royannahuggins
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Join date : 2013-10-13
 | | All the World's a Stage by Calico | |
Starring  Pete Duel as Hannibal Heyes
and Ben Murphy as Kid Curry Guest Stars  Derek Jacobi as Hiram Macready Meryl Streep as Martha Macready  Rupert Everett as Will Whittaker Roger Davis as Agent Falk Pernell Roberts as Jack De Vere Diana Muldaur as Mrs De Vere  Rudy Vallee as Mayor Thomas Fennyman Ann Sothern as Mrs Fennyman Juliet Mills as Jenny Heather Menzies as JessicaAnd, special guest star  J D Cannon as Harry BriscoeAll the World's a Stage
by Calico
INTERIOR OF TRAIN CAR
On one side of the corridor two gentlemen are deep in conversation. Across from them sit two familiar figures. The Kid, knees spread, arms folded across his chest, hat tilted over his face, swaying gently with the motion of the train, is, apparently, asleep.
Opposite him, Hannibal Heyes is, apparently, reading The Creede Courier. The camera follows the line of the brown eyes and lingers on the newsprint; ‘Mysterious disappearance of valuable ruby.’ And, below the headline; ‘Top Bannerman agent refuses to confirm or deny link to recent jewellery thefts in Denver.’
The sound mix adjusts. Gradually, the clickity-clack of the train on a track recedes. The conversation of the gentlemen sitting across from the ex-outlaws mutates from background murmur to fully audible.
The elder is speaking. Tall and silver-haired, he cuts an impressive figure. His well-modulated, voice flows like cream from a fine porcelain jug. “I remember a job in Buffalo, back in the late 1840s…”
“I worked in Buffalo three years back, Sir.” With pride, “My first time as juvenile lead. I was cast as…” The youngster with the embroidered waistcoat does not stand a chance.
“Not so many trains back then…” pours on the cream.
Brown eyes slide to the right, indicating the newspaper no longer has Heyes’ full attention. The expression on the dimpled face suggests, like us, he is now eavesdropping.
“Back then, I made the journey to Buffalo by canal. And, since I had been resting… Waiting for the right role to come along – you know how that is…?”
“Oh, yes. I sure know how that is,” agrees Waistcoat.
“Being not in full possession of the requisite fare, I sought kindness from strangers and I – I believe the correct expression is hitched? Yes, I hitched a ride from a barge transporting goods to farms near the town. A pleasant youth, but his goods… Not so pleasant. Pungent rather. Not to put too fine a point upon it, he was transporting manure. A useful commodity, no doubt. Necessary to agriculture, no one can deny. But, pungent. Anyhow, this kind young man gave me transport. I explained I was an actor – on my way to Buffalo to take up a minor role in…” The voice lowers for a moment, “The Scottish Play.” Both men gently tap the wood of the table. “And, since I seated myself upwind of his cargo, all was harmony.”
The newspaper in Heyes’ hands lowers. He shifts in his seat, turning just a shade towards Silver-Mane and friend. Yes, he is definitely listening.
“All harmony, as I say, until, we approached a lock. The lock-keeper came out to us and called ‘Name your cargo’ – as I believe was the custom back then, to determine the toll to be charged. ‘Toll free!’ replied my young benefactor. ‘I carry ten tons of …’” Silver-Mane pauses and shakes his head sadly. “I will not repeat his words verbatim. Let us pretend he used the word – manure. I wish he had used the term – manure. Let my wish be father to the fact, and let us resume. ‘I carry ten tons of manure!’ cried my young friend, ‘And – an Actor!’ The lock-keeper opened the lock – and, in the leisurely time of the waterways we were on our way.
As is the way with canals, we came to a second lock. Again, a lock-keeper came out to us and cried; ‘Name your cargo’ and, again, my travelling companion replied, loud enough to raise Cain; ‘Toll free! For I carry nothing but ten tons of manure...’” Silver-Mane pauses for a moment. “’And – an Actor.’ On we journeyed to the third lock. The same exchange. ‘Name your cargo’ ‘Nought but ten tons of manure, and, an Actor.’ We approached a fourth lock. ‘Name your cargo’… I could stand it no longer. I rose to my feet, I held up my hand…” Silver-Mane does, indeed, hold aloft his hand. “And, I called…” The rich voice rings out; “‘Dear boy! May we have a word about the billing?’”
Embroidered waistcoat applauds gently at the end of the anecdote. Across the corridor, there is a smothered laugh from Hannibal Heyes. Silver-Mane and Waistcoat look over to the ex-outlaw.
“I guess you caught me eavesdropping,” says Heyes. “Sorry.”
“Do not apologise, young man. As you have no doubt deduced, we are both actors. What is an actor without an audience?” Silver-Mane smiles, kindly, gesturing at the empty seat opposite. “As your own companion is wrapped in the arms of Morpheus, pray join us, Mr. – er…”
“Joshua Smith.” Heyes holds out his hand.
