Every Night's a Bullfight

by John Gardner

  They buried Doris Benneto on April the first, Thursday afternoon, a chilly day with rain in the offing. Douglas, Jennifer, David, Mrs. Doul and most of the catering staff, a dozen or so members of the company. A depressing ceremony after which they were thrust into the final days before the first night of the season which was to open on the Tuesday with Othello.

  The technical dress rehearsal was a shambles: the changes all taking too long and the tape not matching in with the lighting plot, or the actors, on four separate occasions.

  The stopping dress rehearsal was no better. Douglas, leaping around the auditorium, discovered for the first time that Joe Thomas had developed the bad habit of dropping his voice whenever he had to turn away from the audience, therefore becoming inaudible. It meant a lot of extra work. They began the stopping dress at nine o’clock on the Saturday evening and it was still in progress at three on the Sunday morning. When they finally broke, Douglas told the company that they were free until the photo call at seven-thirty on Sunday evening. The full dress rehearsal would go up at three on Monday afternoon. Final notes afterwards, and a technical run-through, without actors, on Tuesday morning at ten.

  At the same time they were working on The Merchant which was due to go in on the Friday night; the technical dress, stopping dress and full dress being scheduled for Wednesday night, after Othello had come down, Thursday afternoon and Friday morning. It was going to be a non-stop and very tightly run week.

  On Sunday evening, just after eight, Douglas went over to the theatre to make sure all was well with the photo call. It would be a long evening as they were doing shots from both opening productions. The press were given one hour with three different set-ups, and time for individual work with the principals as they were available; after that the leads had to be ready for Michael Lees who was coming in to do the portraits for the postcards. There would follow a good two hours for Adrian’s other photographer commissioned to do the stills for programmes and blow-ups for the exhibition.

  Adrian was somewhere on stage with the herd of press photographers pushing, standing, kneeling around Joe, Jennifer and Edward Crispin in costume. Art Drays was also up there helping things to move as smoothly and quickly as possible (they had half the stage staff in for photo calls). At the back of the auditorium David Wills stood with Ronnie Gregor. Douglas went quietly up to them.

  ‘I trust my assistants are around.’

  Ronnie looked up. ‘Frank and Robin?’

  The director nodded.

  ‘They’re here, clucking about like little mother hens back there somewhere.’ Ronnie inclined his head towards the stage.

  ‘Everything else under control?’

  ‘As far as it can be. David and I’ve been over at the exhibition all afternoon. Tony’s still there with as many spare hands as he can muster, and Adrian’s joining him as soon as we’ve finished with this lot.’

  ‘Christ,’ Douglas looked weary. ‘I haven’t been near yet. How goes it, David?’

  ‘I think it’s going to be fine. You want to look over it now or do you want to wait until we’re fully operational?’

  ‘Let’s have a look see’

  The marquee was larger than Douglas imagined. He had, of course, been aware of its erection and had read the regular reports from all concerned with the progress of the exhibition. Yet, now, he was suddenly most impressed by the whole project as they passed through the relatively narrow entrance into the first section, the one dealing with the history of Shireston itself. In the centre of the area stood a full size replica of the cracked bell from Shireston Parish Church. At the far end, flanking the small corridor which led on to the next section, were two tall cut-out trees, faded and wilting slightly, the remains of some pre-World War Two production. The other exhibits were set, with some elegance, around the walls which had been built, in front of the canvas, to resemble the red brickwork of Shireston House, with ledges and panels, slanting desk tops and glass cases inserted for each item. There was a painting of the house made soon after it was built; family portraits of the Longwells and, below a fading print of Richard Longwell, fifth earl of Shireston, the famous will, which had set the festival in motion; the original designs of the theatre; photographs, maps, programmes, costumes, prompt books and drawings galore.

  ‘It’ll be really impressive when we have the tapes going.’ David looked anxious.

  ‘I think it’s impressive enough already. I saw the draft for all the tapes, but I only had time for a quick look.’

  ‘They’ve come out well.’

