by David Storey
‘Could you keep it quiet, Felix?’ Towers called again.
‘We were in a car. I scarcely need to tell you, to an itinerant artist, driving comes as second nature. I could no more not drive a car than not know how to raise a curtain, strike a set, deliver a line which I have rehearsed if not performed a thousand times, “Give me some light – away!” or sit on a stage in such a position that I am not aware of all the sight lines. Though she is the dear-departed, she was, by any standards, a pain in the rectum, although, when I first met her, she was a beautiful actress of considerable charm.’
He drew out a wallet, removed a photograph and, having straightened it, held it out: placing his face beside Attercliffe’s in order that the two of them might examine it together, he added, ‘Ophelia.’
‘Was that her name?’
‘It was where we met. I was playing Claudius. I was scarcely twenty-one. She was two years older. When she died and I looked at her birth-certificate I discovered it was nearer three.’
The photograph was folded down the middle: a creased line obscured the centre of the face, leaving, on either side, a solitary eye set in a cheek drawn back by a smile.
A horizontal line amputated the body in the region of the waist, leaving a tiered skirt suspended above a centrally-fissured bosom.
‘Pretty.’
He refolded the photograph and returned it to his wallet.
‘Hamlet she was very keen on. He was twice as old as me. The audience used to applaud at the end of my scenes, and at the end of the duel scene they called out for me to kill him. Him!’ He stabbed at the wallet. ‘Finally, when she lost her beauty, she turned to drink.’
He picked up his script, turned to the pages he’d marked with a pencil and, muttering under his breath, closed his eyes, reopened them, and added, ‘In those days it was one week’s rehearsal and two weeks’ playing. The mind,’ he stabbed a finger at his temple, ‘was chock-a-block. Rehearse all day, perform each night.’
‘Can you keep your voices down?’ came Towers’s shout, his stocky figure propelled once more across the floor – returning, a moment later, and calling, ‘Your cue, Felix, in a minute.’
‘Ready,’ Felix said, and added, ‘On a bend and, overtaking a car, I realised there wasn’t one car there but several, while, on my side of the road, coming directly towards me, was a lorry. “If,” I thought, “one of us has to die, should it be someone with their talent still intact, or someone whose talent has expired beneath the ravages of drink?”’ He smiled. ‘I explained to the spectators – mainly the drivers from the other cars – that I’d intended crashing into the lorry with that half of the car in which I myself was sitting, only, to the driver of the lorry, it looked as if I’d turned his way on purpose. My distress, I can assure you, after all these years, has not abated, particularly since the coroner pointed out that I was to blame for the crash entirely, and no one, to the present day, believes me when I say I loved my wife, despite the tribulations of her failed career, and that if I had the choice again – which I’d welcome – I’d drive the car as I drove it then.’
He turned in his chair, knocking over, as he did so, his cup of coffee, and, addressing Attercliffe directly, asked, ‘Do you think there is a part of us which wants the worst for us when we only want the best?’ – rising, as he identified a signal from across the room, and calling, ‘“Hope I’m not intruding, Danny. Thought I’d have a word.”’
Slumping in the chair beside him, Towers said, ‘I’m trying to clear each actor before he speaks, so that he’s not endlessly emerging from behind the others. With twenty-two characters on a stage, which isn’t much more than twenty-five feet across, it isn’t easy. Mason, when he’s on, has to have a central position. Can’t lose him in a hurry, not that he’d let me, but the whole of it has to be arranged in terms of the text. When I look at it, it’s very strange; the groups and the positions emerge naturally. I’ve never known it happen before.’
He took a cup of coffee from Ann, handed it to Attercliffe, took the other she was holding, shook his head over a tin of biscuits, drew, with his stockinged feet, a chair before him, gazed off across the room to where the tapes and the chairs and benches marking the set were surrounded, on the parquet floor, by the dusty imprint of the actors’ shoes and, gasping at the heat of the coffee, continued, ‘If you see a move that doesn’t look right I hope, after all these weeks, you’ll say so.’ Placing his feet on the chair before him, and glancing off to where Mason, head and shoulders above the rest, was talking to several people at once, he asked, ‘What was he going on about?’
‘His wife.’
‘Again.’
‘He talked of a perversity,’ Attercliffe said, ‘that drove him one way when he wished to go another.’
‘What it all boils down to,’ Towers said, ‘is that he’s no one left to blame but himself.’
He got up, called, ‘Let’s try again,’ and, as the figures drifted back across the room, and the stage-manager came back to sit at the table, to realign her coloured pencils, to reinspect the alterations, the transpositions, the lines and diagrams she’d drawn on her script, Attercliffe got up too, stretched and, conscious of the stuffiness of the room, went out to the yard – with its parked motor-bikes, chained bicycles, and cars – and, gasping, took in the air.
‘Even if you’d found a purchaser,’ Sheila said, ‘you couldn’t do anything about it.’
Her voice crackled by his ear.
‘At least,’ Attercliffe said, ‘it would bring matters to a head.’
‘They were brought to a head a long time ago. I thought,’ she added, ‘you’d got my message.’
