Sicken and So Die (10 page)

‘Oh, only as a rehearsal method,' the director reassured her. But the pensive expression on his face added an unspoken gloss: ‘For the time being . . .'

And, to Charles's annoyance, the idea did work rather well. Russ Lavery sat in on rehearsals for Viola's scenes and every now and then took over for a run. Sally Luther did the same on Sebastian's scenes. It was a gimmick, but it enriched both performances. Their speech patterns and body language grew more alike. The concept that in Illyria the twins could be mistaken for each other became less fanciful.

And, again to Charles's annoyance, the experiment was somehow fitted in without putting the rest of the production behind schedule. Much as he would have liked to dismiss Alexandru Radulescu as a time-wasting poseur, he couldn't.

It was an afternoon rehearsal in the third week. Outside the rain fell, matching Charles's mood. The first week's atmosphere of excitement had dissipated. Perhaps it would have gone anyway by this stage of the production, but Charles couldn't help feeling wistful for the days when Gavin Scholes had been in charge.

What upset him was being out on a limb. While he had never been one of those actors who can see nothing outside the show he's currently working on, Charles Paris had always been a popular member of the companies he was in. Not one of the most boisterous ones, a bit quiet sometimes, possibly even a loner, but one of the team. What Alexandru Radulescu had achieved was to make him unpopular.

The trouble was that the rest of the cast had been charmed by the Director, colonised, subsumed. They had begun to share Alexandru Radulescu's self-belief. They thought his ideas were good. They thought
Twelfth Night
would be a better production for its Director-transplant.

Even Sally Luther, once she had been assured none of her lines were at risk, had started to get excited about the changes.

Only Charles Paris and John B. Murgatroyd held out for the old ways, and John B.'s allegiance was definitely wavering. Charles knew the attitude he'd taken wasn't doing his image in the company any good. It showed his age, his inflexibility. He would overhear cast members talking about how exciting it was to ‘get a different perspective on a classic, rather than just relying on old-fashioned storytelling.' Then he would look away to avoid their gaze of mild contempt at someone who still valued ‘old-fashioned storytelling'.

He also knew that ultimately his intransigence wasn't helping his cause. Although Alexandru Radulescu's directorial method relied on a cataclysmic clash of styles, the one style that would stick out like a sore thumb amidst all the innovation would be the traditional. And Charles was giving a very deliberately traditional performance.

He couldn't see quite how the problem would resolve itself. Come the performance, Charles Paris would look as if he were in an entirely different play from the rest of the cast. The fact that he still felt confident he'd be in
Twelfth Night,
while the rest were in something else entirely, would not lessen the incongruity.

For many of the younger members of the cast, this was their first Shakespeare, anyway. Actors like Benzo Ritter and Talya Northcott felt no obligation to preserve anything, because they weren't aware that anything needed preserving. So long as Alexandru Radulescu gave each a few individual moments of flashy theatricality, then everything was fine by them.

So what should Charles do – knuckle under, sacrifice his pride, give a performance as Sir Toby Belch that he knew to be totally wrong, and support Alexandru Radulescu's conspiracy to upstage Shakespeare?

Something of that order might have to happen eventually, but Charles Paris was determined to resist the moment as long as possible.

He was also feeling low about Frances. There had been no more direct confrontations, she had been polite – even pleasant – to him, but he got the feeling she was counting the days till he'd be off to Great Wensham and out of her hair.

Perhaps he was being paranoid about that. What was undeniably true was that she hadn't yet readmitted him to her bed.

Off the main hall where they rehearsed there was a little scullery which the company called the ‘Green Room'. The name was appropriate. It had the same atmosphere as backstage, the same coffee jars and cups and spoons, the same sugar spills and biscuit tins.

Usually there was also the same assemblage of actors and actresses, sprawled over chairs sipping coffee, perched against tables bitching about their agents, hunched over crosswords, books or knitting. But the room was unoccupied when Charles Paris went in there that afternoon.

Everyone else was watching the rehearsal. They wanted to see Alexandru Radulescu's latest experiment. It was Act Three, Scene Three, the first entrance of Sebastian and Antonio, and Alex (as they all now sycophantically called him) had decided he wanted Sally Luther to play Sebastian, ‘Just for this run, you understand, love, just for this run.'