The elder man eyes his young companion with meaning.
Waistcoat makes a sweeping gesture towards the elder man, his voice heavy with respect. “May I introduce, the great actor-manager, Hiram Macready?”
“No relation to the great William Charles Macready, alas,” regrets Silver-Mane as he shakes Heyes’ hand. Heyes looks blank for a second, then adopts a politely impressed expression.
“And this,” says Macready, returning the favour, “Is Will Whitaker. A most talented juvenile lead.”
--oooOOOooo---
LATER
Heyes now sits with the actors. The Colorado scenery still rolls past the window. All is friendly. Silver-Mane, or as we now know him, Hiram Macready, is midway through another anecdote.
“Only one line did the poor boy have. ‘It is.’ Two words, four letters. That is all he had. ‘It is.’ Over and over he rehearsed. ‘It is. It is.’ All possible emphases. ‘IT is.’ ‘It IS’. All manner of delivery. ‘It is???’ ‘It is!’ ‘IT IS!!!’ Then on the first night, right on cue, he stepped forward and bleated, ‘Is it?’”
--oooOOOooo---
LATER STILL
Will Whitaker’s turn; “So, I wrote back, asking, which Witch? Because, although any work was welcome when I was starting out, still one didn’t want to dent a burgeoning reputation. So, I needed to know, which Witch? First Witch – I could work with that. Second Witch - one begins to demur. Third witch – well, a man has his pride. Which Witch?”
--oooOOOooo---
Macready is once again in full flow.
“…And he got his revenge. Oh yes. As you know, the message that the Queen has died is the cue for the ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ speech. A veritable feast for any actor. My friend Jack, he walked up to the Scottish King, before a full house too, and declared, ‘The Queen my lord, she’s getting better’…”
Both younger men laugh.
“Ah! Joshua, I believe your friend is about to leave off slumbering near.”
Indeed, Curry’s slow, even breathing is interrupted by a snort, then, a shake of the head. One finger pushes up a brown brim.
“Welcome back, Thaddeus,” says Heyes. Blue eyes blink at him, then, at the two actors. “This is Hiram Macready and Will Whitaker.” Still emerging from sleep, but ever civil, the Kid touches his hat. “Thaddeus Jones,” fills in Heyes. “Thaddeus, these fellas reckon they have work for us in Stratford.”
“Stratford?”
“Not on Avon, alas. Stratford, Boulder County,” explains Whitaker.
“It just means getting off a couple of stops earlier than we planned,” says Heyes.
“Strictly speaking, I leave all backstage hiring to my dear wife. She has all my confidence. The three years she has graced my life have proven her worth indeed above rubies. But, there’s always work for craftsman like yourselves among the stagehands, Mr. Jones,” smiles Macready.
Kid Curry shoots a silent reproach at his partner.
“You are a skilled carpenter like Joshua, here?”
“When you say skilled…” demurs the Kid.
“Sure, he is,” says Heyes. “He’s just being modest. Did either of you ever see the meeting hall in Wickenburg?”
Two heads shake.
“Thaddeus and me – we built that!”
Heyes receives the look.
--oooOOOooo---
MORNING – EXTERIOR
Establishing shot. A bustling Western street prepares for another day. An air of newness and prosperity. Exterior of a fine brick-built building. Stratford Municipal Hall.
ZOOM IN
An extra is completing the pasting of an impressive poster of a silver haired noble, clad in much tartan, an animal pelt and a crown.
Renowned actor-manager, Hiram Macready presents; MacBeth.
Sponsored by; Mayor Thomas Fennyman
Sharp eyed viewers will note the mayor has claimed almost equal billing.
A well-dressed woman, carrying a small parcel exits the Hall. The man wielding the paste brush touches his hat, respectfully, as she passes.
ZOOM OUT – MIDDLE DISTANCE
The camera follows the woman’s progress down the street. She passes behind two fellas, one black-hatted, one wearing a brown number.
ZOOM IN
Heyes is using a handy hitching post as a place to rest a sheet of paper on which he writes.
“To Sheriff Lom Trevors, Porterville,” he reads aloud. “Any news from our mutual friend?”
“Tell him where we are…” prompts the Kid.
“Send reply to telegraph office, Stratford…”
“Not on Avon.”
“We did that joke already, Kid.”
The pencil moves again, “Boulder County, Colorado. Your friends, Smith and that other fella.”
The Kid checks. Despite the spoken words, Heyes actually writes; Jones.
“Okay,” Heyes folds the paper and puts the pencil in his pocket. “I’ll send it. You go get us a table.” Both ex-outlaws turn. Across the street we see both a telegraph-come-post office, and a cafe. They exchange a smile, and off they stride in diagonally different directions.
Half a minute ahead of Heyes, the well-dressed woman is already mounting the steps to the telegraph office.
--oooOOOooo---
INTERIOR TELEGRAPH OFFICE
Heyes enters. The green-visored clerk is dealing with the lady.
