So Much Blood (2 page)

The telephone conversation finished and Charles received a busy professional handshake. ‘I'm Brian Cassells, Company Manager.'

‘Charles Paris.'

‘I recognised you. So glad you could step in at such short notice. Nice spread, that.' He indicated the cutting. ‘Helps having a pretty girl in the group. Important, publicity.'

‘Yes,' said Charles.

The edge in his voice was not lost on Brian Cassells. ‘Sorry about yours. That's what I was on to the printer about. Posters and handouts ready tomorrow.'

‘Good. Did you get the stuff I sent up? The cuttings and so on.'

‘Yes. Incorporated some in the poster. They were very good.'

Yes, thought Charles, they were good. He particularly cherished the one from the
Yorkshire Post
. ‘There are many pleasures to be had at the York Festival, and the greatest of these is Charles Paris'
So Much Comic
, So Much Blood.'

The Company Manager moved hastily on, as if any pause or small talk might threaten his image of efficiency. ‘Look, I'll show you the sleeping arrangements and so on.'

‘Thanks. When will I be able to get into the hall to do some rehearsal?'

‘It's pretty tied up tomorrow. Stella's having a D.R. of the
Dream
. Then Mike's in with
Mary
. That's Tuesday morning. Tuesday afternoon should be O.K. Just a photo-call for
Mary
. A few dramatic shots of Rizzio's murder, that sort of thing, good publicity. Shouldn't take long.

The sleeping arrangements were spartan. The ground-floor rooms were filled with rows of ex-army camp-beds for the men, with the same upstairs for the girls. No prospects of fraternisation. ‘It's not on moral grounds,' said Brian, ‘just logistical. Kitchen and dining-room in the basement if you want a cup of coffee or something. I'd better get back. Got to do some Letrasetting.'

Charles dumped his case on a vacant camp-bed which wobbled ominously. The room had the stuffy smell of male bodies. It brought back National Service, the first dreary barracks he'd been sent to in 1945 to train for a war that was over before he was trained. He opened a window and enjoyed the relief of damp-scented air.

He felt much more than forty-seven as he sat over skinny coffee in the basement, surrounded by blue denim. An epicene couple were wrapped round each other on the sofa. A plump girl was relaxing dramatically on the floor. Three young men with ringlets were hunched over the table discussing The Theatre.

‘What it's got to do is reflect society, and if you've got a violent society, then it's got to reflect that.'

The reply came back in a slightly foreign accent. German? Dutch? ‘Bullshit, Martin. It's more complex than that. The Theatre interprets events. Like when I'm directing something, I don't just want to reflect reality. Not ordinary reality. I try to produce a new reality.'

Charles winced as the other took up the argument. ‘What is reality, though? I reckon if people are getting their legs blown off in Northern Ireland, if they're starving in Ethiopia, you've got to show that. Even if it means physically assaulting the audience to get them to react.'

‘So where is the violence, Martin? On stage? In the audience?'

‘It's everywhere. It's part of twentieth-century living. And we've got to be aware of that. Even, if necessary, be prepared to be violent ourselves, in a violent society. That's what my play's about.'

‘That, Martin, is so much crap.'

The youth called Martin flushed, stood up and looked as if he was about to strike his opponent. Then the spasm passed and, sulkily, he left the room. Charles deduced he must be Martin Warburton, author of
Who Now?
a Disturbing New Play.

The other ringletted youth looked round for someone else to argue with. ‘You're Charles Paris, aren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘What do you think about violence in the theatre?'

‘There's a place for it. It can make a point.' Charles knew he sounded irretrievably middle-aged.

The youth snorted. ‘Yes, hinted at and glossed over in West End comedies.'

Charles was riled. He did not like being identified exclusively with the safe commercial theatre. His irritant continued. ‘I'm directing
Mary, Queen of Sots
. That's got violence in perspective. Lots of blood.' He turned on Charles suddenly. ‘You ever directed anything?'

‘Yes.' With some warmth. ‘In the West End and most of the major reps in the country.'

‘Oh.'
Mary, Queen of Sots
' director was unimpressed. ‘What, long time ago?'

