Dead Room Farce

by Simon Brett

  ‘Power?’

  ‘Yes. Constantly challenging me. Challenging me to have a go at him about it, to become the stereotype of the nagging little woman. And he knew how strong my taste for the stuff was too, so he was challenging me to keep off it. Yes, it was the only area in which Mark felt he had power over me.’

  ‘Hm. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t paint a very rosy picture of your relationship.’

  ‘No, Charles, I don’t. It started, as many of these things do, quite romantically. There were warning signs, but I made that classic woman’s mistake of recognising certain qualities I didn’t like about a man, and imagining that I could change them. Things didn’t get really bad until we moved down here. I suppose I’d changed too. Over buying this place and getting it converted . . . well, somebody had to be assertive or nothing would have got done.’

  ‘And that person wasn’t Mark?’

  ‘No. I made all the important decisions. I had to. So I guess he felt he was being even further marginalised. But I struggled on, trying to make the relationship work. We were in it together, I thought things would improve.’ She sighed. ‘But they didn’t. They were never going to, so long as he went on drinking that much.’

  Lisa shook her head in disbelief at what she was about to say. ‘The awful thing is, Charles, that when I realised Mark was dead . . . along with all the shock and guilt and everything else . . . a little bit of me was actually relieved.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It’s a dreadful thing to say.’

  ‘No. No, it’s quite understandable.’

  ‘And that bit of me – that disloyal, traitorous bit – was saying, “Now you’ve got another chance. Now you’ve got the possibility of something in your life to look forward to.” I’m sorry. I know it’s an awful thing to feel.’

  ‘We don’t have control over what we feel, Lisa. I think it’s very honest of you to admit it.’

  ‘Hm.’ She sat back in her chair, somehow eased by the confession, and looked piercingly into his eyes. He’d always thought hers were blue, but this intense scrutiny revealed them to be a pale, unusual grey.

  ‘You drink too much, don’t you, Charles?’ she said evenly.

  Well . . . Well, I suppose . . . I mean, I do sometimes have rather heavy sessions when I’m under pressure and go through bouts of –’

  ‘All the time,’ said Lisa.

  That almost made him angry. ‘You’ve no idea. You’ve no basis for saying that. We met less than a week ago and –’

  ‘I can tell,’ she said.

  There was no arguing with the certainty in her voice. ‘Well, yes, all right, I probably do, but –’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Lisa! You don’t have to ask that question. You understand the compulsion. You know why people drink.’

  ‘Maybe I do, in general terms, but why do you drink?’

  ‘All right. I drink to . . . I drink to make life different.’

  ‘Drink doesn’t make life different.’

  ‘I know. Nothing makes life different, but drink makes life seem different, and that seems to me the best deal that’s on offer.’

  ‘Is life so dreadful?’

  ‘Most of the time I’d say, “yes”.’

  ‘And it hasn’t occurred to you that it might be your attitude to life, the way you see life, that’s actually dreadful? That life itself is entirely blameless?’

  ‘That is possible, of course it is. However, the fact remains that I’m me, and I have only one way of seeing life.’

  ‘And it looks better to you through the bottom of a glass of whisky?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  Lisa Wilson shook her head in exasperation. ‘But, Charles, just think how much of your time you waste by drinking.’

  ‘It gets me through it,’ he responded doggedly. ‘Without the booze, life would just take so long.’

  ‘Hm. And have you ever tried to give up? I mean, seriously tried?’

  ‘I’ve tried to cut down from time to time. I’ve gone whole days without a drop,’ he added virtuously.

  ‘But never really tried?’

  ‘If you mean by that, have I ever joined something like Alcoholics Anonymous, then the answer’s no. I couldn’t stand all those smug, self-righteous people swamping me with the patronising zeal of the converted. No, thanks. If I decided to give up, I’d do it on my own.’

  ‘But could you –?’

  ‘Actually, I heard this joke,’ Charles interrupted, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘“Friend of mine used to have a drinking problem, so he joined Alcoholics Anonymous. He still drinks, but under another name!”’

