“Are you two still married, then? I thought, with her living in Mr. Colborn’s house…”
“Our divorce hasn’t been finalized yet,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, I see.” Derek eyed me over the rim of his mug. “That’s interesting.” He pronounced interesting as four distinct syllables. He was, I realized, a strange mixture of maladroitness and precision, insecurity and perceptiveness.
“Interesting in what sense, Derek?”
“I’m sorry about the…charade…earlier. I suppose I…enjoyed stringing you along. Besides, I thought we could…speak more freely here.”
“So, speak.”
“I didn’t mean to worry”—he smiled—“Mrs. Flood.”
“She seems to feel you’ve gone out of your way to worry her.”
“I can see how she might think that. But it isn’t true. I just couldn’t come up with any other way of engineering a meeting with you.”
“You’ve been harassing her in the hope that I’d come and ask you to lay off?”
“Yes.” He grimaced sheepishly. “I suppose I have. Sorry.”
I should have felt angrier than I did. But Oswin’s meek air of vulnerability somehow drained all hostility out of me. Besides, I was perversely grateful to him for another meeting he’d engineered, albeit indirectly. “That wasn’t a very clever thing to do, Derek.”
“Not very nice, I admit. I really am sorry if I’ve worried Mrs. Flood. But clever? Well, I think it was that, as a matter of fact. Because it worked, didn’t it? As soon as the Theatre Royal announced you were coming, I knew I’d have to try and meet you. But how could I be sure you’d agree to meet me? That was the problem.”
“Your solution seems to have been pretty hit and miss to me.”
“True. But I have time on my hands, Mr. Flood. Lots of it. So it was worth trying.”
“How did you know my wife owns Brimmers?”
“She gave an interview to the Argus when the shop opened. There was only one tiny reference to you. But I spotted it.”
I bet he did. Derek Oswin was some kind of nutter, that was clear. Eccentric, if you wanted to be generous. Obsessive and possibly manic, if you didn’t. But was he dangerous? I sensed not. Still, the acid test was yet to come. “Why were you so anxious to meet me, Derek?”
“Because I’ve always wanted to. Ever since you played Hereward. You’re my hero, Mr. Flood. I’ve seen everything you’ve ever done. Even Lodger in the Throat. I travelled up to Guildford for a matinée in its opening week.”
“What did you think of it?”
“Marvellous. Absolutely marvellous.”
“That’s not been the general reaction, I’m afraid.”
“No, well, it wouldn’t be, would it? Most people are too stupid to get the point. The plot’s wasted on them. They just laugh at the jokes.”
“If only they did.”
“Orton pretended to be crude and cruel, but actually he was sensitive and soft-hearted. I’ve been reading his Diaries and that’s what I’ve come to understand. Look at the way he couldn’t bring himself to abandon Halliwell, even when Halliwell started to become violent. He paid for that with his life.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the play, Derek.”
“Oh, I did, Mr. Flood, I did. You know, the set reminded me of…well, of this house.”
Glancing around, I saw what he meant. The set for Lodger in the Throat is the shabby sitting room of a small and neglected lower-middle-class family dwelling in an unnamed Midlands town. When the play opens, the three Elliott siblings, along with the wife of one of them, have gathered there following their mother’s funeral. I play James Elliott, the oldest of the three. Jocasta Haysman is my wife, Fiona. Martin Donohue plays Tom, my resentful younger brother. And Elsa Houghton is our sister, Maureen. Mother’s death, following Father’s disappearance fifteen years previously, has freed us to sell the house and share the proceeds, which we’re eager to do as soon as we can rid ourselves of Mother’s disagreeable lodger and suspected lover, Stanley Kedge, the part Jimmy Maidment was ideal for but Fred Durrance somehow isn’t. The property boom should have given this aspect of the plot added piquancy, but that’s been lost along with a lot else during the tour. “Actually,” I said, “this is all far too spick-and-span to be mistaken for the set.”
“Thank you.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“All my life.”
“Your parents?”