“Yes, ma’am. You want recorded and confirmed delivery to…” He adjusts his eyeglasses, “19 Maiden Lane, San Francisco.”
Heyes reacts, glancing at the respectable-looking, middle-aged woman with mild surprise.
“Let’s see, ma’am…” The clerk pops the parcel on the scales. His finger runs down a table of rates. “That’ll be six dollars.”
She pays and turns. Heyes tips his hat; it is her turn to react. A puzzled crease appears between her brows. She takes a moment to button her gloves and turns back for a second look as Heyes leans on the counter and hands over his own telegram.
“To.Sheriff.Lom.Trevors.Porterville.Stop,” rattles the clerk. “Any.News.From.Our.Mutual.Friend.Stop.Send.Reply.To.Telegraph.Office.Stratford.Boulder.County.Colorado.Stop.Your.Friends.Smithandjones.” He looks up from his form. “Smithandjones? That you?”
“I’m just Smith,” replies Heyes.
The lady, delivering one final tug to her glove, gives a sceptical little smile, and leaves.
--oooOOOooo---
A CAFÉ – BREAKFAST TIME
Heyes enters and is waved over by his partner. Curry sits by the window with Will Whitaker.
“Will asked us to join him.” explains the Kid, already wrapping himself around a plate of ham and eggs.
A pretty waitress bustles over.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” says Heyes. “And, coffee. Thanks.”
The Kid gives the waitress a charming smile. To no avail. She flutters her lashes in the direction of Will. Curry eyes the handsome young actor, lets his gaze drop to a jaunty, silken necktie, and sniffs.
“Let us take the wise advice and breakfast like kings,” says Will. “Fortification for the day ahead. For you two – to build the battlements, for me, to man them.” A pause. “Provided…” Will taps the wood of the table. “You get hired.”
Kid Curry stops chewing. “Mr. Macready seemed fine with us yesterday. Told us to report at eight thirty sharp.”
“Indeed, Sir was all amiability,” agrees Will. “But, you’ll recall he did say, strictly speaking, it is Madame – Mrs. Macready – who handles all the non-artistic aspects of the business.”
“Non-artistic?” queries Heyes.
“The money,” supplies Will, with a certain distaste.
“Ah. The money,” repeats Heyes with no distaste whatsoever.
“Any reason she wouldn’t hire us?” checks Curry.
“None at all,” reassures Will. “Any company always needs stagehands. And, you’re two real likeable fellas.” The charm of the smile he directs at the Kid draws a wistful sigh from the waitress, audible across the full length of the café.
“Thanks, Will.” Heyes seems genuinely touched.
“To say nothing of being skilled carpenters.”
“Yeah, let’s say nothin’ of that,” agrees Curry, shooting a glance at his partner.
“And, the Scottish King will need battlements,” says Will.
He and our own Heyes tap on wood.
“The Scottish King? Y’mean MacBe…?”
“NO!!” Two voices drown out Kid Curry.
“We never mention the name of the Scottish Play – nor its King,” breathes Will. “Not unless on stage.”
“It’s bad luck,” explains Heyes.
Kid Curry raises an eyebrow, but says only, “Sure don’t want none of that.”
--oooOOOooo---
EXTERIOR
Establishing shot. Middle-distance. The two ex-outlaws, plus Will Whitaker, climb the steps to enter the Stratford Municipal Hall.
INTERIOR
Ushered gently by young actor, Heyes and Curry sweep off their hats as they approach a desk at which sits a well-dressed lady, her head bent forward over a set of ledgers.
As she looks up, Heyes reacts. It is the same woman he previously saw in the telegraph office. Kid Curry sees the recognition on his partner’s face. He glances over at the lady. She, too, is clearly taken aback at the sight of Heyes.”
Under his breath, “Problem? Does she know you?”
“Nope. Leastways, she was at the telegraph office earlier.”
“That all?”
“Sure. Except…Nope. Nothing.”
“She sure is starin’ hard at you for nothin’.”
They reach the desk. “Mrs. Macready?” checks Heyes. She nods. “Your husband told us to report here, ma’am. Eight thirty sharp.”
“Ah! You are the gentlemen seeking work as general factotums?”
“Is ‘factotum’ theatre speak for ‘gopher’?” checks the Kid.
“More or less.” To Heyes, “Mr. – Smith, was it?”
Heyes nods. “Joshua Smith, ma’am. And, this is Thaddeus Jones.”
“Pleasure, ma’am,” says Curry.
“Smith and…” Her voice is sceptical. “Jones.”
This awkward moment is interrupted by a cheery interjection from Will Whitaker. “Smith and Jones! It didn’t occur to me before, but, it’s like two bad aliases in a comedy-drama.”
The smiles on two handsome ex-outlaw faces become a tad frozen.
