thomas was on the narrow gallery floor now.
‘Be careful, Joe,’ Carol called up to him. ‘There isn’t much room up there. It could be dangerous.’
‘That’s why I come up here every night. Doug wants me to get used to the height. I jump around a little to get confidence.’
He smiled to himself as he approached the nooses which he had personally reset on the previous evening!
‘It’s going to seem even higher on the stage. Do watch out for yourself, it reminds me of the old Astair movie, where he gets smashed and has to do the dance on the high arch.’
‘Yea,’ Joe had his feet in the nooses now, ‘and the idiot falls right off while they’re singing and dancing.’ He held his arms out wide and broke into Heat Wave—
‘They’re having a heat wave,
A tropical heat wave,
It isn’t surprising,
The temperature’s rising,
She certainly can,
Can-Can.
Then
the dumb hoofer falls off.’
For a second he pretended to lose his balance.
‘Look out Joe.’
Partial recovery, then, with a gurgle of fear and a shout, Joe Thomas pitched forward and did his death drop.
Carol screamed, not able to move, hand to mouth, eyes wide as she watched the tall body fall forward. She hardly took in what was happening as the nooses caught hold and he jerked to a hanging stop. It was at that moment that she started towards him and became aware of his laugh echoing around the empty hall.
‘What? What?’
‘Don’t fuss, baby, it’s okay. Man, it works a treat. Douglas wants to frighten the ass off the audience.’ He twisted his body, hands going for the short lengths of nylon rope straining above the nooses. He had worked out recovery from the hanging position and could now get himself back on the gallery ledge in less than ten seconds.
Carol was breathing heavily. ‘Joe, my God you scared me. What is it? Why?’
‘My death scene for Othello.’ As he unfastened and reset the nooses he explained it to her.
‘Well, Douglas Silver has no need to worry, it’s very frightening,’ Carol told him, a hand on her palpitating heart.
‘Come on up to my place, you deserve a drink after having the pants frightened off you like that.’
‘That’s the only way they’re coming off,’ she warned with a smile.
After that she did not give it a second thought, listening contentedly as Joe Thomas talked about Othello and Douglas’s production.
