Fault in the Structure (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

“Well,” she said gaily, “if everybody will take a seat, we can get on without wasting time. I think Hamilton is ready to open the meeting. There seems to be a good many books and scripts in evidence, so that means plenty of suggestions, I hope, for the Festival play. Of course, the subject matter must not compete with my ideas for the Guild pageant, but I shall be able to put the brake on there, as the Guild plans are almost complete. Now, Hamilton, I think we are all ready to begin.”

  “Thank you, Clarice,” said Hamilton Haynings angrily. “Well, I am open to—I mean, I declare the meeting open for any suggestions. First of all, we have to decide whether we are to do a Festival play at all. Most of you seemed to be in favour, but some may have changed their minds.”

  “Of course we’re going to do a Festival play,” said Melanie Cardew, that haggard, intense spinster of twenty-nine. She received a chorus of support from the woman members. The men were less enthusiastic.

  “I thought I’d mentioned at the last meeting that we’d settled on our next production,” said Rodney Crashaw. “I repeat that we have settled upon Othello and that I’ve already learnt half my lines. Why go back on our arrangements?”

  “I never agreed with Othello,” said Melanie, still sore that she had not been offered the part of Desdemona, although this was for reasons obvious to everybody except herself.

  “Neither did I,” said Stella Walker, a dark-haired, pretty, witless girl of twenty. “Look what a frost Hedda Gabler was! The classics are all very well, I suppose, but you don’t want to overdo them just because royalties don’t have to be paid.”

  “If you had to manage the finances of this society,” began Ernest Farrow.

  “Please, please!” said the chairman.

  “I agree,” said Sybil Gartner, who was studying to become a professional singer. “Othello was a mistake. It isn’t a play for amateurs, any more than Hedda, and Hedda was a complete mess. Why can’t we do a musical?”

  Marigold Tench, who had taken the main part in Hedda Gabler, got up and walked out of the room.

  “Oh, dear! Now I’ve put my foot in it, but, honestly, I meant nothing personal,” protested Sybil, who was often in rivalry with Marigold both in the interests of Melpomene and Eros. “Hedda was a flop. We couldn’t fill the hall any one of the three nights and those people who did come hadn’t a good word to say for the production. Anyway, what about a musical? I mean, what’s the use of calling ourselves an operatic society if we never get a chance to sing? The last three shows have all been straight plays, so wouldn’t it be a good idea…”

  “The members know quite well why we can’t often do a musical,” said the treasurer desperately. “It’s the expense. We have to hire an orchestra and a conductor. When we did Rose-Marie we were in the red for three years. I ought to know, I had the accounts to do. We had to borrow from the bank to pay most of our expenses, and if…”

  “Yes,” said the disgruntled Crashaw, a bearded, dark-haired, saturnine man, “I agree. If Ernest hadn’t worked like a beaver to sell the tickets and cut our losses wherever he could, and if I myself—although I hate to remind you—hadn’t guaranteed us…”

  “Please, please!” shouted the chairman, rapping irritably on the teacher’s table as a chorus broke out. “We have no time for these arguments. And,” he added, looking at Crashaw, whose elegantly bearded chin was elevated in purposeful fashion, “you may recollect that it was also my influence which caused the bank to tide us over. We all know what an excellent treasurer Ernest is, and that Rodney is, apart from myself, our most affluent member, but do let us forget all that for the moment and get down to business. I declare the meeting open for suggestions and general discussion. We must have order and method.”

  “Quite so,” agreed Mrs. Blaine. “I suggest that all who have anything to put forward should occupy the front of the room. I will write up all the suggestions on the blackboard and then we can vote upon them.”

  Without waiting for any reply, she took her place at the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk from a box which was on the teacher’s (now the chairman’s) table and prepared to do as she had said.

  “An excellent suggestion, Clarice,” said the chairman, annoyed at this blatant usurpation of his rights, “except that I think the meeting had better be left in my hands and that any writing had better be left to the secretary.”

  “I still don’t see why we can’t do Blithe Spirit,” said Melanie Cardew, resting her haggard gaze upon the chairman. She was proud of her ravaged looks and thought of herself as a femme fatale.

