‘Yes, I could, and I’m sure she’ll be delighted to do it, because she’s just as excited about this whole thing as the rest of us are.’
When he’d been negotiating with the BBC over the documentary, Mark Cotton had promised that he would allow the camera crew completely open access, but even as the pledge was being made, he’d been adding the mental proviso that if they wanted the truth, then they were going to have to be much smarter and quicker on their feet than he was.
Thus it was that when he had his meeting with the three female members of the cast, it was in the bar, well away from the cameras.
‘It’s twenty years since we four last performed this play,’ he said. He smiled his most winning wistful smile. ‘Ah, time just flies by, doesn’t it? It slips through your fingers like grains of sand.’
Ruth Audley returned the smile – and hers was wistful, too – but Sarah Audley and Lucy Cavendish showed by their expressions that they were not there to reminisce, but to do a deal.
‘If I remember rightly, it was Ruth who played Bel-Imperia in that production,’ Cotton said.
‘And the maid, a watchman, several soldiers from both sides of the divide, and the messenger,’ Ruth said.
‘Yes, yes, we all know that in repertory theatre you have to play several characters, for God’s sake, but we’re here to talk about the leading roles,’ Cotton said impatiently.
‘Don’t you dare speak to my sister in that tone of voice, Mark Cotton!’ Sarah said.
Screw you, bitch! Cotton thought.
But he needed Sarah for the next few days, and so he allowed his face to become suffused with regret, and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m just nervous about the production. I do so want it to be a success – for all our sakes.’
‘Just watch your step, that’s all,’ Sarah cautioned.
‘I will,’ Cotton promised. ‘Now where was I? Oh, yes, Ruth played Bel-Imperia, Sarah played Isabella, and Lucy played Pedringano and understudied for Ruth. This time, I’d like Lucy to play Pedringano again – and of course, continue to understudy – but I’d like the lovely Audley sisters to exchange roles.’
‘How do you feel about that, Ruth?’ Sarah asked her sister.
Ruth shrugged. ‘It’s fine.’
‘You’re sure?
‘Yes.’
It might be fine with Ruth but it clearly wasn’t fine with Lucy, Cotton thought. But never mind, he had that in hand and would deal with it later.
Joan Turnbull had been looking for her husband and found him sitting disconsolately on the edge of the stage.
‘What are you doing here, Geoff?’ she asked. ‘Rehearsals don’t start until this afternoon.’
‘I thought I might be useful,’ Turnbull said, without much conviction. ‘I thought a crisis might come up which only I could handle.’
‘Nothing much is happening. Why don’t you come home with me, and have a bit of lunch?’ Joan suggested.
‘I am paid to be here, you know,’ Turnbull said, almost aggressively. ‘I am earning a wage.’
‘I know you are,’ Joan said softly.
But it was a pittance – almost an insult.
Geoff looked around him.
‘Two months ago, this was just a garish bingo hall,’ he said, ‘and now it’s a real theatre again. And it wouldn’t have happened without me.’
‘It certainly wouldn’t,’ Joan agreed. ‘You’ve worked miracles.’
‘I thought they’d be bound to offer me the job of manager/director once The Spanish Tragedy was over, because they’d have seen how well I directed that,’ Turnbull mused. ‘But I won’t be directing it, will I? At best, all you could call me is an assistant stage manager.’
‘You’re vital to this production – even if some people don’t realize it,’ Joan said.
‘Do you think I’ll get the job anyway?’ Geoff asked.
She wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t lie to him.
‘We’ll see,’ she said.
The last twenty years, since he’d lost the theatre, had been awful. But they had been nothing compared to what the next twenty years would be like – if Geoff even managed to survive for another twenty years. Mark Cotton had dangled the dream of a better future in front of him as long as he needed someone to do the donkey work, but the moment the work had been completed, he had snatched that future away. And now she hated Cotton more than she’d ever believed it possible to hate anybody.
