The weekend with chums in Chichester did not seem, on the Monday’s showing, to have left Micky Banks much time to look at his lines. If anything, he was worse after the break; even the words he had remembered the week before were now coming out jumbled and confused.
‘Don’t worry,’ he kept saying. ‘Don’t worry, Peter old boy. They will come. Just out of practice learning, you know. That’s the trouble with doing all these films and tellies — you just have to remember a little bit for a short take. Forget what it’s like learning a long part. But don’t worry — be all right on the night. I once got up lago in three days when I was in rep. If we just press on with the rehearsal, it’ll come.’
But it didn’t. And indeed it was very difficult to press on with the rehearsal. In every production there comes an awkward jerky stage when the cast abandon their books for the first time, but for The Hooded Owl it seemed to be going on longer than usual.
And it had a knock-on effect. George Birkitt got lazy about learning his lines too. Charles remembered from working on The Strutters with him that George had always had an approximate approach to the text, relying, as did so many television actors, on a sort of paraphrase of the speeches which homed in on the right cue. Strong direction could make him more disciplined and accurate, but Peter Hickton was not well placed to bully George Birkitt. The latter could always turn round — and indeed did turn round-and say, ‘Sorry, love, I don’t mind working on them, but there doesn’t seem a lot of point in my giving up my free evenings when the star is unwilling to do the same.’
He couldn’t resist putting a sneer into the words. In spite of the success of Fly-Buttons, George Birkitt was not yet a star — and quite possibly never would be. He lacked the necessary effortless dominance of character. Deep down he was aware of this fact, and it hurt.
Charles hoped that George’s assumption was right, that Michael Banks’s difficulty in retaining the lines was just the product of laziness. If that were the case, then atavistic professional instincts and the terrifying imminence of the first night would ensure that he knew the part by the time they opened. But Charles had a nagging fear that it wasn’t that, that Michael Banks really was trying, that he did go through the lines time after time in the evenings, but that his mind could no longer retain them. If that was the situation, it was very serious. And through the star’s casual bonhomie at rehearsals, Charles thought he could detect a growing panic as the awful realisation dawned.
They were making so little progress on the Monday that Peter Hickton took the sensible decision and dismissed most of the cast at lunchtime; he would sit down with Michael Banks and George Birkitt all afternoon and just go through the lines. It was a ploy that often worked. Apart from the shame of being kept in like a naughty schoolboy, the constant automatic repetition of the lines taken out of the context of the play could often lodge them in the leakiest actor’s mind.
And on the Tuesday morning it was seen to have had some effect. George Birkitt, whose main problem with the lines had been an unwillingness to look at them, showed a marked improvement. Michael Banks, too, started with renewed confidence and got further into the text than he ever had before without error. Relief settled on the rehearsal room. When he was flowing in the part, the company could feel his great presence and their confidence in the whole enterprise blossomed.
The first breakdown came about twenty minutes into the play. Needless to say, it was in a big speech. As ever, the start was confident. And, as ever, about three sentences in, Michael Banks faltered. The entire cast held their breath, as if watching a tightrope-walker stumble, and all let out a sigh of relief when he managed to right himself and make it through to the end of the speech.
But it was a symptom of things to come. In the next big speech, Michael Banks again stumbled. Again he extricated himself, but this time at some cost to the text. What he said was a vague approximation of what Malcolm Harris had written, and he didn’t even give the right cue to George Birkitt, who spoke next.
This threw George, and he got his lines wrong. Being George, he didn’t try to cover the fluff and press on; instead he said, ‘Sorry, love, but I can’t be expected to get my lines right if I get the wrong feed, can I?’
The scene lurched forward again, but its momentum was gone. Michael Banks’s eyes were lit with the panic of a man about to dry. And sure enough, he did. Peter Hickton tried another approach and threw one of his little tantrums. This didn’t help at all. It just soured the atmosphere of the rehearsal, and left Michael Banks looking pained, like some huge animal, beaten for a transgression he does not understand.
For a show due to open for its first public preview in a week’s time The Hooded Owl was in far from promising shape.
There was a run on the Tuesday afternoon for the producers. Paul Lexington and Bobby Anscombe sat through the whole play in silence.
It was excruciating. Consciousness of the audience made Michael Banks nervous, and nervousness scrambled the lines in his head even further. George Birkitt got through with only one prompt, but his performance was spoiled by the smug smile he wore throughout at the star’s expense.
Eventually, half-way through the second act, as the play’s climax approached, Michael Banks could stand it no longer. He snatched the prompt copy from the Stage Manager and read the rest of his part. The strength of the performance, as ever, increased, but it was worrying.
