by Simon Brett
‘But quotable.’
‘Yes. Must watch that. String together any two words that aren’t downright abusive and some actor’ll quote them.’
Their drinks orders came and Charles paid for them, which again seemed quite natural to the critic. Nor did he find it odd that Charles followed him over to his table.
‘Here, I know you,’ said the old lady.
‘Oh, do you?’ The words were out before Charles could stop them, a completely instinctive actor’s reaction. What had she seen him in? Was she about to congratulate him on one of his rare television appearances?
‘Your name’s Lionel, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
Again she was not deterred by the put-down. ‘Knew a Lionel once. Knew more than one, if the truth were out. One I knew best worked in the greengrocer. Had the impetigo . . .’
She might have continued reminiscing in this vein for hours, had not Frank Walby suddenly sighed and announced, ‘I have immortal longings in me.’
Whether or not the old lady recognized Cleopatra’s words, they had the effect of silencing her, and she addressed herself to the thick head of her new Guinness.
‘I know what you mean,’ said Charles.
‘Sometimes,’ Frank Walby mused, ‘after a few drinks, the world seems very simple. Every ambition very easy, just hanging in front of me like a ripe fruit, ready for plucking.’
‘Hmm,’ Charles agreed, playing along.
‘And then, when I haven’t had a few drinks, the fruit is snatched away from my lips like Tantalus, and every ambition seems insuperable.’ When he waxed poetic, he became more Welsh. ‘But now,’ he continued, with the elaborate logic of the drunk, ‘when I have had a few drinks, I can’t imagine the times when I haven’t had a few drinks, and I feel I can reach out and pluck . . .’ He relished the word and repeated it ‘. . . pluck anything I want out of the sky.’
‘Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’ Charles quoted.
‘Good.’ Walby nodded enthusiastically. ‘Browning, good. You know, when I was young, I thought I was going to do everything. Thought it was all there, just waiting. Just waiting for the plucking.’ Again he savoured the word. ‘Fleet Street,’ he went on, with an expansive gesture, the definitive novel, ‘. . . women – all waiting for me. Well, I did my bit on Fleet Street . . . eight months I did. Not all it’s cracked up to be. And of course there’ve been women . . .’
‘What about them?’
He shook his head carefully, as though afraid too violent a movement might dislodge it. ‘Not all they’re cracked up to be either.’
‘And the definitive novel?’
‘That . . . still remains to be done. Will be, will be,’ he hastened to assure Charles. ‘But I’m not quite ready yet. Still . . .’ He hiccoughed. ‘Still gathering material.’
‘And meanwhile filling the time and paying the bills by doing theatre reviews for the Rugland Spa Gazette & Observer.’
‘Exactly.’ Another cautious nod. ‘Exactly.’ He somehow contrived to put too many Ts at the end of the word. ‘Just biding my time.’
‘And changing your style, I gather.’
Charles hoped his probing was done with sufficient subtlety, but he needn’t have worried. Frank Walby was drunk enough to be above suspicion.
‘Changing my style, you’re right. You see, until . . . until recently I didn’t think the criticism mattered. I thought, don’t stir it, keep everyone happy, they’re all doing their best, give them the bene . . .’ He took another assault on the word. ‘. . . benefit of the doubt. But you can’t go on like that. You see, time passes and, before I make my mark with the novel, why shouldn’t I make my mark as a critic. Don’t worry about people’s reactions, the critic has a sacred duty to uphold absolute standards of excellence, and any falling off from those standards should be casti . . . casti . . .’ He took a few runs at this one before managing to say ‘castigated’.
‘But why the sudden change of mind?’
‘’Snot a sudden change of mind. I’ve thought that all along. I’ve seen some unbelievably terrible shows at the Regent, unbelievably terrible. Every time I was writing my copy, I was working out all these really vicious things to say.
‘Then why didn’t you write them down?’
