The Friday’s rehearsals followed the pattern of the previous day. Followed it even down to the detail of Michael Banks not knowing his lines.
The strain was beginning to tell on him. The casual bonhomie was maintained with more difficulty. There was no arrogance in the man; he was desperately aware that he was letting down all his fellow-actors, and by one of the least forgivable of professional shortcomings. Knowing the lines was the basic equipment for the job. Actors throughout history had staggered on to stages in various states of alcoholic debility, but they had almost always got through the lines, or at least an approximation of them. Michael Banks knew how much he was showing himself up, but the lines just wouldn’t come. The dark circles under his eyes suggested he might well have spent the entire night going through them on a tape recorder, but it hadn’t helped. Every improvement was at the cost of another speech forgotten.
And he knew fully what was at stake too. He was aware of his responsibilities as a star. One of the reasons why people in his position were paid so much money was because their presence could often ensure the survival of a production and keep the rest of the company in employment. They were responsible for the complete show, which was why stories of stars giving notes to other actors or ordering changes in sets and costumes were not just examples of megalomania, but the desire to maintain the overall standard of whatever production they put their names to.
Michael Banks knew that The Hooded Owl was not up to the required standard. It was due to open in less than a week. It was due to be shown to the paying public in a preview on the Monday evening. More important than either of these, it was due to be run again on the Saturday afternoon in front of Bobby Anscombe. And if it didn’t live up to the investor’s rigorous standards, no one had any doubt that he would make good his threat of withdrawing his backing.
Consciousness of all these pressures did not improve Michael Banks’s concentration and, together with fatigue, ensured that the lines were worse than ever on the Friday afternoon run.
The rehearsal ended in apathetic silence. The actors drifted uselessly to their belongings.
‘Micky, could we have a quick word?’ asked Paul Lexington, and the star, with the dignity of a man mounting the scaffold, went across to join the producer, director and Company Manager.
Conscious of the straining ears of the rest of the company, Paul Lexington led the little group out into the corridor. They were out for two or three minutes, during which no one in the hall spoke.
Michael Banks led them back in, saying, ‘No, I’m sorry, Paul. I couldn’t think of it. I have a reputation to maintain.’
‘Do you have any alternative to suggest?’ asked the Producer, careless now of listening ears.
The star spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘Only that somehow I’ll get the lines. Somehow.’
‘Micky, you’ve said that for a fortnight, and there’s no sign of it happening. We’ve got to do something.’
‘But not what you suggest. There must be some other way.’ And, to put an end to the conversation, he walked firmly off to pour himself a cup of coffee.
After a muttered colloquy with Peter Hickton and Wallas Ward, Paul Lexington announced, ‘O.K., everyone. We’ll break there. Ten o’clock call in the morning. There’s still a lot of work to do.’
‘You can say that again,’ murmured Alex Household, who was standing beside Charles, ‘but I fear it will all be in vain.’
‘Alex,’ said the producer, ‘could you just stay for a quick word?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m going round the pub,’ said Charles. ‘See you there maybe.’
‘Perhaps,’ Alex replied abstractedly. And looking at the glow of restrained excitement in the other actor’s face, Charles knew that Alex Household thought he was about to get his part back.
It was nearly an hour before Alex appeared in the pub, and one look at his face told that his expectation had not been realised.
He no longer even mentioned his ‘no stimulants’ regime as he took the large Bell’s from Charles.
‘The nerve! The bloody nerve! I cannot believe it!’
Charles didn’t bother to prompt. He knew it was all about to come out.
‘Do you know what they have asked me to do? Cool as you like, Paul bloody Lexington has asked me to sit in the wings for the entire run of this play and feed Micky Banks his lines!’
‘What, you mean to be a kind of private prompter, whispering at him right through the play?’
‘No, it’s a bit more sophisticated than that. This is a deaf-aid job.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, haven’t you heard of these things? It has been done before in similar circumstances. It’s a new device, whereby, thanks to the wonders of electronics, a star can still give a performance without bothering to learn the lines.’
‘Explain.’
‘Very simple, really. It’s a short-wave radio transmitter. Some lemon — me, if Paul Lexington has his way — sits in the wings feeding the part line by line into the transmitter. The character on stage, for reasons which may possibly be explained by the insertion of a line or two into the script, wears a deaf-aid. .’
‘Which acts as a receiver?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But does it work?’
‘It has worked in some very eminent cases. Has to be modern dress obviously, and ideally an elderly character. You can’t have Romeo swarming up the balcony in doublet, hose and hearing aid. But the part Micky’s playing. . why not?’
‘I’m amazed. I never heard of that being done.’
‘Well, now you know. And if ever you see an actor on stage with a deaf-aid that is not integral to the plot — be suspicious.’
‘Has Micky agreed to use it?’
