Twopence Coloured (25 page)

(Quite
overbearingly
unpleasant
and
prolonged
pause.
Air
palpably
shuddering.
Singing
sensations
in
ears
experi
enced.)

M
R
. B
ANTON
. “Well, let’s see…. Where were we? … Let’s take that again….”

The third of these duels — Mr. Rackett
vs
. Mr. Gerald Gifford — was even more deadly still. It proved fatal, in fact. Mr. Rackett was the aggressor in this case, having taken a dislike to Mr. Gifford for several reasons, uppermost amongst which was the fact that he (Mr. Rackett) had been dismissed, eight months ago, from the stage-management of a musical show in which Mr. Gifford had appeared with success. Mr. Rackett believed that Mr. Gifford had given publicity to this fact. He had. This duel reached a crisis on the twelfth day of rehearsal, and Mr. Rackett won the day.

It happened in the morning. Mr. Banton was absent, and Mr. Rackett, as stage-manager, was holding the script. Mr. Rackett was a heavy, dark man of about forty, with a long nose which he employed for the purpose of ironic sniffing. He was a perfect Anatole France in his nose, was Mr.
Rackett
, being able to put every type of sarcastic dig into his breath — from a real animal pull (which was his bludgeon) down to a delicate, eighteenth-century perfumed intake (which was his rapier). And he could put his tongue into his cheek, to all sorts of different extents, and suggest a thousand middle shades of withering opinion.

“Do you always keep your hands in your pockets, Mr. Gifford?” asked Mr. Rackett.

“No. Why?” asked Mr. Gifford. He blushed.

Mr. Rackett said that he thought perhaps he did — that was all…. The smashing irony of this deserved a sniff, and got it.

“This isn’t musical comedy we’re in now, you know,” added Mr. Rackett….

Mr. Gifford said that he hadn’t said it was….

“
Oh‚
” said Mr. Rackett….

The rehearsal proceeded.

That night Mr. Gifford left the cast. This was not owing to any difference of opinion with Mr. Rackett, but merely because he was not Happy in the Part, and would rather Stand Down. A great fuss was made of these sentiments, which were brought to the ears of the company, and the young man departed in an exquisite and roseate glow of
Unhappi
ness
…. The conspicuousness of his absence that morning gave scope for just that warm-hearted sympathy (with a dash of highmindedness) so needful to the collective theatrical mind. It was pounced on eagerly, as there hadn’t been much highmindedness at present.

Curiously enough, three weeks after these events, the young man in question committed suicide by leaving on the gas in his room. This, it may be said, was not due to Mr. Rackett’s irony. But the company was horrified. Miss Potts even went so far as to make references to Mr. Rackett’s Shoes, in which, she declared, she would not like to be. As for Mr. Rackett, he wouldn’t have exchanged his Shoes for anyone’s. He had the time of his life, and played it heavily and with considerable effect. He was sorry, Genuinely Sorry, he said, that he had Gone Roughly with the boy. He reverted to the thing perpetually in bars of an evening. He was very conceited. He might have committed suicide himself, the way he went on.

The first date for “The Knocking at the Gate” was at Ramsgate, and the dress-rehearsal began at a quarter to three on a Sunday at the Ramsgate theatre. It ended at eight.

A pretty deadly time of day, and day of week, and town of England in which to dress-rehearse, and a pretty deadly dress-rehearsal. It was far from pleasant to play to Mr. Banton’s glinting but unresponsive pince-nez in the tenth row of the stalls: and it was far from pleasant to find
yourself
, in the glare of the floats, shouting at your friends’ chromatically unfamiliar faces into a hollow auditorium, which either made no response to your effects whatever, or filled in your pauses with the rather brusque and unimpressed pail-clankings of an obdurately unshooshable charlady in the gallery…. And it was not pleasant to wait about in the passages and on the cold stage of the Ramsgate theatre during the changing of the scenes — which changings never took less than twenty minutes to perform, and were carried through
with imprecations, bangs, foulings, hammerings, cries and grunts, as though they were all in a ship which was going down in the night…. And Mr. Banton’s notebook, in between the scenes, was not any more pleasant, either, and his complete overthrow of courtesy no less distasteful for being allowable and traditional….

