by Simon Brett
‘Good Lord, it can’t be,’ murmured Gerald.
‘Can’t be what?’ asked Charles.
‘I think it is, though.’
‘Who?’
‘It must be.’
‘Will you stop being bloody oracular and tell me who it is?’
‘Barton Rivers.’
‘That’s a vaguely familiar name.’
‘Aurelia’s husband. I thought he must be dead by now. He’s nearly ninety, must be. I met him at some charity dinner ten years ago and he seemed so doddery and gaga, I thought he couldn’t last long then.’
‘They’ve been married for ever, haven’t they?’
‘Pretty well. It’s always hailed as one of the great show-biz marriages, giving the lie to all those generalisations about show-biz marriages. No, they must have been married in the early Twenties, because I seem to remember they had a son who was old enough to get killed in the war.’
‘Barton was an actor, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh yes, you’ll see his face in bit-parts in pre-war British films. Did the revue circuit too. Even wrote a bit, I think. Never as successful as she was, and didn’t seem to do anything after the war.’
‘Ah.’
‘Anyway, come on, what are you hanging about for? Introduce me.’
‘Gerald, I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can.’
When he approached her, he received the full benefit of the misty blue eyes and a throaty, ‘Charles, darling.’
‘Lovely performance tonight, Aurelia.’ It wasn’t his usual style, but somehow the old actress’s charm seemed to demand it.
‘Do call me “Dob”, darling,’ she cooed. She had always been known as ‘Dob’ in the business, but Charles wouldn’t have dared to use it without her express permission.
Even with it, he had difficulty in bringing himself to say the name. ‘Thank you . . . er . . . Dob. I’d like, if I may, to introduce you to a friend of mine, who’s always been one of your greatest fans.’ Charles hated doing things like this. ‘Gerald Venables . . . this is . . . er . . . Dob Howarth.’
Gerald took her hand and kissed it gallantly, which was just the sort of thing he would do. Aurelia seemed charmed by the gesture and favoured the solicitor with the beam of her eyes, which still, in spite of her age, remained surprisingly sexy. ‘I’m enchanted to think that someone as young as you should remember an old lady like me.’
Gerald glowed predictably, like a schoolboy who had won a prize. Charles tried to work out why he didn’t find the exchange as sickening as he did most show-biz sycophancy, and decided it was because Aurelia Howarth was a genuinely warm person.
‘But, darlings,’ she continued, ‘I haven’t introduced you to my dear old boy, have I? This is Barton Rivers, my adorable husband . . . and this is Charles Paris, whom you saw in the show as our barman . . . and Gerald Venables.’
Charles was impressed by the way she had got the names exactly right. He also felt, through the theatrical hyperbole, a very strong attachment between the old couple.
Barton Rivers grinned hugely, turning his insecure head into even more of a memento mori. ‘Lovely to meet you, boys. Weather not much good for the Test Match, is it?’
This remark seemed so inapposite at the end of January, that Charles concluded the old boy must now be completely gaga. But then came a wheezing guffaw, which suggested that perhaps the comment had been a joke. Charles chuckled reassuringly.
Gerald was all politeness. Charles often felt in his friend’s company that awful childish gaucheness of being with the boy whose manners one’s mother has always held up as exemplary.
‘I believe, sir,’ the solicitor charmed, ‘that we met at a Variety Artistes Benevolent Fund dinner about ten years ago.’
Barton Rivers chuckled again. ‘Oh yes, must have been a Tuesday. Sun never comes out on Tuesdays.’
This time, surely, there was no doubt that the old boy’s mind had gone. But Gerald was not so ill-mannered as to notice any inconsistency. ‘Yes, I believe it was,’ he went on smoothly. ‘I must say, it’s a great honour to meet you too, sir.’
‘Honour? “What is honour? A word. What is that word, honour? Air”,’ the old man quoted with sudden lucidity. Charles recognised the line of Falstaff and couldn’t help thinking that soon its speaker would die, like its originator, babbling of green fields. But Barton was already off on another tangent. ‘Trouble is, though, the Aussies don’t know the meaning of the word. All this damned bodyline bowling. You reckon there’s a bump on the pitch, do you?’
