CHAPTER SIX
JANUARY 1956

Soon after seven o’clock, Paul presented himself at David Greene’s door. The great director ushered him in to meet Katherine Blake, David’s wife, a British actress of striking demeanour: Spanish-looking with a mane of rich auburn hair, dark eyes and bold features — like no one else in Toronto, that was certain! In spite of her rather awesome looks, she turned out to be warm and welcoming.

David poured Paul a gin and tonic, everyone’s drink of choice. “We’ve invited an old friend, Patrick Macnee — you should meet him. Wonderful actor, though a bit of a Don Juan — wise enough to draw the line at Kate, because he knows I’m his great supporter.”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard of him, of course.” So here he was, mingling with the top actors in Toronto. He felt like pinching himself. Was it all a dream? “Who’s directing Studio One tonight?” he asked David. The directors often gathered to watch the American dramas out of New York, such as Philco Goodyear Playhouse, and later on in the week on Thursday, the hour and a half Playhouse Ninety, run by Martin Manulis.

“Sydney Lumet, I think.”

Being Monday, Westinghouse Studio One started at ten. Paul had been mumbling about getting a TV set just as soon as he got paid. “I should be getting a cheque, I think.”

“You haven’t yet? And you’ve done two shows?”

“Two Kines and a Christmas show, Miracle at the Windsor.” Paul shook his head. “Funny thing you know, rehearsing Miracle, I saw someone handing around envelopes and I wondered.” He grinned. “Imagine getting paid for having so much fun!”

“I’m shocked.” David handed Paul his drink.

“I did go in to see Sydney,” Paul continued. “He sent me right over to the employment office.”

“You went to see the fearsome Margery Hand?” David asked with a grin.

Paul nodded. She had been at her desk, queen of all she surveyed. Short red hair, a slight sprinkling of freckles that did nothing to tone down her ill-natured demeanour, pale white skin common to redheads, and prim lips, usually pressed together in disapproval.

“Boy, was she angry! How had I slipped through the cracks? No one, she told me seriously, no one can get into the CBC without seeing her. Well, I said, there’s always a first!” They both laughed, and Kate came out of the kitchen to see what was causing the merriment; David brought her up to date.

David told Katherine, “You should’ve seen Paul in the control room. I tried to stay and watch, but he even frightened me!” He chuckled as he went on, “No one’s seen anything like my pupil!”

The doorbell rang, and in came Pat Macnee. No doubt about it, he turned out to be, as predicted, so very personable. Tremendously good-looking, tall, well-built, but with a gentle side. An alarmingly long list of young actresses had been drawn to him. But Patrick was intrigued by Paul’s background. “You actually started a theatre company?”

Kate hadn’t heard this either, so Paul filled them in: “Well, I borrowed money to buy an old furniture van. No brakes, really, a pantechnicon with a compartment above the hood, you know? We all travelled in that, fourteen of us including the cook, who helped with the costumes and props, but mainly served food right on the theatre stage with a Bunsen burner and some little camp stools. I bought second hand beds at an army surplus for the actors to sleep on in the halls, and a few flats, and I borrowed costumes from OUDS. I kind of organized the booking of town halls.”

“Playing villages just like the travelling players in Shakespeare’s time?” Kate asked.

“Exactly. Others did it for the Festival of Britain, not quite like us, of course, but that was our idea. Living communally. You know, I chose a pretty talented lot ­—some have already started to make a name for themselves. I bet even one red-haired scallvwag of seventeen, Maggie Smith, had so much talent, she’ll have a bit of a career, too.” Paul went on with the exploits of the company, and then how he had gotten unceremoniously dumped by the Cambridge University graduate, Toby Robertson, whom he had brought on. “He took it over and it’s still doing well as the Elizabethan Theatre Company.”

They all sat down to a delicious dinner, and got into drama department gossip, who was sleeping with whom, who had a crush on whom, and confirming such amorous adventures as Paul had only guessed at.

After dinner, Paul broached the subject of his next play. “August Heat, it’s a kind of thriller, but with a twist.” Paul looked across at Pat. “Only two characters; not bad. Want to be in it?”

