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Having made my decision to persuade Oscar back into his narrow-boat – the ‘Esprit de Noel’ (one of my favourite quackers’ artefacts) – so that he can moor beside the Granary Theatre and evict our lodger, I rerouted my hunting trip and hovered outside his study window. He should have been hammering away at his keyboard, churning out stuff for that TV thing and the special commission from a theatre in America, but he wasn’t. He was lolling back in his leather chair with his hands linked behind his head, glaring at something on his screen that he was reading for the umteenth time. Cara was in the kitchen burning their food. I tapped for admission.

“What’s troubling you?” I asked, aware that we would have to clear up Oscar’s miniscule concerns before he would turn his attention to my major worries.

“This e-mail,” he said, “from an old friend of mine, a good servant of Theatre for more than fifty years. He can’t understand these people’s behaviour and neither can I.”

I began to read the e-mail. It started off as a description of some structural problems he was having with a play he was writing, a play called ‘Tom’. While I read, Oscar rambled and rumbled, “We’ve got so much in common. We’re about the same age and background, both grammar school boys dedicated to Theatre, both qualified to teach all aspects of practical theatre and acting and both of us massively experienced as directors and playwrights. The difference between us, I suppose, is that whereas I came back here to Malcaster after my military service and settled down for the rest of my life, he has not been able to do that. After the army, he returned to his home town and the theatre he joined as a teenager. He was appointed Lecturer in Practical Drama at the local college, but then they had a little daughter who had medical problems that were better served on the continent, so to there they moved until the little girl died. They were not able to move back to his home town because of house-prices…”

But I was reading the anguish in the e-mail.

“As regards your questioning about my relationship with the local ‘community theatre’, maybe I should confide in you what I fear will be a long explanation.

“God I’m so ENVIOUS of people who’ve been able to spend their entire lives in one town; what bliss to be known and trusted as part of the town’s furniture.

“I paid the price of joining this community fairly late in life, originally to take up work in a nearby town that is well-known as a centre for theatre activity. About this, I was of course delighted and was happy to accept a lower income in order to remain here and become involved with the local theatre company – a proud group that works a sort of repertory system to a high standard. I should have fitted like a hand in a glove.

“Three times in the past, I have started with a new community, joined the theatre group and involved myself in set-building, props, publicity or any other mundane task that I could grab, in order to gain acceptance. In each case, I finished up directing and teaching after earning the right to do this (and, believe me, the letters after my name cut no ice at all – best to let others discover these later). It really is no good trying to make claims for oneself, one has to PROVE one’s worth in practice. God knows, I’m conversant with the routine. If only one were allowed to offer some sort of proof.

“I made a mistake fairly early on by commenting to the then Artistic Director that he had “made a silk purse” out of what I thought was a sow’s ear of a play. I found out later that the sow’s ear had been written by one of his favourite pupils… ANYWAY… to demonstrate some competence, I wrote a play for them about Britain, having politically alienated itself from the rest of Europe (prophetic, or what?) once again, being invaded by all the other member-states of the European Community; it would go well now. Our town was occupied by Irish and Portuguese troops under the command of a Dutch woman colonel. The copy I sent the AD was heavily marked “FIRST DRAFT”. Some months later, it came back to me unopened, unread, its envelope still sealed.

“When my employers shut up shop, I was offered alternative employment at the same premises and would have accepted this if there was any chance of artistic satisfaction with the local theatre. There was none, so I returned to overseas working in order to pay off our mortgage and squirrel away a few nuts for the upcoming winter. My wife carried on helping with box-office until even this became untenable (she sniffed pilferage from the funds) and, instead of whistle-blowing, she resigned.

“Last year, after my stroke…”

“See, Jonah?” said Oscar, “Something else we have in common.”

