But, in spite of the stirring words, in spite of the cast’s cheers, Charles could see panic in Paul Lexington’s eyes.
And when he thought about it, it didn’t surprise him He didn’t know the details of the funding of the show, but he could piece a certain amount together. Paul Lexington Productions had been able to mount The Hooded Owl at Taunton, but had been unable to bring it into town without Bobby Anscombe’s support.
And that support had been bought at the cost of considerably increasing the budget. With the Taunton cast, it remained a comparatively cheap show. But with Michael Banks’s — and indeed George Birkitt’s — names above the title, it was a much more expensive proposition.
And now the support, whose condition the cast changes had been, had been withdrawn.
Michael Banks was suddenly a very expensive albatross around Paul Lexington’s neck.
CHAPTER NINE
The Understudy’s is a strange role, and never is he made more aware of its strangeness than on a first night. He is caught up in the communal excitement, without the prospect of release that performance gives. He cannot quite detach himself or even avoid nerves; he has to be eternally in readiness; only when the final curtain has fallen can he be sure he will not have to go on. During the ‘half’ before the curtain rises, he has his twitchiest moments. He has to watch the actor he would replace for signs of strain or imminent collapse and wonder nervously whether he could actually remember the lines if he had to go on. Sometimes the worst happens, and the actor does not appear for the ‘half’. Then the understudy goes through agonies of indecision before the Company Manager gives him the order to get into costume and make-up. And how often, as the understudy trembles in the wings awaiting the rise of the curtain, does the real actor appear, full of apologies about a power failure on the Underground or the traffic on the Westway.
It is almost impossible for the understudy to achieve mental equilibrium. His thoughts sway constantly between the desire to go on and the desire to settle down for a relaxed evening with a book in the secure knowledge that he won’t have to go on. (This at least is true of aspiring understudies, those who really wish they had parts. There is a breed of professional understudy, often, if female, actresses who have semi-retired to bring up families, for whom the job is all that they require. It gives them the contact with the theatre that they crave, without the total commitment which acting every night demands.)
Charles Paris was not a professional understudy. He still had dreams. And, though those dreams had taken something of a battering since the heady days of Taunton, they were resilient and survived in amended form. The image of suddenly being called in to take over from George Birkitt and astounding the critics with his unsung brilliance was one that would not go away, however hard he tried to suppress it.
He knew that that was one of the reasons why he went to see George Birkitt first on his back-stage round at the ‘half’. The vulture instinct would make him acutely observant for any signs of imminent cerebral haemorrhage in the actor.
George Birkitt, however, looked remarkably fit. He was gazing into his make-up mirror, playing the same game that he always did on the monitor screens in television studios — in other words, deciding which was his best profile.
‘Hello, George. Just dropped in to say all the best.’
‘Oh, thanks, Charles.’ He seemed completely to have forgotten that Charles had ever played the part. ‘I think the director and some of the cast of Fly-Buttons should be out front tonight.’
He couldn’t resist mentioning the television series, just in case anyone should forget he was in it.
‘Oh great. I’ll be out there.’
‘Good. Then you could do me a favour. You know in the dinner party scene, when I’m down-stage doing my incest speech. .’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, could you tell me what Micky’s up to during that? I’m sure he makes some sort of reaction I can’t see. Could you watch out for it? I mean, I know he’s the star and all that, but I’m damned if I’m going to be upstaged, even by him. .’
The Star Dressing Room was Charles’s next port of call. Its door was guarded by Cerberus in the form of Micky Banks’s dresser, Harve, a redoubtable old queen who had been with his master for years. Recognising the visitor, he said, ‘O.K., just a quick word. Don’t want him tired.’
‘Fine.’
In spite of his dresser’s cares, Michael Banks did look absolutely shattered through his heavy make-up.
‘All the best, Micky.’
‘Thanks, Charles old boy.’ The star smiled graciously.
‘Sure you’ll knock ’em dead tonight.’
‘Hope so, hope so.’
There was a tap at the door and Harve grudgingly admitted Lesley-Jane Decker. As at Taunton, she was bearing gifts. The shape of the parcel she put on Michael’s make-up table showed that, for him at least, she had graduated to full-size bottles of champagne.
She put her arms around his neck and said, ‘All you wish for yourself, darling.’
‘Thank you, love. Same to you.’ Michael Banks grinned indulgently. ‘Is the redoubtable Valerie Cass up in your dressing room ready to give you lots of tips?’
Lesley-Jane laughed. ‘She’s out front where she should be. With Daddy.’
‘She’ll be round before the evening’s out.’
Charles felt awkward, excluded from their scene. ‘Well, I’ll. . er. .’ He edged towards the door, which Harve obligingly — indeed, pointedly opened for him.
Outside stood Alex Household.
‘Break a leg, Micky,’ he said with a rather strained intonation. ‘I’ll be out there supporting you.’
‘Bless you.’ The star turned round to his understudy. ‘Couldn’t do it without you, you know.’
‘I know.’ Alex Household gave the words perhaps too much emphasis.
Lesley-Jane could not keep her back to the door indefinitely and turned. Charles noted how pale she looked, almost ill.
‘Bonne chance, Lesley-Jane,’ pronounced Alex formally. ‘See you’re doing your rounds with the first night presents.’
He said it deliberately to make her feel awkward. And succeeded.
‘Yes. . yes. I’m. . er. . afraid I didn’t get round to doing anything for the understudies.’
‘No,’ Alex Household snorted with laughter. ‘No, of course not.’
And, slamming the door, he left the Star Dressing Room.
Charles caught up with him in the Green Room. Alex’s strange position in the production must have been making all of the usual understudy agonies even worse. Charles wanted to say something to help, but all he could think of was ‘Break a leg’.
‘Oh, you think you should wish luck to people who merely feed lines, do you? People whose job could be equally well — and probably better done — by a tape recorder.’
‘We all need luck,’ said Charles gently.
Alex laughed. ‘Yes, we do, don’t we?’
Then he started trembling. His whole body shook uncontrollably. His teeth chattered and he whimpered.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m. . Yes, I’m. . Yes, I will be.’
And, sure enough, he soon had control of himself again. The shivering subsided.
‘Sure you’re O.K.? There’ll be St. John Ambulance people out front.’
‘No, I’m all right.’ But Alex’s eyes belied his words. They were wide with fear. ‘This is how it started last time.’
‘How what started?’
‘The breakdown.’ And he was seized by another spasm. The worst of it passed, but his teeth still chattered feebly.
‘Are you cold or. .’
‘Cold? No. Or if I am now, I won’t be later. I’ll be roasting. Have you any idea how hot it gets in my little solitary nest on the O.P. side? Don’t worry, I’ll be hot enough. In fact, I’ll take this off while I think.’