Bite The Wax Tadpole (21 page)

He kept to the shadows as he rounded the building and, deep in brooding mode, hardly registered the familiar sound of the helicopter coming into land. A reporter and a cameraman leapt out and dashed towards the news room but Rob failed to notice them in exactly the same way he failed to notice Nev, baseball cap clamped to his head, waiting impatiently for the rotor blades to stop turning before approaching the chopper and shaking hands with pilot. Yet another thing he failed to observe was one of the groundsmen, from the cover of a murraya bush, using a small video camera to record Nev and the pilot chatting. Graham Greene, of course, would have seen it all and made copious notes for use in a future novel.

What Rob couldn’t fail to notice when he made his way back inside via the props area was the four-wheel drive coming towards him. It was, however, hardly cause for alarm as it was being driven just slightly faster than the marching pace of the Terracotta Army. The driver was one of the scene shifters who was sweating corn cobs as he inched the vehicle between the steel scaffolding poles guided by Herman, the senior scene shifter, who walked slowly backwards waving his arms about like a trainee semaphore operator. “Left... right... easy does it... forward... whoa... back a bit... easy does it...” Rob watched with interest. He’d often wondered how they got the star prize for “Celebrity Shockers” into the little studio it was shot in. Now he knew and it was ten times more interesting to watch than the show itself.

“That’s it”, continued Herman. “That’s it... straighten up... straighten up... for fuck’s sake straighten...”

The stokers on the Titanic had probably heard a similar sound just before the Atlantic started pouring in through the ruptured hull. Herman clasped his hands to the side of his head and Rob winced. The car stalled.

“Barinas and Micras”, said Herman softly. “I told ‘em to stick to Barinas and Micras but do they listen? Do they buggery.”

The driver restarted the engine and scraped the gears into reverse.

“No, no!”, yelled Herman but it was too late. The car thumped backwards into another scaffolding pole and stalled again. There was an appropriately dramatic pause before the tortured metal creaked and buckled and the walls of the “Neighbourhood Hospital” operating theatre set crashed down onto the four-wheel drive’s roof.

“I can see why we didn’t get the “Top Gear” deal”, said Rob as he slid across the car’s bonnet and continued on towards the Script Department.

Graham Greene would have had enough material for a novel by now.

Melissa dragged Phyllida and her chair backwards into the lounge area and positioned her in front of the giant plasma TV.

“Bloody hell, this screen’s bigger than the one they had at the old Ritz in Toomarooma. Remember Lenny, the one-armed projectionist? Jeez, the number of times you’d be sitting in the front row and the can of film’d go rolling by.”

Mel shook her head as she looked at the long, slim remote. “Jeez, you could control the Starship Enterprise with this. Don’t suppose you got the instruction manual handy? No, suppose not.” She hit the big red power button then started flicking through the channels.

“Guess you’re wondering what the hell I’m up to, yeah?”, she said as cartoons and news channels and football and re-runs of “Gilligan’s Island” flashed by. “I did think of selling my story to the trash mags, you know: “TV Bitch Disowns Tragic Sister”, that sort of thing. Could have made a motza. Maybe even got on “Dancing with the Stars” or one of them cooking programs. I make a busting chilli, by the way. Hot, hot, hot. But then I got this crazy idea – well, I am crazy, aren’t I? – and I thought, Mary’s got everything I’ll ever or want or need. Why not just take it off her?”

The screen flicked on to a talk show where a faded actress with a book to peddle talked of her drug addiction hell with a presenter whose smooth forehead contained more dead toxins than a plague pit. The Channel 8 logo appeared in the corner of the screen.

“There you go. Didn’t she used to be on Home and Away? Jesus wept, what is she like now? Like the dress, though. Where was I? Oh, yeah, why not just take it all off you? Not like you’ve been much of a sister, have you? Doing a bunk, changing your name, never coming to visit. ‘Course, I recognised you straight off when you got on the box. Like looking in a mirror. Two peas in a pod.”

Black-eyed peas, perhaps, thought Phyllida. If you can have black-eyed peas with a squint, that is.

“And then we did these drama workshops as part of therapy and I though, jeez, this is all right this acting stuff. We even did a proper play, the “Marat-Sade”. I was Charlotte Corday. You know the Marat-Sade? Bunch of mad buggers putting on a play in a loony bin. Got a brilliant review in the Australian Journal of Clinical Psychiatry. You ever been in a stage play?”

