Stage Whispers

By M A Fitzroy

Meet jobbing actor Jonathan Stapleton – failed husband, slightly better father, with no ambition and in his own eyes only a modicum of acting ability; he doesn't need complications in his life, but that's exactly what he gets with Callum Henley – younger, talented, exasperatingly impulsive, and for some reason completely crazy about him. How can they hope to succeed as a couple when one is heading for fame and fortune at the very top of his profession … and the other one prefers to stay at home?

• Language: English
• Publisher: satis fiction
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201042837

M A Fitzroy

When MA Fitzroy started writing M/M (or 'slash') fiction, it was common for writers to adopt a pen name of the opposite gender. Thus she chose 'Adam Fitzroy', which helped protect her from people who'd targeted her in the past, but was always careful to make no claims that the person behind that pseudonym was actually male. * In these more enlightened times, however, the real MA Fitzroy can at last stand up and be counted - as she always has to her closest friends! * Imaginist and purveyor of tall tales MA Fitzroy is a UK resident who has been successfully spinning male/male romances either part-time or full-time since the 1980s, and has a particular interest in examining the conflicting demands of love and duty.

Book preview

Acknowledgements and dedication

The author wishes to thank Louise and Pamela, who read the manuscript and kindly offered suggestions and amendments.

*

Dedicated to Laertes and Rosencrantz - only a fraction late!

Act 1

Scene i

(An attic bedroom somewhere in central England. It is an early morning in the spring of 1996. JON is alone in a double bed, apparently asleep. The telephone rings on his bedside table.)

*

No actor likes to be startled awake by the telephone ringing before eight o'clock on a Sunday morning, especially if - as is sometimes the case - he happens to be the conscientious type and to have endured a punishing schedule of rehearsal and performance on the previous day. If Jonathan Stapleton was already showing signs of a return to consciousness, and even if by fortunate chance he was also an habitual early riser, the wretched thing was still an intrusion on what until that point had been a leisurely awakening. A moment beforehand he had been drowsily at his ease and basking in the luxury of some well-deserved relaxation, but this unpleasant timing boded either lack of courtesy in the caller, a wrong number or - worse and infinitely more probable - a genuine emergency.

Jon?

Yes?

It's Ewen. I'm looking for Callum. Is he with you?

Astonished, Jon sat up quickly. I don't keep him in my bedroom, Ewen; he lives downstairs, and that's on a separate number. Let me ...

But Ewen was still talking.

He's got to come in. There was more than an edge of panic to his voice. Sober him up, get him dressed, pour him into a taxi, do whatever you have to do but get him to me as soon as you can; he's going to have to spend the day rehearsing.

What?

I'm at the hospital. Ewen sounded like a man who had drunk too much coffee, smoked too many cigarettes, and was hanging close to the brink of exhaustion. Douggie Pirie, silly bastard, had one too many in the White Horse last night, fell up a flight of stone steps and smashed his bloody knee to smithereens. It's going to be weeks before he can walk properly; nobody can play the Scottish King on crutches, so the boy will have to go on tomorrow night - and for the foreseeable future until we can get somebody in to take over. Never played the part yourself, I suppose?

Never! I'd be completely wrong for it.

Of course you would, acknowledged Ewen, limply. You're really one of nature's Banquos, aren't you? Well, dig him out, will you, Jon, and point him in my direction? I'll take him through the fights and run lines with him, and I'm calling a full rehearsal for two o'clock. Make sure the others know - and I'll expect you to be there, as well.

Of course.

The rehearsal room will be open at nine, Ewen continued, relentlessly. Maisie's coming at half past to have a look at Callum's costume. I don’t want to keep her any longer than necessary – these people have a better union than we do.

All right. But he can't be there in less than an hour, and probably more like two.

Understood. I'll get some breakfast, then. Make sure he eats something, for God's sake; it may be a while before he has the chance again, and I don’t want him fainting in mid-soliloquy. He knows the part, I suppose?