Sally, since the exercise involved her having more lines rather than fewer, readily agreed. And Russ Lavery, after looking momentarily miffed, also fell in with the suggestion. He was, after all, a serious actor ‘getting back to his roots in the theatre.' Directorial experiment excited him; when next interviewed for
TV Times
, he'd tell them how much he enjoyed ‘playing with ideas in the rehearsal room, just picking something up and seeing how far you can run with it.'

The cast, fascinated to see how Alex's latest invention would work, clustered around to watch the two-handed scene. Even John B. Murgatroyd stayed, wistfully – now almost desperately – wanting to hunt with the pack. Only Charles Paris emphasised his isolation by making for the Green Room. He'd hoped to slip out unnoticed, but everyone saw him go.

The kettle was empty. He filled it and switched it on. Waiting for it to boil, he flicked moodily through the pile of books that someone, trying to tidy the place up, had piled on a central table.

Most of it was predictable rehearsal reading. A Dick Francis. A Joanna Trollope. A compendium of crosswords. A dog-eared analysis of Nostradamus's predictions. Some swot had even brought in
Shakespeare's Festive Comedy
to do some background reading on
Twelfth Night
.

But the book that didn't fit – and the one that interested Charles – was old and green-covered, probably a late nineteenth-century publication.

It was
An Elementary Handbook of British Fungi
by William Delisle Hay, FRGS.

And there was a torn-paper marker in the chapter entitled ‘On the Chemistry and Toxicology of Fungi.'

THERE WAS a break in rehearsal and all the company came milling in. They made coffee and formed little knots of chatter round the Green Room. Vasile Bogdan and Tottie Roundwood expatiated enthusiastically on Alexandru Radulescu's latest ideas. Sally Luther and Benzo Bitter were huddled in deep but inaudible conversation on a sofa in the far corner. Other actors loudly acted and emoted. Charles watched closely over the rim of his coffee cup, but nobody claimed the book on British fungi.

The rehearsal recommenced, but he stayed behind to maintain his vigil, until summoned by a rather testy assistant stage manager. Sir Toby Belch was late for his entrance with Maria and Fabian in Act Three, Scene Four. Malvolio had been left suspended at the end of his monologue and the momentum of the action had been lost. Everyone was waiting for him.

As Charles scurried shamefacedly into position, he could feel the general disapproval. And it may have been paranoia, but he could have sworn he heard someone muttering ‘not so good after lunch these days.' Which was annoying, because he actually hadn't had a drink that lunch-time.

As a result he was flustered and cocked up his opening line. Instead of “‘Which way is he, in the name of sanctity?”', his mouth said, ‘“Which name is he, in the way of sanctity?”'

‘God, that doesn't even make sense,' Alexandru Radulescu said contemptuously. ‘What can a director do when he's saddled with actors who don't understand the text?'

This was an infuriating criticism for Charles, given his love of Shakespeare. But it was also, in the current circumstances, unanswerable. Alexandru had scored a point, and enlisted yet more company support against Charles Paris.

They played the scene, and Charles knew he wasn't doing it very well. Not nearly as well as he'd played it in previous rehearsals. The trouble was that the general resistance to his performance was getting to him. Charles shared the undermining weakness of far too many people – he liked to be liked. An atmosphere of disapprobation wormed away at his confidence. He started to wonder whether perhaps he should be playing Sir Toby as Alexandru demanded. He even started to wonder whether he actually had any talent at all as an actor.

Act Three, Scene Four is a long one, and one of Sir Toby Belch's biggest, as he hurries on and offstage setting up the elaborate mechanics of the duel between Sir Andrew Aguecheek and ‘Cesario'. It was a scene Charles usually enjoyed playing, but not that afternoon. His mind was in the Green Room, wondering who – if anyone – had picked up the book on British fungi.

When, at last, he could leave the stage, his exit line proved prophetic. “‘I dare lay any money, 'twill be nothing yet.”'

For nothing was what he found. The book of British fungi was no longer in the Green Room. And there was no way of knowing who had reclaimed it.

Charles Paris could not remove from his mind the image of the dining hall at Chailey Ferrars, of Gavin Scholes swallowing down a mushroom tartlet.

