(These others, incidentally, demonstrated once again Paul Lexington’s very personal definition of truth and his skill in the use of small print. Since he hadn’t got any London press reviews, he had used the Taunton ones, and artfully disguised their provenance. Thus the passerby would observe in large letters the exhortation, ‘I urge everyone to go and see The Hooded Owl now! — Times’. He would have to go very close indeed to the hoarding to read the word ‘Taunton’ between ‘now!’ and ‘Times’.
In the same way, the Observer, which acclaimed ‘an evening of theatrical magic’, was the Quantock Observer; and the Mail, who had ‘rarely been so entertained’, was the Western Mail.
The cheekiest of the lot was actually from a London newspaper. ‘One of the greatest dramas in the history of the British Theatre’ was, as its by-line claimed, from The Daily Telegraph; it had come, however, not from the Arts page, but from the front-page description of Michael Banks’s murder.
There were no flies on Paul Lexington.)
Charles cut out and kept his probably-nice review. He never kept bad ones. That was not just vanity. He always found that, while he could never exactly fix the wording of the good ones, the bad remained indelibly printed on his brain, accurate to the last comma.
Though over thirty years had passed, he could still remember how his first major role for the Oxford University Dramatic Society had been greeted by an undergraduate critic (who, incidentally, later became a particularly malevolent Minister of Health and Social Security):
‘Charles Paris had a brave stab at the part, but unfortunately it did not survive his attack’.
On the Wednesday matinee, when the house was minimal and so was the cast’s concentration, Charles came rather unstuck with his deaf-aid.
To be honest, it wasn’t his fault. Or it wasn’t completely his fault. He got fed the wrong line.
Inevitably, it was in the Hooded Owl speech, the play’s focus for either triumph or disaster. Charles had just turned to face the glass case, having made the analogy of the Hooded Owl and God. The line he should have received next was, ‘Why not? This stuffed bird has always been in the room.’ But, unfortunately, what the A.S.M. read to him was, ‘Why not? This bird has always been stuffed in this room.’
And, even more unfortunately, that was the line Charles repeated. The audience probably didn’t notice anything wrong; their reactions were so minimal, anyway, that it hardly mattered. But Lesley-Jane certainly did, and she started to giggle. That, and the mild hysteria that a tiny audience always engenders, got Charles going too, and the pair of them were almost paralysed by laughter. It was what actors call a total ‘corpse’, and, although they managed to get through to the end of the play, any tension they might have built up was dissipated.
The lapse was duly noted by the Stage Manager and no one was surprised to be summoned on stage at the ‘half’ for the evening show, and receive a dressing-down from the Company Manager.
‘You’re all meant to be professionals,’ Wallas Ward berated them petulantly, ‘and this sort of behaviour is unforgivable. We already have our problems with this show, and we’re at a very pivotal point. If we are to survive in the West End, we have to guarantee that every performance is up to scratch. Nothing brings a show’s reputation down quicker than the rumour going round the business that the cast has started sending it up. You really should know better.’
Charles owned up, like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Sorry, it was my fault. I got fed the wrong line.’
‘Well, you should have been concentrating on what you were saying. You are meant to think, not just relay the lines like some glorified loudspeaker.’
‘Yes, I know. I’m sorry. Lapse of concentration. Won’t happen again.’
‘It’d better not. I think you ought to be off the deaf-aid by now.’
‘What?’ Charles was very taken aback.
‘Well, you are going to learn the lines at some point, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, I. . er. . I hadn’t really thought about it.’ He hadn’t. Now he had sorted out the technique of using the deaf-aid, he found it wonderfully relaxing. The strain of remembering the lines was removed, and he could enjoy the acting. It hadn’t occurred to him that at some point his life-support system would be taken away.
‘I think you should be off the deaf-aid now,’ asserted Wallas Ward righteously. ‘But Paul says wait a bit, no hurry, and it’s his decision.’
‘Right, well, I’ll wait till I hear from him.’
‘And, in the meantime, let us have no repetition of this afternoon’s disgusting display of amateurism.’
Very good, Wallas, yes, Wallas, certainly, Wallas, said all the cast, touching their forelocks in mock-abasement.
‘Maurice Skellern Personal Management.’
‘Still holding out for the twenty per cent, I see, Maurice.’
‘Charles, one has to pay for personal service in this day and age. It’s the same all over the board, you know.’
‘Humph.’
‘Well, and how’s the show going?’
‘Oh, thank you for asking. I take it that question is an example of your Personal Management, the individual care you lavishly bestow on your clients.’
‘Exactly, Charles.’
‘Listen, Maurice, we last spoke nearly a fortnight ago. Since then, not only has the show opened in the West End, but also I, your client, have taken over the leading part. And during that time, what kind of “individual care” have I received? Not even a lousy telephone call. I always have to end up ringing you.’
‘I’m never sure where you are, Charles.’
‘Rubbish. You could always find me if you tried.’
‘I think you’re being very hurtful, Charles. I spend all day beavering away on your behalf and — ’
‘Oh, damn it, Maurice, can’t you — ’
‘That’s very good, Charles, very good.’ Wheezes of laughter wafted down the telephone line.
‘What?’
‘Beavering — damn it. Very good.’
‘Listen, Maurice, as I say I am now playing the lead in this show, and I think it is about time you sorted out some deal on the money I get for doing it.’
‘Now, Charles, if you would calm down a moment and allow me to get a word in, I would be able to inform you that I have already negotiated just such a deal for you.’
‘Then why the hell didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because the details have only recently been finalised with Paul Lexington.’
‘Well, when did you ring him?’
‘He rang me, actually.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘And I suppose that was the first you knew of my taking over the part?’
‘It was, as it happens.’
‘I don’t bloody believe it. Your office must have a great pile of sand in it instead of a desk, so that you can keep your head buried all bloody day.’
‘Now, Charles. . An agent’s job is difficult enough without his clients being offensive.’
‘All right. Tell me what the deal is.’
Charles had devoted considerable thought to this subject. He knew that he wasn’t the most eminent actor in the world, but he still knew that nobody played a starring part in the West End for peanuts. He had to be on three hundred and fifty a week minimum, surely? Maybe a bit more. Maybe a lot more.
‘Paul Lexington was very fair on the phone, I thought, very fair.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘What he said was. .’
‘Yes?’
‘. . that he’d continue to pay your existing contract — ’
‘But that’s only a hundred and fifty a week.’