The Condition of Muzak (30 page)

It would be Jerry’s first real star part in the West End, but he remained reluctant to begin a new commitment. Una would be back from America soon and Catherine would have returned to the provinces. If he took the rôle it would mean quite probably that they would not be together for several months.

“I don’t know an awful lot about the thirties,” he said.

“Twenties, actually, this setting.
Bitter Sweet
with an all male cast. As he’d have liked it himself. You’re not worried?”

“Not about that. So it’s Brylcreem and six-inch fag holders, eh?”

“That’s a bit superficial, old boy, but you’ve got the mood—it’s what the public’s desperate for…”

Major Nye had become an impresario late in life, with his run of successful nostalgia shows on stage, screen and television. Series like
Clogs
and
Mean Streets
, set during the depression in Northern towns, had shown people that things had been worse than they were now and taken their minds off their current troubles, while musical versions of
King of the Khyber Rifles
,
Christina Alberta’s Father
,
A Child of the Jago
and
The Prisoner of Zenda
were all still running in West End and Broadway productions, as well as in touring companies (Catherine was currently playing Rupert of Hentzau in one of these).

“The traditionalists are going to be a bit upset,” Major Nye continued, pausing by a railing and staring out to sea. He had come down to Brighton especially to meet Jerry who was just finishing a run as Harlequin Captain MacHeath in the revived
Harlequin Beggar’s Opera
which Jerry had himself suggested to Major Nye after Una Persson had given him the idea. The revived full-blooded pantomime was just one more of the major’s successes in England and America. “But we’re used to that by now—and we’re doing more for them than anyone else, even if we do take liberties occasionally. Still, it’s the literary bods do the complaining, not the public, and it’s the public that matters, eh?”

“Every time,” said Jerry. He waved. Elizabeth Nye, the major’s daughter, who had first interested her father in the stage, was running along the promenade to meet them. She was playing Columbine Polly Peachum to Jerry’s Harlequin. “Hello, Jerry. Hello, Daddy. Is lunch still on?”

“If you’re interested, my dear.” He looked questioningly at Jerry. “Spot of lunch, then?”

“Lovely,” said Jerry. “Have you asked Sebastian about this?”

“No need to bring in agents until the last minute. They only confuse things. I didn’t know you were still with him.”

“He’s useful,” said Jerry. “Anyway, I feel sorry for him. His musical interests have taken a turn or two for the worse.”

“He didn’t move with the times,” said Major Nye. “Lived in the present too much, in my view. Couldn’t see that the wind was changing. Of course, I never expected anything like this myself. I started, you know, doing modest little music-hall evenings with amateur performers. Now we’re dragging up every damned traditional entertainment since Garrick’s day—and before. We’ll find we’ve got mass audiences for
Noye’s Fludde
next season, at this rate.”

“The eighteenth-century satirists thought the Harlequinade was going to be the death of the theatre.” Jerry had pursued his usual research. “They thought Shakespeare and Jonson were done for—pushed out of business.”

“Nothing ever kills off anything else,” said Major Nye comfortably, pointing his stick at Wheeler’s across the road. “Nothing invented ever dies. Fashions change. But it’s always there, waiting to be revived according to the mood of the times. History is retold by every generation, always slightly differently—sometimes very differently. Funny stuff, when you think about it, Time.”

“I’ve never thought about it,” Jerry said.

Jerry sat in the studio mock-up in his elegant evening dress smoking a sophisticated cigarette, copying his successful Coward rôle but looking more like a Leslie Howard, sardonic, quizzical, as he turned to the camera and said:

“Once upon a time it meant something to be the owner of a car. It put you above the common herd. Now Rolls-Royce brings back meaning into motoring—” the camera pulled away from the close-up in order to show the whole scene—“with the mini-Phantom.”

“Cut,” said Adrian Mole, the director. “There’s a phone call for you, love. That was beautiful. All right, lads and lasses, you can go home now. Everything’s perfect.”

Jerry climbed from the cramped seat and moved stiffly from the studio. In the office one of the bright, competitive girls who worked there handed him an instrument. “Hello?”

The voice was indistinct, accented, anxious. Colonel Pyat.

“Your mother, Jerry. She is not at all well. She wants to see you.”

“Is she in hospital? St Charles?”

“No, no. She wouldn’t let them take her. Still in Blenheim Crescent. You haven’t been to visit her lately and I think she’s upset.”

It was more likely that Colonel Pyat disapproved of him, thought Jerry. “Thanks, Colonel. I’ll go and see her right away.”

“I’ve looked in, but I have the shop to run. I’m all alone, you see.”

“Don’t worry. Has the doctor been?”

“I haven’t spoken to him, yet. But I think it’s serious. She could be—oh, well, you had better look for yourself.”

“Does Frank know?”

“Frank, too, has his business. He’s going to try to pop round this evening. Catherine we can’t find.”

“She’s on tour.” Jerry was surprised by his lack of annoyance, his spontaneous feeling of concern for his mother.

