Backstabbers - Chapter 23
Breaking the Legs
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
October 31st 1979
MACONWEE’S ELECTION
By Lena Darrow & S. Ostrich
All music composed by Christopher Gothard
Lyrics by C. Gothard and L. Darrow
Produced and Directed
CELIA LANDAKER
CAST
Lena Darrow as Iona
Kevin Pardon as Hamish Maconwee
Reg McClusky as The Mayor of Maconwee
Justin Cathro as Fingal
Jeremy Wrigley as Tavish
Emily Fothergill as Sister Jinty
Dean Sheather as Paddy
Nigel Chavis as The Sheep
Pinky Hazelbaker as Aunt Elspeth
Jamie King as Robbie the Post Boy
SUPPORTING CAST
Colin Warlord Dave Niven Rosemary Biggot Peter Shooter Peter Bread Penelope Chew Andreas Pandrew Nesta Tables SJ Nutbrown Magnus Rummery June Sprankle Dilys Distel Gilbert MacBeth Eddie Vosene Frank Fackrall Elaine Splink Kara Mack Ken Hutchison Sandra Dreft Pamela Pomphrey
Musical Director: Christopher Gothard
Band Leader: Christopher Gothard
Choreographer: Bonnie Inchcape
Vocal Coach: Clive Inchcape
Prompter: Jackie Jiggins
Répétiteur: Christopher Gothard
Property Master: Nigel Chavis
Production Design by Graham Hastings
Costume Design & Wardrobe Management by Della Hamble
Lighting & Sound Design: Robert Dazzler
Sound Operator: Wesley Siner
Stage Manager: Jackie Jiggins
Production Team: Dick Pitkin
Assistant Director: Ryan Deutsch
Theatre Artistic Director: Richard Shepperton
The Cast and Crew wish to thank the kindness & generosity of Sir Richard Shepperton.
This production is dedicated to the memories of:
Vivienne Prebble & Vernon Prebble Dr. Bedford Baker
The Community Play is sponsored by BLS Property Development
Front of house
If the play delivered one ray of hope, it was the successful completion of its original intent: To bring people together. It had been a long time since the theatre had so much life inside it.
Stu prepared for the evening by listening to Genesis - Dance on a Volcano – which ticked the boxes of “fevered anticipation” and “dazzling lights of the West End”. What Stu hadn’t prepared for were the questions from journalists. These weren’t the Brookes Manders type. They had washed and brushed their teeth, for starters. They may have even studied their trade at a university.
“Have you written anything else we may have seen?”
Stu had only considered himself a writer for a matter of weeks, and whenever he dealt with the formality of introductions, he awkwardly fielded this question. He never understood:
A) The weird, bright-eyed expectation that he would have written anything they may have seen, always resulting in a disappointed “Oh, oh well, never mind” droop in the inquisitor’s eyes.
And B) How the flipping heck could he possibly know what they had or hadn’t seen?
What was the acceptable response? Stu soon understood they didn’t actually care whether he had written anything else. It was mindless banter. All this, burdened by a burning nag that he had slapped on too much of Jeffrey’s aftershave.
The Community Play was an easy sell to his parents, as Godfrey had recently exclaimed his frustration with the strike action notice on ITV: “Nothing on the bloody telly but apologies.” His Mum relished the chance to dig out her fake mink coat.
Nothing had been said about Stu’s showdown with Jeffrey and his mob of thugs, so Stu played it casual with his invite to the play, not knowing if Jeffrey would tear it – and Stu – apart. All Jeffrey said was ‘Not even at gunpoint,’ which would sound like a No to most people. But Stu persisted with his brother. He had been dragged to enough of Jeffrey’s cadet parades over the years. Cubs, Scouts, football matches on freezing Sunday mornings… Stu had never been a part of anything which required an attending audience, so he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
‘Coming to watch the Community Play, then?’ asked Stu.