The play finished and there was silence. The actors drifted away from the centre of the room to the safety of the walls, where they picked up crosswords, fiddled with knitting, lit cigarettes and gave generally unconvincing impressions of people who weren’t worried about what was about to happen.
Paul Lexington and Bobby Anscombe were sitting at a table in the middle of the room, engaged in a fiercely whispered conversation. The cast couldn’t help hearing odd words. Bobby Anscombe seemed to be doing most of the talking. ‘Bloody terrible. . amateur. . when I put my money into something I don’t expect. . can’t put that sort of thing into a professional theatre. . These fag-ends did not augur well for any public announcement that might be made.
And when it came, the announcement lived up to their worst fears. With a gesture of annoyance at something Paul Lexington had just said, Bobby Anscombe stood up and banged his hand down on the table.
‘This is bloody awful. I’ve backed more shows than you lot have had hot dinners and I’ve never seen anything like this. Do you realise, a week on Thursday you’re going to play this show to all the West End critics? At the moment none of them’s going to sit through to the end. If I don’t see a marked improvement by the end of the week, I am going to take my money out!’
Shock registered on every face in the room. Even Paul Lexington’s boyish mask was shattered.
Bobby Anscombe had intended his ultimatum as an exit line, but he was stopped by Michael Banks, who had worked with him in the past and knew his volatile temper. He stepped forward, diplomatically.
‘Bobby, old boy, take your point. The show does look pretty shitty at the moment. Also take the blame myself. I just haven’t got the hang of the lines yet. But don’t worry. Give us a couple of days and you won’t recognise it.’
‘I’d better not. There is nothing in it at the moment that I would want my name associated with.’
‘Now come on, Bobby. It’s only me letting the side down,’ Michael Banks volunteered nobly. ‘I don’t know my lines and I’m dragging down the rest of the cast.’
‘And why don’t you know your lines?’ Bobby Anscombe snapped. ‘Listen. You know how much money we’re paying you. It’s a bloody big investment. And when I invest that much, I reckon to get value for my money.’ He thumped the table with his fist. ‘I’m paying for a star actor who can do the job of acting, not some old has-been whose memory’s gone.’
It was as if every person in the room had been slapped in the face. They all flinched. Michael Banks’s charm had worked on every one of them, and they hated this savage attack on him.
The star himself took it with dignity. ‘Fair comment. I agree, I should know the lines by now. And I will. Don’t worry, once in rep. I learned all of lago in three days.’
‘I’m not interested in what you’ve done in the past. My money is invested in what you can do now.’
Once again, Bobby Anscombe intended this as a parting shot, but again he was stopped. This time the interruption came from an unexpected source, as Lesley-Jane Decker leapt to the defence of her idol.
‘It’s all very well you saying that, but do you realise that Micky only saw the script ten days ago? It’s a huge amount to learn in that time.’
Bobby Anscombe looked at her contemptuously. ‘I am not concerned about actors’ problems. I don’t give a toss how long he’s had to learn the part or how difficult it’s been. All I know is he’s signed a contract to play the part properly, and at the moment he’s not doing it. I am not getting my money’s worth. I’m a business man with a reputation to think of. I’ve backed this show and I intend to make money out of it. The only way that’s going to happen is if it looks like a professional West End production. At the moment it looks like amateur night. The only way for it to look any different is for Michael to learn the bloody lines. Unless,’ he added with unpleasant irony, ‘anyone has any other ideas for picking it out of the shit. .?’
‘You could revert to the original casting.’
It was Alex Household who had spoken. He hadn’t intended to. He looked as shocked as everyone else at his words. They had just come out. The build-up of frustration he had felt ever since he lost the part would not allow him to be silent. When given such a cue, the reply had to emerge.
The investor wheeled on him. ‘What, and put your name above the title? How many people do you think that’ll bring in? At least, with Micky there, we can fill a few weeks of punters coming in to watch him dry. But who’s going to come out to see a non-entity like you? I’ll tell you — bloody no one!’
Alex may have had some response ready, but he got no chance to voice it, as Bobby Anscombe turned his fury on Paul Lexington.
‘Not that anyone’s going to come anyway at the moment. Where’s the publicity? I haven’t seen a single poster for this bloody show. I haven’t heard anything on the radio, seen nothing in the press, nothing on the box. How are the punters meant to know there’s a show on? Bloody E.S.P.?’
Paul Lexington looked subdued. ‘Publicity is being handled by Show-Off Enterprises.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘They’re part of Lanthorn Productions. Denis Thornton recommended them.’
‘Oh, did he? Well, you shouldn’t trust him further than you can throw him. Are they doing the publicity for his new musical at the King’s?’
‘I think so.’
‘Oh well then, you won’t see anything from them. The musical opens next week as well. They’ll be putting all their efforts behind that.’
