Situation Tragedy (6 page)

‘Made up specially?' Charles repeated, looking with mystification at her lightly freckled face which, except for a blur of green about the eyes, seemed remarkably free of cosmetics.

‘Made up to PA. A lot of the girls who started as trainees with me still haven't been made up.'

‘Ah.'

‘Though actually Dinky's got the second PA's job on the big
Wragg and Bowen
show, but I reckon that's not as good as being the only PA, even if it is on a smaller show.'

‘Yes, or do I mean no?'

‘Anyway, Phil Middleton says he reckons sit com's the best way of learning because you do see the whole thing through, you know, with filming and studio and going right through to the VTR editing.'

Charles agreed randomly.

‘The filming's going to be very exciting. Do you know who we've got as cameraman?'

‘No?'

‘Midge Trumper,' Janie pronounced dramatically.

‘Really? Midge Trumper, eh?' said Charles, weighing the name.

‘Yes. I mean, and right after
Rainbows Don't Grow On Graves
. I could hardly believe it when I heard.'

‘I'm still finding it a bit difficult to take in. Midge Trumper, eh?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good Lord.'

Charles didn't want to spend the whole of his lunch extolling the virtues of Midge Trumper, whoever he might be, so he asked if Janie would like another drink.

‘Hock-A.'

‘Hock? I'm not sure. There is a dryish white. I think it's a Muscadet or –'

‘No. Hock-A. Hock . . . A.'

‘Hock . . . A?'

‘O . . . K. Okay. It's how the Japanese say okay.'

‘Oh. Okay.'

When he returned with their drinks, he managed to steer the conversation round to Janie's predecessor. ‘Quite a hard act you have to follow. Though I must say the atmosphere seems a lot more relaxed without her.'

‘Oh, you mean Sadie. Yes, wasn't that terrible. I mean, it's an awful way for me to get a job. I'm not complaining, but it is an awful way to get a job.'

Charles nodded and was rewarded by Janie's continuing, ‘Yes, it was awful. Ernie Franklyn Junior says he reckoned anyone could've seen it coming.'

‘Really?' said Charles, unwilling to break Janie's flow by asking who the hell Ernie Franklyn Junior was.

‘Yes, he reckons she'd been under a lot of pressure.'

‘What, at work?'

‘No, no, nothing upset her at work. She could manage the job standing on her head. No . . .' She lowered her voice mysteriously. ‘A man.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, Ernie Franklyn Junior reckoned she'd just had a big bust-up, you know, end of some long-standing affair.'

‘Oh.'

‘I think it's daft to get yourself involved in that sort of thing. I believe in short flings, not getting involved.'

Charles quickly invested in the future by saying that he fully agreed, before going on to ask if Janie had any idea who the man in Sadie Wainwright's life had been.

But no. it seemed that Ernie Franklyn Junior's information service could not supply this answer.

‘But he reckons it was suicide?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘In spite of the findings of the inquest?'

‘Oh yes. Ernie Franklyn Junior says inquests always try to avoid suicide verdicts.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, so that people can collect on the insurance.'

‘Oh. You wouldn't happen to know who was likely to collect on Sadie's insurance?'

‘No. Mind you, Ernie Franklyn Junior says –'

But the Ernie Franklyn Junior Report on the British Legal System was interrupted by the approach of Scott Newton with the Casting Director, Tilly Lake. ‘Janie,' asked the director, ‘could you get some copies of Script Number Five. You know, the one with the old Army friend of Colonel Strutter's in it. Tilly's got some interesting ideas on casting and wants to send some scripts out for it.'

‘Yes,' Tilly Lake trilled, identifying herself (for anyone who missed the hint of the Indian silk shawl and feathered cloche hat) as an ex-actress, ‘you see I'm so terribly
anti
conventional casting. I mean, especially in sit com. All directors always seem to end up using the same repertory of actors who do their job awfully well, but with no . . . depth. I mean, like this part of Colonel Strutter's army friend. I mean most sit com directors would go for someone like . . . I don't know, say, Toby Root, who's a
perfectly
good actor – lovely actor, lovely person – but I'm sure we can aim higher.'