  They moved on into the small second area which dealt with historic performances and productions of the four plays of the current season. Again, many photographs, programmes and a lot of memorabilia: Douglas noted a big photograph of Johnston Forbes-Robertson as Othello and another of Paul Robeson which almost evoked the power of that big man’s beautiful voice; there was the famous Dali painting of Sir Laurence Olivier as Richard III, showing the great actor in character, full face and three-quarter profile (originally commissioned by Sir Alexander Korda, the painting had been loaned by Sir Laurence). There were also two huge blow-ups of famous Romeo and Juliet productions: John Gielgud and Peggy Ashcroft at the New Theatre in 1935, and the mind-clasping Zeffirelli at the Old Vic in 1960, John Stride and Judi Dench looking out with a devoted fervour. Above a false archway leading into the third section was a large reproduction of Emlyn Williams as Shylock at Stratford in 1956, a portrait by Angus McBean, shot from low down on the right profile on to a wispy-bearded, slit-eyed, hook-nosed make-up, the face betraying the craft and cunning of ages.

  The third section was chaos, Tony Holt working like a maniac to create a picture of the current season’s productions; spaces everywhere waiting to be filled by items either not yet available or completed.

  ‘Please move on, Douglas,’ pleaded Tony pointing on to the last, and largest, part of the exhibition. ‘We’ve finished in there and quite proud of it. But give the credit to David, all the ideas are his, I only got the stuff together.’

  On coming through the opening into the fourth section, one was immediately confronted by a massive imitation wrought iron frame archway which bade the visitor welcome to THE LIFE AND TIMES OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Douglas’s eye took in what seemed to be millions of exhibits, including a full size centre-piece reproduction of the Stratford-upon-Avon Gower Memorial: Shakespeare himself seated above Puck, Falstaff, Lady Macbeth and Prince Hal. The upper sections of the long walls to left and right were covered by giant copies of the Norden maps of London and Westminster of Shakespeare’s day, while the far wall was dominated by a seven foot high copy of the Droeshot engraving (Douglas remembered Tony saying, ‘Even if it is a fake it’ll look bloody good.’). Below the maps and engraving, the exhibits were set into an authentic looking wooden panelling.

  Moving on to the exhibits, Douglas found that David and Tony had pursued the life of Shakespeare using the simple, masterly technique of taking the many extant documents concerning the Bard, reproducing them and using each as the key to some setting, model or visual symbol.

  So, the extract from the Stratford Parish Register, 26th April, 1564, Guliemus filius Johannes Shakspere was illustrated by a wooden cot in the foreground and a long perspective view reaching towards a golden sunburst, with objects suspended, floating, as the view receded: a quill, a knife, parchment, the masks of comedy and tragedy.

  The bond exempting the Bishop of Worcester from liability if the marriage of William Shagspere on thone partie, and Anne Hathwey of Stratford in the Dioces of Worcester maiden should be unlawful, was simply surmounted by a deep velvet cushion upon which lay a pair of broken gold rings. The christening of Susanna; the christening of Hamnet and Judith; on 26th and 27th December, 1594, the fact that Willm Kempe, Willm Shakespeare, & Richard Burbage seruantes to the Lord Chamberleyne received payment for Court performances (a model of arches surrounding a simple platform, in the background a cyclorama, beautifully decorated, giving the impression of a rich
court with the queen in their midst).

  The death of Hamnet (a child’s coat, roughly thrown across a stool). Then, slotted in between the documents, there were simple illustrations of the plays, some three-dimensional, others done with line drawings, the Histories, Titus and The Tempest done in large abstract oils; for Othello a photograph of two swans, one black and one white; Hamlet, a sprig of rosemary and a rapier; Coriolanus, a laurel wreath sprayed gold and torn apart at one side; The Dream, a purple pansy entwined by a snake.

  In 1602 Williemus ‘Shakespeare generosus secures a warranty for New Place (a colour photograph of the New Place Gardens as they are today). The marriage of Susanna Shaxpere to John Hall; the Globe burned down during a performance of Henry VIII in June 1613 ; and on until, finally, the death, burial and will (Yorick’s skull against unremitting black).