Mark Cotton was walking at a brisk pace – as any man looking forward to a lunchtime of unfettered lust would – when he found his way suddenly blocked by a woman.
She was a dumpy little thing, with tight grey curls, thick glasses and a clipboard.
‘Look, if this is some kind of survey you’re conducting, I really haven’t got time today,’ he said.
He took a step to the side, with the intention of walking round the woman, but with remarkable alacrity for a person of her age and shape, she moved too, and successfully blocked him.
‘It’s not a survey,’ she said. ‘It’s a petition. The council are poisoning pigeons in the corporation park, and we don’t think it’s right.’
For ‘we don’t think it’s right,’ read ‘I don’t think it’s right,’ thought Cotton, who knew a mad old bat when he saw one.
‘I really am in a hurry,’ he said, moving once more, and once more finding himself blocked.
The woman’s mouth fell open in surprise.
‘I know that voice,’ she said. ‘You’re Vic Prince.’
Cotton made a quick calculation. He had written a role for himself and, so far, he considered he had been playing it to perfection.
In Act One, a successful actor tries – for love of his art – to stage a play anonymously, so that ordinary people can enjoy the drama as a drama, and not simply because of a famous name.
In Act Two, the secret is uncovered, and because of this, the play attracts even more attention than it would have done if he’d been open about it in the first place.
And then there is Act Three – the BBC documentary – in which he explains his original motivation, and everyone realizes that he is not just that cop from the telly but, in fact, a serious and dedicated artist.
The thing was, he was still in Act One, and was not entirely sure whether he wanted the second act to begin yet.
‘You are him,’ the woman said. ‘I know you are.’
Even if he denied it, she’d still go off and tell anyone who’d listen that she’d seen him, he thought, and when it turned out she’d been telling the truth, that would reflect badly on him, because he always claimed to love his fans, and to spend as much time with them as he possibly could.
Besides, would it really matter if Act Two started a little earlier than anticipated?
He lowered his muffler, and gave the woman his widest smile.
‘You’re quite right,’ he admitted. ‘What a clever girl you really are.’
The compliment seemed to fluster her.
‘Could I … would you mind if … that’s to say, I’d like your autograph,’ she gasped.
‘Of course,’ Cotton agreed.
The woman held the sheet on the clipboard, realized there were already the signatures of several other people she’d badgered into it, and pulled out a clean sheet from underneath.
‘Shall I sign it DCI Vic Prince, or would you like me to put my real name?’ he teased.
‘Your real name, please, Mr Cotton.’
He took the clipboard from her.
‘Call me Mark. And what’s your name?’
‘Vera.’
‘So I’ll make it out to Vera, shall I?’
‘No,’ she said, with sudden urgency. ‘I just want your autograph. And could you put it at the bottom of the sheet, please?’
‘Yes, I suppose so – if that’s what you want. Is there any particular reason for it?’
‘I want to put a picture of you above it, then have it framed and hang it on my bedroom wall.’
‘I’m
very flattered,’ he said. He signed the piece of paper, and handed it back to her. ‘Is that all right?’ he asked.
‘It’s just perfect,’ she said in a faraway voice.
‘Now listen, Vera,’ he cooed, ‘it’s a secret I’m here in Whitebridge, so you must promise me you’ll not tell anyone you’ve seen me. Will you do that for me? Will you promise?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’d do anything for you.’
He lent forward and pecked her lightly on the cheek, and this time when he stepped to the side, she did not try to stop him.
The best way to make sure a piece of news is spread is to swear someone to secrecy, he told himself. And then he banished all thoughts of Vera from his mind, and once more contemplated the hot, dirty sex that was awaiting him.
They had agreed to meet in the pub for lunch at one o’clock, but when Sarah got there – half an hour late – Ruth had still not arrived.
But maybe she was not just late – maybe she was not coming at all, Sarah thought.
She had seemed all right when Mark had announced that he was switching their parts around, but perhaps that was no more than an act, and she’d actually been so devastated by it that the idea of being in the same room as her sister was now almost unbearable.
