Curtain Call

by Anthony Quinn

  ‘Thank you, Jack, for that ebullition of unmitigated generosity. A newspaper man once wrote of me that “you could learn more from Erskine when he’s wrong than from most other critics when they’re right”. I suppose he meant that as a compliment. What I would say to him, in all humility, is that I haven’t been wrong about a play since 1924, and on that night I happened to be afflicted with a head cold.’ This provoked a gratifying ripple of laughter, though Claude’s murmur of ‘Very true’ somehow flattened it as a comic sally. Having warmed them up with a few of his shorter anecdotes, he took a deep breath. ‘There is another I would like to thank today, someone who has read the proofs of my last six books, corrected them – even, I might say, improved them. He has been a punctilious editor, a faithful understudy, and a cheering companion of more first nights than I care to remember. He also gave me the title of this latest tome. I only wish he was at table with us now, but I shall toast him all the same – to my secretary, Tom Tunner.’

  As the toasts dwindled in chorus, László, who alone of them knew the truth of Jimmy’s debt to Tom, said, ‘Where has the dear fellow got to? James, you did remember to invite him –’

  ‘For God’s sake, man, who d’you think organised this damned lunch?’ Jimmy snapped, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice, and László shrank back in surprise. Peter, quick to mollify, looked about him.

  ‘While we wait for pudding, shall we have a round of Five Greatest?’

  A mixture of groans and cheers met this suggestion. Jimmy loved to make lists of his favourite things, and ‘Five Greatest’ was a parlour game that allowed him wide indulgence. That he was the authority on theatre nobody at the table would dare to question: he had seen more plays, and more of the great stage performers, than all of them put together. Yet he also prized his discrimination in many other fields of interest, including horses, wine, painting, American film and French literature. It didn’t much matter what was at issue: Jimmy was confident that in any dispute over taste he would always carry the day. He looked along the table in search of challengers.

  Rufus Forbuoys, an elderly theatre critic with a face like a jaundiced owl, spoke up. ‘I wonder, Jimmy, how you are on cricket . . .’

  ‘Pretty good,’ said Jimmy, which counted as modesty from him.

  ‘Right, then. The five greatest batsmen?’

  Jimmy protruded his lip thoughtfully. ‘Well, you’d start with W.G., of course. Then the three aitches – Hobbs, Hammond, Hendren. And Bradman, on behalf of the colonies.’

  There ensured some debate over whether Sandham and Hayward should be in the running. Edie Greenlaw looked around, bemused. ‘Can you explain what sort of game this is?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ said Jack.

  ‘But – how does one win?’

  Dickie Mellinger shook his head. ‘Not that kind of game, poppet. It’s really just a chance to show off.’

  ‘You pick a subject, and Jimmy will give you the five best examples off the top of his head – or you challenge him with a better one.’

  ‘And then he tells you that you’re wrong.’

  Edie frowned lightly. ‘What d’you mean by “wrong”? It’s just an opinion.’

  Nobody deemed this worthy of a reply. Peter said, ‘How about . . . five greatest names in Dickens?’

  Jimmy nodded in approval. ‘Splendid, Peter. Let’s see . . . Poll Sweedlepipe, Jerry Cruncher, Podsnap, Wackford Squeers . . . Mrs Todger!’

  Hoots of laughter and mock-affronted ‘oohs’ greeted this last. ‘How about Dick Swiveller?’ called Croker.

  ‘Are you talking about a character or an occupation?’ said Jimmy, catching the ribald mood.

  ‘I always liked the sound of Tulkinghorn,’ said Claude, not catching the mood at all, ‘but I won’t challenge the master.’

  Jimmy replied with a gracious nod, then glanced at László, who had fallen silent since his snappish rebuke. Seeking forgiveness, Jimmy decided on a subject to bring his friend back. ‘Let’s have a music round, what d’you say?’

  ‘I’d say let’s have a different game,’ said Edie, and was immediately shouted down. Greatest operas was considered too boring. Greatest symphonies was too easy. Then Dickie Mellinger suggested string quartets, and Jimmy was off and running.