I'm sure he does. But why Jon had been expected to have this information he was uncertain; being the senior man in the house did not exactly put him in the position of either parent or teacher, although heaven knew some of the younger ones over the years had shown a tendency to treat him as such. He was merely a lodger like themselves - of longer standing and with additional privileges, it was true, but with no greater status than their own.

Then I'll leave it in your hands - and see you at two o'clock. The line clicked abruptly, filling the sunlit bedroom with the disconnection tone.

Jon sat for a moment trying to collect his thoughts. Callum Henley was one of this year's new intake: four or five years out of LAMDA, with a bit of telly and regional rep. behind him, he was supposedly destined for super-stardom by the quickest route - at least, so gossip had it. Not that gossip was infallible, but Jon had seen the boy work. Callum certainly knew what he was doing, and when his fruity light baritone had matured a bit he would be natural casting for the great theatrical roles. The Scottish King at twenty-six, however, would be a stretch even for him. If he was to have any hope of doing it well, he would need someone sensible and grounded to shepherd him through these first chaotic hours.

So much for his quiet Sunday. With a sigh of resignation, wondering which of the several million things he ought to be doing should be first, Jon reluctantly hauled himself out of bed and began to dress.

*

Ten minutes later he was knocking on the door of Callum's ground-floor bedroom and hoping the young man had not brought company home the night before. Callum was going to need to concentrate without distractions, and being flustered by the presence of some dizzy female would probably not be the best way of starting a difficult day.

Who the fuck is that? Some of the provincial vowels that drama school had supposedly smoothed out were evident in the half-awake bellow from behind the closed door. Judging by the direction from which it came, Callum was obviously still in bed.

It's Jon. There's a problem. Then, when there was no sound of movement from within, he added, Callum, I'm serious; open the door.

An incoherent sound followed, the creaking of bedsprings, and a fumbling with latches before a sleepy fair head and unshaven jaw appeared around the corner of the door.

What's up?

Jon drew a breath. He did not quite know how to deliver what could be either the best or the worst news of Callum's life. Douggie's broken his leg, he said, gently. You're going on, at least for the week.

Callum blinked, blue eyes struggling to focus, and then he stood back. You'd better come in, he said, holding the door open. What happened?

Standing in the gloom of the ground-floor bedroom, its extra-thick curtains cutting out a glorious spring morning, Jon related what little information he had. The room looked as if a bomb had hit it: stale clothing was piled on one chair, with several pairs of shoes scattered on the floor. It was obvious that Callum's nights here had been solitary, at least recently; no girl in her right mind would have spent more than half an hour in this turmoil of her own free will.

Christ, I'd better find some clothes. Callum, wearing only a pair of faded blue boxers, was glancing around despairingly as if expecting a valet to waltz up with a freshly-pressed shirt and pair of trousers. I'm sorry the place is such a mess.

They were always like this in the beginning, the first-timers who lodged at the Old Crown. They could never get it into their heads that Jon wasn't the landlord, only his representative, and that he didn't care if their rooms were untidy or their bedding was never washed. He handed over the keys at the start of the season and took them back at the end, and if there was any damage he dealt with it; beyond that, whatever they did behind locked doors was their own business.

It's not important. He was trying to sound reassuring. Why don't you have a shower and get dressed? I'll make you some breakfast, if you like.

Good God, really?

Yes, really. Bacon, tomatoes and fried bread?

Fine. I mean, that's extraordinarily kind. Callum still looked stunned. I'm going to need a taxi, aren't I?

I'll take care of it.

Thank you.

Jon was moving towards the door, about to abandon Callum to his own devices, when on impulse he paused and turned back.

This is only happening because you're ready for it, he said. Concentrate on doing one thing at a time, and let people help you if they want to - although you don't have to listen to every piece of advice you're given. Nobody's jealous; we all like to think it could happen to us one day, too.

You're telling me I haven't got time to fall apart, aren't you?

Absolutely. And to grab your chance with both hands because it may not come again.

Got it. Thanks. Promise I won't let you down.

I know.

