Lovers Make Moan mb-60 Read online

  “Deborah Bradley ought to be a Boy Scout,” said Marcus, “except that she’s all woman and as goodlooking as they come.”

  “It was Rudyard Kipling’s Kim who was the friend of all the world, ‘’ said Emma. Marcus looked surprised, but made no comment except to remark that Emma must be a deeper reader than he had supposed.

  It was after the second read-through—“just to get you accustomed to picking up your cues, ladies and gentlemen, as the actual words you are to learn will present no difficulties, for this is a lovely play”—that Deborah was asked whether she would take on the part of Titania.

  “But you’ve got others to choose from,” she said, “and, anyway, I’m too old for the part.”

  “Titania is a fairy and the fairies are immortal,” said Donald Bourton gallantly. “I’m swopping Demetrius for Oberon and I’d love to play opposite you.”

  “So who is playing Demetrius?” asked Valerie Yorke, who was Hippolyta. “We haven’t any more men.”

  “Bradley is a handsome, saturnine chap,” said Tom Woolidge, who was playing Lysander. “Would he do it?”

  “He’s in the garden with the children,” said Valerie. “Perhaps somebody could go and fish him inside and you can ask him.”

  “You can bring a horse to water,” said Deborah, “but—”

  “Bradley was in the OUDS,” said Tom Woolidge.

  “Well!” said Deborah. “I never knew that before! I think you must mean Simon Bradley, our young cousin, to whom this house belongs.”

  “No, no, Jonathan was the name,” said Woolidge.

  So the chief parts were settled and the final casting (with Yorke keeping his fingers crossed) was to be programmed thus:

  Theseus — Brian Yorke (Producer and Director)

  Hippolyta — Valerie Yorke

  Lysander — Tom Woolidge

  Demetrius — Jonathan Bradley

  Hermia — Barbara Bourton

  Helena — Emma Lynn

  Oberon — Donald Bourton

  Titania — Deborah Bradley

  Puck — Peter Woolidge

  Quince — Marcus Lynn (Prologue)

  Bottom — Nicholas Rinkley (Pyramus)

  Flute — Susan Hythe (Thisbe)

  Yorke had decided upon one change in the minor characters, but did not announce it at the second reading. It proved to have some importance later. His nine-year-old daughter had been cast provisionally as the solitary fairy who talks with Puck, but Yorke thought her too tall and wanted her as Philostrate. When she was told this later, Yolanda, an amiable child, welcomed the change and, although, again, it was not mentioned at the meeting, the fairy part, which carried a quite considerable speech, was given to Rosamund. Another member of Signora Moretti’s dancing class was brought in as Peasblossom, Rosamund’s original part, and both were pleased when, later, they were told.

  Yorke did consult Deborah about this change, but asked her to say nothing until he had convinced himself that the change would be advantageous.

  “But if you do as well with the young as you are doing with Emma Lynn,” he said, “the thing is in the bag. I’ve never known such a change in anybody as you’ve made in that submerged lady. Miraculous!”

  “It’s all done with mirrors,” said Deborah. To Jonathan, later, she added, “All that poor girl needed was a bit of self-confidence. I don’t know why she lacked it. She’s really quite pretty when she gets animated, and I’m sure Lynn is fond of her.”

  “Probably scared of letting him down, then,” said Jonathan. “After all, she hasn’t given him a son, and a man with Lynn’s business acumen must want one to carry on the firm.”

  “There’s an adopted boy, Jasper.”

  “Not the same thing. Anyway, I’m grateful to you for our two boys, and that reminds me. They want to get down here for the Saturday performance of the play. I’m not having any of that nonsense, though.”

  “I’d love them to come. It’s good of them to bother. Why don’t you want them to be there?”

  Jonathan laughed.

  “What! Have them come and see me making love to another woman?”

  “Yes,” said Deborah, “there is that. I get quite a qualm when I watch you and Barbara Bourton on stage together. You are so very convincing and she is so accomplished and beautiful. I’m very glad Hermia perfers Lysander to Demetrius, but you with your ‘Relent, sweet Hermia’ would melt a heart of stone.”

