The Noonday Devil

by Alan Judd

  High Table was still on the main course when the low tables began to drift away. The Fellows argued that to live in college throughout the year and to eat the same food as the undergraduates who were there for only twenty-four weeks would be insupportable. They also paid more for it. Tim was looking again in their direction.

  ‘Are you going to wait for her?’ asked Robert.

  ‘No.’ Tim did not move. ‘I’m thinking of a gesture. Something unreasonable.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just to make a gesture.’

  The wine waiter, Harold, had been busy that evening supplying beer for the sconcing. He laughed when Tim asked him to deliver a bottle of champagne anonymously to the girl on the High Table.

  ‘So long as you don’t mind signing for it.’

  ‘I’ll sign. Make it the most expensive. What do you have?’

  ‘There’s only one sort and I can’t remember what it is, but it’ll cost you an arm and a leg.’

  ‘Just let me sign.’

  The bottle was delivered on a round silver tray. Tim was too far from High Table to see what it was. He and Robert left their bench and lingered inconspicuously amongst a crowd of gowned figures by the door. Suzanne seemed embarrassed and amused. Three times she put her hand to her black hair. The dons near her laughed and looked round. The Chaplain smiled and looked at the group near the door.

  They went to Tim’s room for coffee. With him it was a ritual that took precedence over conversation. He had an array of laboratory apparatus for making it but his favourite method was to grind the beans by hand, then use a tall china jug with a lid and plunger. He bought the beans in the covered market and blended them himself. Thorough grinding and the pushing of the plunger were the most important parts of the ritual. Both had to be done very slowly. Before the plunger was pushed the full jug had to stand for several minutes, in winter in front of the gas fire.

  Robert sat in the other armchair and used the small wooden grinder. It was a pleasant, undemanding activity. He never attempted to elevate it to the level of religious ritual attained by Tim nor did he bring to the pushing of the plunger the air of sexual solemnity. Tim’s room was in almost every respect the opposite of Robert’s: heavily and expensively furnished with lavish attention to detail, and altered almost daily. The damask velvet curtains had been made especially and were never opened fully, an antique brass table lamp was on throughout the day; respectable-looking volumes rested unopened in a glass-fronted bookcase. The table lamp had been lowered to the floor so that the room was cosily and inadequately lit.

  ‘Music?’ Tim asked but Robert shook his head. ‘I suppose you’re right. Must do something for Schools. Have you got a rehearsal tonight?’ Robert nodded. ‘You’re out of your mind, doing a play in your final term.’

  ‘One reason for not working.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Patchy. The theme is stated but is not present. Not felt.’

  ‘What theme?’

  ‘You’re not really interested.’

  ‘Tell.’

  ‘Sin is punished. Excess and want of judgement bring retribution. The whole thing drips with irony. I have a vision of how it should be but it’s a flickering vision and I’m not putting it across.’

  ‘So it can’t have life until you’ve imagined it?’

  ‘Too much philosophy makes men mad.’ Robert tossed the coffee grinder into Tim’s lap and watched as the ritual was silently completed. When the coffee was safely in the cups he said, ‘So what next?’

  ‘Go and see her again, I suppose.’

  ‘But she’s already said she doesn’t want to see you until after Schools.’

  ‘She also said she wasn’t going to go out at all and was going to work all the time, but she was there tonight.’

  ‘The champagne will have annoyed her.’

  ‘Think so?’ Despite the off-handedness of his manner, talking about her made Tim’s stomach contract and his neck and shoulder muscles stiffen. Robert was sensitive but in an aggressive way; either he took no interest or he was remorseless. He asked questions with a directness that made Tim wince, yet left him unable not to reply. Tim’s attempts to retaliate fell flat because Robert seemed to answer as if he were not talking about himself. Tim tried nevertheless. ‘And Mrs Barry?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘That’s twice this week you’ve seen her.’

  ‘It’s easier the more pregnant she is.’

  ‘Dr Barry doesn’t mind?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to.’