“Both dead.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“No. I was an only child.”
“So, no resemblance to the Elliotts.”
“No. None at all.” He laughed—a soft, whinnying sound. “I really like Orton’s depiction of the family, though. And the way you play it. You think you can get shot of Kedge very easily, but then he starts to undermine you, one by one, to expose your guilty secrets. The state of your and Fiona’s marriage. Tom’s redundancy. Maureen’s lesbianism. I was sorry, in a way, that Orton introduced so much farce into the plot rather than just letting Kedge pick you apart, a step at a time.”
“That would be more Chekhov than Orton.” I didn’t care for the way Derek had referred to me in the second person when talking about James Elliott. The identification was—and is—a little too close for comfort. Still, I couldn’t deny his analysis of the play was acute. After needling away at the Elliotts to no great effect, Kedge plays his decidedly un-Chekhovian trump halfway through the first act. Father did not just disappear fifteen years ago. Mother murdered him. “Stuck him with the carving knife like an underdone Sunday joint,” as Kedge puts it. He shows them the bloodstains on the floorboards under the carpet and recounts how he buried the body in the garden. They can’t sell now, can they, for fear that the new owner will discover the corpse and the police conclude that they knew all about it? But maybe they can, if they’re desperate enough to take the risk. Except that at the end of the first act a Water Board official, Morrison, turns up to report that a leak in the locality has been traced to the stretch of main beneath their garden. It’s going to have to be dug up. “But don’t worry,” says Morrison. “We’ll put everything back as we found it.”
“I saw you once in Chekhov,” said Derek. “Uncle Vanya. At Chichester.”
“You think I should play James Elliott as more of a tortured soul than a greedy prig?”
“Perhaps. I mean…none of you seem to miss your mother…or your father. There’s no…love.”
“Do you miss your mother and father, Derek?”
“Oh yes.” He looked away. “All the time.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s all right.” He gave a crumpled smile. “It’s nice of you…to ask.”
“You’ll have to blame Orton for the lack of love in the play.” And us for failing to draw any out, I reflected. At the beginning of the second act, James stumbles into the sitting room at dawn the following day and wakes Tom, who has spent the night there on a Z-bed. It suddenly occurred to me that I could delay waking him and look round the room at the pictures and ornaments, at all the reminders of our childhood, that I could, in a few telling moments, inject some real feeling—some love—into the part, before the farce resumes. Derek Oswin had somehow succeeded in making me want to improve my performance. Even though, by any logical analysis, it wasn’t worth the effort.
“I suppose so. Although you could argue…that it ends on a loving note.”
“You could, yes.” Panic mounts among the Elliotts as the second act unfolds. It’s Saturday and the Water Board are due in with their digger on Monday. There is an argument about whether to attempt to remove the body in the interim, assuming Kedge can be persuaded to reveal exactly where it’s buried. But Kedge has an alternative to propose. He has a hold of some kind over Morrison—by implication, sexual. If the Elliotts let him stay on, he will ensure that the garden remains unexcavated. To this they reluctantly agree. Then, just as they’re about to leave, an old man turns up,
claiming to be a long-lost relative, as indeed he is—their father. His return from the supposed dead exposes Kedge’s fraud, to which Morrison was party, and the tables seem utterly turned, until Father points out that the house is now his and he has no intention of selling, or evicting Kedge. They are, it seems, former lovers, free to admit as much and live together now Mother is no longer able to come between them.
“But Mr. Durrance doesn’t carry it off very well, does he?”
“No, Derek. He doesn’t.”
“Was Mr. Maidment better?”
“A lot.”
“I thought so.”
“He was one of the reasons I took the part.”
“And then he died.”
“Yes.”
“Which changed everything.”
“Well, death does, doesn’t it?”
“You’re thinking about your son?”
I stared at Derek in amazement. It was true. Peter had come into my mind, as he often does, peering uncertainly round the corner of a door my thoughts had nudged ajar. I should have realized Derek Oswin would know about him. But somehow I’d failed to.
