‘Of course I do, Master Oliver. The Oedipal interpretation is very intelligent, if you listen to the lines. After all, Hamlet has no liking for his mother’s new marriage. But then—’ He stopped. ‘You would understand that, wouldn’t you, Master Oliver?’
Once again Oliver found he was reddening, but all the same he nodded.
‘Quite right, Clifton, I should know all about that.’
‘But what you have to remember, Master Oliver, if you don’t mind me saying, is that as far as your parents are concerned, they have never known what I like to call “marital union”. That is true for everyone. Although all parents must have done, of course, they have not, as it were, ever known marital union, not in the minds and imaginations of their children – not ever.’
Oliver stared at the butler, torn between laughter and astonishment at Clifton’s honest analysis.
Clifton was quite right, and it was true. The thought of his mother and Charley together was not just terrible, it was unthinkable. So that was how Hamlet must have felt, Oliver realised with a jolt. He felt as Oliver felt when trying not to think about his mother and Charley.
However much Oliver loved his mother, which he did, he could never think of her like that – having marital union with a hunt servant. No, he could not, ever, and did not want to, ever, think that she and Charley might have what Clifton called ‘marital union’, not ever, not even once. In fact, now he came to think of it, he had once seen Charley ruffling his mother’s hair, and he had not liked it one bit. It had made him feel a bit sick and faint, like church when it became too hot.
Oliver grinned suddenly and almost delightedly at the butler.
‘Quite right, Cliffie, quite right. Fathers and mothers don’t have marital union, not ever, do they?’ He patted the butler on the arm, as if he had just hit a six at the village cricket match, which Clifton very often did. ‘Parents don’t do it!’ he continued, now quite thrilled with the notion. ‘No, they don’t do they, Clifton? So that is poor Hamlet’s problem. His mother’s love life turns his stomach but only because everyone’s mother’s love life turns their stomachs. Parents never do it!’
‘Never, Master Oliver. That is what I mean about Hamlet. It just might be that he loves his mother in the normal way, but just doesn’t want to think of her having union, if you see what I mean? Poor Hamlet’s no different from the rest of us, whatever all the Freudian scholars might say, at least not to my mind. The way I see it, he is just all the time avoiding the thought of that marital union, while at the same time being in that perilous state we know as mourning. A state when, as we know, even the sound of a loud voice, of a door slamming, is like a dagger in the heart, a bullet through the head. So perhaps the Oedipal interpretation is a little far-fetched.’
Once more Oliver smiled suddenly and brilliantly, a trait of his, which Clifton hoped the youngster would not fail to use effectively when he was on the films.
Of course what the boy did not realise, could not be expected to remember – and it was something which his father’s ex-batman now butler would never point out to him – was that it was Clifton, of all people, who had nurtured the seeds of his fanatical interest in the theatre and artistic things, sown by the pantomime production at Lodbury, after Oliver’s mother the Honourable Mrs Plunkett had bolted with Charley.
In Clifton’s opinion, Master Oliver had always been a mite neglected by the rest of the family, due to childhood asthma and the age gap between him and his brothers.
Not that Mr Plunkett would ever have disowned his youngest son. That would not be his way. Whatever he thought of his quite different, brilliantly handsome third son, he never, not even for a second, let his feelings show. It was just not on! Clifton knew that would be how his master would think of it.
It would not be on.
He had sometimes said to Clifton, in his quiet way, ‘Master Oliver is a throwback to my wife’s great-grandmother, Clifton, I always think that. Hence the blond hair, and the green eyes. If you go to the landing you can view a portrait of her. And you will notice that Master Oliver is just like her in every way, you know Clifton? Quite a throwback, but then that’s nature, wouldn’t you say? She likes to spin the coin differently, and sometimes irreverently, every time.’