  ‘Haydn’s Emperor Quartet. Mozart, string quartet in D major. Beethoven, “Rasumovsky”, number 8 in E minor. Hmm. Schubert, number 14 in D minor, “Death and the Maiden”. And Chopin, I should say, “Valse Brilliante”, Opus 34, number 2. How about that?’

  ‘Sound, very sound,’ said Peter.

  ‘What do you say, László?’ asked Jimmy.

  László, seeming to hear the apology in Jimmy’s tone, nodded his head. ‘All good. Perhaps great. But not the greatest. With respect to my friend, I would list them so: Purcell’s Fantasia for four in G major. My beloved Brahms, number 1 in C minor. Charles Ives’s second. Ravel’s one and only. And Beethoven’s number 14 in C minor, which the man himself called the greatest of his late quartets. C’est tout!’

  Jimmy listened in a kind of wonder. Where friends were concerned, his expectations of intellectual replenishment were low. You kept bringing a bucket to the well, and found it nearly dry – it did not take long to discover the shallowness of their conversational range. So he associated with them out of mere habit and affection. László was the exception. You dropped the bucket, and when you hauled it up there was always something surprising from him, something that slightly altered your view of things. He had known László for nearly twenty-five years, yet to his knowledge they had never once discussed Purcell, or Charles Ives. He sensed the table awaiting his response, the critic’s verdict on the amateur.

  ‘Bravo, my dear. I couldn’t have chosen better myself – and didn’t.’

  László, warming to this benediction, revealed a toothy smile like two octaves of a miniature piano. He had the sudden pleased look of a twelve-year-old boy. Peter gave him a little pat on the back. The arrival of the pudding trolley put an end to the competitive jollity, and while the others were umming and aahing over the tarte aux pommes Jimmy ordered a bottle of Sauternes to see them through.

  Felix Croker, a cigar in blast, narrowed his eyes at the host. ‘Heard you’ve signed up for Carmody’s charity thing, Jimmy.’

  Had he? Jimmy couldn’t remember. Perhaps Tom had replied on his behalf. Unwilling to be thought dozy, or senile, he nodded.

  ‘Gerald Carmody?’ said Peter, incredulous. ‘Why on earth would you be knocking about with him?’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘I don’t – I’m not. He ambushed me at a press night claiming to know me –’

  ‘It’s for a good cause, mind,’ interposed Croker. ‘To save the old Marquess from going bankrupt. I’ve put my name down.’

  ‘But you know the fellow’s a blackshirt,’ said Peter, and turned to László, ‘and a Jew-baiter.’

  ‘Actually he’s parted from Mosley,’ said Barry, through a mouthful of pastry. ‘A mutual dislike. Carmody’s now running an outfit called the British People’s Brigade. Sad, really – do you remember when they used to call him Labour’s coming man?’

  ‘I can think of other things to call him,’ said Peter. ‘Honestly, Jim, do you want to be seen keeping company with a – a Fascist bully?’

  ‘But it’s got nothing to do with politics,’ said Jimmy, suddenly alarmed. ‘The fellow is trying to save his theatre. We can’t have it go dark, can we?’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said Croker. ‘Carmody’s politics are his own business. We are simple theatre folk pledging our support for a great old stager.’

  And our money, thought Jimmy, wondering how his finances stood at present. He’d been avoiding an interview with the Inland Revenue for months. Peter meanwhile was muttering darkly to László and shooting looks in his direction – for heaven’s sake! – as if Jimmy had just arranged supper with Mussolini himself. He rummaged for an emergency excuse.

  ‘Really, Peter, it’s just a charity dinner. And I only signed up a
s a favour to a friend.’

  ‘Oh – who?’

  That tore it. ‘Stephen Wyley.’ The fib was out before he could stop himself.

  ‘The painter? I didn’t know you knew him.’

  ‘One moves in different circles . . .’ But now a few of them were staring at him interestedly: the dropped name had made a louder splash than he’d intended. He would have to bluff it. Croker’s ears seemed to twitch like antennae.

  ‘Aren’t you the dark horse? Why have you been keeping him from us?’

  ‘Well, we’re not close . . .’

  Peter gave him a knowing look. ‘Is he – from our end of the ballroom?’

  ‘No, no, he’s married,’ said Jimmy, hoping not to be tested on his acquaintanceship any further.

  ‘Oh well, mustn’t touch him if he’s married,’ said Croker.

