Lovers Make Moan

Chapter 2

Read-Through

“Is all our company here?

—You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip.”

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Cast it yourself,” said Donald Bourton. “You know what a lot of time got wasted and what ill-feeling there was when we had a casting committee last October for the Christmas play. No two members agreed about anything and the result was very nearly a fiasco. You’re producing and directing and it was you who got Lynn to put up the money. You ought to have your own way about allotting the parts.”

“That’s all very well, but it’s not so easy to take matters into one’s own hands with an amateur cast. With professionals you can say take it or leave it, but with people who are doing it for free, and with all the vested interests lined up against you, it’s not so simple. At least to have a committee does spread the load.”

“And mucks up the production. Anyway, it seems to me that this time there is only one vested interest to consider, and that’s Lynn himself. I take it that he’s not financing us purely out of the goodness of his heart.”

“No. He expects fat parts for himself, his wife and, to a lesser degree because the boy is doing his A-levels this year, something for his son.”

“Oh, well, he who pays the piper calls the tune. You’ll have to guide his choice a bit, that’s all.”

“It’s all very well to talk. He’s short and stout, as you know, and will probably want to play one of the lovers. He’s already bespoken a part for his spouse. He’s read the play and thinks she would make a good Hermia. I wanted your Barbara for that.”

“Cast Barbara as Helena and have the audience wondering why both the men wanted Hermia when Helena was in their midst. Barbara won’t mind what part she plays, so long as Lynn pays her. She is a professional, you know.”

“Well, perhaps the read-through will settle a few things, although I doubt it. People always have such inflated ideas of what they can do on the stage.”

“I hate to mention it, but do I get a look-in anywhere?”

“So far as I’m concerned, you can have your pick of Lysander or Demetrius, unless Lynn picks one of them for himself. We must do our best to head him off if he does. There’s another thing which makes the casting a bit of a problem. Shakespeare, for obvious reasons, used as few women as he could, whereas in our lot we have far more women than men. In The Dream there are only four women’s parts and we haven’t enough men for the rest. We shall have to cast a woman as Oberon, I think, and perhaps for Egeus, Philostrate and one or two of the workmen.”

“Whoever plays Quince—and you must have a man for that, I think—could double as Egeus. They never appear together, and a girl could play Philostrate as a sort of glorified court page, couldn’t she?”

“Well, yes, and there’s Robina Lester for one of the workmen.”

“Yes, and a woman could do Flute. After all, Flute does take the part of Thisbe in the workmen’s play and it’s implicit in the text that he was little more than a boy. Doesn’t he say he has a beard coming? If it’s only coming (but not come), he can’t be more than about seventeen or so.”

“You know, I think I will cast it myself, once I know which parts Lynn has got his eye on for himself and his wife and son.”

“Well, if Emma Lynn, poor lost soul, wants to be Hermia, I shall opt for Demetrius. I’m hanged if I’m going to play Lysander opposite her.”

It turned out that Marcus Lynn had chosen Quince the Carpenter for himself and Hermia for Emma. He was frank about it.

“I’m not cut out for a lover. Anyway, I want a bossy part. I’m a bossy man. I’d have liked to play Bottom the Weaver, but there would be obvious jokes if my workers got to hear of it, my figure being such as it is, and that’s not good for discipline. I want Emma to show up well, and I guess Hermia is just about the best woman’s part. As for the lad, almost anything will do for him, the smaller the better. He’s got his A-levels coming up.”

The read-through was held at Brian Yorke’s house, which was in the old part of the town near the quay. It was family property which he had inherited from his father and was a well-built Georgian house fronting on to the high street, but having a pleasant garden at the back. Here the children who had small speaking parts were sent out to amuse themselves, including Yorke’s nine-year-old daughter, who was put in charge of the younger ones, Rosamund, Edmund and two tiny creatures, all white teeth and smiles, the coffee-coloured progeny of Doctor Fitzroy and his wife. These two highly-qualified local practitioners were descended from French settlers in Mauritius and their sons rejoiced in the names of Ganymede and Lucien Fitzroy-Delahague.

