Dead Room Farce (10 page)

‘Oh, Mark, for God's sake . . . You're only fifty. You could have half your life still ahead of you.'

His friend shuddered. ‘What a repellent thought.'

Charles continued trying to jolly Mark out of his gloom, but he recognised it was a hopeless task. Having been in that trough so frequently himself, Charles knew one could only wait for the mood to shift. And, though at the time he could never believe it would, ultimately it always did. Or, the depressive in him qualified pessimistically, it always had so far.

Mark Lear clearly didn't want to be shaken out of his gloom that day. He was in a bleak, self-destructive mood. Charles had only one more pint, but Mark kept ordering double Scotch chasers to go with his beer, and left the sandwiches untouched. As the hands of the clock approached two, he didn't have the air of a man capable of producing his hand from his pocket, let alone a radio commercial.

And one thing he said in the course of his maudlin ramblings stayed with Charles for the rest of the day. ‘I feel afraid, actually afraid. I don't know what it is, Charles, but I feel as though something awful's going to happen. I feel as if someone's out to get me.'

They got back from the Queen's Head a little after two, to find the other
not on your wife!
actors waiting outside the studio. The atmosphere was scratchy. Since the beginning of the week their schedule had been punishing, and the previous day they'd done a matinée as well as an evening performance. The fact that they were being paid to do the radio commercial was not enough to raise their spirits, and the general mood was not improved when they realised that the man who let them into the studios was extremely drunk.

David J. Girton had won his point about having a lot of voices for the commercial. Though the expense involved went against all the penny-pinching instincts of Parrott Fashion Productions, it was an issue on which the director had proved surprisingly intransigent. Perhaps, finally recognising that he wasn't having much influence on the actual production of
not on your wife!
, he was determined to have his one moment of assertiveness over a detail.

As a result of his insistence, therefore, the actors who had been called were Bernard Walton, Ransome George, Cookie Stone and Pippa Trewin. David J. Girton was also present, of course, though in a bad mood. He'd won his point about the number of actors, but had failed in his attempt to make the call later than two o'clock. As a result, he'd had to rush his lunch at Popjoy's to be there in time.

The mood of the assembled company went down another notch when they realised that Tony Delaunay was not present. The company manager it was who would be bringing the text of the commercial they were to record. That was being organised by the Parrott Fashion Productions office, and was to be faxed through to the Vanbrugh Theatre. But there had been some hitch at the London end, with the result that Tony Delaunay, who was never late for anything, was late.

The company members drooped around the studio, whose sitting area did not boast enough chairs to accommodate all of them, while Mark Lear stumbled about, trying to locate microphones and reels of tape. His antics and slurred speech did not inspire confidence. Charles wished to God Lisa Wilson was there; she'd have got everything sorted out within seconds.

There was a communal sigh of relief when Tony Delaunay came hurrying in, but it turned to a communal groan of exasperation when he announced that there were a couple of points in the script which still needed checking with Parrott Fashion Productions. He immediately dialled through to London. The actors looked even more bad-tempered, as Mark Lear continued to fumble around the studio.

‘Hope we're not all going to be crammed into that little dead room of yours,' Charles said to Mark jovially, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He turned to the rest of the actors. ‘Last time I was in there, there was no air at all; after half an hour I just couldn't breathe. It was some problem with the air conditioning.'

No one seemed particularly interested in what he was saying, but Mark responded, ‘We're going to be in the big studio. Just as soon as I've got it all rigged up properly.'

‘But the air conditioning in the little one has been fixed, hasn't it?'

‘Not yet,' Mark responded tetchily. ‘That's another bloody thing I've got to sort out.' And he blundered through the open door of the larger cubicle to stare hopelessly at the rows of switches, faders and jack plugs. For the first time, the anxiety struck Charles that Mark might not actually know how to work the equipment. As a producer at the BBC, he would always have had a team of studio managers to sort out the technical minutiae for him; and from what Charles had seen, in their new studio Lisa Wilson dealt with that side of things. He began to regret his recommendation to Tony Delaunay.

