Play to the End (11 page)

"A personal crisis blew up. Now it's blown over. Simple as that."

"Doesn't sound simple."

"I'll tell you all about it next time we have lunch."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Meanwhile, I'veer a favour to ask of you."

"Apart from salvaging your professional reputation, you mean?"

"Yes, Moira. Apart from that."

By the time I got off the bus near the top of London Road, Moira had agreed, albeit bemusedly, to have one of the agency's literary specialists give The Plastic Men prompt and serious attention as soon as she received it. She had also urged me to put in a mea culpa call verging on the obsequious to Leo Gauntlett, in the interests of papering over the cracks in his opinion of me. I reckoned I'd need a few stiff drinks before making such a call, which was one of several good reasons for postponing the task.

The chance of an illuminating chat with Derek Oswin was another. But no answer came the stern reply at 77 Viaduct Road. Whatever he was doing in lieu of camping out at the Rendezvous, it evidently didn't involve staying at home. Nor did I have a mobile number for him. In fact, I rather doubted he possessed a mobile. Even a land-line was touch and go. I'd not noticed a phone in the house. It would be entirely like him to be technologically incommunicado.

I found myself walking back into town along Ditchling Road, past the Open Market. Remembering Derek's account in his introduction to The Plastic Men of his grandfather's route to work, I cut through to London Road along Oxford Street. The vast, soaring flank of St. Bartholomew's Church was dead ahead. I began trying to imagine the area in the old man's day. Trams, gas lamps and as many horse-drawn vehicles as petrol-driven. All the men in hats, all the women in skirts. It wasn't so very different. Not really.

Standing outside St. Bart's, though, I realized that wasn't true.

Where had all the houses gone? Where were the rows upon rows of

'artisans' dwellings'? Vanished. Swept away. Erased. Such is the reach of municipal dictate. But its reach isn't limitless. It can't alter the past. It can only rewrite the present. And pay lip service to the future.

Suddenly, I remembered Syd Porteous. "Anything I can do for you while you're here anything at all just say the word." And for him I did have a mobile number. Why not tap his allegedly compendious local knowledge? Why not indeed? I tugged the beer mat with his number on it out of my coat pocket and gave him a call.

"Hullo?"

"Syd Porteous?"

"Hole in one. That sounds like .. . hold on, hold on, let the grey matter work its magic .. . Toby Flood, the errant actor."

"You're right."

"But are you right, Toby? That's the question. My contacts in the usheretting community tell me you let down the punters last night. I've got a ticket for tonight, you know. Should I be asking for my money back?"

"No, no. I'll be on tonight."

"Great news. And I'm more than appreciative of this personal reassurance. Nice one, Toby."

"That's not.. . the only reason I rang."

"No?"

"You said ... if there was anything you could do for me .. ."

"Any assistance, small or large, a pleasure and a privilege. You know that."

"I wondered if we could .. . meet up again. Run over a few things."

"Absolutely-dootly. When did you have in mind?"

"As soon as possible. This lunchtime, perhaps?"

"Fine by me. The Cricketers again?"

"Why not?"

"Okey-do key Noon suit you?"

"Well, I.. ."

"Grrreat." Whether Syd was genuinely trying to impersonate Tony the Tiger of Frosties fame I wasn't sure, but it certainly sounded like it.

"See you there and then."

I had just over an hour to concoct a cover story for the questions I planned to run past Syd. I went into the church in search not so much of inspiration as of a quiet place to think and found myself in a vast and curiously empty space more like a Byzantine ruin than an Anglican church. Father Wagner had cleverly supplied the parishioners with as complete a contrast to their domestic circumstances as could be imagined. I wondered if little Derek had come here of a Sunday with his parents and grandparents. I wondered if he'd gazed up at the distant roof and dreamt of touching the sky. I decided then to abandon the cover story before I'd invented it. I decided to ply Syd with an approximation of the truth.

His Tuesday lunchtime gear was the same as his Sunday evening kit, but he'd swapped wine for beer and put one in for me as well. "Unless," he said with a wink, 'you go Methodist on play days."