  Lisa Wilson was not to be deflected by humour. ‘Could you actually give up, Charles?’

  ‘Give up booze? Of course I could.’ His head was aching more than ever now. All he needed was a drink to melt away the pain. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to,’ he concluded.

  She sat back, with a cynical curl to her lip.

  ‘And what’s that expression meant to mean, Lisa?’

  ‘Just that I don’t think you could give up.’

  ‘Of course I could.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Her patent disbelief was beginning to annoy him. ‘Yes, of course I bloody could! Just like that. All right, I won’t have another drink till I leave Bath.’

  As a smile of satisfaction spread over Lisa Wilson’s face, one thought dominated Charles’s mind. It was: Oh my God, what have I said?

  ‘Good,’ said Lisa quietly. Then she stood up. ‘There’s a corner shop along the road. They’re open every day of the week, and do sandwiches and Cokes and all that stuff. Shall we grab some there to have for lunch?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles Paris, without enthusiasm. ‘All right.’

  They were again seated either side of the table, this time with their packets of sandwiches and their drinks. Lisa’s bottle of mineral water was sparkling; Charles’s was still – he found when he was recording that the fizzy stuff made his stomach rumble even more.

  Lisa again seemed ill-at-ease, as she had done earlier in the day. It was as if there was something she had to say to him, and clearly it wasn’t about the booze, because she’d already said that. Finally, after a long silence, the words burst out.

  ‘Charles, when I came into the studio on the Friday morning, when I found Mark . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There were a couple of things I didn’t tell the police about . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told them I found Mark in the studio dead . . . which was true. And that I’d found the bottle of whisky in there with him. What I didn’t tell them, though . . .’ she was having difficulty in framing the words ‘. . . was that the door to the small studio had been locked.’

  ‘Locked?’

  She nodded. ‘From the outside. The key was still in the bottom dead-bolt. I unlocked them both, then wiped the key with a handkerchief, and hung it up on the hook where it always goes. And I . . . didn’t tell the police.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking. I was feeling guilty.’ She looked into his eyes, wondering whether she dared confide in him. Deciding to take the risk, she went on, ‘The man . . . the man I spent Thursday night with . . . he’s married. I didn’t want all that to come out.’

  ‘But why should it have come out?’

  ‘If I’d told the police everything, then, when they’d investigated, they couldn’t have helped finding out.’

  ‘Why? Was there something else that –?’

  ‘Also,’ she interrupted him, ‘other people maybe knew that things weren’t too good between Mark and me . . . I suppose I was afraid that the police might have thought I had something to do with shutting him in, that I wanted to do away with him, that . . . I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking logically. It was very stupid of me.’

  Charles Paris looked thoughtful. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘But this does change the situation
, doesn’t it?’ Lisa Wilson nodded miserably. ‘Because if you didn’t lock him in . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘. . . then somebody else did . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘. . . and that means that Mark Lear was murdered.’

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER LOUISE has gone through into the bedroom, Aubrey triumphantly closes the door, and locks it. He pulls up his trousers and does them up, then crosses to the French windows. As he does so, the lights dim in Louise and Ted’s flat, and come up in Gilly and Bob’s flat, where Gilly is just seeing Willie out.

  GILLY: And when my husband Bob comes back, you can try out your designs on him.

  WILLIE (very camply): Don’t tempt me.

  He goes out into the hall. Gilly turns back into the room to see Aubrey appearing on the balcony from behind the central partition. She rushes across to open the French windows.

  GILLY: Aubrey! I was worried you might have dropped off!

  AUBREY: And I was worried something might have dropped off. I was in serious danger of joining the Brass Monkey Brigade out there.

  GILLY (putting her arms around him): Don’t worry about that, my darling. I’ll soon have you up to scratch again.

  AUBREY (lasciviously): It wasn’t actually ‘scratch’ I was thinking of being up to, Gilly.

  GILLY (leading him towards the bedroom): Ooh. Shall we get up to something else instead then? Now, where were we? Shall I just pick it up where I left off?

  AUBREY (enthusiastically): Sounds good to me!

