1982 Janine (30 page)

The girls and Rory and the writer went off with the director leaving Roddy and me staring aghast at each other. We spent five minutes denouncing the director and lamenting the impossibility of the task he had set, we spent ten minutes considering the problem in order to demonstrate to him how insoluble it was, and we discovered that we needed scaffolding, planks, more lighting equipment and many gallons of paint. We spent ten more minutes measuring the place to find just how much we needed, then went over to the Scottish National Library to get the addresses of suppliers from a local trades directory. The Scottish National Library did not have a local trades directory, so we consulted one which belonged to the public house facing it, and handed the director his list in not much more than thirty minutes. He read it and said, “Are you sure this is all you need? Should you not add a little extra to allow for a margin of error? It's a mistake to stint yourself at the formative stage.”

I told him that we had, indeed, listed extra to cover the margin of error. He said, “Excellent. Our problem now is, that we have no money to hire or buy any of this, so we'll have to borrow or beg it. Jock, you are obviously a trustworthy fellow in that perpetually neat suit of yours. If Roddy drives you to these firms, will you ask to see the manager and explain the urgency of our problem to him? Don't – before you see him – breathe a word about your business to his underlings. Underlings always say no to borrowers and beggars. Go straight to the man at the top and tell him that if he supplies what we need we will mention his firm on our programme. Don't – unless he asks – tell him we are not part of the official festival. If he assumes we are, so much the better.”

I said firmly, “I refuse to borrow, I refuse to beg, and I refuse to tell a lie, even by implication.”

“Jock! What a very queer attitude! Borrowing is no more a crime than lending is and our whole society is based upon lending. However, the girls will probably be better at this job. Helen. Diana. My loved ones. Would you mind dreadfully doing a little bit of whoring for me? I am not asking you to surrender all of your sweet bodies. Just burst in upon these repressed Conservative Edinburgh businessmen looking dishevelled and sexy and helpless. Explain to them the urgency and enormity of our problem and tell them how poor we are. And don't waste time. As soon as you notice you're going to be refused rush to the next address on the list.”

Diana said to Helen, “We'll have more impact if we dress the same. Borrow Rory's jeans.”

Diana was wearing bluejeans, Helen a tartan skirt which, to the ignorant eye, looked very like a kilt. So Helen swapped with Rory and oh oh oh oh oh oh oh whoring…

Whoring. I have this delicious vision of all the women I ever liked. Jane Russell Denny Helen Diana Sontag the editor the whore under the bridge all all all stand in a row before me for inspection with their arms behind their backs to present their breasts in white cotton blouses and hips in tough baggy bluejeans but so tight round the crotch that the seam rubs their clitoris if that is practical (stop me God) their bodies, like sturdy tulips, tall lilies, slender daffodils, sprout from the thick plantpots of jeans whose legs are rolled up to midcalf showing red and white striped anklesocks and sannies, I mean sandshoes, I mean sneakers is what the Americans called canvas shoes in the fifties yes yes yes (stop me God) and I am a glorious pimp beloved by all my seven women, I am very cruel and hard with them (stop me) I rent them out to a wide variety of customers and reward them by sleeping with each one once a week, unless she has failed to give a customer perfect satisfaction in which case I punish her by NOT sleeping with her or by fucking her up the bum (STOP) but probably none of this is practical.

Not practical. But Helen and Diana, excitingly similar yet excitingly different in white blouses, bluejeans, anklesocks and sannies, went whoring for the necessary materials
and without surrendering their sweet bodies they borrowed and begged all we needed, yes, and got planks and scaffolding delivered to us by lorry without one penny being paid. Then we started building a stage for the actors, a tower and gantry for the lighting equipment, and platforms to seat the audience. I was in charge of this part of the operation.

I was in charge and I discovered (or pretended to discover, I cannot now remember which) that the girls were better builder's labourers than the men. They and Roddy and I did the building. Rory and the writer put coats of white paint on almost everything which did not move. The director drank coffee in other parts of the building or drifted around us passing remarks which were seldom helpful. “It's terribly bleak,” he said plaintively, “terribly stark. You're all working wonderfully hard, I'm not complaining about that, and the result is undeniably impressive. If we were putting on a performance of Orwell's
1984
in a Siberian labour camp I would feel perfectly happy. But this play is a comedy, in a festival.”

“You said at the very start,” said Diana, “that the changes of set and mood would be indicated solely by the lighting.”

“Yes yes yes, petal, but this is more extreme than anything I had imagined possible. Look at that!” – he pointed to the lighting tower –“Could you not swathe the hideous structure in something colourful and symbolic?”

“Like what?” said Diana.

“I don't know, but we can't just leave it. I mean, Jock will be fully visible to the audience. All the time.”

“He'll wear black overalls,” said Roddy, “he won't be conspicuous. He'll be up there before the house starts to fill, reading a newspaper perhaps. Why not? The audience will notice him but ignore him, just as they ignored the properties men in Chinese classical drama. Anyway, we've no time to do anything else. Swathing of any sort will interfere with the lights, and the final rehearsals
must
start tomorrow.”

The director grunted and wandered away. He came back later carrying a bucket of black paint and with a smug little smile on his face. He was followed by a hairy art student in a paintstained dressing-gown. We had seen this man working
in the cellar downstairs on a frieze of fabulous monsters round the restaurant wall. He now set a ladder against our own glaring white walls and without apparent premeditation he covered them in a couple of hours with big silhouettes of Westminster Abbey, the House of Commons, Tower Bridge, the Tower of London, Marble Arch, the Eros fountain, Nelson's monument, Broadcasting House and Saint Paul's Cathedral. He finished by adding a few details in lines of gold enamel. Various people came from other parts of the building to stare at the result. The director gave them a small lecture.