“…we bumped into some friendly members who urged us to renew our membership, which we did. When I rang the present Artistic Director – a lady who had been friendly in the past – to ask what I could do to help, she hung up on me. Naturally, I imagined she had dropped the phone or something, so I rang back immediately and was answered by a machine on which I left our telephone number. Since then, she’s e-mailed me to confirm that she hung up and to describe her workload, with which I sympathised and offered to help, but I’m still waiting for her reply to my phone-call.

“Pity really, they have a super little theatre (about 200 seats) in which I would love to work. Now that I’m unable to drive a car any more, it’s the only theatre I can reach by public transport; though, Oscar, I confide that it would make me nervous these days (or nights) to stand in that town-centre street waiting for a taxi or a bus. God knows, I don’t want any authority there, and would try ever so hard to not give offence, but it seems as though I’ve frightened them. Either that, or they’re snobby about our address.

I swivelled my head to stare at Oscar, who looked as perplexed as I felt

“So, what do you think, Jonah?” asked Oscar. “How shall I advise him?”

“Do you know if he’s explored all avenues to achieve acceptance? I mean, has he tried to apologise or explain to that first Artistic Director, the one he accidentally upset? Or, has he written a letter explaining the situation to some senior committee-member?”

“Yes, to the Chairman,” replied Oscar, “and a grovelling letter of apology to that A.D.. Neither of them replied, either by letter, or even by telephone.”

“He must have been more unforgivably rude, obtuse and boorish than he has said,” I observed. “Do you think he was?”

“Well…” Oscar frowned as he considered this deeply. “I would not recommend him as a candidate for the diplomatic corps – he speaks his mind – but, if anything he’s more conscious than he needs to be about other people’s feelings. How else could he be so successful as a director? I mean, I’ve been to see his productions and actors adore him, they work their little socks off for him and – after people have seen him at work – his audition sessions are always jam-packed with hopefuls. And he consciously takes on inexperienced people to teach them as he goes. Oh no, he’s not stupid, but…”

“But what?”

“He’s got a wicked sense of humour and loves to wind up the feminists.”

“Oh… women are too mature and perceptive to be taken in by that.”

“I suppose so,” concluded Oscar, unwittingly delivering my cue.

“Could he moor his narrow-boat by the theatre, camp out until they accept him?”

“There’s no mooring there and, in any case… JONAH!!” His eyes lit up as a prophet new inspired and I fluttered out of his reach in case he tried to slap my back. “What a GOOD idea! I’ve got a narrow-boat and our theatre HAS got a short-term mooring beside it, on the wharf. I could run out a power-cable from the theatre and…”

“Yes yes yes, old chap,” I murmured in a calming tone (pretty damned sure that I had achieved my objective), “but what about your friend? Does he have ANY theatre activity at the moment?”

“Oh yes, more than enough I shouldn’t wonder. He’s been a prolific author, and people e-mail him from all over England and the world for advice and guidance, or just to have a chat: Australia, Romania, all over Britain, America, Holland – and he’s been working as script-advisor for a television series… oh yes, he keeps himself busy.”

“But it’s not the same as working with real live actors and technicians, is it.”

“No, that’s true. But he has a few people who come to him for private tuition: young directors or people with speech problems. But you’re right, it’s not the same.”

We perched and cogitated for a few minutes before I said, “Why don’t we use my column to find an answer?” (Oscar rarely interferes with my jottings for amdram.)

“How do you mean?” he asked.

“Ask my readers what they’d do to solve your friend’s problem.”

“Would you do that?”

“Jotting right I would – tsk tsk tsk!”

So-o-o-o-o-o-o, my friends and readers, over to you. Have you ever experienced this situation – when someone with much to offer is given the cold shoulder by a clique of well-established members? Maybe you yourself have been snubbed, ignored and insulted. Or maybe you can shed some light on why good people should be so rude and defensive. Clearly, Oscar’s friend is puzzled and hurt by the treatment he has received and needs help. Please have a think, then drop an e-mail to the address below.

Jonah was a very experience director, teacher and writer who sadly passed away in February 2006. He was also the author of the highly successful “Playmaker – The Craft of Directing Plays (The Way I Seen It)”.