by TP Fielden
‘That must have been a—’
‘Of course, we hadn’t signed the contract. I had been waiting for the right director. I was to be the Duchess of Tintagel, Gerald the Duke naturally. It was a broader part for me, requiring many changes of costumes and, of course, the locations . . . stunning houses. Beautiful. Despite the War . . .’
‘May I ask when you last saw Mr Hennessy?’
‘What?’ snapped the actress. ‘What do you mean?’ Suddenly her face was transfigured by a range of emotions considerably more extensive than her fans were generally granted onscreen.
‘I meant . . .’ started Miss Dimont, but then faltered. Her question appeared to have vaulted the actress from a cool if stagey presence into something more closely resembling a cornered animal.
She tried again. ‘I’m sorry if I—
‘Don’t. Just don’t.’
Suddenly the conversation was dangerously electric, and Miss Dimont drew back. Self-obsessed Prudence Aubrey may be, but she was also newly bereaved – and the Riviera Express had its standards of conduct towards its interviewees.
The interview concluded quite rapidly thereafter and Miss Aubrey was wafted away to the Grand by a uniformed chauffeur who materialised out of nowhere – as they always do in Temple Regis when film stars sail over the horizon. It was not a town, after all, peopled entirely by hayseeds.
Terry got his photos. You had to give Miss Aubrey that, she knew how to pose even in a railway waiting room. Somehow widow’s weeds had never seemed more Parisian, more desirable. Cecil Beaton was said to have fallen in love with her, which seemed remarkable to those who knew Cecil, and here she was – in Temple Regis! She was front-page material wherever she went – it was just that she now seemed to be famous for being famous, for, alas, her millions of fans had been waiting a long time for her next film.
Terry drove Miss Dimont back to the office in the Minor.
‘Did you notice how she suddenly turned – just like that?’ said an unsettled Miss Dimont to Terry.
‘Fabulous coat she ’ad,’ said Terry, ignoring the question as usual. ‘Did you see that twirl I got her to do? Talk about New Look all over again! The way that fabric just floated in the air!’
‘A disgrace,’ snorted Miss Dim. ‘Twirling? They haven’t even had the post-mortem on her husband yet, let alone the inquest!’
‘No disrespect,’ said Terry, scratching his head. But the whole encounter – its timing, its focus, and the unexpected bolt of lightning which concluded it – troubled the reporter.
It was lunchtime. Peter Pomeroy, the chief sub-editor, was jerkily dipping his head towards his desk like a heron stabbing at a fish. Seen from a distance this behaviour might seem odd to the newcomer, alarming even, but it was Pomeroy’s way and nobody said anything. After you’d worked at the Riviera Express for a few weeks you came to realise that everyone had their quirks – after all, Miss Dim and Herbert, just think of that! – and if he wanted to pretend he wasn’t eating sandwiches concealed in his desk drawer then who was anyone to say otherwise?
Miss Dim took an apple from her raffia bag and placed it next to her Quiet-Riter. ‘Exclusive,’ she rattled. ‘Riviera Express talks to Gerald Hennessy’s widow, Prudence Aubrey.’ (Exclusive because no other paper thought to turn up, a cause of intense dissatisfaction to the nation’s newest widow.)
She ratcheted down the page with two swift stabs of her left hand. There was no time to spare – the printers were waiting for her copy.
‘The tragic widow of Gerald Hennessy revealed to the Express that she had planned to make another film soon with her husband,’ she rattled.
‘Prior to her husband’s inquest on Monday, Prudence Aubrey disclosed that her ambition to make a British version of The Magnificent Ambersons was well advanced but . . .’ and so went the tale, innocuous, sympathetically worded and lacking any clue to avid readers that its tragic star was a nasty piece of work capable of sudden and vicious twists of temper.
When she had finished, Miss Dimont pulled the copy-paper – three sheets sandwiching two carbons – from her Quiet-Riter and separated the component parts. The bottom sheet was hooked on to the spike on her desk – a handy filing tool in the ordinary course of events and, unbent, an even more useful murder weapon – handed one to the sub-editors, and the top copy went into Mr Rhys’s in-tray.