  “That’s been answered,” said Haynings. “The effects would be impossible to manage.”

  “Only so far. I mean, nobody is going to expect a London production. A lot of tulle, or even butter-muslin, could be draped around Elvira and somebody could agitate the backcloth…”

  Mrs. Blaine, refusing to resume her seat, wrote Blithe Spirit on the blackboard and, to signify her own opinion of the suggestion, placed a large, almost insolent question mark against it. This started the ball rolling. Suggestions came fast and furious and so did the objections to them.

  “The Importance of Being Ernest,” said a member.

  “Far too elegant and mannered. We’d never pull it off after people have seen Dame Edith and Sir Laurence and all that lot,” said another.

  “What about The Dover Road?”

  “Only six characters, apart from the footmen and chambermaids. Besides, there’s no body to it. Nothing to get your teeth into.”

  “Body? Yes, what about a thriller? Murder always goes down well,” said a young man.

  “A comedy-thriller! The Cat and the Canary?” shouted his friend.

  “Night Must Fall?”

  “We’d never pull it off. That’s a play for professionals. Where would we find an Emlyn Williams?”

  “Why don’t we do another pantomime?” asked a large blonde who claimed that before her retirement from it, she had been on the professional stage. “Aladdin would be nice. I could do the name part, with a bit of song and dance thrown in, and Tad—”

  “You shouldn’t use pet names in public, Miss Mabelle,” said Othello hastily. “When we were kids in the States,” he explained unnecessarily to the company at large, “I was called by my second name, Frederick, Freddy for short. Well, I couldn’t say Freddie when I was a tiny tot, so it got distorted.”

  “Sorry, love,” said the blonde. “All I meant was that you could play Abanazar, the wicked uncle. You’d do that grand.”

  “We couldn’t put on a pantomime in the middle of summer,” said Mrs. Blaine firmly. “I shall not write that suggestion on the board.”

  “Sorry I spoke,” said the blonde disagreeably. She was the wardrobe and make-up mistress and seldom got a part.

  “If we’re calling it the Caxton Festival,” said a solidly-built man named James Hunty, a local house-agent and a close friend of the president, “I think, Hamilton, we ought to do something more or less in the Caxton period. What’s wrong with Saint Joan? I could take the Earl of Warwick and…”

  “Far too expensive a production,” said Ernest Farrow. “Our finances would never run to it. Think of all those fifteenth-century costumes and the armour and all that.”

  “Besides,” put in the youth who was responsible for the stage effects, “think of that scene on the bank of the Loire when, by a miracle, the wind changes. Remember that pennon on the lance? If anything goes wrong with that pennon the whole point of the scene is lost and you all know what a damned draught there is on the town hall stage.”

  “I do. I went all gooseflesh when I had to play Titania in the Dream,” said one of the girls.

  “Well, you would play it all diaphanous,” said Melanie. “Actually, you were hardly decent with the light behind you.”

  “Some are more fortunate in their figures than others.”

  “I heard some remarks passed that you wouldn’t have cared for, I can tell you.”

  “Please, ladies!” said the chairman.


  “I remember that draught,” said young Tom Blaine. “I had to play Puck stripped to the waist…”

  “Which I had forbidden you to do,” said his mother, pointing her piece of blackboard chalk at him in a menacing manner.

  “Please!” reiterated the chairman desperately. “If you all go on like this we shall get nothing settled. Are there any further suggestions before we take a vote?”

  “Bags I Saint Joan,” said Stella Walker, “but, if you settle for that, you’ll have to cut quite a lot of it. There’s that boring scene in Warwick’s tent between him and Cauchon, for example. Our sort of audience could never be expected to sit through that.”

  “Shaw knew nothing about the Middle Ages, anyway,” said a young man named Robert Eames.

  “If there are no more suggestions,” said the president desperately, “I really think…”

  “Oh, but we must have some more suggestions, Mr. chairman interpolated the scribe at the blackboard. “To my mind we have not heard one sensible voice so far.”