“Isn’t it just?” agrees Mrs. Macready. A pause. She regards the two young men, hats held to chests, in front of her. There is a visible relaxation of her stern face. “Well, I can’t deny you two gentlemen are polite.” She glances at a watch pinned to her bodice. “Punctual, too. And you, Mr. Smith were out even earlier taking care of your correspondence. I approve of early rising.”
“Seize the day, ma’am; that’s our motto,” says Heyes.
“Indeed? Let me be clear, gentlemen. The reputation of this company is very dear to me. If you are in mine and my husband’s employ, I expect you to behave in a way that sustains that reputation. I do not want to hear any reports of drunkenness.” Two heads shake. “Nor gambling…”
Brown eyes flicker.
“Nor, ahem, loose behaviour.”
Blue eyes assume an expression of deep innocence.
“If that is clear…?” She pauses for a response.
“Yes, ma’am,” says Curry.
“Yes, ma’am. No reports back,” echoes Heyes, more carefully. “Got it.”
“You may consider yourselves hired.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Appreciate it, ma’am.”
--oooOOOooo---
LATER – INTERIOR
In a scene reminiscent of Wickenberg, our two boys sit aloft the wooden eaves of the building, hammering. Or to be more accurate, Kid Curry is hammering. Hannibal Heyes stares, rapt, at the stage upon which a rehearsal is in progress. From a distance, we get a brief glimpse of the First Witch in action.
“MacBeth, MacBeth, MacBeth,” intones the impressive voice, “Beware MacDuff!”
The Kid gives a muted yelp as he strikes his own finger. He sucks the bruised digit and glowers at his partner.
“Why’d you say carpenters? We coulda been – I dunno – we coulda been the guys shakin’ that dumb thunder sheet.”
“Thou hast harped my fear aright,” says Heyes, softly, eyes still on the stage.
“Huh?” Then, annoyed, “Heyes, are you listenin’?”
“What? Sure. We are gonna be the guys doing the storm. We’re helping out with all the sound effects.”
“Since when?”
“Since I offered.” A smile dimples Heyes’ cheeks as he continues to stare down at the stage. “We’ll be there for every performance.” He looks over, sees the Kid’s disgruntled expression. “What? You just said you wanted to shake the thunder sheet.”
“Instead of hammerin’ nails, sure. Every dang evenin’ when I was plannin’ a little friendly poker, or catchin’ up on sleep – not so much.”
“MacBeth has murdered sleep,” murmurs Heyes. Then, “Kid, not two days ago you told me all you wanted was a quiet town, a sheriff we’d never met, and a paying job that didn’t mean eating dust behind herds of ornery cattle. True?”
Kid sighs, then shrugs a yes.
“Here we’re getting three squares a day. A clean place to stay. The boss is a decent enough fella…”
“Decent? He’s… This morning he called me fair stalwart youth!”
“So, he don’t recall your name. So long as he don’t call you Kid Curry – what d’you care?”
Curry mulls for a moment. “Lotta truth in there,” he admits.
“AND, we get to be part of all this!” enthuses Heyes. “Within this wooden O we cram all of life!” Dark eyes return to where MacDuff’s troops are preparing for battle. Wistfully, “How come it don’t get to you, Kid?”
“Well, for a start – look at ‘em now. Walkin’ about carryin’ fake leaves…”
“That’s Birnam wood coming to Dunsinane...”
“What it is, is a dumb plot to creep up on someone pretendin’ to be a tree. And what’s even dumber is – it’s gonna work.” Under his breath, “No wonder you like it.” He returns to hammering. “It’s a decent job workin’ for a decent enough man, in a real nice town, Heyes. I’m givin’ you that. Can you just try and ease up on the…” He searches. “The stage-struck stuff. And, for Pete’s sake, can you pick up a dang hammer and help with these battlements.”
“Otherwise, the trees have nothing to creep up on, huh?” smiles Heyes, picking up a hammer.”
--oooOOOooo---
EXTERIOR
The words ‘Opens Tonight’ is being pasted over the MacBeth poster.
--oooOOOooo---
THE THEATRE WINGS
Hiram Macready is on stage. His acting style has plenty of mid-century histrionics, but, there is no denying his skill with the verse.
‘Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more!
MacBeth does murder sleep'…’
In the wings, Kid Curry shakes a thunder sheet. Heyes blows down hollow pipes to make an eerie wind sound. Will Whitaker, strikingly handsome in tartan and wearing a simple gold coronet, is rolling dried peas on a drum to simulate pelting rain sounds.
'Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more; MacBeth shall sleep no more.'
Heyes, sweating slightly, puts down the pipes to shake two rain sticks. He then picks up and shakes a second thunder sheet. He then retrieves the pipes.
Another actor, a few years older than Will, fully dressed as a Scottish thane including huge auburn beard, lounges in the wings, smoking a cigarillo and watching the effort.
‘I'll go no more:
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.’
Heyes appeals to the lounger, “Jack, can’t you help?”
“I’m a principal. It’s understood – principals do not do sound effects.”
Heyes glowers at Jack and lowers the wind pipes. “What happened to; the play’s the thing?”