“Sure! Got a script?”

As easy as that? This was going to be fun! “I’ll send it round. Simple play, all set in an artists’ studio – you’re the artist — and in a tombstone maker’s yard. Supposed to be dreadfully hot, hence the title. I like this one, actually.”

So now he’d cast half of the play, had a good dinner, and it was time to walk to Grant and Earle’s apartment on the top floor of the old Rosedale house. Once he got that cheque, he’d rent a room.

***

No one was prouder than Paul when he brought Angela to the fourth floor of the television building, and into the drama department: eight offices, four to a side, arranged around a central pool of desks. Sydney Newman’s ample office occupied one corner.

“Who sits at those desks outside each office?” asked Angela.

“Script assistants. And in the centre, studio directors copy scripts, write cues, and so on. Come.”

“It open to anyone, I notice. So any actor can just wander in?”

“Why not? We’re public servants, paid by Canadian taxes. We should be open to anybody who wants to see us.”

Paul first introduced Angela to Silvio Narizzano. “One of our best directors and a terrific actor! I saw Silvio at the MRT a couple of years ago as the Gentleman Caller in The Glass Menagerie. He was just so poetic and romantic.” Silvio was indeed handsome, Latin-looking with short black hair and a gentle manner. “Mother had suggested I ring him for a job as an extra. And now, here we are, companions in crime!”

Silvio laughed. “So Angela, you came to see where we do all our messy business?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Silvio,” Paul explained, “is one of the three directors, with David and Hank Kaplan, who do the one-hour General Motors Theatre. I’m only on half-hours, On Camera, with Leo Orenstein, Art Hiller, and Murray Chercover.”

Paul then took Angela to Leo’s office, who leapt up when he recognized her. “Well, hello!”

“Leo, this is Angela Leigh, she’s —”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got her in your next show!” Leo chuckled.

“No actually, well, we’re...”

“We’re together,” Angela volunteered, not at all daunted.

“Oh, I hadn’t heard. Honoured to meet you, Angela, I’ve seen you on stage, and you were so charismatic.” His gracious old-world manners appealed to them both.

After they came back to Paul’s own bare but functional office, Angela looked around and commented, “I’ll have to do something about this... if you’d like me to.”

“Oh, don’t bother. I’ll stick up a couple of pictures of you dancing and that’ll be it.”

Then who should appear in the doorway but Hank Kaplan. “I hear we have a ballerina in the office today.”

“Hello, Hank,” Angela said cheerily.

“You know each other!”

“Paul, you don’t think we’d have a fledgling ballet company and I wouldn’t go?” Hank was nothing if not flamboyant, with a bright-coloured waistcoat and hands that moved like swallows. He would clearly fit any ballet company, Paul reflected, except he was a bit heavy, almost florid. His reputation for swearing did not prevent him from getting a lot out of his cast on General Motors Theatre.

“You two are shacking up, I hear,” said Hank.

“Jealous?” Paul grinned.

“I don’t bend that way,” Hank whispered, waving his fingers at Angela, who laughed. “And what are you dancing these days, Angela? I’m expecting to see you in Lilac Garden any time soon.”

“Bloody Celia won’t let me. But I have my eye on the role, don’t worry.”

Before they left to go out for a sandwich, Paul took Angela across the room to meet Arthur Hiller, from Alberta, mild, charming, almost bureaucratic, a complete contrast to Hank. The next summer, Art would hightail it for Hollywood and Matinee Theater.

“Well, that’s our Drama Department. And I hear we’re getting another weekly drama half hour: Ford Theatre.”

“Very exciting, Paul. And even more so when you get your cheque!”

***

Paul, covered in splashes of paint, heard his doorbell ring and trotted down the old staircase with its ornate bannisters. The cheque had finally arrived. He threw open the door and, after giving Angela a big hug, led her up to his newfound lodging. “I’m dying to know what you’ll think.” She stepped in.