Doing the full run of the play meant inevitably that they overran their designated rehearsal time, but this gave rise to no objections. Alexandru Radulescu, showing surprising awareness of British union rules, kept checking with the company's Equity representative that he had permission to continue. The Romanian showed an annoying degree of tact for someone Charles would like to have dismissed as an insensitive megalomaniac.

The run wound through to its end, gathering momentum. Sir Toby Belch did the little he had to do in Act Five. He approached, ‘Bleeding, led by the Clown', and let out his few petulantly drunken lines before being taken off to have his wound dressed. Again, Charles felt unhappy about what he was doing. And again he was getting paranoid. He felt sure, after Sir Toby had said, ‘I hate a drunken rogue', he heard a voice murmur, ‘Takes one to know one.'

The play's final loose ends were tied up in neat matrimonial bows; though, of course, this being an Alexandru Radulescu production, the bows were not tied very tight. The impression left after the play's end was that the characters faced lives of serial infidelity – with partners of both sexes.

Then Chad Pearson, alone on stage, came forward to sing “‘When that I was and a little tiny boy . . .” The words, to Charles's continuing annoyance, remained indistinct, but the moment was still theatrical, the wailing Indian music compounding the melancholy that lies at the heart of
Twelfth Night
.

The general view at the end of the run was that it had gone very well for this stage of the production. There was even the beginning of communal excitement, restoring the feeling of the first week under Gavin Scholes. Since it was late, a popular suggestion spread of everyone going off to ‘an Indian for a bite to eat.'

There was much discussion as to how many were going. A hard core committed themselves immediately, while some thought they ought to get back home, but lingered and were persuaded. Sally Luther was among these.

‘I really shouldn't,' she said. ‘My flat's in a hell of a mess and we're going to be away for months . . .'

‘Oh, go on, do come,' urged Benzo Ritter. He sounded truculent, his tone implying that she'd be letting him down if she refused.

Sally looked across at the boy and grimaced. ‘Oh, all right, I'll come.'

Benzo looked marginally more cheerful.

Charles was torn. He didn't really want to go. He'd enjoyed many riotous post-performance dinners over the years, but he wasn't in the mood that evening. Also, he had a vague recollection of having hinted to Frances that he might take her out for a meal. He was always better on a one-to-one basis, and a little fence-mending with his wife was certainly overdue.

Also, he wasn't that keen on Indian food. That is to say, he liked it while he was eating it, but he didn't like the aftertaste that seemed to stay in his mouth for the ensuing twenty-four hours. And, pathetically, his stomach was very old-fashioned about spicy food. As a result, he would never go to an Indian restaurant by choice and, on the rare occasions when he did, always had to be guided through the unfamiliar menu.

So there were a lot of arguments for just slipping away at the end of rehearsals with a casual, ‘Got to meet someone for dinner. See you in the morning.'

Against that was, once more, the dreadful pressure of wanting to be liked. Fences certainly needed to be mended with Frances, but he didn't want to break any more with the
Twelfth Night
company. These were the people he was going to be spending the next four months with. Some kind of working relationship with them had to be recaptured. Charles Paris didn't relish being ostracised; it wasn't his style.

A measure of how far his isolation had already gone was that, as all the cast shuffled off chattering and pulling on their coats, it was only John B. Murgatroyd who asked, ‘You're not going to come, are you, Charles?'

If ever there was a question expecting the answer no, that was it.

‘Yes,' Charles Paris replied. ‘I'll come.'

‘So let me get this right – is it the Khurma that's mild and the Vindaloo hot?'

‘Yes, yes, yes,' said John B. Murgatroyd dismissively and turned to his right to talk to Talya Northcott.

‘And the Madras is somewhere in the middle?' asked Charles. He felt rather pathetic for not knowing. And he also worried that John B. Murgatroyd was only sitting next to him out of pity. His friend'd much rather be the other side of the table, in the raucous sycophantic crowd that surrounded Alexandru Radulescu. The director was flanked by Russ Lavery and Vasile Bogdan. Sally Luther and Tottie Roundwood spread out from them. Benzo Ritter was beside Tottie; he looked a little marginalised – rather the way Charles felt.