“Not very much,” said Rollison truthfully. “I hope you will,” said Hedley. “Quiet a minute, the tenor’s going to sound off.”
He grinned and held up his hands for silence, and sat down on a slung-canvas chair, one of twenty or so which were ranged along the walls of the studio. The Italian tenor, a short man with a shock of dark hair, chest and shoulders like a bull, and plump hands which were clasped together nervously, spoke in frantic Italian to a much smaller man, obviously a foreigner, who kept pulling at his pink and blue tie and looking as if he would strangle himself. Another Italian, of aristocratic mien, sat at the grand piano in a corner of the large studio, his long, pale hands raised above the key-board. He glared at the pink and blue tie, and a compact, middle-aged man—a B.B.C. official with a patient, tired manner, kept saying:
“Now take your time, there’s no hurry—this is only a rehearsal, remember.”
The Italians jabbered on; the rest of the people in the studio watched them or someone else, openly or furtively; or else read their scripts or stared with wide-eyed interest at the upright microphone in front of the tenor, the two table-mikes planted on small tables at one end of the room or—greatly daring—through the glass partition which separated the studio from the next room. Some were composed and poised, others obviously and unashamedly nervous. One little group of young people gathered in a corner and whispered.
Rollison sat next to Allen.
The tenor opened his mouth, threw back his head, and let forth a tremendous bellow. The patient-looking man jumped, the pianist clutched his head in horror, the blue and pink tie suddenly became unfastened, its wearer jabbered. Hedley jumped up and went towards them, saying mildly: “That was a bit too loud.” The little group in the corner giggled, but the tenor seemed quite unaware of the minor consternation he had caused. He glared at the mike as if it would lean forward and strike him.
Allen stared at the scene with lack-lustre eyes.
Rollison had been to fetch him that afternoon, and as far as he could find out, Allen had made no effort to leave Dinky’s; had eaten and slept and mooned about all day. For different reasons, Allen and his wife were behaving in exactly the same way.
Obviously he had expected Rollison to come for him.
Hedley had been busy with the tenor, and beyond greeting them with a bright smile and a few cheery words, paid them no attention. The question of the alteration in the text had not yet been brought up.
Jolly was still at the flat, but was due to arrive here just after five o’clock. McMahon of the Morning Cry wasn’t here yet, but Rollison had no doubt that he would come. He looked round at the others. There were nine in addition to the Italian contingent, and he glanced down at the comprehensive script, covering each broadcaster which Hedley had pushed into his hand, trying to place the people from their appearance.
The stage and screen “comics” certainly weren’t here yet; he would have recognised them. A young couple, with blonde hair and nervous smiles, were sitting on two chairs, touching hands, leaning forward every now and again and whispering; they were the young Danes, he hadn’t much difficulty in placing them. A burly man in ragged and patched clothes, who had shaved badly and had long, curly side-whiskers, was standing in a corner, reading his script with a vast frown which wrinkled his forehead; he would be the busker, Rollison decided.
He glanced through the roneoed sheets. The “wandering artist” or the writer of inn-signs didn’t appear to be here yet— unless he was the pale, neatly dressed young man who sat by himself, smoking a new pipe. His name, according to the front page of the script, was Arthur Mellor. He was to broadcast first; the Danes were to follow; the Lundys were third, then came the busker followed by the tenor, with Allen the final act. Allen hadn’t glanced at his script—just seemed prepared to sit back and do nothing.
The tenor suddenly burst forth again, still much too loudly. Hedley pulled the mike away from him, the blue and pink tie fluttered wildly and its wearer held his hands palms outwards a few inches from the singer, urging him backwards. The tenor tried to watch him, the mike, the pianist—and suddenly tossed his arms high in the air, stopped singing, and struck an attitude which he proceeded to justify with a string of fluent Italian— including, as Rollison knew well, one or two of the choicest Milanese oaths.
His friends pleaded with him. The tired-looking man raised his eyebrows resignedly, spoke to Hedley and went out into the mysterious chamber behind the studio. There, three or four men were sitting, one of them with earphones on and looking very earnest
The altercation over, the tenor took up his stand again— and suddenly everything went right. His volume was exactly what was required, no one disapproved, the ends of the blue and pink tie hung straight and its wearer achieved a seraphic smile. This was reflected on the face of the tenor; the pianist also beamed broadly.
A curious thing happened.
Everyone in the studio stopped whatever he was doing and looked at the Italian. In the small studio his voice was loud but the notes were perfect, and they flowed easily and smoothly, he swayed slightly to and fro, keeping his hands raised, as if without effort. The tenor’s eyes were half-closed and dreamy, he were holding them out to some invisible maiden, appealing, beseeching.
Even Allen was affected.
Rollison fought against the seductive beauty of the singing and glanced at Allen, seeing his face relieved of strain—not smiling, but almost serene, as if he had been taken into a new world of peace. The tough-rough busker watched the tenor without blinking. The smartly-dressed man who was probably the wandering artist had his mouth open, and he also swayed from the waist. The two Danes held hands tightly. The little crowd which Rollison could not identify was the last to come under the spell, but its members fell eventually. Hedley looked dreamy. The weary-looking man, who wore a cream-coloured linen coat and flannel trousers, shed his tiredness. Two girl members of the staff stood near the piano.
The singer stopped but the spell remained, until he lunged forward and gripped one end of the blue-and-pink tie, and cried:
“It was wonderful—yes, yes, wonderful!”
Then he was submerged in a welter of congratulations from his friends. Hedley sent an inquiring glance towards the glass partition, where the earnest-looking man, smiling with quiet satisfaction, shook his head. Hedley turned to one of the girls and said sotto voce:
“We’ll give him another try-out at the last minute, let him rest now.”
Another man came into the room, dressed in navy blue, wearing brown suede shoes, ruddy-faced, smiling and cheerful. Hedley called him “Bill”, and brought him immediately to Rollison and Allen. Rollison stood up, Allen hesitated before following his example. If Hedley and “Bill” noticed that Allen seemed strained, they showed no sign.
“This is Bill Wentworth, who will interview you, Mr. Allen,” said Hedley. “Mr. Allen—Mr. Rollison.”
Wentworth had a quick, firm handshake.
“Satisfied with your script?” Hedley asked Allen.
“Er—I’d like a few alterations,” said Allen. “If—if that’s all right with you.”
“Oh, of course,” said Hedley. That’s easy enough, we’ll have a look at it in a minute. Better give the young Danes a run through,” he added to Wentworth, and took him off, saying: “Won’t keep you a jiff. Now there’s no need to worry,” he said to the Danes. “Just read naturally, don’t raise or lower your voice too much. The mike’s “live” on both sides.”
“Live?” queried the girl, brushing her blonde hair back from her forehead.