‘Ah.'

‘I always try to be unpredictable. I mean, take you, Charles. By no means obvious sit com casting. I mean, so many casting directors, looking at the part of the golf club barman, would go for some old comedian, some actor who's famous and well-loved for a part in another sit com, but whoever booked
What'll The Neighbours . . .
said, no, let's not go for the obvious, let's think laterally and go for someone who . . . who . . .' Her sentence lost momentum. ‘And they booked
you,
' she finished lamely.

‘Mmm.' Charles suppressed a grin.

But Tilly Lake was only subdued for a moment. ‘So, anyway, with this part of the Colonel's friend, I think we should aim high. Not a Toby Root, but why not a Trevor Howard?'

‘Just any old Trevor Howard?' asked Charles.

But she appeared not to hear him. ‘Why not an Olivier?'

‘The simple answer is, because he'd never do it.'

‘Ah, but, Charles, you don't
know
that. You never know until you ask. Perhaps he's never taken a guest role in a sit com because he's never been
asked.
I mean, we'd be able to sort out a special fee. Anyway, Scott and I think we should send him a script.'

‘Certainly – what,' agreed the Director gnomically.

‘Incidentally, Charles . . .' Tilly Lake purred with sudden intimacy, ‘your agent hasn't sent your contract back yet.'

‘Ah, no.'

‘I hope that doesn't mean there are any problems.'

‘Problems? Good Lord, no. That's just the way he works.'

‘Ah.'

At that moment Aurelia Howarth wafted up to the group, nursing the vile Cocky in her arms, and followed by George Birkitt. ‘Scottie darling,' she cooed, ‘have you any idea what time we'll be finishing today? I promised I'd ring Barton and tell him when to come round with the car.'

‘Oh, Dob . . .' Tilly Lake cooed in turn. ‘Don't bother Barton. The PA'll order a car for you.'

‘Or I could give you a lift,' suggested Scott. ‘If you don't mind the Mini. You're more or less on my way and I wanted to have a chat about –'

‘No, no, Barton'll pick me up. He always does. He loves driving the Bentley. So what time, Scottie darling?'

‘Let me think. I would like to have a quick word with you about something before you go, so, if we reckon to read the scripts in about . . .'

As Scott tried to estimate the shape of the afternoon, Charles sidled up to George Birkitt. ‘Does she really mean that the old boy still drives?'

‘Very much so.'

‘God, what a terrifying thought. I'm glad I haven't got a car. I wouldn't have a moment's peace if I thought I might meet the old loony careering around in a Bentley.'

‘Oh, I dare say he's safe enough. It's only his mind that's gone.'

‘That's quite enough. I like to think that most people driving cars have got minds.'

‘Hmm' George seemed distracted. ‘What do you think of the scripts?'

‘They seem remarkably like the pilot.'

‘I wonder. I think there are things that'll have to be changed,' George Birkitt said ominously. ‘And I'm rather annoyed with the Wardrobe girl.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. Well, as you know, I'm the last person to make a fuss about something that isn't important, but I just asked her if she could guarantee that I'd have the same dresser right through the series. It's only a small thing, but it does make a big difference. I mean, when you're concentrating on a performance, you don't want to be thinking about costume changes and things. You want to be sure that all that side is in the hands of a regular dresser you can trust. Don't you find that?'

‘Oh, certainly,' agreed Charles Paris, whose eminence in his chosen profession had never merited the attentions of a personal dresser, regular or irregular.

He was pleasantly sedated with wine for the afternoon's readings, but felt a great glow of righteousness from the fact that he did not actually go to sleep. What was more, he didn't miss any of his cues. In both of the remaining scripts, he delivered his fourteen lines impeccably (impeccably, that is, in the character of Reg, the golf club barman, a character chiefly humorous for his drink problem). He felt very professional.

Round about four o'clock they finished the last script. Rod Tisdale appeared unmoved by the rendering of his
oeuvre.
Only once during the day had he spoken. That was at the end of the fourth script, when he had said. ‘Peter, I think there should be a change to that line on page 17 of Part Two.'

‘Which one, Rod?'

‘The Vicar's line. Where he says, “It got stuck in my cupboard”.'

