Therapy

get the audience in a receptive mood beforehand, he also has to bridge the gaps between scenes, as the cameras are moved from one part of the set to another, and fill in the pauses while the technicians check the tape after each take; and if a retake or pick-up is required he has to soothe the audience’s impatience and appeal for their co-operation in laughing at the same lines the second time round. Billy is the best in the business, but there are limits to what even he can do. This audience was really sticky. They merely tittered at what should have been big laughs, and were silent when they should have tittered. As line after line fell flat the cast got anxious, and began to make mistakes or dry, requiring frequent re-takes, which made the audience still more unresponsive. Billy began to perspire, pacing up and down in front of the seats with his radio mike, frantically cracking jokes, his capped teeth exposed in a strained smile. I laughed like a drain, though I’d heard them all before, to encourage the people around me. I even forced a laugh at some of my own lines, something I never normally do. I began to think that it couldn’t just be the audience’s fault, there must be something wrong with the script. It had obviously been a bad idea to centre the plot on Alice’s suspected pregnancy. Ollie and Sally had been right. The subject was making the audience uneasy. Then of course, when it came to the lines about termination, in the dramatic pause that followed Priscilla’s question, “Suppose she chooses to have the baby?” the Moronic Laugher broke the silence with all the sensitive understanding of a mynah bird. I covered my face with my hands.
    They wrapped the programme at five past nine, after more retakes than I could ever remember. Billy hypocritically thanked the audience for their support, and we all dispersed. The actors scurried from the set, giving me tired little waves and wan smiles of farewell. They’re always in a hurry to get off on Sunday nights, to drive or catch the last train to London, and there was no temptation to linger tonight. I would have been glad to slope off home myself, if I hadn’t had the confab with Ollie and Hal pending. I went to the control room, where Hal was running both hands through his birds’ nest of wiry hair. “Jesus Christ, Tubby, who were those zombies out there tonight?” I shrugged my bafflement. “Maybe it was the script,” I said miserably. Ollie came steaming into the room in time to hear this. “It wouldn’t have made any difference if you were Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde and Groucho Marx rolled into one,” he said, “those fuckers would have killed anybody’s script. Where did we get them from — the local morgue?” Suzie the PA said she thought the largest contingent was a local factory’s social club. “Well, the first thing I’m going to do tomorrow morning is find out who the hell they were and who invited them, and make sure they never come to a recording again. Let’s go and have a drink. We need it.”
    Ollie is notoriously tight-fisted, and always wriggles out of standing his round if he possibly can. He’s always the last to say, “Anybody for another one?” — by which time anyone who’s driving has switched to fruit juice or stopped drinking altogether. When we go to the bar with him, Hal and I usually have a bit of fun trying to trick him into buying the first round — for instance, Hal will pretend to remember he’s left something in the control room, and double back, shouting his order over his shoulder, and I’ll suddenly veer into the Gents, doing the same. But yesterday evening neither of us had the heart for it, and Hal bought the first round without putting up any kind of fight. “Cheers,” he said gloomily. We drank and sat in silence for a moment. “I’ve put Hal in the picture about Debbie,” Ollie said. Hal nodded gravely. “It’s a bitch,” he said. But I knew I couldn’t count on any real support from him. When push came to shove, he would side with Ollie. “Jake told you what we’re suggesting, Tubby?” Ollie said.
    At this moment Suzie came into the bar, and looked around until she spotted us. “Not a word about the Debbie thing,” Ollie warned in a low voice, as she approached our table. I offered her a seat, but she shook her head. “I won’t stop, thanks,” she said. “I went outside and mingled with the audience while they were waiting for their buses. Most of them are from an