would there be a long discussion about one of the straight scenes, and that was only if the opportunity was seen for another entrance by Tony Lumpkin.
‘Um, Christopher…’
‘Shut up, David. I’m thinking.’
‘Look, we want to get on with this first meeting between Young Marlow and Kate.’
‘Yes, I was thinking it might be better if Tony Lumpkin overheard this scene. I could be behind the screen and…’
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ snapped Mark Spelthorne. ‘This is one of the most famous scenes in English drama. It would make nonsense of the plot if Lumpkin overheard it. It wouldn’t add anything.’
Christopher Milton did not seem to hear the objection; he was still working the scene out in his own mind. ‘I mean, it’s not a very interesting scene, no jokes or anything. I think it could be improved with Lumpkin there.’
Mark Spelthorne grew apoplectic. ‘That’s a load of absolute balls!’
‘Um, Christopher,’ said David Meldrum tentatively, ‘I think we probably will be better off doing the scene as it is.’
‘Hmm.’ Again he was distant, still mentally planning. There was a long pause. ‘I’ll have a look at it.’ He moved from the centre of the stage, picked up his script and sat quietly in a corner looking at it. The rehearsals continued.
Such confrontations were not conducive to good feeling. Griff’s bar became a centre of disaffection and at any time of day there would be a little knot of actors there discussing their latest grievance against the star. Mark Spelthorne was always one of the most vociferous. ‘I mean, let’s face it, when Goldsmith wrote the play, he intended Young Marlow to be the hero. There’s no question about that. Which was why I took the part. Of course, my bloody agent didn’t check the script, just assumed that I would be playing the lead. At least one has the comfort that all this mucking about with the show is making a complete nonsense of it. It’ll never run. Doubt if we’ll actually come in, die quietly on the tour, I shouldn’t wonder. And that won’t do a great deal for the career of Mr Christopher Milton. Maybe teach him the dangers of over-exposure.’
‘I don’t know, Mark. He doesn’t actually do that much work. He’s very selective in what he does. Anyway, you can’t talk. You’re doing plenty yourself.’
‘Oh yes, that’s always a danger if one’s popular. Have to watch it. I mean, no doubt there’ll be another series of The Fighter Pilots. And then if this radio takes off…’
‘Oh yes, that was the pilot show. How did it go?’
‘Bloody marvellous. Really went a bomb. The planners’ll be fools to themselves if they turn that one down. So I suppose I’ll be stuck with doing a series of that early next year. Not that I mind. I mean, radio doesn’t take long and in fact I have quite an affection for it. The main thing is it’s comedy, and really comedy’s my best thing. The radio might persuade the telly boys how good I am at it. That’s the trouble in telly, they do so like to pigeonhole people. After this Fighter Pilots thing, they seem to think I’m only good for the handsome young hero type, whereas of course…’
There were plenty of others in the company with complaints about Christopher Milton, but Charles put it down to the ordinary ineffectual bitching of actors. No one seemed sufficiently motivated to want to sabotage the show. As time went on, Gerald’s fears seemed more and more insubstantial.
It was on the Tuesday of the fourth week of rehearsals that Charles began to wonder. By then the scale of the production had got larger. The dancers had joined the company, though they kept somewhat aloof in their self- contained, camp little world. None of them had identifiable parts, except for the prettiest girl who had been given the wordless role of Bet Bouncer. There had also been a music rehearsal with the full orchestra (‘We can’t afford more than one with the band, because of the expense’), and the musicians added another element of an alien culture. The rehearsals became more concerned with details. There were constant discussions with Derbyshire Wilkes, the designer, and Spike, the stage manager, about exact sizes of parts of the set. The pieces of tape which marked their outlines were constantly rearranged. Actors were continually being rushed off in taxis for final costume fittings. The whole production was building up to its first appearance in a theatre on the Saturday week. On that day, their last in London before the tour, Lumpkin! was going to have a run on an improvised set in the King’s Theatre.
The presence of the augmented company did not stop Christopher Milton’s continual interruption of rehearsals while he worked out new entrances and business for Tony Lumpkin. His fits of temperament did not worry the dancers or musicians. Both were well used to hanging around at the whim of whoever happened to be in charge. Whether the break was for a broken microphone or a tantrum did not make a lot of difference to them. They just waited impassively until it was time to continue. And the male dancers had a stage-struck camp affection for stardom. They would have felt cheated if Christopher Milton hadn’t behaved like a star.
On the Tuesday they were rehearsing the closer (that is, the last new song of the show, not the acres of reprises which followed it). It was called Never Gonna Marry You (‘gonna’ was a favourite word in Micky Gorton’s lyrics) and it sewed up the Lumpkin side of the plot by getting him out of marriage to his cousin and into marriage with Bet Bouncer (while, incidentally, leaving the rest of the plot totally unresolved). It was the only moment in the show when Charles had to sing, which was a great relief to him. Just one couplet and he was quite pleased with it. The lines rose above the general level of Micky Gorton’s wit.
‘Marriage is like a hot bath, I confess -
The longer you’re in it, the colder it gets.’
It probably wasn’t an original line and it didn’t rhyme properly, but it was a line that would get a laugh, and that was quite a bonus to an actor in a supporting role. Charles cherished it; it was the only laugh he stood to get in the show.
After he had sung the couplet in rehearsal that Tuesday, there was a long pause. Christopher Milton had the next line, but he let the music continue and was silent. He looked at Charles with the preoccupied expression he always wore when he was working something out. As the accompaniment died down to untidy silence, he spoke. ‘You know, that line will probably get a laugh.’
‘I hope so,’ said Charles cheerily. ‘Unless I cock it up.’
‘Hmm. I think I ought to sing it.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I think I ought to have the line rather than you.’
‘What?’ Charles was stunned by the directness of the approach. He was a fairly easy-going actor and didn’t make scenes over minor details as a rule, but the brazenness of this took him off his guard. ‘Oh, come on, Christopher, you can’t have all the laughs in the show.’
‘I think I should have that line.’ Christopher Milton’s voice had the familiar distant quality of previous encounters with other actors whose parts he had raided.
‘But it strikes me, Christopher, that that line would come much more naturally from Old Marlow, the man of the world, than from Tony Lumpkin, who, let’s face it, is meant to be fairly uneducated and — ’
‘I think I should sing it.’
‘Look, I’m not claiming that I’d deliver it better than you or anything. ‘It’s just that — ’
‘Huh.’ The laugh came out with great savagery. ‘I should think not. You’d hardly expect great delivery of lines from a tired old piss-artist. I’m sure there are lots of actors who get through their careers with your level of competence, but don’t you start comparing yourself with me.’
The suddenness of the attack hurt like a blow in the face. Charles tried some acid line about people who felt they should have all the lines and about acting being a team effort, but it misfired. He appealed to David Meldrum for a decision and — surprise, surprise — David thought Christopher Milton probably had got a point.
Charles spent the rest of the day’s rehearsal in a state of silent fury. He knew that his face was white and he was hardly capable of speech. He felt sick with anger.
As soon as he was released, he got a taxi back to Bayswater. Too churned up even for the distant conviviality of the pub, he stopped at an off licence on the way and went back to his room with a bottle of Scotch.
The room in Hereford Road was an untidy and depressing mess, with grey painted cupboards and yellow candlewick on the unmade bed. Its atmosphere usually reduced him to a state of instant depression, but on this occasion it had too much anger to compete with and he hardly noticed his surroundings. He just sat and drank solidly until there was a slight shift in his mood and he could think of something other than his fury.
It was only a line, after all. Not even a particularly good line at that. And the show was hardly one that was