  ‘Pity, that,’ mused Dickie Mellinger. ‘He looks such a nice boy.’

  Jack Voysey, looking uncomfortable, said, ‘Now, now, gentlemen. Jimmy, I’d be most interested to meet your friend Wyley – there’s been talk in the office about doing a book on him. So far he’s resisted, but if we could approach him informally . . .’

  Jimmy smiled wanly. ‘Well, I could ask.’

  Jack tapped his nose, as if the deal was done. Jimmy brooded for a moment; he realised that his ambition to be painted by Wyley had seduced him into the falsehood. And at the heart of that ambition was – what? Vanity, for sure, but something else, something deeper. To be memorialised by one of the leading portraitists of the day was a validation of his life’s work. They might not dedicate a statue to a critic, but who would deny James Erskine a painting? Warmed by this thought, he called for more wine.

  At ten past three, just after Barry and Gilbert had headed back to Fleet Street and a mood of leave-taking descended on the table, the missing guest finally arrived. Edie was the first to see him approaching.

  ‘Darling! Whatever’s happened to you?’

  ‘It’s Banquo’s ghost,’ said Jack.

  Tom, naturally pale-skinned, was indeed wraithlike, and a raw purplish bruise glistened on his cheek. He looked groggy, and Peter rose solicitously to help the latecomer fold himself into the seat next to Edie. All eyes were on him.

  ‘I do apologise to you all. I’m afraid I was’ – he gave a forlorn little chuckle – ‘unavoidably detained.’

  Jimmy, incredulous horror in his gaze, thought of the blackshirt fraces he had witnessed on the way. ‘My dear fellow, what in heaven’s name – were you involved in that affray on Shaftesbury Avenue?’

  Tom shook his head, batting away the question. ‘Please don’t concern yourselves. It was nothing, just a silly accident. Now I wonder if I may beg a cup of coffee?’

  While László squabbled with Peter over whose honour this would be, Tom said quietly to Edie, ‘So – what have I missed?’

  ‘Ooh, your ears must have been burning. Jimmy gave a speech, ever so amusing, and of course most of it about himself. Only he ends it with this big vote of thanks – to you! Didn’t he, László?’

  László nodded solemnly. His gaze had turned somewhat tender since Tom had sat down. ‘I have not often heard James speak so very sincerely. He called you his greatest editor and most loyal companion – and moreover said you furnished him with the title of this book!’

  Tom blinked his surprise. ‘Jimmy said that? László, either you’ve had too much to drink, or he has.’

  But László shook his head, and permitted himself to clutch Tom’s arm in emphatic denial of the charge. ‘Not I, dear boy. Those were his words. Miss Edith will be my witness.’

  Edie smiled. ‘’Strue. Though poor László nearly got his head bitten off when he suggested Jimmy had forgotten to invite you. “Who the bloody hell d’you think organised this lunch?”’ she said, in droll mimickry of Jimmy’s bluster.

  László giggled, as a schoolboy might at his pal’s twitting of the master. Tom looked up the table at his employer, face now bleared with drink, a stray gobbet of chocolate blancmange flecking his shirt front.

  ‘That’s our Jimmy,’ he said to Edie, with a thoughtful smile. ‘He immatures with age.’

  6

  THE LATE-MORNING SUN, silvery and thin, peered through veils of cloud that faded to wisps. The elusive alternation of gloom and light was unsettling, for no one could rightly say what sort of day it was. Madeleine had been wandering in Covent Garden. With her work confined to the evening, she was at a loose end during the day, and had got into the habit of long aimless walks. She would leave her boarding house in Camden mid-morning and strike out, usually to the west, lingering in a park if it was fine or else in a cafe when she got tired. Roddy had got that right: she was a moocher. One afternoon she had gone as far as Chelsea Embankment, and had spent so long gazing at the river that a policeman had stopped to ask if anything was the matter.