‘Yes, got it, Rod. What should it be?'

‘Can we change it to “It got stuck in my drawers”?'

‘Yes, sure, Rod.'

‘Silly of me, I should have thought of it earlier. Cupboard not funny. drawers funny – old rule of comedy.'

‘Okay, have you all got that change?'

After all the scripts had been read, Peter Lipscombe said again that he thought it was all very exciting and Scott Newton said he thought it was all very exciting too and everyone could go, except for those who were taking part in the filming, whom Wardrobe and Make-up wanted to see. Charles Paris needed no second bidding and made off.

‘Charles, Charles!' He was almost out of the building before Mort Verdon caught up with him. The tall Stage Manager had come flapping down some side stairs in pursuit and was breathless. For the read-through he had selected a pale biscuit boiler suit and changed the diamond stud in his ear for a plain gold one.

‘Charles, dear, have to give you your calls for the filming. And Wardrobe wants a word. You're a naughty boy to go off like that.'

Charles felt his hand lifted and a mock slap administered.

‘But I didn't think I was in any of the filming. I thought I just stayed behind my bar.'

‘No, Charles . . . You must read your script, dear. At the end of Episode Four it said quite clearly “Film. Golf Club Exterior. Reg the barman chases Colonel Strutter off the premises and into his house as the captions roll”.'

‘So there are no words?'

‘No. Just ad lib shouting.'

‘Oh well, that explains why I didn't notice it. I only read the speeches.'

‘Oh dear.' Mort Verdon made a
Dame aux Camelias
gesture against his forehead and then said, but not vindictively, ‘I can see we're going to have trouble with
you
.'

A revolutionary thought struck Charles. ‘Does this mean I'll be seen below the waist?'

‘Of course.

‘But barmen are never seen below the waist. Primary rule of television.'

‘First time for everything, dear. Now you come back like a good boy and have those lovely ladies in Wardrobe measure your inside leg for some trousers. I dare say you'll enjoy that.'

‘These trousers'd do.'

Mort Verdon narrowed his eyes. ‘That I
doubt
.'

‘They were a nice pair of trousers ten years ago.'

‘I was a very beautiful young man ten years ago, but it doesn't make the crows' tootsies any less prominent now.'

‘I'd better come back then.'

‘Yes, boofle, that would be best.'

They were alone in the lift, so Charles hazarded a detective probe. ‘Pity about Sadie, wasn't it?'

‘Yes. Terrible.' As far as it was possible to judge through the drawl, Mort Verdon sounded as if he meant it. ‘I'll miss her.'

‘Really?'

‘Oh yes, she was so much fun.'

‘Fun!'

‘Yes, dear. Wicked sense of humour.'

‘That I can believe.'

‘Oh yes, I know her manner was brusque and all that, but underneath she had a . . .'

He paused, gesticulating for the right word.

‘You aren't going to say “heart of gold”, are you?'

‘Nooo,' he replied, lengthening the vowel into a long swoop. ‘No, dear Sadie had a lot of qualities, but I don't think a heart of gold was among them. But she could be very funny sometimes.'

The lift stopped and they walked towards the conference room. Charles persisted with his questioning. ‘Had she got a husband around?'

‘No, dear, not exactly around. There had been a husband at some point, but I think she left it in South Africa when she came over here.'

‘How long ago was that?'

‘Don't know exactly, boofle. Must be ten years, I should think, because she was a pretty senior PA here. And of course they don't – or didn't then – have the telly in South Africa, so she must have done all her training here.'

‘Ah.' Soon they would be back with the hordes of Strutters. Charles had to be quick. ‘Did Sadie have a particular boyfriend?'

‘Oh, lots on and off. Most more off than on.' Mort screwed up his face in self-parody and said limply, ‘Men can be bastards'. Then he dropped back to his customary level of exaggeration. ‘She had just finished something that had been going on for . . . ooh, six months, I think.'

‘Who was the lucky fellow?'

Mort Verdon looked at Charles with mock severity. ‘Now there's no need to be ironical, boofle. I doubt if you'd know the guy. anyway. He did a series here about six months ago.'