‘They’ve said they’re going to do a big media blitz for us at the end of this week.’
‘Oh really? And you believed them? Good God, the management of this outfit’s as bloody amateur as the acting!’
And with that exit line, Bobby Anscombe succeeded in making his exit.
Rehearsals on the Wednesday were somewhat desultory, because the person most in need of rehearsal was not there. Michael Banks was fulfilling his previous commitment to play Pro-Celebrity Golf for the BBC. This was intensely frustrating for everyone, because logic dictated that he wasn’t going to get much opportunity to look at his lines between strokes. It was just a wasted day.
But Peter Hickton could not resist working. Back with his own cast, he was determined to keep them at it as long as possible, fulfilling his own need for manic activity. (Charles had developed a new theory about the director’s passion for working so hard. As well as giving him moral ascendancy over the rest of the company, driving himself to exhaustion might also cloud critical judgement, so that comments would be made on the effort that had gone into the show rather than on its quality.)
Because of the star’s absence, his understudy took on the role. Alex Household performed this function punctiliously, making no comment, but demonstrating a fluency with the lines which contrasted significantly with Michael Banks’s constant breaks for prompts.
And yet, even though Alex gave a performance quite as good as any he had given in Taunton, he was not as good as Banks. The artifice showed. Charles was aware of it, all the rest of the cast were aware of it. And the petulant set of Alex Household’s mouth showed that he was aware of it too.
Malcolm Harris, whose school had Games on Wednesday afternoons, had managed to get away to see the rehearsal. When Peter Hickton was finally persuaded to stop for the day, at about seven, Charles Paris walked with the author to the pub round the corner.
Malcolm Harris was aggrieved. ‘A complete waste of my time, coming to that rehearsal, with Michael Banks not even there.’
‘Didn’t anyone tell you he wouldn’t be?’
‘No.’
Oh dear. Another black mark against Paul Lexington, both as management and agent.
But not as black as the mark that the ensuing conversation was to put against the producer’s name.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Malcolm Harris, ‘but it does cost a lot, all this toing and froing up to London.’
‘I suppose Paul hasn’t mentioned anything like expenses?’
‘No chance.’
‘No. Few producers would, unless pressed by their client’s agent.’
‘I wouldn’t mind, but I am pretty hard-up at the moment. Teachers aren’t paid a fortune, as you know.’
‘No. Still, you must have had some royalties from Taunton.’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I did ask Paul about that. He said he couldn’t pay me.’
‘Couldn’t pay you?’
‘No.’
Charles could just picture Paul Lexington saying it, his plausible face earnestly puckered as he explained the situation to his gullible client.
Malcolm Harris brightened. ‘No, but he offered me a very good deal.’
‘Oh yes?’ Charles couldn’t keep the cynicism out of his voice. But the author did not appear to notice it. ‘He said that he couldn’t pay me because he had to maintain his cash flow for the London opening, but what he would do was to let me regard what he owed me as a stake in the show.’ He grinned with triumph.
‘So you become an investor?’
‘Exactly. I’m now on a percentage, with the Taunton money as my stake. So, when the play starts making a lot, I get this extra money on top of my royalty!’
And if it doesn’t make any money, thought Charles, you don’t even get what’s owing to you.
‘And you accepted the deal just like that?’
‘Oh yes, of course. I mean, it’s a good deal. And, anyway, I didn’t have any alternative.’
‘Did he offer you any alternative?’
‘Yes, he said, if I insisted on having my Taunton money, he wouldn’t be able to afford to bring the show in.’
It was all horribly predictable. Once again Charles was astonished how easily Malcolm would fall for the oldest cons in the business. And once again, his estimate of Paul Lexington’s integrity dropped a few notches.
‘By the way,’ asked the author, ‘has Micky Banks learnt the lines yet?’
‘Well. .’ replied Charles Paris evasively.
To his surprise, when they got to the pub, he found Valerie Cass sitting there over a large gin. She waved effusively and he couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen her. ‘Charles darling, how lovely to see you.’
‘Yes, er. . terrific. You know Malcolm, don’t you?’
‘Of course. We met in Taunton.’
‘Did we?’
‘Yes. I’m Valerie Cass. Though you might not think it, I’m Lesley-Jane’s mother.’
‘Why shouldn’t I think it?’ asked Malcolm Harris innocently. He was not skilled in the art of complimenting ladies.
Nor, as Charles had come to realise to his cost, was he skilled in buying rounds of drinks. Resigning himself, Charles asked, ‘Get you another one, Valerie?’
‘Oh, just a teensy gin. Thank you, Charles.’
‘Malcolm?’
‘Half of lager, please.’
