Excerpts from lost novels
18 March, 2008
You see, I adore the applause. That’s what keeps me going,
really. That and the very experience of being on stage. The
lights, the feel of the boards beneath my feet, the smell.
You know, theatres have such a distinct smell. Something
about the very particular mix of wood, varnish and plaster,
I suspect, and the dust rising from the lights…
Of course, these places have lost a lot of their character.
In the old days, when Gielguid, Ralph and dear, dear Larry
trod the boards, it was all so different. Those were real
actors. They made the very room come alive when they took
the stage. As they emerged from the wings, you could feel a
hush descend and all eyes turned to them. I tell you, it
was as if the world didn’t exist, except in them.
Sometimes, one can almost feel their ghosts, urging you to
give everything you have, to touch the audience with the
unique magic of the theatre, as they so often did. It
reminds me of when I was playing Horatio to Gielguid’s
Hamlet in, where was it? Guildford, I think. ‘55. Must have
been. As I listened to him intone those marvellous words –
Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of
infinite jest, of most excellent fancy… – I was
transported, I tell you. I wasn’t on the stage anymore. I
was in a Danish graveyard, and nothing existed but
Gielguid, that skull and me. Little me, so young and so
naïve, really, rapt and learning at the knee of a master. A
fellow of infinite jest. Indeed he was. And of most
excellent fancy. Everyone adored him, you know.
Malcolm gazed at the young woman sitting opposite him in
his tiny, faded dressing room, the light bulbs reflecting
in her glasses. She shifted nervously in her chair and
smiled weakly. Oh, look at me, Malcolm said. Here I am
whittering on about my marvellous memories of the stage.
You don’t want to listen to all that. No, it’s very
interesting, the young woman said hurriedly. You are too
kind, my dear. Too, too kind. But what have you come to
talk to me about, snaring me in my private lair, my refuge?
I love these moments, you know, in the hours before the
curtain call. Everything seems so quiet, so peaceful in
here, while the stagehands and theatre staff flit about
outside my door, getting it all ready for my appearance.
All that for me. So kind of them. So kind.
Well, Mr Bains. Do call me Malcolm, the old actor said,
patting the young woman on the knee. Well, Malcolm, the
woman said, smiling nervously. Your agent, David, asked me
to come up to Oxford to see you this afternoon. Yes, my
dear? He asked me to come up and talk to you about the
show. Unfortunately, he, he has been detained in London, so
can’t come up himself…
That’s very kind of David to send you…Angela. Yes, Angela,
thank you. It is a shame that he couldn’t make it himself,
after all the years we have been working together, but I am
charmed to have you here, Angela. Malcolm patted Angela on
the knee again, smiling indulgently and leaning forward
slightly.
The thing is, Malcolm, David is a little worried. About the
show. The show, my dear? I must confess that my last couple
of performances have perhaps been a little flat. I have
been struggling with a slight infection and I know I
haven’t been able to give my anecdotes about the marvellous
actors I have worked over the years their normal zest. It
may have explained some of the muted responses of the
audience, but I shall soon be back to my best, having them
rolling in the aisles and wiping tears from their cheeks,
as I have done so many times in the past. Malcolm raised
his right index finger and smiled triumphantly.
It’s nothing to do with your performances, Malcolm. They
have been fine. Great, in fact. Indeed? What is it? Do
tell. Well, the thing is… Yes? The things is, sales have
been very poor. The theatres we have done so far have been
half full at best and we are struggling to sell tickets. We
have tried everything. Campaigns in the local press,
leaflets, posters, but the response has been…disappointing.
Unfortunately, Malcolm…Mr Bains…Sorry, Mr Bains.
Unfortunately, we can’t sustain any more losses on the
tour, and we are going to have to cancel the remaining
dates. Including tonight? Yes.
Malcolm, suddenly crumpled, looked at his wire-frame
glasses, folded neatly on the dressing table, and his
make-up box. He hadn’t started putting it on yet. No need
for that now. He gazed down at his jacket and smoothed out
a fold, feeling the rough tweed under his palm. I am old,
Malcolm said, still looking at the material of his jacket.
Is that what you are telling me? Too old? No, not all.
Just…What? Unpopular? No-one wants to hear my stories
anymore, is that it? I’m sorry, Mr Bains.
I don’t have anything else, you know. I’m so sorry. What am
I going to do? Malcolm looked up at Angela, tears welling
up in his eyes. I’m all alone. I have no-one. The stage is
my only friend. I have nothing else. I’m really sorry.
Please. Stop saying that. Angela looked down at the
threadbare carpet as Malcolm smoothed his jacket again.
Shall I get you a taxi back to your hotel? Yes please, he
said quietly. David told me to make sure that you got back
to London okay. Did he? How very kind. He really should…Can
I have a few moments to myself? I’ll join you upstairs
shortly, but I would be alone for a little while. Yes, of
course.