  “That’s what I had to do when I wanted you to marry me. Just part of my technique, that’s all.”

  “Oh, yes? And what about that little scene in the woods?” She mocked it. “ ‘Oh, why rebuke you him that loves you so?’ ”

  “Well, why do you?” asked Jonathan, laughing. “Anyway, what about you and the handsome, virile Donald? You both turn that quarrel scene into a lovers’ tiff. It’s disgraceful how seductive you are and how he reacts, although he’s supposed to be having the devil of a set-to with you. His ‘Why should Titania cross her Oberon?’ is a masterpiece of snaky pleading, and his masterful rendering of ‘Tarry, rash wanton; am I not thy lord?’ is every suburban lady’s dream of being dominated by a sunburnt, cleanlimbed chap in riding-boots and a solar topee astride his Arab stallion.”

  “Thank you very much! I admit the charge,” said Deborah, enjoying the game, although she knew it was a slightly dangerous one, “but please compare my pert reply. You can hardly call that love-making.”

  “Why not? Titania is obviously eaten up with jealousy. She reminds him that he, in the shape of Corin, sat all day playing on pipes of corn and versing love to amorous Phillida. If you ask me, Titania was desperate to share Oberon’s bed and company once more.”

  “I’m sure she was, and anyway, the play ends with everybody happy. I’ll tell you whose behaviour is going to queer the pitch unless Brian Yorke can do something about it. What about that wretched man Rinkley?”

  “First, he’s the best male actor we’ve got and Yorke can’t afford to upset him; second, he’s a heel; third, he was mixed up in some unsavoury case concerning a young girl. I note that Yorke keeps an eye on things where Yolanda is concerned. Rinkley has already stirred me to action, as you know.”

  “Not only that. If he continues to make snide remarks about Robina Lester, her son, young David, is going to blow up.”

  “Well, Robina does over-act, and the workmen’s scenes really are Rinkley’s, you know.”

  “But it’s not his business to correct her. That’s Brian’s job. I’m sure that as soon as everybody is word-perfect and we really get our teeth into the play, he’ll tone her down.”

  “Anyway, Rinkley is just as rude to Susan Hythe and Caroline Frome as he is to Robina.”

  “I know, and that doesn’t help matters. Young David has taken a protective attitude towards those two girls ever since the first reading. Haven’t you noticed?”

  ‘Of course, but they have no time for anybody but Tom Woolidge, I thought.”

  ‘That won’t stop David lying in wait for Rinkley in a dark alley one night if he keeps on twitting them the way he does. As for Thisbe, she isn’t very good at present, but once she gets the feel of the part she’ll be all right. All the workmen will. It’s a nuisance we have to put three women in as Flute, Snout and Starveling, but it’s Hobson’s choice. There simply are not enough men to go round.”

  “Men won’t accept minor rôles in an amateur show. I think it’s rather noble of Lynn, considering he’s putting up all the money, merely to have cast himself as Quince. I should have thought he would opt for Theseus, at the very least, if only from the costume point of view.”

  “I expect he realises his limitations as an actor.”

  “He’s about the only one of the cast who does, then. Why are amateur actors always so damned conceited?”

  “Donald Bourton does make love to me on stage,” said Deborah suddenly, “but he behaves perfectly off it, and that’s all that matters.”

  “I hope it stays that way for his sake.”

&nbs
p; “You are not to treat him the way you treated Rinkley.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t. I should really hurt him. Anyway, it’s getting late. ‘Lovers, to bed. ’Tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn.’ Not that I think there’s much chance of it while Rosamund and Edmund are in the house and raising hell the minute the sun rises, if not earlier.”

  “I only wish I had half their energy. Still, we don’t bear all the brunt, do we? Carey and Jenny have been awfully good, and Aunt Adela is to have them after they’ve been to Scotland.”

  “And now,” said Brian Yorke, “that we all have some idea of our parts, do, please, darlings, put away those scripts and let us see how far we can get without them, shall we?”

  “I can’t get anywhere without mine,” wailed Susan Hythe. “I know my lines, but I don’t know where to come in.”

