Amongst the Dead (5 page)

Neither Brian nor I had pleasant memories of Maryborough. Only a few short months before, I’d been embroiled there in a hideous and violent series of events which had resulted in my unjust alienation from my eponymous acting troupe, who were still in Maryborough, working under the direction of my leading lady, Annie Hudson. Brian’s recent memories of Maryborough could hardly have been more pleasant than my own. Having come up from Melbourne, ostensibly to help me, he’d embarked upon a ludicrous and dangerous affair with a madwoman.

We’d been told that Maryborough was the place where we were to connect with the Third Division Concert Party, but I’d put it out of my mind for the most part during these training days, and consoled myself with the thought that the estranged members of my troupe wouldn’t be in any audience to which we played. They were civilians, and the concert party was dedicated to entertaining the troops. Perhaps I could get in and out of Maryborough without making contact with any of my former colleagues. The person I most wanted to avoid was Sergeant Peter Topaz, a copper whose low opinion of me was out of all proportion to the one or two small errors of judgement I’d made.

Archie Warmington wasn’t coming with us to Maryborough, and I was genuinely disappointed that I might now never get the opportunity to find out where he came from, and who he was. He’d obviously made an impression on Brian as well because, on the morning of our departure, while he merely shook my hand, he put his arm around Brian’s shoulder in a gesture of mateship. I suppose the bond that forms when you teach someone how to walk in heels is stronger than the bond that forms when you teach someone how to fire a Thompson submachine-gun.

Chapter Three

in concert

WE ARRIVED IN MARYBOROUGH
in the back of an army truck, and as we drove down Ferry Street I became absurdly and irrationally anxious about being seen by members of my former troupe. I was particularly anxious about meeting Arthur Rank, the person to whom I’d been closest and who had more reason than the others to despise me — given that I’d almost killed him with a blow to the head. I imagined that he’d be fully recovered by now (the blow had fallen a month ago, after all), but in the intervening time I’d been troubled by the collapse of our friendship.

Initially, I admit, I thought Arthur’s attitude towards me had been peevish. I’d assaulted him in good faith, if such a thing is possible. Now, though, I was prepared to acknowledge that perhaps my actions had been ill-conceived; and so, although I’d have welcomed an opportunity to offer a sincere apology, I was also crippled by the inevitable mortification that this would entail. Brian, who’d got on famously with the troupe, was untroubled by the prospect of seeing them. Indeed, he said he’d seek them out at the first opportunity, and he helpfully provided Glen with a thumbnail sketch of each of them.

The truck passed the town hall, and a sign out the front proclaimed that the Hudson Players, so recently the Power Players, were currently performing
Pygmalion
. Annie Hudson transformed from guttersnipe to princess? Sadly, she didn’t have the range to accomplish this alchemy, and her performance would provide irrefutable proof that a guttersnipe in a ball gown is just that — a guttersnipe in a ball gown. And who amongst the others could play Professor Higgins? Arthur had only one arm, and while Shaw doesn’t actually specify that Higgins have two arms, audiences would expect him to pull on two gloves when he takes Eliza Doolittle to the ball. Adrian Baden, who’d be more interested in seducing Freddy Eynsford Hill than Eliza, would make an adequate Higgins, so I hoped the company had the sense to appoint him over Bill Henty, who’d want to do the role bare-chested, or Kevin Skakel, whose club foot was less of an impediment than his inability to act.

I was pondering the casting of
Pygmalion
when we drove through the gates of the showgrounds, which was where the Third Division had set up camp. We were deposited inside the front gate, and I thought I detected a slight sneer on the face of the corporal who checked our papers when he discovered that we were members of the concert party. We were given a tent number and vague directions as to its whereabouts. Finding it was easier said than done. The showgrounds had been converted into a small city of tents, but an inquiry to a passing private led us to a section dominated by a fair-sized stage, with its sides and roof made of large tarpaulins. There was a great deal of activity around the stage, which seemed to be quite well set up, with an effectively painted backdrop and a row of lights — powered, I supposed, by a generator kept at sufficient distance to minimise the noise.

My excitement grew, despite the banality of the part I was expected to play. There were actors on stage, one of whom was practising an impressive pratfall. I was glad that I wasn’t obliged to engage in knockabout comedy. I didn’t think it was funny, and it hurt. There were musicians as well, including one who was off by himself coaxing a racket out of an accordion — an instrument whose portability is its only redeeming feature. The overall impression was one of busy rehearsal, and it seemed to involve a large number of people.

The sight of the stage caused Brian’s face to lose its colour. The reality of being expected to perform in front of a large crowd must have just hit him.

‘Quite a set-up,’ I said to Glen.

‘According to the schedule, there’s one performance tomorrow night and then the whole thing comes down, and we head for Mt Isa.’

‘I’ll need to find the people in my sketches,’ I said. ‘I don’t think slipping into their routines will be too difficult. It’s not like I’m a last-minute replacement for King Lear, is it?’

Glen narrowed his eyes.

‘This is a professional outfit, Will. Don’t underestimate how sharp you’re going to have to be. You’ll be up there with people who do this for a living — people who’ve performed in London — and they’ll expect you to be up to speed and up to scratch.’

I took his little homily with good grace.

We found our tent, stepped onto the wooden flooring at its entrance, and went in. There were four cots inside, and on one of them sat a thin young man who was sewing a sequin onto a garment that fell across his knees with the unmilitary and sinuous drape of a vamp’s gown. He looked up when we entered and said ‘Gedday’ in an accent more suggestive of slip-rails than slips. ‘Sergeant Rothfield’ll be pleased to see you blokes. I’m Lon — as in Chaney.’