Grabbing her apple, she stalked off to the coroner’s court, munching furiously, thinking hard. Prudence Aubrey’s unwarranted savagery had upset her – and after all the effort she and Terry had taken to treat her with kid gloves! Well, thought Miss Dimont, not next time – next time she would get the full Sergeant Hernaford treatment.
Her presence in court was about as vital to the proceedings as that of anyone else – that is to say, not at all. Dr Rudkin paid lip service to the occasion by donning a black coat and pinstripe trousers with a nice stiff collar and a suitably drab tie, and in return was shown the deference that all coroners must be shown; for they, and only they, hold the key to a dead man’s future reputation.
In ten minutes the whole thing was over. Dr Rudkin opened and adjourned the inquest into the death of Gerald Victor Midleton Hennessy pending a post-mortem report, then did the same in the case of Garrick Arthur Shrimsley. This was the way things were generally done to give the key players time to properly prepare themselves before the full inquest at a later date. Everybody rose, decorously awaited the doctor’s exit, made a mental note to be here again on Friday, then swarmed out into the September sunshine.
As they all paused momentarily on the pavement, Prudence Aubrey glanced over at Miss Dim, blinked hard, then turned sharply away and headed for her car. In that instant the reporter realised that her question, as to when the actress last saw her husband, had hit the nail squarely on the head.
Only she had no idea why.
Was it that Prudence had been out with a man friend? There had been several sightings of her in the company of handsome young chaps, written up by the Daily Mail’s diarist, Paul Tanfield (‘the column which brings champagne into the lives of caravan dwellers’). Was it simply that this supremely self-centred prima donna could not remember when she’d last seen her husband? That her well-polished script, delivered to Miss Dimont and Terry, an actress’s soliloquy which brooked no interruption, had failed to incorporate this fundamental in its preparation?
Or was it just that the question was, when it came down to it, about her husband and not about her? Certainly the posing of it had exposed a chink in Miss Aubrey’s haute-couture armour and had momentarily left her vulnerable and exposed.
But Miss Dimont – even clever, perceptive, worldly Miss Dimont – was unable to see past the film-star artifice. Thus protected, Prudence Aubrey retained her beautiful enigma, the single quality upon which she had built her reputation, and one which she was not about to relinquish to a corkscrew-haired provincial.
Outclassed and – perhaps – outwitted, the reporter beat a hasty retreat back to the office. Her account of the proceedings would make a small Page One paragraph, no more, and anyway she had to quickly scan the minutes of the Highways Committee before its meeting to consider the siting of a new public lavatory, a matter which was proving highly contentious to the good people of Temple Regis.
*
Life on the Riviera Express consisted of passages of frantic activity followed by equal periods of stasis. There was a chance to telephone friends, make shopping lists, dream about holidays, or write the occasional letter. Fridays were generally such a time for Miss Dimont and on this particular day she had completed all her work-displacement activities by the time the mid-morning coffee came around.
After chatting to Betty Featherstone about her latest boy-friend, some big wheel in Rotary, Miss Dimont decided on a whim to pay a visit to Raymond Cattermole at the Pavilion Theatre. There was always the panto to talk about – so far Miss Dimont had resisted thinking about Christmas but it was sure to come around sooner or later, so she had an excuse.
&n
bsp; The Pavilion, Edwardian in construction, was living proof that there are jerry-builders in every age. Time and tide had taken their toll, and though the posters which adorned its frontage were bright and fresh, that was as much as you could say about it.
Including the manager, Mr Cattermole. There had been a time, when he first arrived after the War, when there was a spring in his step and an air of promise about the place. He had even managed to get some of his old West End chums to come down for a summer season, though it has to be said they only came once, and as these stars wafted back to their firmament so Raymond took on their mantle, increasingly starring in his own productions until he could only see virtue in saving money and taking the applause.
Needless to say this was not a recipe for success, and as time went by the Pavilion’s productions became as creaky as the building itself. It therefore fascinated Miss Dimont that Gerald Hennessy – oh! she thought, what a loss to acting, what a loss to the nation! – might deign to do a summer season here. Was it a last-ditch attempt by Cattermole to revive the theatre’s flagging fortunes? Indeed, a generous gesture by his old thespian colleague to help out?