‘Ah, well, as I say, didn’t want to offend people. That’s part of it. But also, not just that, I know a lot about the Regent Theatre. I mean, I’ve covered its ups and downs ever since I’ve been on the paper – that’s eleven years now . . .’ The statistic seemed suddenly unfamiliar to him. ‘God, is it? Eleven years? Yes, it is. Eleven years. Must move on soon. Other things to be done. Where was I?’
‘You’ve followed the ups and downs of the theatre . . .’
‘Right. And it’s been on the verge of closure so many times. Well, I don’t want that to happen. You see, I do actually believe in the Arts. I mean, when it says in the paper I’m arts correspondence – sorry, correspondent – it’s not just the usual thing of someone being promoted from the gardening column or the sports pages. I do care about the Arts, and I don’t want the Regent to close. And God knows there are enough people in the town who do want it shut down – councillors and all – so I thought if I gave really strong reviews, I’d just be adding fuel to their fire. Look, they could say, not only does it cost a dispro . . . disprop . . . disproportionate amount of money, it also puts on rubbishy productions – here, we’ve got press cuttings to prove it. I didn’t want to give them that kind of ammunition. I mean, critics can be very powerful. Clive Barnes, you know, one of his notices could close a show on Broadway.’
‘I know.’
‘So I sort of held my fire, because I thought it would be best for the theatre if I was bland and ano . . . adenoid . . .’ He gave up on ‘anodyne’ . . . ‘. . . bland.’
‘And what changed your mind?’
‘Well, when I discovered that that wasn’t at all what the theatre wanted, that I was weakening their cause rather than helping it, that they were only going to be viable if they were judged by the professional standards of West End theatre, that harsh criticism would actually sharpen them up, raise the quality of their productions.’
‘What, someone actually said that to you?’
‘Yes. He said that the Regent needed to be taken seriously as a theatre, not some kind of protected species. So I should stop pulling my punches and start applying some objective standards to the shows. He also said that that way I would stand much more chance of making my mark as a critic. So,’ Frank Walby concluded, ‘I changed my style, and you’ve seen the result in my notice for The Message Is Murder. Much more trenchant, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Oh yes, certainly.’ The very word. ‘Who was it who suggested you make the change?’
‘Donald Mason, the General Manager.’
Oh dear. One of Donald’s ideas that hadn’t come off. Charles felt sure it had been done from the highest motives, but he was equally sure it was a misjudgement. Notices like Frank Walby’s last one could only help Councillor Davenport’s anti-theatre lobby.
Perhaps the General Manager hadn’t been aware of the pent-up stores of vituperation in the critic which his request would unleash.
As if conjured like the Devil by the mention of his name, Donald Mason appeared in the pub at this point. He seemed to be looking for someone and, when his eyes lit on Charles, appeared to have found his quarry.
‘Sorry to interrupt you – oh, hello, Frank.’
‘Evening, Donald.’
The old lady looked up from her Guinness and, stimulated by the new arrival, went into her routine. ‘Here, I know you.’
‘I don’t think so. Charles, do you think we could have a word?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I do know you. From Islington days. Blenley Terrace, you come round to see me there.’
‘In private, if you don’t mind, Charles . . .’
‘Of course. Would you excuse us, Frank?’
‘Be my guest.’ The critic made another lavish, but unfinished, gesture.
‘Blenley Terrace it was, in 1972. Before I had to move out. I know your name, and all . . .’
The old lady was still maundering on as Charles and Donald left the bar. Frank Walby sat opposite her, smiling seraphically, as though listening to some virtuoso of the art of conversation.
To Charles’ surprise, Donald didn’t lead straight back to the theatre. Instead he indicated the stairs to the upper bar, which could not be seen from the one they had just left. ‘I don’t often come in here, but I could use a drink. Don’t know about you.’
‘Just had a couple, but I’ll happily join you.’
Charles had had enough fluid content from the beer and moved on to a large Bell’s whisky. Donald Mason ordered a sugar-free lager.