‘Maybe if you do a Clockwork Orange on me and clamp my eyes open,’ said Jeffrey.
Jeffrey was always going to be harder to persuade, given his recent proclamation that the Am-Dram circuit was “Prick City”. Whether it was an act of brotherly sparring or genuine hatred for the theatre, Jeffrey relented at the last minute. Watching his little brother fail in front of a live audience was too juicy to pass up on.
Pink from a hot bath, Stu dried off and got dressed in his best trousers and shirt. He opted for a loud shirt with a headache-inducing pattern which suggested ‘creative’ until Jeffrey offered one of his more expensive, stylish shirts. ‘Wear this. You look a right fanny like that.’
As Jeffrey preened before a pub-style West Ham football club mirror (contorting his neck to see his reflection around the shield printed on the glass), he held out a bottle of aftershave for Stu to splash all over. The kindness was tempered with Jeffrey’s usual ribbing commentary. ‘Cor! Don’t take a bath in it!’
“Can you tell me what the play is about?”
A blank mind bubble burst every time the question was asked. Struggling with the lights, noise and interested faces, Stu wanted to say “It’s a play about community. A serious drama about small-town politics and how power corrupts.” Instead, it came out as “Uh… It’s got dancing Puffins…”
“What’s up next for you?”
An obvious question that Stu had given no thought to. What was next? “The After Show Party?” The journalist chuckled politely, even though Stu was being sincere. During a pause in the questions, Stu’s Mum thrust an open program under his nose, jabbing with her index finger.
‘Who’s “S. Ostrich”? Why have they spelt your name like that?’ Baffled, Stu snatched the program and zoomed in on his credit as his Mum continued grousing. ‘What, they couldn’t afford to print your whole name?’
Scrutinising the program, Stu counted the many credits of Christopher Gothard. Mouthing silent swears of disbelief, Stu jerked at the pinch of a firm hand on his shoulder. Plucked and moved like a chess piece, Stu found himself standing beside Celia, posing for photographers.
‘And here’s our champion playwright!’ declared Celia. Stu’s vexation tightened like a screw. ‘Don’t you mean “co-writer”?’
Dictaphones were thrust at Stu, ready for a sound bite. ‘What’s your masterpiece about?’
‘Small-minded, self-obsessed, judgmental narcissists,’ said Stu.
‘Where do you get your inspiration from?’
‘Oh, everyday stuff,’ smiled Stu.
Celia’s breathy purr of a voice spoke intimately into Stu’s ear. ‘Where is Shepperton? The least he could do was show some face. Go and find him. Now.’
Stu ploughed through the foyer crowd, soured at Celia asking him to find Shepperton like he was some errand boy. The promise of no more dealings with Celia Landaker rocketed in appeal.
Backstage was chaos. Stressed actors dashing to the toilet, last-minute costume alterations and vocal warm-ups. The foyer music piped in through fuzzy tannoy speakers: Manhattan Skyline (from the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever) only intensified the under-rehearsed hell. Stu searched corridors and open doors, as cast and crew verbalised their hysteria.
‘Has anyone seen Shepperton?’ called Stu loudly over the din.
Big and Little J’s enjoyed whipping up everybody’s hyperactive panic. ‘Hands up who’s ready for two hours of condensed nightmare fuel?’ beamed Big J. Little J hyped up the tension in a comedic bellow. ‘Somebody fetch my trousers! The brown ones!’
Emily lingered close to Kevin’s twitching eye, milking what was for her, a sensual moment.
‘I think it’s calming down, isn’t it? It’s not twitching, is it? You can’t really see it, can you?’
‘Let me take a closer investigation…’ said Emily, with a display of pouting lips and smoky eyes.
Kevin sniffed with a frown. ‘Have you been eating Quavers?’
In one of the dressing rooms, Della tended to Reg’s Mayoral trousers.
‘That’ll have to do. Apologies for the length.’ said Della.
‘Never apologise for the length, Della,’ said Reg, adding a cheeky ‘I never do.’