  “Why don’t we do three one-acts?” said Geoffrey Channing. “We tried that at school in my last year and they went like a bomb.”

  “We tried it, too, four years ago,” said the secretary. “It was hardly a success. The people in the first play felt that their evening was over much too soon, and those in the middle play complained that the first play hadn’t got the audience sufficiently warmed up, and as for the last play…”

  “Yes, I remember the last play,” said Melanie bitterly. “I was the only woman in it and all the men had spent the first two plays in the pub and came on stage absolutely sloshed. I should think the people in the seventh row of the stalls could smell them and I had to be made love to by one of them. Ugh!”

  “Why not a revue?” asked Stella Walker, giggling. “You know—take off the politicians and some of the people in this town. It would be a riot, I’ll bet.”

  “It probably would cause one,” said the treasurer, “besides letting us in for several libel actions. I definitely think we must rule out that suggestion.”

  “I still think we ought to do a musical,” said Sybil Gartner, sticking to her guns.

  “Porgy and Bess,” suggested Geoffrey Channing. “I wouldn’t mind blacking up in a good cause.”

  “The audience would mistake us for the Black and White Minstrels,” said Robert Eames. “They sing, too, you know.”

  The chairman called the meeting to order again. Clarice Blaine wrote Porgy and Bess on the blackboard and added an even bigger and more offensive question mark against it than the one which already criticised Blithe Spirit.

  “I beg your pardon if I am out of order, Mr. Chairman,” said the newly-joined member, “but what is the object of holding a Caxton Festival? He had no connection with Hampshire, had he? I thought he set up his printing-press at Westminster.”

  “Ah, Dr. Denbigh,” said Mrs. Blaine, before the chairman could reply, “there-by hangs a very interesting tale. We actually have a William Caxton living in our midst—well, very nearly in our midst—and as the printing-press is now five hundred years old—1476 to 1976, you know—I decided that a festival must be held with our very own William Caxton as the principal figure. So far I have been unable to persuade him to take part, but I am determined that he can and shall be in the forefront.

  “There aren’t those dreadful royalties on Gilbert and Sullivan nowadays,” said Sybil, still hopeful of getting her way by sheer persistence. “Why don’t we do The Yeomen of the Guard?”

  There was a chorus made up in almost equal parts of approval, disapproval and suggestions for other Gilbert and Sullivan operas.

  “Gilbert and Sullivan? It’s been done to death on the telly.”

  “All the amateur operatic societies do it.”

  “You can’t beat Gilbert and Sullivan if you want to fill the house.”

  “The Yeomen of the Guard isn’t funny. What about The Mikado?”

  “Iolanthe for my money. The policeman song always brings the house down, so what about that?”

  “You’re thinking of ‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’ That doesn’t come in Iolanthe. You mean the sentry. You know—‘And every little boy and gal that’s born into this world alive,’ but now there’s a Labour Party that song has lost its point, and that’s true of most of Gilbert’s jokes.”

  “What about The Gondoliers? Prettier music and more amusing clothes.” So on and so forth amid pandemonium until the chairman, with more difficulty this time, once again called the meeting to order.

  “We’ve been given plenty of ideas,” he said. “We will take them one by one for a show of hands.”

  “Excellent,” said Clarice. “I will write up the number of votes for each one and then we can eliminate the least fancied titles and vote upon the rest.”

  “Why can’t we do The Duenna?” demanded Sybil rebelliously.

  “Your Gilbert and Sullivan suggestion is on the board, dear,” Clarice pointed out. “Do you wish to change it? You cannot give us more than one suggestion.”

  “She can’t make a musical suggestion at all,” said the treasurer desperately. “Apart from all the other expenses, the chorus, as well as the principals, would have to be costumed.”

  “They can make their own dresses. The women mostly do,” retorted Sybil hotly.

  “There would have to be a paid orchestra.

  “Oh, nonsense! Chamber music would be quite enough in the town hall which we use. What’s the matter with a violin or two, a cello and a piano? Surely we can rustle up those without paying them!”

