Situation Tragedy (19 page)

‘And I'm sure she'd have liked this one, but it was just too soon after the event.'

He mulled that over. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I could post it to her.'

‘I'd leave it a week or two, if I were you.'

‘Yes.'

The little man seemed downcast, so Charles tried to make conversation. ‘What do you do, Romney?'

‘Do? I collect stuff about Dob.'

‘Yes, I know that, but what job do you do?'

‘I don't have a job. I came into a bit of money when my mother died, so I gave up my job. I just do the collection now.'

‘Oh, I see. And are you going to use all the material to write a book about her?'

‘Oh, no, I couldn't write a book. It's just an interest, you know,' Romney Kirkstall replied in a voice which suggested that the only thing strange about the conversation was Charles's need to ask the question.

‘So you spend your days collecting?'

‘Yes, looking around for stuff a lot of the time. I'm a lot younger than her, you see, I'm only forty-three, so I wasn't around to collect programmes and things at the time. But I go around junk stalls and book shops. It's an interest,' he repeated.

Only forty-three. Charles was surprised. Romney Kirkstall could have been any age, but forty-three seemed very young to have developed this kind of obsession. Maybe, Charles reflected, it was a sign of his own age. When the loonies start looking young.

‘Actually,' Romney Kirkstall continued, ‘I thought of you today.'

‘Oh?'

‘I was looking for some stuff in a bookshop in the Charing Cross Road – a place Barton Rivers recommended to me, actually – and I came across that book you were talking about.'

‘What book?'

‘Well, you were talking about the film, but it had the same title.
Death Takes A Short Cut.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘They'd got a copy of it there. I looked at it, but it hadn't got anything to do with Dob, so I put it back. But, since you asked about it, I thought you might be interested.'

‘I am. Thank you. Who was the author?'

‘R. Q. Wilberforce. Didn't mean anything to me. You heard of him?'

Charles grimaced. ‘It's vaguely familiar. Think he could have been one of those Thirties detective story writers, like E. R. Punshon or Freeman Wills Croft.'

‘Never heard of them either,' confessed Romney Kirkstall.

‘Well, if you could give me the name of the bookshop . . .'

Romney supplied it. ‘I must go,' he said. Then he hesitated, as if to impart some vital piece of information. ‘Do you know why I was called Romney?' he asked.

‘No.'

‘My mother named me after Romney Brent. Friend of Noel Coward's.'

‘Ah.'

‘Yes.' Romney Kirkstall turned tail and scuttered out.

Jay Lewis was still in the bar and seemed to be looking his way. He sidled up to her and whispered, ‘What does Ernie Franklyn Junior say about PAs sleeping with the same person twice?'

‘Oh, he says that's all right. He says it's inevitable that relationships develop.'

‘Oh, does he? That's very nice of him.'

Charles thought he would like to meet Ernie Franklyn Junior one day, and smash his teeth in. Or perhaps set a posse of indignant PAs on him to revenge his unflattering generalisations. Charles's previous experience of PAs had taught him (by the unquestionable empirical method of trying to get off with them) that their inclination towards promiscuity was no greater than that of other women. They weren't all as gullible as Jay Lewis.

But he couldn't really complain, as he seemed currently to be a beneficiary of the Ernie Franklyn Junior teaching. He was in no position to argue.

Nor, for the first hour after they got back to Jay's flat, was he in a position to think much either. But he was in some nice positions that didn't involve too much thinking.

There came a lull and they lay back on the pillows.

‘You're just using me for experience, aren't you, Jay?'

‘Yes. Ernie Fr –'

‘Sure, sure.'

‘You don't mind, do you?'

‘Why should I mind?'

‘You know,' she said slowly, ‘I may be coming off
The Strutters
.'

‘Oh yes.'

‘They need an extra PA on
Wragg and Bowen
.'

‘Ah.'

‘I'll see if I can get it. Learn more on a big variety show.'

