Mrs Midnight and Other Stories

by Oliver, Reggie

  I tried to make my assertion that she was as sincere as possible.

  ‘Well, the long and the short of it was, apparently, I had to go. I asked who would they get to replace me at such short notice, but they wouldn’t tell. I think I could have accepted it all, if only they hadn’t threatened me.’

  ‘They what!’

  ‘Roger and Pussy said that if I and my agent kicked up a fuss about money or anything, they would let the papers know that I was a gaga useless old woman who couldn’t remember her lines. It would be everywhere, my dear. By the way who is replacing me?’

  I told her.

  ‘Adela! Good God! Adela! Anyone but her! No wonder they wouldn’t tell me. It’s fatal, darling. She’ll fall off the wagon. She’s bound to. Don’t worry, darling. I’ll be back. It’s my play. Roger wrote it for me. He told me. It’s my play and I’ll be back.’

  But she wasn’t. On the Friday night Billie had ventured out from her flat in her best mink coat with Winkie for his evening walk. Somehow the dog had got off his leash and went darting across the road towards the private garden in the centre of Belgrave Square. Billie followed him recklessly and was hit by a Porsche driven far too fast by a city trader high on champagne and financial ebullience. Billie sustained severe head and spinal injuries. She survived for several days in hospital in a coma but died on the Tuesday, the night of the first preview of The Last of Lady Ashbrook.

  As I was going up to change for the performance I overheard Talbot talking to the Theatre manager. He was saying how providential, given the circumstances, had been Adela’s replacement of Billie. ‘Of course, Adela will walk away with the notices, bless her. She always does.’

  The first performances went well. However, I sensed that we were playing to audiences that wanted what we had to give them, and that when the ticket prices went up after the first night they might not be so friendly. Then there were the reviews. Many of them made much of the fact that Sir Roger was Mrs Thatcher’s speech writer and implied that the play was a right-wing tract which, for all its faults, it was not. This false impression was compounded by the fact that the Prime Minister came to the play two days after the first night as a mark of favour to her favourite scribe.

  At that time she was still in her pomp after victory over the Argentinians. I met her briefly at the reception which followed the show in the main bar of the Prin. She asked me whether I, who was playing a guards officer, had ever been in the army. When I said I hadn’t she seemed to lose interest: her mind still revolving on military matters, I suppose. I had rather more of a conversation with her husband Denis. He sidled up to me looking rather lost and wielding a large gin and tonic.

  ‘Damned good show,’ he said. ‘Used to go a lot to the theatre in the old days. Musicals, revues were my thing. Plenty of pretty girls, you know, but the Boss was never all that keen, bless her. Anyway, thoroughly enjoyed it tonight. Amazing. Beats me how you actor johnnies learn all those lines.’

  ‘Well, sir, I didn’t have that much to say.’

  ‘Beats me all the same,’ said Mr Thatcher, downing his drink enthusiastically. ‘Jolly good show.’ He was about to turn away, when he stopped abruptly. He was looking at someone or something in the far corner of the crowded room. ‘I say, isn’t that—? You know the gal—lady I should say—who was going to be in your show? What’s her name? Dancer in the Dark, you remember? We were all mad about her at one time. She was my pinup girl at Mill-Hill School before the war.’

  ‘Billie Beverley? But she died last week.’

  ‘I know! I know! Saw it in the Telegraph. That’s what bothers me. Look: there! No. She’s gone. The old eyesight must be playing up, and the booze. I’m beginning to see things. Have to cut down on the old Gin and Ton, eh? That’ll be a tragedy. Well, I see the Boss is beckoning. My marching orders. Toodle pip!’ And he sidled off.

  IV

  Nothing much occurred during our short West End run at the Prince Regent. The play received lukewarm reviews and poor houses, and so it did not transfer to another theatre, but went on tour, as expected, where it might recoup its London losses. It was then that things started to happen.