But Jon had left the room and was back in the kitchen taking the bacon out of the fridge before it occurred to him to wonder why it was his business whether Callum Henley succeeded or not. They hardly knew one another: they had lived under the same roof for a couple of weeks, rehearsed on the same stage, and gone out for drinks with the rest of the company; that was the extent of their acquaintance, and it was all he had ever expected. Callum was lively and formidably energetic - not to mention much younger than Jon, who could scarcely have been described as either of those things. Indeed, he had studied most of his life to be self-effacing and to adopt the colouration of his background; it was one of his reasons for having been attracted to acting as a profession in the first place, that it gave him such a variety of places and ways in which to hide.

*

Some twenty minutes later, when Callum found his way to the large communal kitchen, they ate in almost total silence. Callum made distracted attempts to be polite; Jon refilled his coffee cup without being asked. The room was quiet and sunny and the house still, with no sign of movement from their fellow inmates.

The girls are probably still asleep, Jon said, in answer to Callum's enquiring look. I've left a note for Izzy; she'll make sure they get there on time.

Callum nodded and returned to his breakfast. What time's my taxi coming?

There's no taxi. I'll take you in. It's the best way to stop Ewen panicking. Jon was absently piling plates into the sink.

You've got a car? I didn't realise.

More or less. The finance company still owns most of it. I've booked a cab for the others for twelve thirty. Are you ready?

Callum checked himself over. Coat, keys, money, he said. What else?

Script?

Oh God. Quickly he retrieved it from his room, and a moment later they were crossing the road outside the house. You're really settled in here, aren't you? Callum watched Jon unlock one of a line of concrete garages which flanked the pub car park. Is this your permanent home?

Jon shrugged. Not exactly. I've got a flat in London, but there are tenants living in it. Roy lets me stay here more or less rent-free in exchange for keeping an eye on the place.

Roy?

Roy Arbour. This is his house. He and his family own a lot of property in the area. They've been living here for generations.

Roy Arbour the actor, you mean?

Jon stared at him. Of course. We're old friends - we were at drama school together - 'When Roscius was an actor in Rome'. He reversed the car out of its narrow space, flung open the passenger door, got out to lock the garage.

Roy Arbour, Callum repeated, in awe. God, he's one of my all-time heroes. I saw him play Tybalt when I was about ...

For heaven's sake, don't remind him! You'll get a lecture about pink nylon tights and swords that fell apart whenever we tried to use them. A deft turn across the empty car park, and they emerged onto the silent road. Roy hated everything about that production, but I agree with you - he was very good in it.

Callum nodded. I haven't heard anything of him for ages. Is he still working? I don't suppose he needs to, does he, if he's got all this property?

Only when he feels like it – if he gets a chance to travel somewhere interesting, or meet somebody he admires. He went all the way to Malaysia once, just to get shot by Sean Connery. He was only on screen for about thirty seconds.

Hmmm. I would probably have done the same.

Me too. Unfortunately all I get offered are cuckolded husbands and bewildered doctors, and I never go anywhere more exotic than Newcastle for any of them. Still, it's a living - of sorts. Jon looked up through the windscreen, waiting for the lights outside the church to change. They took their sweet time, but eventually the car pulled away smoothly and began to leave the village behind. Do you want to run lines on the way? he asked, diffidently.

In the car? Are you joking?

Only if you want to. If there's anything bothering you.

What, you'll do it from memory, will you?

I'll try. I had thirty-six performances as Young Siward and Second Murderer, Jon told him, smiling out of the corner of his mouth. Not to mention going on as Malcolm when Bryan Aven sprained his ankle. It was almost my first professional engagement. I wouldn't say I was word-perfect but I'll have a go. Throw me a line and see what I come up with.

Callum seemed to regard this as a challenge. "All right, then, how about this:

Methought I heard a voice cry, 'Sleep no more!

Macbeth doth murder sleep.' - the innocent

Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,

The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,

Balm for hurt minds, great nature's second course,

Chief nourisher in life's feast."

Jon smiled at him. Too easy, he commented wryly. 'What do you mean?'

"Hey, concentrate on the road!

Still it cried, 'Sleep no more!' to all the house

Glamis hath murder'd sleep: and therefore

Sleep no more, - Macbeth shall sleep no more!"

Carefully Jon negotiated the mini-roundabout by the industrial estate.

