by Brett, Simon
Charles interrupted him crudely. ‘Glasses. Be too sordid for both of us to drink out of the bottle.’
Alex went off for glasses and Charles put the bottle down on a coffee table. As he did so, he moved a handkerchief that was lying on it.
He uncovered a gun. The Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special.
Alex saw him looking at it as he came back with the glasses.
‘Yes, I’d just got that out when you rang the bell.’
‘Thinking of using it?’
Alex smiled a little twisted smile. ‘Had crossed my mind. Trouble was, I couldn’t decide whether to use it on myself or on the rest of the bastards.’
Charles laughed uneasily. ‘I’m sure your psychiatrist wouldn’t recommend suicide.’
‘No, he wouldn’t. He was a great believer in expressing aggression, not bottling it up. If I were to take this gun and shoot . . . who? Paul Lexington? Micky Banks? Bobby Anscombe? Doesn’t matter, there are so many of them. No, if I were to do that, my psychiatrist would reckon it proved my cure was complete.’ He suddenly found this notion very funny and burst into laughter.
Charles poured two large measures of Bell’s and handed one over. The laughter subsided, leaving Alex drained and depressed.
‘So what are you going to do, Alex?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘About the understudy job.’
‘I don’t know,’ the actor intoned lethargically. ‘It’d be work, I suppose. I could keep on the flat.’
‘And see Lesley-Jane . . .’
‘Yes.’ The name evinced no sign of interest. ‘Give me another drink.’
Charles obliged, and filled up his own at the same time.
‘Were you offered the same deal, Charles?’
‘What – the great honour of understudying my own part? Oh yes, Paul nobly offered me that.’
‘And what are you going to do about it?’
‘God knows. Ask my agent, I suppose.’
‘Hmm. Give me another drink.’
‘Maurice, it’s Charles.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t ring me at home. I try to keep work and my private life separate.’
‘I know, but this is important. And it’s the weekend.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that, Charles.’
‘Was that your wife I spoke to?’
‘Mind your own business.’
‘Listen, Maurice, about The Hooded Owl . . . I’ve got the boot.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Oh, all of a sudden you know. On Thursday you didn’t even know the show was transferring.’
‘No, I had a call yesterday afternoon from Paul . . . Leamington?’
‘Lexington.’
‘Yes. Pleasant young man he sounded.’
‘Oh, a great charmer.’
‘Anyway, he told me about the necessity of recasting. And I said, of course, I fully understood.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Now what’s that tone of voice for, Charles?’
‘Well, really! You “fully understood” that your client had got the sack. Why didn’t you stand up for me?’
‘Now come on, Charles. We both know you’re a very good actor, but you’re not a name, are you?’
‘Hardly surprising, with you for a bloody agent,’ Charles mumbled.
‘What was that, Charles? I didn’t catch it.’
‘Never mind.’
‘Well, anyway, the good news is that Mr. Leventon –’
‘Lexington.’
‘Yes, has offered most attractive terms for an understudy contract for you.’
‘Oh, terrific.’
‘No, really very generous. I mean, a hundred and fifty a week – that’s as much as I’d’ve expected you to get for actually acting.’
Blood money, thought Charles.
‘Six-month contract, too. I mean, when were you last offered a six-month contract for anything?’
‘So you reckon I should take it?’
‘Well, of course, Charles. What’s the alternative?’
‘No other lucrative jobs on the horizon?’
‘’Fraid not, Charles. As you know, it’s not a good time. All the provincial companies have sorted out their seasons, most of the big tellies are cast, there’s not much on the –’
‘Yes, all right, all right. In other words, things are exactly as usual.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you really think I should take it?’
‘Yes. I can’t think why you’re havering. It’s obvious. A very good offer.’
‘Yes, but it is understudying a part I’ve already played – and played well.’
‘So?’
‘So . . . it becomes a matter of pride.’
‘Pride? You, Charles? Oh, really.’ And Maurice Skellern let out a gasping laugh, as if the joke had really cheered up his weekend.
It was inevitable that, when rerehearsals started on the Monday, the centre of attention should be Michael Banks. His theatrical successes exceeded those of all the rest of the cast added together (and the money Paul Lexington had agreed with his agent quite possibly exceeded their total too).
His face was so familiar that he seemed to have been with the production for weeks. Few of the cast would have seen him in the revues of the late thirties where his career started, but they would all have caught up with the films he had made in the immediate post-war years. He had had a distinguished war, being wounded once and decorated twice, and had spent the next five years recreating it in a series of patriotic British movies. Michael Banks it always was who gazed grimly at the enemy submarine from the bridge, Michael Banks who went back for the wounded private in the jungle, Michael Banks who ignored the smoke pouring from his Spitfire’s engine as he trained his sights on the alien Messerschmidt.
He had then gone to Hollywood in the early fifties and stayed there long enough to show that he could cope with the system and be moderately successful, but not so long as to alienate his chauvinistic British following.
The West End then beckoned, and he appeared as a solid juvenile in a sequence of light comedies. He was good box office and managements fell over themselves to get his name on their marquees.