  The first week of our tour was at the Theatre Royal Brighton and the Company Manager had arranged a special rate for the cast at one of the hotels, the Davenant on the front. I might have preferred a Bed and Breakfast to myself, but I thought it would be churlish to spurn the Company Manager’s efforts. The Davenant, besides being near the theatre, was a quiet, respectable, faded establishment which rather suited my mood at the time.

  What first hinted to me that something very strange was going on? Is it only retrospect that makes me think it was the toupée?

  On the Monday afternoon the cast assembled in the theatre for a technical run of the show, it being the first night of the tour. Pussy Cudworth arrived late and he was wearing a blonde toupée. It was not even a very good toupée and the remains of Cudworth’s curly white-blonde hair seeped out from under it. He wore pink suede shoes too.

  Nobody said anything about it and we got on with our rehearsal, which turned out to be a fractious affair. There was trouble with the lights and the sound. At one point The Emperor Waltz, which was heard throughout the play like a kind of leitmotif, came over the loudspeakers at twice its normal speed. Adela Bennett became enraged with Rebecca, the assistant stage manager, because she said the girl had been ‘darting about’ in the wings in her ‘line of sight’ while she was trying to act on stage. Rebecca angrily denied this, but Cudworth sided with his leading lady, so the subordinate was duly crushed. Rebecca began to weep. Sophie put her arms about her; I felt like doing the same, but didn’t.

  During the break that followed I found myself alone with Adela in the Green Room. There was nothing I wished to say to her, so I sipped my tea and concentrated on my crossword. I was conscious, though, that Adela was anxious to break the silence.

  ‘I suppose you think I’m the most frightful bitch,’ she said eventually.

  ‘I think you overreacted just now. That’s all.’

  ‘No. I’m not talking about that. That stupid, dumpy little girl needed a good smack on her fat botty anyway. No, you’ve resented me ever since I took over from darling Billie.’

  ‘Why should I? I took over from someone myself.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Don’t deny it! I heard all about your greasing up to her, and going back to her flat and everything. What did she say about me? Did she give you the full spiel about Noël and Gertie and dear Ivor and the rest of it? The full “I was a big star once” bit?’

  Adela’s handsome, lean face was a mask. Behind it her eyes glittered with malice. She had ceased to worry about the effect she was having on me, and was enjoying the tirade for its own sake.

  ‘And I suppose you heard all her stuff about Darling Harry. Her husband. The love of her life. The dead hero. It was all a sham, my dear. For your information, darling Harry spent his last leave with me, mostly in bed, as I remember.’

  ‘Did Billie know?’

  ‘Of course she knew, darling. There were no flies on Billie. To be honest, I don’t think she minded that much. Billie was never a one-man girl.’

  ‘He was shot down over Dresden, I understand.’

  ‘Shot down? Harry? Good God, no! Is that what she told you? He was run over, darling. He had some sort of desk job for the R.A.F. at a supply depot. Used to put away the sauce quite a bit. Well, we all did in those days. One night he was staggering back to his billet in the dark and got knocked flat by one of his own trucks on its way to Biggin Hill. No, darling. Harry was rather a dear, but he did not die a hero. Christ, it’s cold in here! What’s the matter with this bloody theatre? By the way, have you fucked Sophie yet?’

  I felt the blood rise to my face and I left the room.

  The performance that night was rather frayed and jittery, but we got through it. I was exhausted after the show and decided to go to bed fairly early after a solitary curry in an Indian restaurant. After what Adela had said I f
elt compelled to avoid Sophie. It was an irrational compulsion, of course, but like most irrational urges, strong. It was past eleven by the time I got back to the hotel. As I came into the Davenant, I saw Talbot, Cudworth and Adela sitting in the little hotel bar. They were talking and laughing loudly. Cudworth’s toupée was slightly askew. Adela appeared to be drinking orange juice, so she hadn’t ‘fallen off the wagon’ yet. I heard their laughter all the way up to my room; it was raucous, almost hysterical, it seemed to me.

  As I came down to breakfast the following morning I saw Adela and Talbot at the reception desk. Adela was complaining loudly to the girl behind it; Talbot was listlessly in attendance.