Inside the house the adults were assembled in a well-proportioned, gracious room in which the furniture was a trifle shabby but was comfortable enough and where the high windows looked out on to one of the town alleys in which its houses had once been lodgings for sailors whose ships paid off at the port.

The doctor’s wife, Jeanne-Marie, lighter in colour than her children and very beautiful, had been cast as Oberon, but, having dumped her offspring, she apologised for not staying, explaining that she and her husband (they were partners) had a heavy surgery and that she would pick up the children later, so Deborah, who had brought Rosamund and Edmund with her, was called upon to read the part.

Emma Lynn, obviously years younger than her husband but equally obviously under his domination, struggled valiantly with Hermia’s lines but was completely overshadowed by Barbara Bourton’s reading of Helena. (“Call you me fair?—that fair again unsay!”) The frustration, the bitterness, the longing were all there. Barbara was a professional actress of some note and was, as she expressed it, ‘between shows’ until the autumn. For that reason she was available to take part in The Dream.

At a pause in the reading Marcus Lynn said, “I’m having entirely new costumes for the play. I read how Queen Elizabeth I used to delight in dressing up her boy actors in silks and velvet and jewels, so I thought we’d have a ball. I’m expecting the costumiers along about now to measure up for the principal parts, and then, as soon as the final casting is settled, they can get busy. It’s a biggish cast, so they’ll have plenty to do.”

“That is probably them now,” said Brian.

The measuring and note-taking were soon done, but before the rehearsal was resumed Lynn said, “And I want everything as authentic as possible so, although I shan’t release them until the dress rehearsal—they’re valuable and some are irreplaceable, if you’ll forgive my mentioning it— I thought the men might like to look over my collection of swords and daggers and get their eye on one they might fancy wearing. Come along to my house at any time. If I’m not there Emma will show them to you. I’ve brought along one I’m going to have copied, because, of course, there’s one dagger which certainly won’t be for real, and that’s the one Pyramus uses in the workmen’s play when he’s supposed to stab himself.”

“He does that by sticking the dagger under his armpit, I thought,” said Tom Woolidge, “so it doesn’t need a special dagger, does it?”

“Oh, the dagger Pyramus—that’s you, Rinkley—will use will look like the real thing, but it will have a retractable blade. That under-the-arm stuff is very unrealistic.”

“The whole of the workmen’s play is unrealistic. It’s pure farce,” said Robina Lester.

“All the same, to use a real dagger might be dangerous. We shall be out of doors and under floodlighting, remember,” said Brian Yorke, “and if Pyramus or Thisbe—they both commit suicide—were to make a boss shot, the consequences might be serious.”

“When do I get the retractable dagger to practise with?” asked Rinkley.

“Oh, I’ve put it in hand already,” Marcus Lynn replied.

“I’ll need it to rehearse with, too,” said young Susan Hythe. ‘I’m supposed to draw it out of him and stick it in myself, and practice makes perfect. I think it would be funniest if I put my foot on his chest while he’s lying there supposed to be dead, and made a sort of a terrific heave and fell over backwards, don’t you? I mean, we’ve got to play for laughs, haven’t we?”

“Not your laughs at my expense,” said Rinkley. “You kindly remember that I’m the centre-piece of those workmen’s scenes, not you.”

“Oh, it’s too soon to talk of ‘business’ yet,” said Brian Yorke. “We’ll see how it goes in rehearsal when everybody knows the lines.”

Yorke, who had cast himself as Theseus, took his readers only to the end of the second act. This gave everybody a chance to speak and included the children, but before the party broke up and when drinks had been provided, Emma Lynn came over to Deborah and said, “Will you take on my part as Hermia?”

