Centre Stage

by Judy Nunn

  She pulled away from his embrace. ‘You could resign,’ she said. ‘You could leave the army.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve given them your whole life. You’re forty-five years old—surely they’d let you resign.’

  ‘Forty-four,’ Douglas corrected. ‘And yes, they’d let me resign, but I couldn’t possibly do it.’

  ‘Why?’ Maddy’s anger was edging towards hysteria. ‘Give me one good reason why. You don’t owe them anything …’

  ‘Oh, yes I do!’ he countered. ‘Maybe not the army, but my men … I owe my men.’

  ‘What!’ She was close to tears now. ‘What do you owe them? Some sort of bloody macho wartime camaraderie? Well, fuck that!’

  ‘Let’s walk.’ Douglas stood and took her hand but she pulled away from him. ‘Come on now.’ He bent down and lifted her to her feet. ‘You’re getting yourself all worked up and that’s silly. Let’s walk.’

  He put his arm around her and they walked beside the lake.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said while she fumbled for a tissue.

  But he didn’t seem to hear her. ‘Let me tell you a story,’ he said. They walked silently for several seconds and then he began. ‘Do you remember when I first met you?’

  The reply came, muffled through the tissues. ‘The Lady from Maxim’s.’

  ‘That’s right. You were cancan-ing your way into the hearts of London theatregoers and Britain was at war with Argentina.’

  Maddy felt her face flush and she looked away. She supposed she deserved it but it was a bit below the belt.

  Douglas stopped and turned her to him. ‘No, Madeleine, that wasn’t a dig. I wasn’t making fun of you. At the time, I was between operations in the Falklands and The Lady from Maxim’s was just what I needed.’ He grinned. ‘It was one hell of a cancan, I can tell you.’

  Maddy smiled back weakly.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now stop personalising and pay attention.’ Arm in arm, they walked on.

  ‘I thought I was pretty well toughened up when I went to the Falklands,’ he said. ‘I’d seen a lot of death, seen people killed en masse, killed people myself. I knew what was expected of me, and so did my men.’

  ‘We were a good unit. I remember a covert night operation on Pebble Island: thirty Pacara aircraft destroyed in the one raid; minimum injuries sustained.’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘Good men.’

  He stopped and watched two swans gliding across the water towards them. ‘I’d seen a lot of heroism before I went to the Falklands and I thought I knew all about that too. Courage can be so contagious I’ve actually seen men compete to save each other. And it’s not “macho wartime camaraderie”. No, don’t look away—that wasn’t a dig either.’

  The swans had arrived at the water’s edge. Douglas watched them as they were rapidly joined by a host of ducks. And as he watched, Maddy realised that he wasn’t really seeing them at all.

  ‘We were on a mission. Just myself and six of the men. They were flying us to Argentina in a Sea King and we were hit. The chopper was badly damaged and the pilot made a crash landing in the Atlantic, just off the coast. He handled it well: we landed OK, but we couldn’t open the doors in the hold. The only exit was through the cockpit windows.

  ‘It was chaos. Cargo and netting and debris were everywhere, and the hold started to fill with water. It was freezing. But the men kept their heads. After the pilot, the copilot and the load-master got out, the rest of us hung on to the nearest solid object and, according to who was nearest to the cockpit, we waited our turn. We knew we only had a couple of minutes, of course. When those things fill with water they sink like a stone.

  ‘I was third in line, with four behind me, and the tail of the chopper was already sinking. When I was halfway into the cockpit, the whole thing lurched and the tail pointed straight to the bottom of the ocean. I was waist-deep in water, and I knew that the hold was flooded and that any second we’d go down. I tried to pull myself up into the cockpit but my leg was caught in the cargo netting and I realised there was no way I was going to get free. I thought, “Oh Christ, here we go”.’

  Maddy had been watching him without saying a word and she was startled when he suddenly turned to her. ‘Strangest thing, you know. In that instant, all I could think of was the men behind me—they were going to die. They were already drowning in the hold below and any second I would be too. We were all going to die together and it seemed right somehow. I accepted it.