  ‘Doesn’t give a damn, maybe. The bursar’s secretary gave him a lift again recently.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything.’ Robert was aware of sounding more forceful than he’d intended.

  Tim smiled. ‘Like you and Anne, perhaps.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  There was a knock at the door which Tim answered laconically. It was Hansford, a former school fellow who lived on the floor below. He and Tim had been in different houses at school and had hardly known each other but once at Oxford Hansford seemed to feel it important to maintain relations. He was something of a comic figure, very large and red-faced, with a voice that carried across two quads. Tim treated him with an amused tolerance which Hansford interpreted as friendship.

  ‘Got any milk, Tim?’

  ‘Plenty. Come in.’

  Hansford nearly tripped on the light flex. ‘God, it’s dark in here.’ He opened the curtain slightly. ‘Sorry, my eyes aren’t up to much in the dark. Haven’t seen you for ages, Robert. Been away?’

  ‘No, I’ve been around. Nocturnally, anyway.’

  ‘Working hard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I am, you see, so I’m encouraging other people not to. I reckon if I really push it, really screw myself to the desk, I should get a third. What do you think of that, eh?’ He laughed abruptly.

  ‘You’re putting it that high?’

  Hansford sat heavily on the table. ‘I mean, I’ve got no illusions about the old grey matter. I was at the wrong end of the queue when they dished it out. Jolly lucky to be here at all, really, and if I leave with a degree I’ll be the first in my family that has.’ He laughed again and his red cheeks shook.

  They talked about Schools until Robert, becoming restless, changed the subject by asking Hansford what he wanted to do when he went down. Hansford talked for some minutes about law and accountancy before asking what they intended.

  ‘Travel round America,’ Tim said promptly. In fact, he had made no such decision but had found that people usually regarded this as enough of an occupation not to ask any more.

  ‘Haven’t thought about it,’ said Robert.

  ‘Not going into the Church?’

  Robert waved his hand from side to side as if he were still considering.

  Tim produced milk and Hansford got up to go. He was so large he seemed to threaten the proportions of the room. ‘Did you see that little creep Orpwood with his petition in hall tonight? I’m going to speak to the Dean about it. He should have been kicked out. I don’t think Mr Farrow realized what was going on or he would have told the Dean himself.’ Hansford belonged to a right-wing organization formed to counter what it saw as a threat to the university from the far Left. His and Orpwood’s dislike for each other was particularly personal, perhaps because they were from the same college. ‘Nasty little creep, isn’t he? Those bulging eyes. Vicious, don’t you think?’

  ‘He’s all right when he’s not evangelizing, when you get him alone,’ said Robert.

  ‘Mad, I reckon. Dangerous. You should see him at demos.’ Hansford straightened his cravat in the mirror and tugged at his shirt collar where it was caught inside his jacket. ‘What about the Ruskies walking all over the Middle East, then? Are we going to stand up to them, d’you think? Somebody will have to sometime. They’ll be swarming over Christ Church Meadow next.’

  ‘Look’s bad,’ said Tim, who paid no attention at all to news.

&nb
sp; ‘But I reckon they’ll back down when it comes to the crunch. They don’t want to go to war. They’re frightened of America.’ He put down the milk and pulled with both hands at his collar. ‘Bloody thing always gets caught. Anyway, we should let ’em have it if they want it. As long as we believe we will they’ll believe it too and that’s the best form of deterrence.’ He picked up the milk again. ‘Many thanks, Tim. I’ll repay you tomorrow. Cheers. Bye, Robert.’

  The room was quiet again. ‘What time is your rehearsal?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes ago. In Lincoln.’ Robert stood.

  ‘Drop by for a drink when you’re back. I’ll be up.’

  ‘I’ll look for the light.’

  ‘No need. I’ll be up. Won’t be doing anything.’

  The play was Middleton’s and Rowley’s The Changeling. Robert was directing it for the college drama society and had chosen it, he said, because it was dark, difficult and intense. Pressed, he would become evasive and facetious and say that, having none of those qualities himself, he sought them elsewhere.

