Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  On examination, Alex’s charisma might have been a mixture of all these things. But it wasn’t. It was something far more simple. The reason Alex Rainford was so fascinating was because others were so fascinating to him. And the intensity of Alex’s fascination reflected itself accordingly: the more fascinating he found others, the more attractive he became to them.

  All in all, Alex had a lot going for him, so it wasn’t surprising that he was one of the five per cent of auditionees accepted into NADA for 1970.

  His examiner, Jonathan Thomas, wasn’t altogether sure of the boy’s talent but his sex appeal was undeniable and that was a useful commodity in the profession, particularly in film, and the Australian film industry was on the move. If his talent proved insufficient and Alex wasn’t coming up to scratch towards the end of first year, Jonathan decided, then the boy could always be one of the thirty to forty per cent of students who didn’t make it to second year.

  Jonathan Thomas always hated the seedings that took place during first year but he knew it was a necessary process. So many young people wanted to be actors and it would be unfair to release all of them into an already overcrowded industry. A few too many got by as it was, in Jonathan’s opinion, and it was heartbreaking. There they were, proudly waving their diplomas, deluded in the belief they had a talent and a tenacity that the profession was going to recognise. Jonathan would have preferred to be more ruthless—it was kinder in the long run—but some of his colleagues didn’t agree with him. Some of his colleagues were more concerned with the need to push the correct ratio of ‘full fee’ students through to second year in order to augment government funding and compensate for the allowances made for scholarship students.

  Alex was a scholarship student. Although Jonathan thought his talent borderline, the means test proved Alex fully qualified. The boy came from a deprived background. He’d left home at seventeen, having gained excellent marks in his exams, and had lived alone and supported himself for the following two years. He was currently working two jobs, stacking supermarket shelves on Saturday mornings and operating a petrol pump two nights a week, in order to put himself through the first term of drama school. The NADA directors were all in agreement: that sort of commitment deserved full encouragement.

  ‘Well done! Good lad!’ Harold Beauchamp’s fruity baritone was warm and genuine as he engulfed Alex’s hand in his two huge paws and pumped effusively. ‘A full scholarship too, by God, not one of those puny little half-measure things. Well done!’

  Harold was an actor and lived up to the image he felt an actor should have. He was larger than life. Well, he believed he was and he certainly appeared to be. He was a big man physically, fat, but not obscenely so, and his build suited him. He dressed flamboyantly, his gestures were grandiose and his manner of speech highly theatrical.

  Naturally Harold came in for his share of criticism, mostly from fringe theatre devotees who were equally pretentious in their own way and from failed actors who were jealous of his success. The fact was that Harold was a good actor and a successful one. His appearance as well as his talent made him extremely useful and for years he’d had the pick of the leading roles for character actors: Big Daddy, Sheridan Whiteside, Cardinal Wolsey, the lot.

  Now in his mid-sixties, Harold could easily have passed for fifty-five, but no one believed him when he said he was, because they all knew how long he’d been around.

  When Alex first met him two years before, Harold had been playing Captain Shotover in Heartbreak House. Alex, who had never been to the legitimate theatre, was overawed. His girlfriend’s parents had given her their subscription tickets because they didn’t like George Bernard Shaw’s plays and Alex had let himself be dragged along purely so that he could have Lenice’s body on the mouldy carpet of his Darlinghurst bedsit afterwards. They always made love on the floor—Lenice liked it that way.

  But they didn’t go back to his bedsit that night. In fact they didn’t go anywhere together that night. Alex insisted Lenice take him backstage and introduce him to Harold Beauchamp. Lenice was a twenty-four year old socialite and any connections she didn’t have Mummy and Daddy certainly did, so it was an easy introduction for her to effect.

  An hour and a half later she wished she hadn’t. She sat totally ignored, as Alex became immersed in Harold’s theatricality and Harold became a victim of Alex’s fascination.

  She was shocked. Tears welled up in her eyes. Then she scolded herself. She was above this sort of treatment—what on earth had she been doing with a nineteen year old boy from the gutter anyway? If Lenice had known that Alex was only seventeen she wouldn’t have minded at all. To the contrary, she would have been delighted: she liked rough trade and she liked it young.

