The Actor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was a big man, without surplus flesh, and with an impassivity of face that hid extreme shyness, and which, allied with his striking build, made him look more than anything else, as he walked homewards in the early evening in fawn mackintosh and trilby hat, like a plain-clothes policeman going quietly and efficiently about his business, with trouble for someone it the end of it.

All his adult life people had been saying to him, ‘You should have been a policeman, Mr Royston,’ or, more familiarly, ‘You’ve missed your way, Albert. You’re cut out for a copper, lad.’ But he would smile in his quiet, patient way, as though no one had ever said it before, and almost always gave exactly the same reply: ‘Nay, I’m all right. I like my bed at nights.’

In reality he was a shop assistant and could be found, in white smock, on five and a half days of the week behind the counter of the Moorend branch grocery store of Cressley Industrial Co-operative Society, where he was assistant manager. He hid been assistant manager for five years and seemed fated to occupy that position for many more years to come before the promotion earmarked for him would become fact. For the manager was a man of settled disposition also, and still comparatively young and fit.

But Albert did not apparently worry. He did not apparently worry about anything; but this again was the deception of his appearance. Quiet he might be, and stolid and settled in his ways; but no one but he had known the agony of shyness that was his wedding day; and no one but he had known the pure terror of the premature birth of his only child, when the baby he had longed for with so much secret yearning was dead and had almost cost the life of the one person without whom his own life would hardly have seemed possible – Alice, his wife.

So it was the measure of his misleading appearance and his ability to hide his feelings that no one ever guessed the truth, that no one was ever led from the belief that he was a taciturn man of unshakeable placidity. ‘You want to take a leaf out of Albert’s book,’ they would say. ‘Take a lesson from him. Never worries, Albert doesn’t.’

Thus Albert, at the age of thirty-seven, on the eve of his small adventure.

Amateur drama was a popular pastime in Cressley and varied in standard from rather embarrassing to really quite good. Generally considered to be among the best of the local groups was the C.I.C.S. Players – the drama group of Cressley Industrial Co-operative Society. They restricted their activities to perhaps three productions a year and worked hard to achieve a professional finish. It was about the time of the casting for the Christmas production, perhaps the most important of the year, since at this time each group was shown in direct comparison with all the other bodies who joined together in the week-long Christmas Festival of Amateur Drama in the Co-operative Hall, that the rather fierce looking lady from General Office who was said to be the backbone and mainstay of the C.I.C.S. Players, happened to visit the shop. Seeing Albert on her way out as he towered over a diminutive woman customer, she stopped abruptly and, waiting only till he was free, crossed over to him and said, ‘Tell me, have you ever acted?’

As it was the oddest thing anyone had ever asked him, Albert simply stared at the woman while a colleague said, ‘He’s always acting, Albert is. Make a cat laugh, the antics he gets up to.’

‘Take no notice of him,’ Albert said. ‘He’s kiddin’.’

‘What I mean,’ the lady said, ‘is, have you had any experience of dramatics?’

‘Dramatics?’ Albert said.

‘Taking part in plays.’

Albert gave a short laugh and shook his head.

‘There’s a chap coming from M.G.M. to see him next week,’ the facetious colleague said. ‘Cressley’s answer to Alan Ladd.’

Ignoring the irrepressible one, the lady continued her interrogation of Albert with: ‘Has anyone ever told you you look like a policeman?’

‘I believe it has been mentioned,’ said Albert, wondering if the woman had nothing better to do than stand here asking him daft questions all morning.

She now looked Albert over in silence for some moments until, unable to bear her scrutiny for another second, he bent down and pretended to look for something under the counter. He had his head down there when she spoke again and he thought for a moment he had misheard her.

‘Eh?’ he said, straightening up.

‘I said, would you be interested in a part in our new production? You know, the C.I.C.S. Players. We’re doing R. Belton Wilkins’s The Son of the House for the Christmas Festival and there’s a part in it for a police constable. We’ve no one in the group who fits the role nearly so well as you.

‘But I can’t act,’ Albert said. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before.’

‘It’s only a small part – about a page. You’d soon learn it. And you’d find it great fun to be part of a group effort. There’s nothing quite like the thrill of the stage, you know.’

‘Aye, happen it’s all right if you’re that way inclined,’ Albert said, and was relieved to see a customer at the lady’s elbow.

‘Well, I won’t keep you from your work,’ she said; ‘but think it over. We’d love to have you, and you’d never regret it. We start rehearsals next week. I’ll pop in and see you again later. Think it over.’