‘He’s still blustering and saying he never will and he once learnt lago in three days, but he’ll have to come round. There’s no alternative. Except for the obvious one.’
‘Which is?’
‘Reverting to the original casting.’ Alex Household let out the words in a hiss of frustration.
‘Which they won’t now they’ve got Micky’s name all over the posters.’
‘No, of course they won’t.’
‘I agree, it’s a bit of a cheek, asking you to do it.’
‘Oh, you should have heard the way it was put. Paul Lexington at his greasiest. Of course, Alex old man, it could be done by an A.S.M., but you do know the part so well, you could time it properly. And of course we would raise your money for doing it.’
‘By how much?’ No actor could have resisted asking the question.
‘Fifty quid a week.’
‘That’s pretty good.’
‘Oh yes, Paul Lexington pays you well for totally humiliating yourself.’
‘So you told him to get stuffed, did you?’
‘No, I haven’t yet.’ A cold smile came to Alex Household’s lips. ‘And do you know, I’m not sure that I will.’
‘You mean you’ll accept it?’
‘I just might.’
‘Good idea,’ said Charles soothingly. ‘Take the money and don’t think about it. That’s always been my philosophy.’
‘Yes.’ Alex’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Because now I come to think about it, it could be a good job.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘A position of power.’
‘Power?’
‘Yes. How does one gain revenge for humiliation’?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Charles didn’t like the way the conversation was going. The old light of paranoia gleamed in Alex’s eye.
‘Why, you humiliate someone else.’
‘Maybe, but — ’
‘And if you’re stuck in the wings feeding lines to some senile old fool who can’t remember them. .’ he laughed harshly, ‘. . then it’s really up to you what lines you feed.’
By the Saturday morning Michael Banks had accepted the inevitable. He sat in shamefaced silence while Paul Lexington explained to the company what was going to be done and was still silent, but attentive, while Wallas Ward, who had encountered the deaf-aid on a previous production, demonstrated the apparatus.
They started rehearsing with it straight away. Alex Household sat in a chair by the wall, smugly reading the lines into a small transmitter with an aerial, while Michael Banks moved about the stage area with the deaf-aid in his ear.
‘We can’t really work out sound levels properly until we get into the theatre. Better just work on timing the lines,’ advised Wallas Ward.
‘Come the day,’ asked Alex languidly, ‘where will I perch? On the Prompt Side?’
‘No. You’d be too near the Stage Manager’s desk there, might pick up his cues on the transmitter. No, you should sit OP.’ Wallas Ward used the theatrical jargon for the side opposite the Stage Manager.
‘Fine,’ said Alex, obtrusively cooperative.
They started. It was not easy. Michael Banks was not used to acting with a voice murmuring continuously in his ear, and Alex Household found it difficult to time the lines right. If he went at the natural pace, Michael Banks got lost and confused, unable to speak one line while hearing the next. The only way they could get any semblance of acting was for Alex to speak a whole sentence, Michael to wait for the end, and then repeat it. This method didn’t work too badly in exchanges of dialogue, but again it was disastrous in the long speeches. With all the waits as the lines came in, the pace slowed to nothing. The lines were coming out as written, but the play was dying a slow death.
Michael Banks struggled on gamely for about an hour, but then snatched out his ear-piece and said, ‘I’m sorry, loves. It’s just not working, is it?’
‘Persevere,’ said Wallas Ward. ‘Just persevere. It takes a long time to get used to it.’
‘How long? We don’t have that much time.’
‘Keep trying.’
It was painfully slow, but Michael Banks kept trying. His memory might have gone, but he showed plenty of guts.
Bobby Anscombe was due at three. Then they would do a run for him. By then they had to have mastered the device. By unspoken consent they worked on through their lunch-break. Every member of the company was willing their star to succeed.
Slowly, slowly, the pace started to pick up. Alex spoke more quickly and Michael Banks lost the flow less often.
It was a cooperative effort between the two. It had to be. Alex’s task of dictating the pace was quite as difficult as Michael’s of delivering the lines. And Charles noted with relief how Alex was rising to the challenge. Whatever resentments he might feel, whatever threats he might have voiced against the star, the understudy was now totally caught up in his task, spacing the lines with total concentration, caught up in the communal will for the subterfuge to work.
They staggered through the second act. It was half-past two, and the minutes were ticking away till Bobby Anscombe’s appearance. The tension in the room built up, the concentration of the entire company focusing on Michael Banks, living every effort with him.
He was approaching the big speech about the Hooded Owl, the speech which Malcolm Harris had rightly claimed to be the centre of his play, the speech that the star had not once got through since he had abandoned his script. All was silent in the rehearsal room, except for the actors speaking their lines.
The big speech was the climax of a scene between Michael and Lesley-Jane, playing his daughter. The dialogue which ran up to it showed good pace, and the strength of the star’s performance, absent in recent days, began again to show through.