'Who was it that thus cried?’ he continued. "Why, worthy thane,

You do unbend your noble strength to think

So brainsickly of things. - Go get some water,

And wash this filthy witness from your hands. -

Why did you bring these daggers from the place?

They must lie there; go carry them; and smear

The sleepy grooms with blood."

Hand, corrected Callum, brandishing the script. Not 'hands'.

Hand, repeated Jon. We're not rehearsing me, he added.

No, but I wish we were. I bet you could play Lady Mac standing on your head. You'd be brilliant.

Unfortunately I lack a couple of necessary attributes. One hand indicated a particularly flat bosom.

You could wear padding, laughed Callum. In true Elizabethan tradition. But I suppose you'd have to lose the beard, which would be a shame.

Thank you. Are we going to continue rehearsing?

Callum's mood sobered instantly. "Yes, we are. How can I possibly pass up a chance like this?

I'll go no more;

I am afraid to think what I have done;

Look on't again I dare not."

'Infirm of purpose!' rejoined Jon.

"Give me the daggers, the sleeping and the dead

Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood

That fears a painted devil."

You know, you sound just like Margaret Rutherford.

I do not! But it was impossible to be serious with Callum in this mood.

Jon, would you mind sticking around for the day to help me rehearse? he asked, almost tentatively. I think I'd feel a lot more comfortable if you could.

Of course, as long as Ewen doesn't mind. I can always do with a bit of extra fight practice, anyway.

But you're not ... Callum stopped in mid-sentence, as if it would be ungenerous somehow to point out that Jon had little or no fighting to do in this production. I'd really appreciate that, he said, quietly.

"Part of the service.

If he do bleed,

I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,

For it must seem their guilt."

'Whence is that knocking?' continued Callum, smoothly.

"How is't with me, when every noise appals me?

What hands are here? Ha! They pluck out mine eyes!

Will all Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hands?"

Hand.

"Hand.

No: this my hand ('these my hands'?) would rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red."

They were slowing again, to a pedestrian crossing outside a school. It would be more use, said Jon, indicating the signal, if you could learn to make the red one green.

I'll work on that for next time. The tension had almost completely drained out of Callum's square frame, his body relaxing, the look on his face calmer now if not entirely optimistic. You know, I might end up not hating this whole experience after all.

I'm certain of it. You can do whatever you put your mind to, Callum. Remember that. And look behind you occasionally, because there will always be people who aren't quite as brilliant as you are who may need you to encourage them. They'll appreciate it if you take the time.

Christ, whispered Callum. You really think I'm headed straight for the top, don't you?

I know you are. I've never doubted it for a minute.

And in the silence that followed this remark Callum murmured something under his breath which Jon, had he felt so inclined, might have interpreted as God, Jon, I really wish I wasn't.

*

Ewen Snow, who was anxiously pacing back and forth outside the entrance to the rehearsal room - an unpleasantly industrial-looking facility near the railway line, half a mile from the craggy Victorian theatre - was almost comical in his relief and gratitude at their arrival. Small and stringy, with grey hair and the sort of sinister wire-framed glasses beloved of movie Nazis, he appeared to have been steadily wearing himself away to a frazzle since the day he was born. As Callum and Jon approached, he came within an inch of throwing his arms around them and covering their necks with kisses.

My God I'm glad to see you! he exclaimed, crushing his cigarette under one heel. Its limp carcass joined a great many others on the tarmac. I'm sorry about your weekend, Callum.

It's hardly your fault, Callum told him. How's Douglas?

Fast asleep when I left him, the stupid sod, piled up on pillows and surrounded by nurses - completely oblivious to all the bloody chaos he's causing. Did you have other plans for today?

Nothing that couldn't be postponed. But the idea that anything could be more important than rehearsing for an unexpected lead in so prestigious a production amused them all.

Jon - are you staying?

If I can help, of course I'd be glad to stay.

Oh yes, please. I'll need a shoulder to cry on long before the day's over, I assure you. Well, come along, young man, let's have a look at your costume first, shall we? And he took hold of Callum like a jailer escorting a prisoner, and steered him into the ugly but functional building.