The Buckingham Bar was crowded; amongst those sitting at the tables he identified Booth and Attwood, Morgan and Davidson-Smith, Dougie Walters and Phyllis Gardner, and even, curiously, Heather.
Also sitting there was Freddie’s nephew.
‘I am not redecorating the entire house in order to hand it over to someone else.’
He turned in the box to examine the nephew more closely: he was sitting with the woman with whom Attercliffe had seen him walking out of the Buckingham Bar on the day he had told him he was giving up his claim to Fredericks’s will: a small, sharply-featured, dark-suited figure, sitting at the same table as Morgan and Davidson-Smith.
‘Cathy told me about your visit.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘She rang me up.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘To tell me that you weren’t to go again.’
‘Where on earth are you speaking from?’
‘The Buckingham Bar.’
‘I thought it was your flat.’
‘I’m ringing from here,’ he said, ‘because, unlike the hallway of the flat, I can’t be overheard.’
‘I’ve heard Fredericks talking in that kiosk,’ Sheila said, ‘when I’ve been sitting the other side.’
‘That’s because there was no one but you and Freddie there.’
‘The days of romance,’ she said, ‘are over. I’ve added up what has to be added up, and taken away what has to be taken away, and the only thing I’m left with is the house.’
‘Whatever you said to Cathy has made her more determined to stay,’ he said.
‘How much money have you got?’
‘I’ve two coins more.’
‘I shouldn’t waste them.’ She put the phone down.
Redialling the number, he found the line engaged.
He stepped out to the bar. The nephew nodded his head, the gesture acting as a signal to the woman sitting beside him: turning, she smiled, and, leaning across the table, made a comment which Morgan and Davidson-Smith responded to by glancing up.
‘How are you?’ the nephew said. He pushed back his chair, stood, and added, ‘You haven’t met my wife.’
The woman extended her hand.
‘I was telling Connie,’ the nephew said, ‘of our previous encounter.’ He gestured at the bar, waiting for Attercliffe to sh
ake her hand, and, indicating they might move away, continued, ‘Could we have a word? Outside might be better.’
As he allowed his wife to lead the way, the door to the street was opened from the other side.
Elise came in. ‘Hello, Dad,’ she said. A tall, white-jacketed, white-trousered, plimsolled, slim-featured and fair-haired figure followed her inside.
‘This is my daughter,’ Attercliffe said, and added, ‘This is Mr and Mrs Fredericks, Elise.’
‘Any relation to Mr Fredericks?’ his daughter asked.
‘His nephew and his wife,’ he said.
The nephew extended his hand.
‘We were coming in for a drink.’ Elise shook his hand, shook the wife’s and, indicating her companion, added, ‘This is Alex.’
‘How do you do?’ the tall, white-jacketed figure said.
‘Have you been here often?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘When we can afford it,’ his daughter said.
‘Who’s affording it now?’
‘Alex.’ Smiling from within a mask of make-up, she squeezed past, nodded to the Frederickses, called, ‘See you,’ and, her arm in that of her companion, disappeared across the bar.
‘I didn’t catch her name,’ the nephew said.
‘Elise.’
‘Full of character.’
‘I’m surprised you could see it.’
‘And her friend.’
‘Really?’
‘Youth,’ the nephew said, ‘it leads the way,’ and, indicating they might move to the street, added, as they stepped out to the pavement, ‘What we wanted to talk about was Uncle’s play.’
‘Uncle’s?’
‘Freddie’s.’
‘Freddie’s?’
‘Players.’
‘Players,’ Attercliffe said, ‘happens to be mine.’
‘He must have had a hand in it.’
‘None at all.’
‘You didn’t find it,’ he said, ‘amongst his papers?’
Attercliffe shook his head.
‘You’d swear to that in court?’
‘If I have to.’
‘It’s only a natural precaution,’ he glanced at his wife, ‘in the light of the fact that you were his literary executor.’
‘That’s right.’
The door to the bar reopened.
Amongst the figures that emerged was Elise’s tall companion, followed by Elise.
‘It’s pretty dead in there,’ his daughter said.
‘Shouldn’t you be at college?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘Free period,’ she said, ‘but we’re going back.’
He watched her cross the road and, accompanied by her friend, set off along the pavement in the direction of the college.
‘Is she still at school?’ the nephew asked.
‘Another year.’
‘You must be proud. Both ours are lads. We miss not having a daughter,’ he added.
‘If we thought Freddie had had a hand in Players we wouldn’t hesitate to pursue our interests,’ his wife announced.
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ Attercliffe said.
She took her husband’s arm.
‘Didn’t Uncle play in the old days?’ she asked.
‘No,’ the nephew said. ‘He didn’t.’
He offered his hand to Attercliffe, waited for him to shake it, then, turning to his wife, set off, his arm in hers, in the opposite direction to that taken by Elise.
Attercliffe himself turned back to the bar, pressed open the door, recalled he had insufficient money to buy a drink, and, returning to the pavement, stood there for a while, his hands in his pockets, gazing off along the street.
