Elsie Hughes has built a career as a well-respected record producer. After a major life tragedy, she decides to take a risk and fulfill an old dream of creating musical theatre. Worthington Park is going to take the West End by storm - at least if she can find a better composer and convince her librettist to leave out the tenant uprising.
Charles Carson is a classically-trained musician who likes to pretend his brief stint as a rock star never happened. But when his orchestral career is threatened it seems like the past is going to catch up with him after all. Maybe embracing the past and understanding it is the only way to build a better future. Elsie certainly thinks so.
A/N Concrit not only welcome but fervently sought - this is a bit of an experiment and I'm not precious about it. I have the story planned (along with much of the musical and the cast list though we might not get to see them all), but I'd love feedback and ideas to make it more enjoyable for you all to read as we go.
Chapter 1
...
Beryl Patmore had been called a cynic before, and on more than one occasion. She thought this was rather unfair. She preferred to think of herself as frank or forthright. Positive sorts of terms. The kind of person who put the world to rights - that was her. And optimistic? She was optimistic down to her last cell! Well, where it was warranted, any road. It was true though that she knew a lost cause when she saw one. Or heard one, in this case. And it was no crime against optimism to sometimes acknowledge that things were utterly catastrophic and only getting worse, was it?
Nevertheless, she dutifully twirled some knobs and amped up the bass another notch. Down on the stage the music spilled out of the speakers with deeper rumbling resonance. Young Andy raised his voice to compensate:
"You gotta stare them down. All of them downstairs
And know what your work's worth at Worthingham Park, where-"
Through the glass of the soundbox Beryl saw the sweat start to glisten on his brow even before she heard him stumble awkwardly over the phrasing.
"-salver's shining; shining shilver - shit. Sorry, Elsie!"
Next to Beryl, Elsie Hughes waved a hand in dismissal.
"Never mind, Andy," she called down. "Take a break."
They cut the music. The young lad grinned with evident relief, and dropped the already crumpled script onto a bench at the front of the stage. Beryl watched as he gangled off through the auditorium - no doubt to interrupt Daisy in her work and try to get her to commiserate with him over the unreasonable task masters who'd been having him sing the same song every which way from Thursday all morning.
After four solid hours they still weren't any closer to fixing it.
She turned to look at her friend in sympathy. Elsie sat with her trainers pressed up against the backrest of the seat in front of her, tapping a biro against the knee of her jeans and biting her lip. She didn't say anything and neither did Beryl. They didn't have to. They both knew how things were going, and it wasn't well.
It was Tom Branson who broke the silence.
"I could change out some of the lyrics," he offered. "Maybe with fewer syllables in the bridge-"
But Elsie was shaking her head.
"No, Tom," she said. "The words aren't the problem." She stopped and considered what she'd said. "Well, mostly the words aren't the problem. Though I'd advise you to check in with Joe about whether a footman is likely to have had the term 'dialectical materialism' in his vocabulary."
Tom promised he would, but he said it with a roguish grin. There'd been a fraught if affable to and fro between the young lyricist and their historical consultant - Joe Moseley - for at least as long as Beryl had been involved in the Worthingham Park project. Tom was fantastic at what he did - won all kinds of minor awards already - however, he tended to wear his politics on his sleeve. According to the latest sheet music Beryl had been given, the footman's song young Andy had just struggled his way through was currently called "They Also Serve (Who Only Stand and Hate)."
"The words aren't the problem," Elsie repeated. She was on her feet now, pacing and running her fingers through her hair. "The orchestration's not the problem. The treble isn't the problem. Andy's diction is not the problem. I think we all know what the real problem is here."
"Music's crap," said Beryl bluntly.
Tom nodded glumly. Elsie collapsed back in her chair with a sigh.
"You've done the best you could, Beryl," she said. "If you can't save it it's not salvageable."
Beryl didn't contradict her. It was true. She'd been music director for several productions that had needed serious orchestral support to make the songs seem more than mediocre. This was worse - what they had here was a clever little musical with tunes not even a mother could hum.
In other circumstances, Beryl knew, she might have walked away. It didn't bother her all that much whether the shows she worked on were works of artistic genius. She'd make sure the performance was first rate and leave worrying about Tonies to the nutty creative types. However, she knew better than to waste too much energy on a show that was certain to close in about a minute and a half, if it ever opened at all.
But Elsie Hughes wasn't 'other circumstances'. Elsie Hughes was a hard-nosed, work-mad, infuriating old bossy-boots. And she was also one of Beryl Patmore's favourite people in all the world. If Elsie wanted this project to happen then Beryl was going to do everything she could to help. And she could see that Elsie did want the project to happen. She'd been quiet about her reasons when she'd first approached them all with the idea. It'd been such a shock that Beryl had asked a thousand questions - several of them twice. Elsie Hughes wanted to do a musical? Elsie Hughes, the most careful, calculated woman in the world? (Others might even add 'parsimonious' to that list, but Beryl was loyal and - she prided herself - not inclined to stereotype people just because they were very, very Scottish.) That Elsie Hughes wanted to do a musical? You could have knocked Beryl down with a feather. Elsie's answers had all been very light and sensible: It was a good time to do it. She was owed time off at work. There was a public appetite for it. Beryl had seen through it all and although she didn't yet understand why, she could see that this was a project of love.
Heavens knew Elsie deserved a bit of good luck after everything these past few years. Damned if she'd let it all go to waste for one lazy composer.
"You should fire him," said Anna.
The comment caught everyone by surprise. Anna had been sitting so quietly throughout the last few torturous rounds that Beryl had forgotten she was even there. But now she spoke up quite matter of factly.
"Seriously," Anna said. "If Phil Tapsell's music's no good, get rid!"
