Cast in Order of Disappearance (4 page)

But Charles knew the geography of the theatre and strode along the corridor. He knocked on the door and it was thrown open by Bernard, oozing bonhomie from a silk dressing-gown. ‘Charles dear boy. Lovely to see you.'

Dear boy? Charles baulked slightly at that and then he realised that Bernard actually thought himself Nod Coward. The whole star bit. ‘Good to see you, Bernard. How's it going?'

‘Oh,
comme çi, comme ça
. Audience love it. Doing fantastic business, in spite of all the crisis, or whatever it's called. So I can't complain. I'm just opening a bottle of champagne if you . . .'

‘Do you have any Scotch?'

‘Sure. Help yourself. Cupboard over there.'

‘Bernard. I've come to ask you a favour.' May as well leap straight in.

‘Certainly. What can I do for you?'

‘You know Marius Steen, don't you?'

‘Yes, the old sod. He owns half this show. You know, if Marius Steen didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent him.'

Aphorisms too, thought Charles. Noel Coward has a lot to answer for. Generations of actors who, without a modicum of the talent, have pounced on the mannerisms.

‘The thing is, I want an introduction to him.' At that moment, the door burst open and Margaret Leslie sparkled into the room, her tiny frame cotton-woolled in a great sheepskin coat. ‘Maggie darling!' Bernard enveloped her in his arms. ‘Darling, do you know Charles Paris? Charles, have you met Maggie?'

‘No, I haven't actually, but I've admired your work for a long time.' Charles could have kicked himself for the cliché. It was true, though. She was a brilliant actress and deserved her phenomenal success.

‘Charles Paris?' she mused huskily. ‘Didn't you write that awfully clever play
The Rate-payer?
' Charles acknowledged it rather sheepishly. ‘Oh, I'm enchanted to meet you, Charles. I did it in rep. once. Played Wanda.'

‘Glenda.'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘Charles was an incredible help to me at the beginning of my career,' said Bernard with professional earnestness. ‘I would have got nowhere without him. But nowhere.'

Charles felt diminished by the compliment. He'd have preferred Bernard to say nothing rather than patronise him. It was the gratitude of the star on
This is Your Life
thanking the village schoolmaster who had first taken him to the theatre.

‘Charles was just asking me about Marius.'

‘Oh God,' said Maggie dramatically and laughed.

This put Charles on the spot. He didn't mind asking Bernard a favour on his own, but it was awkward with Maggie there.

‘You said you wanted an introduction?' Bernard prompted.

Nothing for it. He'd have to go on. ‘Yes. I . . . er . . .' he'd got the story prepared but it was difficult with an audience. ‘I've written a new play. Light comedy. Thought it might be Steen's sort of thing.'

‘Oh, I see. And you want me to introduce you, so that you can try and sell it to him.'

‘Yes.' Charles felt humiliated. He'd never have sunk to this if he was actually trying to sell one of his plays. But it was the only possible approach to Steen he could think of. ‘I hope you don't mind my asking . . .'

‘No. Of course not. Old pals act. Happy to oblige.' And Bernard was. He was the great star and here was an old friend, less successful, wanting to be helped out. Charles winced at the thought of what he was doing. ‘Is it urgent, dear boy?'

‘It is a bit. There's an American agent nibbling.'

‘Ah.' Bernard's tone didn't believe it. ‘Well, you leave it with me, old chum. Have I got your number?'

Charles wrote it down. Margaret Leslie, who was wandering restlessly round the room, picked up a script from a table. ‘Is this the new telly, Bernard?'

‘Yes, it's awful. Not a laugh in it. I do get a bit sick of the way they keep sending me scripts to make funny. Here's a new show—may not be much good—never mind, book Bernard Walton, he'll get a few laughs out of it. I probably could, but I should get a bit of support from the script-writers. You ought to write something for me, Charles,' he added charmingly.

‘Not really my style, Bernard.'

‘Oh, I don't know.'

‘Bernard,' Maggie hinted, ‘I think we ought to . . .'

‘Lord, yes. Is that the time? Charles, we're going out to eat. Why not join us? Going to the Ivy. Miles'll be there, John and Prunella, and Richard, I expect. I'm sure they could make room for another.'

