Authors: Patrick Hamilton
J
ACKIE and Richard did not have very much time for idleness after their union: for at this period Richard had found backing for one of his own plays (Richard wrote many plays), and before three weeks had passed they were in rehearsal.
This play (which dealt with murder and detection) was called “The Knocking at the Gate” and was being financially supported by Mr. Gerald Banton. Mr. Banton was in debt to Richard for £300 (this sum having been lent him, seven years ago, for the purposes of getting married), and it was now felt that he was making some sort of repayment, or at least reparation. Richard, who suffered unceasingly from the expansiveness of his own early youth, considered himself very lucky. So also did Jackie who was to have the leading woman’s part and a genuine chance in Town.
The play was to have a four weeks’ try-out in the southern counties, and then, it was hoped, they would get in at the Coburg. Mr. Banton reserved the right to produce this play.
Mr. Banton was a bustling little man of about forty-five, with pince-nez, untidy clothes, and flowing hair which he ruffled excitedly but gracefully when being a Queer Little Genius. But he was only a Queer Little Genius about three times a day, and he didn’t remain one for more than half a minute or so, and his friends could afford to wait in patience until he returned to the detail suspended by these spasms.
He was classed, essentially, as a “little man.” People would
not have done this to him if he had not talked such a lot, for he was not much beneath the average height; but as things were he was garrulously and beyond redemption little. He had offices in John Street, where he was surrounded by
caricatures
of himself (his one palpable vanity); posters of “Mr. Policeman” (the operetta upon his association with which he had founded his rather precarious reputation as a producer); a telephone apparatus with any number of
indicating
gadgets (sources of never-failing delight to him); and a typing-and-office girl to whom he made love spasmodically but with success. He drank about a pint and a half of whisky and soda each night, and about half a pint of “the-hair-
of-the
-dog-old-boy-you-know” next morning. He had hardly ever been seen the worse for drink, but continually the better. His worst moments were at tea-time, when he became rather greasy and irritable.
Mr. Banton had an affectionate nature, a pathetic longing for popularity, an inner divination that the greater part of his friends referred to him as “that foul little swine, Banton”: and production, with Mr. Banton, was one glorious and
palpitating
make-believe. Make-believe that he was a producer and engaged in a serious and recognized business. “After all, this is Business, old boy, isn’t it?” he would say, very firmly. But the next moment he would be blurting out, “I say, old boy, what about doing all that scene in black tabs?” and his eyes would be alight with schoolboy’s awe and wonder at the contemplated lark. “Not a bad idea, old boy, you know,” he would add, and the hearts of the imaginative would go out to Mr. Banton.
Of all joys in the immeasurable joys of this make-believe, the joy of casting won the day with Mr. Banton. This, in the case of “The Knocking at the Gate,” he did in
conjunction
with Richard, and accomplished it in three days. The first call was on a Tuesday morning at a place known as the Lovat Rehearsal Hall. This was not far from Great Portland Street and had originally been a Methodist chapel. It was run by a young man named Lovat, who got you into corners, handed you his card, and told you how well he was doing.
Dancing Lessons and Boy Scouts also occurred at this hall. You were continually finding yourself intruding on the last ebullient phases of Boy Scouts, and perpetually being driven forth by the diffident importunities of Dancing Lessons. Boy Scouts and Dancing Lessons also had some difficulty with each other. In fact the young man named Lovat had an awkward time of it — what with “The Knocking at the Gate,” and Dancing Lessons and Boy Scouts. And he carried on a flirtation with Higher Thought, as well, which very nearly finished him. But he had some knowledge of the vanities of this world.
Jackie had a clear sense of restarting her theatrical career as she went by herself (for Richard was as usual with Mr. Banton) to the Lovat Rehearsal Hall for her first rehearsal.
She was at last, she thought, in touch with her profession. She was playing in an intelligent and comprehensible play, and with West End actors of established worth and
reputation
. Her own part was good enough, with scope for creative exertion, and the acting itself would no longer be (as it had been in all her previous engagements) a mere accessory to the undertaking of performance, but the whole object of her endeavours. She was at last (she trusted) to be an artist.
