by Brett, Simon
She sighed the sort of sigh that drama teachers spend three years eradicating from their students. Lesley-Jane, perhaps from long experience of having her mother going on about her or perhaps just from exhaustion, did not seem to be listening.
‘Oh yes, I think Lesley-Jane could have mixed with some very eminent people. She is just the sort of girl to stimulate the artistic temperament. Don’t you agree, Charles?’
Charles, who shared G. K. Chesterton’s opinion that the artistic temperament is a disease which afflicts amateurs, grunted. He could well believe that Lesley-Jane could stimulate male lust; but he found her mother’s visions of her, launched in society as a kind of professional Laura to a series of theatrical Petrarchs, a little fanciful.
‘Mind you, at the same age, I myself . . .’ she blushed, ‘. . . was not without admirers in the . . . world of the arts. If I hadn’t been trapped by marriage so young . . . who knows what might have been . . .? Though of course I wasn’t half as attractive as Lesley . . .’
This was said in a voice expecting contradiction, which Charles wilfully withheld.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE CONFIDENCE to ring Dottie Banks, absent over the weekend, came after the Friday’s performance. The show had gone well, and Charles felt his acting had matched it. There was even a slight swagger in his stride as he entered the star dressing room. (In spite of his enduring understudy status and certain representations that George Birkitt had made to the Company Manager, Charles was still in there.)
Once inside, he saw that great perk, the telephone, and remembered Dottie’s note. He also remembered that he’d said he’d ring Frances about the possibility of going down to Miles and Juliet’s on the Sunday, but decided to do that the next morning.
He dialled Dottie’s number, trying not to dwell on thoughts of the times Michael Banks must have done the same from the same phone.
No, she didn’t mind his ringing so late. And yes, she was glad to hear from him. And yes, she had meant what she had said in her note, that it’d be nice to get together for a chat and . . . things. And why didn’t he drop round to her flat in Hans Crescent for a drink after the show tomorrow?
Charles conceded that he would be free, and graciously accepted the invitation.
Drinks with strange women after the show fitted well into the fantasy of himself as the big West End star that the night’s performance had engendered.
Even as he thought it, he couldn’t help remembering that West End stars tended to be paid a bit more than he was getting with his humble understudy-plus-supplement deal. He really must have a word with the company Equity representative about that contract. Surely Equity wouldn’t approve it.
On the other hand, since his agent had accepted the terms so avidly, he thought there might be problems in getting them changed.
Still, there was plenty of time to sort that out. His main priority was Dottie Banks. When he thought of their forthcoming encounter, he felt the guilty excitement of a schoolboy sneaking into the cinema to see an ‘X’ Certificate movie.
The block of flats in Hans Crescent was expensive and discreet. The porter who rang up to Mrs. Banks and directed Charles to her flat was also no doubt expensive, and would have been discreet if he had refrained from accompanying his directions with a wink. Charles got the impression that perhaps he wasn’t the first to have followed this particular route.
The Dottie Banks who opened the flat door was looking expensive; as to her discretion, he would no doubt soon find out. The black satin trousers, the fine black silk shirt and the black lace brassiere which was meant to show through it; they too were expensive. And just about discreet.
‘Charles, how nice to see you.’ She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him on the lips, enveloping him in discreetly expensive perfume. ‘Come in and have a drink.’
The same adjectives which had applied to everything else applied to the flat. Charles was unused to moving in circles where interior designers were used; most of his friends just accumulated clutter and wielded emulsion brushes when things got too tatty; but he recognised the genuine article when he saw it. And he had to admit it was well done.
There was a great deal of Michael Banks memorabilia about. Photographs, framed posters, the odd award statuette. Whatever the nature of their relationship, it was clear that husband and wife had shared the same flat.
Charles was looking at a film still of Banks in one of his most famous roles as the captain of a doomed frigate, when Dottie came back from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne.
‘You open this.’
‘Fine.’
‘There are some things I always feel men do better than women.’
Charles recognised that there would come a point when one found this relentless sexual innuendo irritating. But he knew he hadn’t reached that point yet. He put down the still and took the champagne bottle.
‘Yes, poor Micky.’ Dotty Banks sighed. ‘Poor, poor Micky.’
It was said without any sense of tragedy, but with affection.
‘It must be pretty awful for you, having lost him.’ The cork popped and Charles caught the spume in a tall glass.
‘Yes, of course I miss him. Not as much as I would have expected, in some ways.’ Dottie shrugged. ‘I mean, as a marriage, it wasn’t, well, it wasn’t a marriage in the conventional sense. We got on well, we went around together quite a bit, we were nice to each other, but we always . . . had our own friends.’
She looked at him unequivocally, so Charles asked the direct question. ‘You mean you both had affairs?’
I did.’
‘But Micky didn’t?’
‘He had . . . friendships.’
‘I see.’ So perhaps Lesley-Jane had been telling the truth in her description of the relationship. Just a few meals.
‘What I mean, Charles, is that sex wasn’t very high on Micky’s list of priorities.’
‘Ah . . . Well, some people don’t have much of a sex-drive,’ Charles observed fatuously, aware that his own was revving up like mad.