Gerald replied to this direct question judiciously. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise you at all, eh?’ Barton Rivers guffawed his appreciation. ‘Worthy of Noel, young man. Need new young writers with that sort of sharpness. Come and see me after the show one night, young man, and I’ll introduce you to Cocky. Hear that, Dob – he said it wouldn’t surprise him at all.’
‘Yes, darling,’ said Aurelia Howarth, and patted her husband’s arm with infinite tenderness. She seemed totally unembarrassed by his disconnected chatter.
‘Similar thing happened in Paris,’ Barton Rivers confided to Gerald. ‘No one could be sure, but I knew who was behind it.’ He shook his head. ‘One bad apple, you know what I mean . . .’
Gerald nodded wisely.
Charles thought he should say something to Aurelia, to show that he hadn’t noticed anything odd about her husband. Maybe something about the dog. He looked without enthusiasm at the little rat body in its shreds of silken fur, and wondered what on earth one says about, or indeed to, a Yorkshire terrier.
The answer was provided by Peter Lipscombe, who arrived at that moment with more drinks. He chucked the little dog under the chin and said, ‘Hello, Cocky, everything okay?’ Cocky bit his finger.
At this moment Bernard Walton came into the bar. He was with a neat forty-year-old man in a grey suit, and he looked worried. More than worried, he looked as if he was in shock. When Charles recognised the man in the grey suit, he thought perhaps he could guess the reason for the star’s discomfiture. It was Nigel Frisch, West End Television’s Director of Programmes, the man who was delaying his decision on the future of What’ll the Neighbours Say?
Nigel Frisch threw his arms round Aurelia and thanked her flamboyantly for her performance. ‘Another winner on our hands,’ he effused. ‘Hello, Barton.’
‘Hello, old boy. Keep a straight bat, eh?’ Guffaw.
‘More news too, Dob darling,’ Nigel continued smoothly. ‘Sure you’ve all been in a bit of suspense over the What’ll the Neighbours situation . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Bernard Walton sharply, with uncharacteristic lack of restraint.
‘As you know, it’s a series that’s been really successful for the audience, one that we’re very grateful to you for . . .’ Nigel Frisch seemed deliberately to be prolonging the agony, playing Bernard Walton along. He still spoke very casually. ‘Obviously it’s had its detractors. There are people that feel we’ve got all the mileage we can out of the situation.’ He paused, sadistically. ‘I don’t know. Haven’t really made my final decision yet. But, anyway, what I wanted to say was, we’ll certainly be taking up your options for the dates proposed. So even if we don’t make the series – and I dare say we will – you’ll still get paid.’
Bernard Walton swayed with relief. He still looked pretty tense, but was patently glad of the news. If the company was going to commit itself to the vast outlay involved in contracting him for the next series, then they’d be bound to go ahead with it, he reasoned. ‘Oh well, that’s nice to hear, Nigel,’ he said, recapturing some of his casualness and bonhomie. ‘Let me get you a drink to celebrate.’
‘I’ll have a Perrier water,’ said the Director of Programmes.
At that moment George Birkitt and Rod Tisdale arrived in the bar and joined the circle. Having assured Peter Lipscombe (whose finger was still bleeding slightly) that everything was okay, the former, on whom the strains of
the day were beginning to tell, ordered a quadruple brandy and the latter a half of lager.
‘You pleased, Rod?’ asked Nigel Frisch.
‘All right,’ the writer replied without excitement. ‘Sixty-six.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘There were seventy-four jokes in the script. Sixty-six of them got laughs.’
‘Ah.’
Charles slipped away from the gushing crowd. His system could only tolerate small doses of show-biz glamour. And Jane Lewis, the Trainee PA, had just come into the bar and was standing on her own.
‘Can I get you a drink, Jane?’
‘It’s Janey.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Janey. With an E-Y. I decided that’d look better on the roller.’
‘Roller?’
