So Much Blood

by Simon Brett

  ‘Not your name. Who are you with?’

  ‘Oh, Derby University Dramatic Society.’

  The result was that he entered the upstairs assembly room with a red card badge bearing the legend ‘D.U.D.S.’. It did not seem very positive advertising.

  Entering the room was difficult; it was so full that he had to ease one shoulder in as a wedge and wriggle the rest of his body in after it. Some people had glasses of drink. Infallible instinct tracked its source and he slid and sidled over to a long table.

  The drink was a pink wine-cup of minimal alcoholic content. Charles looked out across the throng. A swarm of cultural locusts was buzzing loudly and milling round the red badges which bore the names of newspapers, radio or television companies.

  Everyone had a badge. Radio Clyde bounced on the forceful breasts of a young reporter. Bradford clung to chain mail worn to publicise their play The Quest. B.B.C. flopped on well-cut mohair. Nottingham sagged on a dirty T-shirt.

  And everyone forced literature on everyone else. Charles had only to stand there to become a litter-bin for hand-outs and programmes. He kicked himself for wasting time following Martin and not getting his own publicity.

  A glance at the cultural treats the literature offered revealed that there was not much he would want to see, but it was at least varied. There was Problem 32 by Framework Theatre— ‘ten young designers creating an hour’s theatre in their own terms’. The World Premiere of ScotsWha Hae, a new Scots comedy from the group that brought you The De’il’s Awa’ and Cambusdonald Royal. Paris Pandemonium Projects offered Chaos, Un Collage de Comédie. Under the intriguing title Charlotte Brontë and her Scotsmen, Accolade were presenting ‘psychological deduction of her relations with men in her last years (reduced prices for students and Old Age Pensioners)’. Or there was Birkenhead Dada with We Call for the Decease of Salvador Dali— ‘Shocks, poems and perversions; indefensible personal attacks; new levels of tastelessness.’

  In other words the Fringe was much as usual. But with decreasing conviction. Charles remembered the heady days of the late fifties and early sixties when Edinburgh was the only outlet for experimental drama in Britain. The recent spread of little theatres in London and other major cities had eroded that unique position. And the Edinburgh Fringe seemed less important. Less truly experimental. Too many of the university groups were doing end-of-term productions of classics rather than looking for new ideas.

  ‘Not a lot, is there, Charles?’

  He looked up and recognised one of the Guardian critics. ‘Just thinking the same. How long are you up?’

  ‘A week. A week of sifting dirty sand looking for diamonds. Which probably don’t exist.’

  ‘Sounds fun.’

  ‘But what are you doing up here?’

  ‘My one-man show on Thomas Hood. So Much Comic, So Much Blood.’

  ‘Oh, I’d like to see that. Did it at York, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hmm. I missed it there. Haven’t seen much publicity.’

  ‘No, it’s been a bit thin on the ground. Last-minute booking.’

  ‘Ah. Well, give me the details.’ The critic wrote them down on the back of a Theatre Wagon of Virginia, U.S.A. handout that looked depressingly disposable. ‘Right, I’ll be along.’

  ‘And spread the word among your colleagues. Or rivals.’

  ‘Will do, Charles.’ The critic edged off into the throng.

  It might be worth something. But he should have brought the handouts. His own printed sheet stood more chance of survival than jottings on the back of someone else’s.

  The crush got worse rather than better. Over on the far side of the room Anna’s cropped head was instantly recognisable. She was talking enthusiastically, surrounded by a crowd of journalists. He felt a momentary pang of jealousy, a desire to go over and claim her. But no, she was right. Better to keep it quiet. Later they’d be together. The thought warmed him.

  ‘Hello.’ Pam Northcliffe wormed her way between a green velvet suit and a coat of dishcloth chain mail. She looked flushed and breathless. There was an empty glass in her hand which Charles filled from a jug on the table. ‘Oh Lord.’ She took a sip at it. ‘A few people, aren’t there?’

  ‘Just a few. How are you?’