‘In Micky’s case, he didn’t have any.’
‘Sex-drive?’
‘None at all.’ She shook her head to punctuate the words. ‘He couldn’t do it anymore.’
‘Ah.’ Charles wasn’t sure whether to say he was sorry or not. He didn’t know the correct etiquette for replying to a lady who’s just told you her recently-murdered husband was impotent.
‘This made us, in certain respects, incompatible.’ Dottie Banks emphasised the obvious by placing her hand on Charles’s thigh.
‘Ah. Well. Yes. I can see that.’
Her fingertips started to move gently up and down. He felt it would soon be the moment to make a move, and her behaviour left him in little doubt as to what sort of move it should be. Indeed, the only question seemed to be whether he should even bother to make a move, or just let her do everything for him.
But, even then, the nagging thought in his mind would not go away. ‘Dottie, about Micky’s death . . .’
‘Uhuh.’ She was now leaning over towards him and breathing very close to his ear. He could feel the hard outline of her breasts against his upper arm.
‘Did you think there was anything odd about it?’
‘Odd?’ she murmured. ‘Well, no odder than any other murder that takes place on stage during the first night of a new play, when the leading actor is shot dead by his understudy.’
‘No, I just thought you, knowing Micky so well, might have . . .’
‘Uhuh.’ She shook her head, which wobbled the ear she was now nibbling in a way that he found extremely stimulating.
But he still sat still, puzzling, the scene of the murder running like an old movie in his mind.
‘Did you come here,’ mumbled Dottie, very close, ‘to ask me fatuous questions the police have already been through a hundred times, or for other reasons?’
‘For other reasons,’ he assured her, though deep down he wasn’t certain.
�
��Well then,’ she said, ‘are you paralysed?’
His hands, sliding from her hair to her neck and down inside the filmy black blouse, denied the imputation. And, after the two of them had slipped down on to the expensive and discreet rug, the rest of his body also demonstrated its unimpaired mobility.
They moved from the rug to the king-size bed for a second demonstration, after which they lay entwined.
Charles was beginning to wonder whether he actually liked Dottie or not. Her intimacy seemed completely impersonal, and he did rather like being appreciated for himself.
Also, his best efforts did not seem sufficient to her. She didn’t say anything, but the way she toyed with him suggested she wanted him to be demonstrating all day like a vacuum cleaner salesman.
At last she realised that, for a little while, her ambitions were vain. She lay back.
‘You know you asked if there was anything I thought odd about Micky’s death.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, there was one thing. One tiny thing. So tiny I’ve only just thought of it.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you know when you spend a lot of time with someone, you get used to how they speak, their mannerisms and so on . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘Just before Micky died, he said something I’ve never heard him say before.’
‘What was that?’
‘He said, “Oh Lord!” I’ve never heard him say that before. “Oh God,” yes. “Oh Christ,” many times. But not “Oh Lord”.’
‘Good Lord!’
‘No “Oh Lord!”’
‘No, I mean just “Good Lord!” you know, “Good Lord!”’
‘Hmm?’
‘Never mind. Look, Micky never said “Oh Lord!”, but Alex Household was always saying it.’
‘Oh, was he? Oh well, that explains it.’
‘How?’
‘Alex Household must have said it just before he shot the gun; Micky heard it over the deaf-aid and just repeated it.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Dottie’s hands were once again busying themselves. ‘Hmm. I don’t know, Dottie. I keep wishing there was another solution to this murder.’
‘How can there be? Alex Household shot Micky. That’s the only possible solution.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Charles conceded, disgruntled. ‘I have to admit, it’s the best I can come up with.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
But Dottie was no longer talking about the murder.
After the third demonstration, Charles said he’d better go, and Dottie, recognising that she’d had all she was getting, took a sleeping pill and let him.
In the taxi back to Hereford Road, Charles felt despicable. Sex without any element of love, or even affection, always had that effect on him.
But this time it seemed worse. It was her taking the sleeping pill that had cone it. It had reduced him to the same level, just another anonymous treatment that her body had required.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FRANCES REPRESENTED many things for Charles, amongst them a kind of fixed moral standard in his life. To ring her the following morning seemed, therefore, not just a good, but even a right idea. Like going to confession (though he had no intention of confessing anything), a bracing moral scour-out.
‘Charles. Well, are you coming or not? You’ve left it late enough.’
‘Left what late enough?’
‘Charles, you remember – Juliet and Miles invited you down for lunch.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘You hadn’t forgotten, had you?’
‘Oh no, I . . . er . . . um.’
‘Well, are you going to come or not?’
‘Um. I hadn’t really thought. I . . . er . . .’
‘I will be leaving in an hour, Charles. If you’re here when I go, you will be coming. If you’re not, I will be going on my own.’
‘Yes, well, of course I –’
‘Goodbye, Charles.’
Yes, he would go. After the moral squalor of the night before, he needed the redemption of playing at being the respectable husband, father and grandfather. A nice, straight day with the family – that seemed morally appropriate. Though a day with his son-in-law, Miles, could take on certain qualities of a penance.