“Good Lord, no! Of course I won’t. Why?”

“I’m a mess. I didn’t want to be in the play, anyway, only my husband was so keen on it. He’s really putting it on for me, you know, but I can’t act.”

“You’ll be all right when we start rehearsing. This was only a read-through. It didn’t mean a thing.”

“You ought to have a better part.”

“I’ve got the one I opted for. I’m going to be Wall in the workmen’s play. I was only a stand-in tonight. At college they would always cast me as Desdemona or Ophelia and in my third year I was St Joan and most unconvincing.”

“It meant you can act, though. I can’t act and I can’t make anybody want to listen to me when I speak, and I couldn’t make any actor pretend to fall in love with me, however much I tried.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Deborah. “Your husband certainly wouldn’t agree.”

“Oh, Marcus fell in love with my money, not with me.”

Deborah tried not to look as embarrassed as she felt and, to relieve the situation, she said impulsively:

“Look here, I’ll tell you what. I used to lecture in Eng. lit. before I married, and I know The Dream backwards. If you’ve got any free afternoons, why don’t you come along to our place and I’ll read your cues for you so that you really soak up the part and make it your own? We’ll do it indoors first and then have a go in the garden so that you get used to speaking in the open air. Even with amplifiers it’s quite different from playing a scene indoors, I always think.”

“What about your husband?”

“He can take the children down to the beach or somewhere. Jonathan isn’t any problem.”

“‘How happy some o’er other some can be,’ ” said Emma, with an effort to produce a smile. “I’d be better as Helena than as Hermia, if I’ve got to be one of them, especially now I’ve heard Mrs Bourton read the part.”

“Well, swop over parts. Look, Mrs Bourton is just being helped on with her coat. Helena would suit you better. Come on, let’s see how she reacts and then we can tell Mr Yorke. I don’t suppose he’ll have any objection, so long as you and she are satisfied.”

“Well, it’s up to you, I suppose,” said Marcus Lynn, “though I would have liked to see you in the plummier part. After all, I am standing Sam for this do.”

“Well, you know, Marcus, I really couldn’t do Hermia, but Mrs Bradley thinks I will be quite all right as Helena. She says I’ve got the ‘feel’ of the part already. She’s been wonderful, the way she’s helping me.”

“That’s another thing. If she’s coaching you she’ll expect to be paid. Well, I don’t grudge it. You’d better find out what the figure is.”

“Oh, Marcus, she said nothing about coaching me. Besides, I couldn’t mention money to her! She’s a lady.”

“Oh, well—”

“And I do hope you won’t mention it, either. She would be so offended that she might stop helping me. In fact, I know she would. You can’t offer those sort of people money.”

“Not my experience of the world, but have it your own way. I suppose I can always give her a thumping present after the show. Probably cost more than paying her, but I expect I can shoulder the overheads.”

“Thank you, Marcus. You are very kind-hearted. The only thing is—”

“Well?”

‘I don’t think she would like an expensive present, either, and perhaps her husband wouldn’t like you to give her one. It might—well—suggest something to him, don’t you think, you being a man?”

“Well,” said Marcus again, looking in the mirror and smirking as he straightened his tie, “there could be that, I suppose.”

“She’s so beautiful, you see,” said Emma wistfully. “Anybody could be excused for—well, you know.”

“There’s one fellow who wouldn’t be excused—not, at any rate, by Bradley (God help us, what a gorilla!) and that’s Rinkley.”

“Oh, dear, yes!” said Emma, grateful to get away from the subject of emoluments or presents to Deborah. “It was quite frightening, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, any red-blooded chap would have done the same,” said Marcus, trying to make himself look taller and slimmer than nature had allowed for, “and Rinkley had better watch his step. If he tries any of his antics on Madam Dr Fitzroy-Delahague, that husband of hers will put a knife in his ribs, Hippocratic Oath notwithstanding.”

