‘I don’t begrudge Al the money. It’s his brain and talent which have helped me get where I am today,’ Carter said, still addressing his dummy.
‘Yeah’, came the reply, ‘where you are today: standing on the stage and talking to yourself.’
‘That’s one of the old ones. I don’t do those any more.’
Charlie said nothing. He just gazed at Carter with his fixed glacial stare.
Carter rose from his chair and crossed to the doll and picked it up. ‘I think you need a new jacket, old boy. You’re starting to look a little shabby. We’re having our picture taken next week for the Radio Times. I want you to look smart.’
The doll remained silent and so, instinctively, Carter slipped his hand inside and took hold of the controls. The eyes rotated in their sockets and the mouth clapped open noisily.
‘Oooh, Radio Times. That’s très posh,’ it said.
‘Certainly is, but I don’t have to remind you that “Okey Dokes” is the top entertainment show on the radio.’
‘Chum, you don’t have to remind me of anything.’ Charlie winked an eye.
Suddenly the door opened and a tall, lean man with wavy hair entered. Like Charlie he was fairly new on the scene, too. Larry Milligan was Raymond Carter’s manager. He was dressed in a smart double-breasted suit with a garish tie that flopped out of the jacket like a large vibrant multicoloured tongue. Despite his youth, Milligan had a tough, careworn face and looked older than his years. Still only in his mid-twenties, Milligan had been in the business nearly ten years. As a lad he had always had a yearning to be involved in show business, but, quickly realizing that he possessed no skill as a performer himself, he soon developed a talent for managing acts. While he was only seventeen, he was already looking after two small jazz groups, one of which, Tom Haley’s Smooth Sounds, caught the attention of a record producer and had a minor success with a couple of discs. That had been the start for Milligan. His stable of artistes grew and within five years he was handling some of the top names in the business.
‘You talking to that bit of wood again?’ Milligan said without humour.
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ snapped Charlie. ‘He talks to you, doesn’t he?’
‘Yeah, yeah, very funny. It’s a good job Al writes the scripts and not you.’
‘I see you’re in a good mood this morning,’ observed Carter easily, setting the dummy down and returning to his chair.
‘Is it still only morning? I thought it must be at least midnight. I’ve just had one of those days, this morning. I’ve been trying to negotiate a contract with the two bloody scatterbrains known as the Prior Sisters. They are a nightmare. When one says one thing; the other says the opposite. How they ever sing in harmony, God only knows.’
‘I think money might have something to do with it.’
Milligan gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Yes, you could be right. I can tell you I could do with a drink, but I promised myself that I would lay off the juice until the sun goes down. So let’s go, shall we? Let’s be early for the rehearsal for a change.’
Carter grinned and picked up the script. ‘That’s fine by me. Have you read this?’
Milligan nodded. ‘Skimmed it. It seems OK.’
‘OK would not be good enough for Ray Carter and Charlie Dokes. This is the best.’
Milligan narrowed his eyes and placed an arm on Carter’s shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said softly.
The two men looked at each other for a few moments, exchanging unspoken thoughts.
Milligan was a very sharp operator. Although he hadn’t been in the business for many years, he had managed to collect around him a group of talented and successful artistes that provided him with a very comfortable living. However, he had learned very quickly never to get too close to his charges. Show business was a fickle master and while one day your client could be top of the heap, it was the way of the world that he would eventually slide down towards the bottom as someone new, younger and better came along to take his place. No one stayed at the centre of the spotlight for ever. Once they had slipped into the shadows it was time to cut them adrift. At present Raymond Carter was his top banana, but Milligan knew his novelty value had a limited life span. It was his job to make sure that while the performers came and went, he survived.
Milligan suddenly patted both sides of his jacket. ‘Drat. I’m out of cigarettes. You know I can’t sit through the rehearsal without fags to keep me going.’
‘I can let you have some of mine.’