Wearing only y-fronts, Dean Sheather became alarmed at Stu’s presence. ‘Close the door! I’m changing!’ No longer the new boy but a battle-scarred veteran, Stu replied tersely. ‘You must be new here.’ Calling out for Shepperton through the chaos, Stu paced out into the corridor, almost colliding with Nigel. Stu dodged Nigel’s trademark elbow jab as he beamed ‘Break a leg!’ Stu raised a harsh finger to silence Nigel’s jovial well-wishing.
Hustling from one over-crowded dressing room to another, Stu’s hunt for Shepperton was proving unsuccessful. The final changing room was a tranquil departure, stuffed with bouquets and well wishes. Lena, seated in costume, stared intensely into a large glowing mirror. Stu’s voice from the doorway didn’t distract her focus.
‘The Undertaker Understudy. Elke. Paula. Melody. Bit of a poisoned chalice, this lead role.’
Lena softly replied, without a single glance. Her eyes were firmly on herself. ‘Life is a cabaret, old chum. Would you rather Emily played the lead?’
‘Nigel, perhaps.’
‘I’m the only one who knows the role. I practically wrote it.’
‘Re-wrote it.’
‘Only because it was so desperately required.’
‘Surprised you didn’t have my name completely removed from the program.’
‘Y’know, Celia wasn’t even going to credit you. It was me that made her include you.’
‘Good for you. Good for yooooou!’
Stu about-turned, cringing at his poor choice of retort. Lena bellowed from her room, stamping her final words of encouragement on Stu’s cracked ego. ‘Remember. If in doubt, chin up, tits out.’
Excitement boiled over from a nearby dressing room. Big J and Little J led an attention-seeking chorus line of The Concert Party song from It Aint ‘alf Hot Mum. Protesting against the tide of revelry, Stu was swept up in a wave of can-canning high spirits.
At the stage door, Dick chatted with some of the supporting cast. A voice from the Green Room yelled at Reg: “Give us a twirl, Anthea!” Reg courteously obliged, parading snootily in his Mayoral costume. Wesley bowled through, cheerfully encouraging in a firm tone. ‘Tits ‘n teeth people! Tits ‘n teeth! Keep it gay!’
Reg called to Wesley as he passed. ‘Wesley, any chance of a sharp pick-me-up? I like a nice livener before I perform.’
‘It’s already in your dressing room, Reg. Ruby Port. Double…’ Wesley soldiered on as Stu called out to him. If anyone would know where Shepperton was, it would be Wesley.
Out in the foyer, Stu’s repeated calls to Wesley fell unheard. As he weaved through the energised audience, Stu caught sight of familiar faces: Arms set rigid in plaster, Ryan was consoled by Rev. Greene. Ivan Stroud necked glasses of wine paid for by the sycophantic dullards that encircled him. Hugh Batey brooded alone over a pint, nodding a greeting as Stu fleeted by. Local DJ Mike Beslee posed for photos, handing out autographs; requested or not.
Stu finally caught up with Wesley as he entered the box office. ‘Where’s Shepperton?’
‘In his room?’
Before Stu could reply, Wesley spoke into the tannoy mic. ‘Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to The Bernard Saucier Theatre. This evening’s performance of Maconwee’s Erection will begin at seven-thirty.’
Stu folded his arms, unimpressed at Wesley’s gag. ‘You did that on purpose.’
‘I know,’ winked Wesley, pressing another button on the tannoy for the backstage announcement.
‘Boys and Girls, this is your five-minute call. Your five-minute call. Thank you.’
Wesley tossed Stu a set of keys, moving on to his next mission. ‘I want them back pronto.’
Backstage, Stu was startled by the change of atmosphere. The corridor was empty, and thankfully the fog of mania had dispersed.
A cluster of supporting actors in costume bustled towards the stage to take their first positions, as Stu unlocked the door to Shepperton’s den.