  Lenice was shocked because this wretched old ham was obviously a queen and did that mean that Alex was possibly bisexual and if he was, how dare he make love to her! What the hell, she thought, and walked out of the dressing room with great dignity, closing the door only a little too firmly behind her.

  Neither Alex nor Harold heard the door and it was half an hour later before Harold gestured to the empty chair.

  ‘Your woman,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Alex looked around.

  ‘She’s gone,’ Harold announced.

  ‘Oh.’ Alex was momentarily disconcerted. He supposed it was because he’d been talking too exclusively to Harold, but she could have interrupted, surely. ‘Oh, well.’ He stood up. ‘That means I’ll have to walk home. I’d better be off.’

  But Harold had a better idea. ‘Coffee and cognac at my place,’ he said. ‘And we can talk into the wee hours.’

  They hailed a cab—‘I don’t drive,’ Harold explained, ‘never have’—and arrived at his Double Bay apartment at one-thirty in the morning.

  At five o’clock it was Harold who finally called it a night. ‘“And so to bed”, dear boy, “and so to bed”.’

  Alex hadn’t understood any of Harold’s weird turns of phrase but he loved the theatricality of the man.

  ‘You’re here,’ Harold said as he threw open the door to the spare room. ‘Don’t wake me before midday.’ And he went to bed.

  It crossed Alex’s mind that Harold was a singularly trusting man. Even to a seventeen-year-old it was evident that there was money strewn all about the elegant Double Bay apartment. Harold’s taste in objets d’art was impeccable.

  Alex helped himself to one final tiny slug of Bisquit cognac, quietly opened the balcony door and stepped outside to admire the view. The first glimmers of dawn flecked the sky and Sydney Harbour was still and unspoiled, yet to be churned over by the water traffic that would shortly start its daily grind. Nestling comfortably in the marina below were millions of dollars’ worth of luxury boats. Alex wondered if Harold had a boat. Probably not, he decided, he wasn’t really the type.

  What a life, Alex thought. An apartment like this, a view like this, nightly acclaim from appreciative audiences, respect, fame and fortune. Then and there Alex decided he’d become an actor. He drained the Bisquit and went to bed.

  By the time Harold had dragged himself out of bed shortly after midday, Alex had been out for the morning papers, washed up the glasses and coffee cups from the previous night, brewed a fresh jug of espresso and was waiting to pick up the conversation where they’d left off. Despite a rather seedy hangover, Harold was touched and flattered.

  From that moment on a bizarre but comfortable friendship developed.

  Alex maintained his Darlo bedsit, despite Harold’s offers to move in to the Double Bay apartment. As most of their evenings were spent together, though, he more often than not stayed at Harold’s. And their evenings together were invariably spent at the theatre. Alex watched Harold from the wings or, if Harold was not performing, they went to one of the other productions around town.

  Harold was flattered that his example had inspired Alex to a life on the stage and he proceeded to teach the boy all he knew. After several lessons he came to the regretful conclusion that t
he spark of instinctive talent wasn’t in Alex. Not that it mattered particularly, Harold thought. Many actors achieved great success without a shred of talent, let alone the divine spark. But he would have wished his protege to be that one in a million. What the hell, with Alex’s looks and charisma the world of film could be his oyster. It would be a safer bet than the stage and wasn’t such hard work, anyway.

  He suggested as much to Alex one evening over an after-theatre supper. ‘Treading the boards can be such a wearisome business. Six nights and two matinees a week; week in, week out. I think perhaps, my dear Alexei Alexeivitch, we should look to the world of film for your future.’

  But Alex was adamant. He wanted to act in the theatre. He wanted to be a part of that world. It fascinated him.

  But he wanted to go about it the right way. He didn’t want any favours, he didn’t want Harold pulling a few strings to get him a bit part or an understudy job. Alex knew only too well where that would land him. He could hear them now: ‘The kid only got the job because he’s fucking old Harold Beauchamp’.