  In part, it was an attempt to fill the gap left by Anne but was already in this respect a failure. Although it took up most of his time, she still dominated his thoughts. When people told him he was committing academic suicide he would run his hand through his hair, nod, and ask them about their own work. Of his own, he said nothing. He did just enough to get through his twice-weekly tutorials. He attended no lectures, was not seen in Chapel and no longer spoke of going on to theological college. It was as if something within him had stopped and he was simply coasting, though he had become more energetic and active in apparently disparate ways.

  There was a cast of twenty in The Changeling including servants and madmen, and it was to go on in the Newman Rooms, a large hall opposite Christ Church, often hired out for plays. The problems were endless: the publicity budget alone was now greater than the entire budget of any other play Robert had directed; the set had had to be redesigned; the designer had disappeared and there was talk of nervous collapse in Newport; the lighting firm had double-booked and its replacement was half again as expensive; one of the main characters had developed glandular fever and his substitute was barely adequate; the wardrobe mistress had hired lavishly from the Bristol Old Vic rather than from the local costumier; the madhouse scenes and the entire sub-plot were – as Michael Mann had warned – under-rehearsed and out of control. Finally, the publicity man had illegally stuck a poster on Wadham College door which had resulted in Robert receiving a formal summons from someone called the University Marshal. He had sent the publicity man instead who, wearing cap and gown, had had to apologize and submit to a fine. There was now an argument as to whether the drama society should pay it for him.

  Most urgent, though, was the relationship between the two central characters, Beatrice and De Flores. The play stood or fell by this. Robert believed – at least, often said – that great drama consisted in the creation of great moments, that scenes should be built around those that contained the play’s essence. So far the great moments were either being missed or were embarrassingly gauche. Yet they were essential. What Beatrice loathed in De Flores was what she saw of herself in him, and this he used to bind her closer. The idea appealed strongly to Robert, but he could not make it work.

  That night’s rehearsal was in a dark-panelled room which they were able to book easily because all but one of the madmen were at Lincoln. It was L-shaped and had a raised floor at one end so that when the chairs and tables were pushed back there was just enough room to act on the raised part. The oak panelling, lit but not illuminated by wall lamps, suited the play well.

  People in Oxford were usually unpunctual and none but those who did not learn the habit was ever inconvenienced. When Robert arrived only Alsemero and De Flores were present. De Flores was played by an historian from Worcester called Malcolm who had done well as Mirabel in The Way of the World the previous term. Robert had cast him on the strength of that, ignoring a poor audition, and had so far admitted his mistake to no one. From the first rehearsal there had been something irritatingly lightweight about Malcolm. He lacked the surpressed, brooding, dangerous quality essential for the part. De Flores’s bitter and ironical self-awareness was reduced by Malcolm to a nervous, jaunty, self-obsessed pirouetting. He acted as if before a mirror and needed to be far more compelling to make his conquest of Beatrice credible.

  Nor was it simply a matter of miscasting. Robert knew he had given Malcolm less attention than he needed. Instead, most of his energy was directed towards Gina, who played Beatrice. She was an exciting actress with a strong low voice and an emphasis and timing that were instinctive and sure. In herself she was abrupt, remote, difficult to know; but on stage she was fluent and malleable. When Robert demonstrated what he wanted she responded with a mixture of proud refusal and implied acknowledgement, the grudging yielding which the play demanded. When she played opposite Malcolm, however, she was dull and mechanical, further shaking his already shaky confidence.

  Robert had decided he had to improve De Flores that night – in fact, to make or break him. It was impossible not to enjoy the exercise of power and the temptation to take over Malcolm’s part in rehearsals was almost too strong. He felt that if he indulged it he would deny the cast and the play any chance of independent life.

  Fortunately, it was not a full rehearsal with the full cast. Diaphanta and Jasperino arrived, then three others, but there was still no sign of Gina. He did not suspect her of being deliberately late, as if it were the leading lady’s prerogative, but he knew that not everyone would think so. She was respected but not universally popular.

