“Well, you see,” he said, when Yorke congratulated him on the success of the workmen’s play, “in his comedy scenes you’ve got to help Shakespeare a bit, haven’t you? Left to himself, the poor chap had no sense of humour at all. Look at all that tiresome Lancelot Gobbo stuff and that rubbish about Malvolio and the cross-garters.”
“Well, your improvisations certainly went down well,” said Yorke, “but don’t overdo them on the last night. There will be the bouquets to be presented to the leading ladies and the mayor is certain to want to say a few words, and Jonathan and Deborah are laying on a champagne supper for the whole cast up at the house, so nobody wants the play to go on until midnight.”
“Good Lord, neither do I. This open-air stuff is pretty tough on the larynx. I just hope I don’t get one of my quinsies, that’s all.”
Chapter 6
Last Performance
“First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself.”
« ^ »
On Saturday evening the cast assembled in high spirits. It was obvious that the adrenalin was flowing and Brian Yorke had more than a suspicion that in some cases the alcohol had flowed fairly freely, too.
“I think we’re a bit above ourselves,” he said to Jonathan. “I hope the show is going to be all right. It’s not that I give a hoot for the mayor and corporation and all the rest of them, but we’ve done so well the last two nights that it would be a pity to spoil things now.”
“Don’t worry. We’re well-rehearsed. As soon as we open, everything will be all right. Has everybody turned up?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve checked and the signora has counted her chicks and is busy getting them dressed and is screaming at them like a parrot turned sergeant-major. One thing—they’re used to it. That old lady is a tower of strength. I’d back her to control a caravan of camels if she had to teach them to dance.”
“So the mayor and corporation are to honour us.”
“Complete with the mayoress, the president of the golf club, the commodore of the yacht club, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, representatives of the local bench as well as the mayor, and there’s an even chance that the High Sheriff may turn up with the Chairman of Quarter Sessions. The Crossforest M.F.H. is bringing his wife and daughters and a whole bevy of Lynn’s business associates are coming. Emma Lynn is a bit worried in case she lets Marcus down in front of them, but she won’t. Oh, I was asked to tell you that either Dr Fitzroy-Delahague or the gorgeous Jeanne-Marie is going to cut evening surgery and come along before we’ve finished, so that Ganymede and Lucien can be taken home. You and Deborah won’t be sorry, I guess.”
“We shall, as a matter of fact. They’re charming little chaps. One thing: I don’t suppose the evening surgery will be overcrowded. On Saturdays I expect most people find something infinitely better to do than waste a non-working day in a doctor’s waiting-room. It’s weekdays—that is to say, work-days—which produce the pitiful patients.”
“Is it a cynic that I see before me? Well, we’d better get changed, I suppose. We’re both on in the first scene, worse luck. I like to get the house warmed up a bit before I tread the boards. Talking of which, I do hope Lynn’s work-people haven’t ruined your lawn.”
“Not mine, thank heaven; my cousin’s, and there will be time to smooth things over before he gets back from holiday. In any case, I don’t think much damage has been done.”
At this point Deborah appeared.
“I’m doing the children first,” she said. “Then I’ll dump them on Signora Moretti and get myself dressed. You had better get a move on, darling, hadn’t you? Peter Woolidge is tubbing Lucien and Ganymede, and while he’s drying them and dressing them I’ll tub Rosamund and Edmund.”
“I’ll nip up to my dressing-room and get ready, then, and leave our bedroom all clear for you and the kids. What a help young Peter is. Are the kids behaving themselves?—ours, I mean.”
“Wildly excited, of course. They’ve caught the general infection. Everybody is excited. By the way, Rosamund has made up her mind that she is to receive a bouquet, so what do we do about that?”
“She’ll get one at the end of her scene with Puck. Lynn has laid it all on. I say! I hope the weather cools down a bit. What with the heat and the excitement, we don’t want bilious attacks. You know what kids are!”
“Don’t worry. Ice-cream and sweets have been taboo since three o’clock this afternoon. When I’ve done the children I’ll push them along to the signora and have a look at you in your costume, shall I?”
“You haven’t done that on the other two nights. Why this sudden thusness?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a funny feeling that I don’t want to be far away from you this evening.”
“There’s thunder in the air, perhaps.”
“There can’t be. The air’s as clear as clear. It is hot, though. Do skip, darling. We’ve got to start on time, or nobody will get to bed tonight.”
The evening certainly was warm, but not with the oppressiveness which presages thunder. As Deborah had indicated, there was none of the brooding tension which precedes a coming storm. In fact, as Valerie Yorke said to her husband, it was the kind of beautiful midsummer evening which must have given Shakespeare the urge to write the play.
“Yes,” agreed Brian. “It’s a nuisance we’re on stage as soon as the play opens because, before that, we’ve got to be on hand, with Lynn and Emma and the Bradleys, to receive the Duke of Plaza Toro and suite—i.e. the mayor, mayoress et al. I hope to goodness they’ll get here on time. We must open at half-past seven if any of the cast are ever going to get home tonight.”
“It’s a pity local notables have to see us in costume before the play begins.”
“Never mind. It can’t be helped. You look stunning and so does everybody else. Even Emma looks beautiful tonight. By the way, I see that Narayan Rao has turned up with his kid. I had better go out there and greet him. It’s all good for race relations.”
Narayan had been given a chair on the O.P. side from which he could get a view of the stage. Sharma was asleep at his feet on a ground-sheet covered by a blanket. He wore a wreath of flowers and looked angelic.
“If he wakes when he is picked up, he will not cry,” said Narayan. “As soon as you have finished with him, I will take him home. My good friend Bourton was anxious that he should appear, but I do not want him to stay up too long.”
“When you’ve taken him home, why don’t you come back and see the rest of the play? There is a seat reserved in the auditorium.”
“Thank you, but I think not.”
The last performance was heralded, as the others had been, by an excerpt from Mendelssohn rendered by the Ladies’ Orchestra, and then on came Theseus and his party to open the play. The first performance had been better than might be expected from amateurs, the second, although sagging a little, had been adequate, but this last performance began by being spectacular and ended in a way which, although the audience did not know it at the time, was sensational.
The opening scene, set against a painted background oflonian columns which purported to represent the palace of Theseus, went exceptionally well. Brian Yorke, in the snowy tunic, gold sandals and belt, gilded sword and purple cloak of Theseus, looked and sounded like a true duke of Athens, and his wife Valerie made a handsome appearance as Hippolyta, although she had little to say. Their leggy nine-year-old, young Yolanda as Philostrate, made the briefest of appearances, having been sent off early in the scene on being commanded to ‘stir up the Athenian youth to merriments’, and although, at the first rehearsal, she had sneaked back on stage, this had been vetoed and her big moment was when she led in the pedigree bloodhounds (by kind permission of their breeder, Tom Woolidge, who hoped to sell them to Marcus Lynn after the show), so, off-stage, Yolanda spent much of her time with them, especially after their kidnapping by Rosamund.