“I’m a principal too,” protests Will. “If Prince Malcolm can help out, I reckon Banquo can.”
Curry switches to thunder shaking one-handed and picks up and expertly twirls a rain-stick with another. He, too, glowers at the thane.
Will rolls the peas. “C’mon. You know how Sir is if the storm falls short of his expectations.”
Jack’s face wavers. “Oh… Give them here!” He takes the pipes from Heyes and achieves a much-improved wind wail.
‘How is't with me, when every noise appals me?’
Will ceases rolling peas and beats on the drum. Heyes, shakes a thunder sheet overhead, beats on the floor with a boot, and, throwing back his head, let’s out a wolf howl.
The four men working in unison are now producing a raging cacophony.
‘Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!’
Hiram Macready strides off stage left. He glowers at the foursome who tone down the effects as – in the background – a comic porter enters stage right.
A gnarled hand raises heavenwards. “Where was my storm?! Where were the lamentings heard i' the air? Where the strange screams of death? Where clamour'd the livelong night? Did you re-write the bard? I ask for tempests – and you give me a gentle breeze!!”
Off he goes.
The offended ex-outlaws stare at Will. “The storm never meets Sir’s expectations,” he sighs.
--oooOOOooo---
LONG SHOT OF STAGE
The company take a curtain call. The audience are on its feet applauding. Hiram Macready steps forward for a solo bow. Cheering.
--oooOOOooo---
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER – BACKSTAGE
Macready, still in costume, his quietly dressed wife by his side, is being congratulated by a few select townsfolk. In the background, Heyes picks up dropped branches of Birnam Wood. Kid Curry is pushing a broom. Gophering. A visible parting of the townsfolk is seen. An imposing man, and even more imposing woman approach Hiram Macready.
“My dear Sir,” trills the stately lady. “Thank you so much for bringing such a cultural treat to our town.”
“Not at all, my dear Madam.” Her hand is reverently kissed. “It is we humble actors who should thank Mayor Fennyman and yourself for making it all possible with your generous patronage of the arts.”
There is a smattering of applause from the actors.
“That’ll be the mayor,” deduces Kid Curry to Heyes.
“That’ll be the money,” deduces Heyes back.
“As there is no performance that day, we are hosting a party this Sunday,” says Mrs. Fennyman, “to express our appreciation to you all. Supper, music, dancing. I do hope you will accept our invitation, Sir?”
A grateful ripple runs through the actors and actresses.
“With pleasure, dear Madam.”
“Is the invitation restricted to – er – principals?” checks Mrs. Macready, quietly.
We see MacDuff’s soldiers, one of whom bears an uncanny resemblance to Monty Laird, droop in disappointment.
“No, no…” protests the mayor. He is decidedly less refined than his wife. “Everyone! All the fella’s carrying spears at the back. All the pretty gals in britches playing pages. The lot.”
MacDuff’s gang perks up, as do a couple of pretty gals in britches.
The mayor waves a hand in the general direction of Kid Curry. “Even that fella pushin’ the broom. Open house.” He hooks his thumbs into his waistcoat. “It ain’t as if I can’t afford it.”
“How about that for a gracious invitation, Kid?” murmurs Heyes. “Even lowly us.”
“Supper, music and dancing at the rich folks’ house,” muses Curry. “I’m not complainin’.”
--oooOOOooo---
A SHORT WHILE LATER
ESTABLISHING SHOT OF SIGN HUNG ON DOOR
GENTLEMAN SUPPORTING PLAYERS
One of the pretty gals we saw earlier, is helping the Kid polish up dirks with gem-studded handles before returning them to a prop box laden with costume jewellery.
“What did you think of my performance, Mr. Jones?”
“Er… You were the one in the pink tights and blue ribbons?”
“MacDuff’s page, that’s right. And, I was an eerie spirits in the prophecy scene.”
“The part with gals dancin’, dressed in gauze?”
“That’s right.”
“I liked that part. You were great, ma’am.” He treats her to his best smile.
To one side we see Hannibal Heyes roll his eyes.
“Call me Jenny.”
“Thaddeus,” supplies the Kid, still smiling.
“Did… Did Mr. Whitaker mention my performance at all, Thaddeus?”
The Kid’s smile switches off. “Nope. Sorry.”
Heyes coughs to cover a laugh.
We stay focused on Heyes. He has picked up the crown Hiram Macready wore earlier and is wiping it with a cloth. He pauses. He frowns. He gives another rub to the brilliant red jewel set squarely in the centre, studies it more closely.
Meanwhile, Jenny places two shimmering earrings against her pink lobes. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if these were real?”
Kid Curry looks at the contents of the prop box. “Sure would,” he agrees, with ex-outlaw avaricious feeling. “Hey, Joshua, are you cleanin’ that crown or makin’ friends with it?”
“Huh?”
“We were saying, Mr. Smith,” says Jenny, “Wouldn’t it be marvellous if the jewels were real?”
