by John Gardner
Douglas and Art were only a few feet behind Moir as he reached the usher who took the ticket politely.
‘If you would wait just one moment, Mr Moir.’
Adrian, who had briefed all the ushers, arrived, taking the ticket and asking Moir if he would be good enough to come to one of the offices.
Moir spoke out loudly, anger inflaming the simple words. ‘No, I will not come to any office. I bought this ticket in good faith because your people failed to send me my usual complimentary seats and you were never available when I telephoned. The performance starts in a little over five minutes; I am a journalist, a critic, I have to be in my seat.’
‘I’m sorry Mr. Moir,’ Adrian was quiet, well under control. ‘It isn’t your seat, it’s one of the theatre’s seats. Your money will be refunded, but, as far as tonight’s, or any other performance is concerned, we cannot allow you to enter this theatre.’
Moir spluttered: what right had they? Why? What reason could they give? And so on. People began to crowd, stop and listen.
‘We have every right, Mr. Moir.’ Adrian tried to edge the man away, still speaking quietly. ‘If you look on the back of your ticket you’ll see that we reserve the right to admit you. We’re doing just that. You’ve made yourself a nuisance locally and we can’t allow it to go on. We’re banning you from this theatre as a biased critic.’
Moir seemed stunned, coloured scarlet; Art took the lull as an opportunity and pushed Douglas hurriedly on, behind the journalist, and through the entrance.
Once in his seat, Douglas attempted to expunge the wretched man from his mind by savouring, in advance, what he was about to experience with the audience.
In his mind’s eye he saw Conrad, the tall, lean figure in costume as Richard, lank black hair, only a trace of the deformity, one shoulder held slightly higher than the other; he could hear the way in which the actor hit upon the core of evil, played the charmer, wooed, plotted with Buckingham and took each chance as it presented itself, until he carved a path to the throne, and then, once there, made a desperate, and treacherous, despotic bid against his unseating. Douglas saw the smile, the cunning in the eyes and Conrad’s mouth half open in disbelief as the old Queen Margaret, Queen Elizabeth and his aged mother, the Duchess of York, shot out their litany of disgust against him (a scene usually played with great ritualistic formality, here done with naturalism); and on to the final horrors with the dreams before Bosworth. Again, they had tried to blend realism here, with the symbolism of the haunting, by the troop of dead whom Richard had used like stepping stones to power, presented not as ghosts in the accepted sense, but as figments of the king’s conscience. The tents elaborate, Richard’s on the Prompt Side (Douglas had got a word in here about it being the only side to use, stage left, the sinister side from which in the medieval Morality Plays, the Devil made his entrance); Richmond’s opposite prompt; both tents made of scrim so that they could be lit from behind to reveal the interiors; Conrad entering his tent and slipping out of the back, being substituted by another actor so that he could be seen sleeping within and yet take a definite part in the dream of hauntings — a Freudian conception which had a chilling effect in rehearsal.
The houselights went down and Douglas felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck as Raymond Leggat’s loud, vociferous, drum roll caught the audience’s attention. The screen at the back of the set became a white hanging oblong in the darkness, then alive, fulminating with colour, not psychedelic patterns, but a mixture of smoke, fire, lightning, blood, combined with noises, diffused sounds of battle gradually dimming until a fanfare and the image of a crown, held for a brief moment on the screen before it finally dimmed and the stage became fully lit, the screen now replaced by an archway, the dirty white box of walls, empty, with the sounds of revelry coming from a long way off, swelling from time to time as though a door was suddenly opened and closed.
Conrad Catchier, as Richard, lay, half sprawled against one of the walls, almost in the angle on prompt side. Douglas waited for the movement and the first, almost whispered, words, so effective in rehearsal. They came—
Wow is the winter of our discontent .