The evening clothes were his own so he did not need to change. He went straight to the car park where he picked up his real Phantom. He nodded to two young girls who recognised him as he drove into the street. It was surprising how popular he had become since he had allowed Auchinek to give him the ‘conventional’ image. It offered reassurance, of course. He touched the stud to lower his window and threw his Sullivan’s cigarette into the street. He looked bitterly at his eyes in the driving mirror. He had always hated reassurance. Reassurance was death.

He reached Shepherd’s Bush and headed up Holland Park Avenue, turning eventually into the maze that was now the Ladbroke Grove area, all diversions and one-way streets, coming at last to Blenheim Crescent. Opposite his mother’s basement, which was identical to the one she had temporarily removed to in Talbot Road, was the fortress of the new housing estate, built on the site of the Convent of the Poor Clares and named after the order (Clares Gardens, though no garden was in evidence anywhere). He found a space close to his mother’s flat and parked. All the meters had been smashed, though he didn’t benefit, however, since he had his resident’s parking permit. He still lived in Kensington, in the more exclusive Holland Park area. He locked his car carefully, knowing the habits of the local kids, and descended the makeshift wooden steps of the basement. The wooden door was unlocked. He went in, recognising the familiar, comforting smell of mildew and stale food.

“Mum?”

A fairly feeble cough came from the back room, where she slept. He made his way through the débris of her living room, with its ancient furniture, its scattered magazines, its unwashed crockery, its dead flowers, and entered the bedroom which smelled of disinfectant, camphor, mothballs, rose water, lavender water, urine, stout and gin, a combination which never failed to fill him with nostalgia.

She lay in the iron-framed bed, beneath several quilts, propped on a variety of dirty cushions and pillows, in full make-up, so that it was impossible to tell from her skin how she was, though her eyes were uncharacteristically dull.

“Hello, Mum. Not too good, I hear.”

Somehow her jowls and her baggy pouches seemed to be one with her disintegrating cosmetics and gave the impression that the face beneath it all was that of a child. She had rarely seemed so pathetic. He drew up a cane-bottomed chair and sat beside the bed. Because it was conventional, he held her hand. She pulled it away with a throaty chuckle. “’Oo’d’ya fink I am—Littel bloody Nell?” Her coughing began strongly but quickly grew faint. “Ker-ker-ker…” She reached, unable to speak, for the glass on the bedside table. He handed it to her. She drank. It was neat gin, Jerry guessed, by the smell on her breath as she handed the glass back.

“I’ve ’ad it, Jer,” she said. “You know ’ow old I am?”

She had always kept it a secret. He shook his head. She was delighted. “An’ yer never will,” she said. “Know ’ow old you are, do yer?”

“Of course I do. I was born on 6 August, 1945.”

“Thass right. They let orf ther bloody A-bomb ter celebrate. Most people on’y ever got fireworks—an’ they ’ad ter be pretty fuckin’ posh, an’ all!” She eyed his costume. “Nice. I orlways knew you’d make it, in the end. You an’ Caff. Frank’s doin’ okay, too—but ’e never ’ad much imagination, did ’e? Not like ther rest’v us.”

“Yeah,” said Jerry, nodding. He took out his silver cigarette case, offering it to his mother. With some difficulty she removed a cigarette and put it between her lips, drooping as always. Jerry lit it. He lit another for himself. She coughed a little but soon stopped.

“Well,” she said, “I’m dyin’—it’s why I was so keen to see yer. Got yer in’eritance, in I?”

“Oh, come on, Mum, don’t be daft.” He tried to smile. “Besides, you haven’t got a penny. It’s all gone on wild living.”

“It
’as
, too!” She was proud. “Every bleedin’ shillin’. They didn’t need no bloody inflation when I was arahnd!” A brief cough and Jerry thought he saw her wipe blood from her lip.

“Shall I go and fetch the doctor?”

“No point.” She tapped the side of the mattress. “There’s a box under me bed. You know—me box. You ’ave it.” She reached into her several layers of cardigan and nightdress and removed a key from her bosom. She pressed it into his hand. “Open it later. There’s yer birf certificate in there an’ a few ovver fings, but not much. Yer farver…”

He passed her an ashtray, a souvenir from Brighton, so that she could put her cigarette down while she coughed.

“… wanna know abart ’im?”

“I didn’t think you knew much.”

“More ’n I’ve wanted ter tell up ter now. I got a lot of it from me mum and me sister.” She chuckled and the dewlaps shook, threatening to break away and fall on the quilt. “Bloody funny story. It goes back ter the year dot. I dunno wot ’e’d be—yore great-great-gran’dad, maybe—any’ow ’e was born abart 1840 an’ married this, er, Ulrica Brunner. Ker-ker-ker. They ’ad these kids—where is it?” She felt under her pillow and withdrew a sheaf of tiny slips of paper, sorting through them. “Ah. I’ve bin workin’ it art, see. Yeah. Katerina, Jeremiah an’ Franz. Well, Katerina married this Hendrik Persson geezer—a Dane or Dutchman or somefink—but on’y just in time—she woz awready up ther spart—by guess ’oo—”

“Jeremiah,” said Jerry with a sinking feeling. He had come to expect coincidences in life since he had begun to study the history of the Theatre.