  Already many actors thought he was Harold’s ‘boy’. It didn’t seem to offend Harold. ‘Oh, let them talk,’ he said dismissively. ‘We have set the catamite among the pigeons.’ He laughed, delighted with himself. ‘It bothers me not one whit.’

  Alex decided it wasn’t going to bother him either. In fact he considered it the least he could offer. Although Harold swore to his friends their relationship was platonic, Alex knew the actor was secretly flattered when nobody believed him, and flattery was a fair exchange for Harold’s patronage. But gossip would turn to jealousy if Alex were to allow Harold to pull special strings for him and jealousy could seriously jeopardise his career.

  He was, therefore, grateful when Harold stopped trying to grant favours and sat him down and mapped out a strategy for him.

  ‘NADA, dear boy, NADA to start with, and a scholarship at that.’

  ‘Really?’ Alex was surprised. He’d been expecting a rundown on which agent to tackle first, which casting director to crack a meeting with, which audition to try and crash. NADA hadn’t occurred to him. ‘You think I need drama school?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes, my dear Alexei. Not necessarily for the tuition, of course, but it’s the old school tie.’ Harold puffed on his cigar and leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You want to make it the legitimate way in the legitimate theatre? Well, I tell you, dear boy, the legitimate theatre is going to become more and more elitist, mark my words. These trendy little graduates are already in positions of power, particularly in subsidised theatre, and it’s a case of jobs for the boys, including the new boys, so long as they wear the old school tie.’ Harold leaned back and drained his cognac. ‘So I fear NADA it must be, my boy. NADA ventured, NADA gained.’ And he laughed uproariously.

  Alex took Harold’s advice and NADA it was. He took Harold’s further advice and lined up two dead-end jobs to prove to the assessors how keen he was and how eligible for a scholarship. Although Harold would have been quite happy to pay Alex’s fees, he was aware that applicants were judged as much by their attitude and commitment as they were by their talent, and of course he was right.

  On the Saturday before Alex was to start at NADA, he and Harold had a celebratory night out. They went to a performance of The Caucasian Chalk Circle and then on to Harold’s favourite supper haunt in Kings Cross. Alex had wanted to go backstage and talk to the actors, all of whom Harold knew well, but for once the old actor was reluctant.

  Harold’s strangely introverted mood lasted till halfway through supper when the second bottle of Bollinger seemed to take effect and he made the sudden decision to let it all out.

  ‘It’s going to change, my dear Alexei. It’s all going to change.’ There was a slight break in his voice and the hint of a tear in his eye.

  ‘What is?’ Alex wasn’t sure whether Harold’s sentiment was genuine or affected but it was very touching nevertheless.

  Harold was aware of the pathos of the moment and he played it to its fullest, as he always did. But his feelings were utterly genuine—his theatrical presentation of them covered even deeper emotions that would always remain unsaid.

  ‘Your world, dear boy. Our friendship.’ Harold’s heart ached with love for Alex. He turned his head slightly and set his gaze just above the boy’s head. It was a good angle and the lighting was excellent. ‘In just a very little while you’ll be immersed in your exciting new world with your exciting new friends. You’ll be a “student actor”’—the term had a very bad taste to it and Harold spat it out—‘and you’ll think of me as that dated, boring old fart who doesn’t understand the new wave.’

  ‘I will not, Harold, and you know it.’

  ‘Ah, but your friends will and they’ll convince you. No matter, no matter.’ He waved his hand dismissively, lowered his gaze and looked at Alex. His voice was as untheatrical as he could possibly make it. ‘It’s been a fine friendship.’

  Alex took the actor’s hand in both of his. ‘And it will continue to be … now stop queening it up.’

  Harold smiled back at him. Shortly after, he excused himself and went to the lavatory where he had a good cry and repaired the damage unnoticed.

  ‘Julian Oldfellow.’ He waited for a titter to follow. It did. ‘And I’m used to that.’ There was another titter and Julian smiled. ‘It’s a bastard of a name but I’ve learned to live with it.’

