Dead Room Farce

by Simon Brett

  ‘I’m sure he loved you, Claudia.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded with quiet satisfaction.

  ‘So . . . what exactly did he say?’

  ‘Well, he rambled, but . . . He said he’d got himself into something he couldn’t get out of . . . that he was locked in . . .’

  ‘“Locked in”? He did actually use the expression “locked in”?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose he meant some business thing he’d got involved in . . .’

  ‘What else did he say? Did he mention anyone by name?’

  ‘Tony. He mentioned someone called Tony. Tony . . . Delaney?’

  ‘Delaunay.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. He said: “Tony Delaunay’s got me locked into this, and there’s no way out.”’ A nostalgic smile came to the girl’s thin lips. ‘And then he said he loved me.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN looks with amazement at Nicky, then back at Bob and Gilly.

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN: But let me get this straight. (He points at Bob.) If you’re not having an affair with this young lady, Nicky, who are you having an affair with? Bob looks round the stage in desperation. He looks hopefully at Willie.

  WILLIE: No, no, you can’t be having an affair with me. (He smiles winsomely at Ted.) I’m having an affair with Ted.

  TED: No, you’re not. This whole thing’s a ghastly misunderstanding.

  WILLIE (taking his hand): Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.

  TED: Ooh-er.

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN (to Bob): So who are you having an affair with?

  BOB: Erm . . .(brainwave) I’m having an affair with Ted too.

  WILLIE (slapping Ted’s face): You two-timing slut!

  TED: Ooh-er.

  WILLIE (turning on Bob): And you’re no better, you . . . (slapping Bob’s face) . . . you Judas!

  During the ensuing dialogue, Ted creeps away to hide out of sight under the table, which he approaches from behind.

  LOUISE: Look, for heaven’s sake, can we get some sense into all this, please! Ted is my husband . . .

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN (taking out notebook to make notes): Right.

  GILLY: And Bob is my husband . . .

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN (making a note): Right.

  LOUISE (turning to look at Nick y): And Nicky is . . .

  GILLY: (also turning to look at Nick y): Yes, Nicky is . . .

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN: Come on, the young lady must be somebody’s mistress.

  LOUISE: Yes, yes, she’s . . . erm . . .

  GILLY: I say, you wouldn’t like her to be your mistress, would you, Inspector?

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN (looking lasciviously at Nicky and really attracted by the idea): Well, I wouldn’t say no. Wouldn’t mind a bit of . . . (recovering himself and going back into his mournful mode) No, I am very happily married to Mrs Cruttenden. Worse luck. (turning beadily on Louise and Gilly) Now come on – who’s this young lady’s lover?

  Suddenly, as if goosed from behind, Aubrey shoots out from under the tablecloth, where he has been hidden since Act One. He still has his trousers round his ankles.

  AUBREY: Ooof!

  GILLY AND LOUISE (triumphantly turning to point at Aubrey): He is!

  During the ensuing dialogue, Ted emerges from beneath the table. Pulling the tablecloth over him as if it can make him disappear, he tiptoes towards the French windows.

  AUBREY: What am I?

  GILLY (pointing to Nick y): You’re this young lady’s lover.

  AUBREY: Am I? (looking at Nicky and very much liking what he sees) Fwoor! You know I’ve always fancied the younger woman.

  NICKY (looking at Aubrey and very much liking what she sees): And I’ve always fancied the older man.

  They go into a clinch.

  GILLY (beaming at Inspector Cruttenden): So everything’s turned out all right.

  LOUISE (also beaming at Inspector Cruttenden): Yes, and you can go back to the station.

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN: Yes. (He turns to go to the front door, then suddenly stops and has a thought. He turns back.) Except . . .

  GILLY: Except what?

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN: I came here looking for an escaped convict.

  LOUISE: Ginger Little.

  INSPECTOR CRUTTENDEN: That’s right, who is known to be in this vicinity, dressed as an Arab terrorist.

  LOUISE: Oh yes.

  By this point, Ted has reached the French windows, and is about to open them. With the tablecloth over his head, he does indeed look like an Arab terrorist.

  GILLY (pointing at him): Look, there he is!

  Ted tries to escape, as the rest of the cast chase him round the stage. He trips, and all the rest of the cast pile up on top of him in a breathless heap. Ted’s head is covered with the tablecloth. There is a moment’s silence, then Ted lifts up the edge of the tablecloth and looks out at the audience.

  TED: Ooh-er.

  THE CURTAIN FALLS FOR THE END OF THE PLAY.

  That was the fifth ending they’d tried. They’d introduced it for the Brighton week, which followed on from Birmingham. It didn’t work any better than the previous four endings. Bill Blunden, however, was not disheartened. He knew his plays took a long time to get right. If not on your wife! didn’t come together this time round, he was quite reconciled to the thought of its doing another tour the following year.