But something lacked; Conrad was three quarters of the way through the brooding opening soliloquy before Douglas realized that the man was not pushing the character with his usual power; it was as though a beautifully precisioned machine had suddenly begun to run unevenly. They played the scene with Clarence on his way to the Tower, and then the wooing of Lady Anne (Jennifer well into the role) and there was still no fire, no glimmer, Conrad reaching for the words like some schoolboy giving a reasonable reading of the part. The others were all working fiat out, excelling themselves, as if to drive Conrad into the pitch he had so ably created among them, but nothing worked, the realism went for little and Richard became a vocally weak puppet who appeared to be manoeuvred by those around him.
Douglas could hardly believe it, watching moment after moment, so strong in rehearsal, go for absolutely nothing. The naturalism of the political confidence trick at Baynard’s Castle, just before the interval break, dwindled to a matter of words spoken within a well set picture—
Long live King Richard, England’s worthy king!’
‘Amen.’
‘To-morrow, may it please you to be crown’ d?’
‘Even when you please, since you will have it so.’
‘To-morrow, then, we will attend your Grace:
And so, most joyfully, we take our leave.’
‘Come let us to our holy work again—
‘Farewell, good cousin; farewell, gentle friends.’
What had been a peak was a trough. The house-lights came up and the buzz of conversation in the auditorium had about it a disappointed note. Douglas rushed backstage; Jennifer was standing by the pass door waiting for him, Ronnie Gregor hovered in the background.
‘He’s ill, Doug, I’m sure he’s ill.’ Her face a map of anxiety.
‘Ronnie?’ Douglas’s voice squeaky.
‘He won’t let anyone near him. Touchy as a bear.’
‘He’ll let me near.’ And Douglas was off down the passage.
Wilson, who also acted as dresser for Conrad, was outside the dressing-room door.
‘I think we should get a doctor, Mr. Silver.’
‘Let me in.’
The elderly man nodded and opened the door for the director.
Conrad was slumped in his chair and spoke before Douglas had a chance to open his mouth.
‘I’m sorry Douglas. My pace has gone to pot and I don’t seem to be able to push it. The second half will be all right, I’m getting my wind now.’
Douglas had no option but to go along with the actor. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? You don’t feel ill or anything?’
‘I feel fine, a bit tired, perhaps. It’ll go. We’ll get shocking reviews but I’ll pull it together. Just bear with me.’
Outside again, Douglas was confronted by Ronnie and Art. ‘Tell everybody to help him, use any tricks they know, upstage him, cut in on him, just get him through it.’
He returned to his seat, mind in confusion, stomach boiling.
In retrospect, Douglas only had a jumbled memory of that second half: Conrad visibly slowing down, missing lines and bits of business, the other performances so exact they could not help but throw his shoddy work into relief.
Felicity Durrant’s Duchess of York, strident age shrieking her assault upon the tyrant.
Liz Column, doing Queen Margaret as a burning husk of a woman, making her long speeches of defilement linger home like slow exquisite torture.
These were the only moments in an otherwise theatrically grim evening. Bosworth Field and the tents of Richard and Richmond: Conrad having difficulty in finding his way out of the back of the tent so that the substitute Richard had trouble getting in and Conrad missed his cue. The final battle between the unhorsed, broken Richard and young Richmond, played knee-deep in swirling mist, but so slowly that it had all the feeling of
an action replay on television.
To Conrad it was unbelievable hell. In the interval he had been dishonest with Douglas, having felt unwell all day and worse only ten minutes into the play. Now it was like a terrible nightmare where all his reflexes seemed to slow up; he knew it and could do nothing to stop it, and there were moments when he felt like a man standing outside himself, watching disaster.
At the end, he lay, slain by Richmond, but panting, clawing for breath (steel bands around his chest) until the stage lights went down and he heaved himself up, lumbering unsteadily off, stumbling over invisible furniture, not waiting for any calls, desperate for the safety of his dressing-room.
Edward Crispin and Jennifer Frost at his elbow speaking, yet no words reaching his ears, only a rushing and the thump of something within him. It was hot and even the air around him seemed to constrict, like an odious gas.
Wilson took his arm and between them they carried him into the dressing room, putting him gently on the couch.