"Beer is fine," I responded, just about catching his drift.

We retired to a fireside table with two pints of Harvey's. "It's a real bonus seeing you again so soon, Toby," he said after a swallow of best bitter. I winced more than somewhat at "Toby, realizing that I really hadn't misheard on the phone, but knew I'd have to go with it.

"To what do I owe it?"

"Well, it's, era delicate problem."

"Delicacy is my speciality."

"My wife and I split up a few years ago."

"Sorry to hear that. Occupational hazard, so they say."

"It's pretty common in the acting profession, that's for certain.

Anyway, our divorce hasn't come through yet, but '

"Are we talking last-minute reconciliation here?"

"No, no. Jenny lives with a man. They plan to marry as soon as they can. I ... well, they live near Brighton, as a matter of fact. The point is that Jenny and I parted amicably. I'm still .. . concerned about her. So, I'm anxious to assure myself that this bloke's not..

."

"A wrong 'un?"

"Yes. Exactly. And he's local. So, thinking about what you said Sunday night, I wondered if ... you might know anything about him."

"Hoping to dig up some dirt, are you, Toby? Something that would make Jenny think twice about marrying him?"

"If there's dirt to be dug, fine. If not, fine again."

"Point taken." Syd leaned as far across the table as his paunch allowed. "Who is he?"

"Roger Colborn."

Syd frowned thoughtfully. "Colborn?"

"Know the name?"

"Maybe. What else have you got on him?"

"Some sort of businessman. Lives in a big house out near Fulking.

Wickhurst Manor."

"Thought so." Syd grinned. "Father in plastics."

"Yes. Colbonite Limited."

"That's it. Colbonite. Walter Colborn Sir Walter, as he became was Roger's old man. He had a younger brother, Roger's uncle, Gavin. Gav and I were in the same year at Brighton College."

"You were?"

"No need to look so surprised. My dad had high hopes for me. His timing was spot-on, as it happens. He didn't go bust until the year after I left. But that's another story. Gav made senior prefect and went to Oxford, much good that it did him. Time's evened up the achievements score between us, I'd say. He's having to prop and cop these days, same as me, but he doesn't have the aptitude for it. Too old, too lazy and usually too drunk to make the effort. That about sums him up."

"How well do you know him?"

"Middling to fair. We're not exactly close."

"And the nephew?"

"I've met him a few times. Nothing more. Gav doesn't speak kindly of him. That I can tell you. Whether it damns the fellow ... is trickier to say. Gav got nothing out of the family business, see. His father left it all to Wally, probably for a good reason. That's niggled away at Gav over the years. So, the nephew who inherited the lot isn't top of his pops."

"I suppose that might make Gavin quite .. . forthcoming ... where Roger's concerned."

"Very possibly."

"Any chance of ..."

"Meeting for a chin wag I think I might be able to arrange that, To be. Seeing as it's you who's asking."

Tt'd be great if you could."

"Shouldn't be too difficult. Can I let him know scotching Roger's marriage plans could be a part of the equation?"

"If you think that'll make him happier to talk to me."

"Sure to, I'd say."

"I appreciate this, Syd. I really do."

"Don't mention it. Leave me to mention it, when I need a favour in return." Syd guffawed. "Don't worry. I haven't got a star struck niece trying to get into RADA by the back door. The odd complimentary ticket's about the most I'm likely to touch you for."

"Any time."

"Actually, though, now I come to think about it .. ." He looked almost sheepish as he turned an idea over in his mind.

"What?"

"Well, I, er, I'm .. . bringing a guest to the play tonight. A lady.

Toby as frank and open as you must already know I always am, Toby, Audrey's not been that long widowed, so I'm treading carefully. Trying to register a few Brownie points. If you could see your way clear ...

to joining us for a bite of supper after the show ... I reckon I might just zoom up in her estimation."