‘Roller-caption. My credit at the end of the programme. Jane’s so ordinary.’
‘Oh. Yes. Janey then, would you like a drink?’
‘Bacardi coke, please.’
Charles engaged the attention of the barman who wasn’t coping with Peter Lipscombe’s latest massive order, got the drinks and was encouraged to see that Jane – or rather Janey – was still alone when he returned.
She raised her glass. ‘To the success of the show.’
‘Hear, hear.’ He took a long swallow. He was beginning to feel the effect of the day’s drinking. ‘How’d you think it went?’
‘Part One was about 43 seconds over and Part Two was 1-17 over, but Sadie reckons they’ll edit all right. And we’re not certain that VTR was stable on one of the Rollback and Mixes.’
‘Oh,’ said Charles. ‘But what about the show itself?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘I’ve said. It was exactly two minutes over in all.’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘What do you go on to after this?’
‘Next I’m trailing the outside filming on the age-ist series.’
‘Age-ist series?’
‘Yes. W. E .T.’s just started a new unit for programmes for the elderly. Going to be presented by Ian Reynolds, who’s nearly eighty. Phil Middleton – that’s the director – said a lot of people would go for someone like Robert Carton as presenter, but he’s too boring.’
‘Ah.’ Janey Lewis was clearly one of those girls who quoted irrelevant conversations verbatim. ‘And after that?’ Charles asked.
‘Don’t know. I’d like to get on to another Light Entertainment show, but I don’t know. I’d like to get on to the Wragg and Bowen show.’
‘Ah,’ said Charles ambiguously, as if he just might know what she was talking about.
‘You’ve heard, haven’t you, that W.E.T.’s just bought Wragg and Bowen from the Beeb?’
‘Of course,’ Charles lied.
‘Going to be a huge show, that one. I mean, Wragg and Bowen are definitely the best double act in the country. They’re going to be paid ten thousand a week, each.’
‘Oh. What’s the show going to be like?’
‘I don’t think that’s been worked out yet.’
‘Ah.’ Their conversation stagnated. Charles was feeling randy with the alcohol and didn’t want to leave her. She was a remarkably attractive girl with that black hair and pale skin. Nice shape, too. If only she could talk about something other than television.
But he didn’t keep his exclusive hold on her for long. Robin Laughton, the hearty Floor Manager, who appeared now to be in a lager-drinking situation, joined them. Charles found two people talking about television more than he could take, and slipped away to rejoin Gerald.
On his way across, he was accosted by another familiar figure. It was Walter Proud, who had produced Charles’s previous, and ill-fated, excursion into West End Television comedy. The New Barber and Pole Show. He had lost more hair and there was a wildness in his eyes. ‘Hello, Charles, how’d the show go?’
Charles shrugged. ‘Those who know about such things seem to think it was okay.’
‘Great, great. If you’re going over to talk to Nigel Frisch, I’ll join you.’
Something rang warning bells for Charles. ‘Well, no, I wasn’t particularly . . . What are you working on here?’
‘Nothing right now, actually. Got one or two projects sort of around, but, er, nothing right now.’ The confession was transparent. Walter Proud was out of work. He’d left his BBC staff job a few years before, and since then had a discontinuous sequence of short contracts with the various commercial companies. ‘No. actually. I came down here to see a few chums, see if there was anything going.’
‘Any luck?’
‘Don’t think so. I had a word with a girl who was my PA on something I did here, girl called Sadie Wainwright, but she . . . No, there doesn’t seem to be much around.’
Walter’s dismal tone suggested that Sadie had choked him off rather in the same way she had everyone else.
‘Oh well, something’ll turn up,’ said Charles blandly.
‘Hope so. Actually, if you are going across to see Nigel Frisch –’
But Charles was saved embarrassment by the arrival of Scott Newton. The young man looked awful. He had no colour, and his face gleamed with a fine sweat. ‘Hello, Charles,’ he cried, with a sad attempt at conviviality. ‘Lovely performance. Can I get you a drink?’
‘I think I’d better get you one. You look terrible.’