  ‘I tell you,’ she was saying, ‘there was someone in the room above us, and they were—well, all I can say is, they were bouncing about. Running up and down, or something. Making a hell of a racket. All bloody night! My husband and I hardly got a wink of sleep.’

  ‘I can assure you, Mrs Wemyss. There was no-one in the room above you. It was unoccupied.’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar, young lady?’

  I moved into the dining room and had barely taken possession of a table by the window when Cudworth sat himself down in the empty place opposite me. He seemed in a cheerful mood, but there were bags under his eyes. The toupée was in place, but a little dishevelled.

  ‘Hoo! Mind if I join, young man? Have to park the bum gently this morning. Oof! Had a waiter last night. Spanish. Couldn’t understand a word he said, but meatily endowed. A whopper, my dear. Don’t know what came over me. Well, I do, as a matter of fact. His name was Felipe. Ha! But you know what I mean. Hi, waitress, when you’ve done staring, I’ll have some eggs and bacon. And toast! Thank you so much.’ Then turning to me: ‘Do you think she heard what I was saying just now?’

  ‘I’m quite sure she did.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s funny.’ He looked troubled for a moment. ‘I don’t know what’s got into me all of a sudden.’

  I shared his bewilderment. Cudworth was renowned for his tact and discretion: his behaviour just then, let alone the previous night, had been very uncharacteristic. In a more sober mood he told me that Sir Roger would be coming down to see the performance that night and would also be staying at the Davenant.

  It was a fine day, so I spent it looking at the sights of Brighton. I visited the Pavilion and the Art Gallery; I stared at the rotting remnants of the West Pier. In the afternoon I wandered the Lanes, looking at the antique shops. It was while I was doing so that I caught sight of Sir Roger Carlton. He was staring intently into a shop window and leaning, rather affectedly I thought, on a silver topped ebony cane, his pale grey double breasted Savile Row suit doing its best to disguise his flabby figure. I thought of greeting him until I realised that the window through which he was peering was not that of an antique shop. The goods on sale were sex aids, rubber accessories, leather thongs, saucy lingerie of various kinds, pornographic magazines and books.

  Behind him, and half obscured from my view, was a woman in a fur coat, a black hat and a veil, of the kind once considered the height of chic. It was rather warm weather, I thought, for fur coats. She was looking over his shoulder and into the sex shop window though he appeared to be oblivious of her presence. I watched while Sir Roger stared fixedly at the goods on sale for a full thirty seconds before deciding to walk into the shop. His whole manner was that of a man nervous about what he was doing, but driven to act. The woman did not accompany him; she turned and walked off up the lane away from me so that I could not see her face. I turned back towards the sea again.

  That night at the theatre I was waiting to go on in the darkness of the wings when Sophie came up to me and took my hand. She said: ‘Why have you been avoiding me, Al?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Everything seems to be at sixes and sevens.’ It was a lame excuse, but she seemed to accept it.

  ‘Yes. God, did you know Old Stinky Carlton is in front tonight?’ I nodded. ‘He came round before the show and nearly walked into my dressing room when I had practically nothing on. I managed to shut the door on him in time. Filthy old letch. I’m sure he meant to catch me out in my knickers. Good grief, did you see that?’

  ‘What?’

  She pointed across the bright highway of the stage where Talbot and Adela were acting to their audience and into the dark wings opposite us. At first I saw nothing, then I thought I caught a glimpse of white. Something was flitting backwards and forwards, rhythmically, gracefully. What I could see suggested a female figure, tall and elegant, but all I could actually make out was an occasional flourish of fabric, like a dress of white chiffon or silk.

  ‘Who the hell, is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Haven’t an earthly, but if that’s Rebecca, I’m a kangaroo,’ said Sophie.

  There was no time to investigate. My cue had come and I made my entrance.

