Play to the End (3 page)

"What time should I show up?" I asked.

"He'll be there by ten. Without fail."

"I'd better get an early night."

"Don't come to the shop. Don't let him think I've sent you."

"I'll do my best. Adlibbing always been my forte."

"Thanks, Toby." There was genuine relief in her voice and maybe fondness too, although there I admit I could be kidding myself. "I'm more grateful than I can say."

"Shall I phone you .. . afterwards?"

"Yes, please."

"But you'd rather I didn't pop round to report?"

"It's not that. I.. ."

"Perhaps Roger wouldn't be pleased. If he got to hear about it."

"This has nothing to do with Roger."

Jenny brushed a strand of hair back beneath the brim of her hat, exploiting the action to avoid my gaze. "As it happens," she said,

"Roger's away on business at the moment."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," she replied coolly.

"So, this is just between us."

"I'd like to keep it that way."

"I understand." So I did. And so I do. We have an understanding all right. But it depends on not being made explicit. Neither of us is being entirely honest.

"I'd better be going," said Jenny, with a sudden conclusive motion of the head. "I'm meeting friends for dinner."

Jenny's always been good at making friends. I didn't realize how good until she left me, taking most of them with her.

"Goodnight, Toby."

I watched her cross the road and head up West Street past the cinema.

Then I started back along the promenade, towards the Palace Pier and the Sea Air beyond.

Eunice said I was looking cheerier when I got back than I had been earlier. She'd probably have said that whether it was true or not, harbouring as she does a romantic Burton and Taylor vision of me and Jenny. But a glance in the hall mirror told me she was right. I saw reflected there what I haven't glimpsed so much as once during our long weeks on the road: a faintly optimistic sparkle in the eye.

After tackling Eunice's steak-and-kidney pud, I needed a walk. Time spent in reconnaissance being seldom wasted, as my old dad used to say, I made my way to the Lanes and prowled around, until, after several double-backs, I found Brimmers.

Jenny's good taste is pretty obvious just from the stylish window display and candy-stripe colour scheme. I couldn't see much of the interior and, if I'm to obey Jenny's orders, I'm not about to. But who knows? Not me. I'm just hoping.

The Rendezvous cafe was also closed, as you'd expect. The sign promises morning coffee, light lunches and afternoon teas. There's a counter at the rear, tables and chairs in the centre and a broad ledge along the glazed frontage, with stools, where customers can perch and watch the world of the Lanes go by as they sip their beverage of choice. You can easily keep Brimmers under observation from there, of course, though not without being observed yourself, which may or may not be the object of the exercise for my alleged fan. We'll see about that. Tomorrow, as promised.

Reconnaissance done, I ambled off to a pub I generally end up in at some point during Brighton runs the Cricketers in Black Lion Street, allegedly Graham Greene's favourite and downed a reflective pint.

Sunday in Brighton had already exceeded my expectations, which admittedly wasn't difficult, but little did I realize that it still had a surprise in store for me.

I was at a table in the corner of the bar not visible from the door, idly watching a middle-aged married man and a woman who clearly wasn't his wife getting slowly sloshed. Sunday night can induce more than its fair share of morbidity. It's my only free night of the week at present, so I should know. Tonight, however, I was feeling just fine.

That's probably why my heart didn't sink when a bloke sidled over from the bar, said, "Mind if I join you?" and plonked himself down next to me.

He struck me at first sight as your typical garrulous pub bore. Short and stout, with moist blue eyes, veinous nose and cheeks, thin sandy-grey hair and a tongue that seemed too large for his mouth, he was dressed in a crested blazer that could surely never fasten round his paunch, off-white shirt and stained cavalry twills. In one hand he held a glass of red wine, in the other a flier advertising Lodger in the Throat.

"You're Toby Flood or I'm a Dutchman," he announced.

"And you're not a Dutchman," I replied.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm fine for the moment, thanks."

"It's a relief to see you, to be honest."

"A relief?"

"I've got a ticket for Tuesday night." He held up the flier. "So, it's good to know you've made it down. Syd Porteous. Pleased to meet you." He extended a large, saveloy-fingered hand, which I had little choice but to shake.