  ‘And then I felt a hand on my leg. It explored the rope that had me trapped and then it disappeared. It was back a second later with a knife and it started to cut me free. Just the one hand it was, not two. The other hand must have had a purchase on something solid to gain the traction needed to saw the ropes.’ He shrugged. ‘Either that or the man was physically trapped beneath the debris, I don’t know.’

  Douglas paused and looked out across the lake. ‘Then he tapped my leg. I can still feel it. Very methodically, three times, he tapped my leg. He was saying “You can go now”.’

  It was several moments before Douglas turned back to Maddy. ‘I got out and the chopper went down like a ton of bricks. I’ll never know which of the four men it was.

  ‘For a long time after that I felt guilty to be alive,’ he said. ‘Christ, it’s cold.’ He put an arm around her again. ‘Let’s go home.’ Maddy still didn’t dare say anything and they walked in silence for a minute or so.

  ‘I don’t feel guilty any more,’ he said as they arrived at the park gates. ‘But you can see why I owe, can’t you, Madeleine? You can see why I have to go to the Gulf.’

  Maddy nodded. ‘Yes.’

  When they got home they had a hot shower together and they made love. Very tenderly.

  Afterwards Douglas said, ‘If I get through this war OK, and I certainly intend to, I’m going to leave the army. Would you fancy settling down with me?’

  ‘Is that a proposal?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘You’d leave the army?’

  ‘Well you won’t leave the theatre, will you? I don’t have much choice.’

  ‘I might if you asked me.’

  He smiled. ‘Let’s worry about who gives in when the time comes. But I take it that’s a yes?’

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  Two days later he left.

  Maddy followed the war avidly. And it was a very easy war to follow. ‘The first television war’, it gave birth to many famous quotes from the unaffected, uninformed and generally disinterested sector: ‘What’s happened with the war?’ ‘I don’t know, I didn’t watch TV last night’. ‘Anything good on the telly?’ ‘No, just the war’.

  It was over in less than two months. But Douglas didn’t come back. Enquiries proved that he wasn’t on any casualty list but, despite the fact that Maddy, distraught, repeatedly made a nuisance of herself at Whitehall, that was the only news of him the army would release.

  One Sunday night six months later, the front door buzzer sounded and a voice with a distinctive Cockney accent announced ‘Colin Coburn here.’ Who the hell’s Colin Coburn? Maddy wondered, but she didn’t have time to ask. The voice said, ‘I have a message from Douglas Mackie’, and her heart lurched.

  Maddy opened the door to a stocky, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties and, although she hadn’t seen him in over five years, she recognised him immediately. ‘The marker,’ she said.

  Col smiled. ‘That’s right. The name’s Colin Coburn.’ They shook hands. ‘I’m not supposed to be here, but the major wanted you to know that he was all right.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked as Maddy sank into a chair.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ she answered. ‘I’m fine.’ She felt lightheaded with relief. Although she’d resolutely refused to believe the worst, she’d been desperately worried.

  He explained that Douglas was one of several SASR officers remaining in Northern Iraq to serve as military advisers to the Kurds. ‘All
covert, of course,’ said Col. ‘Nobody’s supposed to know that, so keep it under your hat.’

  Colin wasn’t able to tell her any more. Douglas wasn’t sure when he’d be back.

  But it was enough for Maddy. Douglas was safe.

  Life was very full for both Maddy and Jenny. Maddy was doing another film for Viktor Hoff which, as usual, was an exhausting experience. Jenny had just graduated from RADA.

  Like her mother, Jenny had been an excellent student and she graduated with flying colours. A highly reputable agent signed her up, and her career appeared about to take off.

  So why, Maddy wondered, was she so set upon getting engaged to Paul? It was a disastrous idea—but, of course, she didn’t dare say so to Jenny.

  ‘You’re very young, darling,’ she said tentatively. ‘And you haven’t even known him a year. Don’t you think you should wait?’

  ‘Why?’