She arrived early at the dusty, bare-boarded little hall, and found there the stage-manager, his assistant, and Miss Bella Starkey. She fell into light conversation with these. She was interested and slightly shocked to meet Miss Starkey, that lady having reached the height of her fame during Jackie’s schooldays. Her name had been, indeed, a household word with Jackie: and this middle-aged and unsuccessful woman before her, with the over-blue and watery eyes of the advanced spiritualist, and an extreme affability which was still graciousness to those who remembered her triumphs (but ingratiation to those who had superseded them), chilled Jackie’s conceptions of success.
The rest of the company arrived one by one. There was
Mr. Plaice, a tall, slim, grey-haired, monocled, perfect
gentleman
of about fifty-one — lately belauded in the Press for his perfect delivery of English — in the habit of walking daily down the Haymarket with an ill countenance but a
consciousness
of perfection — and getting less famous, but more tall and slim and monocled and perfect, every year. There was Mr. Grayson, in whom Jackie recognized the glove-puncher she had met on her first night in any theatrical
dressing-room
, and who had doubtless been punching his way through the years without stoppage, for he was punching more than ever as he entered. There was Miss Elinor Potts, obscurely related to the famous author, Verril Potts, and resembling a tall and very superior housekeeper of about forty-eight. There was Mr. Gerald Gifford, a dark brown, well-equipped and handsome young man, whose first appearance in
legitimate
drama this was, his activities having been hitherto
confined
to musical comedy. And there was Mr. Manlove, a gentleman of about sixty wearing an auburn toupé which caused much resentment. It caused resentment because toupés invariably awake resentment, never pity, in mankind; and because Mr. Manlove’s toupé was a rather grubby one.
By the time all these, and a few others, had arrived, a great murmuring noise had been set in flow, Miss Starkey had deserted Jackie with a “Hul
lo-o
!
How are
you?
” to Mr. Plaice, chairs were being put shriekingly into position by the A.S.M., and chaos was reigning all round, until, like a rap on the table at a public dinner, Mr. Banton arrived with the author, Mr. Gissing, and complete silence fell. This slowly rose to a new murmuring as the soul became hardened to the impressiveness of Mr. Banton and the author — the former introducing the latter, all round, with
considerable
pride. “Here’s the fellow we’re all going to
murder
‚” he said.
This not inaccurate statement was treated as an excellent piece of fun, and a benign atmosphere fell, until all at once Mr. Banton whispered to the stage-manager, who shouted, “Scene one, act one, please!” Whereat a stern, self-abasing
atmosphere fell…. Which was followed by various
mumblings
on the part of Mr. Plaice and Mr. Banton — which was followed by Mr. Plaice coming forward, with his nose in his part, and speaking the first line of the play. Which was all wrong, and had to be done again…. Which wasn’t quite right, either, when you came to think of it, because that chair was all wrong. Also Mr. Plaice thought it was the settee. No, no. Not the settee. The armchair. At least it
was
the armchair, wasn’t it? Let’s have a squint at the script. Here we are. Yes. That was right. Armchair. “Sorry, Plaice, old boy.” “No — my fault.” “Well, let’s start again, shall we?” … “
Damn
sorry,
Plaice, old boy — but you’re
coming
in
Right
now. It ought to be left.” “Well, it’s marked ‘right’ here.” “Well, it shouldn’t be.” “Well, it
is.
Look here.” “No, it isn’t, old boy. There’s L. for you.” “Where’s L.? — Oh yes. Sorry.” “Doesn’t matter, old boy. We’ve just got to work at these positions this morning. Let’s shoot.” … “No, you mustn’t Sit on that, old boy!”
“Not
sit?” “No — I want you to sit later.” “He’s going to drink standing, then?” “Yes. You can drink standing, can’t you? SORRY, old boy!” “No, that’s all right.” “Of course, sit if you WANT to, old boy. If you feel it that way.” “No, that’s all right.” “I mean it’s an armchair, after all, old boy, and you’ve got to get up in a moment.” “Yes. That’s all right. I don’t want to sit….”
