So Much Blood (3 page)

So Much Comic, So Much Blood
had begun life as a half-hour radio programme. Then Charles had added to the compilation and done the show for a British Council audience. Over the years he had inserted different poems, played up the comic element and dramatised some of the letters. The result was a good hour's show and he was proud of it. He was also proud that its evolution predated the success of Roy Dotrice in John Aubrey's
Brief Lives
, which had set every actor in the country ransacking literary history for one-man shows.

‘I'm going to make some coffee. Would you like some?' Charles looked up at the girl in the photograph, Anna Duncan.

‘Please.' She disappeared into the kitchen. He stared with less interest at the extant fragments of
The Dundee Guide
.

‘Here's the coffee. Do carry on.'

‘Don't worry. I like being disturbed. I'm Charles Paris.'

‘I know. Recognise you from the box. It's very good of you to step into the breach.'

‘I gather you did more or less the same thing.'

‘Yes. Poor Lesley.' A brief pause. ‘What is your show about?'

‘Thomas Hood.'

She did not recognise the name. ‘Why's it called what it is?'

‘Because he once wrote “No gentleman alive has written so much Comic and spitten so much blood within six consecutive years”. In a letter to
The Athenaeum
actually.'

‘Oh. I don't think I've even heard of Thomas Hood.'

‘I'm sure you know his poems.'

‘Do I?'

‘Yes. “I remember, I remember . . .'

‘“. . . the house where I was born”? That one? I didn't know that was Hood.'

‘It was. And
November. Faithless Sally Brown
. Lots of stuff.'

‘Oh.'

Her eyes were unusual. Very dark, almost navy blue. Her bare arm on the table was sunburned, its haze of tiny hairs bleached golden.

‘What are you reading at Derby?'

‘French and Drama in theory. Drama in practice.'

‘Last year?'

‘One more. If I bother.' The navy eyes stared at him evenly. It was pleasantly disconcerting.

‘I've just been down to the hall. Saw the lovely Stella Galpin-Lord. A mature student, I thought.'

Anna laughed. ‘She lectures in Drama.'

‘Ah. She seemed rather to have lost her temper this morning.'

‘That's unusual. She's always uptight, but doesn't often actually explode.'

‘She was exploding this morning.'

‘Everyone's getting on each other's nerves. Living like sardines in this place. I'm glad I'm in a flat up here.' (On reflection, Charles was glad she was too.) ‘And people keep arguing about who's rehearsing what when, and who's in the hall. It's purgatory.'

‘You're rehearsing the revue at the moment?'

‘Yes, but I've got a break. They're doing a new number—about Nixon's resignation and Ford coming in. Trying to be topical.'

‘Is the revue going to be good?'

‘Bits.'

‘Bits?' Charles smiled. Anna smiled back.

At that moment Pam Northcliffe bounced into the room, her arms clutching two carrier bags which she spilled out on the table. ‘Hello. Oh Lord, I must write my expenses. I'm spending so much on props.'

‘What have you been buying?' asked Charles.

‘Oh Lord, lots of stuff for
Mary
.'

‘Did you get the cardboard for my ruff?'

‘No, Anna, will do, promise. No, I was getting black crepe for the execution. And all these knives that I've got to make retractable. And some make-up and stuff.'

‘Good old Leichner's,' said Charles, picking up a bottle which had rolled out of one of the carriers. It was labelled ‘Arterial Blood'.

‘What other sort is there?'

‘There's a brighter one, for surface cuts. It's called . . .' Pam paused for a moment. ‘. . . oh, I forget.' And she bustled on. ‘Look, I'm not going to be in your way, am I? I've got to do these knives. I was going to do them on the table, if you . . .'

‘No, it's O.K. I've finished.' Charles resigned himself to the inevitable. Anna returned to her rehearsal and he went to see if the men's dormitory was still being serenaded.

Passing the office, he heard sounds of argument, Michael Vanderzee's voice, more Dutch in anger, struggling against Brian Cassells' diplomatic tones. ‘. . . and the whole rehearsal was ruined yesterday because that bloody fool Willy wasn't there. Look, I need more time in the hall.'