  After the show that night there was a party in the theatre bar, held by the local Theatregoers Club, so that its members could ‘meet the cast’. It was intolerably dull, as these things always are, but one was fed, even if it was only the standard fare for such occasions: sandwiches, sausage rolls and cold quiche. I had wanted to spend some time with Sophie, but whenever I caught sight of her she was being talked to by Sir Roger. She seemed to be fascinated by him, or was she frightened? I kept telling myself that I had no interest in her: it was far too early for me to start another relationship. When Sir Roger got up and began to make a witty little speech to the Theatregoers Club, I decided to leave discreetly. I wandered down to the sea front. Some distance away from me on the promenade I thought I caught sight of Pussy Cudworth talking to a short, bald man in uniform.

  I had returned to the Davenant. It was after midnight and I was asleep in bed when I was awoken by a knock on my door.

  ‘Al? Al? Can I come in? It’s me! Sophie! Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes, Sure.’ I switched on the bedside light. Sophie had on a pale blue silk dressing gown over her night-dress. The belt was tied tightly round her narrow waist and revealed the frail angularity of her body.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘What do you think? Sir Rog, of course. He wouldn’t let me alone all evening. Why didn’t you come and rescue me, you bastard? Then in the middle of it all you just buggered off, and I was alone with him. He stuck to me like a leech, then he walked me back to the hotel, and kept trying to buy me drinks in the bar. Then he tells me he’s staying here tonight and he’s got the biggest suite in the hotel, and would I like to see it? No thank you! But he just wouldn’t take no. I can’t believe it! The filthy old letch. I try and be nice to him and say goodnight politely, but he followed me up to my room and suddenly he was pinning me up against the door of my own room. That foul lavatory breath of his was all over me. God it was horrible! I actually felt his erection pressing against me. It’s a fucking nightmare!’

  ‘Don’t talk about it, please!’

  ‘I manage to get into my bedroom and lock the door, but I know he’s still out there. He knocks once or twice and calls my name. Even when that stops I think I can still hear his breathing. Breathing his shit breath all over my door—’

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘All right I won’t. I won’t even mention it. But I just couldn’t get to sleep, I was so wound up about it all. I was so bloody scared. I can’t be alone with him on the prowl, so I had to come to you. Don’t you see? I’m not, you know—I don’t want you to—’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Oh, good. Do you mind if I come on your bed, though. You don’t have to sleep in a chair or anything medieval like that. I trust you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  She flopped onto the bed. We lay in silence, not touching, but close. I felt the pressure of her body on the bed.

  ‘Don’t you think they’re behaving very weirdly?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Oldie
s. Talbot and Adela, Rog and Pussy.’

  ‘So you call them the Oldies too! I thought that was my private name for them.’

  ‘Oh, yes. They’re the Oldies all right. Don’t you think they’re like really weird? Like they’re teenagers again, or something.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ I said. ‘Shall we try and get some sleep?’

  It would be difficult, I thought, with someone a few inches away from me for whom I suddenly felt a maddening desire. I turned over and tried to think of other things.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Sophie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That noise! There’s someone else in the room!’ I felt her arms clutching me in the dark.

  ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘Listen!’ By this time she had got into bed with me and was holding me tightly. We held our breath.

  I did hear faint noises, though they seemed to me more like vibrations than sounds. Someone or something appeared to be moving in the room, rapidly, perhaps even running or skipping. Once I thought I heard a floorboard squeak. Sophie clasped me even more tightly, then the noises stopped and the tension eased.

  I turned on the bedside light and searched the room, but found nothing. ‘It must have been someone outside the door,’ I said. I returned to bed and turned out the night. Sophie put her arms around me again.

  Moments later we were feverishly removing whatever we had on. I felt hot soft skin and the angles of her strange, charmingly awkward body. I tried to take things slowly but she would not let me. Now she was straddling me, giggling and throwing her head back in mock abandon. Then the door opened and the main light was turned on. Sophie screamed.

  I looked up and saw that three people had somehow squeezed into the room: Talbot, Adela and Sir Roger.

  ‘Allo, allo, allo!’ said Talbot, in actor’s cockney. ‘What’s going on ’ere then?’