by Simon Brett
‘But instead you triumphed?’
‘Yes. Well, as I said, I was definitely the best person for the part.’ In spite of the vagaries and vulnerabilities in other areas of her life, Storm Lavelle was very assured about her acting skills. And indeed it was when witnessing one of her performances that Jude had seen her friend at her most confident. Maybe getting into the professional theatre would be the resolution of Storm’s personality problems. Not of course that getting into the professional theatre was an easy thing to be achieved by a woman in her forties.
‘And have you actually started rehearsals for the play yet?’
‘Read-through on Sunday. Open on the twelfth of May.’
‘Wow! Three months’ rehearsal. A lot of professional theatres would kill for that amount of time.’
‘Maybe, but you forget that we aren’t doing it full-time. Most of the cast have day jobs.’
‘Yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘So we rehearse Tuesday and Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons.’
‘And how many performances do you do?’
‘Just the four. The twelfth of May’s a Wednesday, and we go through to the Saturday. SADOS used to open on Tuesdays and throw in a Saturday matinee as well, but they can’t get the audiences for that many performances now.’
‘Ah.’ Jude removed her hands from Storm’s body and rubbed the oil off them with a towel. ‘That’s you done,’ she said. ‘Unknotted a few of the knots, I hope?’
‘Great, as ever. Thank you, Jude.’
‘My pleasure. I’m sure I’ll soon be asking you to do the same for me. Anyway, good luck with the read-through on Sunday.’
‘Yes, I’m a bit nervous about it. Excited too, but at the moment mainly nervous.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine.’
‘Oh, I will … once the read-through actually starts. But, you see, the thing is … Ritchie Good’s playing Dick Dudgeon.’
‘Is he?’ said Jude, though neither of the names meant anything to her. ‘Should I know him?’
‘Ritchie Good? Surely you’ve heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, he’s a terrific actor. Everyone says he should have done it professionally. He’s played star parts with lots of local groups – the Fedborough Thespians, the Clincham Players, the Worthing Rustics – Ritchie’s acted with all of them. He even played Hamlet for the Rustington Barnstormers.’
‘Did he?’ said Jude, trying to sound appropriately impressed.
‘He’s really good. Somebody must have pulled out all the stops to get him for the SADOS. I suppose it might have been Davina, though I’d be surprised if she had the clout to persuade someone like Ritchie Good.’
‘Davina?’
‘Davina Vere Smith. She’s the director. I said.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
‘He’s incredibly good-looking, Ritchie. Got quite a following in the amdram world.’
Jude wondered for a moment whether it would be this new paragon, Ritchie Good, rather than Neville Prideaux who was about to be the recipient of Storm Lavelle’s full-on adoration.
Her friend was on the way to the door when she stopped and said, ‘Ooh, one thing, Jude …’
‘Yes.’
Storm looked around the cluttered room, whose furniture was all covered with rugs and throws. ‘I just wondered if you’d still got …?’
A wry smile came to Jude’s full lips as she said, ‘You mean the chaise longue?’
‘Yes.’
Jude moved across to remove a light-blue woollen blanket she’d bought in Morocco and reveal the article under discussion. The chaise longue had come from a little antique shop in Minchinhampton, picked up when she’d been on a trip to the Cotswolds with her second husband. It had been a stage of her life when Jude had been moving away from the husband and towards the idea of becoming a healer. She had thought the chaise longue might possibly do service as a treatment couch, but when she’d got it home she found it to be too low for such a purpose. She had hung on to it, though, and it had moved with her from address to address when other pieces of furniture had been abandoned.
She didn’t know how old it was, and the antique dealer who sold the thing to her had been pretty vague on the subject. ‘Mid to late Victorian, possibly Edwardian’ was as specific as he had got. The base, he said, ‘might be mahogany’, though Jude thought it was probably a cheaper wood stained to look like mahogany. The upholstery, he felt sure, was not original, but Jude had become quite fond over the years of the purplish flowered print, even though it was usually covered with the Moorish drape. She liked using the chaise longue in the winter months, moving it near the fire, making sure she had an adequate supply of tea, crumpets and books before snuggling under the cover.
Many chaises longues have a supporting arm along one side, but Jude’s didn’t. And this had proved of great benefit in its life outside Woodside Cottage.
Because her chaise longue was a much borrowed piece of furniture. And it was always borrowed by the same kind of people – amateur dramatic groups. A chaise longue was so versatile. Any play set in any historical period looked better with a chaise longue as part of its setting. And Jude’s armless chaise longue was much loved by directors, because they could set it facing the audience on either the right- or the left-hand side of the stage.
Not even counting the times it had been borrowed before, since Jude came to Fethering her chaise longue had featured in most of the church halls of the area in a variety of thespian endeavours. It had been a shoo-in for a part in Robert and Elizabeth, the musical about the poet Browning and his wife, and appeared in more than one stage version of Pride and Prejudice. Jude’s chaise longue had also taken the stage in The Winslow Boy, Arsenic and Old Lace (twice) and virtually the entire oeuvre of Oscar Wilde. It had even, tarted up in gold foil, provided a suitable surface for the Egyptian queen to be poisoned on by an asp in Antony and Cleopatra.
