What Bloody Man Is That (3 page)

Russ Lavery coloured. ‘Oh, after all that wine we had at dinner, I don't think I need anything else –'

‘O! reason not the need!' Warnock quoted grandiloquently, prompting Charles to wonder whether the old actor had ever actually played Lear. If he ever did, Charles thought vindictively, I bet it was a really hammy Lear.

‘Good heavens,' Warnock continued, ‘you can't come into this business if you can't take your liquor. Christ, boy, what do you think keeps the theatre going? It's not talent, it's not arty-farty acting, it's not blooody Arts Council grants – it's alcohol, pure and simple. Wouldn't you agree?'

This last was flashed maliciously at Charles, who found the question a slightly uncomfortable one to answer. Much as he hated to side with Warnock Belvedere, he could not deny the considerable contribution that alcohol (in particular, Bell's whisky) had made to his own theatrical career.

‘Come on, boy, have something.'

‘Well, um, a small sherry.'

‘Sherry! After dinner. Good God, have you just let go Mummy's apronstrings? Don't you know anything?'

Russ Lavery looked deeply humiliated. It was clear that the answer to both Wamock's questions was affirmative. Charles observed how, as with the snipe at him about alcohol, the old actor had a knack of homing in on people's private anxieties. It made him a potentially difficult person to deal with.

‘Get the boy a sherry,' Warnock ordered, and Gavin Scholes obediently reached for his wallet.

‘Sweet, medium or dry?' Norman the barman asked impassively.

The old actor looked at Russ. ‘Well, come on boy. You must give Mine Host an answer. I'm afraid I don't know the appropriate etiquette for after-dinner sherry drinking.'

The boy blushed as his humiliation was rubbed in. ‘Dry, please,' he said in a small voice.

Still impassive, Norman poured the drink. Warnock, seeming for a moment to regret his cruelty, continued in a softer voice. ‘Oh, I remember, when I was young, I once made a terrible cock-up over drink. It was when I was working with Ralph.'

‘Ralph Richardson?' asked Russ Lavery, awe-struck.

‘Yes,' Warnock Belvedere conceded casually, well aware of the impact his words were having. ‘I was quite new to the business . . . maybe a little older than you – and not nearly as pretty, I'm afraid . . .'

Russ looked confused, confirming Charles's suspicion that the boy didn't know how to deal with this homosexual badinage. It's always difficult in the theatre. There's so much effusiveness, so much jokey campness that it's sometimes hard to spot an authentically gay approach. In this case, though, Charles could have told Russ that he was up against the real thing.

‘Anyway, at the end of the rehearsal one day, Ralph said he'd buy us all a drink. I was about as clueless as you are, young Russ, so I thought, well, here we are in the big, glamorous theatrical world, and I asked him for a glass of champagne. Hadn't a clue what it cost. And in those days, it was going to be a question of opening a bottle – none of this wine-bar nonsense where they keep one open under the counter. Anyway, give the old darling his due, he bought it for me without demur. Handed me the glass, and, as he did so, he said – very straight-faced, ‘You show good taste, young man. If you always insist on living life by champagne standards, there's no reason why you shouldn't succeed. No one ever lost out by aiming too high.

“Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what's a heaven for?” Never forgotten that bit of advice, you know.'

Needless to say, for the reported lines, the old actor dropped into impersonation. Charles had yet to encounter an actor who didn't do an impression of the late Sir Ralph Richardson. The quality varied from reasonable verisimilitude to a kind of decrepit bleat, but every actor had one tucked away for the vast supply of stories, true and apocryphal, which had accreted round that larger-than-life figure.

Warnock Belvedere's impersonation was actually rather good, but whether or not Richardson had ever given him the advice claimed or had ever quoted Browning at him, Charles doubted.

Russ Lavery was, however, impressed and so Warnock Belvedere pressed home his advantage with one of the more familiar Richardson anecdotes.

‘Actually, dear old Ralph . . .' (he pronounced it ‘Rafe', needless to say) ‘. . . once did something rather wonderful at a first night of some turgid new play he was doing. Started the First Act and, you know, they were getting nothing from the audience, but nothing. Obviously the thing was a real turkey . . . flopperoonie wasn't in it . . . So suddenly Ralph stops in the middle of a speech, walks down to the footlights, and says to the audience, “Is there a doctor in the house?”'

