A Decent Interval Read online

‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I thought there was still quite a lot of love there.’

  ‘Not the kind of love that sustains relationships.’

  ‘And what kind is that?’

  ‘I think you’re being deliberately naive, Charles. The love I’m talking about involves proximity, for a start. “Being there” – have you heard the expression?’

  ‘Well, yes, but the nature of an actor’s work inevitably involves long periods of absence.’

  ‘And for how much of the last five months has your work as an actor involved your being away from London?’

  ‘Um. We’ve been rehearsing in Marlborough for the last two days.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And I did do a day’s filming at Newlands Corner a few weeks back.’

  ‘Hm. That seems to leave quite a bit of the last five months unaccounted for.’

  ‘I can see you could see it that way,’ Charles conceded.

  ‘So who was she?’

  ‘Who was who?’

  ‘Come on, Charles. In the past when there’ve been long silences from you, it’s frequently because there’s been some woman involved. It’s only when she finally sees the light and chucks you that you come crawling back to me.’

  ‘Now that’s not fair, Frances.’

  ‘Do you want me to give you names?’

  ‘No, no,’ he replied hastily. ‘Anyway, I can assure you there hasn’t been anything of that kind for ages. Worse luck.’

  He knew he shouldn’t have added those last two words, and the broadside he received from his wife made absolutely clear to him why he shouldn’t have added them. When she had finally calmed down enough for him to get a word in, he said, ‘I promise there aren’t any other women currently on my horizon.’

  To be completely truthful, his sentence would have depended a bit on how you defined the word ‘horizon’. Charles Paris was still finding Geraldine Romelle very attractive, and the occasional shared smile or giggle during rehearsals had suggested that she was not completely immune to his charms. But at the end of every day in the Kilburn barracks, she never joined him and some of the others for a drink. She always seemed to have somewhere to go back to. Whether that also meant she had someone to go back to, Charles didn’t know. She didn’t wear a wedding ring … not that that meant anything. But her availability was something he intended to investigate once the show was up and running in Marlborough. Even if Geraldine Romelle did have someone in London, DCOL also applied to touring. DCOT perhaps it should be. ‘Doesn’t Count On Tour.’

  Charles became aware of a long silence from the other end of the phone. Then Frances asked, ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘Well, as I said, I just thought it’d be nice for us to meet.’

  ‘When? You’re now in Marlborough and you’ve just told me you’re going to be out on tour for the next five weeks.’

  ‘Yes, but then we come into the West End.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, the West End is in London.’

  ‘Thank you, Charles. I’d never have worked that out for myself.’

  ‘Ha, ha. But I was thinking maybe we could meet up then …?’

  ‘Hm. Let me think about that for a moment.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘Do you remember last time you suggested we meet up?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I do.’

  ‘We had a conversation similar to the one we’ve just had.’

  ‘Did we?’

  ‘Yes, very similar. And eventually I agreed to meet you and you said you’d call me the next day with what you called the “fine tuning”, when and where, that kind of thing.’

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘Five months ago.’

  Charles Paris didn’t actually think the conversation had gone very well.

  The Grand Theatre, Marlborough, built in Victorian times, had played host to a huge variety of entertainments over the years. Like most regional theatres it had gone through many cycles of closure and dilapidation, followed by refurbishment and new hope. The finances of such a building were always going to be precarious, but its latest renewal had been courtesy of substantial grants from the local council. (The Arts Council had been approached, but helping a regional theatre had not been part of their mission statement at the time. It was their refusal to provide funding which had brought to the local authorities a wake-up call and a realization that they might be about to lose an important part of Marlborough’s heritage. That had spurred them into action.) The improved facilities had led to the Grand becoming a regular staging post on the Tony Copeland Productions touring circuit, so at least its short-term future looked set fair.

  Charles Paris loved old theatres. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, he got quite sentimental about them. The newer concrete cathedrals of the drama might be better designed, even have better acoustics, but for Charles they could never match the cavernous mustiness of an old building like the Grand. He loved fantasizing about the productions staged there: the triumphs, the tragedies, the reputations made and ruined, the love fallen into, the hearts broken. But his customary shell of cynicism rarely allowed him to share such thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jared, but you still can’t be heard from the back of the auditorium.’ Ned English’s voice was very weary. From the first day of rehearsal at the Kilburn barracks he had been on at his Hamlet about audibility. Or at least he’d been on at him in a very gentle way. The director had been rendered cautious by the scene at the run-through when it had become so clear that Jared Root had Tony Copeland firmly in his corner. Ned was very keen not to upset his star or his star’s protector, but he was also very keen to stop him from mumbling.

  They were in the Green Room, during another of the longueurs while a section of the cranium set had to be adjusted to allow it to be properly lit. As Charles Paris had prognosticated, though the set perfectly matched the structure of a human skull, nature’s design had not been intended to fit into a theatre – at least not into the Grand Theatre, Marlborough. The frontal bone, the two parietal bones, the two temporal bones and occipital bone which joined up so neatly in the model proved to be less accommodating in their giant reality. And when they did fit together, they were proving very difficult to light.