‘No, I’m okay now. Had some sort of bilious bug, don’t know, must have been something I ate.’
Charles caught the sour whiff of the young man s breath. He had obviously just been very sick. Something he’d eaten . . . or, more likely, just the nervous pressures of the day.
‘By the way, do you know Walter Proud? You’re both BBC renegades, so perhaps you’ve . . .’
But no, they hadn’t. Charles introduced them.
‘You came after the big money too, did you?’ asked Walter ironically.
Scott replied in the same tone. ‘Bigger, maybe, but not big enough. I seem to have even less since I made the move.’
‘If that’s the case, then let me buy you a drink.’
‘No, no, things aren’t that bad.’
They argued a bit, but Walter didn’t need much convincing and Scott walked unsteadily to the bar.
‘And he’s directing you, Charles?’ The question was incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘God, kids like that get jobs, while people with experience . . . If I had my way –’
But Charles never found out what would happen if Walter Proud had his way. The door from the fire escape into the bar suddenly burst open to admit Mort Verdon, waving his arms and screaming.
He was making so much noise that everyone was distracted and gathered round him, trying to find out the cause of his agitation.
Charles and Robin Laughton understood at the same moment that it was something he had seen outside on the fire escape, and rushed to the door. Most of the rest of the crowd followed.
It was after half-past ten and dark outside. Charles look down the fire escape, but could see nothing untoward. The car park below was shrouded in darkness.
Then a departing member of West End Television’s staff switched on the headlights of his car. A swathe of light cut across the car park.
In the middle of it, at the foot of the fire escape, lay a foreshortened figure in beige cord trousers and a flowered shirt. The light glinted on a gold necklace.
The car’s headlights also played on the lower parts of the fire escape. They showed the regular parallels of painted steel and the sudden asymmetry of the railing that had given way.
The car below did not move. Its owner got out to inspect the horror he could half-see ahead.
Charles felt the press of people behind him on the small metal balcony. He looked round at the shocked faces of Robin Laughton, Bernard Walton, Rod Tisdale, George Birkitt, Walter Proud, Scott Newton, Jane Lewis and Aurelia Howarth, and at the grinning incomprehension of Barton Rivers.
There was a long silence as they all looked down at the corpse of Sadie Wainwri
ght, and waited for someone else to be the first to say they were sorry.
Then Peter Lipscombe’s cheery face appeared in the doorway. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘’Everything okay?’
CHAPTER THREE
West End Television Ltd,
W.E.T. House,
235–9 Lisson Avenue, London NW1 3PQ.
22nd March, 1979.
Dear Charles,
I’m sure you’ve already heard from your agent, but I wanted to write personally to say how delighted I am to be able to tell you that The Strutters is a ‘go proposition’. It’s really very exciting news!
I’m sorry it has taken so long for me to be in a position to pass on the news, but the ‘powers that be’ always take their time deliberating over this sort of thing. However, they have now made up their minds and are backing The Strutters all the way. Nigel Frisch really thinks it’s one of the most exciting cards he holds, and reckons that with this and the new Wragg and Bowen series, W.E.T.’s going to make a very big dent in the BBC’s Autumn audience figures!
Many thanks for all your hard work on the pilot, which contributed to make the show such an exciting success. I’m sure you’re looking forward to the series as much as we all are – we think it’s going to be very exciting! The dates will be within the option period agreed with your agent, with prefilming probably starting the last week in May, six shows recorded on Tuesday evenings June 12th–July 17th, a couple of weeks’ break, and then the remaining six (which, with the pilot, will make a series of thirteen) starting on 3rd August. All sewn up by mid-September.
We at W.E.T. don’t believe in changing a winning team, so the casting will all be as for the pilot, and Scott Newton, who did such a splendid job for us then, will again be directing. Rod Tisdale, whose way with a line, as you know, puts him in the Oscar Wilde class, will certainly be writing the first six scripts, though, with the pressure of time, we may bring in other writers for later episodes. But don’t worry, we’ll keep up the high standards we have set ourselves with that very exciting pilot!