“Oh, Dr Jeanne-Marie Delahague has turned down the part. Says that a doctor’s hours are so uncertain that at the last minute she might have to let us all down. Her husband agrees, but the two little boys are to stay in as elves and Deborah Bradley has promised to look after them and to put them to bed in her house after each performance, so that nobody need come and take them home.”

“Deborah Bradley ought to be a Boy Scout,” said Marcus, “except that she’s all woman and as goodlooking as they come.”

“It was Rudyard Kipling’s Kim who was the friend of all the world, ‘’ said Emma. Marcus looked surprised, but made no comment except to remark that Emma must be a deeper reader than he had supposed.

It was after the second read-through—“just to get you accustomed to picking up your cues, ladies and gentlemen, as the actual words you are to learn will present no difficulties, for this is a lovely play”—that Deborah was asked whether she would take on the part of Titania.

“But you’ve got others to choose from,” she said, “and, anyway, I’m too old for the part.”

“Titania is a fairy and the fairies are immortal,” said Donald Bourton gallantly. “I’m swopping Demetrius for Oberon and I’d love to play opposite you.”

“So who is playing Demetrius?” asked Valerie Yorke, who was Hippolyta. “We haven’t any more men.”

“Bradley is a handsome, saturnine chap,” said Tom Woolidge, who was playing Lysander. “Would he do it?”

“He’s in the garden with the children,” said Valerie. “Perhaps somebody could go and fish him inside and you can ask him.”

“You can bring a horse to water,” said Deborah, “but—”

“Bradley was in the OUDS,” said Tom Woolidge.

“Well!” said Deborah. “I never knew that before! I think you must mean Simon Bradley, our young cousin, to whom this house belongs.”

“No, no, Jonathan was the name,” said Woolidge.

So the chief parts were settled and the final casting (with Yorke keeping his fingers crossed) was to be programmed thus:

Theseus — Brian Yorke (Producer and Director)

Hippolyta — Valerie Yorke

Lysander — Tom Woolidge

Demetrius — Jonathan Bradley

Hermia — Barbara Bourton

Helena — Emma Lynn

Oberon — Donald Bourton

Titania — Deborah Bradley

Puck — Peter Woolidge

Quince — Marcus Lynn (Prologue)

Bottom — Nicholas Rinkley (Pyramus)

Flute — Susan Hythe (Thisbe)

Yorke had decided upon one change in the minor characters, but did not announce it at the second reading. It proved to have some importance later. His nine-year-old daughter had been cast provisionally as the solitary fairy who talks with Puck, but Yorke thought her too tall and wanted her as Philostrate. When she was told this later, Yolanda, an amiable child, welcomed the change and, although, again, it was not mentioned at the meeting, the fairy part, which carried a quite considerable speech, was given to Rosamund. Another member of Signora Moretti’s dancing class was brought in as Peasblossom, Rosamund’s original part, and both were pleased when, later, they were told.

Yorke did consult Deborah about this change, but asked her to say nothing until he had convinced himself that the change would be advantageous.

“But if you do as well with the young as you are doing with Emma Lynn,” he said, “the thing is in the bag. I’ve never known such a change in anybody as you’ve made in that submerged lady. Miraculous!”

“It’s all done with mirrors,” said Deborah. To Jonathan, later, she added, “All that poor girl needed was a bit of self-confidence. I don’t know why she lacked it. She’s really quite pretty when she gets animated, and I’m sure Lynn is fond of her.”

“Probably scared of letting him down, then,” said Jonathan. “After all, she hasn’t given him a son, and a man with Lynn’s business acumen must want one to carry on the firm.”

“There’s an adopted boy, Jasper.”

“Not the same thing. Anyway, I’m grateful to you for our two boys, and that reminds me. They want to get down here for the Saturday performance of the play. I’m not having any of that nonsense, though.”

“I’d love them to come. It’s good of them to bother. Why don’t you want them to be there?”