Or perhaps a decision by the film star to award himself a sabbatical holiday, away from the arc-lights and the premieres and the press-men? She had managed to slide in a question to Prudence Aubrey about Gerald’s plans in Temple Regis, but the actress was too busy with Terry arranging her twirl to answer.
Miss Dimont paused for a moment before entering the theatre and looked down the pier towards the great wide ocean beyond. Its waters had many characters, far more than were ever played on the boards of the Pavilion, and this morning they were strong and silent, great giants like Othello and Lear. Only bluer.
The Pavilion was situated at the landside end of the pier, something of a design compromise by the Edwardians but one which ensured its foundations would never fail, whatever the fate of its superstructure. Miss Dimont entered, as was her habit, by the stage door, which was tucked next to a row of redundant penny-in-the-slot machines.
Inside, she could hear a curious noise, a scraping sound accompanied by a strangulated version of what she decided must be the overture to William Tell.
‘Minamin minamin minamin-min-min,
Minamin minamin minamin-min-min –
Minamin minamin minamin-min-min,
Mina MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN ma-mina min-min-min.’
She came upon Raymond Cattermole crouching on the floor with his back to the wall.
‘Ah, Miss Dimont,’ he said, unsurprised. ‘Would you give me a hand up? Just doing my daily exercises. Learned them off Larry, you know.’
Miss Dimont blinked.
‘Sir Laurence Olivier,’ said Cattermole as if taking a bow.
‘We trod the boards together, you know.’
The actor-manager struggled up from the floor, explaining that ‘William Tell’ sung through gritted teeth while bending your knees and sliding up and down a wall was far better than Stanislavsky when it came to an actor preparing. He was unselfconscious in her presence and went over to a mirror to settle his toupee more precisely on his big fat head.
‘Henry V,’ said Miss Dimont. ‘You were the spear-carrier.’
Cattermole had forgotten he had misled Miss Dimont once before on the nature of his theatrical partnership with the colossus of British theatre.
‘He had his off nights, you know,’ he said testily. A non sequitur, maybe, but it re-established the fact that he had known Larry while Miss Dim had not.
‘I thought we could talk about the pantomime,’ said the reporter. ‘People will want to start booking soon.’ (Just like childbirth, Temple Regents had that blithe capacity to forget the pain they had endured last time around.)
‘But first,’ she went on, ‘I wanted to ask you about Gerald Hennessy.’
Cattermole looked startled.
‘I understand he was in Temple Regis to meet you,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘and I just wondered . . .’
It was always better to leave a question open. People you were interviewing didn’t care what you wondered, they just wanted to get on and give you the benefit of their superior knowledge. Furthermore, if you wondered the wrong thing, they would be put off by your complete and utter incomprehension of the situation in hand. The reputation of journalism rested on not specifying what precisely it was that you wondered.
Cattermole said nothing.
‘I wondered . . .’ tried Miss Dimont again.
‘Drink?’ said Cattermole. It was not quite midday.
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Dimont sternly. ‘But don’t let me stop you.’
Those were the words which sprang forth but they were not what she meant. What she meant was, if it helps you to talk, then drink the whole bottle. But you are the custodian of our theatre and you churn out rotten performances which help you maintain that old Bentley and keep that mistress of yours, but if you sobered up a bit and put your back into it the Pavilion could be saved and we would love you again as we once did.
But Miss Dimont, being the non-judgemental sort, said nothing of the kind. Cattermole got down the Scotch and sloshed a little into the glass on his desk. He looked warily at the water jug next to it but decided against.
‘Ah, yes, Gerald,’ he said in drawling tones. ‘Dear Gerald. We trod the boards together, you know.’
‘The Importance of Being Earnest,’ said Miss Dimont, swiftly. ‘With Edith Evans. The Globe Theatre, wasn’t it?’