*

The next twenty minutes or so were simply confusing. The form-fitting black leather ensemble which had been designed for Douglas Pirie was a good enough match for Callum's shorter but equally stocky frame, although the boots were nothing like a fit. An extra pair of socks would suffice if he was only going to play the part for a week, however; Ewen's jaded manner seemed to indicate that he was hoping not to have to order a new pair, although what the consequences would be of bringing in a completely new actor he did not enumerate. Perhaps the call would go out for someone of sufficient theatrical stature who could fit seamlessly into Douglas's discarded costume. It occurred to Jon that Roy would have been a good candidate, if only he hadn't been carrying a little extra weight around the mid-section these days. Roy had played this part a time or two before.

So what are you doing here? Maisie, the wardrobe assistant, asked as Callum and Ewen moved to the other end of the room to take up their swords. She was chubbily domestic in a sweatshirt and jeans and looked as if she had only been extracted with difficulty from a gruelling session with a muffin pan.

Jon perched on the edge of the table and watched Maisie packing away her wares. I gave Callum a lift. I thought he might appreciate the moral support.

There was a strong hint of South Wales in her vowel sounds when she relaxed enough to let them out. One of yours, then, is he - at the Old Crown? How many have you got this year?

Four. Well, three and a half: Bill Wildman's only staying every other week - he's filming, part of the time - but I've got Izzy and Jacinta on the first floor.

Full house, then?

Yes.

How long have you been living there now? asked Maisie. Ten years?

"Nine. Coriolanus, just after my daughter was born - she's nearly ten now."

Oh yes, I always forget you have a daughter. Do you see anything of her?

Jon shrugged. He was not sure whether it was supposed to hurt or not. He had heard other divorced and separated fathers complaining about how they missed their kids, but he had never had much of a chance to bond with Justine. They had only lived together for the first few months of her life and she had never really felt like his, only her mother's. Perhaps the fact that she had never borne his surname had something to do with it.

I see her two or three times a year, he said. Birthdays and Christmas, of course. Her mother sends me lists of things to buy her. I think she thinks I'm a millionaire.

She writes books, doesn't she, your ex-wife?

It was a subject that always came up, sooner or later. Rosemary Pacifico's witty, waspish books about the theatrical profession had something of a cult following, especially with insiders who had little trouble decoding the pseudonyms she'd given her characters. Within a fifty mile radius of Stratford - or Oxford, or Bristol, or wherever there was live theatre in the UK, which was everywhere large enough to throw a plank across a couple of trestles and rig a curtain - it was an open secret that Finn, the hapless hero of Rosemary's comic masterpieces, was a fictionalised version of Jon himself. To those who knew him the only puzzle was what on earth a gentle man like him could possibly have done to merit such extreme, vitriolic and bitterly exaggerated retribution.

She does, he said. I read the first three. They were very funny. I think she's started to repeat herself a bit, though.

Maisie chortled. The way those things sell, she should be paying you maintenance, she suggested, rather than the other way around.

I've often thought that, he smiled. Ouch! For down at the far end of the hall Callum had lunged a little too enthusiastically and almost taken Ewen's ear off with his sword.

God, I'm too old for this! the director groaned. Jon? Can you take over?

He scrambled to his feet. No rest for the wicked.

How can you? Maisie asked. You haven't rehearsed it, have you?

Not for this play, Jon admitted. But this is an off-the-peg fight; I've been on both ends of it in different productions. The details vary, but basically this is the same fight that's been handed down from one generation to another since Irving's day - and he probably stole it from somebody else. He pulled off his chunky green sweater, threw it over a chair, and advanced up the room to where a sweating Ewen was retiring gracelessly from the field.

Have to give up the coffin-nails, Jon teased, as they passed. He took Ewen's sword and swished it in the air experimentally.

Have to give up sitting all night in hospitals with plonkers who are too pissed to recognise a flight of steps when they see one, came the grim response. You realise the stupid bugger's contract will probably be cancelled, don't you? Management are absolutely ruthless about that sort of thing. Ewen stopped, then turned to where Callum waited, every inch the scruffy young actor in deplorable jeans, trainers, and a hideous pink tee-shirt. Look after the boy wonder, he said. Don't damage him, or I'll make you play the bloody part.