Milligan pulled a face. ‘I hate those. No, no. Look, you get the car out, and I’ll just pop down the road and buy a pack. Be back in five minutes. OK?’
Carter nodded. ‘Sure.’
Some minutes later, as Carter was ready to leave, the telephone rang.
‘I’ll get that,’ said Charlie.
‘I’d like to see you try,’ grinned Carter, as he lifted the receiver. ‘Hello, Raymond Carter here.’
‘Hello, Raymond.’ The voice was thin and high and recited the words in a sing-song manner.
For some reason which he could not at first explain, the greeting chilled Carter and he tensed, his brow furrowing with concern. ‘Who is this?’ His tone was abrupt and urgent.
‘Surely you recognize the voice of an old friend.’ Carter did recognize the voice. It was his voice, or to be more precise, it was the voice he used when he was being Charlie. Someone was impersonating him.
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
The voice chuckled. ‘It is far from being a joke, old boy. Actually it’s more in the nature of a warning.’
‘I’ve heard enough—’
‘I wouldn’t put the phone down if I were you. That would be very foolish.’
Carter was unnerved now. ‘What do you want?’
‘Did you hear the one about the fellow who carried a calendar around with him? His days were numbered – and, my dear Raymond, so are yours. Just wanted you to know that. Goodbye for now.’
There was a faint Charlie Dokes’ chuckle and then a sharp click followed by a fierce buzzing noise. Slowly Raymond replaced the receiver.
‘You OK?’ asked Milligan as he got inside the car. He sensed there was something wrong. Suddenly Carter was awkward and sullen. The easy, jovial demeanour had evaporated and with his brow contracted into a permanent frown he seemed edgy and strained.
‘I just had … the strangest of phone calls.’
‘Who from?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Carter, slowly shaking his head. ‘A disgruntled listener, I expect.’ He flashed a false half smile. He wasn’t going to admit it to Milligan or, perhaps, even himself, but the incident had really rattled him. Silly though it had been, he couldn’t shake off the notion that there was something quite sinister behind the bizarre call.
‘What did they say?’ Milligan was keen to learn all about this telephone conversation which had turned his usually easy-going, relaxed client into a tense and nervy soul.
Carter shook his head. ‘He said nothing of significance … said he hated the show. Stuff like that. The funny thing was, he used Charlie’s voice.’
Instinctively Milligan glanced at the dummy on the back seat. ‘Sounds like it was someone on the loose from the nut house.’
Carter attempted another grin. ‘I reckon you’re right. Let’s forget about the damn call, shall we? We have a show to rehearse,’ he said, switching on the engine.
‘Indeed. We can’t please all the people all of the time … eh?’
‘Why not?’ observed Charlie in the back of the car.
By the time Carter and Milligan reached the rehearsal studio in Broadcasting House, the rest of the cast had assembled. There was Gilbert Manville, a short, stocky, bald-headed man in a crumpled tweed suit, who did most of the character voices, including Mr Molesworth, Charlie’s tutor; and Evelyn Munro, a pretty young girl in a fetching flowered dress, who played Raymond’s secretary in the show as well as having a solo singing spot. There was the announcer Per
cy Goodall, plump and dapper in a grey suit with dark hair slicked back with Brylcreem so that it looked like a patent leather toupee; he was the target for many of Charlie’s putdowns. Looking uncomfortable, like a sleek fish out of water, was this week’s special guest, the film star Harry Mason. And there was Arthur Keating, an unmade bed of a man with a large raspberry for a nose, the result of many years imbibing the grain. Much to Carter’s annoyance, Keating had been given a comic monologue each week as The Hot Chestnut Man which had been a hit with the listeners and he’d garnered quite a following. However his drinking made Keating unreliable. He’d failed to turn up for a few rehearsals, fluffed some lines on air and had missed one broadcast altogether, having lost track of time in a pub somewhere. To Carter, this irritating mix of increasing popularity and unpredictability had made him determined to get Keating off the show and he didn’t hide his animosity towards the man.