  They disappear into bedroom. The door slams shut behind them. A moment’s silence, then doorbell is heard. It rings a second time. Gilly comes bustling out of bedroom, followed by Aubrey. Again his trousers are round his ankles.

  AUBREY: Oh no! The fates seem to be against us today! What am I getting myself into?

  GILLY (hustling him across to push him into a cupboard which stands against the central partition wall): You’re getting yourself into this cupboard, that’s what you’re doing!

  She closes the cupboard door on him, and hurries across to the door to hall. The cupboard door opens: Aubrey emerges, trying to pull trousers up. As he gets out, he hears banging from behind him. He turns and looks dubiously at cupboard. There is a further banging noise. He realises where it comes from.

  AUBREY: Oh, no! It’s Louise banging on the bedroom door in the other flat!

  GILLY (heard from the hall): No, do come in, Ted, by all means.

  Hearing the voices, Aubrey, still with his trousers round his ankles, hurries back into the cupboard. The banging sound from the other flat ceases. The cupboard doors close behind Aubrey, just as Gilly ushers Ted into the sitting room.

  GILLY: No, Ted, of course it’s not inconvenient.

  TED: I hope I didn’t arrive when you’d got your hands full.

  GILLY (after a momentary take): No, no, good Lord, no.

  TED: It’s a bit embarrassing.

  GILLY: Well, yes, it is, I agree, but . . . (realising he’s not talking about her situation) Oh, is it, really?

  TED: Yes, you see, I was worried you might have heard something.

  The sound of Louise knocking on the bedroom door of the adjacent flat is heard again.

  GILLY: No, no, I haven’t heard anything. More loud knocking from Louise.

  TED: You’re sure you haven’t heard anything?

  GILLY: Not a thing.

  TED (looking curiously at the cupboard which conceals Aubrey): It’s peculiar. I’d have sworn there was a banging noise coming from that cupboard.

  GILLY: From that cupboard? Nonsense!

  More loud knocking is heard from the adjacent flat. Gilly rises to her feet and hustles Ted through towards the bedroom.

  GILLY: No, the acoustics in these old flats are most peculiar. The sound seems to come from over there, but in fact it comes from over here. (She pushes Ted through into the bedroom.) You have a listen to that wall over there. Then you’ll hear where the banging really comes from.

  Gilly closes the door behind Ted, and rushes across to let Aubrey out of the cupboard. He still has his trousers round his ankles.

  GILLY: You idiot, Aubrey! Why on earth were you making that knocking noise?

  AUBREY: I wasn’t!

  GILLY: Yes, you were.

  There is once again a knocking sound from Louise’s bedroom door.

  AUBREY: See!

  GILLY (looking curiously at the empty cupboard): There’s something most peculiar going on here.

  AUBREY (reaching down to pull up his trousers): At least I’ll be glad to get my trousers on.

  There is a sound from the hall of the front door being opened with a key.

  BOB (from the hall, angrily): Gilly! Gilly! Where the hell are you, Gilly?

  GILLY (panicking): Oh, my God, Aubrey! It’s Bob! Quick, hide under here! She lifts up floor-length cloth that covers dining table. Aubrey, still with his trousers round ankles, scuttles underneath table. Gilly drops the cloth to hide him and smoothes it down nonchalantly as Bob comes storming in from hall.

  BOB: Gilly! I have reason to believe that you are entertaining a lover here this afternoon!

  GILLY: A lover, Bob? Me? Don’t talk nonsense!

  BOB: I know there’s a man in here, and I’m going to find him!

  He looks furiously round the room for a hiding place. As he does so, the door from the bedroom opens, and Ted, looking slightly bewildered, comes in.

  TED: About this banging, Gilly . . . I don’t seem to be getting any.

  BOB (turning on his heel to face Ted): Oh, my goodness, no! You, Ted! My best friend!

  ‘“Well, you know what I think, Willie. When my husband Bob comes back, you can try out your designs on him.”’ Bill Blunden read the line out at dictation speed, with all the animation of the Directory Enquiries electronic voice. ‘Have you got that, Cookie?’