Once, feeling that he perhaps should take up the hint, Clifton had actually gone up to the wide landing of the old Elizabethan house and, amid the many paintings of the family ancestors, he had found just such a portrait. Stare as hard as he could, however, he had not been able to find any possible similarity between the lady in question and Mr Plunkett’s youngest offspring, beyond the fact that they both had fair hair. It had rather moved him, though, that Mr Plunkett had gone to such trouble to find someone to whom his younger son could be compared. But then that was Mr Plunkett all over. He might be a stickler, but he was a gentleman.
‘I shall remember that, Cliffie, what you just said about Hamlet, when I come to play it. Now what about Lear? How do you see him? While we are on the subject.’
‘Very annoying, Master Oliver. Yes. As I see it, King Lear asks for – and gets – everything that his character demands of his circumstances. You see, Lear, as I see it, is a very selfish man. We know this because of his attitudes, because of his treatment of Cordelia: he is a very selfish man. And while no one wants to see him wandering the heath, yet, pity him though we do, we can see it is his vanity and his intransigence that puts him there. No, if I was going to play King Lear, I would play him as a proud old general, someone you can admire in his prime, even though you wish that he would just, if I may say so—’
‘Come off it a little?’
‘Yes, exactly, Master Oliver. Come off it a little. Lear is not what I would call a nobleman. He is a king, but not a nobleman. You can be a king or an emperor without being in the least bit aristocratic, in my opinion. And it is his foolish, kingly vanity that leads him to believe that he can act without sense. He should know his daughters better than he does. Trusting those two older ones when he must know that they are less, in truth, much, much less than the youngest.’ He stopped, realising of a sudden that the story of King Lear might prove too close to home for comfort for the youngest Plunkett son. ‘At least, that is what I think. I might be wrong, Master Oliver, but that is what I think. He asks for it, if you like, but that doesn’t stop us pitying him.’
If Oliver saw that there was a parallel between himself and his two brothers and John Plunkett, and King Lear and his three daughters, he did not seem to be in the mood to dwell on it at that moment, only patting Clifton on the arm again and smiling his brilliant smile once more.
‘Tell you what, Cliffie, why don’t you go to the Academy, instead of me?’
‘I would love to, Master Oliver,’ Clifton replied simply. ‘But I can’t. You see, I am not talented. Whereas you, Master Oliver, are. You are a very talented actor, you always have been.’
Oliver stared at him and once more found himself blushing like a girl, this time at the sincerity in the butler’s voice.
‘Ever since you were a little boy, Master Oliver, I have always thought you were a born star. There is no doubt about it, not to my mind at least. You have It. Neither of your brothers has it, but you have it. You have It. And as the Bible says, you must make the most of your talent, really you must, or it will grow in on you and tear out your insides as the fox tore out the innards of the little Spartan boy in the famous Greek myth. There is no worse a personality, in my experience, Master Oliver, than one who has not developed their talent as they should, and, as you know, Our Blessed Lord commanded us that we should.’
‘I want to be a big star, Cliffie. Just to show my father that I am not just a wet. You know – what do the other two always call me? Willie Wet Legs?’
‘We all know what the others have called you, Master Oliver,’ Clifton agreed hurriedly. ‘And I dare say we can all remember the many ill-timed jests in bad taste that have been made about you, but there is no need to go back into that, not now that you ar
e leaving for the bright lights.’
‘It’s all right, Cliffie, I don’t mind, really I don’t. No, truly, I am grateful to my big brothers for making fun of me, because it has made Master Snivels, Master Willie Wet Legs, Master Lily Liver, determined to become a star, if only to show them. Just you watch, Cliffie. I shall show them.’
‘I am going to, Master Oliver. Never going to take my eyes off you, Master Oliver. Anything less and Clifton will want to know the reason why, believe me.’
They both stared at each other, and there was a short silence, the realisation at last actually dawning.
Everything they had ever talked about was here, now, not tomorrow any more, but now. There was no time left for laughter and conjecture, for wondering if or how, or what might or could be. With the arrival of his acceptance into the Royal Academy of Music and Drama the gauntlet had been thrown down, and now, with John Plunkett’s quiet acceptance of his youngest son’s determination to join the acting profession, the gauntlet had been taken up.