‘No, quite recently.' Charles' anger pushed him on. ‘In fact I'm currently considering a production of
Hedda Gabler
at the new Haymarket Theatre in Leicester.'

‘Big deal.' The ringletted head drooped forward over a Sunday newspaper.

Without making too much of a gesture of it, Charles left the room. In the hall he checked with a D.U.D.S. programme for details of his antagonist.

MICHAEL VANDERZEE—After work in experimental theatre in Amsterdam and in Munich under Kostbach, he made his directorial debut in this country with
Abusage
by Dokke at the Dark Brown Theatre. He has been responsible for introducing into this country the works of Schmiss and Turzinski, and recently directed the latter's
Ideas Towards a Revolution of the Audience
at the Theatre Upstairs. Drawing inspiration from the physical disciplines and philosophies of East and West, he creates a theatre indissolubly integrated with working life.

‘Huh,' said Charles to himself. As he started towards his dormitory, a key turned in the front door lock and a middle-aged man in a sandy tweed suit appeared. He smiled and extended his hand. ‘Hello, you must be Charles Paris.'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm James Milne, known to the students as the Laird. I live in the flat on the top floor. Would you like to come up for a drink?'

It was the most welcome sentence Charles had heard since he arrived. Edinburgh regained its charm.

‘Yes, I agree. I am an unlikely person to be involved with Derby University Dramatic Society. It's a coincidence. I've only moved into this house recently and I sold my previous one in Meadow Lane to a lad called Willy Mariello. Have you met him yet?'

‘No.'

‘No doubt you will. He's with this lot. Well, the conversion here was more or less finished, but the summer's not a good time to get permanent tenants—holidays, the Festival and so on. So when Willy said this crowd was looking for somewhere, I offered it for the six weeks.'

‘Brave.'

‘I don't know. They pay rent. There's no furniture, not much they can break. And they've sworn they'll clean everything up before they go. I just hurry in and out and don't dare look at the mess.'

‘What about noise?'

‘This flat's pretty well insulated.'

‘Largely by books, I should imagine. And this has only just been converted too? I can't believe it.'

The Laird glowed. Obviously Charles had said the right thing. But the flat did seem as if it had been there for centuries. Brown velvet upholstery and the leather spines of books gave the quality of an old sepia photograph. A library, an eyrie at the top of the building, it reminded Charles of his tutorials at Oxford. Dry sherry and dry donnish jokes. True, the sherry was malt whisky, but there was something of the don about James Milne.

‘You like books?' He half-rose from his chair, eager, waiting for the slightest encouragement.

Charles gave it. ‘Yes.'

‘They're not first editions or anything like that. Well, not many of them. Just good editions. I do hate this paperback business. Some of the Dickens are quite good. And that
Vanity Fair
is valuable . . .'

Charles wondered if he was about to receive a lecture on antiquarian books, but the danger passed. ‘. . . and this edition of Scott might be worth something. Though not to the modern reader. Nobody reads him nowadays. I wonder why. Could it be because he's a dreary old bore? I think it must be. Even we Scots find him a bit of a penance.' He laughed. A cosy-looking man; probably mid-fifties, with a fuzz of white hair and bushy black eyebrows.

Charles laughed, too. ‘I've read half of
Ivanhoe
. About seven times. Like
Ulysses
and the first volume of Proust. Never get any further.' He relaxed into his chair. ‘It's very comforting, all those books.'

‘Yes. “No furniture is so charming as books, even if you never open them or read a single word.” The Reverend Sydney Smith. Not a Scot himself, but for some time a significant luminary of Edinburgh society. Yes, my books are my life.'

Charles smiled. ‘Wasn't it another Edinburgh luminary, Robert Louis Stevenson, who said, “Books are all very well in their way, but they're a mighty bloodless substitute for real life”?'

James Milne chuckled with relish, which was a relief to Charles, who was not sure that he had got the quotation right. ‘Excellent, Charles, excellent, though the point is arguable. Let me give you a refill.'