The group was completed by producer Edward Simmons, dressed in a brown corduroy suit with a floppy bow tie which fluttered like some damaged butterfly when he spoke. He was one of the BBC’s wunderkind. He was only in his middle twenties, although to Carter he looked much younger, as though he hadn’t started shaving yet. However, despite his boyish, naïve appearance, Simmons had risen quickly through the ranks because of his perceptive flair and ruthless determination. Carter respected the producer but was also wary of him. After the usual rounds of greetings and introductions, Simmons took the troupe through some cuts and changes in the script. Now they were ready to rehearse.
‘Where’s wonder boy?’ asked Simmons, as he headed for the control booth. ‘It’s not like Al to miss a run through.’
‘I’m here,’ cried Al Warren, slipping in through the door as though on cue at the mention of his name. ‘Sorry I’m late. Traffic. So many detours because of the demolition work. You’d think there was a war on. Hey, Eddie, I hope you left in that gag about Mae West.’
‘You must be joking,’ responded Simmons.
‘That was the general idea.’
Simmons mimed a throat cutting gesture to indicate that the gag had been cut. ‘We do want to be on the air next week. If I’d have left that little sparkler in, it would have meant fireworks for all of us. The BBC wallahs are very hot on bad taste. Remember, Al, smutty isn’t always witty.’
Al rolled his eyes, but then grinned broadly.
‘And what did Charlie think of the risqué riposte?’ asked Gilbert Manville.
Carter, who had just lifted Charlie Dokes from his travelling case, deftly swung the dummy round and rested him on his knee. Taking Charlie’s arm, he held the doll’s hand up to its face. ‘Oh, gosh, Mr Manville, I was so embarrassed. An innocent fellow like me shouldn’t be reading such stuff.’
There was a ripple of laughter and then, as though they had been well drilled by practice, the cast assembled in their set places ready for a dry rehearsal, one without music or effects, while Edward Simmons retired to the control room. Out on a limb, the film actor Harry Mason had to be shepherded into place by Evelyn Munro.
‘OK you lot. Let’s give it a whirl.’ Simmons’ tinny voice emanated from a small speaker in the studio.
Percy Goodall stepped up to the microphone and began:
ANNOUNCER: Once more it’s time to meet up with that little fellow with the big mouth.
CHARLIE: That’s me, folks, Charlie Dokes, the woodpecker’s friend.
ANNOUNCER: Along with his keeper, Raymond Carter.
RAYMOND: Hello there, Okey Dokers.
ANNOUNCER: And the assembled throng that is Gilbert Manville.
GILBERT: (in several voices) Good evening. Hello. Hi there. How do you do and What ho.
ANNOUNCER: Also joining in the fun is Evelyn Munro.
EVELYN: Sometimes Charlie drives me to distraction.
CHARLIE: And I don’t even have a motor car.
ANNOUNCER: And of course, there’s Arthur Keating, The Hot Chestnut Man.
There was a pause while Keating rustled his script, apparently already having lost his place.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ snapped Raymond Carter.
‘Yes, yes,’ muttered Keating, still turning over his script.
Simmons’s voice came over the tannoy: ‘OK, Percy, give Arthur his cue again. And Arthur, please keep your eye on the ball, eh?’
Yes, yes,’ repeated Keating, having found his place.
ANNOUNCER: And of course, there’s Arthur Keating, The Hot Chestnut Man.
ARTHUR: Buy me chestnuts. They’re real tasty. I’ve got some real hot ones for you tonight.
ANNOUNCER: This week’s special guest is the star of Renown Pictures Danger at Midnight, Harry Mason.
HARRY: How on earth did I get into this mess?
ANNOUNCER: They’re all here to bring you: ‘Okey Dokes’.