The walls glowed a hot pinkish yellow, the carved wood frames purple. Being in an old residence due for destruction, the aged room had high ceilings; a double bed stood against the left wall, and three tall bay windows shed southern light. To their right, a kind of “kitchen” contained a circular hot plate on a wobbly table and a frying pan. Against the far wall, Paul had stuffed his defunct fireplace with newspapers to keep soot from falling. “And just a few blocks down, a five minute walk, is the CBC.”

Eighty-eight Charles Street East was not in one of the finer residential areas. Close by, on Jarvis Street, night-ladies trolled for pickups, and earned their nightly wages just below College Street in seedy hotels. But that was the last thing Paul cared about. He’d just painted his own space and felt all set.

Angela gulped. Being a rather good decorator, she must have decided to squash her impulses: “It... it looks fine, Paul.”

Out they went for a sandwich on nearby Yonge Street. “Mother said she is coming through Toronto for a conference in Windsor, the head office of Beauty Counsellors: it’s a make-up and skin protection organisation.”

“Yes, you told me that’s what she’s doing.”

“Moving up in the world all right. More money for her than teaching dancing. She seems terrific at selling beauty products. But listen, a couple she knows are going back to England and want to sell their TV set, so she’s bringing it on her way through.”

The next week, Paul got his television set, a large heavy square box with a tiny round porthole about six inches across. He also got another present. The previous summer, two pretty sisters, Alice and Carol Guerin, had found a litter of baby skunks who had lost their mother. Alice had brought one over to Paul, and he had adopted it. When he’d left for Toronto, his mother had kept it and now was dropping it off. He’d had it descented, and named it Alice after one of the sisters. Now he had not only a home and a television set but also a pet skunk. What more could anyone want?

***

After the excitement of his first kinescopes, Paul found the regular On Camera plays rather a snap: Deadlock, The Woman of Bally Bunyan with Kate Blake, and then The Liar, all two weeks apart. Exhilarating, but not without moments of peril. Every decision made in that control room was seen by viewers from Newfoundland to Vancouver Island. But that never crossed his mind. Well, perhaps it did when phone calls would come in afterwards, directed to the control room by hard-working CBC switchboard operators.

The morning after The Liar, Paul swallowed scrambled eggs and walked down Jarvis to his office, tired after the week of rehearsal and a tough day in the studio. He went in to see Sydney to get his next script.

He never looked forward to these meetings. Sydney was so charming, so persuasive, and would counter Paul’s every argument with disarming honesty. “All right, all right, Paul, I know it’s a piece of shit. But it’s the best piece of shit we’ve got. I wouldn’t lie to you. If you think this is bad, you should see what I gave the other directors. I saved this especially for you, because it’s the best.”

Usually Paul would reach out and, with sinking heart, take the purple-inked mimeographed script of some twenty-five pages, and sigh. How could you say no to such a charming rascal? Probably with a bit of patching and twisting and pepping up, he’d make it work. But this morning was different.

Sitting back in his chair, Sydney looked as pleased as if he’d just shaken hands with the devil. “I’ve finally got something you’d like.”

“Yeah yeah, I know, Sydney, it’s the best piece of shit —”

Sydney interrupted. “No, no, this... is a classic!”

Paul opened his eyes wide. “A classic? What kind of a classic fits into twenty-four minutes?”

“It’s called The Queen’s Ring. About the first Queen Elizabeth. Lots of that old-fashioned stuff you love.”

“Aha!” Paul leaned over the desk and grabbed the script. “Merry Olde England! At last!”

“You can cast those English actors you like so much. Go to it.”

Paul tore straight over to his office. His script assistant, Olwyn Millington, was at home in bed after the hard day in the studio, having typed shot lists most of the night before. He put his feet up on his desk and began to read.

Pretty awful, no doubt. But, with a bit of panache, it might work. Little did Paul know what he was in for.

He rang his mother, who was full of the news of the Montreal riots. Maurice “The Rocket” Richard had been suspended by Clarence Campbell, president of the NHL, after a game with the Detroit Red Wings. All around the forum, rioting crowds had surged and smashed, so she and her sister, Hilda, had stayed indoors.

