THE MESSAGE IS MURDER moved into the second week of its run at the Regent Theatre, Rugland Spa, without further mishap. It was playing to over fifty per cent capacity, which was deemed to be very good business. Herbie Inchbald’s words about anything ‘with “murder” in the title’ seemed to be being proved true. And the play was greeted with a few oohs and aahs and the modest applause which, regulars assured Charles, was the nearest the Rugland Spa audience got to enthusiasm.
Company life continued with its customary uneasy bickering. Kathy Kitson threw a tantrum one evening because the cold tap in her dressing room was dripping. Laurie Tichbourne caught a slight cold, which he treated as if it were an outbreak of cholera, and Nella Lewis ministered to him with hot lemon drinks and clean handkerchiefs. Rick Harmer hinted that his agent (that was his acting agent, of course, not his literary one) was having extremely interested enquiries about him for a major role in a major television series. Gay Milner insisted on lending everyone books about International Socialism, and Cherry Robson shrewdly started sleeping with a very rich local factory-owner. At meals after the show in The Happy Friend Chinese Restaurant and Takeaway, the Variety of Mr Pang’s Ice Creams remained fixed at Vanilla.
Life, in other words, was normal.
And Charles Paris had nothing to do.
The ways that actors spend their time when they’re working in the provinces are various. Some spend it acting. Particularly in repertory companies, many of the cast of the evening’s show will pass much of their day rehearsing the next production. Though tighter Equity regulations have prevented the hours of work that used to be expected, this can still agreeably occupy most of the day.
But Charles Paris wasn’t in the next production, the much-debated Shove It, and was so deprived not only of occupation but also the social life of rehearsal.
Some actors, though not actually rehearsing, can still spend the entire day preparing for their evening’s performance. The deeply serious tune themselves like precision instruments, working through relaxation exercises, preparatory walks and concentration games. The deeply lazy, like Laurie Tichbourne, can quite easily pass a day doing absolutely nothing. He would rise around eleven to a large breakfast, cooked by a loving landlady (he, needless to say, always ended up with a ‘treasure’), take a leisurely bath until lunch, eaten either at his digs or somewhere within strolling distance in the town, while away the afternoon perhaps with another sleep, then arrive at the theatre at seven o’clock complaining how tired he felt.
Charles Paris couldn’t follow either of these courses. Even an actor marinated for a lifetime in Stanislavskian lore (which he certainly was not) would have had difficulty in ‘thinking himself into’ the role of the defunct Sir Reginald De Meaux. And the Laurie Tichbourne method didn’t work either. Charles was one of those people for whom stasis meant depression; to sit around all day was simply to offer an open invitation to all his worst thoughts. And since what he could only regard as the ‘loss’ of Frances, those thoughts were even less welcome than usual.
Some actors marooned in the provinces are organized about their careers. They write lots of letters, to other theatres, managements, television producers, casting directors, anyone who might lead to another job. They ring their agents and other contacts, finding out what new shows are coming up. They work hard, and are occasionally rewarded.
Charles Paris had long since ceased to believe that his career would be affected by anything but the randomness of fate.
Some actors, who have the ability, use the time to write, trying out ideas, getting new shows together, trying to interest managements in their wares.
Charles Paris, who had the ability, seemed to have lost the desire to write.
Some actors take advantage of their environment. They join the National Trust, they spend their days visiting stately homes and other places of local interest.
Charles Paris never got round to doing that sort of thing. Some actors pursue their sideline. It’s amazing how many extra talents actors have. Some are solicitors and do a little gentle conveyancing for their colleagues. Some are doctors and fit in the odd locum clinic. Some are collectors and use their time with profit scouring the antique shops or bookshops of the area.
Charles Paris had no sideline.
Of course, all actors go to the cinema in the afternoon.
Charles Paris did that.
But Rugland Spa only had two cinemas. And that left a lot of the week unfilled.