“You see the idea, perhaps. The audience occupies the same simple setting which the actors do. The properties we will use are all exposed in their places on the uncurtained stage. Nothing is disguised, nothing hidden. Even our electrician will be a visible part of the drama, in fact he will be the first character on the stage. As soon as the audience is seated and it's time to begin, Jock will check the fire-exits, close the house doors, walk down through the audience, mount the stage and pick up his overalls, which will be on that desk just left of centre. He will pull these on over his splendidly dapper suit then climb into that tower thing, sit on that plank, and gradually extinguish all the lights until we are in total blackness, apart from the little red bulb high up which shows Jock where his switches are. He puts on a recording of Big Ben chiming the hour, and as the notes fade away he turns a spotlight upon Arthur Shotts and Charlie Gold who enter through the main door at the back. He keeps the spot on them while they stroll, chatting, down toward the stage, and just before they reach it I– sorry, no, Eustace McGrotty, our hero – he blunders into them out of the darkness. From then on Jock, though visible, will be completely ignored, like the properties men in the classical Chinese dramas.”

I said loudly, “This opening is news to me.”

“News?” said the director wonderingly, “News? Surely I told you all this yesterday. I thought of it yesterday.”

I said emphatically, “It is news to me.”

“But you will do it, I hope. Why be a power behind the scenes when you can be a performer also? Listen!” – he appealed to the writer–“You like the idea, don't you?”

“It can do no harm,” said the writer.

“You hear that?” cried the director triumphantly. “Even he is enthusiastic. Helen. Diana. My loved ones. Woo Jock for me. Seduce him. Persuade him.”

I said, “I will think the matter over,” and went out for a walk.

I was excited by the notion of starting the play like that, for I had come to envy the actors who would perform in the pools of light I cast. But I had spoken privately to one of the other helpers around the place, an apprentice electrician who struck me as reliable. He had agreed to take over my job on the opening night if I taught it to him before the final rehearsal. I had three reasons for arranging this.

FIRST

I knew the play would flop because the director insisted on playing the hero, a part for which he was unfit.

SECOND

Even so, I now respected and even liked the director, a little. He was a raving egoist, yes, but not an idiot, and he really did hold the company together. I no longer believed I could take one of his women away from him. The idea of doing so seemed dirty and shabby.

THIRD

Denny was taking my visits to Edinburgh very badly. I slept with her most nights of the week, hitchhiking back to Glasgow to save fares and leaving again very early next morning; but our lovemaking, especially when we awoke around dawn, which had been our best time, was now stale and hurried and desperate. Her hands clutched me like little claws. That very morning, in a fit of weakness or strength (tell me which it was, God, because I don't know) I had told her, “You ought not to worry, Denny. After tomorrow I'm coming back to you for good.”

She had sighed with relief. Her claws had become gentle hands again.

Thinking of these things I walked gloomily down the Mound. The day was sunny and windy again. I seem to remember flags of all nations flapping on their poles along Princes Street. I noticed that Helen was walking on one side of me and Diana on the other. Diana said, “We've
been sent after you to woo and seduce you. Do you really hate the idea of starting the play like that? think it's a glorious idea.”

Helen said, “If he doesn't want to do it I don't see why he should.”

I said, “I'm leaving the company tomorrow.”

“Oh you can't do that!” they cried out simultaneously. I said, “I will certainly do it if Brian doesnae give his part to Rory.”

We were standing still now, staring at each other. Helen looked horrified. Diana looked delighted. Diana said,

“Good! You must tell Brian that.”

Helen said, “If Jock tells Brian that, Brian will have a nervous breakdown.”

Diana said, “No. Brian is a lot tougher than he pretends. Come on Jock.”

She seized my arm and led me back to the West Bow. She was very excited. Helen became excited too and seized my other arm. I swept in on the company with a woman on each arm and feeling important. The director said, “Good good good, darlings. I see you have persuaded him.”

Diana said, “In a way, yes, we have, but in another way, no, not at all. Tell him, Jock.”

I said, “I will do anything you ask me to do in this play: provided that you switch parts with Rory. If you don't I am leaving the company tomorrow, though of course I will provide you with an adequate substitute.”

The director said, “You fucking wee bastard.”

He said it in an ordinary Glasgow voice which was perhaps his natural speech. He looked round at the others, who gazed back at him hopefully. He said to Rory, “What do you think of that?”

Rory shrugged and said, “It might be worth trying.”

Roddy said quickly, “Rory doesn't
really
want your part, Brian, he just feels – we both feel – in fact everybody feels he is not right in the part of Sir Arthur. You would be a much much better Sir Arthur.”

“Thankyou, Roddy,” said the director, “you are very tactful. My electrician has just booted me in the groin. My entire female cast is applauding him. My second male lead shrugs his shoulders and you provide the magic words
which will save my self-respect: I will be a much much better Sir Arthur.”

“Nobody listens to me, of course,” said the writer, “but I told you that weeks ago.”

“Dear pretty splendid beautiful Brian,” said Diana, “we all love and admire you, we can do nothing without you, without you our entire world will fall apart, but could you not just once, for the company's sake, let us read through the play in the way Jock has suggested? If it doesn't work we'll all know what complete fools we have been and we'll never dare to question anything you say ever again.”

The director looked at her blankly for a while then said in his ordinary voice, “All right.”

They sat round a table and read the play with Rory in the main part. After a shaky start it went well. Rory was a convincing Glaswegian simpleton and the director a convincing upper-class English bully. Before they reached the end of the third scene the director said, “Stop. I was wrong and you are right, I was wrong and you are right, I WAS WRONG AND YOU ARE RIGHT.”