Lovers Make Moan

“First, he’s the best male actor we’ve got and Yorke can’t afford to upset him; second, he’s a heel; third, he was mixed up in some unsavoury case concerning a young girl. I note that Yorke keeps an eye on things where Yolanda is concerned. Rinkley has already stirred me to action, as you know.”

“Not only that. If he continues to make snide remarks about Robina Lester, her son, young David, is going to blow up.”

“Well, Robina does over-act, and the workmen’s scenes really are Rinkley’s, you know.”

“But it’s not his business to correct her. That’s Brian’s job. I’m sure that as soon as everybody is word-perfect and we really get our teeth into the play, he’ll tone her down.”

“Anyway, Rinkley is just as rude to Susan Hythe and Caroline Frome as he is to Robina.”

“I know, and that doesn’t help matters. Young David has taken a protective attitude towards those two girls ever since the first reading. Haven’t you noticed?”

‘Of course, but they have no time for anybody but Tom Woolidge, I thought.”

‘That won’t stop David lying in wait for Rinkley in a dark alley one night if he keeps on twitting them the way he does. As for Thisbe, she isn’t very good at present, but once she gets the feel of the part she’ll be all right. All the workmen will. It’s a nuisance we have to put three women in as Flute, Snout and Starveling, but it’s Hobson’s choice. There simply are not enough men to go round.”

“Men won’t accept minor roles in an amateur show. I think it’s rather noble of Lynn, considering he’s putting up all the money, merely to have cast himself as Quince. I should have thought he would opt for Theseus, at the very least, if only from the costume point of view.”

“I expect he realises his limitations as an actor.”

“He’s about the only one of the cast who does, then. Why are amateur actors always so damned conceited?”

“Donald Bourton does make love to me on stage,” said Deborah suddenly, “but he behaves perfectly off it, and that’s all that matters.”

“I hope it stays that way for his sake.”

“You are not to treat him the way you treated Rinkley.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I should really hurt him. Anyway, it’s getting late. ‘Lovers, to bed. ’Tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn.’ Not that I think there’s much chance of it while Rosamund and Edmund are in the house and raising hell the minute the sun rises, if not earlier.”

“I only wish I had half their energy. Still, we don’t bear all the brunt, do we? Carey and Jenny have been awfully good, and Aunt Adela is to have them after they’ve been to Scotland.”

“And now,” said Brian Yorke, “that we all have some idea of our parts, do, please, darlings, put away those scripts and let us see how far we can get without them, shall we?”

“I can’t get anywhere without mine,” wailed Susan Hythe. “I know my lines, but I don’t know where to come in.”

“We’ll all help you, dear,” said the motherly Robina Lester. “What I want to know,” she went on, turning to Brian Yorke, “is what happens if one of us, particularly somebody in a major role, goes sick or, for any other reason, can’t turn up on the night.”

“I’ve thought about that,” said Brian. “You had better double as Hippolyta if Valerie can’t be with us.”

“How can I? It’s all right in the early scenes, but we’re on together in the last scene.”

“We can adjust the dialogue in the last scene so that Hippolyta doesn’t appear. In the same way, Susan had better familiarise herself with Hermia’s part, and Caroline, you’ll have to be the stand-in for Helena. The women’s gaps will be easy enough to fill.”

“What about Titania?” asked Donald Bourton, making a gesture indicating a desire to put an arm round Deborah.

“Again, perfectly simple. Valerie had better learn her lines. Hippolyta and Titania don’t come on together. No, it’s the men we have to cater for. It’s a pity the play needs nine of them. As it is, we have to give men’s parts to Robina, Caroline and Susan, not to mention little Yolanda as Philostrate, but I’m sure the ladies will do fine. Now, to double up on the men’s roles—the actual, real men’s men I mean—I think the basic part to cover is Bottom.”

“I should hope so!” said Rinkley, with an unpleasant snigger.

“Well, it can’t be me,” said Tom Woolidge. “I am no good at all in a comedy part. Passed to you, partner.”

“Oh, all right,” said Jonathan, “but if I read my fellow Thespian aright, nothing short of a third world war will prevent him from displaying his talents.”

“Too right, dear boy,” said Rinkley. “Even if I’m dead, I shan’t lie down.”

The company then went into rehearsal again and, when it was over at ten, Jonathan and Deborah invited Lynn and his Emma, Yorke and his Valerie, Bourton and his Barbara—all the married couples, in short, to stay for drinks. It was at this friendly little session that what turned out to be a momentous decision was made.

“You know, Jonathan,” said Yorke, looking at his handsome, saturnine host, “I don’t think you have the face for comedy. If you ever have to stand in for Pyramus, I mean.”

Jonathan walked over to a mirror and solemnly scrutinised himself.

“Not the face for comedy? Perhaps you are right,” he said, turning round. “Anyway, as I said to Rinkley, the occasion will not arise. Nothing is going to prevent Rinkley from treading the boards.”

“Actually,” said Donald Bourton, “I could fill in for him, you know, if it ever came to the crunch. He is in scenes with Titania and Puck, but never with Oberon. I’ve always wanted to play Bottom.”

“But your fatal good looks have always been against you,” said his wife, giving him a playful flick on the