‘Little bloke stands up at the back of the stalls. “Yes, I'm a doctor”.'

‘Doctor,' says Ralph, ‘isn't this a terrible play?'

Though familiar to Charles, the story was well told, and he joined in the laughter that greeted its punchline. Even the barman Norman allowed himself a flicker of a smile. But, as Charles laughed, he wondered why Warnock Belvedere had suddenly turned so affable. He had a nasty feeling that the old actor wanted to ingratiate himself back into favour with Russ Lavery; he realised he'd pushed too far about the sherry, and was now making up for that lapse. What Warnock's ulterior motive was, Charles didn't think would be too difficult to guess.

Before the old actor could plunge into another anecdote of the distinguished company he kept, the bar-room doors rattled again and they all turned to look at the new arrival.

It was a woman, mid to late forties. Her hair was probably naturally black, but had been assisted to a uniform blackness which did not quite look natural. The blue eyes were rimmed with heavy make-up and her slightly sulky mouth was outlined in a harsh red. She wore a tight black skirt, seamed black stockings and shiny cream blouse. Chunky jewellery clustered at her neck and on her wrists. She didn't quite look tarty, but damn nearly.

Gavin and Norman's reactions to the arrival showed that she was a familiar figure in the theatre. The barman seemed to look away with lack of interest, while the director gave a little wave and called out, ‘Sandra, love. Get you a drink?'

‘Please. A Tia Maria.'

Norman had the bottle in his hand and was pouring from it before she said the words.

‘Oh, I've just finished sorting it all out,' the woman sighed, depositing herself with elaborate mock-exhaustion on the bar-stool.

‘The postal bookings?' asked Gavin.

She nodded. ‘Using credit cards is supposed to make the whole thing simpler, and I'm sure it does when everyone gets their details right. But when they ask for the wrong price, or the wrong night . . . huh. Some of them even get their credit card numbers wrong.'

Gavin moved the glass of dark brown fluid across the bar to her. ‘Never mind, you'll feel better after this.'

‘Thanks.' She took a long, grateful swallow.

‘Sorry, should introduce you. Warnock Belvedere . . . Charles Paris . . . Russ Lavery . . .' The actors nodded acknowledgement. ‘This is a most essential lady – our Box Office Manager – or should it be Manageress . . .'

‘Manager. I do the job quite as well as a man would,' she insisted with perhaps unnecessary vehemence.

‘You certainly do,' Gavin Scholes gave a sycophantic smile of agreement. ‘Sandra Phipps.'

She smiled round at them, then said, ‘Give us a packet of peanuts, Norman. I'm starving.'

The barman handed them over, asking for, and apparently expecting, no money in return. Sandra glared at him. ‘Don't look so hangdog. We will get something to eat later.'

‘I didn't say anything.'

‘No, you just looked it. We'll pick up a Chinkie on the way home.'

‘Fine.' The barman turned to straighten up the rows of fruit juice bottles.

Gavin Scholes stepped into the rather awkward silence that ensued. ‘Should explain, Sandra and Norman are married.'

‘Oy,' she said skittishly. ‘Don't spoil my chances with all these lovely young actors.'

‘Thank you for the “young”, Madam.' Warnock Belvedere leant across and kissed her hand with mock-courtesy. ‘Nicest thing anyone's said to me all evening.' Then, in an elaborate aside, he whispered, ‘Fancy nipping down the car park for a quickie?'

Knowing the actor's sexual orientation, Charles found this remark unbearably arch, but it appealed to Sandra Phipps, who burst into a raucous ripple of giggles.

‘All the same, you bloody men,' she accused (inaccurately, as it happened, in Warnock's case), ‘only think about one thing.' Then, with a glance at Norman's back, added, ‘With exceptions, of course.'

Clearly, this sexual sniping was part of the couple's relationship. It made Charles feel rather uncomfortable.

Gavin again stepped in as the peacemaker. ‘I tell you, without Sandra and Norman, the Pinero would just literally fall apart. I mean, sod the actors and directors, if you don't sell the tickets, you're left with a marked lack of bums on seats. And, if the audience can't get a drink in the interval, well, it's the end of everything.'

