achievement was felt by every one of them. Not only had he mastered the lines, he had also delivered the speech with greater power than it had ever received, either by him in rehearsal, or by Alex in performance. And yet Alex had contributed. Something of his timing, something of his delivery had come into Michael Banks’s performance, giving it new depth and stature. The applause was for the joint effort.
It was five to three. Paul Lexington held up his hands for silence. His glowing face showed that he was aware of the breakthrough. ‘I think we’re going to be all right. We’ll stop it there. Thank you all for your hard work. Bobby’ll be here in a minute, and I want you all to give him a performance that’ll blast him out of his seat!’
The run was not perfect, but it was good. Occasionally the timing between Alex and Michael went and the star lost his lines, but for most of the play the flow was maintained. Bobby Anscombe, who had reacted badly when he had first heard of the deaf-aid idea, was forced to admit at the end that it might work. Like everyone else, he recognised that there was no alternative.
‘O.K.,’ he announced to everyone in his usual grudging style. ‘We’re still in business. Just. But you’re all going to have to work a darned sight harder. The last week’s rehearsal has been a virtual write-off, and you’re meant to be facing a preview audience on Monday.’
‘You think we go ahead with that?’ asked Paul Lexington. Clearly cancelling the previews had been one option the producers had discussed.
‘We’ll go ahead. The show needs the run-in, and even if it’s bad, there won’t be too much word-of-mouth outside the business. And any word-of-mouth’d be better than what we’ve got at the moment. What the hell’s happening on the publicity front?’ He rounded on his co-producer as he asked the question.
‘Show-Off say it’s all in hand.’
‘A bit late to have it in hand. It should be out of hand and all over the bloody media by now. Is
‘Micky’s doing
The star acknowledged this information with an exhausted nod.
‘. . and then there’s supposed to be an interview in Atticus in
‘Better than nothing, but where are the bloody posters?’
‘Apparently some delay about those. You know, the people who put them up are quite difficult to organise.’
‘I know that. .’
‘But it’s supposed to be sorted out now.’
‘I should bloody well hope so. We open on Thursday and at the moment we’ve made about as much noise as a fart in a hurricane.’ Bobby Anscombe turned to Peter Hickton. ‘All set for the get-in at the Variety tonight?’
The Director nodded with relish at the prospect of a sleepless night of hard work.
‘Tech. run tomorrow night and D.R. Monday afternoon?’
‘That’s it,’ Peter Hickton confirmed.
‘Hmm. Well, for God’s sake see that Micky and Alex get some practice with that bloody walkie-talkie tomorrow afternoon. There’s a long way to go before it sounds natural.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Paul Lexington diplomatically. ‘We’ll sort it out. This is going to be a show you’ll be proud to be associated with, Bobby.’
The investor barked a short, cynical laugh. ‘Bloody well better be. Don’t forget, Paul, we still haven’t got a contract. I can still pull out if I don’t like it.’
‘Yes, sorry about that. There’s been so much on this week I just haven’t had time to get the details of the contract finalised.’
Charles wondered whether this was true or whether Paul Lexington was once again using delaying tactics for devious reasons of his own. Distrust of the producer was now instinctive.
Bobby Anscombe gave an evil grin. ‘I don’t mind having no contract if you don’t. Gives me the freedom to walk out at will.’
But nobody believed his threat. They all knew that
CHAPTER EIGHT
There’s nothing like a long Technical Run to dissipate any euphoria attached to a theatrical production, and that was the effect of the one held for
As is often the case with such events, it started late. Peter Hickton had had trouble with the resident stage crew at the Variety over the Saturday night. He was used to working with crews who knew him and who, like his casts, were prepared to work round the clock to achieve the effects he desired. The staff of the Variety did not have this attitude. They had no personal loyalty to him and were too strongly unionised to accept his way of working. Peter Hickton, unaware that co-operation could be bought by payment of ‘negotiated extras’, responded to the crew’s apparent lethargy by throwing one of his tantrums, which had only served to make them less willing to help out. Paul Lexington and Wallas Ward had had to devote much energy to smoothing ruffled feathers, nobody had got much sleep, and everything was way behind schedule.
When eventually, after ten o’clock at night, the run started, it was very slow. Apart from the unfamiliarity of the entrances and exits and the other customary problems for the cast, Peter Hickton had not had time to complete the lighting plot, so much of that was being done in the course of the run, which meant endless waits while new lighting settings were agreed. This left the cast standing around; they got bored and giggly, which set off explosions of bad temper from the technical staffs working around them. The atmosphere degenerated.
Members of the resident stage crew wandered round, looking at their watches and making dark remarks about amateurism and provincial rep. and the folly of trying to bring in a show so quickly and the unlikelihood of its being presentable in time for the Monday night preview.
Paul Lexington rushed around, also looking at his watch and working out how much overtime he was going to have to pay (or, to Charles’s suspicious mind, how much overtime he was going to avoid paying).
The latest technical innovation, the deaf-aid transmitter, did not make things any easier. For a start, the resident sound engineer didn’t like it, because he hadn’t been consulted about its introduction and he maintained that he should be responsible for all sound equipment. This led to a circuitous discussion with Paul Lexington about whether it was sound equipment or not, which was only settled after much wrangling (and, almost definitely, money changing hands).
But even when its use had been approved, it didn’t work as it should. Michael Banks, who by this time looked terminally tired, seemed to have lost the knack of timing which he had so laboriously achieved the day before, and so his lines were once again all over the place. Alex, from his position in the wings, was not concentrating as much and could not easily be kept informed about when they were stopping and starting, going back to rehearse lighting changes and so on, with the result that he was often feeding the wrong words.
Setting the transmitter’s volume level was also a problem. If it was too low, Michael kept mishearing lines and producing bizarre variations, many of which would, under other circumstances, have been funny, and did in fact produce some snorts of ill-advised laughter from the overwrought cast. If the level was set too high, Michael could hear all right, but unfortunately so could the rest of the theatre, in a sort of ghostly pre-echo.
But the climax of technical disaster came, as the climax always did, with the Hooded Owl speech. Charles was out in front and saw what happened.
It was then getting on for three in the morning, but in the last quarter of an hour things had been getting better. With the end of the play in sight, everyone seemed to get a second (or possibly tenth) wind. Michael Banks, for the first time in the run, showed some signs of his real power as the Hooded Owl speech drew near.
‘But, Father,’ said Lesley-Jane, ‘you will never be forgotten.’
‘Oh yes. Oh yes, I will.
