So Much Blood

CHAPTER ONE

‘ Maurice Skellern Artistes,’ said the voice that answered the telephone.

‘Maurice-’

‘Who wants him?’

‘Maurice, for God’s sake. I know it’s you. Why you always have to go through this rigmarole of pretending you’ve got a staff of thousands, I don’t know. It’s me-Charles.’

‘Ah, hello. Pity about the telly series.’

‘Yes, it would have been nice.’

‘And good money, Charles.’

‘Yes. Still, in theory it’s only been postponed. Till this P.A. s’ strike is over.’

‘When will that be, though?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘What is a P.A. anyway? I can never understand all that B.B.C. hierarchy. Do you know what a P.A. is?’

‘Vaguely.’ Charles Paris had a feeling that a P.A. was either a Production Assistant or a Producer’s Assistant, but his knowledge of the breed was limited to an erotic night in Fulham with a girl called Angela after recording an episode of Dr Who. And they had not discussed the anomalies of the P.A. s’ conditions of service that led to the strike which in August 1974 was crippling B.B.C. Television’s Drama and Light Entertainment Departments. ‘Anything else on the horizon, Maurice?’

‘Had an enquiry from the Haymarket, Leicester. Might want you to direct a production of…’ he paused, ‘… the Head Gabbler?’

‘Hedda Gabler?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Could be fun. When?’

‘Not till the spring.’

‘Great.’ Heavy sarcasm.

‘Might be a small part in a film. Playing a German football manager.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘But that’s very vague.’

‘Terrific. Listen, Maurice, I’ve got something.’

‘Getting your own work, eh?’

‘Somebody’s got to.’

‘Ooh, that hurt, Charles. I try, you know, I try.’

‘Yes. My heart bleeds, an agent’s lot is not a happy one, mournful violin plays Hearts and Flowers. No, it’s for So Much Comic, So Much Blood.’

‘What?’

‘You know, my one-man show on Thomas Hood. Thing I did for the York Festival and the British Council recitals.’

‘Oh yes.’ The tone of Maurice’s voice recalled the tiny fees of which he had got ten per cent.

‘A friend of mine, guy I knew in Oxford who now lectures in the Drama Department at Derby University, has offered me a week at the Edinburgh Festival. Some show’s fallen through, one the students were doing, and they’re desperate for something cheap to fill the lunch time slot. Just for a week.’

‘Charles, how many times do I have to tell you, you mustn’t ever take something cheap? It’s not official Festival, is it?’

‘No, on the Fringe. I get fifty per cent of box office.’

‘Fifty per cent of box office on a lunch time show on the Fringe of the Edinburgh Festival won’t buy you a pair of socks. There’s no point in doing it, Charles. You’re better off down here. A voice-over for a commercial might come up, or a radio. Edinburgh’ll cost you, anyway. Fares, accommodation.’

‘I get accommodation.’

‘But, Charles, you’ve got to ask yourself, is it the right thing for you to be doing, artistically?’ Maurice made this moving appeal every time Charles suggested something unprofitable.

‘I don’t know. It’s a long time since I’ve been to Edinburgh.’

‘Charles, take my advice. Don’t do it.’

As he emerged from Waverley Station, Charles Paris sniffed the caramel hint of breweries in the air and felt the elation which Edinburgh always inspired in him. It is, he thought, a theatrical city. The great giant’s castle looms stark against the cyclorama, and from it the roofs of the Royal Mile tumble down a long diagonal. There are so many levels, like a brilliant designer’s stage set. Plenty of opportunities for the inventive director. The valley of Princes Street, with a railway instead of a river and the Victorian kitsch of the Scott Memorial instead of an imposing centrepiece, is ideal for ceremonial entrances. From there, according to the play, the director can turn to the New Town or the Old. The New Town is designed for comedy of manners. Sedate, right-angled, formal, George Street and Queen Street, regularly intersected and supported by the tasteful bookends of Charlotte and Saint Andrew Squares, stand as Augustan witnesses to the Age of Reason.

The director should use the Old Town for earthier drama, scenes of low life. It is a tangle of interweaving streets, wynds and steps, ideal settings for murder and mystery, with a thousand dark corners to hide stage thugs. This is the city of Burke and Hare, of crime and passion.

The Old Town made Charles think of Melissa, an actress who had been in a show with him at the Lyceum fifteen years before. After a disastrous three months he had returned to London and his wife Frances, but Melissa had made Edinburgh seem sexy, like a prim nanny shedding her grey uniform behind the bushes in the park.