And now, Jude intuited, it might be about to make an appearance in George Bernard Shaw’s The Devil’s Disciple.
So it proved. Storm wondered tentatively whether it might be possible for the SADOS to impose on Jude’s generosity to borrow …? The permission was readily given. Jude’s sitting room also contained a sofa which could be moved near the fire for the tea, crumpet and book routine, so the chaise longue would not be missed. The only questions really were when would it be needed, and how should it be got to where it needed to be got to.
The answer to the first was as soon as possible, because when Davina Vere Smith was directing she liked to use all the furniture and props right from the beginning of rehearsals. And the chaise longue needed to be got to St Mary’s Church Hall in Smalting. Once in situ it could stay there because there was a storeroom the SADOS were allowed to use for their props and things. In fact, they were lucky enough to be able to hold most of their rehearsals in the Hall, which was of course where the performances would take place in May.
‘That’s very convenient for you,’ said Jude. ‘So what, will someone come and pick the chaise longue up from here?’
‘Yes, that would be good, wouldn’t it?’ Storm agreed. ‘Trouble is, I’ve only got my Smart car and it’d never fit in there. And Gordon – that’s Gordon Blaine, who’s in charge of all the backstage stuff for SADOS – well, normally he’d pick it up, but his Land Rover’s got some problem that he’s busy repairing at the moment and … You can’t think of any way of getting it to St Mary’s Hall, can you, Jude?’
‘Well, I don’t have a car myself.’
‘Of no, of course you don’t. Sorry, I’d forgotten. But you haven’t got a friend, have you? A friend you could ask to …?’
‘Yes.’ A smile played round Jude’s lips. ‘Yes, there is someone I could ask.’
TWO
‘I’ve never had any time for amateur dramatics,’ announced Carole Seddon. ‘Or indeed for the people who indulge in them.’
‘I’m not asking you to indulge in anything,’
said Jude patiently. ‘I’m just asking you to help me deliver a chaise longue.’
‘Hm.’
‘It’s only in Smalting. Early evening Sunday. The whole operation will take maybe an hour of your time.’
Carole looked dubiously at the uncovered chaise longue. ‘I’m not sure that’ll fit in the Renault.’
‘Of course it will. If you put the back seats down.’
‘I don’t know. It’s quite long.’
‘That’s possibly why it’s called a chaise longue.’
‘Oh, very funny, Jude,’ said Carole without a hint of a smile.
‘I happen to know that it will fit in the back of the Renault. It has had such a peripatetic life since I bought it that it has on occasions fitted into the back of virtually every vehicle that’s ever been invented – except a Smart car, which would be a squeeze too far. But if you’d rather not do it, just say and I’ll get someone else to—’
‘Oh, I didn’t say I’d rather not do it.’ This was classic Carole Seddon. Jude knew her neighbour very well and was used to the obscure processes that had to be gone through in making arrangements with her. Carole may have disapproved of amateur dramatics, but she still had a very strong sense of curiosity. So long as she was accompanied by Jude, the opportunity of invading the stronghold of the Smalting Amateur Dramatic and Operatic Society was not one that she would readily forego. She’d never actually met any amateur thespians. If she were to meet some, they might well provide justification for her prejudice against them.
‘So you will do it?’
Carole let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Oh, very well.’ Having made that concession, she now deigned to show a faint interest in the SADOS. ‘What play is your chaise longue going to feature in?’
‘The Devil’s Disciple.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘George Bernard Shaw.’ Carole’s grimace didn’t need the support of words. ‘Not your favourite, do I detect?’
‘I once spent a very long time sitting through Heartbreak House. I’ve known shorter fortnights.’
‘Yes, he can be a bit of an old windbag. But there are still some good plays. Pygmalion, Major Barbara, Saint Joan … they still just about stand up.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. And what about The Devil’s Disciple – does that still stand up?’
Jude shook her head. ‘Haven’t seen it. Never actually heard the title until Storm mentioned it.’
Carole could not restrain herself from saying, ‘Is your friend really called “Storm”?’
‘Whether she was actually christened it, I don’t know. But “Storm” is the name by which she’s known.’
‘Oh dear. Well, I suppose it goes with the amateur dramatics.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Jude, suppressing a giggle at the Caroleness of Carole.
‘And will the good burghers of Smalting really come out in their thousands to see a minor work of George Bernard Shaw?’
‘That,’ said Jude, ‘remains to be seen. But it doesn’t matter a lot to us, because our only involvement in the production will be delivering a chaise longue.’
Little did she realize how wrong that assertion would prove to be.
Following Storm’s instructions, relayed by Jude, Carole nosed the Renault into the car park by the church, within walking distance of a fairly new Sainsbury’s Local.
The hall next to St Mary’s in Smalting was a clone of thousands of other church halls throughout the country. Built in stout red brick towards the end of Victoria’s reign, it had over the years hosted innumerable public lectures, wedding receptions, jumble sales, beetle drives, children’s parties, Women’s Institute coffee mornings and other local events. More recently its space had also accommodated, according to shifting fitness fashions, classes in Aerobics, Swing Aerobics, Pilates and Zumba. The hall, as Carole and Jude had cause to know from the time when they were investigating the discovery of some bones under a beach hut in Smalting, was also the regular venue for the Quiz Nights of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.