Don't be unkind, retorted Callum, his words thrown at Ewen's retreating back. Besides, he'd make a far better Lady Mac. 'This is a sorry sight', he teased.

'A foolish thought to say a sorry sight', replied Jon, smiling. You don't seriously intend to rehearse two scenes at once, Callum, do you?

D'you think I couldn't?

I'm absolutely sure you could, was the confident response. But one of these days you'll realise that, unlike you, most of the people around you are only mortal.

Mortal? Am I not mortal?

I have no idea what you are, said Jon, taking the first position for the fight, and I don't think you have, either. It's frightening to contemplate.

"Hah, old man, just see if you can keep up with me!

I will not yield,

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet,

And to be baited with the rabble's curse.

Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,

And thou opposed, being of no woman born,

Yet I will try the last. Before my body

I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,

And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'"

They closed, and the clash of steel echoed through the largely empty room. Maisie looked up in appreciation over the top rim of her half-moon spectacles, and Ewen wearily pushed open the fire door and lit another cigarette. Jon caught a flash of amusement and delight in Callum's eyes and realised that the boy's nervousness had gone; he was now wholly committed to the task at hand. His enthusiasm was infectious, too; Jon determined to give back as good as he got, throwing himself into the fight with every scrap of energy at his command, and as he did so he felt the years beginning to fall away. He was deeply absorbed in the process, backing and advancing, stepping smoothly from foot to foot, and he was laughing, and Callum was laughing too, and Jon could not remember the last time he had enjoyed himself quite as much as this.

*

The rest of the morning was just as productive, if less kinetic. They ran lines, with Jon standing in for virtually everyone with whom the king had any interaction, and playing his own scenes as Banquo with only slightly less than the intensity he brought to the role in performance. Ewen, too, stood in, with a version of Duncan which prompted Callum to remark that if Duncan had really been like that Banquo would have been delighted to join the conspiracy to knock him off. At one o'clock a tray of sandwiches was delivered from the White Horse, and the three of them - Maisie had returned to her baking - sat on the floor of the rehearsal room leaning against a side wall and ate their way through soggy supermarket white bread and fish-paste, washed down with the swill the theatre management was pleased to call coffee. It should have been awful but somehow it was not and, when Ewen trudged away doggedly to push another cigarette between his lips and contemplate the infinite iniquities of life, Jon was left propped against the wall with Callum's shoulder brushing his own, their legs stretched in front of them, and no ready topic of conversation.

How d'you think it's going? Callum asked at last.

Jon considered. Rather well. You're going to look a bit too young, I think, but apart from that ...

Well, Shakespeare never tells us how old he is, of course, and Gruoch must be of child-bearing age, so she'd be under thirty or thereabouts.

Izzy's a few years older than you, Jon pointed out, and looks more; you have a baby face. Nobody ever suggested Lady Mac had married her toy-boy.

I know. It's always difficult to get people to take me seriously. Callum thought for a moment. I'd look stupid if I dyed my hair or grew a moustache and in either case, I doubt I could find time to do it before tomorrow night. I'll have to see what I can do with make-up - draw in a few veins and wrinkles and go for a grey stubbly look.

Don't go over the top; we don't want you looking like Duncan's grandfather.

True.

And you'd better talk to Ewen; he may need to change the lighting if you're changing your slap.

Good point. I'll brave the smog and see what he thinks about it. Without a word of warning he put a hand firmly onto Jon's shoulder and used it to lever himself upright, hitching the back of his jeans absent-mindedly as he walked away. Thanks, Jon.

You're welcome. It was polite and instinctive, but Callum was already outside and enveloped in the permanent cloud that seemed to follow Ewen from place to place. Jon watched the door swing back until it reached the fire extinguisher Ewen had used to jam it open, and then thoughtfully began to clear away the remnants of their extempore repast.