They turned the light out and dozed.

‘Oh, by the way . . .' Jay said suddenly.

‘Hmm.'

‘I did ask my flatmate about that film you mentioned and she found out about it.'

‘What did she find out?'

Was this going to be important? Was this going to be the key that unlocked the Chinese box of mysteries?

Apparently not.

‘It never got made,' said Jay.

‘Oh.'

‘No, it was all set up in 1939. They started, did a couple of days' filming, then war was declared and the whole production was cancelled.'

‘Ah,' said Charles Paris, and went to sleep.

West End Television Ltd,

W.E.T. House,

235–9 Lisson Avenue,

London NW 1 3PQ.

18th July, 1979.

Dear Charles,

Just a quick note to say how super last night's show was and to thank you for all the hard work you're putting into this very exciting series.

A few days rest now, which I'm sure you'll be glad of, and then . . . on with the fun! We've got some smashing scripts from Willy and Sam and I think the series is going to go all the way to the top of the ratings!

Look forward to seeing you at the next read-through on Friday, 27th July.

With the warmest good wishes.

Yours sincerely,

Peter

PETER LIPSCOMBE

Producer
The Strutters

Good God, did the man never stop writing notes, Charles wondered. Where did he get the time? On the other hand, of course, he was a television producer and there must be a limit to the hours in the day you can spend buying people drinks.

The only other mail he had that day was something offering him a piece of leatherette if he applied for an American Express card and a photocopied sheet from the Red Theatre Co-operative, demanding workers' solidarity against the Right Wing Fascist take-over of Equity. He put these two, together with Peter Lipscombe's note, straight into the wastepaper basket, and decided he might go for a stroll down the Charing Cross Road.

The man in the bookshop was desolated, but the book was gone. ‘Sold it to a dealer yesterday. Know him well. He's always on the look-out for that sort of stuff. You a collector?'

‘Well, not really. I was just interested in that particular book.'

‘Oh. 'Cause I could do you a nice 1930 Austin Freeman.
Mr Pottermack's Oversight
, first edition. Or I got a few early Ngaio Marshes.
Died in the Wool,
1945. And I think I still got a couple of S. S. Van Dines.'

‘But no R. Q. Wilberforces?'

‘No, sorry, don't get many in. He didn't really do that many, don't think he did any after the War. Maybe he was killed, don't know. I could take your number, if you like, and if I get an R. Q. Wilberforce, give you a buzz.'

‘OK. Thanks.' Charles gave his number. ‘But don't worry. It isn't important. You say a dealer bought the one you had . . .'

‘Yes. Of course, if you're really keen, I could put you in touch with him.'

‘I would be grateful.'

‘Right. I know him well. Comes in here about once a month. His name's Gregory Watts and he lives down in Kew, I think. Here's his number.'

‘Thank you very much.'

‘And you're sure it's just the R. Q. Wilberforce you're interested in?'

‘For the moment, yes.'

“Cause I mean, far be it from me to tell you your business, but if you are starting a collection, you ought to go for a few more in the genre. I mean, there aren't many R. Q Witberforces and they're fairly rare, so I reckon you should widen your sights a bit. I mean, I got a nice early American edition of
The Lady in Black.
That was the title of
Trent's Last Case
over there. You know, Bentley.'

With a loud clang, a penny that had been jammed for some days in a slot in Charles' brain, dropped.

‘I've got it!' he shouted.

‘Have you really?' asked the bookseller, with some surprise at his vehemence. ‘Well, that's quite rare. Now that's a very good basis for a collection.'

But he spoke to an empty shop. The potential collector of R. Q. Wilberforce had shot off down the Charing Cross Road.

Charles contemplated making up for the job, but reckoned it was too risky. Part of him wanted to appear in the tramp guise he had worn as Estragon in
Waiting for Godot
at Glasgow (‘Never mind Godot, I spent the entire evening waiting for some distinguished acting' –
The Scotsman
). Another part suggested a socially committed researcher, using the earnest Midlands voice he had perfected for some forgotten
Play for Today
(‘Tried to fit a quart into a pint pot and drowned the unfortunate actors in the resulting spillage' –
Sunday Times
).