  Alex leaned forward in his seat and studied the young man intently. What an interesting person he seemed to be. He was physically unattractive by normal standards—angular, bony, his nose just a little too big, his straight, lank hair just a little too long—but there was something about him … An intelligence and a confidence that was disarming. His homosexuality was obvious but unaffected and somehow added to his confident demeanour. Most of the other homosexuals at NADA, Alex had noted, were either poseurs or closets. Julian was a young man quite at home with his sexuality.

  ‘Born in Wagga Wagga,’ Julian continued. ‘Father district health inspector, mother president of the CWA, a big sister with three year old twins and a very straight husband. All living in Wagga, hence my coming to Sydney as soon as I could get the train fare.’

  There was an appreciative laugh from the rest of the class. ‘No, that’s not very fair of me, really; they’re a nice bunch.’

  Julian’s eyes were drawn to the young man at the end of the second row who was staring at him so intently. He’d noticed him earlier—what was his name? Alex Rainford. God, he was attractive.

  ‘They’re very fond of me and I’m very fond of them,’ he continued after flashing a smile at Alex, ‘but ever since I discovered my sordid secret I thought it would be best if I left Wagga. Probably as much for their sake as mine.’

  It was the first day of the first term for the 1970 NADA recruits and this was their first improvisation class. Norah Hogarth, the rather intense English improvisation teacher, always believed in having her class introduce themselves to each other.

  ‘I want you, one by one, to tell us all about yourself,’ she’d say. It was an unnerving experience for some of the shyer students but, over a full term, Norah invariably managed to weaken the barriers of even the most reserved—probably because of her own readiness to bare her soul and to even, at times, make such an utter idiot of herself that it was difficult not to warm to her. She was certainly one of the more popular tutors.

  ‘Well, I guess that’s about it.’ Julian smiled once more at Alex. He could have sworn the bloke was straight when he’d noticed him that morning but … Christ, I’ve never had such a come-on, Julian thought. ‘I reckon that just about sums up Julian Oldfellow,’ he announced to the class and sat down.

  Norah nodded to the girl sitting next to Julian.

  Maddy stood up and faced the class. ‘Maddy McLaughlan,’ she said. Her heart was pounding but she felt good. This was the beginning of it all, she told herself. This was the birth of her career, the first day of her life, in a way, and she c
ould barely contain her excitement.

  And her excitement was contagious. The interest Julian had held for Alex was forgotten in an instant as he studied the tiny pulse throbbing in Maddy’s left temple. Funny how more pronounced it was on the left side; the right was barely noticeable.

  He’s straight, Julian thought, with a wry smile to himself. He’s definitely straight.

  ‘Born and bred in Sydney, father an orthodontist, mother … um …’ Maddy fumbled for the correct description. Helena certainly wouldn’t want to be labelled ‘housewife’, but what exactly was she? Charity worker sounded a little too noble. ‘… um … orthodontist’s wife.’

  The laugh she got was bigger than any of the appreciative chuckles accorded Julian, and Maddy, although momentarily startled, learned her first lesson: in this new world she was about to embrace, anyone and anything was fair game—if the timing was right and it was a good laugh line, nothing was sacred. She realised at the same time that it wasn’t only her mother they were laughing at but the image she herself was presenting. Despite the fact that she’d been slumming it in a Kings Cross flatette for several months she looked like a rich man’s daughter and she knew it.

  Maddy didn’t know whether to be offended or hurt. She felt her cheeks slowly start to burn. ‘And I don’t think my mother’s any more to blame for being the way she is than Julian’s parents are to blame for being the way they are.’ She glared back at the class, not sure whether she was defending her mother or herself.

  Julian, who had been staring spellbound at Alex who had been staring spellbound at Maddy, was jolted out of his trance by the mention of his name and suddenly realised what the girl had just said. She’s dead bloody right, he thought, and started clapping loudly.

  Norah Hogarth also approved. ‘Well done, Maddy, well done. We’re here to express exactly how we feel. That’s what this class is all about.’ She also started clapping and several members of the class joined in. But there was a faction who decided then and there that Maddy was spoilt, arrogant and self-opinionated.