Raymond Cattermole did a wonderfully lugubrious double-take, his trademark moue that could still raise a laugh, even after all these years. ‘Well you do do your homework, don’t you?’He was now in character. Possibly Professor Henry Higgins, she couldn’t be sure just yet.
‘He played Algernon, you played Raymond.’
The Professor looked over his spectacles at the reporter. ‘He broke my arm, you know,’ he said rather wistfully. ‘And then stole my part.
‘We had an understudy, can’t remember the name, and he took over while I was in hospital. There was a bit of Bunbury business onstage, bit of a rough-house, and he broke my arm.’
Cattermole drained his glass and looked forlorn. ‘Never been the same since. I was so keen to get back onstage the doctor didn’t set it properly. The director refused to drop the Bunbury rough-house and I had to carry on with it even though I’d only just broken the old arm. I was right-handed, but I had to learn to use my left to raise a sword, point a pistol, all that stuff. Really, it was the beginning . . .’
Miss Dimont saw it all in an instant. The Wilde was the last time Cattermole had set foot on the London stage. Maybe it was the arm, maybe his already-waning fortunes as a slightly too-old young lead, maybe his self-pity (ever-present in an actor, never to be displayed) – but to save his reputation and his self-esteem, Cattermole had nimbly effected a career-change which ended with his arrival down here in Devon. For every step Gerald Hennessy took up, it would seem, Raymond Cattermole took a corresponding one down.
‘So why was he coming to see you?’
‘I didn’t say he was, did I?’
‘Mr Cattermole,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘I think he was.’
The Professor had disappeared and an ageing pink-cheeked thespian, unsettled and edgy, had taken his place. Cattermole uncorked the bottle and poured himself another one.
‘Sure you won’t?’ he asked, but he didn’t mean it. He had become distinctly cooler towards his interlocutor.
‘Everybody seems to think Gerald Hennessy was coming down to do a summer season.’ There, Miss Dimont had said it. There was no earthly reason to believe this baseless assertion, but baseless assertions were a time-honoured way of worming facts out of the reluctant and the downright unco-operative. Apart from Sergeant Gull nobody, apart from Cattermole, had a clue why Hennessy travelled down to Temple Regis.
Raymond Cattermole had not trodden the boards with Sir Laurence Olivier for nothing. He lifted his head, turned it, flicked his eyes at Miss Dimont and set his ja
w. At the same time, he shot his cuffs and straightened the knot in his tie.
He did not say a word.
If Cattermole’s purpose was to unnerve the reporter, he succeeded. Miss Dimont was not used to sitting in silence, staring eyeball to eyeball, with people. She did her best work by getting people to chat. The man opposite was just sitting and gazing at her. She was . . . unnerved.
‘A summer season?’ she prompted hesitantly.
Finally, he spoke, though his lips did not move very much as he did so.
‘Over . . . my . . . dead . . . body,’ said Raymond Cattermole.
SEVEN
Unlike Miss Dimont, Betty Featherstone played no part in the War and, actually, it would be hard to imagine what useful contribution she could possibly have made. Despite her breezy charm and outward competence there was something missing which, had she been put in charge of men’s lives as Miss Dimont was, might have led to some tragic outcomes.
Not that you would get Rudyard Rhys to agree with that, for the editor was a man of very firm opinions and his opinion of Betty was that she was the right sort for the Riviera Express. How Miss Dim had got herself a position on his staff – well, that was another story.
It was not that Mr Rhys was soft on Betty, but it would be fair to say she knew how to twist him round her little finger. When he marked up the diary – that is to say, allotted the known stories for the week ahead – Betty always ended up with the best. Miss Dimont might have asked herself whether this was because the editor knew the plum jobs were usually the easiest – in Betty he had a useful but totally uninspired reporter – and it was better to leave the more difficult work to be handled by her. Wisely, she did not waste time thinking up the answer to that.
Betty had arrived only recently, the veteran of one or two failed engagements (there may have been more), but she looked optimistically on the world of love and her continuing part therein. Her regular features, permed blonde hair, undulating figure and conservative choice of clothes somehow marked her out for what she was – competent, unexciting, and by now in her thirties, a stranger to life’s more exacting challenges. But there was more to her than that.
