Who Now? — a Disturbing New Play by Martin Warburton.
Brown Derby-Simply the Funniest Late-Night Revue on the Fringe.
There followed lists of dates, times and prices for this complicated repertoire, from which Charles deduced that the show he was replacing was Isadora’s Lovers. For some reason Lesley Petter was unable to Examine the Myth in Dance and Song. He felt annoyed that the poster had not been amended to advertise So Much Comic, So Much Blood. They had known he was coming for more than a week. And publicity is enormously important when you’re competing with about two hundred and fifty other shows.
The doorbell immediately produced a plain, roly-poly girl in irrevocably paint-spattered jeans.
‘Hello, I’m Charles Paris.’
‘Oh Lord, how exciting, yes. I’m Pam Northcliffe, Props. Just zooming down to the hall to make the axe for Mary. Going to build it round this.’ She waved a squeezy washing-up liquid bottle. ‘So the blood spurts properly.’
‘Ah.’
‘Brian’s in the office. Through there.’ She scurried off down the road, bouncing like a beach-ball.
The shining paint on the partitions of the hall was evidence that the house had only recently been converted into flats. The door marked ‘Office’ in efficient Letraset was ajar. Inside it was tiny, the stub-end of a room unaccounted for in the conversion plans. A young man in a check shirt and elaborate tie was busy on the telephone. He airily indicated a seat.
‘Look, I know it’s the weekend, I know you’re working every hour there is. So are we. It’s just got to be ready. Well, what time tomorrow? No, earlier than that. Midday…’
The wrangle continued. Charles looked at a large baize covered board with the optimistic Letraset heading, ‘What the Press says about D.U.D.S.’ So far the Press had not said much, which was
hardly surprising, because the Festival did not begin for another week. In the middle of the board was one cutting. A photograph of a girl, and underneath it: UNDERSTUDY STEPS IN
It’s an ill wind, they say, and it’s certainly blown some good the way of Derby University Dramatic Society’s Anna Duncan. When one of the group’s actresses Lesley Petter broke her leg in an accident last week, suddenly 20 -year-old Anna found she was playing two leading roles-in a play and a revue, both to be seen at the Masonic Hall in Lauriston Street when the Festival starts. Says Anna, ‘I’m really upset for poor Lesley’s sake, but it’s a wonderful chance for me. I’m very excited.’ And with lovely Anna on stage, Fringe-goers may get pretty excited too!
The reporter, whatever his shortcomings in style, was right about one thing. Even in the blurred photograph the girl really was lovely. She was pictured against the decorative railings of Coates Gardens. Slender body, long legs in well-cut jeans, a firm chin and expertly cropped blonde hair.
The telephone conversation finished and Charles received a busy professional handshake. ‘I’m Brian Cassells, Company Manager.’
‘Charles Paris.’
‘I recognised you. So glad you could step in at such short notice. Nice spread, that.’ He indicated the cutting. ‘Helps having a pretty girl in the group. Important, publicity.’
‘Yes,’ said Charles.
The edge in his voice was not lost on Brian Cassells. ‘Sorry about yours. That’s what I was on to the printer about. Posters and handouts ready tomorrow.’
‘Good. Did you get the stuff I sent up? The cuttings and so on.’
‘Yes. Incorporated some in the poster. They were very good.’
Yes, thought Charles, they were good. He particularly cherished the one from the Yorkshire Post. ‘There are many pleasures to be had at the York Festival, and the greatest of these is Charles Paris’ So Much Comic, So Much Blood.’
The Company Manager moved hastily on, as if any pause or small talk might threaten his image of efficiency. ‘Look, I’ll show you the sleeping arrangements and so on.’
‘Thanks. When will I be able to get into the hall to do some rehearsal?’
‘It’s pretty tied up tomorrow. Stella’s having a D.R. of the Dream. Then Mike’s in with Mary. That’s Tuesday morning. Tuesday afternoon should be O.K. Just a photo-call for Mary. A few dramatic shots of Rizzio’s murder, that sort of thing, good publicity. Shouldn’t take long.