‘For God’s sake get a doctor.’ Jennifer distraught after the manner of people who feel utterly useless, without the knowledge or qualifications to help someone in acute distress.
‘Ronnie’s already gone to find one.’
Douglas was in the doorway, above the murmurs Conrad’s breathing was loud and laboured, his face the colour of thin parchment. The director reached the edge of the couch as the actor suddenly seemed to lift his head, as though straining upwards for more air. Then a long outsweep of breath and he fell backwards, a small white foam around the lips, no movement.
Jennifer grabbed at a handkerchief, wiped the lips and tried to push her fingers into Catellier’s mouth to get at his tongue and start administering the kiss of life (she had seen it done on television) but could not get past the clenched teeth. Then Ronnie arrived with the doctor. Everyone was swept from the room, leaving Douglas, Jennifer and Ronnie watching as the doctor, a small, benevolent man Ronnie had found among the crowd leaving the theatre.
The macabre scene remained frozen until the doctor turned from kneeling by the couch.
‘I’m sorry.’ He had a west country burr to his accent. ‘I’m very sorry, but Mr. Catellier is dead. There’s nothing more anyone can do for him.’
They had known it, but this official confirmation seemed to leave them in immobile shock; the moment suspended for Douglas whose mind became a bowl of empty questions, his arm around Jennifer’s shaking shoulders; Ronnie, white, staring at the thing, still in Richard’s armour, which had been Conrad Catellier. The door opened and David Wills appeared with Art.
‘How?’ Douglas heard himself addressing the doctor.
‘A coronary I should imagine. There’ll have to be an inquest and a post mortem of course. I’m not a local man, there’s not much...I’ll wait for your own doctor to get here, it would be best...’
‘Of course, of course.’ The thousand queries floating, jumbled, in the director’s head.
Then Ronnie asking, ‘What do we do?’ A real cry for help.
What indeed? Douglas began to fumble, then took hold, as though he quite suddenly comprehended the true crisis.
‘David.’ It was a command and David Wills took a step forward. want you to deal with things here. Get hold of our doctor. Have the body removed. Notify the authorities. If you don’t know what to do I suggest you grab Archie Swimmer. I should imagine he’s had experience.’ Douglas knew that he was subjecting David to the most dismal job, but the executive director had already been through his baptism at Doris Benneto’s death. Douglas turned to Art and Ronnie. ‘Art, get hold of Asher Grey and take him to his dressing-room. By the time you’re there I should have arrived, but don’t leave him alone, and don’t tell him anything. Ronnie, I don’t care where they are, or what they’re doing, I want the company, all of them, and the stage staff, on stage in fifteen minutes. Everyone.’
He thanked the doctor, leaving him with David, and helped Jennifer into the corridor; by the time they got out of the room the assistant stage manager’s voice was coming through, clear on the loudspeaker system. ‘All members of the company and stage staff on stage in fifteen minutes.’ Repeated like some order within a crippled warship.
‘You all right?’ Douglas asked Jennifer.
‘I’ll be okay. It’s just...’ She dissolved into the mist of natural tears once more.
Douglas took her down, found Liz Column and Rachel Cohen and left her in their care. He then went straight to Asher Grey’s dressing-room.
The young actor looked nervous, sitting on the edge of his chair talking to Art. Douglas nodded, giving Art the signal to leave them alone, then he went over to the couch, sat down and lit a cigarette.
‘Is it true?’ asked Asher with the natural hint of anxiety, his face solemn.
‘About Conrad?’ equally grave.
The young actor nodded.
‘Yes, Ash. I’m sorry but Conrad is dead. They think it was a coronary.’ He took a long pull at the cigarette. ‘I’ll be perfectly honest with you; I don’t know what to do. The only thing I could think of was to get you down here and talk before we consult the company.’
‘I know what Conrad would have wanted.’