Paul wanted someone special for Elizabeth and asked about an elderly actress he remembered that his mother knew. “I think her name was Stuart or something.” He listened. “Yes, that’s it, Eleanor Stuart. You know how to reach her?” He jotted down the number.

The next day he knocked on Sydney’s door and went in. “Sydney, we need to bring Eleanor Stuart from Montreal.”

“Who?”

“She’s Canadian, Sydney, but she’s worked in the West End, yeah, in the 20s, and she’s a top elocution teacher —”

“Dammit, Paul, more of that theatre stuff?”

“No no, Sydney, look, she’s even taught Chris Plummer, John Colicos, I’ll make her believable, don’t worry. I’ve met her once or twice, she’s regal, imperious even —”

“Don’t start using those long words on me!”

“Sorry, Sydney. What I mean is, she’s perfect for Queen Elizabeth. You brought in some actor from Montreal three weeks ago. Can’t we try again?”

Sydney shook his head. “I don’t know what to do with you guys, honest I don’t.” He reached for the phone. Paul watched as John Barnes, head of all programming, gave Sydney approval for a return train fare. Grinning, Paul tore around the desk, hugged Sydney, and rushed out.

Next, the most famous actress in all Toronto — Frances Hyland! Heart beating wildly, Paul waited in his office, door closed. Soon, the dark-haired and elegant Olwyn Millington looked in. “Frances Hyland here to see you, Paul.” Olwyn always kept her little doggie in a basket by her side, a big bow round his neck.

“Ah good. Ask her in.”

Paul felt anything but sure of himself. Here was the very star he had seen in that famous 1951 Peter Brook production of Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale, playing opposite John Gielgud, at the Phoenix Theatre. So this precocious ingenue had actually come back to Canada. Imagine! Him going from a student gaping at a gorgeous actress in London to meeting her in person, and possibly even directing her. Well, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! And try to appear calm.

In she came, casual trousers and jacket. Not at all the big star, thought Paul, as they sat down to chat. He began by apologizing for the small size of the role, then told her how he had been so entranced by her Perdita. “What was it like working with John Gielgud?”

“He’s such a gentleman,” Frances began, and they chatted about the production, quite unaware that Paul was doing his best to hide his awe at being in her presence.

“Have you ever worked with Eleanor Stuart?”

“No,” Frances replied, “but she has an excellent reputation. I thought about studying elocution under her before I went over to RADA. It will be fun to work with her.”

Paul breathed a sigh of relief. So that was that: she was accepting the tiny role.

To complete the cast, Paul was especially pleased that Douglas Campbell, a Scottish actor of vast experience, agreed to play another small part. And Pat Macnee said he was happy to be cast as a confidante of the Queen.

Next, Paul drew up a rehearsal schedule. First, his script assistant phoned actors for their previous commitments: On Camera usually rehearsed from 10 till 1 and 2.30 to 5.30 in the old River Street warehouse. Actors were paid by the hour and Paul juggled scenes to keep the hours at a minimum. The CBC, being a public corporation supported by Canadian taxpayers, was always strapped for money. For the last rehearsal day, Paul scheduled a final run-through which Olwyn would follow, stopwatch in hand, to check the timing. On Camera dramas had to run exactly 24.30, not the full half hour. The “credit roll” at the end was speeded up or slowed down to help with the timing on air.

At this final run-through, the technical producer, responsible for three cameramen and two mic-boom operators, and the designer with his props and set dresser, also showed up. So the performers gave their best for this tiny audience.

Most important, Sydney Newman always gave notes afterwards, which producers could agree with, or not, as they felt. Supervising Producers were there to help — not lay down laws.

During the run-through, Paul, a bundle of energy, took camera positions, bending low to show the technical producer the angles, sometimes snapping fingers to indicate camera changes, and a few times framing a shot with forefingers and thumbs. This rarely disturbed actors’ concentration, just helped them know whether they were in a close-up or in the background.

Paul was disconcerted to see that Eleanor gave her all, whether in close-up or longshot, her magnificent voice booming out. Occasionally Paul glanced over at Sydney, standing with folded paper and pencil, scribbled furiously, making faces when she’d launch out.