And he felt very glad that the company manager was still on the phone to London. So far as the cast was concerned, the lack of a final script was what was preventing the recording from getting under way. They seemed not to have noticed that the studio wasn't yet properly rigged for them to start work.

Continuing his attempt to ease the atmosphere and doing his bit to help, Charles took orders for coffee and went off to fill the kettle.

Mark Lear tried to go through into the larger studio, but found it was still locked. He had some problem finding the key to the dead-bolts, but eventually managed to open the heavy double doors and go inside.

From over by the kettle Charles heard Bernard Walton's petulant drawl. ‘Isn't it bloody typical? You work your guts out for weeks on a play, the whole complicated machinery runs like bloody clockwork, and then when you get to a minor detail – like this wretched radio commercial – it all screws up. I mean, why on earth did we have to come out to the bloody suburbs of Bath to record this thing, anyway? You'd have thought they could have found a studio nearer the centre. I wonder who was responsible for choosing this godforsaken hole?'

Charles kept quiet. In the corner of the room, Tony Delaunay continued to wrangle with the Parrott Fashion Productions office.

David J. Girton, still sour with lunch-withdrawal symptoms, looked across towards the studio, from which Mark was just emerging, and seemed to see him for the first time. ‘Hey, you're Mark Lear, aren't you?'

‘That's right.'

‘David J. Girton.' He stretched out a hand. ‘We met way back at the Beeb. I started in radio, before I went across to telly. Used to see you hanging round the Ariel Bar, didn't I?'

Mark Lear took the proffered hand and grinned slyly. ‘I used to see
you
hanging round the Ariel Bar.'

‘Gone, you know, that bar. Gone with all its memories of post-production celebrations, failed seductions and drowned sorrows. That whole Langham block's back to being a hotel now.'

‘I know,' said Mark. ‘I've only been out of the Beeb eighteen months or so.'

‘Oh, right. You couldn't stand the atmosphere under Chairman Birt either?'

‘You could say that.'

‘No, it's all changed.' David J. Girton shook his head mournfully. ‘Old days, they used to say BBC top management was like a game of musical chairs, except when the music stopped, they added a chair rather than taking one away. Now, when the music stops, they take away two chairs, or three. Haven't seen blood-lettings on that scale since Stalin's purges.'

‘You're still involved, though, I hear?' Mark Lear swayed slightly as he spoke, picking out his words with great concentration.

‘Yes, I go back on contract from time to time. When they want a new series of
Neighbourhood Watch
. I know all the cast and the writer so well.'

‘All right for some.'

‘You haven't been asked back then?' asked David J. Girton smugly.

‘Oh no. No, they're well and truly finished with me. Definite one-way ticket to the scrap-heap in my case.'

‘Ah,' said the director. There didn't seem a lot else to say.

‘Mind you . . .' A nostalgic glaze stole over Mark Lear's bloodshot eyes. ‘I remember those times back at the BBC. Particularly the early days . . . You were left to your own devices then, just allowed to get on with things in your own way. Now there's a whole raft of middle management and accountants standing between the producer and any kind of real creativity.'

‘Couldn't agree more.' David J. Girton grinned. ‘Sounds like you're well out of it, Mark, old man.'

‘Maybe.' For a moment Mark Lear was immobile, eyes still filmed with recollection. Then he lurched forward suddenly, as he continued, ‘Sometimes think I should write a book about the Beeb as it was in those days. Yes, I think I should do it, tell a few home truths. Show the BBC . . . not like everyone presents it on all those bloody nostalgia programmes . . . like it really was . . . all the scams, all the fiddles, all the under-the-counter deals that went on. Shee, I remember some of the things I used to get involved in, moonlighting on other jobs . . . Of course, it all had to be terribly secret then, the BBC owned one's soul, it wasn't
nice
to work for commercial companies outside. Whereas now . . . your bonus is probably calculated according to how many other organisations you work for. Yes, I think I've got some interesting stories in me . . . You'd be surprised the unlikely things unlikely people got involved in. Some they certainly wouldn't want to be reminded of, I'm sure. Actually, the whole thing'd make a bloody good book . . . I can see the cover now . . . “Mark Lear takes the lid off the BBC in a way that –”'

He may have had further literary ambitions but he didn't get the chance to expatiate on them because at that moment, finally, Tony Delaunay put the phone down, and waved the precious Parrott Fashion-approved text for the radio commercial.