‘So does everyone.'

‘But I've lost a day.'

‘That's not my fault, Mike. Look, I've worked out a schedule that's fair to everyone.

‘Bugger your schedule.'

‘It's there on the wall-chart—'

‘Oh, bugger your wall-chart!' Michael Vanderzee flung himself out of the office, past Charles, to the front door. The windows shook as it slammed behind him.

Brian Cassells appeared in the hall looking flushed. When he saw Charles, he smoothed down his pin-striped suit as if nothing had happened. ‘Ah, morning.' The efficient young executive was reborn. ‘I've . . . er . . . I've got your posters. Just picked them up.'

‘Oh, great.'

‘In the office.'

On the desk were two rectangular brown paper parcels. ‘A thousand in each,' said Brian smugly. ‘Did the Letrasetting myself. Do have a look.'

Charles tore the paper and slid one of the printed sheets out. As he looked at it, Brian Cassells grinned. ‘O.K.?'

Charles passed the paper over. It was headed:

‘Oh,' said Brian, ‘I am sorry.'

Undisturbed rehearsal in the Coates Gardens house was clearly impossible. Charles decided a jaunt to one of his Edinburgh favourites, the Museum of Childhood in the Royal Mile, might not come amiss. It was only Monday and there was a whole week till he had to face an audience. And with Brian Cassells in charge of publicity, the chances were against there being an audience anyway.

Back at the house late afternoon, he found Martin Warburton hovering in the hail, as if waiting for him. ‘You're Charles Paris, aren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘I've written this play.
Who Now?
We're doing it. I want you to read it.' A fifth carbon copy was thrust forward.

‘Oh, thank you. I'd like to.'

‘You don't know. You might like to; you might think it was a waste of time.'

‘I'm sure you wouldn't have written it if you thought it was a waste of time.'

The boy looked at Charles fiercely for a moment, then burst into loud laughter. ‘Yes, I might. That's exactly what I might have done.'

‘Why?'

‘Everything we do is just random. I happened to write this. It's just chance. I might have written anything else. It's nothing.'

‘I know sometimes it seems like that, but very few things are random—'

‘Don't patronise me!' Martin's shout was suddenly loud, as if the volume control on his voice had broken. He reached out to snatch the play back, then changed his mind, rushed out of the house and slammed the door.

In spite of Brian Cassells' assurances, the Masonic Hall was not free for Charles to rehearse in on the Tuesday afternoon. When he arrived at two o'clock Michael Vanderzee had just started a workshop session with the Mary cast and most of the Dream lot too. Brian was not there to appeal to (he'd apparently gone down to London for a Civil Service interview), so Charles sat at the back of the hall and waited.

Everyone except Michael was lying stretched out on the floor. ‘. . . and relax. Feel each part of your body go. From the extremities. Right, your fingers and toes, now your hands and feet. Now the forearms and your calves—feel them go . . .'

Charles' attitude to this sort of theatre was ambivalent. He had no objection to movement classes and workshop techniques. They were useful exercises for actors, and kept them from getting over-analytical about their ‘art'. All good stuff. Until there was a show to put on. At that point they became irrelevant and the expediency of getting everything ready for the opening left no time for self-indulgence.

Michael Vanderzee (who drew inspiration from the physical disciplines of East and West and created a theatre indissolubly integrated with working life) obviously did not share these views. ‘Right. O.K. Now I want you to sit in pairs, and when I clap, you start to tell each other fairy stories. And you've got to concentrate so hard, you tell your story and you don't listen to the other guy. Really concentrate. O.K. I clap my hands.'

While the assembly shouted out a cacophony of Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks, Charles looked down at Anna. Squatting on the floor, mouthing nonsense, she still appeared supremely self-possessed. Her T-shirt did nothing to hide her contours and the interest she had started in him was strengthened.

The door of the hall opened noisily. An enormously tall young man in blue denim with a Jesus Christ hairstyle strolled purposefully up the aisle. ‘Willy!' roared Michael. ‘Where the hell have you been? Why weren't you at rehearsal this morning?'

‘I had things to do.' The voice was sharp and the accent Scottish.