After the run-through, Paul gave the actors a break and sat with Sydney. Olwyn put on her winter coat to go out across River Street to the small café run by a Japanese named George, to bring back coffees for them; no canteen in their warehouse building.

Sydney lambasted Eleanor’s acting, and even Franny Hyland’s, both more familiar with theatre. Frances, having the hang of it, would be easier to adjust. But Eleanor was another piece of work.

The technical producer pointed out some low angles that might shoot off set, but Paul reassured him. After the impromptu production meeting, the cast came back from their break. Paul, with Olwyn beside him, gave them his own notes, incorporating those of Sydney’s that he agreed with.

He ended up by congratulating them on a wonderful performance. “Now, remember, we only want the best performances when we go out live, and not before!” Paul was saying this to everyone to save Eleanor’s embarrassment, as she had apparently not done much television before. “In the morning, it will be chaos. Expect that. Don’t panic. When you get there, it will look awful: the day painters won’t have done touch-ups, the cameramen will have had a hard day before, so will seem half-asleep. You’ll all wonder, how the hell can our director pull this off?”

Pat Macnee nodded. “Well said, Paullie, I always hate it when I arrive.” Pat could be counted on to support him.

“Okay,” Paul went on, “so first thing in the morning, after some sorting out, we walk through — just for the benefit of the boom guys and cameramen. So say your lines loudly and show the boom guys which direction you’ll be facing. The cameramen follow on their shot lists which dear Olwyn will spend most of tonight typing.” He wondered if this got through to Eleanor, who looked increasingly nervous.

“Then, before lunch, I’ll try to put something on camera. That first go through on camera can be really unnerving. You’ll say your favourite lines and the studio director will yell cut! And then he’ll talk to me in his mic and the cameramen will discuss their concerns, and you’ll wonder what the hell’s going on.” A couple of the cast grinned. They knew, of course. “That’s when we’re just sorting out problems. And having fun!

“After we muddle through as best we can, we break for lunch, and after we come back, we finish that run-through. Then we do it again, slowly, interrupting it all the time.

“Next, after tea, we stage what we call the Rough Dress Rehearsal. That’s when we begin to see some kind of semblance of the play. But for Pete’s sake, don’t give a performance. Just say the lines loud and clear. We’ll still have to stop occasionally. Then, we break for supper.

“After supper, you’ll get into makeup and have costumes adjusted, though most of you will be wearing them throughout. Eleanor, you’re an old hand at wearing that stuff, and so is Frances. We’ll even see what Pat looks like in tights!” Grins all around.

“Anyway, after supper, around seven o’clock, we have the Dress Rehearsal. Now in that dress rehearsal, even with problems we do not stop, no matter what. Because it should be like the show itself. That’s when Olwyn gets a good timing, so that’s important.

“During the actual show, you’ll see the studio director doing this —” Paul motioned to Johnson Ashley, who pulled his hands apart in the sign for stretching, and then by whirling his finger for speeding up — “because performances change on air, which means the show will either be running fast or slow, so we have to adjust as we go along. We always do.”

Eleanor gave a loud sigh, and Paul suppressed a grin. “Don’t worry, it makes for excitement. And frankly, Eleanor, you’re such an old hand, once you get the knack... But you’ve got to expect a speed-up, or a slowdown.

“In conclusion, why I’m boring you all with this is: when we go live across the nation at nine o’clock tomorrow night, just relax and give your best performance. A great one during the Dress Rehearsal won’t help. The only time to shine is On Air when everyone in Canada will be watching — we hope!

“The joy of working in our little studio is that nothing will disturb us, as happens in the theatre, when coughs abound or an idiot in the front row talks. The last thing is, I might move the camera in closer than previously, or back it off, so don’t worry if the cameras don’t move precisely as before. We have to give and take a bit as the show goes out.

“Anyway, good luck tomorrow. The main idea is, just enjoy yourselves. And tomorrow night at 9.30, it will all be over. You’re invited back to my dreadful little room in a boarding house up on Charles Street, if you need a drink. Because I certainly will.”