The Rugland Spa Gazette & Observer was in the newsagents on Thursday mornings, but Gordon Tremlett, who knew everyone and how to get everything in the town, came into his dressing room with a copy on the Wednesday evening.
It was just after seven o’clock. Charles Paris, now very good about being in for the ‘half’, sat there meekly, his Sir Reginald De Meaux gear complete but for the screw-on sword and a fresh splash of Kensington Gore.
‘Well, love, we’re all over the local rag!’
Charles wondered whether Gordon Tremlett, in his previous existence, had addressed those grovelling for overdrafts as ‘love’. It seemed unlikely. No doubt such flamboyance was reserved for his wild evenings amongst the Rugland Spa Players.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Shove It scandal, sweetie. Look, front page news.’
The headline read ‘COUNCILLOR DENOUNCES “SMUTTY” PLAY’.
Charles shrugged. ‘They say all publicity’s good publicity.’
‘Not sure in this case, love. Councillor Davenport’s asking for an enquiry into the running of the Regent.’
‘Oh.’
‘He’s not going to get it, of course. Herbie Inchbald slapped him down firmly at last night’s council meeting. But I think it could all blow up into a rather nasty row. You seen the Mrs Feller Brigade outside the front?’
Charles nodded. As he passed the theatre that afternoon he’d noticed a cluster of aggrieved ladies’ hats and banners exhorting the public to ‘KEEP OUR THEATRE CLEAN’, ‘BAN PORNOGRAPHY’ and allow ‘NO OBSCENE SHOWS IN RUGLAND SPA’.
‘But surely that’s the sort of publicity the show needs. Nothing like a bit of a controversy to fill the seats.’
‘Not here, dear.’
‘People’ll come along just to see what the fuss is about. Broaden their minds.’
‘Oh no, love. People move to Rugland Spa specifically to have their minds narrowed. No, they’ll stay away in droves.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Seen it before. No, this is a pity for the theatre. There are a lot of people in this town who’d like to get rid of the Regent. A lot of people on the council, unfortunately. Councillor Davenport and his lot want it sold. It’s a prime site – any developer who got hold of it’d knock the theatre down and make a mint.’
‘But isn’t the theatre a protected building?’
Gordon Tremlett shook his head wryly. ‘Not old enough or architecturally interesting enough to be listed. It is protected in a way, but the council could reverse that whenever they wanted to.’
‘Why does this Davenport bloke want to get rid of it?’
‘Wants the money to build a Leisure Centre on the Leominster Road. His pet project. Always saying theatre’s a waste of time; we should be investing in the health of the body rather than that of the mind.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Trouble is . . .’ Gordon tapped the paper. ‘Something like this doesn’t do his cause any harm.’ The former bank manager pondered for a moment. ‘I wonder if all this has anything to do with what Donald was asking me . . .’
‘What was that?’
‘Oh, just wanted to pick my brains, share a little of my expertise.’ Gordon looked up mischievously. ‘You’re not going to believe this, Charles, but I haven’t always been an actor.’
Play along with him. ‘No. Really, Gordon?’
‘No.’ With a complacent shake of his head. ‘No. And I don’t think you’d ever guess what I used to be . . .’
Oh God, here we go. The worst-kept secret in Rugland Spa. ‘Why, what were you. Gordon?’
‘Only a bank manager.’
‘Good heavens.’ And, in case that was insufficient amazement, Charles added, ‘Well, well, what a turn-up.’
‘Oh yes.’ Gordon smiled like the sphinx unburdened of her riddle.
‘But what was Donald asking you then?’
‘Ah well, you see, love, during my wicked past . . .’ Gordon chuckled at his wit, ‘I developed a certain familiarity with figures, account books, what-have-you . . .’
‘Not surprising.’
‘No. Anyway, I gather Donald’s found some inconsistency in the theatre’s books, don’t know what, but he asked if I wouldn’t mind casting an eye over them when I’ve got a moment. I don’t think he wants to bring the accountants in and make it official. It’s probably nothing, but I was wondering whether this threat of an enquiry’s made him a bit nervous.’