  “A full orchestra is absolutely essential,” persisted Ernest unhappily, “and that means a paid conductor. It’s all quite out of the question.”

  “Before we commit ourselves to ruling out a musical piece,” said Dr. Denbigh quietly, “I wonder whether I might be allowed to make a suggestion? As you may or may not know, I am in charge of the music at the Chardle College of Education, so if I supply extra choristers, the full College orchestra, and myself as guest conductor—all, needless to say, free of charge—is there any reason why Miss Gartner should not have her way? To my mind, a festival definitely calls for music.”

  “Why, what a wonderful idea!” cried Sybil joyously. There was a general murmur of appreciation from all those who could sing in tune and from some who could not.

  “Perhaps you have a favourite piece in your mind that you would like us to perform,” said Clarice graciously, as she poised her piece of chalk.

  “Certainly I have,” Denbigh coolly replied. “I have made my own arrangement of tunes for the songs in John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera, and it would give me enormous pleasure to see how my bits and pieces would sound in the town hall.”

  “Our own composer!” breathed Clarice ecstatically. She cleaned the blackboard with a dramatic flourish. There is no need to take a vote, I’m sure. However—all those in favour of The Beggar’s Opera raise your hands! Oh, splendid!”

  “Bags I Polly Peachum,” said Sybil.

  “Oh, but, hang it all!” protested a man. “I do think we ought to vote on all the propositions. What about those of us who don’t sing? Mrs. Gavin, you’ll support me, I’m sure.”

  “But I’m sure Laura can sing,” said Melanie.

  “She can caterwaul, you mean,” said Laura. “Still, I do think, with all respect to Dr. Denbigh and many thanks for his very sporting offer, that we ought to keep to the original agreement and vote on the various suggestions. There are at least seven soloists in The Beggar’s Opera, so I’m all in favour of doing it, but I think we ought to vote.”

  “But it will come to the same thing in the end,” said Sybil, “so where’s the sense of going through the entire list? Anyway, Clarice has cleaned the blackboard.”

  “I have made my own list,” said the secretary. “How am I directed from the chair? Shall I read the suggestions one by one?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Gavin is quite right, of course,” said Haynings. “However much of a fore
gone conclusion it may be, we must vote as agreed. Sit down, please, Clarice, and vote with the others.”

  “Very well, Hamilton,” said Mrs. Blaine, seating herself uncomfortably at a very small desk. “It is only a formality, this voting, I am sure, but it is as well to leave no loopholes for future criticism.”

  “Although I am to read out the items, I take it that I may vote,” said Cyril. He cleared his throat and began to read from his list. There were twenty members present and of these eleven voted for The Beggar’s Opera. There were four abstentions. The rest of the voters opted for straight plays because they could see no part for themselves in a musical production.

  As soon as the issue was clear, Denbigh, at the chairman’s invitation, took charge of the meeting. It seemed as though he had anticipated the result of the voting, for his plans appeared to be fully developed and he explained them modestly but with an authority which brooked no argument. So sure of himself was he that his suggestions were received without demur. Even Clarice Blaine remained quiescent for once. Her only contribution was:

  “I shall be stage manager, as usual, I take it, so when next we meet I hope to be told what the opera is about, for I have to confess I have never heard of it. You would hardly call it a classic, I suppose.”

  “That, I think, is because the airs were based originally on popular tunes which would have been familiar to eighteenth-century ears, but are not what we think of as classical music,” said Denbigh courteously. “The piece is called an opera, but there is a considerable amount of speaking interspersed with solos and duets. There is very little chorus work. In fact, a comedy with satirical undertones and including songs might be a more apt way of describing it than referring to it as an opera, Mrs. Blaine.”

  “It sounds very pretty and pleasant,” said Clarice graciously. “The Beggar’s Opera! A gypsy rhapsody, perhaps?”

  “No. It is set in a poor part of London.”

  “Really? How very interesting. I trust there is nobody like Bill Sykes in it!”

  “Oh, no. There is nobody in the least like Bill Sykes and, except for a parage of prisoners who are celebrating a stay of execution, all the personages of the drama are clean and well-dressed.”