  Clearly, all was not going well on stage. The Green Room tannoy speaker was turned down low, but there was still a background noise of rumbles, clanks, arguments and muttered expletives. An intermittent three-way row was going on between the designer, the lighting designer and a tall lugubrious shaggy-haired stagehand called Bazza, who seemed to be in charge of fitting the skull set on to the stage of the Grand Theatre. The language flying back and forth was distinctly industrial.

  Charles Paris, inured over the years to the tedium of Techs and mellowed by the couple of illicit pints he had snuck out for during the lunch-break, was trying in a desultory fashion to do The Times crossword and finding that his eyes kept gliding over the clues.

  A few seats along from him, Dennis Demetriades was avidly pressing the buttons of his mobile. Charles was constantly amazed by how much time the younger generation of actors could spend texting or whatever else it was they were doing with their phones. He never saw any of them with a book or a newspaper. Dennis, Charles noticed, had changed his facial topiary. The thick black stubble had been allowed to grow to the contours but not the density of mutton chop whiskers. Their forward points joined a thin line of moustache across his upper lips. The young actor, Charles reckoned, must have to get up very early to tend his beard garden.

  On the other side of the Green Room sat Geraldine Romelle, immersed in a copy of Montaigne’s Essays. Her choice of reading matter rather intrigued Charles. Was she a genuine intellectual or one of those actresses all of whose ideas came from other people and who would uncomprehendingly read a difficult book ‘because this really great guy recommended it to me’?

  As the argument between Ned English and his Hamlet continued, Charles and Geraldine were both doing something that
actors are quite skilled at – taking in every word of a conversation without apparently listening.

  ‘I’d be heard perfectly from the back of the auditorium,’ said Jared Root, ‘if you have me miked.’

  Dennis Demetriades wasn’t distracted from his mobile, but the two other actors exchanged surreptitious looks. Charles and Geraldine were both old enough to know about the value of ‘projection’ in the theatre, and both quite capable (particularly in their cups) of going on at length about the new generation of actors who spent so much time working for television that their voices ‘just aren’t trained to fill a theatre’. The covert looks the two exchanged became covert smiles as they waited for Ned English’s response.

  ‘Jared,’ he said, ‘may I remind you once again that we’re putting on a straight play here, not a musical? And not any straight play either, but one of the greatest plays in the English – or indeed any other – language. The part of Hamlet has been acted by generations of the most famous actors in the world – and none of them needed electronic aids to ensure that they were heard at the back of the auditorium.’

  ‘But that’s an old style of acting,’ argued Jared Root. ‘Belting the words out. It’s corny and unnatural. I’ve been tweeting about it and my followers aren’t going to want to see something they can’t hear.’

  ‘No, but, Jared, if you projected properly they would be able to hear. It’s really not difficult. I’m sure if you made an effort—’

  ‘Listen, Ned,’ said the singer in a tone that implied he was being entirely reasonable, ‘audiences – particularly young audiences – are used to watching television where people act more like they’re just talking than, you know, like, declaiming.’

  ‘That may be true, Jared, but the theatre audience is used to a different experience. They—’

  ‘That’s what the old theatre audience are used to, right. But if you want an audience that isn’t just made up of old farts – and that’s what Tony has said quite definitely he wants with this production – then you’ve got to present younger people with something that they’re, like, used to seeing. And they’re used to seeing people acting naturally, and the only way you’re going to achieve that in a great big theatre like this is by using mikes.’

  ‘Jared,’ said an exasperated Ned English, ‘for the last time, there will be no mikes in this production of Hamlet.’

  ‘Huh,’ the star responded. ‘I’ll see what Tony Copeland thinks about that.’

  With which parting shot, Jared Root left the Green Room. Still texting away, Dennis Demetriades also shuffled out. With an apologetic smile to no one in particular, Ned English bustled off after them. If Jared was appealing to the show’s producer, the director could envisage a lot more problems ahead.

  While Ned had remained in the room, Charles Paris and Geraldine Romelle had been studiously studying, respectively, The Times crossword and Montaigne’s Essays. But the minute he was out of the door they exchanged looks and both collapsed into hysterical giggles.

  ‘Well,’ said Charles when he had recovered the ability to speak, ‘what next? And what the hell does “tweeting” mean?’

  Geraldine Romelle grinned. ‘I’ll explain it to you when you’re older, Charles.’

  ‘Thanks very much. I must say, a conversation like the one we’ve just heard makes me feel as if I’m well past my sell-by date. Shakespeare with mikes? Why should we stop at that? Why not turn Hamlet into a full-scale musical?’

  ‘It has been done,’ said Geraldine.

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘Well, no, not really. But there was a version written by John Poole in 1810 called Hamlet Travestie, in which “To be or not to be” was set to music.’

  ‘Really?’ said Charles, quickly deciding that Geraldine Romelle was a genuine intellectual rather than just a voguish actress.

  ‘Yes. It begins:

  “When a man becomes tir’d of his life,

  The question is ‘to be or not to be?’

  For before he dare finish the strife,

  His reflections most serious ought to be.