When they had sat down, he said, ‘First, the official business. I’m afraid it’s another reprimand.’
‘Oh dear. What, for sneaking out before the curtain call?’ Donald nodded ruefully. ‘Sorry, it sounds very petty. but I’m afraid you do have to be on your best behaviour at the moment. As you’ve probably gathered, Tony didn’t want you to stay and you’re here on my say-so. And I’ve sort of vouched for your reliability.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s unprofessional. Won’t happen again.’
‘Normally it couldn’t matter less. Most directors wouldn’t insist on you being in the curtain call, anyway, with the part you have, but . . . I’m afraid Tony seems to be rather on his dignity these days.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I’m afraid he’s out for anything he can get on me. So if you let us down, it’s going to look as if it’s my fault – or he’ll certainly play up that side.’
‘I won’t let you down.’
‘Sorry. As I say, just at the moment . . . Maybe the atmosphere will be a bit clearer after Friday.’
‘What’s happening then?’
‘This Extraordinary Board Meeting you may have read about.’
‘Ah yes. It’s going to be a confrontation, is it?’
Donald shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid it may turn out that way. Not that I want that, but when someone starts making untrue allegations about you, well, you have to defend yourself.’
‘And even counter-attack.’
‘I hope that doesn’t become necessary, but if it does, there are a few interesting points I could raise about Tony’s management.’
Charles could imagine what some of them were. He also felt, though he could not yet substantiate them, he could add some interesting allegations of his own, which might raise a few eyebrows amongst the Board members.
‘So it’s open warfare between the two of you now, is it?’
‘I hope not, Charles, but it may come to that. The Board may have to choose between us.’
‘If they do, I should think you’d be all right. Herbie Inchbald seems to think very highly of you.’
Donald grimaced modestly. ‘Has to. He backed me for the job and, I gather, overcame quite a bit of opposition to see I got it.’
‘And I’m sure he doesn’t regret the decision. No, I’m afraid Tony’s probably had things his own way for too long. Running the theatre for twelve years, obviously he’s become a bit autocratic, doesn’t like criticism, and seems rather to have lost his objective standards.’
‘Yes. Well, I’m certainly trying to remedy all that.’
‘By telling Frank Walby to write more savage reviews?’ Charles asked with a smile.
The General Manager looked up sharply. ‘He told you that?’
‘Yes. I know what you meant, but I think that idea rather backfired.’
‘Maybe. It’s just the whole Regent set-up needs a few shocks to wake it out of its complacency. It has no cause to be complacent.’
‘No.’
‘The trouble is, Charles, Tony’s so resistant to change, he fights everything every step of the way. Which is just so wasteful of time and energy. If we really worked together, I’m sure we could pick the theatre up out of this trough. As it is, we’re just weakening it further. And if the divisions in the Regent’s management become public . . . God knows, I do my best to present a united front, but it’s not easy in the face of some of Tony’s behaviour. I sometimes wonder if he’s quite sane.’
‘I think he may have lost touch with reality a bit.’
‘Hmm. That’s a charitable way of putting it. But whatever it is, it’s not helping the theatre one bit. The Regent is so fragile at the moment, so vulnerable. Wouldn’t take much to topple it. If we lose our Arts Council grant, I can’t see the council coughing up the full subsidy. No, I reckon it would be dark within the month, sold and knocked down for development within the year.’
‘Wouldn’t somebody step in to save it?’
‘Don’t know who.’ Donald Mason sighed. ‘Still, don’t let’s anticipate disaster. I gather you didn’t do your curtain call this afternoon either.’
‘No. I’m sorry. I went to see Gordon.’
‘Yes, that’s what Nella said. How did he seem?’
‘Revoltingly healthy.’
‘Yes. Did he say anything interesting?’
‘Like what?’
The General Manager looked at him shrewdly. ‘I’d never thought of you as a great friend of Gordon’s, Charles. Nor the kind of person to rush round fulsomely to any invalid with crates of grapes.’