  Maddy heaved a sigh. She knew Jenny was going to be cantankerous. ‘Because you’re very young …’

  ‘I’m twenty.’

  ‘And you’ve only known him for ten months.’

  ‘Don’t you like him?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I do.’ Maddy backed off. I give up, she thought. Anything I say is only going to push her in the opposite direction. Christ, she’s twenty years old, if she wants to stifle herself, let her. But she worried nevertheless.

  Maddy had liked Paul when she’d met him. There was nothing to dislike. He was a very pleasant, very middle class, very nice young man, and he was obviously besotted with Jenny. That was the problem, Maddy thought. Paul was besotted with Jenny, and Jenny was besotted with sex.

  Maddy could see herself in Jenny. She could see the girl revelling in her new-found sexuality just as Maddy herself had been unleashed by Alex and the passion they’d shared. Jenny was delighting in her discovery, and there was certainly nothing wrong with that, but engagement? Marriage? No, Maddy thought, it wouldn’t be fair: the person who would suffer would be Paul. But of course she couldn’t say anything.

  As it was, Jenny sensed her mother’s disapproval and a further argument followed when Jenny insisted on spending the whole of her Christmas break in Sydney.

  ‘Just a week with Grandpa and Alma in Windsor,’ Maddy suggested. ‘It’s their turn, after all. And then you can go to Sydney.’

  But Jenny had made her decision. She was in love, she was irritated with Maddy for not being totally in favour of an engagement, she was going to Sydney, and that was that.

  Maddy gave up and concentrated on her film. It was a German/Swiss/Belgian production being shot half in French and half in German—a typical Viktor Hoff project. Viktor had never broken into the American film market, but the more bizarre areas of the European cinema continued to hold him in high regard.

  There were only five more days of studio interiors to be shot in Munich following the two-week production break over Christmas. Like the rest of the cast and crew, Maddy returned to work very relaxed after the holiday break. She’d had a lovely time in Windsor with Robert and Alma—log fires and snowball fights made her feel like a child again.

  Three days into the shoot the phone rang at six o’clock in the morning in her Munich hotel room.

  It was Jenny. ‘Mum, don’t be mad, please. But I’m staying in Sydney. Well, for six months anyway …’

  ‘You’ve done it.’ Maddy heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘You and Paul have gone and got engaged—’

  ‘No. Well … he wants to and I was going to and … but no, it’s not that.’

  Maddy felt a jolt of alarm. ‘You’re not going to run off and get married or anything are you?’

  ‘Don’t be crazy, Mum. You and I might have our fights, for God’s sake, but I want you at my wedding!’

  ‘Then I hope you’ve told your agent that you’re opting out,’ Maddy said irritably. ‘They’ll be lining up tests and auditions and interviews for the new season and it’s not very professional—’

  ‘Mum, I’ve landed a job!’ Jenny could hardly contain her excitement. ‘A terrific job! Everyone in Sydney’s been after it. It’s the female lead and it’s going to be the biggest production ever to come out of Australia.’

  Oh, yes, Maddy thought, they all say that. ‘What is it?’ she asked, trying to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘It’s Julian Oldfellow’s latest play. Just imagine, Mum! Imagine me being in one of Julian’s plays! It’s called Centre Stage and it’s going to be an international success, just like his other plays, and it’s being produced by the same bloke—Alex Rainford. He’s also playing the lead—we’ll be working opposite each other. I’ve met him, Mum. He’s dynamic!’

  From the moment Alex first read Centre Stage he became obsessed with the play.

  A SPOTLIGHT ON A MAN STANDING ALONE, CENTRE STAGE. IT IS EDWIN. HE ADDRESSES THE AUDIENCE.

  EDWIN

  I watched a man die in the street once. It was a heart attack I think. I was about eight years old at the time. He was just a man. Just a man in the street. I didn’t know him. But watching him die was the most intimate experience I’ve ever shared with another human being.

  I was the last person he saw, the last person he made contact with and, as I watched his eyes glaze over, I felt deeply grateful. It was an extraordinary gift to share with a stranger.