The road ahead seemed of a sudden, to both of them, just a little long, and just a little hard; and the courage it demanded all too necessary, as it must seem to a general before a battle, or a surgeon before theatre, or an actor before his stage entrance. This was it. This was the moment that Oliver, and Clifton in his different way, had worked towards, the moment when Oliver would leave Yorkshire for London’s West End.
‘And remember what I said. Whatever else you don’t do, do make sure that you have a decent wardrobe of shoes, Master Oliver. Well heeled and soled, and not about to come apart at the slightest bit of weather. As I understand it …’ Clifton looked suddenly and almost biblically solemn. ‘As I understand it, they are a dire necessity in the acting profession, are shoes, or so I have been told by many of my friends.’
‘Providing I can get Hopkins to advance me a tiny bit of the pittance that is my living allowance, I will invest in as many good shoes as possible, Cliffie,’ Oliver promised.
‘Yes, Master Oliver, but you’ll be lucky with Mr Hopkins; he does so hate to give you money from your trust, albeit it is yours, legally. And another thing; as I understand it, actors, members of the profession, they wear out a lot of shoes doing the rounds of the agents’ and managements’ offices – yes, doing the rounds as they call it, calls for a great many pairs of shoes, and it can be very dispiriting if they let in water, the shoes I mean.’
‘I didn’t think you meant the actors, Cliffie!’ Oliver laughed, turning away, not really seeming to take in very much, such was his excitement.
Clifton could see that now the dreaded interview with his father was over not only had Master Oliver returned to his usual boyish carefree manner, but his face was already set towards London, towards fame, and fortune, but most particularly fame, because money would never mean much to Master Oliver.
‘Meanwhile I shall try to find someone who can recommend lodgings in Crewe, Master Oliver.’
‘Why Crewe, Cliffie?’ ‘It is a place which I believe you will get to know a great deal on tour, or so I have been informed, Master Oliver. Everyone in the profession is always changing at Crewe, but sometimes, most unfortunately, the change is delayed, or missed, so a recommendation, a basic knowledge let us say, of good comfortable lodgings at Crewe is particularly essential.’
Oliver laughed, showing healthy white teeth. ‘Cliffie, you are a guinea a minute, do you know that?’
‘Yes, Master Oliver. Now however you had better go and pack, and don’t forget your evening dress for the drawing room comedies, and I have put a cigar box for the Leichner make-up on your bed, and a nice jar of Carmine make-up remover. As we all know, only amateurs use tin boxes bought at theatrical shops, and we don’t want to look like that, do we? Amateur. Oh, and one other thing, Master Oliver. Never tell anyone where you come from, will you? Stick to our plan, won’t you?’
‘Cliffie! Would I dare do anything else?’
They were now climbing the beautiful old wooden stairs to the third floor room that Oliver had occupied since he was a small boy.
Here, far above the rest of the family rooms, Oliver had grown up with Nanny and Cliffie for company, always hearing, never really seeing, signs of the other two children growing up ahead of him, far below, already grown and strong while he was still small and frail.
The little that he saw of his elder brothers, on his few ill-timed sorties from the rocky fastness of his and Nanny’s rooms to the public rooms below, so often ended in disaster and ridicule that even now Oliver could hardly bear to think about them.
Once, cringingly, he had even tried to enact a play of his own making for his father and brothers, but with such dismal results – playing to three bored male faces – that he had quickly retreated to his infrequently heated and sparsely furnished rooms with a leaden heart, vowing silently never to attempt to entertain the elders of his family again.
If it had not been for Clifton and Nanny, who, some days later, had eventually persuaded him to run through his precious play again, just for them – if it had not been for them, cheering him with their response, lauding him to the skies afterwards, trying desperately to make up to him for his first opening night disaster, Oliver truly thought that he might have killed himself, such was his despair at his family’s lack of reaction.