  Yet still the exhibits continued, a glorious montage of present day Shakespeare festivals ranging from Stratford-upon-Avon to Shireston, to the Canadian Stratford, Ontario and Stratford, Connecticut, the American Shakespeare Festival in Balboa Park with its recreated Globe Theatre (roofed in, not for protection from rain, but to provide air conditioning within); the annual Shakespearian performances in Regent’s Park and Central Park.

  Douglas emerged with a sense of wonder. ‘That’s magic, David. What it’ll be like with the tapes running I daren’t think.’

  ‘It’s not bad is it?’ David preened himself.

  ‘I’ll come back on Tuesday when you’re open properly.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was raining on Tuesday. Jennifer knew it as soon as she opened her eyes, and in the same second remembered what the day was and wanted no part of it. Then, as consciousness wakened fully, the sense of fear turned to an excited tingle coupled with a healthy respect for the unknown which the night would bring.

  She could smell coffee, and, as she lifted her head, saw the small parcel, silver gift-wrapped, on the bedside table. She gingerly put out her hand (noises from the kitchen) and picked up the package. It was impossible to open the wrapping without rending or tearing: inside, a small box, and, on soft cotton wool within, a gold medallion, about one inch in diameter, hung on a gold chain, around the edge the repeated words Desdemona Othello Desdemona, and at the bottom Shireston 1971, in the centre two hands engraved, clasped together, one heavily shaded, the other clear.

  Douglas opened the door fully and appeared carrying a breakfast tray.

  ‘It’s super, Doug. Oh, thank you, thank you.’

  ‘A present for a good Desdemona.’

  ‘Don’t say that, not until it’s all over.’

  ‘When it’s all over it’s just beginning, girl.’

  She fumbled in the bedside table drawer. ‘Desdemona didn’t forget her director either.’ She held out the little box. ‘It isn’t wrapped because I was really saving it until tonight, but, as you’ve jumped the gun and given me mine...’

  It was a gold signet ring, square, chunky, modern, engraved with the cracked bell of Shireston. Douglas had given her the tray before taking the box, now it got in their way.

  ***

  The technical run-through ironed out some of the hitches: now there was no more Douglas could do, except be on hand, wish each actor and actress well, and pray within.

  He came out of the theatre just before one o’clock (still a thin drizzle, he remembered that it had rained on the dramatic first day of rehearsals); he started to cross the lawn at a lope, when a shout from the theatre made him turn; David Wills was coming towards him, almost running.

  ‘I just missed you at the theatre, Douglas, we’ve got a problem.’ Breathless, his face lined with worry.

  Douglas quickly reflected that David’s jobs that morning were concerned with the exhibition, the box office and checking the company.

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘Joe Thomas is missing.’

  ‘Missing?’

  ‘Nobody’s set eyes on him since last night. His bed hasn’t been slept in, and there’s no trace of him anywhere on the festival property.’

  For a second, Douglas knew what it felt like to have your blood freeze. ‘You questioned everybody?’ he heard himself asking.

  ‘Most people. Lonnie Barnes saw him going up to his room at around ten last night; Edward Crispin wanted a word with him and tried to call him at quarter to eleven but got no reply.’

  ‘He was okay when we finished the Dress.’ The dress rehearsal on the previous evening had not been brilliant, but they had got through within the timing: Douglas had not expected it to be anyway near perfect and had been pleased enough to feel the underlying potential of a performance in front of an audience. Now, he searched his mind in an attempt to pinpoint any moment, word, action which might have thrown the hair-trigger mechanism within Thomas. He did not want to bother Jennifer, who was spending the day resting at the flat, so they walked over to the office in silence. Frank Ewes, already alerted, was there, looking anxious. He had been with David earlier when they discovered that Thomas was missing. Now the three of them gathered in Douglas’s office like a group of edgy conspirators.

  ‘I suppose we call in the police.’ David sounded glum.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be any alternative,’ Douglas pacing the floor, a caged leopard, ‘but I don’t like it. There must be some rational explanation.’

  Deborah buzzed through to ask if Douglas would see Edward Crispin.

  ‘I came over to see if there was anything I could help with. At least it would give me something to do. Getting through the day of a first night is bad enough, but this...’ The actor lifted his hands in a gesture of concern.