Jonathan laughed.

“What! Have them come and see me making love to another woman?”

“Yes,” said Deborah, “there is that. I get quite a qualm when I watch you and Barbara Bourton on stage together. You are so very convincing and she is so accomplished and beautiful. I’m very glad Hermia perfers Lysander to Demetrius, but you with your ‘Relent, sweet Hermia’ would melt a heart of stone.”

“That’s what I had to do when I wanted you to marry me. Just part of my technique, that’s all.”

“Oh, yes? And what about that little scene in the woods?” She mocked it. “ ‘Oh, why rebuke you him that loves you so?’ ”

“Well, why do you?” asked Jonathan, laughing. “Anyway, what about you and the handsome, virile Donald? You both turn that quarrel scene into a lovers’ tiff. It’s disgraceful how seductive you are and how he reacts, although he’s supposed to be having the devil of a set-to with you. His ‘Why should Titania cross her Oberon?’ is a masterpiece of snaky pleading, and his masterful rendering of ‘Tarry, rash wanton; am I not thy lord?’ is every suburban lady’s dream of being dominated by a sunburnt, cleanlimbed chap in riding-boots and a solar topee astride his Arab stallion.”

“Thank you very much! I admit the charge,” said Deborah, enjoying the game, although she knew it was a slightly dangerous one, “but please compare my pert reply. You can hardly call that love-making.”

“Why not? Titania is obviously eaten up with jealousy. She reminds him that he, in the shape of Corin, sat all day playing on pipes of corn and versing love to amorous Phillida. If you ask me, Titania was desperate to share Oberon’s bed and company once more.”

“I’m sure she was, and anyway, the play ends with everybody happy. I’ll tell you whose behaviour is going to queer the pitch unless Brian Yorke can do something about it. What about that wretched man Rinkley?”

“First, he’s the best male actor we’ve got and Yorke can’t afford to upset him; second, he’s a heel; third, he was mixed up in some unsavoury case concerning a young girl. I note that Yorke keeps an eye on things where Yolanda is concerned. Rinkley has already stirred me to action, as you know.”

“Not only that. If he continues to make snide remarks about Robina Lester, her son, young David, is going to blow up.”

“Well, Robina does over-act, and the workmen’s scenes really are Rinkley’s, you know.”

“But it’s not his business to correct her. That’s Brian’s job. I’m sure that as soon as everybody is word-perfect and we really get our teeth into the play, he’ll tone her down.”

“Anyway, Rinkley is just as rude to Susan Hythe and Caroline Frome as he is to Robina.”

“I know, and that doesn’t help matters. Young David has taken a protective attitude towards those two girls ever since the first reading. Haven’t you noticed?”

‘Of course, but they have no time for anybody but Tom Woolidge, I thought.”

‘That won’t stop David lying in wait for Rinkley in a dark alley one night if he keeps on twitting them the way he does. As for Thisbe, she isn’t very good at present, but once she gets the feel of the part she’ll be all right. All the workmen will. It’s a nuisance we have to put three women in as Flute, Snout and Starveling, but it’s Hobson’s choice. There simply are not enough men to go round.”

“Men won’t accept minor rôles in an amateur show. I think it’s rather noble of Lynn, considering he’s putting up all the money, merely to have cast himself as Quince. I should have thought he would opt for Theseus, at the very least, if only from the costume point of view.”

“I expect he realises his limitations as an actor.”

“He’s about the only one of the cast who does, then. Why are amateur actors always so damned conceited?”

“Donald Bourton does make love to me on stage,” said Deborah suddenly, “but he behaves perfectly off it, and that’s all that matters.”

“I hope it stays that way for his sake.”

“You are not to treat him the way you treated Rinkley.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I should really hurt him. Anyway, it’s getting late. ‘Lovers, to bed. ’Tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn.’ Not that I think there’s much chance of it while Rosamund and Edmund are in the house and raising hell the minute the sun rises, if not earlier.”