Of course, being so different from the others had eventually put iron in Oliver’s soul and made him realise that he had to stand on his own two feet, make doubly sure of his ambitions. But he also learnt to keep quiet about those same ambitions, vowing never, ever again to try to amuse the older boys, or his father; never, ever again to risk that kind of hurt. He was determined to keep his yearning for everything theatrical a terrific secret. From then on it was something that only he and Clifton, once Nanny had left, knew about, only they talked about, only they relished.
As soon as they had recognised where Oliver’s ambitions truly lay Clifton began to smuggle the young boy in copies of Plays and Players, a theatrical magazine that as far as both Oliver and Clifton were concerned might have been produced on pages of beaten gold, such was the extreme reverence that they showed towards its arrival in their lives every month. After a while they developed the habit of looking at the pictures together before they settled back and Oliver read the articles aloud to Clifton. This was not because Clifton could not read, but because he liked to stop Oliver at certain moments, and discuss some particular points that had arisen from its pages.
The photographs alone were enough to arouse intense excitement. The world as viewed through the theatrical photographers’ lenses became, from an early age, Oliver’s world, and not just his world, the only world. It was meat and drink, washing and cleaning, it was comfort and cure. It was everything, and even on his announcing his ambition to be an actor, even should his father have taken him and thrown him bodily from the house, Oliver would not have minded, which was perhaps why his father, recognising that any attempt at dissuasion would be useless, had walked from the room, psychologically washing his hands of him, leaving only his announcement that Oliver would be prayed for once a month in the family chapel as witness to the anxiety of his true feelings about his youngest son’s future.
‘There we are, Master Ollie! Off you go now, and no coming back, no telephoning through to me, nothing, until you have some proper news. And don’t forget, no mention of your family background. Not ever. Puts people’s backs up, if they think you’re a nob. Just keep quiet, and keep your ears and eyes open, do you hear?’
‘I’ll try, Cliffie, but you know how it is with me – I’ve always been a bit of a bigmouth.’
Clifton ignored him. ‘See, Master Ollie, it’s just as I have always told you. New places, they always want to pigeonhole you, so keep quiet, whatever you do, most of all at first, because that is often when you can give the game away, in the opening weeks.’
Clifton stared up at Oliver, hoping against hope that he would listen to him. It was not a particularly cold day for September, at least not in Yor
kshire, but nevertheless he was busy moving from one foot to the other on the station platform, looking up and down the length of the train with an expression of vague disapproval, as Oliver leaned out of the window and chatted to him.
‘I’ve just thought, actually, Cliffie. How about if I do you, Cliffie? You know, then no one will put me down as a nob, will they?’ he asked, ruthlessly. ‘I mean, how about if when I get to Ramad I talk with ever such a slight Yorkshire accent, like you? I can get you right, because I know you so well, see? And then no one will spot me, will they? Because I’ve always done you almost as well as you, you always say!’
‘Not a bad idea, Master Oliver, but whatever happens, whether you do or you don’t—’
‘I know, don’t mention the dreaded background!’
They were both going over and over the same old ground to take their minds off the moment of departure.
‘Don’t wave, Master Oliver,’ Clifton called, as the train gave every indication of moving off at last while the expression in Oliver’s eyes became, of a sudden, panic-stricken. ‘Someone told me that it’s bad luck in the theatre to wave goodbye, in case it is for ever. It is always au revoir – see you again, never adieu – never goodbye.’
‘I know. So. See you again, Cliffie, and don’t forget to write every now and then – tell me about the place, and how Mrs Piglet is, and everything. I’ll swallow the letters once I’ve read them, of course.’
The expression in Oliver’s eyes was now that of a tall young man pretending he was not feeling like a quite small, homesick boy. He leaned out of the window and wrung Clifton’s hand, putting as much emotion into that one gesture as he dared, thanking him for a lifetime’s affection, and devotion.
Distant Music Page 5