“Now it’s my turn to apologize.”
“No need.” I drained my mug. “I must be going anyway.”
“You have a busy afternoon ahead of you.”
“Quite busy, yes.” I stood up. “I’d like to be able to tell my wife you’ll stop hanging around the shop.”
“I will. I promise. There’d be no point. Now we’ve met.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope the play goes well this week.”
“Are you coming to see it?”
“I wasn’t…planning to. I haven’t got a ticket.”
“I could get you one.”
“Well…that’s very generous. Thank you.”
“What night would suit you best?”
Derek thought for a moment. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday it is. The ticket will be waiting for you at the box office.”
“OK. I’ll look forward to that.” He rose and extended his hand. “It’s been an honour meeting you, Mr. Flood.” We shook.
“Next time, approach me direct.”
“Will there be a next time?”
“I don’t see why not.” He wore such a look of puppy-dog eagerness that I added, before I could stop myself, “You could join us after the show on Wednesday. We’ll make up a little party and have a meal somewhere.”
“Are you serious?”
I smiled to reassure him. “Yes.”
“Gosh. That really is generous. Thanks a lot.”
“Until Wednesday, then.”
“Until Wednesday. Meanwhile”—he grinned—“I’ll try out some other cafés.”
“You do that.”
“Apologize to Mrs. Flood for me, will you?”
I nodded. “I’ll be sure to.”
For a man as thoroughly duped as I’d initially been by Derek Oswin, I felt surprisingly pleased with myself as I headed south down London Road. I’d solved Jenny’s problem for her and reckoned I could capitalize on her gratitude. Roger Colborn’s absence on unspecified business I counted as a distinct advantage. True, I hadn’t turned up anything to his discredit, as I’d hoped I might, but there was still every reason to suppose I could manoeuvre Jenny into seeing me again. I cut through the Open Market to reach The Level, buying a juicy Cox’s Orange Pippin on the way, which I munched sitting on a bench near the playground. Then I rang her.
“Hi.”
“Jenny, it’s me.”
“I hope you’ve got better news than I think you have.”
“As a matter of fact, I have.”
“Really?”
“I’ve spoken to him, Jenny. His name’s Derek Oswin. He’s harmless. A bit weird, like you said, but basically OK. And he’s going to stop bothering you. I have his word on that.”
“What’s that worth?”
“You won’t have any more trouble with him. You have my word as well as his.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well…” Her tone softened. “Thanks, Toby. Thanks a lot.”
“My pleasure.”
“Derek Oswin, you say? I don’t know the name.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why’s he been doing this?”
“It’s a long story. Which I’d be happy to share with you. We could go into it over lunch.”
“Lunch?”
“Why not? You still eat, don’t you?”
There was a lengthy pause. Then she said, “I’m not sure meeting again is a good idea.”
“When does Roger get back from his business trip?”
“Tomorrow night. But-—”
“Let’s have lunch tomorrow, then. While you’ve time on your hands. I’d suggest today, but I’m due to meet the press at two thirty and it would be a rush.”
“Oh God.” The tone of her voice suggested exasperation, but there was a faint, residual fondness thrumbling away beneath it. She wasn’t going to turn me down. She didn’t have the heart to. Besides, lunch was the least she owed me. “I suppose…”
“Just an hour or so, Jenny. There’s no hidden agenda. A friendly little lunch. That’s all.”
She sighed. “All right.”
“Great.”
“I’ll pick you up from the Sea Air at twelve thirty.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“OK. I’ll see you then. But, Toby—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t try to make something of this, will you?”
“No,” I lied. “Of course I won’t.”
I snatched a pub lunch on my way to the theatre, but nobly refrained from alcohol. Upon arrival, I was looking, it seemed to me, a good deal brighter than either Jocasta or Fred, the other two cast members regularly wheeled out to meet the press. (I’d taken steps early in the tour to block Donohue appearing on such occasions.) It was the last time we’d have to do this, but no end-of-term jollity crept into our exchanges with the less than dynamic representatives of the local media whom Brian Sallis shepherded into the auditorium.