That continued until the early sixties, when, for the first time, his career seemed to be under threat. Fashions had changed; the new youth-oriented culture had nothing but contempt for the gritty, laconic heroism of the war, of which Michael Banks remained the symbol. The trendies of Camaby Street flounced around in military uniforms, sporting flowers of peace where medals once had hung. Acting styles changed too, as did the plays in which they were exhibited. The mannered delivery of West End comedies sounded ridiculous at the kitchen sink, and became the butt of the booming satire industry.
‘The wind of change’, that phrase coined by Harold Macmillan in 1960, grew to have a more general application than just to Africa, or just to politics. It represented a change of style, and this new wind threatened to blow away all that was dated and traditional.
Amongst other things, it threatened to blow away the career of Michael Banks.
And it might well have done. He had reached that most difficult of ages for a successful actor, his forties. The audience who had loved him as a stage juvenile were themselves growing old, and could not fail to notice the signs of ageing in their idol. The rising generation was not interested. To them Michael Banks represented that anathema – something their parents liked. If they saw him in a play, they saw a middle-aged man pretending to be young, in an outdated vehicle that bore as much relation to their reality as crinolines and penny-farthings.
He did two more West End comedies, neither of which lasted three months, and theatre managements were suddenly less anxious to pick up the phone and plead with his agent. The British film industry, such as it was, was committed to making zany films about Swinging London and, if there were any parts for the over-forties, they went to outrageous character actors.
One or two offers of tourin
g productions or guest star status in provincial reps came in, a sure sign that their managements were trying to cash in on the name of Michael Banks before it was completely forgotten.
It was the nadir of his career. He was all right financially – he had always been shrewd and he had made his money in days when the Inland Revenue had allowed people to keep some of it – but his prospects of regaining his former place in the public’s esteem seemed negligible.
The way he had fought back from that position showed that the grit demonstrated in all those celluloid heroics was not just acting. He had survived by sheer determination.
His first decision had been to take on only older parts. He refused every sort of juvenile role that was offered, resisting lucrative inducements to recreate his West End successes in the diminished settings of the provinces or seasons in South Africa and Australia.
The result of this policy change was a very quiet three years. He played one Blimpish cameo in a short-lived play in Birmingham and a couple of small parts in television plays.
It wasn’t an enjoyable period of his life, but he stuck it out, certain that he was on the right track. He deliberately courted very old parts, particularly on television. He realised the medium’s power, and realised that, through it, he could reach a different public and establish a new image with them. The West End and even cinema audiences were tiny compared to the huge passive mass of armchair viewers. He reasoned that, if he could establish a new, older identity with them, he would be able to shake off the persona of faded juvenile.
Age was not the only criterion in his choice of parts. He avoided the trendy and the experimental, aiming ideally for costume drama, aware that his strengths were those of permanence and reliability, and would be dissipated by following the twists of fashion. And he had a gut-feeling that the values of that huge but silent force, the British middle class, were the same as his own. The television-viewing public was made up of the older stay-at-homes, not the swinging exotics whose exploits filled the front pages of the newspapers. They might not dare to admit it, but they didn’t like the changes they saw around them; they enjoyed television’s recreations of more confident times, when they had had a country to be proud of, when people had reached maturity at forty and had not pandered to youth. They liked seeing the old values reasserted.
And, gradually, through the parts he chose, Michael Banks came to symbolise those values.
His three years in the wilderness climaxed with a solid part in a BBC costume drama series. It was not the lead, but the character was in every episode, and had the advantage of ageing from week to week.
The public took the character to their hearts. Once again, they took Michael Banks to their hearts. Having watched him grow old before their eyes in their own sitting-rooms, they would thereafter accept him in parts of any age.
Since that time, his career had had no more problems. He had become increasingly selective in what he did, avoiding, on the whole, long runs in the West End, and concentrating on starring television parts or extremely lucrative cameos in international films. He became an institution of British acting, respected and loved. In the business, you never heard a word against Michael Banks.
And, when the cast of The Hooded Owl met him, they could understand why. He was an immensely likeable man. He was in his sixties, but had aged gracefully. The familiar acute face had thickened out, and the hair, remembered as darker than it actually was because of all those black-and-white films, had greyed becomingly. It was cut in a trendier style, worn longer than it would have been, but its shape still reminded one of all those gruff but infinitely reliable heroes. He dressed casually in a red golfing sweater, pale blue trousers, and deceptively ordinary-looking hand-made shoes.
The surprise about him was his size. As actors, they were all used to people looking different off screen, but none of them had expected him to be so tall. He must have been six foot four, with a frame to match. A most impressive figure. The reasoning behind casting him as the father in The Hooded Owl became clearer by the minute.
Clearer to Charles, anyway. He was at the rehearsal, needless to say, having, possibly for the first time in his life, followed his agent’s advice. Through the haze of Bell’s which had been the weekend, it had become clear that he had little alternative. He was being offered a job, being offered good money, and he’d be based in London. His dreams would have to wait, be returned intact to some cupboard deep in the recesses of his mind, whence they would arise, undaunted, at the next glimmer of hope in his career.