The speech was partly addressed to the Hooded Owl of the title and ended with the bird in its glass case being smashed on the floor. Though this was to happen every night in the run, the Stage Management had requested that, to save on glass cases, the action should be mimed during rehearsal.
Lesley-Jane cued the big speech, and no one breathed. ‘But, Father,’ she said, ‘you will never be forgotten.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Michael Banks with new authority. ‘Oh yes, I will.
‘Three generations of us have lived in this house. Three generations have passed through this room, slept here, argued here, made love here, even died here. And the only marks of their passage have been obliterated by the next generation. New wallpaper, new furniture, new window frames. . the past is forgotten. Gone with no record. Unless you believe in some supernatural being, taking notes on our progress. A God, maybe — or, if you’d rather, a Hooded Owl. .
‘Why not? This stuffed bird has always been in the room. Imagine it had perception, a memory to retain our follies. Oh God, the weakness that these walls have witnessed! And this bird has lived through it all, has seen it all, impassively, in silence.’
He picked up the glass case and looked at the bird reflectively. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he shouted, ‘Well, I’m not going to be spied on any longer!’ and dashed it to the ground.
They all burst into applause. Lesley-Jane threw her arms round Michael Banks’s neck. The sense of achievement was felt by every one of them. Not only had he mastered the lines, he had also delivered the speech with greater power than it had ever received, either by him in rehearsal, or by Alex in performance. And yet Alex had contributed. Something of his timing, something of his delivery had come into Michael Banks’s performance, giving it new depth and stature. The applause was for the joint effort.
It was five to three. Paul Lexington held up his hands for silence. His glowing face showed that he was aware of the breakthrough. ‘I think we’re going to be all right. We’ll stop it there. Thank you all for your hard work. Bobby’ll be here in a minute, and I want you all to give him a performance that’ll blast him out of his seat!’
The run was not perfect, but it was good. Occasionally the timing between Alex and Michael went and the star lost his lines, but for most of the play the flow was maintained. Bobby Anscombe, who had reacted badly when he had first heard of the deaf-aid idea, was forced to admit at the end that it might work. Like everyone else, he recognised that there was no alternative.
‘O.K.,’ he announced to everyone in his usual grudging style. ‘We’re still in business. Just. But you’re all going to have to work a darned sight harder. The last week’s rehearsal has been a virtual write-off, and you’re meant to be facing a preview audience on Monday.’
‘You think we go ahead with that?’ asked Paul Lexington. Clearly cancelling the previews had been one option the producers had discussed.
‘We’ll go ahead. The show needs the run-in, and even if it’s bad, there won’t be too much word-of-mouth outside the business. And any word-of-mouth’d be better than what we’ve got at the moment. What the hell’s happening on the publicity front?’ He rounded on his co-producer as he asked the question.
‘Show-Off say it’s all in hand.’
‘A bit late to have it in hand. It should be out of hand and all over the bloody media by now. Is anything happening?’
‘Micky’s doing Parkinson tonight — the Beeb’s sending a car about six, Micky. .’
The star acknowledged this information with an exhausted nod.
‘. . and then there’s supposed to be an interview in Atticus in The Sunday Times tomorrow.’
‘Better than nothing, but where are the bloody posters?’
‘Apparently some delay about those. You know, the people who put them up are quite difficult to organise.’
‘I know that. .’
‘But it’s supposed to be sorted out now.’
‘I should bloody well hope so. We open on Thursday and at the moment we’ve made about as much noise as a fart in a hurricane.’ Bobby Anscombe turned to Peter Hickton. ‘All set for the get-in at the Variety tonight?’
The Director nodded with relish at the prospect of a sleepless night of hard work.
‘Tech. run tomorrow night and D.R. Monday afternoon?’
‘That’s it,’ Peter Hickton confirmed.
‘Hmm. Well, for God’s sake see that Micky and Alex get some practice with that bloody walkie-talkie tomorrow afternoon. There’s a long way to go before it sounds natural.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Paul Lexington diplomatically. ‘We’ll sort it out. This is going to be a show you’ll be proud to be associated with, Bobby.’
The investor barked a short, cynical laugh. ‘Bloody well better be. Don’t forget, Paul, we still haven’t got a contract. I can still pull out if I don’t like it.’
‘Yes, sorry about that. There’s been so much on this week I just haven’t had time to get the details of the contract finalised.’
Charles wondered whether this was true or whether Paul Lexington was once again using delaying tactics for devious reasons of his own. Distrust of the producer was now instinctive.
Bobby Anscombe gave an evil grin. ‘I don’t mind having no contract if you don’t. Gives me the freedom to walk out at will.’
But nobody believed his threat. They all knew that The Hooded Owl had just survived a great crisis. For the first time that week, they all dared to feel confident that the show would open the following Thursday, as planned.