Fred cracked his usual jokes. This he does more or less on autopilot, dreaming the while, no doubt, of a TV sitcom contract. Jocasta put on a brave face—and there are none braver—to describe what a pleasure it was to return to Brighton. I recall her saying much the same about Guildford, Plymouth, Bath, Malvern, Nottingham, Norwich, Sheffield, Newcastle and Poole. They were evidently both a little surprised when I embarked on an unprecedented consideration of whether the Elliotts’ fractured relationships were a reflection of Orton’s own family history. I have my doubts whether any of it will make it into print, but what the hell? Strangely, I felt it needed saying.
“Popped in to see your shrink yesterday, did you, Toby?” Fred enquired afterwards over a cup of tea. “It’s a bit late to come over all Freudian.”
“Just trying to ring the changes,” I replied.
“Ringing tills are the only thing that would have stopped Leo closing us down. And they didn’t happen. So there’s no point arty-farting round the script now.”
“I can’t help myself,” I said with a shrug. “I’m an artist.” To which Fred’s only response was a peal of laughter.
While I was trading insults with Fred, a note was pressed into my hand. I didn’t bother to read it until I popped into my dressing room to use the loo before the technical rehearsal got under way. The contents of the note were, to say the least, a surprise. Please phone Jenny. Urgent. I rang her straight away.
“Hi.” Even in that one minute monosyllable there was detectable tension.
“Jenny, it’s me.”
“What in God’s name are you playing at, Toby?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said you’d got…Oswin, or whatever he calls himself…off my back.”
“So I have.”
“No. You haven’t. He’s still there. Still monopolizing a stool at the Rendezvous and s
taring across at us. At me.”
“He can’t be.”
“But he is. He’s been there all afternoon.”
“That’s impossible. He assured me—”
“He’s there, Toby. Take my word for it. Like I took yours. For all the good it did me.”
For a moment, I was dumbstruck. What was Derek Oswin’s game? In promising me that he’d leave Jenny alone, he’d sounded utterly sincere. And breaking his promise so swiftly was doubly perverse.
“What do I do now?” Jenny snapped.
“Leave it with me. I’ll—”
“Leave it with you?”
“The technical starts in a quarter of an hour. I can’t get away until after that. I’ll go back to his house. Find out what the problem is.”
“I thought you already had.”
“Obviously not. But he won’t pull the wool over my eyes a second time. You can count on that.”
“Can I?”
“Yes, Jenny, you can.” I grimaced at myself in the mirror above the dressing table. “I won’t let you down.”
The technical rehearsal is a blurred memory. My thoughts were vainly devoted to unravelling Derek Oswin’s devious motives. Staging practicalities suddenly counted for nothing. Martin Donohue made some crack about me having late improvements to suggest, Fred having presumably tipped him off about my comments to the press, but they were far from my mind. I had nothing whatsoever to suggest, except that we finish as soon as possible. And for that there was no lack of consensus. We were done in less than an hour.
I headed straight for the stage door afterwards, debating whether I should check the Rendezvous before trying Oswin’s house. But the debate was resolved before it had properly begun. A letter had been left for me with the doorman during the rehearsal. “By some bloke in a duffel-coat.” Oswin was still at least one step ahead of me.
I stepped out into Bond Street, tore the envelope open and read the note inside, written in ballpoint in a small, precise hand.
Dear Mr. Flood,
I am sorry I misled you earlier. I did not expect you to contact me so soon. I was not properly prepared. I did not tell you the whole truth. I think now I should. It concerns Mr. Colborn. So, if you want to know what it is, meet me by the Hollingdean Road railway bridge at 8 o’clock this evening. I realize that is a very inconvenient time for you, but I think I must ask a small sacrifice of you as an earnest of your good intentions. I will be there. I hope you will be too. It would be best if you were. I will not give you another chance of learning what this is all about. And you will regret spurning that chance, believe me. I shall look forward to seeing you later.
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