‘Who’s he?’ Charles hissed.
‘Spike. He’s the stage manager. Nice bloke. He must be down to see if we’re actually going to be able to negotiate Derbyshire Wilkes’ amazing set. Of course, there’s always the stage staff,’ he added irrelevantly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Potential crumpet.’
‘I’m too old.’
‘Come off it. Nothing like a warm little props girl to comfort a chap in his old age.’
‘Um, I think we should make a start,’ said David Meldrum.
‘Where’s the star, Michael?’
‘Oh, he’s never called till ten-thirty. It’s in his contract.’
In 1773 Oliver Goldsmith decided that Sir Charles Marlow should not appear in his play until the fifth act, so Charles Paris’ rehearsal schedule was not too onerous. That much had survived the translation of She Stoops to Conquer into Liberty Hall and even the transmogrification of Liberty Hall into Lumpkin! The result was that, although there was ground to be made up and Charles would have to go through his scenes with the assistant director and be taxied off to Soho for a costume fitting that afternoon, he was not actually called for the morning. And because Griff the barman interpreted such concepts as club membership and licensing hours with a commendable degree of independence, by ten-thirty Charles and Michael Peyton were sitting in the bar over a couple of pints of bitter.
Griff was hunched over the Sun, reading between the lines of a photograph. In the corner a gloomy figure in denim battledress confronted the fruit machine, willing it to swallow his money and confirm his failure. Charles decided it might be a good moment to find if Gerald’s suspicions about the two accidents were shared by an ordinary member of the company like Michael Peyton. ‘Funny way of coming into a show for me, you know, Mike. After an accident. Sort of dead men’s shoes situation.’
‘Ah well, it’s an ill wind.’
‘Yes. Poor old Everard.’
‘No one can expect to drink that much and stay perpendicular. Against the laws of physics.’
‘Yes. I suppose he just fell…’
‘Suppose so,’ said Michael without interest and certainly without suspicion.
‘Hm.’ No harm in probing a bit further. ‘Funny, though, that accident coming straight after the other one.’
‘Other one?’
‘The rehearsal pianist.’
‘Who? Alec?’
‘No, the one before him.’
Michael jutted forward his lower lip in an expression of ignorance. ‘Didn’t know there was one.’
‘Oh, I heard some rumour. Must have got it wrong.’ Obviously to the ordinary member of the company there was nothing bizarre going on. There was no general feeling of doom, of a ‘bad luck’ show. Gerald’s imagination had been overstimulated by thoughts of the size of his financial investment. For Charles, it was just an acting job. He raised his glass to his lips and reflected on the differences between unemployed drinking and drinking with a nine- month contract. A warm glow filled him.
‘Griff love, can you do me a port.’ The new voice belonged to a good-looking young man in a smart blazer and check trousers. ‘I’ve got the most frightful throat coming on and David’s just sent me to go through my songs with Alec up in the billiard room.’
‘Port, eh?’
‘It’s the only thing for a throat, Griff.’
‘Huh.’
‘Mark, have you met Charles Paris?’
‘No, Mike, I haven’t. Hello, I’m Mark Spelthorne.’ He left an infinitesimal pause for Charles to say, ‘Yes, of course, I recognise your face from the television,’ but Charles didn’t, so he continued. ‘You’re taking over from poor old Everard?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, don’t drink too much of that, or you’ll go the same way.’
‘I’ll be careful.’ It wasn’t worth objecting to the young man’s patronising tone.
‘Do you know, Mike,’ said Mark Spelthorne, though he was addressing the world in general rather than anyone in particular, ‘my agent is a bloody fool. He had a call yesterday from Yorath Knightley — do you know him?’
‘No.’
‘BBC. Telly. Drama. Wanted me for a play, super part. Rehearsals the week after this opens. Lovely, just what I need. But my damn fool agent says, oh no, out of the question, they may have some rerehearsal and what have you on Lumpkin! Honestly. I said, well, surely, love, we can get a few days off, sort round the contract, organise the filming round the schedule for this show. Oh no, he says, you’re under contract. No bloody imagination. I think I must get another agent.’
‘Sorry it took so long. Had to open a bottle. Don’t get much call for port here. One or two of the ladies has it with lemon, but most of the gents drink beer or spirits.’
‘Never mind, Griff. Bless you,’ said Mark Spelthorne bountifully. He took a sip of the drink and gargled it gently, then swallowed. ‘Better.’ He repeated the process. Charles and Mike watched in silence as the glass slowly emptied. ‘Ah well, better test out the old singing voice.’
‘If you want to hear real singing,’ said Griff morosely, ‘you want to listen to a Welsh male voice choir.’
‘Ah.’ Mark was nonplussed, not certain what his reaction should be.
‘We used to have a choir here at the Welsh Dragon. Lovely singing. Better than anything I’ve heard since you lot’ve been here.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion.’ Mark hesitated, uncertain whether or not that was a good enough exit line. Failing to come up with a better one, he exited to the billiard room.
‘Should I know him, Mike? He behaved as if I should.’
‘Not unless you’re a fan of The Fighter Pilots, Charles.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re obviously not. It’s an ITV series. Another cashing in on the nostalgia boom. Mark Spelthorne plays Flying Officer Falconer, whose daring missions and dreary love life fill up most of each episode.’
‘Oh. I’ve never heard of him in the theatre.’
‘I don’t think he’s done much. Presumably he did his forty weeks round the provinces to get the Equity card, but I think that’s it. He’s one of the media mushrooms who has sprung up overnight as a fully developed television star.’
‘Then why is he in this?’
‘Publicity, Charles. So that he can be billed on the poster as Mark Spelthorne of The Fighter Pilots. That’s to mop up the one per cent of the population who haven’t come to see Christopher Milton of Straight Up, Guv.’
‘The television take-over is complete.’
‘Yes.’
‘He seemed to have a fairly inflated opinion of himself.’
‘Ah, he would like to be a big star, Charles.’
‘And will he make it?’
‘I don’t know. Somehow I don’t think so. Don’t think he’s got what it takes.’
‘What’s he playing?’
‘Your son, Young Marlow.’
‘That’s the best part in the play.’
‘Was, Charles, was. Maybe that’s what Goldsmith intended, but that was before Christopher Milton got his hands on the script.’
‘Yes,’ the gloomy man at the fruit machine chipped in suddenly and savagely. ‘Before Christopher Milton got his bloody hands on the script.’
There was a moment’s pause before Michael Peyton recovered himself sufficiently to make the introduction. ‘Charles Paris-Kevin McMahon.’
