Flashback extract
They arrived in a flurry of excitement, and the avuncular Peter Brook bounded over to our corner and introduced me as Young Lucius, grandson of Titus Andronicus. Apart from Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, there was an imposing entourage, and this retinue seemed scary as it loomed over me. But I was a mere 4’ 8” then, and I was suddenly overcome by an attack of shyness. They all tried to make me feel at ease and I melted beneath the gaze of Scarlett O’Hara. Her eyes blazed just as I remembered them from the film. But the man next to her was no Rhett Butler. My first impression of Olivier was of a pleasant, ordinary man in a suit, pretty much like my father wore to the office, but less shiny.
For some strange reason I don’t remember a great deal about the rehearsal period. Anthony Quayle I watched with fascination. He was playing Aaron the Moor, and as he gabbled his lines a fine spray of saliva cascaded from his mouth like a fountain. Other actors seemed too polite to mention being drenched in his spit. I was glad I didn’t have any scenes with him. It would have been revolting to be on the receiving end of his saliva emissions.
When Peter Brook directed me, other than telling me where to move, and when to enter and exit, he gave me very little advice about my actual performance, other than encouraging me with congratulatory remarks.
Once during rehearsals, he came down heavily on Vivien Leigh, criticising her performance. I saw her looking towards her Larry for support, but Olivier was staring at his feet, determined not to get involved. It seemed that everyone had the greatest respect for Peter Brook, and his word was law. When this particular rehearsal ended, Vivien Leigh swept out, followed by Olivier, who resembled nothing more than a hen-pecked husband as he trailed in her wake. From outside the rehearsal room doors we all heard the muffled start of a quarrel and Vivien Leigh’s voice rising like a shrew as she berated him.
It had been an astonishing scene to witness. Performing, Olivier had been mighty, a believably tragic Roman general, whose sudden laugh in the midst of the horror sent shivers down everyone’s spine. But as soon as the rehearsal ended he became a small man in the presence of his wife. It was like watching a role reversal, as if she wanted to bring his actor’s greatness down to size.
Years later I discovered it was well known that Vivien Leigh was at that time having an affair with Peter Finch, so it must have been a turbulent time for them both.
Apparently, Olivier, who knew about the affair, never did play the outraged husband and simply accepted and ignored it. But, apart from witnessing the occasional scene from a floundering marriage, the rehearsals were exhilarating to watch. And soon the exciting day came when I was shown my first passport, issued by the Foreign Office on 15 April, 1957, full of visas for the Iron Curtain countries. The visit by the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre Company was to be the easing of the tension between the capitalist west and the communist side of the Iron Curtain. The Stratford-upon-Avon company of actors were setting off as envoys for Britain. But would the leading ambassadors be able to contain their anger and keep from airing their dirty laundry in public?
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EXTRACT & PREVIEW from MR MICAWBER DOWN UNDER
Or if you would prefer, why not listen to David Barry reading a 12 minute extract from the book at the London Lit 3 at a north London bookshop.
The pawnbroker’s wife slammed down a plate piled high with steaming meat and potatoes in front of her husband, glowered at him, then stormed out of the back of the shop and returned to her kitchen. Despite not speaking to her husband for close on three weeks now, she still continued to perform her wifely duties, albeit with silent anger and resentment. The pawnbroker heard the repressed venom of his wife through the noise and clatter of the pots and pans, and as he shovelled huge portions of food into his mouth, he fed his hatred by imagining his meal was poisoned and swallowed tough lumps of mutton without chewing them. But it was the atmosphere which was poisoned, and it was into this atmosphere that Mr Micawber strutted.
As he entered, a small bell tinkled merrily and incongruously in this gloomy cave of sacrificed heirlooms and riches. The pawnbroker barely glanced up from his food and continued to devour unbelievably large portions of the meal with no respite between mouthfuls. At the sight of all this food, Mr Micawber was momentarily discomposed, licked his lips and frowned and stopped in his tracks. He watched as a stream of gravy spurted from the side of the pawnbroker’s mouth, and stared with wide-eyed fascination as it ran across the man’s ample chin, where it got caught in a forest of dark stubble. The pawnbroker reminded Micawber of an ogre from a tale by the Brothers Grimm, and for one split-second he seriously contemplated abandoning his mission; but as he hesitated in the oppressive silence, the ogre spoke in an expressionless voice that came from the bottom of a deep well.