“Wouldn’t it just?” murmurs Heyes.
Suddenly, the door is flung from ajar to fully open, and Mrs. Macready strides up to Heyes.
“I’ll take that, Mr. Smith,” she snaps, taking the crown from him. “Miss Brown!”
Jenny gets to her feet, eyes wide with apprehension.
“Why have you not informed Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones that I, and only I, ever handle props belonging to Sir? I am sure my instructions on that point have been crystal clear.”
“Sorry, Madame. Sir must have left it here by mistake after he thanked the supporting players.”
“Perhaps so, but that does not answer my question.”
“Sorry, Madame. I guess I got talking and forgot.”
“Jenny didn’t see what it was I’d picked up,” tries Heyes.
“Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Smith. Miss Brown, did you also forget to pack away the greasepaint in the lady supporting players’ dressing room? As I instructed you to do.”
“I’ll go do it now, Madame.”
“Indeed, you will, Miss Brown. And, please remember, I am approached almost daily by aspiring young actresses wishing to work with this company who would not repay me for the opportunity by gossiping with the stagehands rather than getting on with post-performance chores.”
“Yes, Madame. Thank you, Madame.” A red-faced Jenny flees.
“It wasn’t her fault. I was askin’ about the play and she didn’t see…” begins Curry.
“You are very chivalrous Mr. Jones, but I do not require advice from you, nor from Mr. Smith, on the handling of younger members of the company.”
“No, ma’am.”
A pause.
“Well, perhaps I was a little harsh. It has been a long day. As you are now aware, it is a most strict rule that only I ever handle any costumes or props belonging to Sir.”
“I think that’s most understandable, ma’am,” says Heyes.
She gives him a sharp look. He returns it with such dimpled innocence that, after a moment, her face relaxes.
“May I congratulate both you gentlemen on the storm? You clearly worked very hard. A most commendable performance.”
“Sir wasn’t satisfied,” says Heyes.
“Sir is never satisfied with the storm. I, however, was extremely pleased. Well done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Macready leaves, taking the crown with her.
“Tough lady,” remarks Heyes.
“Maybe her being the one layin’ down the law leaves her husband free to be everyone’s friend and, y’know, keep it all about the art,” suggests Kid Curry.
“Maybe,” says Heyes. He picks up a glittering string of green gems from the props and holds them up to the overhead oil lamp.
“They’re not real, Heyes.”
“Nope. These are not real.”
--oooOOOooo---
SUNDAY – THE MAYOR’S PALATIAL HOME
Kid Curry weaves back to his partner through a crowd of folk all dressed up in their best. He carries a generously laden plate in one hand and a full glass in the other. “Nice party,” he remarks. “But…” He moves to avoid a tickling leaf. “What’s with all the trees?”
“It’s an orangery,” says Heyes. “I hear Mrs. Fennyman had it modelled on the one at Mount Vernon.”
“Uh huh?” grunts the Kid. He takes a sip from his glass. A bottom lip twitch signals mild distaste.
“Now what’s wrong?”
“Not wrong. Just… This punch is missin’ something.”
“Which bowl did you go for?”
Kid Curry nods at an impressive crystal tureen.
“That’s for the temperance folk.” Heyes indicates a glistening silver-gilt vessel almost big enough to double as a horse trough. “Try that one. Believe me…” He sips his own glass, appreciatively. “It’s missing nothing.”
“How come you always got the answers?”
“Isn’t that the arrangement?”
The Kid grins at that. He tips his sadly temperate drink into a huge terracotta plant pot and sets off for a more satisfactory refill.
“Tchah!” tuts Heyes. “Can’t take him anywhere.” He swiftly shuffles the newly punch-stained stones under some of their still dry neighbours. The orange tree is once more surrounded by gleaming white pebbles.
He moves to join his partner, young Jenny, and the actor we know as Jack, at the buffet table.
We follow Heyes’ point of view over to where the Mayor and Mrs. Fennyman are speaking with Mr. and Mrs. Macready. Young Will Whitaker and a stunning redhead are with them.
“I have so missed theatre since I came out West,” declares Mrs. Fennyman. “I adore Shakespeare.”
“Do you have a favourite play, Mrs. Fennyman?” asks Mrs. Macready. “If so, I am sure my husband would be pleased to present it after the run of the Scottish play.”
“I would not presume. Any work of the bard chosen by Mr. Macready will be welco…”
“I have a favourite play,” interrupts the mayor.
“Then, sir, please name it,” says Hiram Macready. “And like Burbidge’s men before Lord Southampton, it will be our pleasure to oblige our modern-day generous patron. Twelfth Night, perhaps?”
“Davy Crockett.”
There is a pause. A shiver runs through Hiram Macready. By contrast, young Will Whitaker beams in delight.
“D’you know it?” asks the mayor.
Another pause. The mayor is delightfully unaware of the disapproving, and embarrassed, frown of his wife. Her hand plays nervously with the string of impressive pearls around her throat.