In the circumstances, I could hardly refuse. Not for the first time, Syd had out manoeuvred me, since it appeared that I'd be repaying a favour before it had actually been done. "My pleasure, Syd."

"Grrreat." He beamed tigerishly at me. "We're going on to the Latin in the Lane. Do you know it?"

"I think so, yes."

"Maybe you could catch up with us there when you've got changed. You know, spring a surprise on her."

"OK."

"And by then .. ." He winked. "I might have news of my old school chum."

Supper with Syd Porteous and Audrey the eligible widow wouldn't have been my choice of late-night entertainment, but at least it sounded safe, which, with Denis's misadventures in mind, was an undeniably good thing. I excused myself from a prolonged session at the Cricketers on the excellent grounds that Syd would want me to be at my act orly best come the evening and took myself off for a fish and chip lunch. Gavin Colborn promised to be a valuable contact, possibly invaluable: an embittered uncle to tell me the worst about his well-heeled, good-looking nephew. Or the best, depending on your point of view.

A couple of hours' zizz was what I needed to set me up for the evening.

I headed for the Sea Air with that as my sole ambition for the afternoon. Halfway along Madeira Place, however, I was waylaid.

I noticed a sleekly glowing dark-blue Porsche parked on the other side of the road. One admiring glance was all I gave it. Then I heard the door slam and my name was called. "Toby Flood?" I turned and looked.

And there was Roger Colborn in jeans, leather jacket and sweatshirt, leaning against the driver's door and gazing across at me. He smiled faintly, as if daring me to pretend I didn't know who he was.

"Can we have a chat?"

I crossed over to his side, elaborately checking for traffic to give my brain a chance to work out what he was up to. It failed. "Roger Colborn," I announced neutrally.

"Pleased to meet you, Toby." He offered a hand. We shook. "I've just been having lunch with Jenny."

"Oh yes?"

"She told me about the help you've been giving her ... with this little shit, Oswin."

I nodded. "Right."

"I'm ahead of my schedule today. So, I thought I'd come over and thank you. In person."

"There was no need."

"When someone goes out of their way for me, I like to acknowledge the fact."

"But I didn't... go out of my way for you."

"For me. For Jenny. Same difference." His smile broadened. "Busy this afternoon?"

"Not really, no."

"Then come for a drive with me. I reckon we ought to ... get to know each other."

"You do?"

"It'll avoid any .. . future misunderstandings. Come on. This beauty's been cooped up while I've been away. I need to give her a run. Why not come along? We can talk on the way. And let's face it, Toby, we do need to talk."

Colborn had a point. He also had an edge of steel beneath the thin, silky affability. I could have argued the case for declining his invitation. But the case for gleaning whatever there was to be gleaned from his company was a good deal stronger.

We started north, the Porsche dawdling throatily along the city streets, then struck east towards the racecourse. Colborn's priority seemed to be to explain why he and Jenny had kept each other in the dark where Derek Oswin was concerned, although he must have realized I'd place my own construction on that, whatever he said.

"There's been a communications failure, Toby, in this case for the best of reasons. Neither of us wanted to worry the other. I know Oswin of old, of course. I've been ignoring him in the hope that he'll go away.

It never occurred to me that he'd bother Jenny. Seeing him with a video of one of your old films naturally made her think his interest in her had something to do with you. There you have it."

"I quite understand."

"I'm glad you do. And, like I say, I'm also grateful. To be honest, I think it's a good thing we've met like this. You and Jenny were together quite a while. There's no sense trying to pretend your relationship with her never happened. It's part of her. We're adults, you and me. We know how it works. We should be able to deal with it."

"I agree."

"Great. So, what have you got lined up after this play?"

"Oh, there are several possibilities." I had no intention of discussing the state of my career with Colborn, however adult and rational we were supposed to be. A change of subject was in order.

"I'm curious about Oswin. What can you tell me about him?"

"He used to work for my father's firm, Colbonite. I did myself, for a while. On a different level from the likes of Oswin, obviously. Christ knows what he's been up to since it folded."

"Nothing, as far as gainful employment's concerned."