It turned out that the Laird had been a schoolmaster at Kilbruce, a large public school just outside Edinburgh. ‘I retired from there some five years ago. No, no, I'm not as old as all that. But when my mother died I came into some money and property—this house, an estate called Glenloan on the West coast, a terrace of cottages. For the first time in my life I didn't have to work. And I thought, why should I put up with the adolescent vagaries of inky boys when I much prefer books?'

‘And inky boys presumably don't appreciate books?'

‘No. Some seemed to—appeared to be interested, but . . .' He rose abruptly. ‘A bite to eat perhaps?'

Half a Stilton and Bath Olivers were produced. The evening passed pleasantly. They munched and drank, swapped quotations and examined the books. Their crossword minds clicked, and allusion and anecdote circled round each other. It was the sort of mild intellectual exercise that Charles had not indulged in since his undergraduate days. Very pleasant, floating on a cloud of malt whisky above everyday life. The book-lined room promised to be a welcome sanctuary from the earnest denim below.

Eventually Charles looked at his watch. Nearly one o'clock. ‘I must go down to the bear-pit.'

‘Don't bother. I'll make up the sofa for you here.'

‘No, no. Downstairs is the bed I have chosen, and I must lie on it.'

The bed he had chosen had been left vacant for good reason. At half-past three he woke to discover it had come adrift in the middle and was trying to fold him up like a book. He wrestled with it in the sweaty breathing dorm and then tottered along to the lavatory.

It was locked and a strange sound came from inside. As Charles took advantage of the washbasin in the adjacent bathroom, he identified the noise through a haze of malt. It was a man crying.

CHAPTER TWO

THE EDINBURGH FREEMASONS'
revenue must shoot up during the Festival, because they seem to own practically every strange little hail in the city. Each year the gilded columns of these painted rooms witness the latest excesses of Fringe drama, and the gold-leaf names of Grand Masters gaze unmoved at satire, light-shows, nudity or God-rock, according to theatrical fashion.

On the Monday morning the Temple of the Masonic Hall, Lauriston Place, was undergoing
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
Shakespeare's Immortal Comedy Revisualised by Stella Galpin-Lord. As Charles Paris slipped in, it was clear that the process of revisualisation had hit a snag. The snag was that Stella Galpin-Lord was having a directorial tantrum.

‘Where are those bloody fairies? Didn't you hear your bloody cue? For Christ's sake, concentrate! Bottom, get up off your backside . . .'

As she fulminated, it was clear to Charles that Stella Galpin-Lord was not a student. Far from it. The over-dramatic name fitted the over-dramatic figure. She was wearing rehearsal black, a polo-necked pullover tight over her presentable bosom, and clinging flared trousers less kind to her less presentable bottom. Honey-blonded hair was scraped back into a broad knotted scarf. The efforts of make-up—skilful pancake, elaborate eyes and a hard line of lipstick—drew attention to what they aimed to disguise. The slack skin of her face gave the impression of a badly erected tent, here and there pulled tight by misplaced guy-ropes. The tantrum and her twitchy manner with a cigarette spelt trouble to Charles. Neurotic middle-aged actresses are a hazard of the profession.

‘Well, don't just amble on. You're meant to be fairies, not navvies. For God's sake! Amateurs! This show opens in less than a week and we don't get in the hall again till Thursday. Good God, if you don't know the lines now . . . Where is the prompter? Where is the bloody prompter!'

Charles, who had only come down to check the details of staging in the hall, decided it could wait and sidled out.

Back in Coates Gardens he looked for somewhere to work. In the men's dormitory a youth was strumming a guitar with all the versatility of a metronome. Sounds from upstairs indicated a revue rehearsal in the girls' room. Charles felt tempted to seek sanctuary with James Milne again, but decided it might be an imposition. He went down to the dining-room. Mercifully it was empty.

With a tattered script of
So Much Comic, So Much Blood
open on the table, he started thumbing through an ancient copy of Jerrold's edition of Hood, looking for
The Dundee Guide
, an early poem which might add a little local interest for an Edinburgh audience. It was not there. He was perplexed for a moment, until he remembered that only a fragment of the work survived and was in the
Memorials of Thomas Hood
. He started thumbing through that.