“Oh, yes,” says Mrs. Macready. “We know the play well. We will be delighted to present it for you.”
“It will be a – a true contrast to our current production,” says Macready. “So – so, widely popular with the masses.”
“You always say, Madame,” says Will, “there’s nothing like Davy Crockett for putting bums on… I mean, for ensuring a full house.”
In the background, Jack whispers to the boys, “You see, Davy Crockett is really all about the juvenile lead. That’s why Will is so keen.”
“I think we got that,” smiles Heyes.
“Mind you,” Jenny helps herself to another pastry, “he is very good in it. You should see how many girls hung around outside the theatre trying to meet Will last time we put on Davy Crockett. I don’t blame them, him being so very handsome – you can hear all the fans fluttering when he holds the door closed against the howling wolves. And, when it comes to the kissing under the mistletoe scene – oh my.”
Jack gives a short laugh, “He is pure girl bait. What a waste.”
“What’s a waste?” asks Jenny.
Jack and Heyes exchange a knowing glance.
“Nothing,” says Jack.
Jenny sighs; “If only Mrs. DeVere and Miss Hepworth would both twist their ankles – I might have a chance at playing Little Nell.” Her eyes continue to watch Will, thoughtfully. She gives herself a little shake. To Jack; “Not that I want your wife to break her ankle, of course.”
With a disgruntled expression, Kid Curry glances from Jenny to the handsome juvenile lead.
Will apparently senses he is being watched and turns. He spots Kid Curry looking over, smiles and raises his hand in a half salute.
--oooOOOooo---
NEXT MORNING – THE CAFÉ
Curry applies himself to a plate of ham and eggs. Heyes is reading. A close up shows he has a battered copy of ‘Davy Crockett, or Be Sure You're Right, Then Go Ahead’.
“Another storm. And, I reckon we need to practice our wolf howls, Kid,” he remarks.
Something catches his eye. Over the top of his slim booklet he watches Mrs. Macready, small parcel in hand, head for the telegraph office.
“There she goes again,” he murmurs. His eyes move left. “Kid, I think we’re about to have company.”
Will Whitaker comes in and over to their table, sits down. The waitress is definitely all of a flutter as she scampers over. Kid Curry eyes first her, then Will, his brow lowers.
“Just coffee for me, my dear. What’s that? An autograph? My pleasure. Your name? Daisy? That is so pretty. There…” A flourishing signature is added to a keepsake book. “To a spring-time Daisy, most charming of flowers – from Will Whitaker.”
Kid Curry chews morosely.
“I went to the play twice, Mr. Whitaker. I thought you were marvellous!”
“That is too kind of you, dear Miss Daisy.”
The Kid rolls his eyes.
“I’ll get your coffee, Mr. Whitaker.” Off she goes.
“Ah, the admirers. One of the trials of an actor’s life.”
“Yeah. It must be a real strain,” scowls Curry.
“Indeed. Now, Thaddeus, Joshua, have you heard the news?
“Rehearsals for Davy Crockett start today,” says Heyes. “Yup, we heard.”
“Not that – though, yes. The other news – about the mayor’s wife…”
“What about her?” asks the Kid. “She want your autograph too?”
“You remember her pearls…?”
“Sixteen-inch strand, graduated freshwater pure white rounds, gold clasp with mother of…”
Kid Curry coughs warningly. Heyes changes tack, smoothly.
“You mean her necklace? Was it pearls? I didn’t pay much attention.”
“It’s gone. Mrs. Fennyman believes it’s been stolen.”
The two ex-outlaws exchange a glance.
“What, after the party last night?” asks Heyes.
“That’s the thing… She noticed it missing when she went up to bed. So maybe during the party. They’ve searched the place, but, nothing so far.”
“I guess it coulda fallen off during the dancin’,” says Curry. “It might still turn up.”
“It might,” agrees Heyes, but he does not sound too sure. His eyes gaze, thoughtfully, at the telegraph office.
The coffee arrives.
“Will you be playing Davy Crockett, Mr. Whitaker?” breathes waitress Daisy.
Modest charm; “All casting decisions will be taken by Sir, but one does hope…”
Kid Curry mops up a last lick of egg with a hunk of bread and pushes away his plate.
“I guess playin’ Davy Crockett will make a change from MacBeth.”
Will reacts to the name, stands up, turns around, taps the table and sits back down. Heyes also taps on wood.
“Thaddeus,” begins Will, “Do remember, except when on stage we never say…”
“Not that you were playin’ MacBeth…”
Will stands, turns and taps.
“You were Malcolm…”
“We never say the name of…”
“IN MacBeth.”
Will turns, taps. Watching him, young Daisy starts to giggle.
“We don’t say the name of the Scottish play.”
“What – MacBeth?”
Will turns and taps.
“It’s bad luck…”
“Is that why you’re spinnin’ like a top – to ward off bad luck?”