  For Charles Paris, the continuation of the tour was not relaxing. Though he’d spelled out in considerable detail to Cookie Stone that their relationship wasn’t working and needed to end, she seemed unable to take this idea on board. He would still continually find her looking at him wistfully with her soulful, surgically debagged eyes, waiting for some sign of his relenting. She clearly believed it was only a matter of time before he saw the error of his ways and came back to the haven of her waiting arms.

  Being out of a relationship with Cookie was, in its own way, as exhausting as being in one. Charles Paris couldn’t wait for the tour to come to an end.

  Cookie Stone wasn’t the only reason he felt that during the Brighton and Newcastle weeks. There was also the unresolved problem of Tony Delaunay.

  Charles had had to be careful how he handled Claudia Lear. The girl’s antipathy to her mother was so strong that he had to try to keep Lavinia out of it. Eventually he decided his only possible approach was complete honesty. He shared his suspicions with Claudia, told her he thought that Mark Lear had been murdered by Tony Delaunay.

  It was a risk, but it paid off. Though the girl had had no suspicions of foul play, once the idea was planted in her mind, it generated fury and a strong desire for revenge. She was determined to bring to book the man who had killed her neglectful but beloved ‘Daddy’.

  So, that very Sunday evening, while Charles was still there, and her mother still out of the room, Claudia Lear had rung the police in Bath.

  And then . . . nothing happened. Or at least, so far as Charles Paris was concerned, nothing seemed to happen. Throughout the Brighton week, he kept catching Tony Delaunay’s eye, only to be further goaded by the company manager’s complacent smile of immunity.

  One early evening, towards the end of the Brighton week, Charles tried to enlist Ransome George’s help to nail the murderer. Ran had been involved in the original recordings, surely he’d be prepared to investigate further. Charles bought his fellow-actor a pre-show drink and tentatively raised the topic.

  ‘Forget it,’ Ran said with a complacent smile. ‘I’m doing very nicely as it is. No way I’m going to upset the apple-cart.’

  ‘What do you mean – “doing very nicely as it is”?’

  Ransome George gave the grin that, later in the evening, would bring the house down halfway through Act Two, and confirmed Charles’s long-held suspicions. ‘Look, I’ve known about Bernard Walton’s involvement in those recordings for years, haven’t I? And the more famous he’s got, the more it’s been in his interests for me to keep quiet about it. That’s what I mean by “doing very nicely”.’ />
  ‘So you don’t deny that you’re blackmailing Bernard?’

  ‘Ugly word – blackmail,’ said Ran, in a way that would drag a laugh from the most recalcitrant audience in the country. ‘Let’s just say we have an agreement.’

  ‘How many other people do you have “agreements” with? I suppose you’ve been blackmailing Tony Delaunay for years as well?’

  ‘No. It wouldn’t matter to Tony. He’s gay, anyway. And, apart from that, he’s not a star. Nobody’s that interested in what a company manager gets up to.’ Even when it’s murder, thought Charles. ‘But with Bernard,’ Ran went on, ‘it works just fine, has done for years. Mind you . . .’ He looked with sudden suspicion at Charles. ‘Now you know all the details, I wouldn’t advise you to start trying to do the same thing.’

  ‘What, blackmailing Bernard, you mean?’

  ‘Mm.’

  Charles was affronted by the suggestion. ‘I can assure you, Ran, there is no danger that I would ever do that.’

  ‘Good.’ Ransome George sat back with another sleek, complacent smile. ‘Because at the moment the deal I have with Bernard is perfect. I get regular money – never ask too much, you know, doesn’t do to be greedy in this sort of business. And then he sees to it I get parts in a lot of his shows too. Same kind of deal as he does for you, eh, Charles?’

  Charles Paris was so flabbergasted by the accusation that, before he realised what he was doing, he’d lent Ran a tenner.

  It was in Newcastle that the situation changed. For the first few days, Charles’s frustration at his own impotence was as great as it had been in Brighton. Then suddenly, on the Wednesday, Tony Delaunay wasn’t there. He’d been around for the matinée, but by the time the evening performance started, he had gone. By the beginning of the following week, in Cardiff, a new company manager had been appointed by Parrott Fashion Productions.

  Details of what had happened to Tony filtered slowly through the not on your wife! company. Plain clothes policemen had apparently arrived at the theatre in Newcastle to interview him, and he had left in their company. Nobody knew why, and, preoccupied – like most actors – with themselves, nobody was that interested in the reasons for his departure.

  By the time Tony Delaunay came to trial, charged with the murder of Mark Lear, the tour was over. Individual actors may have been shocked over their breakfast newspapers, but there was no company left to experience communal hysteria.