On Sunday 11th August 1974 the city still felt sexy. And this time Charles Paris was free. He had left Frances in 1962.

Everything smelt fresh after recent rain. Charles felt vigorous, younger than his forty-seven years. He decided to walk. Frances would have caught a bus; she had an uncanny ability for comprehending any bus system within seconds of arrival in a town. Charles would walk. He set off, swinging his holdall like a schoolboy. The only shadow on his sunny mood was the fact that Scottish pubs are closed on Sundays.

He couldn’t miss the house in Coates Gardens. Among the self-effacing homes and hotels of the Edinbourgeois there was one whose pillars and front door were plastered with posters.

D.U.D.S. ON THE FRINGE!

Derby University Dramatic Society presents

FOUR WORLD PREMIERES!

ONE GREAT CLASSIC!

A Midsummer Night’s Dream-Shakespeare’s Immortal Comedy Revisualised by Stella Galpin-Lord.

Mary, Queen of Sots-a Mixed-Media Satire of Disintegration by Sam Wasserman.

Isadora’s Lovers-Lesley Petter’s Examination of a Myth in Dance and Song.

Who Now? — a Disturbing New Play by Martin Warburton.

Brown Derby-Simply the Funniest Late-Night Revue on the Fringe.

There followed lists of dates, times and prices for this complicated repertoire, from which Charles deduced that the show he was replacing was Isadora’s Lovers. For some reason Lesley Petter was unable to Examine the Myth in Dance and Song. He felt annoyed that the poster had not been amended to advertise So Much Comic, So Much Blood. They had known he was coming for more than a week. And publicity is enormously important when you’re competing with about two hundred and fifty other shows.

The doorbell immediately produced a plain, roly-poly girl in irrevocably paint-spattered jeans.

‘Hello, I’m Charles Paris.’

‘Oh Lord, how exciting, yes. I’m Pam Northcliffe, Props. Just zooming down to the hall to make the axe for Mary. Going to build it round this.’ She waved a squeezy washing-up liquid bottle. ‘So the blood spurts properly.’

‘Ah.’

‘Brian’s in the office. Through there.’ She scurried off down the road, bouncing like a beach-ball.

The shining paint on the partitions of the hall was evidence that the house had only recently been converted into flats. The door marked ‘Office’ in efficient Letraset was ajar. Inside it was tiny, the stub-end of a room unaccounted for in the conversion plans. A young man in a check shirt and elaborate tie was busy on the telephone. He airily indicated a seat.

‘Look, I know it’s the weekend, I know you’re working every hour there is. So are we. It’s just got to be ready. Well, what time tomorrow? No, earlier than that. Midday…’

The wrangle continued. Charles looked at a large baize covered board with the optimistic Letraset heading, ‘What the Press says about D.U.D.S.’ So far the Press had not said much, which was

hardly surprising, because the Festival did not begin for another week. In the middle of the board was one cutting. A photograph of a girl, and underneath it: UNDERSTUDY STEPS IN

It’s an ill wind, they say, and it’s certainly blown some good the way of Derby University Dramatic Society’s Anna Duncan. When one of the group’s actresses Lesley Petter broke her leg in an accident last week, suddenly 20-year-old Anna found she was playing two leading roles-in a play and a revue, both to be seen at the Masonic Hall in Lauriston Street when the Festival starts. Says Anna, ‘I’m really upset for poor Lesley’s sake, but it’s a wonderful chance for me. I’m very excited.’ And with lovely Anna on stage, Fringe-goers may get pretty excited too!

The reporter, whatever his shortcomings in style, was right about one thing. Even in the blurred photograph the girl really was lovely. She was pictured against the decorative railings of Coates Gardens. Slender body, long legs in well-cut jeans, a firm chin and expertly cropped blonde hair.

The telephone conversation finished and Charles received a busy professional handshake. ‘I’m Brian Cassells, Company Manager.’

‘Charles Paris.’

‘I recognised you. So glad you could step in at such short notice. Nice spread, that.’ He indicated the cutting. ‘Helps having a pretty girl in the group. Important, publicity.’

‘Yes,’ said Charles.

The edge in his voice was not lost on Brian Cassells. ‘Sorry about yours. That’s what I was on to the printer about. Posters and handouts ready tomorrow.’

‘Good. Did you get the stuff I sent up? The cuttings and so on.’

‘Yes. Incorporated some in the poster. They were very good.’