Phyllida shook her head.

“What I was thinking was that once I’ve been you in “Rickety Street” for a while I might branch out into theatre? What do you reckon?”

Phyllida reckoned that there were plenty of plays about star-crossed lovers but none that she knew of involving cross-eyed ones. But she said nothing. Firstly because she was gagged and secondly because it was a subject they’d never talked about when they were growing up. Mel was too sensitive about it. Now didn’t seem the time to start breaking down barriers.

“And you? What am I going to do with you, eh? If you had an attic or a cellar I could have kept you there but you don’t so...”

A car horn honked and Mel looked out of the window. “Taxi’s here.”

Taking the bottle of chloroform out of her pocket she moved towards Phyllida. “Have to give it some thought, eh?”

She opened the bottle, poured some of the liquid onto the handkerchief. Phyllida drew her head back in a vain attempt to escape the approaching sweet, sickly smell.

“Don’t worry. This’ll just put you out for a few hours. You’ll come round in plenty of time for the show. I’ll see you later, discuss my performance. Hope you’ve got a strong bladder.”

Phyllida tried to hold her breath as the pad came across her face but, as any passing Dalek could have told her, resistance was useless and her world soon faded to black.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Alone in the Green Room, Charlea sat with the live episode script open on her lap. But her mind was full of iambic pentameter, understanding Shakespearean nuance and engaging fiercely with the text.

“Mercy is above this sceptred sway”, she muttered to herself. “It is enthroned in the heart of... oh, hi!”

In some cultures mercy way well be enthroned in the heart of oh hi! But this last was an acknowledgement of Malcolm’s shuffling entry.

“Hello, yes”, he said as he opened his locker and hurriedly shoved a plastic bag inside. Whatever was in the bag landed with a dull, metallic thud. If it were done when it’s done, Norman had reminded him on the way in, ‘twere well it were done quickly. Tiring as he was of the late actor’s continual recourse to Shakespearean quotations he had to admit that this one was particularly apt and the special time of 7.30 seemed a world away.

Josh, having been given a reprieve from elementary elocution, pushed open the door. “Rehursalsbinmovedtostudiothree”, he said, thus demonstrating that the effects of the lessons were yet to be felt.

“What?”, said Charlea.

“Pardon?”, said Malcolm.

Josh relaxed his epiglottis and dropped his shoulders. “Re-hears-al’s-beeeen-moo-ved-to-stuu-dio-threee.” He spoke with the deliberation of a malfunctioning android.

At that point, the actor they took to be Phyllida walked in.

“Hi, Phyl , rehearsal’s been moved to Studio Three”, said Charlea.

“Thanks,” smiled Melissa. For her, of course, rehearsals were already over. This was the real thing. She’d strolled through the studio saying hi and g’day to one and all and so far so good. Now she was up close and personal with her acting colleagues. And for some reason Charlea was giving her an odd look.

Charlea was giving Mel an odd look because, although Mel was facing her, her eyes were looking at Malcolm.

Malcolm was aware of Mel gazing at him. “Yes?”, he said.

Malcolm seemed to be addressing her so Mel said: “Yes, what?”

“I thought you...”, he trailed off. Whatever she wanted, like everything else, it didn’t matter a jot or a tittle any more.

“Hey, ho, the wind and the rain”, said Norman, breezing in through the door. “Rehearsal’s been moved to Studio Three.”

“For God’s sake, we already know that”, said Malcolm with an irritated sigh.

“Rehearsal’s been moved to Studio Three, folks”, said the Assistant Director, popping his head round the door.

Josh and Charlea exchanged looks though neither was sure that Mel did too. They’d had no idea that Malcolm had psychic powers.

Rob’s finger twitched and lingered over the send button. “Dear Egon”, he’d begun the e-mail, “Jimmy Gardner suggested I contact you.” What did he have to lose? Nothing. What did he have to gain? That was the rub. Did he want to get a film made because he was good at meetings and could pronounce Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch? Not really but what the hell? There were school fees to be paid, damp courses to be re-laid and termites to be exterminated. The chances of success, of even a reply, were remote but he pressed send anyway.