He didn’t get up, but his demeanour was perfectly pleasant and I immediately warmed to him. We’d barely made our introductions when we were joined by Sergeant Rothfield himself, who must have been alerted to our arrival. There was no room in the tent for five men to stand, so we sat awkwardly, with the sergeant choosing to sit beside me. He was, it transpired, the producer of
Camp Happy.
Without much ado, and giving the strong impression that he was pressed for time, Sergeant Rothfield handed us the latest running sheets for the production.

‘It’s two-and-a-half hours,’ he said. ‘Non-stop. Twenty-five separate items, no breaks. One comes on as the other goes off. You can see where your cues are, and you’ll get a bit of a run-through this evening and tomorrow. I presume you know your lines, Will; but as the sketches are old Tivoli standbys, you probably knew them before you came on board anyway.’

I refrained from correcting him on this point, even though I was stung by his assumption that I was the kind of performer who’d be well acquainted with tired Tivoli standby acts.

‘Tomorrow’s performance starts at six, and it goes on no matter what — rain, hail, earthquake, volcanic eruption. I’ll leave you to it. Lon here will look after you.’

‘He’s a good bloke,’ Lon said. ‘Writes plays, apparently. I’ve never read any of them but.’

The running sheet confirmed that
Camp Happy
lurched from low comedy to tear-jerking renditions of ‘Danny Boy’ and the inevitable ‘Ave Maria’. There was a baritone, a tenor, a swing band, a ventriloquist, sight acts, Glen’s magic spot, a ukulele player (ugh), a classical pianist, and several utility actors. Lon was to appear in the first half as a hillbilly, a type whose comic appeal escaped me, and in the second as a burlesque femme called Lola. ‘Something,’ he said, ‘in the Carmen Miranda line. I get plenty of whistles.’

‘Brian here will give you a run for your money,’ Glen said. ‘He’s my beautiful assistant.’

Lon laughed.

‘Mate,’ he said, ‘you’ll be beating them off with a stick.’

That night’s rehearsal was so energising that I stopped minding the inanity of my lines. I was just happy to be on a stage and in the company of real actors. The men I was playing against were far from amateurs. They were assured and slick, and appreciative of the fact that I was obviously a dependable and skilled replacement for whoever it was who’d fallen ill. It all happened so quickly and in such a blaze of lights and noise that I didn’t take in anyone’s name, but stood on the sidelines when I wasn’t required and watched in a kind of mesmerised ecstasy, moved foolishly to tears by a maudlin tune — not because it touched me, but because I felt, suddenly, for the first time in a very long time, that I was home.

It has always been my experience that joy is an emotion that is peculiarly susceptible to rot. It therefore wasn’t very surprising that my pleasure at being back on stage was short lived. The morning’s rehearsal didn’t go well, with my acting partners being openly hostile to the small improvements I’d made overnight in my part. My defence of the changes was met with an uncompromising, ‘Just play the fucking part as it’s written.’ Not wishing to behave with the prima donna selfishness my partners were exhibiting, I acquiesced; but actors are fragile, volatile creatures, and my gall at wishing to give myself just a couple of memorable lines damaged my standing in the company. Where Brian was welcomed and chatted to, I was sent to Coventry and treated with cool, dismissive indifference. There were no complaints about my performance; but after each run-through I found myself in the wings alone.

I didn’t mind.
Camp Happy
was just a conduit through which Brian and I were obliged to pass before undertaking the real purpose of our trip. Indeed, any deep attachment to the concert party would have been inadvisable, given that we’d be leaving it in a matter of days.

After lunch, Brian suggested that we hitch a lift into town and visit the George Hotel where my old troupe would, no doubt, still be staying.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I don’t want to see any of them.’

‘Not even Arthur?’

‘Especially not Arthur.’

As is often the case with my brother, he mistook my tone and assumed that I was defiantly clinging to the notion that I bore no responsibility for my poor relations with Arthur. Before I could ask him to pass on my sincere and profound regrets, he’d left, and I could only hope that he wouldn’t take the liberty of speaking on my behalf. I would have followed him, but I decided then and there that all that had happened prior to this day, Friday, 16 October 1942, was to lie undisturbed. Encroachments from both the recent and more distant past were unwelcome and I’d resist them, and beat them back, whether they came as single spies or whole battalions. I’d defend the bridge from the past to the present with the determination and courage of Horatio.

I spent the afternoon running through my unchanged lines, and as the time approached for costume and make-up I began to feel the adrenalin-flutter of nervous expectation. The dressing-room was the back of a three-ton truck, parked out of sight of the audience, behind the stage. It wasn’t ideal, and most changes took place on the ground outside, with costumes being handed down from racks. My make-up was basic — something to accentuate the eyes, the eyebrows, and the mouth — and in my top hat and tails I couldn’t wait to step out into the warm embrace of the audience. When I looked at myself in the mirror, and adjusted my bowtie, I knew that acting wasn’t just a profession; it was a vocation. The moment was spoiled somewhat when the mirror was shared with a fellow actor who said, unnecessarily, ‘Remember, Will, just speak the fucking lines as written. Your lips are too red, by the way. You look like a fucking nancy boy catamite.’

I spoke my lines as written, and the audience couldn’t have known how aggrieved I was at being reduced to a cipher. I fed the other actors their lines, to which they responded and got the laughs, despite the antiquity of the jokes. The soldiers in the audience were so generous as to be almost undiscerning. Perhaps a sense of imminent death helps breathe life into old gags.

I came off stage confident that I’d done my job well, although no one patted me on the back. Things were hectic, of course. I’m almost certain there was no deliberate slight.