Like others of its kind, St Mary’s Hall had been in a constant process of refurbishment, though it was never refurbished quite as well as it should have been. The most recent painting of the doors and windows in oxblood red had not been enough to counter the institutional feeling of its cream walls. And nothing seemed to remove the hall’s slightly shabby aura or its enduring primary school smell of dampness, disinfectant and dubious drainage.
Storm’s instructions to Jude had been exact. If they arrived at six, the read-through of The Devil’s Disciple would definitely be over by then. And so it proved. The two women had manhandled the chaise longue out of the Renault, but once they were inside the hall, they were encumbered with help. Storm came swanning across to greet them with a shriek of ‘Jude, darling!’, which made Carole’s face look even stonier. For the read-through Storm’s hair had undergone another transformation. It was now black, centrally parted and with little curls rather in the manner of Betty Boop. She scattered introductions over Carole and Jude like confetti, far too quickly for the information to be taken in, and organized a couple of men to take the chaise longue into the storeroom.
‘Can’t thank you enough, Jude darling. We will look after it very well, I promise.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
‘And now, look, since we’ve finished the read-through, we were all just about to adjourn to the pub. You will join us, won’t you?’
‘Well, I don’t think—’
Cutting across Carole’s words and ignoring the semaphore in her expression, Jude replied, ‘Yes, we’d love to.’
They only knew one pub in Smalting, the Crab, and that wasn’t really a pub. It was far too poshed-up to be the kind of place that a local could drop in for a pint. It was almost exclusively a restaurant, and the tiny bar area was designed only for people sipping a pre-prandial aperitif.
But fortunately it wasn’t the Crab that Storm Lavelle led them to. Almost adjacent to St Mary’s Church was a pub called the Cricketers (though why it was called that nobody had ever thought to ask – it was miles from the nearest cricket ground), and it was clear as soon as they walked in that the SADOS members were familiar guests. And welcome guests. The landlord, a perky, bird-like man called Len, seemed to know most of the amateur actors by name. Given the declining numbers of visitors to pubs, the Cricketers was glad of any group who would fall in regularly after rehearsals on a Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday.
Early that particular Sunday evening the amdram crowd seemed to account for most of the pub’s clientele. Or maybe, just because they all talked so loudly and flamboyantly, they gave the impression of having taken over the place.
Carole Seddon felt extremely old-fashioned. She hadn’t wanted to come to the pub and now she was there all she wanted was to be back in her neat little house, High Tor. Also, although she would never admit to being ‘a slave to the television schedules’, there was a programme on Sunday nights that she didn’t like to miss. About midwives, it combined the unrivalled ingredients of contractions and nuns. Carole sneaked a look at her watch. Only twenty past six. Too early to use the show as an excuse for an early departure. Not of course that she’d ever have revealed the real reason why she wanted to get back.
Jude had moved forward to the bar and just ordered two large glasses of Chilean Chardonnay when she was intercepted by a large man with a ginger beard, whom they’d been vaguely aware of overseeing the transfer of the chaise longue to the storeroom.
‘Let me get those,’ he said in a voice with a trace of Scottish in it. ‘A small thank you to you for sacrificing your furniture to our tender mercies and bringing it over here.’
He thrust a twenty-pound note at the barman and the two women thought they were justified in accepting his generosity. He turned to a young woman also queuing at the bar. ‘Let me get you one too, Janie.’
‘Oh, you’re always buying me drinks.’
‘And it’s always my pleasure. What’
re you having?’
‘Vodka and coke, please.’
‘Your wish is my command. Add a vodka and coke, Len.’ The barman nodded. ‘And a predictable pint of Guinness for me, please.’
While the bearded man was getting their drinks, the girl introduced herself as ‘Janie Trotman’. She was slender, dark, quite pretty, dressed in shiny leggings and a purple hoodie. ‘I’m playing Essie,’ she volunteered.
‘Sorry. I don’t know the play,’ said Jude.
‘It’s the only young female part, so I suppose I’m lucky to get it.’
‘You don’t sound too sure about that.’
‘Well, I’m certainly not sure about the play. Having just sat through the read-through, it all seems a bit long-winded to me.’
At that moment a short, dumpy woman with improbably red hair bustled across to them. ‘Hello, you two look new,’ she said to Carole and Jude. ‘I’m Mimi Lassiter, Membership Secretary. Also part of the crowd in Act Three, you know, one of the Westerbridge townsfolk.’
‘Nice to meet you. I’m Jude. And this is my friend Carole.’
‘Ah, good evening. We’ve got quite a lot of new members in for The Devil’s Disciple, because it’s such a big cast, though Davina has cut the numbers down a bit. And I’m just going round, checking with the newcomers that they are actually members of SADOS. Now I know you’re fully paid up, Janie.’ The girl nodded. ‘The subscription rate for acting members is—’
‘Let me stop you there,’ said Jude. ‘We’re nothing to do with the production.’