Yes, thought Charles, they were good. He particularly cherished the one from the Yorkshire Post. ‘There are many pleasures to be had at the York Festival, and the greatest of these is Charles Paris’ So Much Comic, So Much Blood.’

The Company Manager moved hastily on, as if any pause or small talk might threaten his image of efficiency. ‘Look, I’ll show you the sleeping arrangements and so on.’

‘Thanks. When will I be able to get into the hall to do some rehearsal?’

‘It’s pretty tied up tomorrow. Stella’s having a D.R. of the Dream. Then Mike’s in with Mary. That’s Tuesday morning. Tuesday afternoon should be O.K. Just a photo-call for Mary. A few dramatic shots of Rizzio’s murder, that sort of thing, good publicity. Shouldn’t take long.

The sleeping arrangements were spartan. The ground-floor rooms were filled with rows of ex-army camp-beds for the men, with the same upstairs for the girls. No prospects of fraternisation. ‘It’s not on moral grounds,’ said Brian, ‘just logistical. Kitchen and dining-room in the basement if you want a cup of coffee or something. I’d better get back. Got to do some Letrasetting.’

Charles dumped his case on a vacant camp-bed which wobbled ominously. The room had the stuffy smell of male bodies. It brought back National Service, the first dreary barracks he’d been sent to in 1945 to train for a war that was over before he was trained. He opened a window and enjoyed the relief of damp-scented air.

He felt much more than forty-seven as he sat over skinny coffee in the basement, surrounded by blue denim. An epicene couple were wrapped round each other on the sofa. A plump girl was relaxing dramatically on the floor. Three young men with ringlets were hunched over the table discussing The Theatre.

‘What it’s got to do is reflect society, and if you’ve got a violent society, then it’s got to reflect that.’

The reply came back in a slightly foreign accent. German? Dutch? ‘Bullshit, Martin. It’s more complex than that. The Theatre interprets events. Like when I’m directing something, I don’t just want to reflect reality. Not ordinary reality. I try to produce a new reality.’

Charles winced as the other took up the argument. ‘What is reality, though? I reckon if people are getting their legs blown off in Northern Ireland, if they’re starving in Ethiopia, you’ve got to show that. Even if it means physically assaulting the audience to get them to react.’

‘So where is the violence, Martin? On stage? In the audience?’

‘It’s everywhere. It’s part of twentieth-century living. And we’ve got to be aware of that. Even, if necessary, be prepared to be violent ourselves, in a violent society. That’s what my play’s about.’

‘That, Martin, is so much crap.’

The youth called Martin flushed, stood up and looked as if he was about to strike his opponent. Then the spasm passed and, sulkily, he left the room. Charles deduced he must be Martin Warburton, author of Who Now? a Disturbing New Play.

The other ringletted youth looked round for someone else to argue with. ‘You’re Charles Paris, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think about violence in the theatre?’

‘There’s a place for it. It can make a point.’ Charles knew he sounded irretrievably middle-aged.

The youth snorted. ‘Yes, hinted at and glossed over in West End comedies.’

Charles was riled. He did not like being identified exclusively with the safe commercial theatre. His irritant continued. ‘I’m directing Mary, Queen of Sots. That’s got violence in perspective. Lots of blood.’ He turned on Charles suddenly. ‘You ever directed anything?’

‘Yes.’ With some warmth. ‘In the West End and most of the major reps in the country.’

‘Oh.’ Mary, Queen of Sots’ director was unimpressed. ‘What, long time ago?’

‘No, quite recently.’ Charles’ anger pushed him on. ‘In fact I’m currently considering a production of Hedda Gabler at the new Haymarket Theatre in Leicester.’

‘Big deal.’ The ringletted head drooped forward over a Sunday newspaper.

Without making too much of a gesture of it, Charles left the room. In the hall he checked with a D.U.D.S. programme for details of his antagonist.

Michael Vanderzee-After work in experimental theatre in Amsterdam and in Munich under Kostbach, he made his directorial debut in this country with Abusage by Dokke at the Dark Brown Theatre. He has been responsible for introducing into this country the works of Schmiss and Turzinski, and recently directed the latter’s Ideas Towards a Revolution of the Audience at the Theatre Upstairs. Drawing inspiration from the physical disciplines and philosophies of East and West, he creates a theatre indissolubly integrated with working life.

‘Huh,’ said Charles to himself. As he started towards his dormitory, a key turned in the front door lock and a middle-aged man in a sandy tweed suit appeared. He smiled and extended his hand. ‘Hello, you must be Charles Paris.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m James Milne, known to the students as the Laird. I live in the flat on the top floor. Would you like to come up for a drink?’