  EDWIN WALKS DOWNSTAGE

  That was how it started. I’ve been searching all my life for someone with whom I could repeat that intimate experience. And I’ve finally found her. Tonight’s the night.

  THE STAGE LIGHTS UP. WE ARE IN EDWIN’S HOME. HE SMILES AT THE AUDIENCE.

  And I wanted to share it with you.

  HE TURNS UPSTAGE AS KATERINA APPEARS.

  My darling!

  SHE RUNS TO HIM AND THEY EMBRACE.

  Throughout the play Edwin maintains his one-to-one relationship with the audience. He shares with them his manipulation of Katerina to the point where she is willing to present him with the ultimate gift. Her death.

  Alex was spellbound. He remembered Tim’s ultimate gift—the gift of his death—and he realised that it was the most intimate experience he’d shared with a person. He thought of the sexual power he’d had over women and he thrilled at the notion of a woman giving him her life.

  ‘I want to play Edwin,’ he announced to Julian as soon as he’d read Centre Stage. And when Julian stared back at him, aghast, Alex added, ‘What better casting could there be? Edwin’s me and we both know it.’

  ‘But you’re producing the thing, for God’s sake,’ Julian objected. ‘You can’t produce it and play the lead as well.’

  ‘I don’t intend to,’ Alex countered smoothly. ‘I’ve already spoken to Alain King and he’s more than interested in co-producing.’

  Julian had strong misgivings but Alex overrode them. ‘Sure, it’s a long time since I acted, but it’s what I’m trained to do … and if I don’t come up with the goods you and Alain can feel free to sack me. Just think of the press! A Julian Oldfellow play, coproduced by Alain King and starring Alex Rainford.’

  ‘All right,’ Julian reluctantly agreed. ‘We’ll see how you go.’

  Alex was so elated by the prospect that he didn’t point out Julian’s limited contractual rights, which didn’t include right of veto over casting. ‘Thank you, Julian,’ he said with just the right degree of humility.

  After reading Centre Stage Alain King was as excited as Alex about its potential.

  ‘The mistress should be much younger, though,’ he insisted during an early production meeting. ‘She should be a virgin when they meet, so that he initiates her sexually. That explains his power over her.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Julian demurred. ‘The way they flirt with death during their sex acts is something they share. It’s a dangerous game they play. His idea, certainly, but they both play it. It’s more believable that way.’

  ‘No, no,’ Alain insisted. ‘Edwin is far more obsessed with death than he is with sex—the sex is incidental to him. But if Katerina is a r
ecently aroused young girl then, to her, the death games are purely an extension of the sex act, something extra she can give her lover at the peak of their passion.’

  ‘I agree,’ Alex said. ‘It’s a much more powerful statement that way.’

  ‘Besides,’ Alain added. ‘Older man, young girl at the height of her sexuality … big seller.’

  Oh yes, Julian thought with disgust, if you had your way, Katerina would be a thirteen-year-old. (Everyone in the business knew of Alain’s penchant for youth.)

  Nevertheless, Julian eventually agreed that a young actress was a good idea.

  ‘Someone the public hasn’t seen—a new face,’ enthused Alain. ‘We’ll create a new star.’ He was running hot.

  Before they could start auditioning they had to decide on the director. ‘I think we should get a woman,’ Alex suggested. He wasn’t quite sure why—maybe he thought he’d have more power over a woman, or maybe it was to appease the feminist lobby group—but the others didn’t disagree with him and they unanimously decided on Naomi Wheatley.

  Naomi was a safe choice. She was strong, efficient, experienced and respected within the industry. But she wasn’t exactly innovative. She relied upon others for her inspiration which suited Alain and Alex down to the ground. Not that they’d be able to walk all over her, of course. They’d have to be diplomatic in their manipulation. After all, she’d been one of the early female directors who’d fought for her place in a male-dominated arena and, if crossed, she could be a formidable foe. But Alain and Alex had decided in private discussion that they could handle her.