To his surprise, the strongest argument in favour of taking the job had been that it would keep him near to Frances. Her talk of moving, and the indefinable detachment he had felt in her when they had met, worried him. He felt he needed to rebuild the relationship – not, of course, to revive it as a total marriage, but to get back to the level of intermittent companionship which seemed to have gone.
Similar arguments must have weighed with Alex Household, because he was there too. His face looked strained and petulant, but he had clearly decided to put his mortgage and proximity to Lesley-Jane above pride.
If the cast had needed a demonstration of Michael Banks’s genuine warmth, they could not have asked for a better one than the way he dealt with Alex Household.
The first thing he did on arriving at the rehearsal room was to ask Paul Lexington which one was Alex and, having had him identified, he immediately went across to the actor with hand outstretched.
‘Alex, I’m sorry. This is a lousy way for me to get a job. I know exactly how you feel. Just the same thing happened to me on one of my first jobs. It was a revue back in the thirties. We were doing a pre-London tour. I got as far as Birmingham, and then was called into the manager’s office. Just the same as you, I was offered the understudy.’
‘Did you take it?’
‘Oh yes.’ Michael Banks grinned disarmingly. ‘Oh yes, I took it. And it does mean I know exactly how shitty you’re feeling at this moment, and all the horrible fates you’re wishing down on my head.’
Alex blushed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say . . .’
‘Yes, you would. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. Anyway, all I want to say is – I’m very sorry. This can be a rotten business at times. I sympathise. And, if you’re willing, I’ll be very grateful for your help. God, you must know this character inside-out by now, and I’ve got to get it presentable in a fortnight. Any tips you can give me, old boy, I will welcome as rich gifts.’
It was beautifully done. Had it been less well done, someone as prickly and paranoid as Alex Household would have bridled, would have pointed out that to lose a part at the beginning of one’s career was rather different from losing it after twenty years in the business, would have made some bitter retort. But, as it was, Michael Banks had him eating out of his hand. Yes, of course, said Alex, no, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t hurt, but thanks for saying it, and he’d be happy to give any advice that might be required.
George Birkitt didn’t show quite the same smooth tact in his dealings with the actor he was replacing.
‘Hello, Charles. Long time, no see,’ he murmured after getting himself a coffee.
‘Hello.’
‘Rather strange circumstances for a meeting.’
‘Yes.’
‘I was very undecided when my agent told me about the offer . . .’
‘Oh.’
‘Well, it is second billing, no two ways about that. I mean, God knows, I’m the last person in the world to worry about that sort of thing, but there does come a point in your career where you have to think about it. I mean, with Fly-Buttons up there in the ratings, I do have to be a bit careful.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I tell you, Charles, it was only after I heard that they’d signed up Micky Banks that I agreed to do it. Of course, it is still second billing, but second billing to Micky Banks is no disgrace at this stage in my career.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Charles.
Peter Hickton was up from Taunton and keen to
start working his cast as hard as ever. Now that the two main parts had been recast, there really was going to be a lot to do, and the company waved goodbye to their hopes of a cushy fortnight.
The director clapped his hands. ‘O.K., loves. Now, as you all know, we’ve got a big job on, and we’re going to have to work every hour there is to get The Hooded Owl up to the standard I know it can reach.’
This was very familiar to those who had worked with Peter before; he said it before every production, regardless of how complex or simple it was, and regardless of the length of rehearsal allocated.
‘Now what I want to do is go through the blocking today, so that Micky and George can start to feel the shape of the production. Tomorrow we’ll get down to Act One in detail, and then on Wednesday we’ll –’
‘Um, sorry, old boy . . .’
Peter Hickton looked to the source of the interruption. It was Michael Banks.
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry, can’t do Wednesday.’
‘What?’
‘Can’t do Wednesday. Got to do some Pro-Celebrity Golf thing for the BBC. Didn’t the agent mention it?’
Peter Hickton looked round to Paul Lexington, who shook his head.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. The agent’s an awful duffer when it comes to dates. Got the same thing the following Wednesday too.’
‘Oh.’ But Peter Hickton was only slowed down for a moment. ‘Never mind. If we work hard over the weekend, we can –’
‘Ah. Sorry, old boy, going away for the weekend.’
‘Oh.’
‘Going to stay with some chums in Chichester. Can’t really put it off, been in the diary for ages. Sorry, this show came up so suddenly, there are a few dates we’ll have to work round.’
‘Yes’ said Peter Hickton. ‘Yes, of course.’
Under normal circumstances, understudies would be expected to attend all the rehearsals to familiarise themselves with the production, but, because Alex and Charles knew the play so well, they were given a dispensation to take most of the first week off, which would save both them and their replacements the embarrassment of the early stumbling rehearsals while the newcomers were trying to memorise the lines. The two understudies were asked to come back on the Friday afternoon, when there was going to be a complete run of the play for the producers and Malcolm Harris.