The more Sarah considered it, the more likely it seemed that the demotion – coming on top of all the distress Ruth had been through with their mother’s death – had been the straw which had finally broken the camel’s back.
She hoped Ruth wasn’t about to have some kind of nervous breakdown, because the last thing she needed, when she was coming to grips with the very difficult part of Bel-Imperia, was a loony sister.
The door opened, and Ruth walked in. She looked fine – in fact, better than fine.
So maybe, by not insisting she play the lead, I was actually doing her a favour, Sarah thought.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Ruth said. ‘I’ve been shopping – do you know, I haven’t bought any new clothes for five years – and I didn’t notice the time.’
‘It’s no problem,’ Sarah assured her. ‘It’s nice to see you’re taking an interest in things again.’
Ruth glanced around the public bar of the Drum and Monkey.
‘Why did you choose this place?’ she asked. ‘It looks like a bit of a dump to me.’
‘I’m doing research,’ Sarah said. ‘Remember that new part I said I’d landed – the one I didn’t want you to talk about to anyone else?’
‘Of course I remember.’
‘Well, this is the pub the local coppers use, and I’m soaking up the ambience. So can you work out what that juicy part might be?’
For a moment, Ruth’s face was a blank, and then it was flooded with sudden insight.
‘You don’t mean …’ she began.
‘I most certainly do.’
‘And does …’
‘Apart from you, me and the production company’s inner circle, nobody knows.’
‘Well, if that doesn’t blow quite a few minds, I don’t know what will,’ Ruth said.
‘How do you feel about playing Isabella rather than Bel-Imperia?’ Sarah asked, more serious now.
‘To be honest, I feel relieved,’ Ruth said. ‘Taking the part of Bel-Imperia would have been a bit like diving into the deep end of a swimming pool when you haven’t swum for ten years. Isabella’s more like getting in at the shallow end – I can paddle around for a while until I feel a bit more confident.’
‘We haven’t started rehearsals yet, so it’s not too late for us to insist that it’s you, and not me, who plays Bel-Imperia.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ Ruth said. ‘But it really was very sweet of you to make the offer.’
And sweet it might well have been – but they both knew that she hadn’t meant it.
Mark Cotton climbed out of bed and reached for his clothes, which he’d carefully draped over a conveniently close chair.
‘Do you remember what you said to me when the Whitebridge Theatre closed down all those years ago?’ asked a voice behind him.
‘Probably,’ he replied, slipping on his underpants. ‘But why don’t you remind me of it, to save me the trouble of having to think it through?’
‘You said you’d ring me, and we’d talk about when we could get together. But you never did ring me, did you?’
Cotton pulled one of his socks up. ‘I seem to recall that when I looked for it, I found that I’d lost your number.’
‘There were thousands of ways you could have traced me – if you’d wanted to.’
Cotton examined himself in the mirror. Flat stomach, firm muscles – he looked as good now as he had when he’d first started acting.
‘I said, there were thousands of ways you could have traced me if you’d wanted to,’ said the voice from the bed.
‘And you could have rung me, Lucy – if you’d really wanted to,’ Cotton countered.
‘It was the fifties,’ Lucy Cavendish said. ‘Women didn’t do the chasing back then – they waited for the man to make the moves.’
‘And then along came women’s lib, and the golden age was gone forever,’ Cotton said flippantly, as he reached for his shirt.
‘You treated me very badly back then, and I think you should make up for it now,’ Lucy said.
Mark threaded his tie through his collar. It was a nice tie, carefully chosen. It carried with it the suggestion that it might be the old-school tie from a very posh school, and if people chose to think that was what it was, then its owner – who had, in fact, attended a rundown secondary modern in a town much like Whitebridge – could hardly be blamed.
‘How do you think I should make it up to you?’ he asked.
‘I think you should take the role of Bel-Imperia off Sarah and give it to me,’ Lucy replied.