'Clocks have a habit of stopping,' he boomed. His enormous Adam’s-apple bobbed like a walnut in his throat as he swallowed a tricky bit of tough, gristly mutton. 'Permanently,' he added.
But having come thus far, and realising that time was definitely not on his side, Mr Micawber persevered. He placed the clock on the counter in front of the pawnbroker’s dinner plate.
'With all due respect, sir,' he began slowly, 'horologists have marvelled at its mechanical movements, giving no mere estimation of the passage of the noon sun over the meridian at Greenwich. In short, it is most reliable.'
'Get to the point!' snapped the pawnbroker, nearly losing the food from his mouth, which he just managed to catch and gulp like a ravenous dog.
Mr Micawber coughed delicately before continuing, and when he spoke it was in the measured, refined tone he reserved for simpletons. 'I was under the perceptible impression,' he enunciated, savouring each consonant, 'that the point - although circumnavigated by my testimony as to the accuracy and efficiency of this elegant contraption - had, in short, been reached.'
The pawnbroker stopped eating and looked up slyly. 'How much?' he demanded.
Mr Micawber suppressed a smile, knowing that his fish was hooked. But he still liked to retain a certain amount of propriety and dignity in transactions of this sort, for to arrive at an agreed price expeditiously seemed indelicate.
The ogre stared at Micawber, waiting for an answer.
Mr Micawber coughed more loudly. 'Ahem! Until such time as this precious ornament may be redeemed, and until such time as something turns up - which I am confidently expecting - shall we say – um – three pounds?
The ogre began eating again. 'I’ll give you one,' he mumbled through a mouthful of potato.
Micawber reeled back with exaggerated horror. 'O death where is thy sting?' he intoned dramatically. 'This is an heirloom, sir, handed down by my Dear Wife’s progenitors. Must we be torn from our heritages and still be unable to sever pecuniary shackles? You may as well take a knife and plunge it deep into my bosom. You would be doing me a service.'
The theatricality of this speech was lost on the pawnbroker, whose attention was now closely directed towards to clock, scrutinising its face for any progress the large hand had made since its vendor had begun to haggle.
'Er - you said one,” Micawber hastily conceded. “Would that be a pound or a guinea?'
'Pound,' sneered the pawnbroker; and that, coupled with his unprepossessing appearance, was intimidatingly conclusive.
Micawber shrugged compliantly and tapped out a gentle rhythm with his fingers on the top of his cane, while the ox-like brute of a moneylender leaned forward on his creaking, rickety stool and brought out from under the counter eight half-crown pieces, a pawn-ticket and a tiny stub of a pencil. After licking the tip of the pencil, he scrawled something illegible across the ticket, then pushed it across the counter towards Micawber, who managed to control a relieved sigh, and with the dexterity of a conjuror, completed the transaction by surrendering the clock key and pocketing the money and pawn ticket. Then, noticing how the pawnbroker was staring fixedly at the clock’s hands, he was panicked into making a token protest at the unfairness of the exchange by way of a distraction.
'It mortally aggrieves me,' he began nervously, easing away from the counter a fraction, 'that for a mere shilling you have opted to foreclose on my goodwill and custom - in short, a compromise was not reached. However, as you were the one holding the purse strings, one pound will have to suffice.'
Micawber, seeing the ogre comparing the hands on his Dear Wife’s Clock to those of another clock, decided it was time to hasten his departure. He turned around sharply and scuttled to the door.
'Just a minute!'
Fear froze him for an instant, his hand upon the shop door handle. He saw with horror that the moneylender had picked up the clock and was about to listen to its movements.
'Time and tide await no man!' Micawber blurted out. 'I shall therefore bid you good-day, sir.'
Still clutching at faint vestiges of courtesy, Micawber brazenly but clumsily doffed his hat before exiting smartly. The shop bell tinkled again. The pawnbroker, not a man burdened by excessive intelligence, was confused and frustrated by the events which had suddenly overtaken him. How had he managed to lose control of the situation? He held the clock pressed close against his left ear. Silence. He tried the right ear. Nothing. The clock had stopped. He shook it, banged it angrily on the counter, and stared for a while at his unfinished meal, for which he seemed to have lost his appetite. And it seemed to be this, more than the clock, which sent him spinning into a convulsion of rage. As he erupted, his stool clattered to the floor.
'Maggie!' he bellowed.
The walls of the shop reverberated with hatred that was now directed towards his wife.
As for Micawber, he had already strutted briskly into the nearest wine merchant and was animatedly choosing a bottle of the very best port.
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