It was the most welcome sentence Charles had heard since he arrived. Edinburgh regained its charm.

‘Yes, I agree. I am an unlikely person to be involved with Derby University Dramatic Society. It’s a coincidence. I’ve only moved into this house recently and I sold my previous one in Meadow Lane to a lad called Willy Mariello. Have you met him yet?’

‘No.’

‘No doubt you will. He’s with this lot. Well, the conversion here was more or less finished, but the summer’s not a good time to get permanent tenants-holidays, the Festival and so on. So when Willy said this crowd was looking for somewhere, I offered it for the six weeks.’

‘Brave.’

‘I don’t know. They pay rent. There’s no furniture, not much they can break. And they’ve sworn they’ll clean everything up before they go. I just hurry in and out and don’t dare look at the mess.’

‘What about noise?’

‘This flat’s pretty well insulated.’

‘Largely by books, I should imagine. And this has only just been converted too? I can’t believe it.’

The Laird glowed. Obviously Charles had said the right thing. But the flat did seem as if it had been there for centuries. Brown velvet upholstery and the leather spines of books gave the quality of an old sepia photograph. A library, an eyrie at the top of the building, it reminded Charles of his tutorials at Oxford. Dry sherry and dry donnish jokes. True, the sherry was malt whisky, but there was something of the don about James Milne.

‘You like books?’ He half-rose from his chair, eager, waiting for the slightest encouragement.

Charles gave it. ‘Yes.’

‘They’re not first editions or anything like that. Well, not many of them. Just good editions. I do hate this paperback business. Some of the Dickens are quite good. And that Vanity Fair is valuable…’

Charles wondered if he was about to receive a lecture on antiquarian books, but the danger passed. ‘… and this edition of Scott might be worth something. Though not to the modern reader. Nobody reads him nowadays. I wonder why. Could it be because he’s a dreary old bore? I think it must be. Even we Scots find him a bit of a penance.’ He laughed. A cosy-looking man; probably mid-fifties, with a fuzz of white hair and bushy black eyebrows.

Charles laughed, too. ‘I’ve read half of Ivanhoe. About seven times. Like Ulysses and the first volume of Proust. Never get any further.’ He relaxed into his chair. ‘It’s very comforting, all those books.’

‘Yes. “No furniture is so charming as books, even if you never open them or read a single word.” The Reverend Sydney Smith. Not a Scot himself, but for some time a significant luminary of Edinburgh society. Yes, my books are my life.’

Charles smiled. ‘Wasn’t it another Edinburgh luminary, Robert Louis Stevenson, who said, “Books are all very well in their way, but they’re a mighty bloodless substitute for real life”?’

James Milne chuckled with relish, which was a relief to Charles, who was not sure that he had got the quotation right. ‘Excellent, Charles, excellent, though the point is arguable. Let me give you a refill.’

It turned out that the Laird had been a schoolmaster at Kilbruce, a large public school just outside Edinburgh. ‘I retired from there some five years ago. No, no, I’m not as old as all that. But when my mother died I came into some money and property-this house, an estate called Glenloan on the West coast, a terrace of cottages. For the first time in my life I didn’t have to work. And I thought, why should I put up with the adolescent vagaries of inky boys when I much prefer books?’

‘And inky boys presumably don’t appreciate books?’

‘No. Some seemed to-appeared to be interested, but…’ He rose abruptly. ‘A bite to eat perhaps?’

Half a Stilton and Bath Olivers were produced. The evening passed pleasantly. They munched and drank, swapped quotations and examined the books. Their crossword minds clicked, and allusion and anecdote circled round each other. It was the sort of mild intellectual exercise that Charles had not indulged in since his undergraduate days. Very pleasant, floating on a cloud of malt whisky above everyday life. The book-lined room promised to be a welcome sanctuary from the earnest denim below.

Eventually Charles looked at his watch. Nearly one o’clock. ‘I must go down to the bear-pit.’

‘Don’t bother. I’ll make up the sofa for you here.’

‘No, no. Downstairs is the bed I have chosen, and I must lie on it.’

The bed he had chosen had been left vacant for good reason. At half-past three he woke to discover it had come adrift in the middle and was trying to fold him up like a book. He wrestled with it in the sweaty breathing dorm and then tottered along to the lavatory.

It was locked and a strange sound came from inside. As Charles took advantage of the washbasin in the adjacent bathroom, he identified the noise through a haze of malt. It was a man crying.