But he rejected both of these. His prospective quarry had seen him before, and Charles knew from experience that disguise in such circumstances could all too easily lead to discovery.

No, he had to go in his own persona, but he had to have a reason to justify his presence. And it had to be something that would disarm the prejudice his appearance was bound to arouse.

His quarry hadn't heard him speak, so he could certainly do something with his voice, which might help. Perhaps he could use the Liverpudlian he'd used in
The Homecoming
at Leatherhead (‘I laughed till I left' –
Leatherhead Herald).
Or the non-specific East Anglian he'd developed for a small-time villain in
Z Cars
(‘As regular as clockwork and about as interesting' –
Evening Standard).
Or the Midlands one . . .?

But that wasn't really the problem. He could choose a voice when he got there. The difficulty was a reason for his appearance. He thought.

It came in a flash. Of course, nothing is wasted. Everything is meant.

He went through the contents of his wastepaper basket until he came to the photocopied sheet from the Red Theatre Co-operative.

And he studied it hard.

It was strange revisiting the scene of the near-riot and Robin Laughton's death. The weather was benign, early summer sun washing the old frontages of the condemned terrace and giving them a kind of apologetic grandeur, as if they had somehow regained their youth. In the brightness of the sun he wasn't so aware of the boarded windows and padlocked doors, the flaking paint and angry graffiti.

He wasn't sure what a Red Theatre Co-operative member of his age would wear, because he had never met one. In fact he rather wondered whether there were any members of his age; the ones he had come across were all in their twenties and thirties. They were angry young men – no, he mustn't say that, the use of the expression dated him –
committed
young men – that was better – and girls, often with very short hair, tight jeans and leather blousons, who tended to interrupt rehearsals with queries about what the Equity representative intended to do about the rising unemployment figures, or whether Shakespeare was inextricably allied to the capitalist system. Charles had even, briefly, worked with a Red Theatre Co-operative director on a production of
King Lear,
which saw the play as a socialist parable. To justify this reading, the King had to be seen as a symbol of traditional landowning conservatism and the division of his kingdom as a necessary step towards public ownership. As a result, the political sympathies of the audience had to be with Regan and Goneril in their attempts to reduce the power of the traditional hierarchy and impose a socialist state. Cordelia became a symbol of wishy-washy bourgeois uncommitted apathy, and the entrance of Lear with her dead in his arms showed how non-participation was tantamount to alliance with the corruption of capitalism. The tragedy of the play was the deaths of Cornwall, Regan and Goneril, martyrs to the cause of progress, but the production ended on a note of hope. Albany's lines in the final scene.

were transposed to the very end of the play, and signified the start of the revolution. They were greeted by a great shout from all the company, dead bodies included, who all sang
The Red Flag
. The production, in spite of being hailed by
Time Out
as ‘a milestone in political theatre, showing that traditional plays need not just be commercial bullshit', played to small houses throughout its short run.

The same director's productions of
Othello
(about a black school-leaver unable to get a job) and
Macbeth
(an interpretation based on the lines

also failed to reach more than a minority audience.

Given the lack of middle-aged models for his chosen role, Charles wore his own clothes. He went first to the house which had been cleared for filming, and summoned the elderly couple who lived there to the door.

‘Hello. My name's Charles Paris. I was involved in the filming that West End Television was doing here the other week.'

‘Oh yes.' The old man did not look unwelcoming. ‘I wondered when you lot would be back.'

‘Oh.'

‘I said to Rita, they're bound to be back, didn't I, Rita?'

‘You did, Lionel.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, the way I saw it was, you didn't get no filming done that night, did you? So I put two and two together and realised that you'd want to do it another night, because you need it for your show.'