And so the rehearsal continued more or less smoothly. Harry Mason fluffed his lines a few times and Gilbert Manville had difficulty with one of his accents but to Larry Milligan, who was sitting back in a corner of the studio watching the proceedings while he puffed away on a chain of cigarettes, it all seemed to go smoothly as it usually did. Even Arthur Keating glided through it without further mishap and was very funny. Milligan knew that any minor slips would be ironed out when the crew were before a real live audience and they upped their game. It was only towards the very end of the rehearsal that something strange seemed to happen.
Carter was thanking Harry Mason for guesting on the show, while Charlie was making snide comments and trying to get the actor to find a part for him in one of Mason’s movies:
CHARLIE: I want to play someone who’s a handsome hunk and looks good.
HARRY: Don’t you mean a handsome chunk who’s made of wood?
Carter turned over the last page and froze. He emitted a gasp and dropped the script. Everyone around the microphone had been gazing at their own scripts but now they turned towards their star in surprise.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked the bewildered producer over the tannoy.
For the second time in a few hours, Larry Milligan saw his client’s face drain of colour and a thin sheen of sweat cover his brow.
However, Carter managed to recover his composure quite quickly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said sharply, snatching his script from the floor. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t mind me. I’m not myself today.’
‘Now that’s a major improvement,’ said Charlie, and rolled his eyes.
‘OK, let’s go back a page and start with Harry’s line at the top,’ said Simmons.
After that disturbance, the rehearsal concluded without any further delays.
Edward Simmons emerged from the control room, beaming ‘Great, everyone. We’ve got a very good show here. Good work, Al.’
Al Warren gave a salute and smiled.
‘Right. Have some lunch you lot. Nothing too liquid mind. Band call at three-thirty. We record at six.’
The cast nodded and murmured their farewells for the moment and dispersed.
‘You want to catch a light lunch at Mario’s?’ asked Larry Milligan, as Carter began packing Charlie away in his case again.
‘I think I’ll give it a miss if you don’t mind, Larry. I’ve a bit of business in town I need to attend to. I’ll see you at the theatre at three-thirty. OK?’
‘Sure.’ Milligan pulled on his overcoat and sauntered to the door, but before opening it, he turned round to face Carter.
‘Are you all right, Raymond?’
‘Why, yes. Of course I am.’
‘What happened when you dropped your script? You looked as though you’d seen a ghost.’
‘Did I? It was nothing. Nothing.’
There was an edge to his voice now and Milligan knew his client was lying.
‘That “nothing” seems to have spooked you somewhat.’
Carter forced an uneasy smile. ‘It was nothing. Believe me.’
‘OK,’ drawled Milligan easily, deciding to drop the subject. ‘Well, as I’m not performing later today, I re
ckon I’ll wend my way towards a few large whiskies. See you later.’
Carter was now left alone in the room. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his script and turned to the last page. There it was. He hadn’t imagined it. Scrawled in red ink at the bottom of the page were the words: ‘Not long now’.
*
Carter still wore a concerned frown when he left the recording studio some five minutes later. In one sense he was determined not to let these strange occurrences – the phone call and the scrawled message – impinge on his life and particularly the early afternoon relaxation he had planned for himself, but what the brain decides is often negated by the instinctive emotions and so the frown remained.
He had barely made his way a dozen yards down the hushed corridor when he heard his name being called. The voice came from behind him. His body tensed and he swung round to see Gilbert Manville, suit still crumpled and, he thought unkindly, with a face to match. Carter didn’t fraternize with the cast and so he hardly knew Manville. He thought of him as one of those performers who came alive briefly while on air, served their purpose and then shrank back into the shadows of mundanity. Carter’s idea of hell would be to be stuck in a lift with Manville, whose whole personality was channelled into his various voices. The man himself had none.
‘Sorry to catch you like this, Raymond,’ he said approaching, deference and embarrassment fighting for control of his countenance.
Requiem for a Dummy Page 2