24
The sea was calmer than on their previous visit. On this occasion only the boys and Lorna had come with him: Sheila herself had stayed behind; Catherine, to whom he’d sent a letter, hadn’t troubled to answer his invitation; Elise, who’d shown no interest, had gone out with her friend.
It was cold; the sky was overcast: it looked like rain.
The children at first sat in a tiny group, with only two other pairs of figures visible along the beach, its width reduced by the incoming tide. A warship was anchored some distance from the shore: it was this which, on their arrival, had attracted the boys’ attention and some time later, while Lorna, mournfully, played in the sand, they had wandered down to the water’s edge and, their hands in their pockets, gazed out at the low-slung shape.
‘Daddy?’ Lorna looked up. ‘Mummy says she’ll never be happy.’
‘When did she tell you that?’
‘She told Elise.’
She rested back on her heels.
‘Some people are only happy when they’re complaining,’ Attercliffe said.
‘What’s “complaining”?’
‘Whining.’
‘I’m always whining,’ she said.
She scooped at the sand and called, ‘There’s water,’ while, from further along the beach, came the protesting voice of Bryan, ‘Give over!’
Having exhausted his interest in the boat, pursued by his brother, he was running along the water’s edge.
‘You’ll have to cheer your mother up,’ he said.
‘Audrey says she’s mad.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s been in hospital.’
‘It wasn’t because she was mad,’ he said.
‘What was it for?’
‘Because she needed a rest.’
Her back turned to him, she scooped up the sand more quickly, flicking it above her head, and he called, ‘Watch where you’re throwing it,’ to which her muffled voice replied, ‘I’ve got to the water.’
Finally, sitting on the edge, she stamped her feet in the bottom.
The side caved in.
‘If you help your mother by cheering her up she’ll have more time to spend with you.’ He indicated the boys. ‘They’re old enough,’ he went on, ‘to look after themselves.’
‘Will I look after myself?’
‘One day.’
She gazed off to the sea: arrested by its anchor, stern-on, the warship swung in their direction.
She got up from the hole and, coming to where he was sitting, got into his lap, lowered her head to his chest, curled herself against him, set her thumb in her mouth and, her gaze abstracted, stared in the direction of the harbour.
‘I don’t want to look after myself,’ she said.
She removed her thumb from her mouth.
‘One day,’ he said, ‘you won’t be able to stand the sight of me.’
‘Why?’
‘Ask the boys.’ Now the only figures on the beach, they had reached the opposite edge of the bay.
‘I like you more than they do.’
‘In a different way.’
‘Why in a different way?’
‘Because,’ he said, ‘you’re not a son.’
‘Do you like me?’
‘I do.’
‘How much?’
‘A lot.’
She thrust her shape against his chest.
‘It’s cold.’
‘That’s why it’s better you dig a hole.’
‘I don’t like digging one,’ she said.
‘I’ll dig one with you,’ he said, ‘and when the boys come back we’ll hide inside.’
She climbed out of his lap and, handing him the shovel, stood by the hole as he dug it out.
‘How about a castle?’
She shook her head.
‘Or making a boat?’
‘A hole,’ she said.
Occasionally she dropped in and patted the side, scooped up sand, and precipitated further falls as she scrambled out.
The beach, in the direction which the boys had taken, was now deserted.
‘Shall I get in?’
‘I can’t see them coming back,’ he said.
She looked along the beach herself, said, ‘There they are,’ only, the two figures walking along the road, above the beach, t
urned out to be a man and a woman.
‘I’m cold,’ she said.
‘Let’s find somewhere we can eat,’ he said.
He dusted down her legs, cleaned her feet, looked back along the sand, then, packing their possessions, lifted her in one arm and, with her arm in turn around his neck, set off in the direction of the harbour where, on the quay, he’d parked the car.
The road at the back of the beach was devoid of traffic, the shops on the other side white-shuttered: she hummed to herself as they walked along, pointing at the warship.
‘It’s moving.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘I thought it was.’ Indicating first one white-shuttered front and then another, she said, ‘Where will we eat?’ and finally, wriggling in his arms, ‘I want to go.’
He took her to a women’s toilet adjoining the quay. After stepping, wide-eyed, into the darkened entrance, she returned and said, ‘I can’t work it,’ holding out the coin he’d given her, and adding, ‘Can you do it for me?’
Along the quay there was only a handful of men working in the fish-sheds: the road above the beach was still deserted.
He took her hand; inside the toilet, the door to a cubicle stood ajar: the toilet seat itself was broken. He dropped the coin in the slot on the adjoining door; a voice on the inside said, ‘It’s taken.’
He tried the adjacent door, found it locked, dropped another coin in, and the door sprang back.
Toilet paper and refuse were strewn on the floor.
They returned to the street outside.
‘Where are we going?’
‘We’ll do it in the gutter.’
She drew down her pants, he held her up and, as she crouched in this position, he saw the boys coming along the road, one some distance behind the other.
‘There’s Keith and Bryan.’
Water jetted by his feet.
A car went past.
‘I’m finished.’
He set her down; she stooped, drew up her pants, and added, ‘We can hide behind that building.’
She indicated the fish-sheds which, adjacent to the car-park, lined the harbour wall.