‘Aye, aye,’ Albert said. ‘I’ll think it over.’ Meaning that he would dismiss it from his mind for the nonsense it was as soon as she was gone. Acting! Him!

But he did not dismiss it from his mind. A part of his mind was occupied with it all morning as he attended to his customers; and at lunch-time, when the door had been locked, he went over to one of the young lady assistants from the opposite counter.

‘You’re mixed up with this acting thing, aren’t you?’

‘The Players?’ the girl said. ‘Oh yes. It’s grand fun. We’re doing R. Belton Wilkins’s latest West End success for our next production.’

‘Aye,’ Albert said, ‘I’ve been hearin’ so. I’ve had yon’ woman on to me this morning.’

‘You mean Mrs Bostock. I saw her talking to you. A real tartar, she is. Terrifically keen and efficient. I don’t know what we’d do without her.’

‘She’s been doin’ a bit o’ recruitin’ this morning,’ Albert said. ‘Been on to me to take a part in this new play. Don’t know what she’s thinkin’ about.’ All morning a new feeling had been growing in him and now he realised that he was pleased and flattered by Mrs Bostock’s approach, nonsense though it undoubtedly was. ‘I always thought you wanted these la-di-da chaps for play-actin’,’ he said; ‘not ord’nary chaps like me.’

‘I don’t know,’ the girl said, unbuttoning her overall. ‘What part does she want you for?’

‘The policeman.’

‘Well, there you are. Perfect type-casting. You look the part exactly.’

‘But they’d know straight away ’at I wasn’t an actor, soon as I opened me mouth.’

‘They don’t want to know you’re an actor. They want to think you’re a policeman.’

‘But I can’t put it on.’

‘Policemen don’t put it on, do they? You’d just have to be yourself and you’d be perfect.’

‘And I’ve no head for remembering lines,’ Albert said.

‘How do you know if you’ve never tried?’

‘Hmmm,’ Albert said.

‘Look,’ the girl said, ‘I’ll bring my copy of the play back after dinner and you can have a look at the part. As far as I remember, it’s not very long.’

‘Oh, don’t bother,’ Albert said. ‘I’m not thinkin’ o’ doin’ it.’

‘No bother,’ the girl said. ‘You just have a look at it and see.’

That afternoon, in the intervals between attending to customers, Albert could be seen paying great attention to something slightly below the level of the counter; and when the shop had closed for the day he approached the girl who had lent him the book and said, ‘Will you be wantin’ this tonight? I thought I might take it home an’ have a look at it.’

‘It’s getting you, then?’

‘Well, I’ve read it about half-way through,’ Albert said, ‘an’ I’ve got interested like. In the story, I mean. I’d like to see how it ends, if you can spare the book.’

‘You can borrow it,’ the girl said. ‘You’ll find it very gripping near the end. It ran for over two years in London.’

‘You don’t say so,’ Albert said. ‘That’s a long time.’

‘Of course, we’re only doing one performance,’ the girl said, ‘so you needn’t get the wind up.’

‘What d’you think happened at the shop today?’ Albert asked Alice after tea that evening.

Alice said she couldn’t imagine.

‘We had that Mrs Bostock down from General Office an’ she asked me if I’d like a part in this new play they’re getting up.’

‘You?’ Alice said. ‘She asked you?’

‘Aye, I knew it,’ Albert said. ‘I knew you’d think it was daft an’ all.’

‘I don’t think it’s daft at all,’ Alice said. ‘I’m surprised, but I don’t think it’s daft. What sort of part does she want you to play?’

‘Guess,’ Albert said. ‘She took one look at me an’ offered me the part.’

Alice began to laugh. ‘Why not? Why ever shouldn’t you?’

‘Because,’ Albert said, ‘there’s a difference in walkin’ the streets lookin’ like a bobby an’ walkin’ on to a stage an’ reckonin’ to be one. I don’t think I could do it, not with maybe hundreds o’ people watchin’ me.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. They tell me you forget the audience once you start saying your lines.’

‘Aye, an’ supposin’ you forget your lines? What then?’

‘Well, you just have to learn them. And you have rehearsals and what not. I don’t suppose it’s a long part, is it?’

Albert fingered the book. ‘Only a page. I have it here.’

‘Oh, ho!’ Alice said.

‘Well, young Lucy Fryer would bring it for me, an’ I started readin’ it and got interested. It’s a real good play, y’know. They ought to do it on the telly. It ran for two years in London.’

Alice took the book and looked at the title. ‘Yes, I’ve heard of this.’

‘It’s all about a young feller and his dad’s ever so rich and dotes on the lad. Thinks the sun shines out of him; an, all the time this lad’s a real nasty piece o’ work. A proper nowter.’

