night?’
‘No. I was back in time but I left Vee to watch it on her own. I did some work on Leontes. Trying to learn the bloody lines.’
‘Shakespearean verse at its most tortured. How do you learn them? Have you any magic method?’
“Fraid not. It’s just read through, read through. Time and again.’
‘It’s the only way.’
At that moment Vee called from downstairs to say the meal was ready.
There was quite a crowd in the Back Room before the Critics’ Circle. And for once they had a topic of conversation other than the theatrical doings of the Breckton Backstagers.
Denis and Mary Hobbs had been burgled. They had come home from their weekend cottage at about midnight the previous night and found the house full of police. A burglar had smashed one of the diamond panes in a downstairs front window, reached through and opened it, gone upstairs and emptied the contents of Mary’s jewel box.
That’s what’s so horrible about it,’ she was saying into her fourth consolatory double gin, ‘- the idea of someone in your house, going through your things. It’s ghastly.’
‘Were they vandals too? Did they dirty your bedclothes and scrawl obscenities on your walls?’ asked sour Reggie hopefully.
‘No, at least we were spared that. Remarkable tidy burglars, closed all the cupboards and doors after them. No fingerprints either, so the CID. boys tell us. But After her proprietory reference to the police force, she warmed to her role as tragic queen. ‘… that only seems to make it worse. It was so cold-blooded. And the idea of other people invading our privacy — ooh, it makes me feel cold all over.’
‘Did they get much?’ asked Reggie, with morbid interest.
‘Oh yes, there was quite a lot of good stuff in my jewellery box. Not everyday things — I dare say a lot of them I don’t wear more than twice a year. But I’d got them out of the bank for this Masonic do of Denis’s last Monday and it didn’t seem worth putting them back, because next week there’s this dinner-dance thing at the Hilton — did I tell you about that?’
The snide expressions on the faces of the surrounding Backstagers suggested that Mary missed no opportunity to give them details of her posh social life. Anyway, the question seemed to be rhetorical. The role was shifting from tragic queen to wonderful person.
‘Oh, I don’t care about the stuff as jewellery. I’m not materialistic. But they’re presents’ Den’s given me over the years, birthday, Christmases and so on. That’s the trouble-the insurance will cover the value in money terms, but it can never replace what those things mean to me.
‘It serves us bloody right,’ said her husband. ‘We’ve talked enough times about having a burglar alarm put in. But you put it off. You think it’ll never happen to you.’
‘Do the police reckon there’s a chance of getting the culprits?’
‘I don’t know. Never commit themselves, the buggers, do they? But I think it’s unlikely. They seem to reckon the best chance was missed when Bob first saw the light.’
‘What light?’
‘Oh, didn’t you hear?’ You tell them, Bob.’
Robert Chubb took his cue and graciously moved to centre stage. ‘I was the one who discovered the ghastly crime. Proper little Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps I should take it up professionally.
‘I’d been sorting through some stuff in the office last night after I handed the bar over to Reggie and I was walking home past Denis and Mary’s at about ten-fifteen, when I saw this light.’
Years of amateur dramatics would not allow him to miss the pregnant pause. ‘The light was just by the broken win(low. It shone on the jagged glass. I thought immediately of burglars and went back to the office to phone the police. Incidentally — ’ he added in self-justification, in case Denis’s last remark might be construed by anyone as a criticism, ‘the boys in blue told me I was absolutely right not to try to tackle the criminal. Said they get as much trouble from members of the public who fancy themselves as heroes as they do from the actual crooks.
‘Anyway, my intervention does not seem to have been completely useless. They reckon the burglar must have seen me and that’s what frightened him off. He appears to have scampered away in some disarray.’
‘Yes,’ Mary Hobbs chipped in, temperamentally unsuited to listening to anyone for that length of time. ‘He left his torch behind in the window sill. The police are hoping to be able to trace him through that.’
Robert Chubb, piqued at losing his punch-line, changed the subject. Like a child who dictates the rules of the game because it’s his ball, he brought them back to his dramatic society. ‘Oh, Charles, about the World Premieres Festival, did you bring along that play of yours? The committee would really like to have a look at it. Need a good new play, you know.’
Embarrassed at the fact that he actually had got it with him, Charles handed over the script with some apology about it being very light.
‘Oh, the lighter the better. I’m sure it has the professional touch. And, talking of that, I do hope that in your criticism this evening you will apply professional standards to The Seagull. We always do and hope others will. So please don’t pull your punches.’
‘All right. I won’t.’
As soon as Charles started speaking to the rows of earnest Backstagers in the rehearsal room, it was clear that they did not like being judged by professional standards.
He began with a few general observations on Chekhov and the difficulties that his plays presented. He referred to the years of work which had gone into the Moscow Arts Theatre’s productions. He then went into detail on Chekhovian humour and stressed the inadvisability of playing Russian servants as mugging Mummerset yokels.
He moved on from this to the rest of the cast. He gave a general commendation and then made detailed criticism. He praised Charlotte’s controlled innocence as Nina and the technical skill of Geoffrey’s Trigorian. He faulted Clive Steele’s Konstantin for lack of discipline and regretted that the part of Madame Arkadina was beyond the range of all but a handful of the world’s actresses. But, rather against his better judgement and to sugar the pill, he congratulated Mary Hobbs on a brave attempt.
He thought he had been fair. Out of deference to their amateur status and because he had no desire to cause unpleasantness, he had toned down the criticism he would have given a professional cast. He thought his remarks might have been overindulgent, but otherwise unexceptionable.
The shocked silence which followed his conclusion indicated that the Backstagers did not share his opinion. Reggie, who seemed to get lumbered with (or perhaps sought after) all official functions, was chairing the meeting. He rose to his feet. ‘Well, some fairly controversial views there from Mr. Parrish. I don’t think everyone’s going to agree with all that.’ A murmur of agreement came back from the audience. ‘Still, thank you. Any questions?’
There was an ‘after you’ silence and then Shad Scott-Smith rose to his feet. He spoke with a heavy irony which obviously appealed to the mood of the gathering. ‘Well, first of all, I’d like to thank Mr. Parrish for his comments and what I’d like to offer is not so much a question as a humble defence.
‘As perpetrator of the terrible crime of The Seagull.
This sally drew an appreciative titter. ‘I feel I should apologize, both to the cast, whom I misled so disastrously, and to the good folk of Breckton, who so unwisely bought all the tickets for all four performances and who made the terrible mistake of enjoying the production very much.’
This got an outright laugh of self-congratulation. ‘And I would also like to apologize to the local newspaper critics who, out of sheet malice and stupidity, gave such good reviews to my production of The Cherry Orchard last year, since they didn’t know they were dealing with someone who had no appreciation of Chekhov. And while I’m at it, I’d better tick off the adjudicators of the Inter-Regional Drama Festival who were foolish enough to award my production of The Bear a Special Commendation.’
He sat down to a riot of applause. Charles saw he was going to have an uphill fight. ‘All right, I’m sorry. I had no intention of offending anyone. I am here as a professional actor and director and I’m giving you my opinions as I would to the members of a professional company. Everyone keeps saying that these Critics’ Circles are not just meant to be a mutual admiration society.’
‘No, they’re certainly not,’ said Robert Chubb with unctuous charm. ‘I set them up as a forum for informed discussion, for the give-and-take of intelligent ideas. I’m sure we can all take criticism and that’s what we are all