  Not for the first time in his life, Charles Paris wondered how closely the police investigations had been shadowing his own. Even though their official enquiry didn’t possess Lisa Wilson’s information about the studio doors having been locked, some kind of researches must have been going on, to be presented at the adjourned inquest on Mark Lear. The police too must have been checking out the phone calls he made on the day of his death. And surely they too, in time, would have made contact with Claudia Lear.

  Charles didn’t talk to the girl again, though he often wondered about her, and how – if at all – her self-destructive relationship with her mother would be resolved. Lavinia Bradshaw had tried to reinvent herself, but Claudia’s anorexia was part of the cost of that transformation, a constant reminder that the past can never be completely cut off.

  Charles did speak to Lavinia once again. She was delighted by the news that her husband had been murdered. That meant there was no longer any threat to her insurance money.

  Charles also heard from Lisa Wilson a few times over the next months. She had been given a fairly rough time by the Bath police for withholding information. At one stage there had been talk of charges against her, but in the event none materialised.

  Once that threat had dissipated, her telephone conversations with Charles became less frequent, and finally ceased. Lisa Wilson seemed to be managing to make a new start. Business at the studios, she told him in one of her last calls, was really picking up. At the same time she mentioned casually that she was into a new relationship, which ‘seems quite promising – at least he’s a teetotaller for a change’.

  So was Charles at that point, but he didn’t think it worth mentioning the fact to Lisa Wilson. Whatever there might have been between them was now long gone. Besides, although she had been the motive force which made him give up drink, now he was doing it for himself. The abstinence made his evenings very long and slow, but he did feel healthier for it. Also, he needed some kind of self-punishment.

  He found a letter at Hereford Road on the Sunday between the Bristol week and the Manchester week. He didn’t recognise the name or address on the notepaper.

  Dear Mr Paris,

  I am writing to inform you of the death of my sister Ruth. As you probably know, she had been in and out of hospital for some months, and so in some ways her passing on must have been a relief to her. I have been through her address book, and am writing to all the people in it to inform them of the sad news, and also to say that a funeral service will be held.

  But the date had passed. Charles felt bad. He’d had no idea Ruth was so ill. It compounded his general sense of being an emotional cactus, someone whom no woman could approach without getting hurt.

  He kept meaning to ring Frances. But he didn’t.

  The Manchester Evening News gave his performance as Aubrey one of those notices that Charles knew he would never be able to flush out of his mind. ‘Charles Paris,’ it ran, ‘acts as if having a love affair is only marginally preferable to an attack of piles.’

  Two months after the Not On Your Wife! tour ended, Maurice Skellern rang to say that Charles had been offered another three-month tour. Again of not on your wife! Bill Blunden’s slow process of perfecting the comic machinery of his play was set to continue for another crawl around the provinces.

  Charles Paris’s first reaction was to say ‘No’, and he knew his first reactions were always right. He was sick of the play, for one thing. And he couldn’t face another three months of reproach from Cookie Stone.

  On the other hand . . . he had no alternative prospects for the year ahead, the bank balance was dwindling, and three months’ work remained three months’ work. Then again, as Maurice Skellern said, ‘There’s always the chance it’ll “come in” Charles. When you’re on West End money, you won’t regret all those endless months of touring, will you?’

  So Charles Paris said ‘Yes’.

  In fact, sure enough, a year later not on your wife!, finally rewritten to Bill Blunden’s satisfaction, did ‘come in’ to the West End, for the start of what proved to be a very long and successful run.

  There were a few cast changes, though. Pippa Trewin hadn’t even done the second tour, because she was playing the lead in a movie. And for the West End run, Cookie Stone was replaced by an actress straight out of drama school. The girl was really not old enough for the part, but she was Pippa Trewin’s younger sister. Mind you, she’d changed her name to Samantha Driver. Like Pippa before her, she didn’t want anyone to think she was getting preferential treatment just because she was the daughter of Patti Urquhart and Julian Strange.

  Oh, and in the West End, the part of Aubrey was played by an actor called George Birkett.

  Charles Paris was philosophical about all this. Bloody annoyed, but philosophical. He’d long since given up the expectation that life would be fair.

  Possibly to compound its unfairness, in the Queen’s next Birthday Honours, Bernard Walton was knighted for ‘charitable work and services to the theatre’.

  The day Charles Paris agreed to do the second tour of not on your wife!, he felt in need of a little celebration. It wasn’t that he was celebrating the decision; more that he wanted to shut his mind to the fact that he’d made the decision.

  And he had done nearly two months off the booze. That was almost unprecedented. He had proved he wasn’t an alcoholic. He could take it or leave it, stop whenever he wanted to. He deserved a little treat.

  So that evening Charles Paris went out and got drunk – two-second pause – merry – two-second pause – tiddly �
� two-second pause – tipsy – two-second pause – blotto – two-second pause – pissed – two-second pause – rat-arsed . . .