"You a regular theatregoer, Syd?" I ventured.

"No, no. Leastways, I didn't used to be. But I've been trying to ...

broaden my horizons .. . since I've had more time on my hands."

"Just retired, have you?"

"Not exactly. More .. . downsized. You've got to duck and dive in this town. Well, city they call it now. Nice for the councillors, that, but bugger all use to those of us who keep them in expenses.

Anyway, I can't claim to have been to the theatre' (or thee-eight-eras he pronounced it) 'more than the gee-gees this year, but maybe next, hey? It'll soon be New Year resolution time and I've turned over more new leaves than the average rabbit's eaten, so .. ."

The way he'd started gave me the impression I could be on the receiving end of a stream-of-consciousness monologue till last orders. I was just beginning, in fact, to devise an excuse to leave him to it when I became aware that there was a small, still point to the turning world of his rambling thoughts. And I was it.

"Any chance of a new series of Long Odds, Toby?" Syd suddenly asked.

"I used to be glued to that."

Sad to say, Syd was in a small minority there. My 1987 TV series about a compulsive gambler who dabbles in private investigations on the side (or was it the other way round?) is about as likely to be revived as Empire Day. "No chance, I'm afraid."

"Don't seem to have seen you much on the box lately."

"I'm concentrating on the theatre. Live performance is more challenging."

"Yeah, well, there's that to it, I suppose. Your fans get to see you in the flesh."

"Exactly."

"This play must be getting you a lot of attention. I'm looking forward to it."

"Good."

"I met him, you know."

"Who?"

"Orion."

Against my better instincts, my curiosity was aroused. "Really?"

"Oh yes." Syd lowered his voice melodramatically "Here. In Brighton.

Just a couple of weeks before he died. Summer of 'sixty-seven."

I'm familiar enough with the diaries Orton kept from December 1966

until his death in August 1967 for Syd's reference to have struck me as at least superficially authentic. Orton and Halliwell came to Brighton in late July, 1967, to spend a long weekend with Oscar Lewenstein, co-producer of Loot. Orton was bored out of his brain by the visit. I didn't recall a younger version of Sydney Porteous lurching onto the scene, however.

"How did you come to meet him?" I casually enquired. A public lavatory sprang to mind as the venue, given Orton's sexual habits, but Syd's answer was rather more disconcerting.

"Bumped into him in this very pub. A Sunday night, it was -like now.

We chatted about nothing much. He didn't say who he was, though the name wouldn't have meant a thing to me if he had. I was an ignorant young shaver. Clocked his face in the papers a fortnight or so later, though. A bit of a shaker,

that was. Looking back, I think he was trying to pick me up.

Weird, isn't it?"

"What is, in particular?"

"Well, him and now you, in the Cricketers on a Sunday night. What would you call that if it isn't weird?"

"I'd call it coincidental." (If it was true, which I rather doubted.)

"Faintly coincidental."

"Even so, you want to be careful. I'm not the superstitious type myself, but you actors are supposed to be. The Scottish play. The Superman curse. All that sort of malarkey."

"I'll try not to let it worry me."

"Look, I'm an old Brighton hand. My ma had a bit part in Brighton Rock. And I'm in a crowd scene in Oh What a Lovely War! So, I almost feel like an honorary member of the acting profession. Anything I can do for you while you're here anything at all just say the word. I'll give you my mobile number." He scrawled the number on a beer mat and thrust it into my palm. "Not much I can't lay hands on or find out in this town. Know what I mean?" He winked.

Unsure whether I really wanted to know what he meant, I smiled weakly and pocketed the beer mat. "I'll bear the offer in mind."

"You do that, Toby." He gave me a second, more exaggerated wink. "I wouldn't like to think of you getting into trouble for the lack of a word to the wise."

Shaking Syd off wasn't easy. He was all for 'going on somewhere'. I had to dredge up considerable reserves of charm to avoid offending him.

Somehow, though, I doubt he takes offence easily. He can't afford to with his personality.