  When his troubles too numerous grow,

  And he knows of no method to mend them,

  Had he best bear them tamely or no

  Or by stoutly opposing them end them?”

  ‘Then it goes into a chorus beginning, “Ri tol de rol …” and so on through a great many other verses.’

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘Oh, I did a dissertation on parody versions of Hamlet when I was at Cambridge.’

  ‘Really?’ Charles Paris was becoming even more interested in Geraldine Romelle with every word she spoke. ‘I’d love to hear more about that.’

  ‘I’m sure that would be possible.’

  ‘Maybe …’ he began casually, ‘we could meet up for a drink once we get to the end of this wretched Tech …?’

  The expression on Geraldine Romelle’s face suggested that she was about to agree to his suggestion, which in Charles’s view would be a great step forward. But before Geraldine could shape the words of her response, from the tannoy speaker came the sound of an enormous crash followed by confused shouting.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ asked Geraldine Romelle.

  ‘Something on stage,’ replied Charles as he led the way out of the Green Room.

  When he reached the backstage area the shouting had stopped, to be replaced by a shocked silence.

  Part of the set, one of the giant skull’s parietal bones, a concave structure of wood and fibreglass, had crashed down from the flies.

  On the wooden boards of the stage, poking out from underneath it, were the legs of Jared Root. They showed no signs of movement.

  SIX

  It was fortunate that the designer of Hamlet had modelled his set so closely on the human cranium. But for the concavity of the skull segment that landed on him, Jared Root would have been much more severely injured. A flat section of the same weight falling from the same height would undoubtedly have killed him. As it was, the wood-reinforced edge of fibreglass shell caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder. Though the impact of this broke his collar bone and fractured his right tibia, the hollowness of the structure meant that he suffered no head injuries.

  There was no doubt, however, that Jared would not be able to continue with the show. Early estimations of his recovery time were in months rather than weeks. Tony Copeland’s production was now in the situation Frances had suggested – ‘Hamlet without the Prince’.

  But, remarkably, the Tech of the show continued. Ned English – acting, Charles Paris presumed, on instructions from Tony in London – passed on the news to the company, who had been called into the Green Room once Jared Root was on his way to the hospital.

  ‘But how can we do it without Jared?’ objected Katrina Selsey. ‘Hamlet is in, like, quite a few of the scenes.’

  ‘Will can stand in.’

  Charles looked across at the ASM. Oh yes, of course, as well as being Second Gravedigger, he was officially Jared Root’s understudy. And from the expression on the young man’s face, Will Portlock’s most treasured fantasy had just become reality. In the boy’s mind the A Star Is Born scenario was being acted out, newspaper headlines were writing themselves. ‘Unknown steps in and triumphs!’ Jared Root’s misfortune would provide the basis for Will Portlock’s fortune.

  The visions in Charles Paris’s mind were less rosy. He’d witnessed too many shows where the official understudy had thought he’d got the job, only for the producer to ace him out at the last minute and replace him with a bigger name. It had happened more than once to Charles himself. He remembered particularly the bitterness he’d felt after giving an excellent performance in a play called The Hooded Owl at the Prince’s Theatre Taunton, only to be demoted to understudy by a better-known actor when the play transferred to the West End.

  And even if the understudy did get the part, triumph was not the inevitable outcome. The review Charles’d got when replacing a senior actor s
idelined with appendicitis in one of Shakespeare’s Roman Plays still rankled. ‘With Charles Paris as Julius Caesar, I was surprised Brutus and his cronies didn’t take action earlier.’ – Beeston Express.

  So the Tech continued on its customary route of frustration. Actors are very good at shrinking into a kind of zombie state during Techs. Most of them understand that at that stage of a production, the focus is not on them. They may be required to stand around on stage for a long time while lighting effects are tested, and to repeat the same lines endlessly while the timings of set changes and sound cues are refined. The process is boring and it can take a very long time, but experienced actors know it’s just part of the job. At such times very few of them even attempt to give a full-power performance. They hold that in reserve for the Dress Rehearsal and subsequent exposure to an audience.

  Which was why Charles Paris found it interesting to see how Will Portlock behaved during the Tech. The young actor was giving his Hamlet full-on. What was more, he knew the words – which wasn’t always the case with understudies at that stage of a production. Understudy rehearsals are meant to take place during the main rehearsal period, but frequently, given the pressure of getting the show itself on with the regular cast, they get overlooked. And, because he was understudying Polonius, Charles knew for a fact that no understudy rehearsals had yet taken place for the Tony Copeland Productions’ Hamlet.

  But Will Portlock had clearly taken his job seriously. He knew every move that Jared Root had rehearsed. And, rather than just walking through a Tech, he acted the part of Hamlet as if he were auditioning for it. Which, Charles reflected, perhaps he was. After all, until countermanding orders were received from Tony Copeland in London, Will Portlock was playing the part.

  Charles hoped the boy wasn’t in for a big disappointment.

  He found himself standing in the wings next to Will during a long hiatus while the interior cranium lighting was adjusted for the scene in Gertrude’s closet.

  ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You’re giving it lots of welly.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you if you were given the chance to play Hamlet?’