  Cookie Stone nodded, her pencil completing the latest amendment to the already-much-amended script. The entire company had had an eleven o’clock call the morning after their first night at the Palace Theatre, Norwich. They all knew they’d been summoned for more rewrites, more tinkering, more fine-tuning from Bill Blunden.

  Tony Delaunay sat at the back of the auditorium, silently watching what was going on. Now they were in Norwich, he was in charge of the show, officially as well as de facto. David J. Girton had returned to the BBC to start pre-production planning for the next series of his long-running sitcom, Neighbourhood Watch. He would reappear for the odd night on the tour, but his work as nominal director of Not On Your Wife! was – unless the show did ever make it into the West End – virtually finished.

  ‘I just think the new line’s got more rhythm,’ said the playwright.

  ‘OK.’ Cookie was a professional; she’d been through this process many times before. She didn’t pass judgement on the changes she was given, just learnt them and delivered them.

  ‘Try it tonight. See what reaction you get.’

  ‘Wilco, Bill. Roger and out,’ she said in the voice of a Second World War ace.

  ‘So it doesn’t change your cue, Ran. Line’s a bit longer, that’s all.’

  ‘Young Ms. Stone building up her part again,’ said Ransome George, getting his laugh from the rest of the company. As usual, the line itself wasn’t funny; but there was some alchemy in his timing and intonation.

  ‘Then, Charles . . .’

  Charles Paris looked up and tried to concentrate. He could no longer blame the booze for the fact that his mind kept wandering, but it did. It kept wandering back to Mark Lear and the circumstances of his death. It kept wandering back to the possibility – or even likelihood – that someone in the not on your wife! company had caused that death.

  ‘Yes, Bill?’

  ‘“Brass Monkey Brigade” still not getting the laugh, is it?’

  ‘No. I just wonder whether the audience is catching on to the reference. “Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey”. . . I mean, do peopl
e still use that expression?’

  ‘I think they do,’ said the playwright cautiously, ‘but I’ve got another suggestion, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, right. Good.’

  ‘Try . . . “And I was worried something might have dropped off. And let me tell you – it’s a long time since I’ve sung soprano!” and make sure you hit the “I”. . . since I’ve sung soprano” – OK?’

  ‘Do you really think that’ll work any better?’ asked Charles.

  There was a rustle of reaction around the auditorium. This was bad form. Bill Blunden was the playwright, after all, he was the expert on farce. For a member of the company – except of course for Bernard Walton, who had star’s privilege – to offer an opinion on a rewrite was simply not done.

  But Bill Blunden didn’t seem worried by the lapse of etiquette. ‘Try it tonight,’ he said evenly.

  ‘OK,’ said Charles, and caught a grin from Cookie Stone. That caused him a pang of guilt. She kept catching his eyes these days, as though they shared something other than the coincidence of appearing in the same theatre programme. In Bath she’d kept her distance, respecting his state of shock following Mark Lear’s death. But now they were in Norwich, she seemed to be drawing closer to him again, spurred on perhaps by the memory of some intimacy of which he had no recollection.

  ‘Then I think we can sharpen up the exit sequence to the bedroom,’ Bill Blunden droned on. ‘You and Cookie, Charles . . . If Aubrey makes his line: “It wasn’t actually ‘scratch’ I was thinking of being up to, Gilly”. . . and then goes on: “Do you think we can still manage a little something?”. . . and, Cookie, as you lead him to the bedroom, you make your line simply:

  “Don’t worry, it’ll all soon be in hand!”’

  ‘OK, love,’ said Cookie. ‘What, and cut the other lines?’

  ‘Mm. And then, Charles, you just come back with: “Sounds good to me!”’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Charles. ‘Sounds good to me!’

  But it didn’t really. Charles Paris didn’t enjoy this constant juggling with innuendoes; he liked comedy that came out of character, rather than the mechanical deployment of double entendres. Still, Bill Blunden’s international royalties showed that he was doing something right. British farce was a distinct subgenre of the theatre; and, whether Charles Paris liked the medium or not, it was one over which Bill Blunden had complete mastery.