Paul’s familiar voice came on, tired but as confident as ever.‘No. Of course, we are all shattered by what has occurred, but we are professionals. It is our job to entertain the public and that is what we will continue to do. Don’t worry, the show will go on.’
‘How soon?’
‘Tonight. There will be a performance of The Hooded Owl tonight.’
‘Tonight? But can you replace Michael Banks at that sort of notice?’
‘Yes, we can.’
‘But I understood. .’ The interviewer picked his way carefully around the sub judice laws. ‘I understood that Mr. Banks’s understudy is. . nott available.’
‘That is true. The part will be taken by another member of the company.’
‘May I ask his name?’
‘Certainly. His name is Charles Paris.’
‘Who?’ asked the interviewer.
‘WHO?’ echoed Charles Paris.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The nerves on the first night at Taunton had been bad; so had the understudy nerves of the first night at the Variety; but they were nothing to the sheer blind terror that attended Charles Paris as he waited to go on stage in the role in which Michael Banks’s career had been so tragically cut short the night before.
Charles had not really believed it would happen. After hearing his name on the radio, he had thought it must be just bravado on Paul Lexington’s part, the young producer falling into cliche, insisting that the show must go on when all logic showed it was impossible. He must have been interviewed during the night of panic following the murder; in the rational light of dawn he would recognise that his words had been just heroics.
Charles had so convinced himself of this that he didn’t ring in to the production office until ten-thirty, deliberately giving the producer time to sober up his intoxicated imagination.
‘Charles!’ said Paul Lexington’s voice. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been ringing your number for hours.’
‘Ah. Well, I didn’t actually spend the night at home.’
‘Well, now you have rung, get in here as quickly as you can. Where are you?’
‘Muswell Hill.’
‘Get a cab and charge it.’
‘But what’s the hurry?’ asked Charles, deliberately obtuse.
‘You’re going on tonight playing the father.’
Charles took a deep breath, mustering the arguments he had prepared. ‘Paul, I don’t know if you have realised this yet, but I am not the understudy to the part of the father. I am understudying George Birkitt, who, when I last saw him, was looking as fit as a flea.’
‘Charles, this is an emergency! It’s not the time to argue about the small print of your contract. I’ll sort out the extra money with your agent.’
‘That is not what I’m arguing about. If I could play the part of the father for you tonight, I would be happy to oblige. But the point you seem to have missed is that I don’t know the lines.’
‘Nor did Michael Banks.’
‘No, but. . Good Lord, you don’t mean. .?’
But that was exactly what Paul Lexington did mean. If Michael Banks could get through the part having his lines relayed to him by radio, then so. the Producer’s reasoning ran, could any other actor. And since Charles knew the production so well, he’d be able to remember the moves and. .
Anyway, the show had to go on that night. Paul had given public undertakings on national radio and television that it would. His boast would also be in the later editions of the evening papers. It was a God-given publicity opportunity.
Charles was prepared to contest the definition of ‘God-given’ under the circumstances, but Paul didn’t give him time. ‘Find that cab and be here ten minutes ago!’ he ordered before putting the phone down.
It was a strange day, most of which Charles walked through in a dream. What remained of the morning was to be spent acclimatising himself to the deaf-aid receiver and learning how to pace himself with the A.S.M. who was going to feed the lines.
That was agony. Charles kept remembering what Micky Banks had gone through at the same stage, and often, like his predecessor, was ready to throw in the towel and say it was impossible. His mind wasn’t up to speaking one line while listening to another, and at the same time trying to remember the next move. His familiarity with his own original part didn’t help either. In the scenes where the father talked to the character now played by George Birkitt, he kept hearing the father’s line in his ear, mistaking it for his cue, and coming in with George’s line. There seemed no prospect of his ever getting the technique.
He bashed away at it with the A.S.M. solidly from eleven-fifteen, when he arrived at the theatre, until half past two, without any break for lunch or the drink he desperately craved. The rest of the cast were called for three to do a complete rehearsal of all the scenes he was in.
And, suddenly, just as had happened to Michael Banks, at the eleventh hour the rhythm started to come. Partly it was familiarity with the lines after three hours of going through them, but also it was a kind of relaxation that came with the acceptance of disaster. This is never going to work, Charles was thinking, so what is the point of worrying about it? With that thought came relief, and with relief sufficient detachment for him to split his mind, to let one part concentrate on hearing the lines, and the other on performing. The only sensation he could equate it with was that remoteness that comes during a long run, when the lines of the play get delivered every night, but the actor’s mind is miles away, thinking about anything but the performance he is giving.
The rest of the company was wonderfully supportive. They all looked shattered after the shock and lack of sleep of the night before, but they all worked for him, recognising his need as only professional actors can. The only one who was less than whole-hearted in his support was George Birkitt, whose mind seemed to be on something else (no doubt whether his billing would be affected by Michael Banks’s demise, and whether it was really appropriate for him to stay in the show and play a smaller part than Charles Paris).
But all the others demonstrated the unshakeable freemasonry of actors in a crisis. They were all very sharp and attentive, prepared to go back over scenes or lines as often as was required, patient when Charles lost the line, encouraging when he got a flow of dialogue working.
Through his haze, Charles realised that it wasn’t just the crisis that made them so deferential; it was the part he was now playing, too. Willy-nilly, he was now the star of The Hooded Owl, and the rest of the cast were giving him a taste of the treatment afforded to stars. It was something Charles Paris had never before experienced, and it felt very strange.
And so, like a grotesque dream, the hours passed. The ‘half’ came. Charles made himself up for the new role, and dressed in the new costume. Fortunately, the latter was really new. Apart from the fact that Michael Banks had been bigger than he was, the dead man’s clothes were still being examined by the police. Which was a relief to his replacement.
As he was preparing, all the company came in with good wishes and pledges of support. Paul Lexington exhorted him to do his best. The house was full, he said. As he thought, all the publicity had paid off.
The young Producer looked buoyant. Charles wasn’t too distracted to have the thought that Michael Banks’s replacement must have considerably reduced the running costs of the production.