Back here at the Sea Air I've had the opportunity to check Orton's diaries for late July, 1967, which have raised more questions than they've answered. He and Halliwell arrived in Brighton on Thursday 27th and spent three days cooped up discontentedly at the Lewenstein house in Shoreham, leaving on Monday 31st. Just about the only time Orton was alone, oddly enough, was Sunday evening. He had gone with Halliwell and the Lewenstein family to see the new Bond film, You Only Live Twice, at the Odeon Cinema, but it was sold out. The others opted to see In Like Flint instead, but Orton preferred to cruise off in search of casual sex. He succeeded in getting himself sucked off by a dwarf in a public convenience. (Orton seems to have given the word

'convenience' a very liberal interpretation.) Then he had a cup of tea at the railway station and walked back to Shoreham.

No mention of the Cricketers, then, nor of anyone who could be Sydney Porteous as an ignorant young shaver. Orton wasn't much of a pub-goer by his own and others' accounts. The incident doesn't ring true. Syd, I conclude, was spinning a yarn.

Or was he? No Orton scholar for sure and certain, how did he manage to get as many facts right as he did? As it happens, Sunday, 30 July 1967

was the only evening when he could have met the great and soon to be late Joe Orton in a Brighton boozer.

Besides, I can't deny that there's something slightly disturbing about Porteous's story. Orton's weekend by the sea wasn't wholly lacking in superstitious significance. His agent, the legendary Peggy Ramsay, had a house in Brighton. She met up with the party on Saturday night and they dropped by her place on the way out to dinner. There Orton made some characteristically scornful remarks about a horus she showed him an Egyptian wood carving in the likeness of a bird, traditionally placed on graves to escort the souls of the departed to heaven. Peggy thought such disrespect was tempting fate. Sure enough if you're that way inclined -Orton was dead within a couple of weeks.

I'm not, of course, that way inclined. At least, I try not to be. But Eunice brought yesterday's Argus up to me earlier, as I'd asked her to, and I see the Odeon is showing the latest Bond film. Just as it was in July 1967. I haven't been to see it. I might have done, if only to glare in envy at Pierce Brosnan. But circumstances conspired to prevent me. Just as they prevented Orton.

And now I find myself keeping a diary of sorts. Just like Orton.

Thinking, drinking and talking. I've done too much of all three. I should get that early night I promised myself. But my body clock's geared to the rest of the week, when I'll be up till the small hours. I can't seem to relax. I can stop talking, though. That at least is in my control. Besides, there really is nothing else to say. For now.

The alarm clock roused me at half past eight this morning, hora incognita as far as I've been concerned recently. Novelty did not lend enchantment to the experience. A squint through the window revealed a grey sky and a wind-driven burger carton bowling up the street. The man whose face I met in the shaving mirror didn't look to be at his best.

He still wasn't after breakfast and a walk down to the sea front. But I had a promise to keep. And it wasn't going to wait until my bio rhythms were in synch. I headed for the Lanes.

It was gone ten by the time I reached the Rendezvous, but not long gone. I spotted chummy as I moved at a practised amble towards the door, but didn't look at him, any more than I glanced into Brimmers. A duffel-coated shape in the window seen from the corner of the eye was enough to justify the witheringly early start. Whether the proprietress of Brimmers was watching I didn't know, though I hoped Jenny would have the good sense to lie low. This was one show that didn't need an audience.

The Rendezvous was in a lull between workers looking for a caffeine fix and shoppers resting their feet. It aims for a Continental ambience, with lots of dark wood and sepia photographs of Third Republic Paris, but doesn't quite hit the mark, thanks to the bright and breezy staff and manifestly Continental customers. Chummy was a case in point. The duffel-coat, jeans and desert boots were more Aldermaston March than Champs-Elysees. From where I parked myself with a double espresso and a complimentary Indic, I couldn't make out what the badges were, but there had to be at least half a dozen of them on his coat, dimly reflected in the window through which he was gazing across the lane towards Brimmers. He had a book open in front of him, but it wasn't getting much of his attention.