  “We’ll all help you, dear,” said the motherly Robina Lester. “What I want to know,” she went on, turning to Brian Yorke, “is what happens if one of us, particularly somebody in a major rôle, goes sick or, for any other reason, can’t turn up on the night.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” said Brian. “You had better double as Hippolyta if Valerie can’t be with us.”

  “How can I? It’s all right in the early scenes, but we’re on together in the last scene.”

  “We can adjust the dialogue in the last scene so that Hippolyta doesn’t appear. In the same way, Susan had better familiarise herself with Hermia’s part, and Caroline, you’ll have to be the stand-in for Helena. The women’s gaps will be easy enough to fill.”

  “What about Titania?” asked Donald Bourton, making a gesture indicating a desire to put an arm round Deborah.

  “Again, perfectly simple. Valerie had better learn her lines. Hippolyta and Titania don’t come on together. No, it’s the men we have to cater for. It’s a pity the play needs nine of them. As it is, we have to give men’s parts to Robina, Caroline and Susan, not to mention little Yolanda as Philostrate, but I’m sure the ladies will do fine. Now, to double up on the men’s rôles—the actual, real men’s men I mean—I think the basic part to cover is Bottom.”

  “I should hope so!” said Rinkley, with an unpleasant snigger.

  “Well, it can’t be me,” said Tom Woolidge. “I am no good at all in a comedy part. Passed to you, partner.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Jonathan, “but if I read my fellow Thespian aright, nothing short of a third world war will prevent him from displaying his talents.”

  “Too right, dear boy,” said Rinkley. “Even if I’m dead, I shan’t lie down.”

  The company then went into rehearsal again and, when it was over at ten, Jonathan and Deborah invited Lynn and his Emma, Yorke and his Valerie, Bourton and his Barbara—all the married couples, in short, to stay for drinks. It was at this friendly little session that what turned out to be a momentous decision was made.

  “You know, Jonathan,” said Yorke, looking at his handsome, saturnine host, “I don’t think you have the face for comedy. If you ever have to stand in for Pyramus, I mean.”

  Jonathan walked over to a mirror and solemnly scrutinised himself.

  “Not the face for comedy? Perhaps you are right,” he said, turning round. “Anyway, as I said to Rinkley, the occasion will not arise. Nothing is going to prevent Rinkley from treading the boards.”

  “Actually,” said Donald Bourton, “I could fill in for him, you know, if it ever came to the crunch. He is in scenes with Titania and Puck, but never with Oberon. I’ve always wanted to play Bottom.”

  “But your fatal good looks have always been against you,” said his wife, giving him a playful flick on the cheek.

  “Well, yes, Oberon would be a better swop,” said Yorke seriously. “There’s really no need for anybody except Puck to appear at the end of the play. There won’t be any fairies, anyway, because all the kids will be in bed, and there’s not much point in having Oberon and Titania without their fairy train and a torchlight procession and all that. You might have to double up for Lysander or Demetrius or me, Donald, as well, so you might as well learn the whole play.”

  “I know it already,” said Donald. “One of these days I’ll do you a one-man show. Well, no, not quite a one-man show. I must be allowed a partner, for what says the play? ‘Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.’ ”

  “One of these days Bradley will boot that fellow into the harbour,” said Marcus Lynn to Brian Yorke.

  “Not until the play is over, I trust,” said Brian. “Bourton can’t swim.”

  Chapter 3

  Mouths of Babes

  “I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice.”

  « ^ »

  We can only stay a week,” said Rosamund importantly.

  “Dear, dear! How sad for Mrs Gavin and me,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “Yes, I think it is, but, you see, we are going to be in a real grown-up play, and we’ll be wanted for rehearsals. All Signora Moretti’s dancing class are in it, but the rest of them only dance and sing. We have real parts. We speak.”

  “Very impressive. Congratulations,” said Laura Gavin.

  “I am an elf,” said Edmund.

  “Great! What do you have to say?” asked Laura.

  “And I and I and I. Where shall we go, go, go?”

  “You only say it once,” said his sister.