It was a simple enough forty-second spot, in which Bernard Walton expressed his view that
Not On Your Wife!
was the funniest play he'd ever been in, and the other cast members asked him questions about who else was in it, where it was on, and what the Vanbrugh Theatre's box office phone number was. Even though they were being paid, everyone except Bernard was rather miffed that they'd been dragged out for the recording. They'd each got such a tiny ‘cough and a spit' in the commercial that they'd never be identified personally. One voice, any voice – even an anonymous voice like Charles Paris's – could have been used to read all Bernard Walton's feed-lines.

‘Let's get this knocked on the head as quickly as possible,' said Tony Delaunay. ‘I've got a lot to do, and I'm sure you all want a break before “the half”.' The assembled company mumbled agreement. The company manager turned to David J. Girton. ‘Will you be producing the recording, David?'

But the director's moment of assertiveness had passed, and given way once again to his customary languor. ‘No, no,' he said rather grandly. ‘I have complete faith in you, Tony.'

The company manager nodded, without comment, and turned to Mark. ‘OK, through into the studio with them?'

‘Sure.' Mark Lear moved clumsily across to hold back the double doors. His disoriented sullenness had suddenly given way to a kind of giggly euphoria. ‘Through you come, my luvvies!' A few of the cast bridled – they didn't like being called ‘luvvies' – but nobody said anything. ‘Come on, into the studio! Let's commit this deathless piece of drama to tape!'

He looked piercingly at Cookie Stone as she passed through. ‘I know you, don't I? We've met before, haven't we?'

‘I don't think so,' she replied.

‘At the Beeb? Didn't you ever work for Continuing Education?'

‘No.' Cookie dropped into a Brooklyn ‘Broadway Babe' voice. ‘I never got the breaks. From birth I was just a no-hoper. I never made it into Continuing Education.'

But by then Mark Lear had lost interest in Cookie, in favour of Pippa Trewin. Something of the old charm he'd focused on so many young women came back into his manner, as he murmured, ‘And who are you?'

‘Pippa Trewin.'

‘Oh,
you're
Pippa Trewin,' he said. ‘Well, well, well. I know all about you.' And he fixed her with a beady, challenging eye. The girl looked away, annoyance twitching at the corner of her mouth.

‘Can we get on, please?' demanded Tony Delaunay from the control cubicle.

‘Yes, of course.' Mark Lear stumbled through to join him. Tony put the talkback key down, and spoke through into the studio. ‘All gather round the one mike, I imagine. OK, one run and we should be able to take it.'

They were cramped around the microphone. A green light flicked on and Bernard Walton started speaking. Through the double glass, Charles could see Tony Delaunay and David J. Girton in the control cubicle, both looking confused. Tony turned to Mark Lear beside him. Their dumb show made it clear that no sound was coming through from the studio. Charles saw Mark turn helplessly to a bank of sockets and reach, without conviction, towards a jack plug.

In one seamlessly efficient movement, Tony Delaunay's hand swept up to a row of switches and adjusted them. ‘OK, just give me a couple of words for level, Bernard,' his voice crackled through the talkback.

‘From the minute the script of
not on your wife!
arrived, I knew I was reading the funniest play that –'

‘OK, fine.' Tony Delaunay's fingers flickered across the control desk, doing a little more fine tuning. Beside him, Mark Lear had sunk back into his chair, eyes almost closed, happy to surrender responsibility to the company manager. ‘Give us a read and then we'll go for a take,' said Tony.

‘Just a moment,' Bernard Walton objected.

‘What is it?'

‘This line: “the sauciest, sexiest, smuttiest show in town”. . .'

‘What about it?' the talkback demanded.

‘Can we lose “smuttiest”?'