There was no lack of claimants for the part. Denbigh, anxious to show no bias, asked these to sing a duet with Sybil, the Polly Peachum. Privately he was determined not to move James Hunty, who was shaping up well in the part of Polly’s father, and he was equally determined not to allow Hamilton Haynings’s foghorn voice (well enough in the part of the jailor Lockit) to ruin Macheath’s solos or the duets with Sybil.
Having given these two and the youthful Geoffrey Channing and Robert Eames their chance and having even tried out the diffident Ernest Farrow in the part, he shook his head regretfully and said, ‘I don’t quite think so, you know. I really think I had better let my top music student, who has had some experience, conduct the orchestra and I’ll take the part myself.’
At this the silence which had fallen on the disappointed contestants was broken by Rodney Crashaw. He had heard of Cyril’s accident and had decided to present himself at the rehearsal openly instead of in the clandestine manner he had previously employed. He came up to the front of the platform and said, with carefully simulated diffidence:
‘I think the players, if not the orchestra, would be less than happy were you not to wield the conductor’s bâton, Dr Denbigh. I wonder whether, before you come to a final decision, you would allow me to try a duet with Miss Gartner.’
‘So long as the duet is confined to the stage and no private rehearsals are permitted,’ muttered Sybil to Laura, as they waited in the wings.
‘Would you mind trying over Were I laid on Greenland’s coast, Miss Gartner?’ asked Denbigh.
‘Righto,’ Sybil replied. ‘Anything to oblige.’ But at the conclusion of the duet she said, ‘I’d be quite happy with that.’
‘So would I,’ said Denbigh. ‘Right. Let’s have the Beggar and the Player on stage and try a complete run-through.’
The college orchestra was already tuning up and the college ‘extras’ in the persons of Macheath’s gang, the ladies of the town and the other minor rôles which the students were to fill, were ready and waiting when there were ‘noises off’ and, to everybody’s astonishment, Mrs Blaine turned up with Caxton in tow and seated herself, with him beside her, near the back of the room.
‘I want to be sure that the dialogue is audible,’ she said. ‘Some of my friends told me, after our last production, that they had difficulty in hearing some of the characters. I shall call out at once if I fail to catch what anybody utters.’
‘Pardon me, Mrs Blaine,’ said Denbigh crisply, ‘but I can allow no interference with my rehearsal. You are welcome to sit and listen, of course, but the only interruptions will come from me, if you please. I am sure you understand. Beginners ready?’
The Beggar and the Player took the stage, the Player called upon the orchestra to ‘play away the overture’ and the rehearsal, with James Hunty, Laura, young Tom Blaine (whose voice had broken to a light, immature, but rather attractive tenor), Sybil as Polly and the saturnine bearded Crashaw as Macheath, got off to a flourishing start.
Philip Denbigh allowed the whole act to run its course, praised the players, took them all through it again, including the overture, and this time called for frequent stops while he made his comments and asked for repetition of lines, parts of solos and stage business. The clock crept from seven to eight and from eight to nine before he called for Act Two.
This went better than Laura, who was prompting, had expected. She had very little to do. This time Denbigh, who must have rehearsed his choral students very carefully, did not ask Macheath’s gang or the ladies of the town to repeat any part of their performance, but began his criticism and advice only after the entrance of Peachum with the constables who had come to arrest Macheath.
At eleven o’clock he declared the rehearsal over and added that next time they would begin with Act Three. He hoped he had not kept them too late and congratulated them upon their efforts. Mrs Blaine had long ago taken young Tom home in his father’s car, but Caxton had stayed on and at the end of the rehearsal he approached Laura and begged for a lift back to his cottage.
‘Thought you’d brought your motor-bike,’ she said, not at all anxious to be taken so far out of her way so late at night.
‘I’ve run out of petrol,’ he said.
‘Well, there’s an all-night garage in the town not a quarter of a mile from here,’ said Hamilton Haynings, joining them.
‘Oh, all right, then. Thanks,’ said Caxton, walking away.
‘Thank you,’ said Laura to Haynings. ‘The last thing I wanted was to drive into the depths of the Forest at this time of night.’
‘He had a damned cheek to ask a woman to go,’ said James Hunty. ‘Why couldn’t he have asked one of the chaps? What was he doing here, anyway? He doesn’t belong to our lot.’
‘Mrs Blaine brought him. She wants him to speak a little piece at our show to boost her pageant.’
‘She would!’ He accompanied Laura to her car. ‘Damned cheek!’ he said again; but whether he was referring to Clarice Blaine or to Caxton, she did not know and did not ask him.
‘Very decent of Haynings to chip in,’ she said to Dame Beatrice when she got back to the Stone House. ‘Saved me quite an embarrassing moment, although I’m not sure I want him as a father-figure. Anyway, I certainly wasn’t prepared to take Caxton home, but one doesn’t really like refusing. Had he been one of the cast it might have been different, but actually he had no right to be at the rehearsal at all, and I’m surprised Philip Denbigh let him stay.’
‘You say he came with Mrs Blaine?’
‘Even so, she had no right to bring him. I suppose she’s so pleased to have got him for her pageant that she’s determined to keep her hooks on him. And she wouldn’t have got him but for your noble action in paying for all that printing. I must say he’s made a good job of it.’
‘Yes, indeed, and at a far from extortionate price.’
The next rehearsal began, as Denbigh had promised, with Act Three. Laura handled the prompt-script and was surprised by the high standard of performance reached by Sybil and Melanie as Macheath’s rival wives. They had always been adequate in these rôles, but, playing opposite Crashaw, they had improved their performance a hundred per cent and had electrified the rest of the cast.
‘Well, now,’ said Denbigh, when Macheath had been reprieved and the last chorus had been sung, ‘I think, under the circumstances, we had better have a complete run-through just to make sure Mr Crashaw is not going to muddle the rest of you in the first two acts. We’ll leave out the solos and just take the spoken words and the stage “business”, and then I think we ought to have one more complete rehearsal, this time at the town hall, before the dress rehearsal. Is there anybody who can’t manage Saturday afternoon? The dress rehearsal proper is on Monday, and I shall need you all to be punctual. Six-thirty sharp, please, for a curtain-up at seven-thirty, and you had better arrange to be prepared to stay until midnight. Dress rehearsals always take about twice as long as anybody thinks they are going to, and I believe a photographer is expected, so that means more delay. And do, please, look after yourselves. It will be a disaster if anybody else falls down and breaks an arm or a leg.’
‘So there it is,’ said Laura, on the Saturday morning. ‘I’m very sorry indeed for young Wincott. He was very keen on his part and it’s rotten luck on him having to spend weeks in hospital. On the other hand, we’re getting a much better singer and actor in this heel Crashaw. His voice is quite decent. He’s had a show down with Denbigh, though.’
‘Oh, really? I thought you had just reported that he was good in the part.’
‘It isn’t that. It’s his beard. Denbigh wanted him to shave it off, but he won’t.’