“… And you’re the worst of all, Manlove. You’ve got to speak up, man. I can’t hear a syllable…. And you, Miss Potts. You’re pitched far too high. Simpering. You’re supposed to be grim. You’re playing it like an ingénue…. You’re got to stop that wriggling with your hands, Mrs. Gissing; it’s getting on one’s nerves…. That’s very good, Plaice, but get a bit more speed into that telephone scene. We’re playing years too long already….”

It was very hard to keep one’s temper, but there was only one dangerous lapse. This was in the second act, when Mr. Plaice, after having been prompted by Mr. Rackett, against his wishes, and quite unnecessarily, but very dramatically and hoarsely, for a long time, all at once arrested the rehearsal to lift his eyes to God and say “Thank you.
So
much.”

That “Thank you.
So
much” was a sudden flash of
lightning
illuminating for one sharp moment the ghastly abysses from which they were all kept only by the Herculean exercise of self-restraint. It may be observed in passing that actors always say Thank you when they are beginning to get angry, but for this particular Thank you Mr. Rackett never forgave Mr. Plaice, reviling his acting and character, in bar
conversations
, for the rest of his life. Also he more effectively
punished
him next week, and during the tour, by making him dress with Mr. Manlove. (Mr. Manlove would otherwise have been thrust upon Mr. Gray son.) The dressing-room card, which he personally wrote and vindictively pinned on the door, read:

— which was a pretty strong disciplinary measure.

“Er — where am I dressing, please?” asked Mr. Plaice.

“In here, Mr. Plaice, with Mr. Manlove,” said Mr. Rackett, sharply opening the door, and went away with a sardonic grin and murmurs about these Blasted West End Actors behaving like Funny Old Women over their dressing-rooms.

That night, after the rehearsal, there was a general
invitation
to the men at the large hotel where Mr. Banton and Jackie and Richard were staying; and, with a corner of the lounge to themselves, an affectionate state of intoxication was reached. It was, in fact, Old Boy this and Old Boy that until midnight.

They had never Heard of such things (Old Boy) in all their careers.

Things (hang it all, Old Boy) weren’t worth their whiles, were they (Old Boy)? They Asked them now?

They knew Old Boys would never possibly Credit it, but there you were.

Old Boys could not only credit it, but could quote similar soul-shattering experiences.

And Old Boys Only wanted to Appeal to the Logic of Old Boys.

They were impotent. They Meant to Say, Old Boy,
Damn
it.

On Monday evening, two hours before the show
commenced
, there was a call on the dim-lit stage for words in Scene
2
, Act 1, and this was united with the Mutual
Congratulations
(or Highmindedness) Call, which had been tacitly expected of Mr. Banton.

The last word was said, and the company began to disperse. “Oh — just one moment,” said Mr. Banton.

The company paused.

“Just one moment. Call that couple back, will you, Rackett?”

“Mr. Manlove!” cried Mr. Rackett. “Mr. Manlove! Mr. Grayson!”

“Hullo!” from the passage.

“Just one moment.”

The couple returned with interested but scared expressions.

“Won’t keep you a moment,” said Mr. Banton. Mr. Banton quietly lit a cigarette. “Just want to say something, though. While you’re all here.”

An austere silence fell upon all.

“Don’t know that there’s — much to say,” said Mr.
Banton
, puffing at his cigarette; and silence was more austere than ever. Mr. Banton looked at the ground….

“I suppose I just want to — thank you — really — for the absolutely — splendid way — in which you’ve all worked together for the good of the show. Honestly —
honestly
— and I’m not codding — I can
not
remember
ever having worked with such a really fine lot — such a fine lot for pulling together. It’s been splendid. You’ve all been splendid.”

At this the company, along with Mr. Banton, bowed their heads respectfully to the ground, as those who uncover before a passing coffin.