‘Where’s the policeman’s part?’

‘In the second act. Here, let me show you. This lad an’ his brother are havin’ a row, see, because he’s run some’dy down in his car and not stopped, because he was drunk. An’ right in the middle of this I come in an’–’

‘You come in?’ Alice said. ‘I thought you weren’t interested in the part?’

Albert looked sheepish. ‘I haven’t said I am,’ he said. ‘I sort o’ tried to imagine meself as I was reading it, that’s all.’

‘I see,’ Alice said.

‘Aye, that’s all... What you lookin’ at me for?’

‘I’m just looking,’ Alice said.

It was two days later that Mrs Bostock came in again.

‘Well,’ she said with ferocious brightness, ‘did you think it over?’

‘He’s read the play, Mrs Bostock,’ Lucy Fryer said, coming over. ‘I lent him my copy.’

‘Splendid, splendid.’

‘Yes, a very entertainin’ play indeed,’ Albert said. ‘But I haven’t said owt about playin’ that part. I don’t think it’s owt in my line, y’see. She thinks so, an’ my missis; but I’m not sure.’

‘Nonsense,’ Mrs Bostock said.

‘Y’see I’m not the sort o’ feller to show meself off in front of a lot o’ people.’

‘Rubbish,’ Mrs Bostock said.

‘Oh, it’s all right for you lot. You’ve done it all before. You’re used to it.’

‘Come to rehearsal Monday evening,’ Mrs Bostock commanded.

‘Well, I don’t know.’

‘My house, seven-thirty. I won’t take no for an answer till you’ve seen us all and given it a try. Lucy will tell you the address.’ And she was gone.

‘A bit forceful, isn’t she?’ Albert said.

‘A tartar,’ Lucy said.

‘Oh, heck,’ Albert said, ‘I don’t like this at all.’

But secretly now he was beginning to like it enormously.

 

At seven twenty-five on Monday evening he presented himself, dressed carefully in his best navy blue and shaved for the second time that day, at the front door of Mrs Bostock’s home, a large and rather grim-looking Victorian terrace house with big bay windows on a long curving avenue off Halifax Road, and was joined on the step by Lucy Fryer.

Mrs Bostock herself let them in and showed them into a large and shabbily comfortable drawing-room furnished mostly with a varied assortment of easy chairs and settees, and more books than Albert had ever seen at one time outside the public library. He was introduced to a thin, distinguished-looking, pipe-smoking man who turned out to be Mr Bostock, and then the members of the drama group began to arrive.

There were only seven speaking parts in the play but several people who would be responsible for backstage production turned up too and soon the room was full of men and women whose common characteristic seemed to be that they all talked at the top of their voices. Albert was bewildered, and then smitten with acute embarrassment when Mrs Bostock, standing on the hearthrug, clapped her hands together and saying, ‘Listen, everybody; I’d like you all to meet our new recruit,’ directed all eyes to him.

‘I’m trying to talk Mr Royston into playing the policeman in Son of the House and I want you all to be nice to him because he isn’t completely sold on the idea yet.’

‘But my dear Effie,’ said a stocky young man in a tweed jacket and yellow shirt, ‘you’re a genius. You really are. Where on earth did you find him?’ And Albert stood there feeling very uncomfortable while everybody looked at him as though he were an antique which Mrs Bostock had uncovered in an obscure shop and was now presenting for their admiration.

‘Mr Royston is the assistant manager in Moorend Grocery,’ Mrs Bostock told them. ‘I took one look at him and knew he was our man.’

To Albert’s relief attention turned from him and he was able for a time to sit in his corner and watch what went on without being called upon to do or say anything. But not for long. A first group-reading of the play was started upon and Albert followed the action in his copy, amazed at the way the actors let themselves go in their parts, delivering the most embarrassing lines without the least sign of self-consciousness. ‘You know I love you,’ the young man in the yellow shirt said to a pretty dark girl sitting next to Albert. ‘Do you love me?’ she replied. ‘Or is it just that you want to go to bed with me?’ Albert blushed.

At the entrance of the policeman a silence fell upon the room and Mrs Bostock, still directing operations from the hearthrug, said, ‘Now, Mr Royston, this is where you come in.’

Oh, it was terrible. His heart thumped sickeningly. He found his place, put his forefinger under the line, swallowed thickly, and said in a faint voice:

‘Is one of you gentlemen the owner of that car standing outside?’

‘Weak,’ Mrs Bostock said. ‘Come now, Mr Royston, a little more authority. Can’t you imagine the impact of your entrance?...’