Charles refused politely. He couldn't stomach an evening of bright show-biz back-chat. Outside the theatre he gulped great lungfuls of cold night air, but it didn't cleanse him inside. He still felt sullied by what he'd had to do—to crawl to someone like Bernard Walton.

There was only one solution. He hailed a cab and went to the Montrose. If he couldn't lose the feeling, perhaps he could deaden it.

A tremendous hammering at the door. Charles rolled out of bed and groped his way over to open it. One of the Swedish girls was standing there in a flowered nylon dressing-gown. Charles had time to register that she looked like a dinky toilet-roll cover before his head caught up with him. It felt as if it had been split in two by a cold chisel and someone was grinding the two halves together.

‘Telephone.' The Swedish girl flounced off. Charles tried to make it down the stairs with his eyes closed to allay the pain. He felt for the receiver and held it gingerly to his ear. ‘Hello?'

‘Charles, I've done it!' Bernard's voice sounded insufferably cheerful. Charles grunted uncomprehending. ‘I've spoken to Marius.'

‘Ah.'

‘Well, I haven't actually spoken to him, but I spoke to Joanne—that's his secretary—and I've fixed for you to see him this afternoon at four. That's if he's back. Apparently he's been down at Streatley since the weekend, but Joanne says he should be back today. Got some charity dinner on.'

‘Look, Bernard, I . . . er . . .' Charles' smashed brain tried to put the words together. ‘Thanks very . . . I . . . er . . . don't know how—'

‘Don't mention it, dear boy.' Bernard's voice sounded as if it was opening a fete, big-hearted and patronising. ‘Do you know Marius' office?'

‘No. I—'

‘Charing Cross Road. Milton Buildings. Just beyond the Garrick.'

‘Ah. Look, I. . .'

‘My dear fellow, not a word. I just hope it does you some good. Always glad to oblige. You helped me in the early days. Eh?'

If anything could have made Charles feel sicker, it was Bernard's bonhomie.

By quarter to four the pain in his head had subsided to a dull ache. He found Milton Buildings in Charing Cross Road without too much difficulty, though the entrance was narrow, shuffled between a café and a book-shop.

Inside, however, the buildings were spacious. The board downstairs carried an impressive list of theatrical impresarios, agents and lawyers. ‘Marius Steen Productions' was on the second floor. Charles travelled up in the old-fashioned cage lift. The envelope in his inside pocket seemed to bulge enormously. He felt as he had in Oxford, the first time he had taken a girl out with a packet of French letters in his wallet. He remembered the sense of an obscene lump under his blazer, revealing his intentions to the entire university. Didn't know why he'd bothered. Virginal Vera, besotted with phonetics. Middle English and nothing else. The time that one wasted. He felt a twinge of embarrassment for the gaucheness of his youth.

‘ENQUIRIES' and an arrow in gold leaf on the wall. It pointed to a panelled oak door. Charles knocked. ‘Come in.'

A secretary was sitting behind a solid Victorian desk. This must be Joanne. Unmarried, about forty, but not the standard over-made-up spinster secretary. She looked very positive and rather attractive in a forbidding way. Unmarried by choice, not default. She rose to meet him. ‘You must be Mr Paris.'

‘Yes.'

‘I thought I recognised you from the television.'

‘Ah!' There's no answer to that, but it's gratifying. ‘Mr Paris, I'm so sorry. I would have tried to contact you, but I hadn't a phone number. I'm afraid Mr Steen hasn't come up from the country.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘Yes, I'm sorry. I thought he'd be back today. It appears that he's reading some scripts and . . .'

‘Oh, that's all right.'

‘There's no one else who could help? Mr Cawley deals with a lot of the management side.'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘Or Mr Nigel Steen should be in town later. He'll certainly be here over the weekend.'

‘Has he been down at Streatley?'

‘He went down yesterday. Perhaps he could . . .?' ‘No, no thanks, I wanted to see Mr Marius Steen personally.'

‘Ah. Well, I'm sorry. I explained to Mr Walton that . . .'

‘Yes. Don't worry.'

‘Perhaps you could let me have your number and then I'll give you a call when Mr Steen is back in town and we could fix another appointment.'

‘Yes.'

So that was it. Charles left the office with his pocketful of pornography, feeling flat. He wandered along the Charing Cross Road, trying to think what to do next, Galahad on hearing that someone else had found the Holy Grail, Knight Errant without an errand. He rang Jacqui from Leicester Square tube station and reported his lack of progress.

