Simon Brett - Murder Unprompted

The first thing he did on arriving at the rehearsal room was to ask Paul Lexington which one was Alex and, having had him identified, he immediately went across to the actor with hand outstretched.

‘Alex, I’m sorry. This is a lousy way for me to get a job. I know exactly how you feel. Just the same thing happened to me on one of my first jobs. It was a revue back in the thirties. We were doing a pre-London tour. I got as far as Birmingham, and then was called into the manager’s office. Just the same as you, I was offered the understudy.’

‘Did you take it?’

‘Oh yes.’ Michael Banks grinned disarmingly. ‘Oh yes, I took it. And it does mean I know exactly how shitty you’re feeling at this moment, and all the horrible fates you’re wishing down on my head.’

Alex blushed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say. .’

‘Yes, you would. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. Anyway, all I want to say is — I’m very sorry. This can be a rotten business at times. I sympathise. And, if you’re willing, I’ll be very grateful for your help. God, you must know this character inside-out by now, and I’ve got to get it presentable in a fortnight. Any tips you can give me, old boy, I will welcome as rich gifts.’

It was beautifully done. Had it been less well done, someone as prickly and paranoid as Alex Household would have bridled, would have pointed out that to lose a part at the beginning of one’s career was rather different from losing it after twenty years in the business, would have made some bitter retort. But, as it was, Michael Banks had him eating out of his hand. Yes, of course, said Alex, no, he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t hurt, but thanks for saying it, and he’d be happy to give any advice that might be required.

George Birkitt didn’t show quite the same smooth tact in his dealings with the actor he was replacing.

‘Hello, Charles. Long time, no see,’ he murmured after getting himself a coffee.

‘Hello.’

‘Rather strange circumstances for a meeting.’

‘Yes.’

‘I was very undecided when my agent told me about the offer. .’

‘Oh.’

‘Well, it is second billing, no two ways about that. I mean, God knows, I’m the last person in the world to worry about that sort of thing, but there does come a point in your career where you have to think about it. I mean, with Fly-Buttons up there in the ratings, I do have to be a bit careful.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I tell you, Charles, it was only after I heard that they’d signed up Micky Banks that I agreed to do it. Of course, it is still second billing, but second billing to Micky Banks is no disgrace at this stage in my career.’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Charles.

Peter Hickton was up from Taunton and keen to start working his cast as hard as ever. Now that the two main parts had been recast, there really was going to be a lot to do, and the company waved goodbye to their hopes of a cushy fortnight.

The director clapped his hands. ‘O.K., loves. Now, as you all know, we’ve got a big job on, and we’re going to have to work every hour there is to get The Hooded Owl up to the standard I know it can reach.’

This was very familiar to those who had worked with Peter before; he said it before every production, regardless of how complex or simple it was, and regardless of the length of rehearsal allocated.

‘Now what I want to do is go through the blocking today, so that Micky and George can start to feel the shape of the production. Tomorrow we’ll get down to Act One in detail, and then on Wednesday we’ll — ’

‘Um, sorry, old boy. .’

Peter Hickton looked to the source of the interruption. It was Michael Banks.

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry, can’t do Wednesday.’

‘What?’

‘Can’t do Wednesday. Got to do some Pro-Celebrity Golf thing for the BBC. Didn’t the agent mention it?’

Peter Hickton looked round to Paul Lexington, who shook his head.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. The agent’s an awful duffer when it comes to dates. Got the same thing the following Wednesday too.’

‘Oh.’ But Peter Hickton was only slowed down for a moment. ‘Never mind. If we work hard over the weekend, we can — ’

‘Ah. Sorry, old boy, going away for the weekend.’

‘Oh.’

‘Going to stay with some chums in Chichester. Can’t really put it off, been in the diary for ages. Sorry, this show came up so suddenly, there are a few dates we’ll have to work round.’

‘Yes’ said Peter Hickton. ‘Yes, of course.’

Under normal circumstances, understudies would be expected to attend all the rehearsals to familiarise themselves with the production, but, because Alex and Charles knew the play so well, they were given a dispensation to take most of the first week off, which would save both them and their replacements the embarrassment of the early stumbling rehearsals while the newcomers were trying to memorise the lines. The two understudies were asked to come back on the Friday afternoon, when there was going to be a complete run of the play for the producers and Malcolm Harris.

When he arrived at the rehearsal room on the Friday, Charles found the author in a state of extreme annoyance.

‘What’s up, Malcolm?’

‘Have you seen this?’ He pointed to a printed handout on a table. It read:

THE VARIETY THEATRE

PAUL LEXINGTON PRODUCTIONS

in association with

BOBBY ANSCOMBE

presents

MICHAEL BANKS GEORGE BIRKITT

in

THE HOODED OWL

There was more writing beneath this, but it was printed too small to be legible.

‘I see,’ said Charles.

‘It’s a bit much. My name might just as well not be on it,’ objected the author.

‘Hmm. You see, what’s happened is that this is a big design for a poster. They’ve economised by reducing it for the handout. Your name’d be legible on the big poster.’

‘That’s a fat lot of good. No, I’m really annoyed about this. I think these handouts should be withdrawn. I mean, look at the size of Paul’s name — it’s as big as Michael Banks’s, for God’s sake.’

‘Producer’s perk. He decides what the poster looks like.’

‘Well. I’m furious. Who should I complain to about it?’

‘Under normal circumstances,’ said Charles gently, ‘you’d go to your agent and get him to complain to the management.’

‘Ah,’ said Malcolm Harris, realising, perhaps for the first time, the folly of the contract he had signed with Paul Lexington.

‘Good news about getting Michael Banks, isn’t it?’ said Charles, to cheer up the hangdog author.

It had the desired effect. Malcolm Harris brightened immediately.

‘Yes, it’s wonderful. From the moment I first thought of the play, I thought he’d be ideal for the part. Though, of course, I never dared hope. .’

The run-through started. Charles could not judge George Birkitt’s performance, he was too close to the part to be objective, but there was no doubt that Michael Banks was going to be very strong as the father. In his first scene he established an unshakeable authority, which, Charles knew, was bound to strengthen the total collapse of the character in the second act. Alex Household had been excellent in the part, but, in retrospect, he seemed to have been giving an actor’s interpretation of a man fifteen years older than himself. Michael Banks actually seemed to be that man.

But, after the first scene, the performance weakened. The power of the acting remained, but its flow was constantly interrupted. The actor just did not know the lines and, though he could manage the exchanges of dialogue quite well, every time he came to a big speech, he would dry.