“Yeah,” said his mother. Then she realised what he had meant and shook her head. “Nar! Not ’er bruvver—’er
dad
.” She winked at him. An ancient owl. “Give us some o’ that Lucozade, love. And put a drop o’ gin in it.” He poured some of the yellow liquid into her gin glass. She sipped. “Ur! Innit ’orrible? Well—ker-ker-ker—Katerina ’ad ’er baby an’ this Persson feller thort it wuz ’is an’ corled it, believe it or not, Jeremiah—in honour of ’er dad, see? Well, Franz marries a cousin corl’d—” she picked another slip of paper from the sheaf—“Christina Brunner, right? An’ they ’ave some kids, one of which is anuvver Cafferine, an’ Jeremiah goes ter live wiv ’is married sister an’ from wot me mum sez they ’as it away an’ a little girl’s the result—anuvver Ulrica. Then ’er bruvver goes ter Russia or somewhere an’ changes ’is name ter Brunner or Bron or maybe Brahn, see. Any’ow ’e meets this Cafferine Brunner later and they gets married, not knowing then that ’e’s ’er uncle. They ’ave free kids they corl Frank, Jeremiah an’ Cafferine an’ ’e goes off again, back ter Russia. Frank marries a Betty Beesley, Jeremiah marries some German bint name o’ Krapp, an’ Cafferine marries a cousin corled, believe it or not, Cornelius Brunner, an’ she got one in the oven off ’er bruvver before she trips dahn the aisle. In the meantime Ulrica’s grown up an’ married anuvver Russian corled—this is funny—Pyat, but, from wot we worked art, she’d ’ad a kid by
’er
dad an’ it was brought up fer years wivart knowing its mum an’ dad till someone tells it—it’s registered, see, as Frank Brunner. Eventually Frank Brunner marries Jenny Beesley an’ they ’ave two boys an’ a girl. The girl does well for ’erself, goin’ on ther stage, legit, an marryin’ inter the foreign royal fam’ly—Princess Una von Lobkowitz, no less. An’ then ther boys marry a Mary Greasby an’ a Nelly Vaizey an’ settle darn in Tooting or somewhere sarf o’ ther river, but Jerry’s a widower in ther meantime, wiv a fair amarnt o’ Krapp money, an’ there’s two kids—Alfred and Siegfried—’oo ’ave ter change their name ter Krapp an’ go an’ live with ther fam’ly in Germany, while Jerry comes back ter England an’ marries a Greek girl, daughter of ther shippin’ millionaire Kootiboosi or somefink. They ’ave free kids—Francesca, Joacaster an’ Constant—an’ live up Campden ’Ill somewhere. Francesca marries a bloke called Nye an’ goes art ter India wiv ’im where she dies in childbirth—one son, Jeremiah. Joacaster marries a cousin, Johannes Cornelius, an’ goes art ter Sarf Africa, an’ they ’ave a little girl, an’ Constant marries a Katerina Persson an’ they ’ave a little girl an’ all, ’oo’s up ther stick a monf after ’er first period, if wot I ’eard wos right, with ’er dad’s daughter, Honoria—which
might
be me—in fac’ I’m pretty sure it is. Well, you know a bit abart yore dad—’e wos moody—’e married me, I’ll say that, though a good deal older’n me, but corled ’imself by ’is secon’ name, Jeremiah, for ther weddin’ an’ I never woz sure it was legal—’e scarpered o’ course an’ fer a long time I thort it woz ’cause o’ ther coppers. Anyway, you free come very close tergevver, though yer might not ’ave all been ’is, or any of yer—yer could’ve bin ’is bruvver-in-law Frank’s, ’oo I sor a lot of ’cause ’e—ther one wot married me—was orlways travellin’ or lockin’ ’isself away—or, I must be honest,
my
dad’s, if it woz me real dad or me mum’s—the ol’ goat. ’E wos a kernewl, too, yer know, in Mexico, it woz, an’ ovver places. Any’ow me sister Doris married a bloke corled Dennis Beesley an’ I sor a fair bit o ’im while she woz doin’ war-work an’ me ovver sister, Renie, married yore little mate Mo Collier’s dad Alf—nice bloke ’e woz, killed in Germany 1946, somefink ter do wiv ther black market, wannit? Anyway, there woz a lot’v ups an’ darns rahnd abart that time an’ I don’t blame meself, though no-one’ll ever know exactly ’ow ’oo’s related to ’oo—except we’re sure as eggs related—we woz orlways a close family. Sammy, ’oo died, was Alf Collier’s bruvver, an’ they ’ad a Brunner, a Persson an’ a Cornelius or two in there somewhere, an’ all. Well, ther’s on’y a few
main
fam’lies in this distric’, ain’t there? Like over in Nottin’ Dale they got abart free clans—’Arrises, Fitzgeralds and Bensons—it’s ther same wiv ther Corneliuses, Cornells an’ Carnelians rahnd ’ere—along wiv ther Brunners, Perssons an’ Beesleys, though they woz never much compared ter ther Corneliuses ’oo really run these blocks for a ’undred years or more—since the Convent woz built an’ there was on’y that an’ The Elgin ’ere a ’undred years ago or so. An’ they did well for themselves, some of ’em.”