‘And, if the cast can't,' said Warnock, banging his glass on the counter to attract Norman's attention, ‘it's the end of civilization as we know it.'

Silently, the barman refilled the brandy glass and looked around quizzically at the others. Russ Lavery shook his head, but the rest signalled acquiescence and had their glasses recharged.

‘How's the advance?' Charles asked Sandra Phipps, feeling he should show an interest in her work.

‘Pretty good. Considering we don't open for nearly a month. Fridays and Saturdays okay – though a lot of those are subscription seats – and the Schools' Matinees are virtually full.'

‘Comes of doing a set text,' said Gavin smugly. ‘All the kids have to come and see it or they're going to make a balls-up of their exams. Eminently satisfactory.'

‘For the management, maybe,' said Charles. ‘Not so hot for the actors.'

‘What do you mean?' asked Warnock Belvedere.

‘Well, maybe you've been lucky enough not to have had to do any Schools' Matinees, but –'

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Warnock bridled. ‘I'll have you know, I have performed in every kind of theatre that there is. I've done more bloody Schools' Matinees than you've had hot dinners.'

‘All right. Sorry. But then you know what I'm talking about.'

‘No.'

‘I mean the kids' behaviour. None of them are there because they want to be. It's just a chore. Another boring old lesson – except with the advantage that the lights are out. As a result, they do all the things they'd like to do at school. If they're single sex schools, they fight and giggle. If they're mixed, you've pretty soon got a full-scale orgy.'

‘That has not been my experience,' said Warnock loftily. ‘I find that that sort of thing only happens when they've got nothing interesting to look at on stage. When they're looking at actors of stature . . . when they're seeing people who can properly
command
a stage, the problem does not arise.'

The inference was there – and it was a fairly insulting one – but Charles could not be bothered to pick it up. Warnock Belvedere was one of those people who thrives on reaction to their rudeness. Give them nothing back, and their attack is disarmed.

So it proved. After a few seconds of staring at Charles, the old actor gave up and turned pointedly towards Russ Lavery. ‘Actually, dear boy, there's another story about Ralph I must tell you. It's a weeny bit smutty, but I'm sure you don't mind a bit of smut.'

At the same moment Gavin left, saying he just had to check something in the office, so Charles had to make conversation with Sandra Phipps. Under normal circumstances, this would not have been a chore. She was attractive enough, and could chatter along quite merrily at a level of harmless but covert innuendo.

However, with her husband so close, Charles felt a little awkward. Particularly as she was obviously keeping up the innuendo principally for Norman's benefit. Charles wasn't interested in how they brought excitement into their marriage. That was up to them. But he just wished they wouldn't involve him.

Sandra started in the way she intended to continue. ‘So you know I'm married – in name, anyway – how about you? You tied up or are you available?'

‘Well . . .' said Charles, very conscious of Norman's proximity.

‘Go on, don't be coy. Are you married?'

‘Yes. Technically.'

‘What on earth does that mean?'

Charles wished he knew. He and Frances were not divorced, but he would have been hard put to define exactly how close their relationship was. At times, although they lived apart, it could still be very close. But this wasn't one of those times. In fact, they were probably further apart at that moment than they had been at any stage in their lives.

It was his fault. As usual. But admitting that didn't make it any easier to accept. Basically, he had blown it. He had stood Frances up. He had invited her out to dinner, then he had got delayed and when he arrived at the restaurant, there had been no sign of her.

All right, that wasn't such a big deal. That sort of thing had happened many times in the course of their switchback relationship. What was different this time was the way Frances had reacted to the affront. When they'd made the dinner arrangement, she'd instructed him to be there on time ‘or forget it'. But then she'd often said things like that. What made this time different was that she clearly meant it.

She actually wouldn't speak to him on the phone. As soon as she recognised the voice, down went the receiver. Being an actor, of course, he could sometimes make it difficult for her to recognise his voice, but once he had engaged her in conversation in the spurious guise of a Glaswegian plumber or an Indian double-glazing salesman, there had to come the moment when he changed back to himself and tried to say what he wanted to. And each time he got to the point, she put the phone down.