  For some time no one spoke. They all looked tired and lethargic. The play was nearly a full-time occupation, on top of which they had their normal quota of essays and tutorials. Only Robert faced Schools.

  Malcolm pulled a silver pocket watch and chain from his jeans, pausing until everyone had noticed.

  ‘Gina’s as awkward off-stage as on it. Is it too much Stanislavsky or is she just making sure we all notice her?’

  The remark was obviously prepared and no one responded. Very soon afterwards, with the unconscious aptness of timing that characterized nearly everything she did, Gina pushed open the door and walked in without closing it. She took a chair by the empty fireplace and lit a cigarette, as if she were alone. Robert deliberately did not look up from his notes.

  Malcolm put away his watch and stretched himself, self-consciously examining his fingertips. ‘Which bit are we doing?’

  ‘All your major speeches,’ said Robert.

  ‘All mine? Why?’

  ‘To get them right.’

  ‘But we’ve got . . .’

  ‘And everyone else will play the parts opposite you, reading if necessary, dead-pan. No acting, no expression. They’ll sit in chairs and say their lines like robots. So you can act your heart out before them.’

  There was a stir of interest. Malcolm looked to the others in bewildered appeal, then back to Robert. ‘I don’t see the point. It’s no good dead-pan. There’s nothing for me to bounce off, no spark. It’ll be like acting before Stonehenge.’

  ‘Exactly. All the life and spark will come from you. De Flores is the motive force in the play. Go right over the top and get used to it so that when everyone else is turning it on you’ll still be predominant.’

  ‘You don’t need me, then,’ said Gina.

  ‘I do.’ He realized he should have said ‘we’. ‘You can respond very flatly.’

  ‘Anyone can do that. Doesn’t matter who responds. I’ve got an essay to write for tomorrow. We could all respond flatly.’

  ‘You more than anyone.’

  They had spoken quietly without looking up. They glanced at each other, very quickly, and Robert continued to read his notes. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gina stub out her cigarette in the fireplace and get up. He did not know whether she would stay or walk out. In a few words he had created a crisis that could be decisive for the whol
e production. It was easy. Although his heart was thumping against his ribs he felt as detached as if it didn’t really matter at all.

  Gina walked slowly to the chair on the raised floor. ‘Let’s get on with it, then.’

  ‘I’ll need a few minutes to warm up,’ said Malcolm. Like many actors he put great stress on physical and mental preparation. He believed in exercising together and touching each other. Robert did not believe in it but permitted it. The cult of sincerity and empathy always irritated him though he had never asked himself why. Acting was pretending. It required practice, drill, repetition. No one could rely on precise mental tuning or empathy for every performance. It was, he thought, self-deceit to claim identification with an imaginary character. To be convincing night after night required responses that were well-rehearsed, almost automatic. Sincerity was a luxury.

  ‘No warm up.’

  Malcolm was disbelieving. ‘I can’t do it cold. I can’t go into it just like that.’

  ‘You can. Try.’

  ‘But just a few minutes by myself is all I need. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Try it. You’ll surprise yourself. Do it in front of Gina alone to start with.’

  He stared until Malcolm looked away. Getting people to do what they didn’t want was usually a matter of insistence and repetition. Robert’s determination to see De Flores as he would have him coincided now with a desire, so far unacknowledged, to impress Gina.

  Malcolm started. He went through his first speech while Gina sat on the chair and responded with the indifference and lack of expression that characterized her social dealings with him. The spectacle of cruelty purged the cast of apathy. They lined the panelled walls and looked on in attentive silence.

  At the end of his speech Malcolm turned to Robert. ‘It’s no good. It doesn’t work – you can hear it doesn’t.’

  ‘Go on with the next one.’

  Malcolm gabbled through it, started on the third, then stopped. He held up his hands. ‘Look, this is pointless. I can’t act in a vacuum. It’s not possible.’

  ‘You’re being precious.’

  ‘Oh, come on . . .’