‘Thing is, Pop, you see, that when Mums sells the house, she’s going to have a bit of cash in hand.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Good God, at what point had Frances lapsed low enough to let Miles call her ‘Mums’?
And this is where she’s really going to feel the benefit of having someone in the family who knows about insurance.’ Miles took his mother-in-law’s hand confidently. ‘Aren’t you, Mums?’ To Charles’s amazement, she didn’t flinch. ‘Now, I’ve got a really exciting little annuity scheme worked out which I think will be just the ticket.’
Charles looked across at Miles Taylerson with his customary disbelief. Anyone who could get excited by an annuity scheme must belong to a different species from his own. And yet Miles appeared to have the same complement of arms and legs as he did, the same disposition of eyes, nose and mouth. Maybe, Charles reflected, his son-in-law was the result of some cloning experiment, by which creatures from another planet had created something that looked like a human being, but lacked the essential circuitry of humanity. Maybe one day Miles’s head would flip open like a kitchen bin to reveal a tangle of wires and transistors.
‘You haven’t thought any more about insurance, have you, Pop?’
‘No, I think I can honestly say that I haven’t.’ And come to that, what’s this ‘more’? his mind continued silently. It is one of my proudest boasts that I have never thought about insurance and I am convinced that, even under torture, I could resist the temptation.
‘I was just thinking that now’s a good time. Now you’re getting regular money from this West End show, it’d be a good opportunity to put a little aside each week – it needn’t be much, but you’d be amazed how it accumulates.’
‘Thank you. I’m sure if ever the occasion arises when I want advice on insurance, you’re the first person I’ll come to.’ Charles thought that wasn’t bad. It was the nearest he had ever got to saying something to his son-in-law that was neither untrue nor offensive.
Miles seemed to appreciate it, too. He sat back with a satisfied grin and looked contentedly around the open-plan hygienic nonentity of his executive sitting room in his executive house on an executive estate in Pangbourne.
His wife seemed to recognise some signal and took up the conversational baton for the next lap. ‘Incidentally, Daddy, I haven’t said how delighted we all are about this West End play. We really hope to get to see it soon, but, you know, things are pretty busy, what with this and that, and the boys.’
‘Of course.’ He couldn’t help feeling affection for Juliet whenever he looked at her. There was something about the set of her eyes which hadn’t changed since she was three years old, when she had been all hugs and trust for her father. He often wondered what it was that had brought about such a change in their relationship. Maybe his walking out on Frances.
He looked across at his wife. She was unaware of his scrutiny, gazing with fondness at the two blond-headed little boys who were shovelling gravy-sodden potato into their mouths, an exercise – and apparently the only one – that kept them silent.
At such moments he knew that he loved Frances, and he could feel the seductions of a conventional marriage, of meals such as this happening every Sunday, of knowing each other’s daily news, not always having to catch up on a few months’ worth of events. There was a kind of peace about it.
And maybe that peace was not completely beyond his grasp. If he really made an effort, perhaps something could be salvaged.
‘No,’ Juliet continued, ‘I mean this West End thing is something I can really tell my friends about. It was like when you had that part in Z-Cars. Something sort of . . . respectable.’
‘Thank you,’ he mut
tered. Good God, what had happened to Juliet? Her mind had set irrevocably into middle age when she was about ten. Marriage to Miles had only hardened her mental arteries further. The pair of them had just quietly fossilised together.
Julian finished his potatoes and looked gravely round the family gathering. ‘My penis,’ he announced, ‘is as big as the Empire State Building.’
His four-year-old twin, Damian, not to be outdone, immediately responded. ‘Mine penis,’ he proclaimed, ‘mine penis is as big as the World Trade Centre.’
In the confusion of scolding that followed, Charles reflected that maybe there was hope for the family after all.
Closer acquaintance did nothing to dispel his good impression of his grandsons. After lunch, Juliet, looking peaky and feeling grim, as she had done in the early months of her previous pregnancy, went upstairs to lie down. Frances and Miles went off to the kitchen to do the washing-up (and, no doubt, to talk annuities), leaving Charles to entertain the children.
He found that this was a two-way process. The two little boys were full of ideas for games and, even if most of them ended rather predictably in throwing the sofa cushions at their grandfather, they showed considerable powers of invention.
They were also at the stage when they still found funny voices funny, and Charles had his best audience in years for his Welsh, developed for Under Milk Wood (‘A production which demonstrated everything the theatre can offer, except talent’ – Nottingham Evening Post), his Cornish, as used in Love’s Labour’s Lost (‘Charles Paris’s Costard was about as funny as an obituary notice’ – New Statesman) and the voice he had used as a Chinese Broker’s Man in Aladdin (‘My watch said that the show only lasted two and a half hours, so I’ve taken it to be repaired’ – Glasgow Herald).
Somehow they got into a game of Prisoners. Charles would capture one of the boys and only release him if he said the magic word. The secret of the game was to keep changing the magic word, making it longer and longer and sillier and sillier, in the hope (always realised) that the prisoner would be giggling too much to repeat it. Since, while the prisoner struggled to escape, the unfettered twin would be bombarding his grandfather with cushions, the game was not without hilarity.