Elsie leaned back against the balcony rail and stared contemplatively at the ground for a moment. No doubt she'd already had the thought herself.
"Izzy Merton put him on the project," she said, somewhat cagily.
"So put him back off it," Tom rejoined.
"It's her money," said Elsie.
"It's your show," said Anna.
Tom nodded vehement agreement: "If she wants her money back at all she needs to let you call the shots. It's your vision, in fairness."
Elsie smiled somewhat ruefully at that. But it was nice to see that she was smiling. And there was a glint of mischief in her eye that made Beryl confident that her friend would not be settling for some remixed 'deedle-dum' that sounded like the offcuts from a U2 album.
"Hang on a second," Elsie said, lifting a finger to suggest they should hold their thoughts. Without further explanation she left the box. Tom looked confused. Beryl just shrugged.
"Anyone want anything if I do a coffee run over the road?" asked Anna while they waited. Beryl realised she'd kill for a good shot of caffeine right now. (The first time Anna had offered to run for coffee Beryl had given her an earful. Assistant producer didn't mean she had to behave like a secretary - what was Elsie Hughes playing at - all that sort of thing. Until Elsie had pointed out that Anna was just a very nice person who liked to be helpful and, incidentally, how much was Beryl paying young Daisy these days?) She gratefully accepted the offer.
However, Tom Branson hadn't even finished deciding what he wanted before Elsie strode back in tucking her phone into her back pocket.
"Done," she announced.
"What is?"
"I've gotten rid of Tapsell," said Elsie very matter of factly.
"You've what?" asked Beryl. "You weren't gone three minutes!"
Elsie shrugged. "And two minutes of that was because I'm kind and polite," she said. "Anyway, it's done. We have no composer and no rights to any of that music currently sitting on your computer, Beryl."
"So a productive morning's work all around then," grinned Tom.
"I'll go get that coffee," Anna said.
...
It was Copland today. The music was beautiful, but the bass line was boring. Charles Carson listened with half an ear to the violin section, pleased with their technical precision. That was nothing new though, and not enough to hold his attention. He let his gaze drift around the room and his mind wander.
Robert was looking a little peaky again, he thought. Their conductor was a dignified man, and always took pride in attention to detail - something he and Carson had bonded over right from the start. So while he'd often seen him drenched in sweat and with hair askew after a night's performance, it was far from usual for him to start a rehearsal in wrinkled slacks with his shirt half untucked. Charles would have to ask him later if anything was wrong. Or maybe he'd ask Phyllis to do it. The cellist was better at this sort of thing.
Truth be told, he was feeling a little guilty. When Robert had asked him if he wanted to go out for a pint last night he'd assumed it was an intervention of some kind. Cheer old Charlie up and distract him from the balderdash in the papers. He'd been a bit short in his refusal. Now he wondered if it was Bob himself who had needed a listening ear.
Carson looked down at his score again to distract himself, and was dismayed again by the endless lines of tied semibreves. They put him in mind of a line of lobotomised smiling faces. He let himself sink into the music and his hand twitched around his bow, imagining how he might improvise something better. Smiled to himself at the thought of how Robert might react if he suggested that he and John just jam.
The solo drew towards its conclusion and Carson's body automatically responded, shoulder's pulling straighter, raising his bow. As the gap their harmony would fill in the music fell upon them he and John plunged into the bass line in precise symmetry, bows aligned, semibreves held to microsecond precision.
Around him the music swooped and fell. At this point in his career, it took Carson little effort to be aware of everything that was going on around him. Robert's movements, his own, the rest of the orchestra were all part of a great stylish machine perfectly primed for both technical exactitude and real feeling. No computer could create the buzz of talent that underlay the mathematics of it all - he loved that.
And then suddenly it all went horribly wrong. He'd remember later that, oddly, he'd registered it in his feet first. The subtle wrongness of a vibration that surely ought to have been too small to pick up, and yet he had felt it. Then his wrist - a movement in the wrong direction. And then, most horribly of all, his ear heard it. Time seemed to slow around him and it seemed an eternity that he stood there aware of the flattening tone and unable to stop it as it moved from the private horror of his own personal bubble and spilled out into the room for everyone to hear. A wrong note. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Robert slashed his baton through the air pulling everything to a stop. He rounded on the bass section, and jabbed a finger at the second desk.
"For heaven's sake, Bates. This isn't a bloody school recital. Everyone, again from the segno."
The violins began again. Carson stared unseeing ahead. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John Bates looking at him. The other man said nothing. Just as he'd said nothing in his own defense at Robert's reprimand.
But it hadn't been John who'd made the rookie error. It hadn't come from the second desk, but from the first.
Charles Carson looked down at the hand that held his bow and found that he could not stop the shaking.
...
In the theatre those who were left were throwing around names. They'd let Andy go home along with the rest of actors and singers. Tom had cleared out too, taking a lift with Edith. Now it was just Beryl, Elsie, Anna, and Cora Levinson,who had contacts everywhere and was always useful to have on hand.
"Sarah O'Brien?"
"In America."
"Rick Swire?"
"Rehab"
"Terry Sampson?"
"Arsehole"
"Harry Bryant?"
"Total arsehole"
"Pete Gordon?"
"Is he not dead? Let me check Wikipedia. Oh. No. Rehab."
Elsie gave a great huff of indignation.
"All I want is a talented musician, who has time to write me a musical, is humble enough to work on a shoestring project, but famous enough to make sure we keep the funding we've got, and who can help me imagine what it would have sounded like if they'd had rock in the 1920s. Is that so much to ask?"
She buried her head in her arms, folded across her knees.
Beryl just shrugged. "Best to aim high, isn't it?" she said, trying to be supportive.
Without raising her head Elsie stretched out an arm to Anna: "Let me see the arsehole list."