At this point Mr. Banton observed that the door was open.
“Here! Shut that door!” he shouted. “Shut that door! Shut that door! What d’ you think you’re doing?”
He spoke most sharply to the A.S.M., who scuttered to the door. There was a solemn pause as the door was shut, and the sharpness of Mr. Banton’s tone was held to be justifiable by all.
This was owing to the large band of hypothetical
malignants
lingering (without doubt) in the doorway, with the intent of taking down every line and gesture of this play in shorthand, and dashing away with the glorious news.
But they were foiled in time, and the rehearsal proceeded.
Quarrelling time was not reached until about the tenth day of rehearsal, but then the various duels to the death were carried on more or less in the open. There were three leading duels to the death — Jackie Mortimer
vs.
Miss Bella Starkey and Miss Elinor Potts — Mr. Plaice
vs
. Mr. Grayson — and Mr. Rackett (the stage-manager)
vs
. Mr. Gerald Gifford.
The first of these — Mortimer
vs
. Starkey and Potts — arose from a conviction burdening Miss Potts, and
communicated
to Miss Starkey (who had always had the
conviction
), that Miss Starkey should be playing Miss Mortimer’s part. This she most certainly should have been doing (as Jackie herself knew); but the news of the sedition, when it reached her ears, taken in conjunction with the manifest lunching, go-back-together-to-rooms alliance of the two ladies (those sinister stage alliances!), and the humiliation already suffered from the obvious slur of being the wife of the author, awoke Jackie’s resentment. This was the least emphatic of the three duels, and only made itself noticeable (at its worst) either by Miss Starkey announcing joyously to Mr. Banton, with respect to Jackie, and in front of her, that this little girl, of course, was coming on quite too well for words; or by Miss Potts telling Jackie that Miss Starkey was too
wonderful
, wasn’t she, and one could learn More about Acting by simply watching her … or by Jackie telling Miss Potts that Miss Starkey, if the truth was known, ought to have her (Jackie’s) part…. No more blood was spilt than that, though that was quite enough.
The next of these duels — Mr. Plaice
vs.
Mr. Grayson — was more serious. This arose from a conviction burdening Mr. Grayson that Mr. Plaice, with his Thousand and One Old Actor’s Tricks, was endeavouring to Queer him. But if the actual tricks from which Mr. Grayson claimed to be suffering were subtracted from this enormous amount, there would have been precisely one thousand left. For the sole complaint Mr. Grayson could succeed in lodging against Mr. Plaice, was that infinitely stale grouse against your confrère
for keeping (like a cad) up-stage, so that the scene was played to him, instead of keeping (like a gentleman) down-stage, so that the scene was played to you. These subtleties were the cause of great bitterness, which culminated in one of the nastiest little scraps (apart from the quarrel outright) to be seen in the rehearsal room.
This took place in the middle of a long afternoon in the middle of the second week, and awoke a kind of hell-born joy in the breasts of those who witnessed it.
M
R
. G
RAYSON
(
affably
)
. “Would you mind coming
downstage
just a bit, old boy? I think it ’d be better.”
M
R
. P
LAICE
(pulling
himself
together).
“No. Not at all.
(Coming
down.)
Here?”
M
R
. G
RAYSON
. “Yes. I’m only thinking of the good of the play, old boy.”
M
R
. P
LAICE
(looking
interestedly
at
his
part).
“Yes. I’m sure you are.”
M
R
. G
RAYSON
(appealing
to
Mr.
Bant
on).
“That’s all right, isn’t it, Jerry?”
M
R
. B
ANTON
(at
a
loss).
“Yes. That’s all right. Keep it like that.”
M
R
. G
RAYSON
(to
Mr.
Plaice).
“I’m only thinking of the
Scene,
you know, old boy.”
M
R
. P
LAICE
(more
interested
in
his
part
than
ever
—
posi
tively
turning
over
pages
of
it).
“Well, let’s get
on with it, shall we?”