‘Just imagine it, Alice,’ Albert said, getting up out of his chair with the book in his hand. ‘Here’s this rotter of a bloke, who’s had one too many an’ been drivin’ like mad an’ hit somebody an’ left ’em in the road. He’s scared out of his wits an’ now he’s telling his brother an’ pleadin’ with him to help him, when the maid comes in and says there’s a policeman come – and I walk in.

‘“Is one of you gentlemen the owner of that car standing outside?” An’ this ’ere young chap nearly passes out with fright, thinkin’ they’re on to him. And really, y’see, all I’m doin’ is pinchin’ him for parking without lights. Just imagine it. It’s... it’s one of the dramatic climaxes of the play.’

‘It’s ever so thrilling, Albert,’ Alice said. ‘Did you say it like that tonight?’

‘What?’

‘Is one of you gentlemen the owner of that car outside?’

‘Well, happen not quite like that. It’s not so bad when there’s only you listening to me, but it sort o’ puts you off with all them la-di-da fellers there. You’re scared to death you’ll drop an aitch or say a word wrong... It’ll be easier when I’m a bit more used to it.’

‘You’re really taking it on, then?’

‘Well,’ Albert said, scratching his head, ‘I don’t seem to have much option, somehow. She’s a very persuasive woman, that Mrs Bostock. Besides,’ he went on, ‘it sort of gets you, you know. If you know what I mean.’

Alice smiled. ‘I know what you mean. You do it, Albert. You show them.’

Albert looked at her and in a moment a slow grin spread across his face. ‘I think I will, Alice,’ he said. ‘I think I will.’

 

Once committed, Albert sank himself heart and soul into the perfecting of his part. Attendance at Mrs Bostock’s house on Monday evenings opened up a new vista of life to him. It was his first contact with the artistic temperament varied in inverse ratio to the amount of talent. He was fascinated.

‘You’ve never met anybody like ’em, he said to Alice one night.’ They shake hands to feel how long the claws are an’ put their arms round one another so’s it’s easier to slip the knife in.’

‘Oh, surely, Albert,’ said Alice, a person of sweetness and light, ‘they’re not as bad as all that.’

‘No,’ he admitted; ‘some of ’em’s all right; but there’s one or two proper devils.’ He shook his head. ‘They’re certainly not sort o’ folk I’ve been used to. Three-quarters of ’em don’t even work for t’Co-op.’

‘How is it coming along?’ Alice asked.

‘Pretty fair. We’re trying it out on the stage next week, with all the actions an’ everything.’

On the night of the dress rehearsal Alice answered a knock on the door to find a policeman on the step.

‘Does Albert Royston live here?’ a gruff official voice asked.

Alice was startled. ‘Well, he does,’ she said, ‘but he’s not in just now.’

She opened the door a little wider and the light fell across the man’s face. Her husband stepped towards her, laughing.

‘You silly fool, Albert,’ Alice said indulgently. ‘You gave me a shock.’

Albert was still chuckling as he walked through into the living-room. ‘Well, how do I look?’

‘You look marvellous,’ Alice said. ‘But you’ve never come through the streets like that, have you? You could get into trouble.’

‘It’s all right,’ Albert told her. ‘I had me mac on over the uniform and the helmet in a bag. I just had to give you a preview like. An’ Mrs Bostock says could you put a little tuck in the tunic: summat they can take out before it goes back. It’s a bit on the roomy side.’

‘It must have been made for a giant,’ Alice said as she fussed about behind him, examining the tunic. ‘Ooh, Albert, but isn’t it getting exciting! I can’t wait for the night.’

‘Well, like it or lump it,’ Albert said, ‘there’s only another week now.’

 

He was at the hall early on the night of the play and made up and dressed in the police constable’s uniform by the end of the first act. As the second act began he found himself alone in the dressing-room. He looked into the mirror and squared the helmet on his head. He certainly looked the part all right. It would be a bit of a lark to go out in the street and pinch somebody for speeding or something. He narrowed his eyes, looking fiercely at himself, and spoke his opening line in a guttural undertone.

Well, this was it. No good looking in the book. If he didn’t know the part now he never would. Out there the second act was under way, the players doing their very best, revelling in a hobby they loved, giving entertainment to all those people; and in return the audience was thrilling to every twist and climax of the plot, and not letting one witty phrase, one humorous exchange go by without a laugh. A good audience, Mrs Bostock had said: the sort of audience all actors, professional or amateur, loved: at one with the players, receptive, responsive, appreciative. And soon its eyes would be on him.