*

The rest of the cast arrived in dribs and drabs ahead of their two o'clock call. Izzy - who appeared in playbills and listings magazines as Isabella Thorpe - was, despite being the child of parents named Jolyon and Prunella, a down-to-earth young woman of rational outlook none the worse for having endured childhood in an ivory tower. Jon had felt secure in leaving her to shepherd her less sensible room-mate, Jacinta - a fluffy blonde of the newly-hatched-chick variety - to the rendezvous on time. Jax might well be capable of forgetting appointments, door-keys or even knickers if her little bubble brain had too much to deal with; Izzy, on the other hand, would have been capable of organising a substantial and ultimately successful military campaign. Izzy was a woman very much after Jon's own heart.

She sidled towards him while Callum and Ewen had their heads together over the script. Jax was making enough noise for six people, greeting her dearest and bestest friends in all the world, all of whom she had seen during the previous evening's performance. If she hadn't been known to turn in a perfectly respectable combination of Third Witch and Lady Macduff night after night, she would scarcely have been tolerable for a moment.

How's he doing? No preamble, just the question. Jon respected that. Izzy was as professional as they came.

Very well. Almost word perfect, and the fight's coming together nicely. Maisie's getting the costume sorted out; he'll have it for tomorrow morning.

How about make-up?

He's going to age a little.

Good, she smiled. I'll go a bit younger, then, and meet him in the middle. I must say I think he'll be more fun to play against than Douggie. She paused. I suppose I should go and see him in the hospital, shouldn't I? I am supposed to be his wife, after all.

He'd probably appreciate that. I expect he's been feeling like a leper since he woke up.

Elegantly, Izzy sniffed. Well, so he bloody well should, she said. He's let us all down. Then she stopped again, her eyes fixed on the figures at the far end of the room. Is this the start of it for Callum, do you think? Does he knock this one out of the park and never look back?

Honestly? But it was a redundancy; nobody ever expected anything but honesty from Jon, and Izzy's scornful look was the only answer he received. Yes, I think he does. He's too good an actor to let this opportunity pass him by.

That's what I thought. Well, we'd better appreciate him while we've got him, then, hadn't we? Twelve months from now, he'll be too posh to talk to either of us. And she patted him on the shoulder and turned away to try to calm Jax's over-excited babbling and introduce a note of sanity into the proceedings.

*

Ewen kept them busy until eight that evening, by which time there were rumblings of discontent among the cast. Ewen himself was apparently running on empty, and Callum, too, was obviously tired; some of the bounce had gone from his step and the sparkle from his eyes, although he still put himself loyally and energetically through every hoop demanded of him by Ewen. In the end, however, he glanced at Jon and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, and that was the moment when Jon knew he had to do something. At the next opportunity, he drew Ewen aside discreetly.

You're exhausted, he said, and you've been going round in circles for the past two hours. Why don't you let everyone go home now, and get some sleep yourself? You can always pick it up again tomorrow.

Ewen stared at him, his eyes sunken and red-rimmed. Have we done anything useful here at all? he asked. Is this boy going to be as good as Douggie?

Jon smiled. If you weren't so tired, Ewen, you'd be able to see that he's twice as good as Douggie ever was. Let him do it his way; he'll rip up the stage.

Ewen's expression turned suspicious. It was his default response to anything he did not immediately understand. What's the matter? Do you fancy him or something?

Certainly not. All I'm saying is that he can do this and do it well, if only you'll stop micro-managing and let him get on with it. He's never going to be Douglas Pirie - but a week from now you'll be telling me Douggie's no Callum Henley. If you don't trust him, Ewen, trust me; this will be a better play with Callum in the lead.

You mean that, don't you?

I do.

Ewen's coat-hanger shoulders slumped in defeat. All right, he said. All right, people, thank you. Get a good night's sleep, and we'll start an hour late in the morning. Callum - well done.

There was a muttering of assent around the room. Nobody liked to heap too much praise at such a delicate stage in the proceedings, and anyway most of them were too tired from putting in an unexpectedly vigorous rehearsal to raise much enthusiasm, but agreement seemed to be pretty general. Izzy, however, went over and kissed her new-found husband swiftly on the cheek.