“We may have had our difficulties — I don’t deny we have,” said Mr. Banton….

The mourners did not deny it.

“Nobody
would deny that we have,” added Mr. Banton, firmly, and as though that was a great point. “But we’ve pulled through and really got the thing into excellent shape. I don’t care who says we haven’t. But what I want to say is, we could never have done what I’ve done — what we’ve done — unless I’d had your really fine co-operation. I may not have shown how much I’ve felt all this during production, but the feeling’s been there all the same. All I can say is that the whole thing’s been carried through, from beginning to end, in, well — let’s say the Real British Spirit — honestly — the Real British Spirit.”

At this there was a decline of the burial service atmosphere, and a kind of mental Union Jack was hoisted, amid mental cheers. Also an extraordinary impression that this play had been written, and was now about to be acted, for God, King and Country (at great personal risk), was to be gained from the faces of the company. Instead, however, of expanding upon Outposts of Empire, and Hands Across the Sea, as
Mr. Banton’s statesmanlike and defiant stance suggested he was going to do, he struck a humorous note.

“I know I’ve been awful. I know you must have wanted to throw me out of the window at times (Mr. Banton
tittered
, and the company smiled in a sickly and repudiating manner), but I really think we got on very well on the whole. And I want to thank you,
for
the author,
and
for myself, for the really splendid way in which you’ve seen it through.”

It was now obvious that Mr. Banton desired to thank the company.

“I don’t know how they’ll treat us to-night,” said Mr. Banton, clearly perorating. “I don’t know how they’ll treat us in London. That’s in the hands of the gods. But all I can say is — that I thank you — really sincerely — for your really fine co-operation. And that’s all.”

Whereat a series of appreciative but abortive grunts, and an attempt on Miss Potts’s part to say that she was Sure of something (which was left in the dark, but which was
undoubtedly
very tender), and another attempt, on Mr.
Man-love’s
part, to say that he was Sure they All Felt something (which was also kept in the dark, but which was undoubtedly very reciprocative), and the emergence, from mumblings on the part of Mr. Plaice, of the single word “Thank,” and the corresponding emergence, from similar mumblings on the part of Miss Starkey, of the words
“You,
Mr. Banton” — formed the sole response to Mr. Banton’s human little endeavour.

Mr. Banton then went off, talking to Mr. Rackett, and the company dispersed in a silent and slightly shamefaced
manner
, as though they had all been caught kissing each other in the passages, and Mr. Banton had, very rightly, given them a lecture about it.

“The Knocking at the Gate” played to £30 (mostly circle) and a good deal of paper that night, and was accorded the automatic ovation of a try-out first night — the curtain
rising and falling twelve times at the end, and revealing twelve different groupings of actors, who, in the seven
minutes
to which the ovation ran, dragged each other on, ran away from each other, assumed charming despair when left alone, and gave a general effect of having a rather nice and nudging game of hide-and-seek in the wings. There were then several cries of “Thor! Thor!” as well as one or two slightly peculiar (and possibly ironic) cries of “Honkore! Honkore!” from a slightly drunken man in the gallery…. Whether this slightly drunken man thought that they were going to do the play again, for him, was not quite known. (Anyway, such a thing was quite out of the question.) There was then some more applause, after which the author came on and made a speech, which was applauded, and then the curtain fell for the last time. Whereat the orchestra, without
hesitation
, played:

— which piece of curtailed and abrupt loyalty was neither brought forth in a prayerful spirit, nor very highly relevant to the matter. It served, however, as a kind of “Come along. All over. Get along out with you” to the audience, and there was soon nothing to hear or see in the front of the theatre save the gentlemen of the orchestra — who wiped their
moustaches
, coughed, wrapped green things round their
instruments
, and made murmuring and stamping noises under the stage.

It being a notable if undesirable fact that most phases of ebullience on this planet must perforce conclude with coughs, moustache-wipings, and green things round
instruments
— or their equivalent.

There was, of course, a call next morning, and a certain amount of cards were laid upon the table. The general feeling, though, was one of satisfaction.