The knot he had tied was a half-Windsor – another hint that he came from a privileged background.
‘I don’t wish to seem rude, darling, but you have neither Sarah’s modest fame nor her acting ability,’ he said.
‘But I’ve just been to bed with you!’ Lucy whined.
Cotton turned round to face her.
It had been a mistake to screw her, he thought. True, she had an exceptionally good body for a woman pushing forty, but now that he was famous he could attract much fresher meat just by clicking his fingers.
‘Are you saying that the only reason you went to bed with me was because you hoped I’d give you Sarah’s part?’ he asked sternly. ‘In other words, my dear Lucy, are you saying that you’re no better than a common whore?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good,’ Cotton said, ‘because if that were the case, I’d lose all respect for you – and you wouldn’t want that, would you?’
‘No,’ Lucy agreed, her dark eyes blazing simultaneously with anger and defeat.
‘What you have to remember, my dear, is that there are no small parts, only small actors,’ Cotton said.
‘That’s just a cliché,’ Lucy complained.
‘Cliché or not, Sarah plays Bel-Imperia,’ Cotton said firmly.
SIX
25th March 1977
It was Friday, the final day of rehearsals, and tempers – not least that of the director – were wearing thin.
They were rehearsing the final act, with Hieronimo and Bel-Imperia both being played by the understudies.
Hieronimo explains to the king and the viceroy what he has done, then turns and runs off-stage.
‘O hearken, Viceroy, Hold Hieronimo!’ the king says. ‘Brother, my nephew and thy son are slain!’
The viceroy is devastated. ‘We are betrayed! My Balthazar is slain!’ he laments.
Hieronimo appears on the balcony, and then steps off it. He falls two feet before his harness restrains him.
‘Break ope the doors! Run, seize Hieronimo!’ the viceroy commands.
Two soldiers appear on the balcony, and reach down to pull Hieronimo back on to the platform—
‘Hold it right there!’
Mark Cotton shouted.
The two soldiers – who were, in fact, the male stagehands – had already got a grip on the harness straps, but now they froze.
‘Are you saying that you don’t want us to pull him back up yet?’ one of them asked.
He sounded puzzled – and with reason.
‘I know you’re only bloody amateurs, but even you should see the importance of timing,’ Cotton had raged at them in previous rehearsals. ‘Pull him up too soon, and the audience doesn’t have time to revel in the shock. Pull him up too late, and that same audience will be wondering why he hasn’t bloody well blacked out.’
So what exactly had they done wrong now? the stagehand wondered.
‘Leave him hanging where he is, and get back down here,’ Cotton said harshly.
‘You mean …?’
‘I mean what I bloody say – leave him hanging there, and get back down here!’
The two stagehands hesitated for a second, before turning and descending the stairs.
Cotton strode angrily across the stage, twice, before looking up at Jerry Talbot again.
‘You were three beats too late,’ he said.
‘I wasn’t,’ Talbot replied, without perhaps complete conviction.
‘Don’t tell me you weren’t when everybody here knows you bloody well were,’ Cotton said.
‘I … I have such a short time to get into position,’ Talbot said. ‘The king and the viceroy only have two lines each, and even before the viceroy’s last line, I’m supposed to be on the platform.’
‘Good point,’ Cotton said. ‘I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll add a few more lines of dialogue, so you’ll have all the time you need. Now what can we say? What words can we put into the king’s mouth that Thomas Kyd wasn’t bright enough to think of himself?’
‘Mark, there’s no need to—’ Jerry Talbot began.
‘Let me see – the king has just said that his nephew and the viceroy’s son are dead,’ Cotton interrupted him. ‘Maybe after that, he’ll change the subject – lighten the mood a little. Perhaps he could say, “Played any good rounds of golf recently, Viceroy?” And the viceroy, after expressing his deep anguish at his son’s death, could say, “I went round the course at three under par last Sunday.” What do you think of that?’
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