hardly surprising, because the Festival did not begin for another week. In the middle of the board was one cutting. A photograph of a girl, and underneath it: UNDERSTUDY STEPS IN
It’s an ill wind, they say, and it’s certainly blown some good the way of Derby University Dramatic Society’s Anna Duncan. When one of the group’s actresses Lesley Petter broke her leg in an accident last week, suddenly 20-year-old Anna found she was playing two leading roles-in a play and a revue, both to be seen at the Masonic Hall in Lauriston Street when the Festival starts. Says Anna, ‘I’m really upset for poor Lesley’s sake, but it’s a wonderful chance for me. I’m very excited.’ And with lovely Anna on stage, Fringe-goers may get pretty excited too!
The reporter, whatever his shortcomings in style, was right about one thing. Even in the blurred photograph the girl really was lovely. She was pictured against the decorative railings of Coates Gardens. Slender body, long legs in well-cut jeans, a firm chin and expertly cropped blonde hair.
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.