He was suddenly seized by an appalling attack of stage fright. His stomach was empty, a hollow void of fear. He put his head in his hands. He couldn’t do it. How could he ever have imagined he could? He couldn’t face all those people. His mouth was dry and when he tried to bring his lines to memory he found nothing but a blank.

A knock on the door made him look up. He felt panic grip him now. Had he missed his entrance? Had he ruined the performance for everybody by cringing here like a frightened child? The knock was repeated and Mrs Bostock’s voice said from outside, ‘Are you there, Mr Royston?’

Albert took his script in his hand and opened the door. She smiled brightly up at him. ‘Everything all right?’ She gave him an appraising look. ‘You look wonderful. You’re not on for a little while yet but I should come and stand in the wings and get the feel of the action. You look a bit pale about the gills. What’s wrong – stage fright?’

‘It’s all a bit new to me,’ Albert said feebly.

‘Of course it is. But you know your lines perfectly and once you’re out there you’ll forget your nervousness. Just remember the audience is on your side.’

They went up the narrow steps to the level of the stage. The voices of the actors became more distinct.

He caught the tail-end of a line he recognised. There already? Recurrent fear gripped his stomach.

He looked out on to the brightly lit stage, at the actors moving about, talking, and across to where the girl who was acting as prompter sat with an open script on her knee. ‘Shirley hasn’t had a thing to do so far,’ Mrs Bostock murmured. ‘The whole thing’s gone like a dream. She took the script from Albert’s hands and found the place for him. ‘Here we are. Now you just follow the action in there and relax; take it easy. You’ll be on and off so quick you’ll hardly know you’ve left the wings.’

‘I’m all right now,’ Albert told her.

He realised to his own surprise that he was; and he became increasingly so as the action of the play absorbed him, so that he begin to feel himself part of it and no longer a frightened amateur shivering in the wings.

Two pages to go. The younger son was telling his brother about the accident. The row was just beginning and at the very height of it he would make his entrance. He began to feel excited. What was it Mrs Bostock had said? ‘From the second you step on you dominate the stage. Your entrance is like a thunder-clap.’ By shots! He realised vaguely that Mrs Bostock had left his side, but he didn’t care now. He felt a supreme confidence. He was ready. He’d show them. By shots he would!

One page. ‘You’ve been rotten all your life, Paul,’ the elder brother was saying. ‘I’ve never cherished any illusions about you, but this, this is more than even I dreamed you were capable of.’

‘I know you hate me, Tom. I’ve always known it. But if only for father’s sake, you must help me now. You know what it will do to him if he finds out. He couldn’t stand it in his condition.’

‘You swine. You utter swine…’

The girl who was the maid appeared at his side. She gave him a quick smile. No nerves about her. She’d been on and off the stage all evening, living the part. Albert stared out, fascinated. Not until this moment had he known the true thrill of acting, of submerging one’s own personality in that of another.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to find that man you knocked down and get him to a hospital. And you’re coming with me.’

‘But it’s too late, Tom. It was hours ago. Someone’s sure to have found him by now. Perhaps the police…’

Any minute now. They were working up to his entrance. Like a thunder-clap. Albert braced his shoulders and touched his helmet. He glanced down at the script and quickly turned a page. He had lost his place. Panic smote him like a blow. They were still talking, though, so he must be all right. And anyway the maid gave him his cue and she was still by his side. Then suddenly she was no longer at his side. She had gone. He fumbled with his script. Surely... not so far...

He felt Mrs Bostock at his elbow. He turned to her in stupid surprise.

‘But,’ he said, ‘they’ve... they’ve –’

She nodded. ‘Yes. They’ve skipped three pages. They’ve missed your part right out.’

 

He was already at home when Alice returned.

‘Whatever happened, Albert?’ she said anxiously. ‘You weren’t ill, were you?’

He told her. ‘I went and got changed straight away,’ he said, ‘and came home.’

‘Well, isn’t that a shame!’

‘Oh, they just got carried away,’ Albert said. ‘One of ’em lost his place and skipped and the other lad had to follow him. They did it so quick nobody could do owt about it.’ He smiled as he began to take off his shoes. ‘Looks as though I’ll never know whether I’d ’ve stood up to it or not,’ he said.

He never did anything of the kind again.

A long time after he was able to face with equanimity his wife’s request, in the presence of acquaintances, that he should tell them about his ‘acting career’, and say, ‘No, you tell ’em, Alice. You tell it best.’ And the genuine smile on his honest face during the recounting of the story of the unspoken lines, which never failed to provoke shouts of laughter, always deceived the listeners. So that never for one moment did they guess just how cruel, how grievous a disappointment it had been to him at the time.