Charles found himself blushing. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your reputation has preceded you, Charles.’
‘Hmm?’
‘A certain interest in detective work, a little mild investigation, a what shall we say? . . . a nose for crime?’
‘Ah.’
‘I think that’s why you went to see Gordon. I think you wondered to what extent his accident was accidental.’
Donald Mason was extremely shrewd. Charles paid him the compliment of telling him so.
‘Thank you. And what conclusions did you form from talking to Gordon?’
Charles shrugged. ‘Could have been an accident.’
‘Yes?’
‘On the other hand, the timing was odd . . .’
‘In what way?’
‘Because of what you had done that afternoon.’
Donald Mason flushed. ‘What I had done that afternoon?’
‘Yes. You’d asked Gordon to check through the theatre books for him.’
‘Oh. That.’
‘Yes. You’d asked him to check some “inconsistency”.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it some evidence of the books being fiddled?’
‘I, er, don’t think I should answer that.’ The awkwardness of the reply was as positive an affirmation as if he had actually said ‘Yes’.
‘Fiddled by Tony?’
This time he would not even reply.
But his silence again spoke volumes.
And confirmed Charles’ conjecture.
Chapter Ten
CHARLES WOKE THE next morning feeling better than he had for some weeks. He also woke early, round seven o’clock, so he dressed quickly and left his digs before he could be subjected to more of Mimi’s gloomy omniscience and another of her cremated breakfasts. He had woken up with a good intention and he wanted to realize it before it too got laid on the hardcore to hell.
He rang from a phone-box on the way to the station before eight. He knew she didn’t get into the yellow Renault and drive to school till a quarter past.
Her voice, as she gave the number, sounded achingly familiar.
‘Frances it’s me.’
‘Charles. Thank God you rang. I was beginning to worry that something had happened to you.’
‘Nothing more unusual than a job.’
‘Good. Where are you?’
‘Rugland Spa.’
‘My God. Knee-deep in retired Colonels and blue-rinsed widows.’
‘You have it in one.’
‘So no doubt the show you’re doing for them is ho
rribly genteel.’
‘No. By no means. I am participating in a thriller so bad I won’t even mention its name, but I am also rehearsing for a play you may have heard of, called Shove It.’
‘Ah.’
‘Know it?’
‘By reputation. Doesn’t sound Rugland Spa fodder.’
‘It isn’t. And let me tell you, this production features a significant first in British Theatre – a full-frontal Charles Paris.’
‘Oh, my God. When do you open?’
‘Tuesday. Today we have our first Dr . . . no, our first Undress Rehearsal.’
He paused. The initial impetus, the initial excitement of talking to her, had slowed down, and he felt very aware of the false brightness of their conversation. He also felt a sudden access of all the old mixed emotions, with jealousy well to the fore.
‘Are you alone?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes.’ She sounded surprised. ‘Why, shouldn’t I be?’
‘Well, I thought your . . . you know, this man . . . this David . . .’
Pretty inept. So much for the cool man-of-the-world sang-froid he had hoped to bring to the situation.
‘No, of course he’s not here. You’ve got the relationship all wrong.’
Absurdly, he felt a gush of hope at her words. Maybe, after all, they were just friends. Or maybe no longer even friends . . .
But her next words soon east him down again. ‘We couldn’t live together if we wanted to. David’s married. Didn’t I mention that?’
It was the familiarity with which she said the name that hurt.
‘No. No. You didn’t actually say . . . just that there were complications. So . . . the affair is illicit?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’ She giggled nervously. ‘I need to see you, Charles.’
‘Yes. I . . .’ With an effort he held back from over-committing himself. ‘It’d be good to see you too.’
‘When are you through in Rugland Spa?’
‘Not for a month.’
‘Oh, I must see you before that. Now we’ve actually made contact. I do need to talk to you. There’s so much I want to say.’
But she didn’t get the chance to say it. At that point the pips went.
And Charles didn’t have any more change.