‘You've got things to do here as well. I had to drag you in yesterday.'

‘Piss off.' Willy collapsed into a chair in the front row, ungainly as a stick insect.

‘Look, do you want to be in this show or not? You've got to rehearse.'

‘I don't mind rehearsing, but I don't see why I should waste time poncing about with relaxation and pretending I'm a pineapple and all that. I'm only meant to be doing the music.'

‘You're playing Rizzio in the show, and you're meant to be part of an ensemble.'

Willy gave a peculiarly Scottish dismissive snort. ‘All right, all right. What do you want me to do?'

‘I want you to shout, all of you. Scream your heads off. Really uninhibited screams. Let everything go. Right. When I clap.'

The noise was appalling. Charles sunk into his chair with hands over his ears. It was going to be a long time before he got the stage to himself.

When the baying mouths onstage had finally closed, he uncovered his ears and heard another sound close behind him. A sniff. He turned to see the ship-wrecked face of Stella Galpin-Lord, who had just slipped into the hall. She saw him and blew her nose.

At that moment Pam Northcliffe bustled in, her arms as ever full of parcels and packages. ‘Hello, Charles,' she hissed loudly. He grinned at her.

‘Just brought down the props for the
Mary
photo-call.'

‘All O.K.?' he whispered.

‘Oh Lord, I suppose so. Just about. I was up till two last night doing the daggers.'

‘Work all right?'

‘Yes.' She showed him her artefacts proudly. Charles picked up one of the knives. Its metal blade had been replaced by silver-painted plastic which slid neatly back into the handle. He pressed it into his hand. ‘Very good.'

‘Oh. I'm afraid the paint's not quite dry.'

Charles looked down at the silver smudge on his palm. ‘Never mind.'

‘What's Mike up to now?'

‘God knows.'

‘All right. Now we're relaxed, all uninhibited. Now an ensemble is people who know each other. Love each other, hate each other. We try hate. Right, as we've done it before. Somebody stands in the middle and the others shout hatred at him. Doesn't matter what you say, any lies, anything. Hate, hate. We purge the emotions.

‘O.K., Willy, you first. Stand in the middle. We form a circle round. And we shout. Ah, hello, Stella, you join our workshop?'

‘Might learn something,' she said patronisingly.

‘You might, you might. Hey, Charles Paris. You want to learn something too?'

Charles choked back his first instinctive rejoinder and meekly said, ‘Yes, O.K.' Enter into the spirit of the thing. Don't be a middle-aged fuddy-duddy.

The large circle around Willy Mariello waited for the signal. Michael clapped his hands and they shouted. Abuse poured out. Young faces swelled with obscenities. Stella Galpin-Lord screamed, ‘Bastard! Bastard!' her mouth twisting and pulling a whole map of new lines on her face. Anna s expression was cold and white. Martin Warburton almost gibbered with excitement. And Charles himself found it distressingly easy to succumb, to scream with them. It was frightening.

Another clap. They subsided, panting. ‘Good. Catharsis. Good. O.K. Now someone else. Charles.'

It was not pleasant. As the mob howled, he concentrated on Sydney Carton, borne on his tumbril to the scaffold. ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do now . . .' It still was not pleasant.

But a clap ended it and another victim was chosen. Then another and another. The repetition took the edge off the discomfort of being abused. Just an exercise. They finished, breathless.

‘O.K. Another concentration exercise. Truth Game. You sit on the ground in pairs and ask each other questions. You have to answer with the truth instantly. If you hesitate, you start asking the questions. And don't cheat. It's more difficult than you think.'

They started forming pairs. Charles saw Willy Mariello speak to Anna. She turned away and sat down opposite a colourless girl in faded denim. Willy and Charles were the only ones left standing. They squatted opposite each other.

The Scotsman sat awkwardly, his long legs bent under him like pipe-cleaners. Stuck to his denim shirt was a purple badge with white lettering:
It's Scotland's Oil
. The long messianic hair was full of white powder and the hands were flecked with white paint. His expression was aggressive and he had the hard mouth of a spoilt child. But the brown eyes were troubled.

Charles tried to think of something to ask. ‘What do you make of all these exercises?'