This thought came into Charles’s already overcrowded mind, and he found himself looking off into the wings, whence the fatal shot had come.
He was surprised how little he could see. The brightness of the light on stage made it difficult for him to focus, and a large spot, positioned to give the illusion of daylight from a window of the set, left the recesses of the wings in obscurity. Charles could not even see the A.S.M. who was reading his lines, though he knew the youth would be keeping him in view to watch for signs of difficulty. To be seen from the stage on the O.P. side, a person would have to stand very close to the edge of the set.
Lesley-Jane Decker had seen someone or something in the wings the previous night and it had made her scream. He felt sure of that. It wasn’t the sight of Michael Banks falling that had set her off. She had looked off- stage and then screamed.
Charles decided he must talk to her when the opportunity arose.
But the thoughts of detection were fatal to his concentration. He lost the line again and, though he tried to disguise the lapse with a dramatic move, he feared he had broken the tension of the scene.
But it was a good scene and, by the time he got to the Hooded Owl speech, he was back on course. He felt very emotional, caught up in his own acting and awareness of the speech’s significance from the night before. The emotion and power built through the lines.
As he turned to face the glass case, he felt every eye in the theatre on him.
‘. . This stuffed bird has always been in the room. Imagine it had perception, a memory to retain our follies. Oh God, the weakness that these walls have witnessed! And this bird has lived through it all, has seen it all, impassively, in silence.’
He reached for the case and took it in both hands.
‘Well, I’m not going to be spied on any longer!’
He dashed the Hooded Owl down on to the middle of the stage, where it shattered satisfyingly.
In the audience no one breathed. He had them exactly where every actor who ever lived wants his public, watching his every movement, letting him dictate their lives for a little moment.
He knew the speech had worked.
Probably it was because of what had happened in the play at that point on the previous night.
But was perhaps a little part of its success, he dared to hope, because he had done it rather well?
It was only when he got back to the star dressing room after the performance that Charles fully took in its luxurious appointments. It was wallpapered in a pleasing pattern and the chairs were painted gold with red velvet seats. There was an attractive screen in one corner. On the make-up table was that incredible rarity backstage — a telephone. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the dressing room turned out to be
Charles kept looking round for the room’s occupant. He still couldn’t believe it was him.
Members of cast rushed in and out, throwing their arms round him effusively. It wasn’t what usually happened to him after a performance. To his fury, he found he was crying.
Paul Lexington came in. ‘Terrific, Charles. Really bloody marvellous!’ And he thrust a brown paper parcel into his hands.
It felt like a bottle. It was a bottle. And a better bottle than he had dared hope. A large bottle of Bell’s whisky.
Charles realised that he had previously underestimated the young Producer’s sensitivity.
‘You like one now, Paul?’
‘No, thanks. Look, I’ve booked us all into the Italian place round the corner. Sort of thank you. See you there as soon as you can make it.’
‘Terrific. Thank you.’ Charles poured himself a large slug of whisky and downed it. It didn’t touch anything till his stomach, whence it sent out radiance.
Then he noticed that there was an envelope on his make-up table. Addressed ‘Charles Paris’, he was sure it hadn’t been there at the interval.
He tore the envelope open, his mind full of various pleasing conjectures. The letter lived up to none of them, though its contents were not unpleasing.
The notepaper was headed with a Knightsbridge address.
Dear Charles,
I gather that you are taking over tonight from poor Micky. Just wanted to drop you a note to say break a leg and all those other theatrical cliches. You are very brave to step into the breach.
Be nice to see you some time. If you’d like to meet up for a drink or something, do give me a call on the above number.
All the best for tonight, Dottie
Try as he might, he could not read the letter without feeling sexual overtones. Just as when she had spoken to him, the invitation seemed overt. And, in the heightened mood brought on by the success of his performance, it was an invitation he felt inclined to take up.
On the other hand, it was strange. . If he was reading it right, it was hardly the behaviour of a recently widowed woman, particularly one who had lost her husband in such dramatic circumstances. Even if they lived apart, surely. . Perhaps he was fantasising.
He looked at it again, searching for another reading. He found one, but didn’t like it, because it hinged on the word ‘brave’. Micky Banks had been shot dead on stage. Might his successor be ‘brave’ because he was laying himself open to the same fate. .?
There was a tap at the door. ‘Come in.’
He saw Frances in the mirror. With an instinctive and depressingly familiar reflex, he pushed Dottie’s letter under a towel and turned to greet his wife.
‘Good God. Were you out front?’
She nodded. ‘Charles, you were wonderful.’
Her arms were round his neck and her lips against his. Unwelcome tears threatened again to expose him for a big softie.
‘Oh, Frances.’
‘Charles.’
They swayed together. Very together.
‘You really did it. I knew you could. I’ve always known you could be much better than the sort of parts you usually play. And tonight you proved it.’
‘Thank you very much, Frances.’ He meant it. She was a shrewd lady and not over-generous with praise, so, when it came, he appreciated it the more.
‘I was really proud of you tonight, Charles.’
He felt embarrassed. ‘Would you like a drink or. .?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘We’re all going out for a meal. Now I come to think of it, I haven’t eaten anything all day. Nothing’s passed my lips since that cup of tea this morning.’
‘What about your old friend?’ Frances pointed to the bottle of Bell’s.
‘I’ve only just had one slug of that. Five minutes ago.’ Again his mind was clouded by the heresy that had struck him after the first night in Taunton. ‘Do you realise, Frances. .’ he said slowly, ‘I did that performance tonight without having had a single drink all day. .? And it was all right, wasn’t it?’
‘It was wonderful.’
‘Good Lord.’ He had to sit down because of the shock.
‘Perhaps.’ But the shock stayed with him. He had to have a long swig of Bell’s to shift it. ‘Well, what about coming out for a meal with all of us?’
‘No. Thank you, Charles. I have eaten and I’ve got to get back. Anyway, this’ll really be a cast thing. I’ll just be out of place.’
He didn’t attempt to deny it. Frances had been married to an actor long enough to know what she was talking about.
‘Well, look, we must meet soon.’
