Read Online Dead Room Farce by Simon Brett - Free Book Online Page B

quietly at the back of the auditorium and watched the show unfold.
    The run – in comparison to the majority of tech runs – went very smoothly. That was of course down to Tony Delaunay. He managed the cast efficiently, speeding through easy sections of the text and bringing his meticulous concentration to bear on the play’s more difficult moments. Observing all the required Equity breaks, he reached the final curtain just before nine o clock in the evening. The cast members, who’d been fully prepared to work through into the small hours if necessary, were massively relieved.
    As the final curtain fell, David J. Girton was seized by a late burst of energy. He strode down the auditorium from his perch at the back with an authoritative cry of, ‘Could we have the house lights, please? And tabs up? All company remain on stage, please.’
    The cast stayed obediently on stage. They’d all – with the possible exception of Pippa Trewin – been through the process many times before. Tech. runs were a stage of a production which required infinite patience. There was no room for temperament or thespian ego. However many times you were asked to repeat something, however many notes you were given, you just put your head down and got on with it. So the
Not On Your Wife!
company remained on stage, ready for a long screed of directorial notes.
    â€˜Well . . .’ said David J. Girton, with a bonhomous, avuncular smile, ‘pats on the back all round, I’d say. Bloody well done, the lot of you. I’ve kept a pretty low profile today . . .’ (that was something of an understatement) ‘because I don’t believe in interfering on the technical side. There are plenty of people around the studio – erm, around the theatre – who have their own very considerable skills, and I’m not the person to put my oar in and tell them what they should be doing. Pats on the back to all you technical chaps too, by the way.
    â€˜So all I want to say, really, is: Keep up the good work. Tough day tomorrow. We’ve got a dress rehearsal in the afternoon, and the call for that is . . .?’ ‘He turned round helplessly to the company manager.
    Tony Delaunay was, as ever, ready with the relevant information. ‘There’s a company call scheduled for twelve for notes, and the dress rehearsal’s two-thirty, so the “half” for that’ll be one fifty-five.’
    â€˜Oh, well, I don’t think we need the twelve o’clock call, do we? Seems a bit much to break into everyone’s lunch hour.’ There were a good few restaurants in Bath that David J. Girton hadn’t tried yet.
    But actors’ stomachs are not their main priority when a show’s about to open. ‘I think we should stick with the twelve o’clock call,’ said Bernard Walton. ‘There are a couple of bits we need to run. That tablecloth biz in Act Two for a start . . .’
    David J. Girton saw a potential lunch disappearing over the horizon. There was a serious risk he might have to make do with a sandwich. ‘Do you really think we need to . . .?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Tony Delaunay with unshakeable authority. ‘Twelve o’clock call, as per schedule, for notes and the bits that need running.’ He turned deferentially to the director. ‘Anything else you want to say, David?’
    â€˜No, thanks. Just . . . all have a good night’s sleep and see you at twelve tomorrow . . . that is, of course, unless anyone fancies going out now for a bite to eat?’
    None of the cast did. They were tired, for one thing. Also, most of them were husbanding their touring allowance and didn’t want to blue any of it so early into the schedule. Maybe after the first night, a company meal might be in order.
    Before they all dispersed, Tony Delaunay, unthanked by the director for his superhuman efforts during the day, but apparently unworried by the