Douglas took a deep breath. ‘Oh yes, Ash, we know what Conrad would want. The show must go on and all that stuff. It’s emotional thinking, mate, but we have to be realistic, practical. Is it feasible for the show to go on? Do you realize what you’d be letting yourself in for?’
‘I think so.’
‘Asher, you’re already playing Cassio and Lorenzo. During the next three days you’ve got to get through a technical dress rehearsal, a stopping dress and a full dress of Romeo, not to mention a first night, and it’s a bloody long play. Now this terrible thing, tragedy, has happened and you’re also faced with a performance of Richard, which you’ve never played, never rehearsed, tomorrow afternoon...
‘I know Conrad’s Richard inside out, backwards, forwards, standing on my head.’ He said it with all the arrogance of his art.
‘But can you do it all? Physically it’ll...’
Asher was on his feet. ‘I’m a repertory actor, Douglas. Yes, I’ll cope, more than cope. I’ll be bloody tired by Sunday, but...’
‘And what about after Sunday? What about all the nights until the end of the season?’
‘What about all the nights before you invited me here, Douglas? It’s what I’ve been doing for Christ’s sake; a bit more complex perhaps, but I’m a repertory actor. Conrad was a very great actor. The public have the right to see his Richard; I can’t give them mine, but I’m probably the only person who can reveal Conrad’s Richard to them. Come on Douglas; I can do it, and Romeo, and Lorenzo, and Cassio. What’s your alternative? Close the festival for a week’s mourning?’
Douglas thought for a moment, pondering the actor’s ambition and confidence in terms of endurance, the whole shape and scope of the season, even his own personal situation. ‘All right,’ he finally said. ‘We’ll reschedule the rehearsals so that you can get one run-through tomorrow morning for Richard. Okay?’
‘It’s more than I need.’
‘Let’s hope you can stay that positive.’
They went up on stage where the company sat in a large semi-circle, silent, a strangely subdued, almost reverent awe gripping them with fact that one of their number, an important actor in any context, had been removed so swiftly from them.
Douglas spoke for the best part of twenty minutes: first of the shock and pain that had come so quickly and finally; then of Catellier, the man as he had come to know him; the professionalism and attack; the painstaking painting of character; his final immersion in Richard; their last real conversation when Conrad had told him that playing Richard was just what he had needed at this point in his career. He then went on to talk of things practical, rearranging a run-through of Richard for the following morning at nine, with Asher Grey playing the lead; a technical dress rehearsal of Romeo after Richard came down on Wednesday night; the stoppin
g dress on Thursday morning, starting at ten-thirty, and the dress on Friday morning at ten, with the first performance on Friday night. He did not need to suggest that they all got to bed as soon as possible.
Adrian was waiting on stage when he finished, and Jennifer came up still looking shaky and white.
‘I’ll have to ask you to come into the office now,’ said Adrian. ‘There are at least three national newspapers waiting to speak with you, and I have to arrange for you to tape a couple of television tributes.’
Douglas nodded, beckoning to Ronnie and Frank who had just appeared. ‘Jen,’ he turned to his wife. ‘I’m going to ask Ronnie to take you home. I’ll be up as soon as possible, but I want you to get to bed. Frank, I want you with me now.’
The group broke up, Jennifer clinging to her husband for a second before they parted, as though willing a small part of courage into him. He alone had to face the reporters, the cameras and the obituary writers.
‘What’s happening about the press? The critics I mean.’ Douglas asked Adrian as they left the theatre and headed through the darkness for the house.
‘Once they know Asher’s doing it they’ll be knocking on the doors to get in. I’ll have to get at Graham Harper and see what he’s got left available for tomorrow night. I’ll give the Sundays priority, but that’s going to be my headache, you mustn’t worry about it. You think Asher can do Richard?’
‘Convinced, so don’t throw any doubts my way. How did you end up with friend Moir?’
‘There’s going to be bad sweat there, but leave that to me as well. Jesus, he got hysterical in the office, calling down William and all his ancestors on you and the company, not to mention the wrath of the Shireston Festival Society and the late earl. Out to get you I should imagine.’