The phone rang. Rehearsal timings were showing that the ep was running two minutes over. Normally, one of the editors would have dealt with this by some judicious slashing and burning. But this was Rob’s episode and if machetes and fire-sticks were going to be taken to it then he was going to be the one wielding them.

Not that it really mattered. The Network’s schedule was only a rough approximation and, as far as the AWGIE awards went, the script was the one accepted for production so if what went to air bore only the slightest, most casual, passing resemblance to what he’d written he could still be a winner. And as, these days, the credits shared the screen with promos for other shows and flew up like broken roller-blinds , no-one he knew would even notice he’d written it unless they recorded it and scrolled through frame by frame. Which was unikely. Especially since no-one he knew over the age of fifteen watched it. Still, he’d know...

He made the required excisions and took them down to rehearsals which were now, of course, on set. Cris glanced at the cuts just to make sure the requisite number of inches had been trimmed from the page, muttered something about hoping his lotto numbers came up soon and wandered off with Scott in tow.

Rob sat on the edge of a table and looked about him. There was no doubting that there was an air of excitement and anticipation about the place, the whiff of adrenaline that was not normally present. He felt a faint echo of his own first night feelings back in his days as a member of the Merthyr Amateur Dramatic Society. He’d debuted in “The Real Inspector Hound”. It’s not often that The Corpse gets a mention when the play is reviewed but he’d managed it. Real corpses, of course, suffer, if they can suffer at all, from rigor mortis. He’d suffered from cramp. The actors playing Moon and Birdboot had carried on like seasoned troupers while he rolled around in agony. One of them had bent Rob’s foot back like the trainer at a soccer game while carrying on seamlessly with the dialogue. Recovered, Rob returned to being a corpse and wished he was dead. Given the nature of the play, the audience weren’t entirely sure his unscripted vignette wasn’t in the script and afterwards cast and crew had laughed like the proverbial drains. Rob, however, had been traumatised and resolved to henceforth stick to writing. How different his life might have been had he not crossed his legs that night. Josh stood behind Rob with Anna, the drama coach, trying vainly to say that he could imagine an imaginary menagerie manager imagining managing an imaginary menagerie. Oh, well, Brando got away with mumbling for years; the world could put up with Josh doing it for one night.

Rob saw Phyllida standing with her back to him by one of the cameras, went over and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Got those dates for me”, he asked.

She turned around. “What?”

Rob looked to see what was interesting her on the studio wall but could see nothing amiss. He looked back but she didn’t.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine, Thanks.”

“You haven’t been hit on the head with a frying pan by the Road Runner, by any chance?” It was that sort of thing that made Yosemite Sam’s eyes go wonky.

She looked at him blankly. Sort of.

“Never mind. Like I said, I was just wondering if you’ve got those dates for me?”

She continued to look blankly. “Dates? What sort of dates? Pitted or...”

“For the play. Dates for the play.”

“Ah, no, not yet. I’ll get back to you.”

“Right. I’ll leave you to...”

“Yeah.”

He moved off thinking he should have said something to her. Maybe he should say something to Cris. He looked across to where he sat at a monitor, scribbling notes, loosening the top of his shirt, perspiration glistening on his dome. Maybe he shouldn’t.

On the bowlo set, Ivor who was really Fred lounged against the bar, extras took their places and Malcolm sat at a table seemingly talking to himself. Rob thought, as anyone would really, that he was going over his lines.

“Will you go away!”, he was actually hissing to Norman who was sitting opposite. “How can I concentrate with you there?”

Norman stood up. “I come like water and like wind I go. But I shall be close at hand for moral support should the spirit waver.”

Unseen by all except Malcolm, Norman went and stood behind the bar where only he could admire his reflection in the mirror.

“Okay, rehearsing”, shouted the AD. “Quiet on set. Thank you. And... action.”

Malcolm spoke into his mobile. “Just calm down, Mrs Smeeton, a rectal temperature of 38 degrees is nothing to worry about. Come and see me in the orif... sorry, office in the morning.”

He mouthed an apology to Cris for the near-Freudian slip and closed the phone. Josh and Charlea entered and crossed to the bar.

“What can I get you, young feller?”, asked Fred, jovially.

“A norange jooth and a light beer, pleeth”. The speech was coming along but still far from being of the standard required by the Royal Shakespeare Company or, indeed, a bingo caller in the local RSL.