‘Could be.’
‘Yes.’ Gordon Tremlett rubbed his hands with glee. ‘Still, before I get on my slap and cossy to tread the boards . . .’ (he always used far more theatrical slang than a real actor would) ‘I will cheer myself up with a nice notice. Frank Walby’s column – always on the Entertainments Page, always on page fourteen, always restorative to the poor thespian ego.’
He turned with relish to page fourteen, but the sudden change of his expression was enough to make Charles lean forward and read over the shoulder:
DATED THRILLER FAILS TO THRILL
Every cliché of the whodunnit is present in the Regent’s latest offering, THE MESSAGE IS MURDER by Leslie Blatt. Though the play had a modest success when it was first written in the fifties post-SLEUTH and DEATHTRAP, audiences require more sophistication in their thrills than this awkward little piece now has to offer. Throughout the evening disbelief is suspended so often that eventually one doesn’t give a damn what happens next and only prays for a premature curtain to put the play out of its misery.
Nor are the show’s chances improved by an untidy production by Antony Wensleigh. When the curtain rises on Hermione Halliwell’s set, we suspect we are in for an evening of dated shabbiness, and nothing that happens subsequently dispels this impression.
The cast suffer the disadvantage of playing characters with no vestige of psychological credibility, but that doesn’t excuse the display of hamming and fluffing to which we are treated. Kathy Kitson moves through her part like a shopwalker from Harrods and Laurie Tichbourne, as her son, is so wet you want to get up on stage and wring him out. Cherry Robson, as the maid Wilhelmina, sensibly makes no attempt to act and confines herself to looking pretty, while Gay Milner, an unlikely debutante, plays her part as if suffering from internal injury. Gordon Tremlett, impersonating a Colonel, gives a performance so unconvincing that it would not be tolerated by any amateur dramatic society in the country. The actor who emerges with most credit is Charles Paris, who is at least meant to behave like a dead body, and who has least opportunity to do anything wrong.
All in all, THE MESSAGE IS MURDER is a production to be forgotten as soon as possible, and one that raises disturbing questions about the Regent’s methods of play selection and overall artistic standards.
‘Good God!’ Gordon Tremlett exhaled in a shocked whisper. ‘He must have gone off his rocker.’
‘What?’ asked Charles, who was just working out that ‘The actor who emerges with most credit is Charles Paris’ was, if one forgot the rest of the sentence, a very quotable review.
‘Well, I mean, Frank. He’s had a brainstorm. He’s gone, completely. He’s never written like this about any other production.’
‘Perhaps he’s never thought any other production was as bad.’
‘No, but I mean, some of the things he says here . . . I mean, Okay, it’s a rubbishy old play – I was only saying so to Leslie Blatt the other day – but a critic should be able to look beyond the play. To say that I give a performance that wouldn’t be tolerated in any amateur dramatic society in the country . . . I mean, those aren’t the words of a sane man. Are they?’
‘Well,’ said Charles judiciously, ‘it does seem a bit over the top.’
‘Over the top? It’s nothing short of lunatic. And so hurtful.’ Gordon Tremlett slumped dramatically back in his chair. ‘I don’t think critics realize how fragile an artist’s confidence is. We have to go out there and give of ourselves every night, build ourselves up, bolster ourselves. And then, to be confronted with something like this. It’s very puncturing to the ego.’
Charles grimaced, recalling past punctures to his own ego. The bad reviews always stayed fixed, word for word, in his mind. Like the one from the Aberdeen Evening Express:
‘With Charles Paris playing Dracula, dawn couldn’t come soon enough for me.’
Or the Yorkshire Post’s comment:
‘Charles Paris kept hitching up his Northern accent like a loose bra-strap.’
But perhaps the most wounding of all had been Plays & Players reaction to his performance in one of the great classical roles:
‘Charles Paris’ Henry V had me rooting for the French at Agincourt.