“Yes. So please…”
“Every time I say MacBeth?”
“Yes!
“Okay, I’ll try and remember to call it the Scottish play.”
“Thank you.” Will sits down, picks up his coffee cup.
“Not MacBeth.”
Will stands. He turns, “Thaddeus, I’m starting to think you’re yanking my chain.”
Kid Curry stands too. “Why would I wanna yank your chain?” He puts on his hat. Heading for the door he adds, “I got it now. Don’t say, MacBeth.”
Wearily, Will spins one more time. Then, to Heyes, “What brought that on?”
Heyes shrugs. “Will, weren’t you performing in Creede a few weeks back?”
“That’s right. King Lear – more storms! And Much Ado. I was Edgar and Claudio. Edgar’s a difficult part. All that ‘Tom’s a cold’ prancing. And, you get so overshadowed by Edmund... ”
Heyes attention has strayed back to the street. He watches Mrs. Macready, now without her small parcel, exit the telegraph office and walk back to the municipal hall.
--oooOOOooo---
LATER THAT DAY – THE THEATRE
In the wings, Kid Curry, paintbrush in hand, is sprucing up scenery designed to look like the interior of a log cabin. Heyes is half-heartedly dusting a large mirror, but, in reality is fascinated by the rehearsal in progress on stage.
‘Little Nell’ played by the gorgeous redhead from the previous evening struggles in the unwelcome grasp of her forced fiancé, played by Jack, in a fine false moustache.
“Unhand me, sir! Oh, will no one come to my aid?”
In an undeniably impressive entrance, a buckskin clad Will bursts upon the scene with a flying leap through the window. He ducks a blow and floors the fiancé with a redoubtable – if non-contact – right hook.
There is dawning reluctant admiration in the Kid’s face as Will sails over the windowsill.
“I guess he is pretty good.”
“Davy! My hero!” gasps ‘Little Nell’. She is kissed. And kissed.
“That’s a bit much,” protests Curry. “She’s a married woman!”
“Who are you, Kid? The league of decency?”
“She’s Jack’s wife. How’s he stand it?”
“We’re in a dang theatre, Kid. She’s acting. So is Will.”
“Even so. Besides…” He watches Will nuzzling the red curls. “I’m not so sure he IS acting.”
“That’s shows he’s good. Trust me, he’s acting.” Heyes watches. “Though, I’d have lifted her chin with one finger before kissing her.”
--oooOOOooo---
LATER
“Unhand me, sir! Oh, will no one come to my aid?”
Will leaps and… “Owwwww! My ankle!”
Hiram Macready, directing from the stalls stands. “No! Not Will! Not when we’re doing Crockett!”
In the wings, Hannibal Heyes straightens. His brown eyes are transfixed on the groaning figure on the floor! They gleam with hope.
--oooOOOooo---
A MINUTE LATER
The stage is crowded with actors surrounding young Will.
“The doctor is coming, Mr. Whitaker,” flutters Jenny.
“I’m sure it’s broken,” groans Will. “I won’t be able to go on.”
“We need a Crockett!” says Jack.
In the wings, Heyes moves forward, Curry murmurs under his breath, “You have gotta be jokin’.”
Heyes shakes off his partner’s restraining hand. He takes a step onto the stage; “Ahem,” he coughs.
“Could Jack play Davy, Sir?” asks the stunning redhead.
“My dearest Mrs. DeVere,” says Hiram Macready. “No one thinks more highly of your husband’s talent than I do, but he is not a credible juvenile lead.”
“Sir is right,” agrees Jack. “You know I’m no looker. I’ll always be character parts.”
“Ahem.”
“What about Mr. Saunders, Sir? He’s done romantic leads…” suggests the balding gentleman we caught a brief glimpse of as First Witch.
“So have I, George. So have you in your day. Mr. Saunders may be near a score years younger than either of us, but, I’m sure he would agree his leaping and brawling days are behind him.”
Heyes takes another step forward, “Ahem!”
“We’ll have to change the play,” laments Hiram Macready.
“Ahem.”
“We can’t change the play,” protests Mrs. Macready. “You know how much money the Fennymans have put into sponsoring us.”
Heyes leaves the stage at a quick pace.
“But, where can we find a Davy?” asks Macready. “Where can we find someone tall, dark, handsome, athletic and with all the charismatic confidence of …”
His speech grinds to a halt as a tall, dark, handsome figure clears the sill of the stage window with a single bound, to land lightly amidst the gathered actors.
Heyes gallantly kisses the hand of an extremely surprised redhead, then makes a confident bow to a stunned Macready, “Sir, I wonder if I can help?”
Back in the wings, Kid Curry rolls his eyes.
---oooOOOooo---
Last edited by royannahuggins on Sat 25 Jan 2020, 4:32 pm; edited 1 time in total | |
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Bravo, Miss Calico, 
for creating such a fun 2020 VS Season Opener!
and the howling wolves and the storms. 