While he was getting the drinks, Alex Household came in to the pub, looking harassed. ‘Tomato juice, Alex?’
‘Whisky, please.’
‘Make that another large Bell’s, please. So you’re hooked on the stimulants now, are you?’
‘God knows I need something, Charles.’
‘Hmm. Look who’s over there. The mother.’
‘Oh Lord. I can’t face her.’
‘Come on.’
Reluctantly, Alex followed Charles to the table and sat down. He and Valerie looked at each other as cordially as two people who loathe each other can.
‘So where’s my baby?’ asked Lesley-Jane’s mother.
‘Don’t know,’ said Charles. ‘She said she had to rush off after rehearsal.’
Valerie looked piqued. ‘Oh, from what she said, I gathered she usually came round here.’
‘Quite often. Not tonight.’
‘You don’t know where she is, Alex?’ she asked sweetly. And then, with a touch of venom, ‘Or are you no longer the right person to ask?’
Alex spoke without emotion. ‘As far as I know, she has gone out to dinner.’
‘Oh, has she? Then we’ve both been stood up.’
‘So it would appear.’
‘Do you know who we’ve been stood up by?’
‘The version I heard was that Lesley-Jane was going out to dinner with Michael Banks “to go through his lines”.’
‘Oh,’ said Valerie Cass. And then, with a different intonation, ‘Oh.’ The news gave rise to mixed emotions in her. She was glad her daughter had stood up Alex Household. She was impressed that her daughter was out with someone of the eminence of Michael Banks. But at the same time, she was nettled that her daughter hadn’t told her she was going out, and the sexual jealousy, which was so much part of their relationship, was irritated by the news. She responded by testing her own sexual magnetism on Charles. ‘Had you thought about eating?’
‘Me? Eating? Oh, I’m not much of an eater. Had a pie at lunch. That does me for the day.’
‘Oh.’
‘Tell me, Alex,’ said Malcolm Harris suddenly, ‘how is Micky Banks doing on the lines?’
‘Well. .’ Alex Household pursed his lips sarcastically. And, whereas Charles had left it at that, Michael Banks’s understudy proceeded to tell the author just how much of a massacre the star was making of his play.
It was just the two of them left in the pub. Valerie Cass had left rather petulantly as soon as she had finished her gin, and Malcolm Harris, breathing imprecations against Michael Banks, had gone soon after (without, of course, buying a round). Charles and Alex drank a lot, but Charles didn’t feel the relaxation he normally experienced when getting quietly pissed with a fellow actor. Alex was too jumpy, too neurotic, too dangerous.
Towards the end of the evening, indiscreet with the unaccustomed alcohol, he suddenly said, ‘I don’t think I can take it much longer.’
‘Take what?’ asked Charles.
‘The humiliation. The sheer bloody humiliation. You take a decision rationally. You say I’ll do this or that, it’ll be hell, but I know the stakes, I’ll do it, I can cope. And then you do it, and it is hell, and you realise that you can’t cope.’
‘You mean this understudy thing?’
Alex nodded unevenly. ‘That, and other things, yes. I just feel it can’t go on much longer. There’s got to be some resolution, something that breaks the tension.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘I don’t know.’ Alex Household laughed suddenly. ‘Someone’s death, maybe.’
Thursday’s rehearsals built up to a run in the afternoon. Whatever Michael Banks had done with Lesley-Jane the previous evening — and something in their manner towards each other suggested he had done something — it had not improved his grasp of the lines. In fact, he was worse than ever. It was as if his mind had a finite capacity for lines; put in more than it could hold and they would start to overflow. He would surprise everyone by getting a new speech right, but then show that it had been at the expense of other sections of dialogue. The fact could not be avoided: Michael Banks could no longer learn lines.
He was cold and hurt at the end of the run-through, knowing what was wrong and unable to admit it.
‘Look, Micky,’ said Peter Hickton, ‘would it help if we were to go through the lines again this evening, just the two of us?’
‘No, thank you,’ the star replied politely. ‘I’ll go home and put them on tape. That sometimes helps.’
‘Are you sure there’s nothing that — ’
‘Quite sure, thank you,’ came the firm reply. ‘Don’t worry about it. I once learned all of lago in three days when I was in rep.’
But the old boast didn’t convince anyone. Amidst subdued farewells, Michael Banks left the rehearsal room.
‘Christ!’ muttered Paul Lexington, momentarily losing his cool. ‘What the hell do we do now?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ confessed Peter Hickton. ‘Just run out of ideas. Unless we start pasting bits of the script all over the set. God, if only it were television. There you can use autocue and idiot boards, but in the theatre there’s no technology that can help you out.’
‘Oh,’ said Wallas Ward, the languid Company Manager. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’