  ‘What about our switchboard?’ asked Frank.

  ‘What about it?’ Douglas aggressive in his anxiety.

  ‘Do we keep any note of local calls?’ Frank clutching at straws.

  ‘There’s a note of course.’ David quick with the answer. ‘Antiquated bloody system, but you know how it works. If you’re calling from your room you have to go through the operator. That’s a good idea, Frank, nip off and check on any outside calls made from Joe’s room last night.’ Looking up at Douglas, ‘Okay?’

  Douglas nodded.

  Frank left the room bustling, shrouded in an air of self-importance.

  While they were waiting, Douglas put a call through to Robert Hughes, the solicitor. ‘I’m speaking on an unofficial and friendly basis, because I think you might be able to help: in the last resort. Joe Thomas has gone missing.’

  ‘Christ, on his first night.’

  ‘Quite. We’ve only really just discovered it, and I don’t want to call the police until we’ve done a thorough check out here.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. That man’s caused you a lot of concern one way and another.’

  ‘It’ll be worth it if tonight goes well. Actors can be strange at this time in a production; I don’t want a lot of noise and publicity if there’s no need. How are you with the local coppers?’

  ‘I have an ear with the chief superintendent.’

  ‘Enough to start something on a quiet basis?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Can I call you back if it’s necessary?’

  ‘Of course. If it looks really difficult I’ll do all I can.’

  Douglas thanked him and cradled the telephone. Frank returned some twenty minutes later; Douglas, David and Edward Crispin having sat almost in silence, knowing that as the minutes ticked past, their inactivity brought them closer to the edge of panic.

  Douglas’s mind was sprawled full of disaster. If something had happened to Thomas, or if he had chickened out at the last minute, then...No, he just would not do such a thing and the director could not contemplate it.

  Frank brought back the start of an answer.

  ‘Joe made two outside calls between ten and ten-fifteen last night.’

  ‘Do we know who he called?’

  ‘They’re checking the numbers now, they’ll come on to you, Douglas.’

/>   Five more minutes before the telephone rang. Douglas listened quietly as the impersonal voice of the girl on the switchboard gave him the details. When he replaced the receiver some of the strain had gone out of his face.

  ‘Joe called the Blue Boar Hotel in Shireston just after ten last night. He then got on to a local taxi firm.’

  ‘Getting away from it all?’ suggested Crispin.

  ‘More than likely. David, you’d better come down to the Boar with me. Edward, thanks for your help, but please go and rest now, you’ve got a bitch of a night ahead.’

  At first, the manager of the Blue Boar was reluctant to say anything. A small grey man, who knew as well as anybody that his hotel was fourth rate, a man who fought a losing battle against staff shortages, rising prices, inefficiency, slovenly work, he had no wish to antagonize the Shireston Festival in general and neither Joe Thomas nor Douglas Silver in person.

  ‘Look,’ Douglas eventually rounded on him. ‘I’m running a professional theatre company. I have reason to believe that you’ve got one of my leading actors here, holed up. He’s probably told you that he must not be disturbed under any circumstances. Well, I’m not going to disturb him. All I have to know is whether he intends coming back to the festival and appearing on stage tonight.’

  The manager looked distraught, then finally capitulated. ‘Mr. Thomas rang us last night,’ he said quietly. ‘He asked if we had a single room and booked in at about ten-thirty. He’s left instructions that nobody is to be told he’s here; a meal is ordered for half past four this afternoon and he is checking out around half past five.’ He relaxed like a man who has got a great load off his mind.

  ‘You did right to tell me.’ Douglas said. ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Only the night porter. Mr. Thomas booked in under the name of Smith.’

  ‘Not too imaginative these actors. Will the night porter...?’

  ‘Keep quiet? No doubt at all, sir. Mr. Thomas is, what they call in the trade, a heavy tipper.’

  Douglas nodded. ‘All I ask is that he gets back to the festival and into the theatre in good time.’ An added worry struck him. ‘He’s checking out at five-thirty. Do you know what arrangements he’s made?’