  She continued through the market’s cawing tumult of traders and hawkers until she came to one of the cobbled byways that veered off towards Drury Lane. It was an odd thing about London, she thought, the way you could be in the hurly-burly one moment, then round the corner find yourself on an empty street, alone. Only it wasn’t quite empty; she could see someone – a vagrant, a drunk – slumped on the pavement twenty yards ahead. She had already made up her mind to walk around him when she realised the crumpled body was moving, no, jerking, like a fish plucked from the water and gasping out its last on deck. Closer inspection revealed him to be a youngish man, neither vagrant nor drunk, though in evident distress. He was semi-conscious, his face horribly pale, the colour of old milk. Around his mouth the skin was a queer shade of blue.

  Madeleine knew that one shouldn’t try to constrain a person having a seizure. Quickly removing her coat she rolled it up and knelt down to cushion the man’s head. He must have fallen, because he was bleeding from a cut to his cheek. The spasms that shook him were beginning to slow. As his limbs relaxed she somehow managed to turn him onto his side. She checked his pulse. His skin was clammy to the touch, and he had gone quite limp. With a silent exhalation of relief she got up off her knees and sat down on the kerb. A trickle of saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth; she took out a handkerchief and wiped it away. As her own heart settled to a steady beat she noticed for the first time his neat attire, a brown herringbone jacket and plaid tie, and light twill trousers, now with an unfortunate rip where he had gashed his knee. His hair was straight and dark, almost black. It was about a minute before he stirred. She saw his eyes twitch, flicker open, and his head lift, slowly.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, trying to make her voice soft. People waking up after a fit would be confused and sometimes upset. You had to explain to them what had happened, and that everything was back to normal – or as normal as it could be. The man, half raised, was squinting at the rolled-up coat on which his head had been lately pillowed.

  ‘What’s –?’ He looked around, and started on seeing her.

  She leaned across and lightly rested her hand on his shoulder. ‘Please, don’t be alarmed. You had a – you must have fallen over. Are you all right?’

  He blinked, and put his hand to his bleeding cheek, wincing. ‘I’m so sorry to have – is this your coat?’ He was now trying to stand up, and she was quick to hold him as his legs buckled like a newborn calf’s. His frame seemed to be vibrating, thinly, from his recent trauma, and the lost expression in his eyes clutched at her heart.

  ‘Look, I think there’s a hospital not far from here.’

  The man, staring at her, was still dazed. ‘Er . . . I don’t think that’s where I’m going,’ he said with a frown. But he allowed her to take his arm and walk a few steps. There was a hospital, she had wandered past it earlier, if only she could find the street again. The man was talking to her in a desultory, slightly anxious manner, mentioning names of people – his friends? – as though she would know them. She guessed he might have a concussion.

  ‘D’you remember your name?’ she asked him.

  Up clos
e his eyes were a striking olive-green colour. ‘Yes – it’s Tom. Sorry, have we met?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said quickly. ‘I happened to be passing –’

  He stopped suddenly, and said, ‘Was I just lying on the pavement? Is that how you found me?’

  ‘Yes. I think you’ve had a – a fit?’

  Tom slowly closed his hands over his face. ‘Oh God. Oh God . . .’ He stood there, his face still shielded, and seemed to be whispering to himself.

  Madeleine, after a considerate pause, said, ‘Um, will you let me take you to the hospital? I think it would be for the best.’

  He took a moment to compose himself, then nodded, and they walked on. She tried to preoccupy him with chat, recounting how she liked to go for walks and would discover new districts of the city quite by accident – just today, for instance, she had no idea she was in Covent Garden until she saw its name over the Tube station. She sensed him brooding by her side, not speaking, though he may have been listening, because he would give a little nod from time to time. They walked along pavements green with refuse from the market, and heard the booming cries of porters and costers at their backs. On reaching Henrietta Street she was relieved to see in the distance the red-brick front of the hospital she had passed earlier.

  Once inside, she found a nurse and explained what had happened. It was established that a doctor would examine him presently, but first he would have the cut on his face cleaned. Tom hadn’t spoken since his despairing exclamation, but now, as the nurse took charge of him, he turned to Madeleine.

  ‘Thank you for –’ She sensed his unwillingness to recall the accident too explicitly.

  ‘Oh, no, it was –’ she was going to say ‘a pleasure’ but stopped herself in time. She didn’t really know whether the etiquette existed for such an encounter as theirs.

  The nurse, overhearing, said to her, ‘Will you be waiting here? After a seizure it’s advisable for the patient to be accompanied home.’