“I only wish I had half their energy. Still, we don’t bear all the brunt, do we? Carey and Jenny have been awfully good, and Aunt Adela is to have them after they’ve been to Scotland.”

“And now,” said Brian Yorke, “that we all have some idea of our parts, do, please, darlings, put away those scripts and let us see how far we can get without them, shall we?”

“I can’t get anywhere without mine,” wailed Susan Hythe. “I know my lines, but I don’t know where to come in.”

“We’ll all help you, dear,” said the motherly Robina Lester. “What I want to know,” she went on, turning to Brian Yorke, “is what happens if one of us, particularly somebody in a major rôle, goes sick or, for any other reason, can’t turn up on the night.”

“I’ve thought about that,” said Brian. “You had better double as Hippolyta if Valerie can’t be with us.”

“How can I? It’s all right in the early scenes, but we’re on together in the last scene.”

“We can adjust the dialogue in the last scene so that Hippolyta doesn’t appear. In the same way, Susan had better familiarise herself with Hermia’s part, and Caroline, you’ll have to be the stand-in for Helena. The women’s gaps will be easy enough to fill.”

“What about Titania?” asked Donald Bourton, making a gesture indicating a desire to put an arm round Deborah.

“Again, perfectly simple. Valerie had better learn her lines. Hippolyta and Titania don’t come on together. No, it’s the men we have to cater for. It’s a pity the play needs nine of them. As it is, we have to give men’s parts to Robina, Caroline and Susan, not to mention little Yolanda as Philostrate, but I’m sure the ladies will do fine. Now, to double up on the men’s rôles—the actual, real men’s men I mean—I think the basic part to cover is Bottom.”

“I should hope so!” said Rinkley, with an unpleasant snigger.

“Well, it can’t be me,” said Tom Woolidge. “I am no good at all in a comedy part. Passed to you, partner.”

“Oh, all right,” said Jonathan, “but if I read my fellow Thespian aright, nothing short of a third world war will prevent him from displaying his talents.”

“Too right, dear boy,” said Rinkley. “Even if I’m dead, I shan’t lie down.”

The company then went into rehearsal again and, when it was over at ten, Jonathan and Deborah invited Lynn and his Emma, Yorke and his Valerie, Bourton and his Barbara—all the married couples, in short, to stay for drinks. It was at this friendly little session that what turned out to be a momentous decision was made.

“You know, Jonathan,” said Yorke, looking at his handsome, saturnine host, “I don’t think you have the face for comedy. If you ever have to stand in for Pyramus, I mean.”

Jonathan walked over to a mirror and solemnly scrutinised himself.

“Not the face for comedy? Perhaps you are right,” he said, turning round. “Anyway, as I said to Rinkley, the occasion will not arise. Nothing is going to prevent Rinkley from treading the boards.”

“Actually,” said Donald Bourton, “I could fill in for him, you know, if it ever came to the crunch. He is in scenes with Titania and Puck, but never with Oberon. I’ve always wanted to play Bottom.”

“But your fatal good looks have always been against you,” said his wife, giving him a playful flick on the cheek.

“Well, yes, Oberon would be a better swop,” said Yorke seriously. “There’s really no need for anybody except Puck to appear at the end of the play. There won’t be any fairies, anyway, because all the kids will be in bed, and there’s not much point in having Oberon and Titania without their fairy train and a torchlight procession and all that. You might have to double up for Lysander or Demetrius or me, Donald, as well, so you might as well learn the whole play.”

“I know it already,” said Donald. “One of these days I’ll do you a one-man show. Well, no, not quite a one-man show. I must be allowed a partner, for what says the play? ‘Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.’ ”

“One of these days Bradley will boot that fellow into the harbour,” said Marcus Lynn to Brian Yorke.

“Not until the play is over, I trust,” said Brian. “Bourton can’t swim.”