‘You say he's in Streatley now?'

‘Yes.'

‘And Nigel's coming up to town?'

‘Probably, but, Jacqui, don't try to contact him. Leave it to me. I'll get in touch with him after the weekend.'

‘Yes . . .' Wistful.

‘I'll sort it out, Jacqui.'

‘Yes . . .' Drab.

Charles wandered aimlessly through Leicester Square to Piccadilly. A cartoon cinema was offering Tom and Jerry and Chaplin shorts. He hovered for a moment, but his mind was too full to be side-tracked. He had to find out more about Marius Steen. So he went down the steps to Piccadilly Underground station and bought a ticket for Tower Hill.

V

Speciality Act

THE OLD PEOPLE'S Home was designed for daylight. Plate glass welcomed the sun in to warm the inmates who sat in armchairs, waiting. But now it was dark. The nurse hadn't been round yet to close the curtains and Charles Paris and Harry Chiltern looked out on galvanised frames of blackness. The offices around were empty and dead, street lights in the backwater thought unnecessary in the emergency. The windows seemed more forbidding than walls.

‘I saw some programme on the television the other day,' said Harry after a moment's musing. ‘All the club comics it was. Just telling gags. Terrible. No technique. Or do I mean all the same technique? I tell you, I've seen more variety in a tin of sardines.

‘They don't have variety now. Not even the word. Variety with a big V. Used to mean something. No, I rang a mate in the Variety department at the BBC. Couple of years back, this was. He said, it's not Variety any more, it's Light Entertainment. Light Entertainment—now that's a different thing altogether.

‘I mean, when Lennie and I done our act, we worked on it. Worked hard. A few gags, monologue—that was Lennie's bit—a few more gags, I'd do my drunk routine, and finish with a song and a bit of tap. I mean, rehearsed. Not just standing up there telling some joke you heard from a man in a pub. It was an act. People who come to see the Chiltern Brothers knew they'd get a real show. Get their money's worth. No, this television, I don't hold with it. Entertainment in your living-room. That's not the place for entertainment—it's for your knitting and your eating and your bit of slap and tickle. You gotta go out—that's part of the entertaining. Make a night of it, eh?'

‘Yes. I suppose the television's on all the time here.'

‘From the moment it starts. Some of the old biddies stuck in front all day long, watching—I don't know-how to speak Pakistani, or what kiddies can do with a cotton-reel. All bleeding day long. I tell you, there's one old cripple, ugly old bird—more chins than a Chinese telephone directory—sits there nodding away at the test-card when it's on, doesn't notice. Mind you, it's a lot more interesting than some of the programmes, eh?'

Harry Chiltern cackled with laughter and subsided into silence as the nurse at last arrived to draw the curtains. ‘Evening, Mr Chiltern.'

‘Evening.'

‘I see we've got a visitor. Hello.' The nurse smiled conspiratorially at Charles. Harry contemplated his highly polished shoes until she had left the room. ‘Silly old cow. Thinks we're all gaga. “I see we've got a visitor.” Who's we, eh? Apart from Georgie Wood, eh?' He laughed again, then stopped suddenly. ‘Come on.' He eased himself out of the chair.

‘What?'

‘She's off now, doing the other curtains. We can whip down to the Bricklayers for a pint.'

‘Should you?'

‘Bloody hell, Charles. If I'm going to snuff it, I'd rather snuff it with a pint in my fist than one of their bloody mugs of Ovaltine. Come on.'

The Bricklayers' Arms was one of those modem pubs that capture all the atmosphere of an airport lounge. Hanging red lights shone on leatherette couches and framed relief pictures of vintage cars. Pop music pounded from the jukebox.

Still, it was a pub, and a pint. Harry seemed to appreciate it. He took a long swig, put the glass down and wiped his mis-shaven upper lip contentedly. Charles thought it might be the moment. ‘Harry, I wanted to ask you about Marius Steen?'

‘Oh yeah. Old Flash Steenie. Why?'

‘I'm going to see him about a play I have written.' The lie slipped out easily enough. ‘What's he like?' Harry didn't seem to react. ‘You knew him round the halls, didn't you?'

‘Oh yes. Just thinking about him. Steenie. Tough old bugger.'