  “I say it all. I am going to have paint all over my face, so nobody knows it’s me,” Edmund confided to Dame Beatrice.

  “He thinks so,” said Rosamund. “I am a fairy. There are three elves and a fairy. I am called Peasblossom.”

  “A delightful name,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “Yes. I ought to be in white, like garden peas, but Signora Moretti said I shall have a pink tunic and pink shoes and a lovely pink hat. Signora said I shall. The other elves—not Edmund—are called Ganymede and Lucien. They are black. Well, they are not really black, they are more brown, and they laugh all the time. Their father and mother are doctors and they are lethal.”

  “I hope not,” said Laura. “You mean they are legal—legal immigrants.”

  “Ganymede is called Moth and Lucien is Mustardseed. He will be all in yellow with pom-poms on his hat. I would rather be in pink than yellow.”

  “Pink is for embarrassment, yellow for cowardice,” said Laura. “What about the other two?”

  “Lucien is to be all different colours and have wings. He is to be like a butterfly. I think that’s silly, because moths aren’t like butterflies, are they?—well, not really.”

  “As you say. What about Edmund?”

  “I shall have a crown,” said Edmund.

  “No, you won’t. You are called Cobweb.” Rosamund turned to Dame Beatrice. “He thinks he will have a crown, but he will have a silver tunic with sparkles on it like dewdrops and a kind of angel thing on his head with tinsel all over it in crisscross.”

  “A halo in the form of a cobweb,” suggested Laura.

  “What’s a halo?”

  “A nimbus. A kind of angel thing, as you said.”

  “Edmund had one on his head at Christmas when he was an angel in the cavity play.”

  “Nativity play.”

  “Nativity play. He had a halo and he was an angel.”

  “So he is an old hand so far as the stage is concerned,” said Dame Beatrice admiringly.

  “He was naughty. He picked up the Baby Jesus and threw it at one of the shepherds.”

  “It was only a doll,” said Edmund. “I wanted it to be a real Baby Jesus and it wasn’t. It was only a doll.”

  “You were right to discard it. Never accept inferior substitutes for the real thing,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “I like pigs better than sheep,” said Rosamund. “Uncle Carey has got millions and millions of pigs. The sow hadn’t got enough teats for all the little pigs, so Aunt Jenny had to feed the littlest one out of a bottle. It was called Runt, but I called it Grunt. I
t waxed and grew fat, Uncle Carey said, and now it follows Aunt Jenny all over the house and won’t have anything to do with the other pigs. Aunt Jenny says it thinks it’s one of us.”

  “I hope it’s house-trained,” said Laura.

  “No, it isn’t. You can’t house-train a pig, Uncle Carey says, any more than you can house-train a horse. I would love a little tiny horse for a pet.”

  “You’ve been round and about quite a bit, haven’t you, these last weeks?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s been lovely, and Mummy sends us postcards from all the places where the ship calls. We went to Scotland for a fortnight, too, didn’t we?”

  “Oh, yes, to my brother’s house. I took you, didn’t I? I’m sorry I couldn’t stay,” said Laura.

  “If he’s your brother, why is his name Menzies?”

  “It used to be my name before I married. Women change their surnames when they marry. Before your Aunt Deb married your Uncle Jon her name was Miss Deborah Katherine St Piran Cloud.”

  “That’s a nice name. Will you let me do it on your typewriter?”

  “Yes, if your fingers aren’t sticky. What did you do in Scotland after I left?”

  “We crawled on our bellies and saw the deer, and a wild cat killed one of the chickens.”

  “What else?”

  “We ate our porridge standing up.”

  “Where is The Dream to be staged?”

  “In our garden. It’s an annual event, but we’ve never been in it before. Generally it’s done in the Town Hall, but this time it’s to be outdoors, so I think that’s why Uncle Jon and Auntie Deb and us are in it, because they want to use our garden. Well, they’d have to let us be in it, wouldn’t they?”

  “To think that one so young can be so cynical!”

  “What’s cynercal?”

  “According to the Oxford Dictionary, it means being incredulous of human goodness,” said Dame Beatrice.

  “What’s incredilous?”