The sleeping arrangements were spartan. The ground-floor rooms were filled with rows of ex-army camp- beds for the men, with the same upstairs for the girls. No prospects of fraternisation. ‘It’s not on moral grounds,’ said Brian, ‘just logistical. Kitchen and dining-room in the basement if you want a cup of coffee or something. I’d better get back. Got to do some Letrasetting.’
Charles dumped his case on a vacant camp-bed which wobbled ominously. The room had the stuffy smell of male bodies. It brought back National Service, the first dreary barracks he’d been sent to in 1945 to train for a war that was over before he was trained. He opened a window and enjoyed the relief of damp-scented air.
He felt much more than forty-seven as he sat over skinny coffee in the basement, surrounded by blue denim. An epicene couple were wrapped round each other on the sofa. A plump girl was relaxing dramatically on the floor. Three young men with ringlets were hunched over the table discussing The Theatre.
‘What it’s got to do is reflect society, and if you’ve got a violent society, then it’s got to reflect that.’
The reply came back in a slightly foreign accent. German? Dutch? ‘Bullshit, Martin. It’s more complex than that. The Theatre interprets events. Like when I’m directing something, I don’t just want to reflect reality. Not ordinary reality. I try to produce a new reality.’
Charles winced as the other took up the argument. ‘What is reality, though? I reckon if people are getting their legs blown off in Northern Ireland, if they’re starving in Ethiopia, you’ve got to show that. Even if it means physically assaulting the audience to get them to react.’
‘So where is the violence, Martin? On stage? In the audience?’
‘It’s everywhere. It’s part of twentieth-century living. And we’ve got to be aware of that. Even, if necessary, be prepared to be violent ourselves, in a violent society. That’s what my play’s about.’
‘That, Martin, is so much crap.’
The youth called Martin flushed, stood up and looked as if he was about to strike his opponent. Then the spasm passed and, sulkily, he left the room. Charles deduced he must be Martin Warburton, author of Who Now? a Disturbing New Play.
The other ringletted youth looked round for someone else to argue with. ‘You’re Charles Paris, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you think about violence in the theatre?’
‘There’s a place for it. It can make a point.’ Charles knew he sounded irretrievably middle-aged.
The youth snorted. ‘Yes, hinted at and glossed over in West End comedies.’
Charles was riled. He did not like being identified exclusively with the safe commercial theatre. His irritant continued. ‘I’m directing Mary, Queen of Sots. That’s got violence in perspective. Lots of blood.’ He turned on Charles suddenly. ‘You ever directed anything?’
‘Yes.’ With some warmth. ‘In the West End and most of the major reps in the country.’
‘Oh.’ Mary, Queen of Sots’ director was unimpressed. ‘What, long time ago?’
‘No, quite recently.’ Charles’ anger pushed him on. ‘In fact I’m currently considering a production of Hedda Gabler at the new Haymarket Theatre in Leicester.’
‘Big deal.’ The ringletted head drooped forward over a Sunday newspaper.
Without making too much of a gesture of it, Charles left the room. In the hall he checked with a D.U.D.S. programme for details of his antagonist.
Michael Vanderzee-After work in experimental theatre in Amsterdam and in Munich under Kostbach, he made his directorial debut in this country with Abusage by Dokke at the Dark Brown Theatre. He has been responsible for introducing into this country the works of Schmiss and Turzinski, and recently directed the latter’s Ideas Towards a Revolution of the Audience at the Theatre Upstairs. Drawing inspiration from the physical disciplines and philosophies of East and West, he creates a theatre indissolubly integrated with working life.
‘Huh,’ said Charles to himself. As he started towards his dormitory, a key turned in the front door lock and a middle-aged man in a sandy tweed suit appeared. He smiled and extended his hand. ‘Hello, you must be Charles