Nice, she said, briskly. I'm going to enjoy being married to you. Jax and I are going to see Douglas in the hospital. Any message?

No. Callum looked stunned. Except maybe - 'thanks'.

I'll tell him. Make sure you get something to eat; you'll have burned off a lot of calories today.

I will. But he was glancing at Jon as though not quite sure of himself. All right for a lift home? he asked.

Of course. And Charlie's Chipper should be open when we get back, unless you want to stop somewhere along the way.

Nowhere with people, was the weary response. I'm peopled-out for the time being. Goodnight, Izzy; give Douglas my regards.

'Night, luv. And she was gone almost before the words had left her mouth, collecting up a flirtatious Jax on the way out.

She's never called me 'luv' before. Callum was wriggling into the thin jacket he'd thrown on first thing in the morning; it did not seem nearly warm enough now that he'd expended so much energy.

You've never been married to her before, was Jon's easy reply. He had pulled his sweater back on over his head and was smoothing down his hair.

True. I always thought she only ever called me 'Callum' to prove she'd remembered who I was. She's a bit jolly-hockey-sticks, isn't she?

Not really. More 'Bohemian'. Her father's an artist. Jolyon Thorpe.

Oh. Orange blobs making love to blue blobs?

That's the one. Are you ready?

Are they frightfully intellectual, her family?

Frightfully, confirmed Jon, steering him out of the hall with only a cursory glance in the direction of Ewen and the last few stragglers. And so's she. But one of the nicest girls we've ever had in the company, in my opinion.

Hmmm, murmured Callum, lost in thought. This is going to be quite an adventure, Jon, isn't it?

Yes. Make sure you leave yourself time to enjoy it, said Jon, as they opened the door and passed out into the night.

*

Callum fell asleep in the car on the way home. Almost unconsciously, Jon found that he was slowing a little, driving more smoothly to avoid upsetting him, the way he had when Justine was a baby and her carry-cot had been on the back seat. He and Rosemary had never had much to say to one another anyway, so long periods of silence had never bothered them. Come to think of it, perhaps even then she had been planning the first of her comic masterworks, parodying every little thing that had ever gone wrong in his career, holding his ambitions up to ridicule. It was an unpleasant recollection, of a time in his life when he had attempted to fit into the template his parents had planned for him. The acting profession hadn't merited their approval, but a pretty wife and lovely baby daughter - even though they had been acquired in the wrong order - met their specifications nicely. Unfortunately, however, they had both lived to see the edifice crumbling and Jon retreating to a lonely life between an ex-council flat in Hackney and a series of unimpressive theatrical digs. Rosemary had taken every penny, had asked for more, and then had taken that too. Jon, cruelly aware of his failings as husband and father, had simply stood still and let her do so.

The silence in the car tonight, however, was of a different quality, with Callum slumped easily in the passenger seat. There was no spiky air of menace emanating from him, and it was not a case of wondering what on earth Jon had done wrong this time. In fact, for once, he was not conscious of having failed to measure up at all. He could honestly say that he had done his best for the boy, and in chauffeuring him back to the house in Shapley and making sure he got something to eat and a reasonably early night he would have delivered faithfully on his promise to look after him. The minibus would pick them both up in the morning as usual, and it would be back to the old routine from then on.

But this - this was pleasant, and the fact that Callum trusted him enough to fall asleep was something of a compliment. It made him feel useful again, however temporarily. He hadn't realised, he supposed, how much he missed having someone to take care of. Callum was not Justine, of course, and would never be an adequate substitute, but if there was a nurturing instinct in him that lacked a focus he supposed it might as well be directed towards Callum as anybody else.

The boy was young and vulnerable and in need of a mentor. Jon could do that. He could provide moral support.

He could, in short, be the kind of friend to Callum that he'd always wished he might have had himself.

*

An hour later they stowed the car back in the lock-up and walked towards Charlie's Chipper, which straddled an awkward corner at the intersection of Market Place, Sharp Street and River Lane. Even on a Sunday Charlie stayed open late; he had long ago calculated to a nicety the distances people were prepared to travel for really good fish and chips and was never short of