  ‘Oh. Pissed, I think.’ She giggled at the audacity of her vocabulary. He was surprised. He felt he could have poured that pink fluid into himself for a year and not registered on the most sensitive breathalyser. Still, Pam claimed to be pissed and certainly she was much more relaxed and forthcoming on what she thought of her fellow-students. A wicked humour flashed into her observations and at times she even looked attractive.

  Charles decided that this confidential mood was too good to waste from the point of view of his investigations. The crowd was beginning to thin out, but he did not want to lose her. ‘You rehearsing now?’

  ‘No, they’re doing the Dream at seven thirty—a run as-per performance. I’ll be doing props for the revue at eleven—if I’m sober enough.’

  ‘Come and have another drink. That’ll sober you up.

  She giggled. ‘Everywhere’s closed on a Sunday.’

  ‘No. We can go up to the Traverse.’

  The Traverse Theatre Club had moved since Charles had last been there doing a strange Dürrenmatt play in 1968. But he found the new premises and managed to re-establish his membership. (The girl on the box-office was distrustful until he explained his credentials as a genuine actor and culture-lover. Too many people tried to join for the club’s relaxed drinking hours rather than its theatrical milestones.)

  The media contingent from the Royal Mile Centre seemed to have been transplanted bodily to the Traverse bar. But the crush was less and Charles and Pam found a round wooden table to sit on. He fought to the counter and brought back two glasses of red wine as trophies. ‘Cheers, Pam.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She took a long swallow. Then she looked at him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Bringing me here.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘No, it’s kind of you. I know it’s only because you feel sorry for me.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ He was embarrassed. He had not done it for that reason, but his real motive was not much more defensible. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re just being kind. Taking me out of myself. And I appreciate it.’ She spoke without rancour. ‘I know I’m not very attractive.’

  He laughed uneasily. ‘Oh, come on. What’s that got to do with it? I mean, not that you aren’t attractive, but I mean . . . Can’t I just ask you for a drink because I like your company? Do you take me for a dirty old man? I’m old enough to be your father.’ (And, incidentally, old enough to be Anna’s father.)

  He was floundering. Fortunately Pam did not seem to notice; she wanted to talk about her predicament. ‘I never realised how important being pretty was. When I lived at home, my parents kept saying I was all right and I suppose I believed them. Then, when I went to Derby, all that was taken away. What you looked like was the only thing that mattered and I was ugly.’ Charles could not think of anything helpful to say. She seemed quite rational, not self-pitying, glad of an audience. She continued, ‘You had to have a man.’

  ‘Or at least fancy one?’

  ‘Yes. A frustrated romance was better than nothing. You had to assert yourself sort of . . . sexually. You know what I mean?’

  Charles nodded. ‘Yes. Have a sexual identity. At best a lover, at worst an idol.’ He played his bait out gently. ‘A public figure, maybe . . . A symbol . . . Perhaps just a poster . . .’

  Pam flushed suddenly and he knew he had a bite. ‘I found the poster torn up in the dustbin.’

  ‘Ah.’ She looked down shamefaced.

  ‘Did you love Willy Mariello?’

  ‘No. It was just . . . I don’t know. All this pressure, and then Puce came to play at the Union and I met him. And, you know, he was a rock star . . .’

  ‘Potent symbol.’


  ‘Yes. And lots of the other girls in the hail of residence thought he was marvellous and bought posters and . . .’ She looked up defiantly. ‘It’s terrible emotional immaturity, I know. But I am emotionally immature. Thanks to a middle-class upbringing. It was just a schoolgirl crush.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘No, that’s what makes it so pathetic. I mean, I knew him to say hello to, but nothing more. He didn’t notice me.’

  ‘You never slept with him?’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Oh Lord, no.’

  ‘So why the rush to get rid of the poster?’

  ‘I don’t know. That was daft. I was just so confused—what with the death, and the police asking all those questions . . ., and then you asking questions . . . I don’t know. I got paranoid. I thought somehow if my things were searched and they found the poster that I’d be incriminated or . . . I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  It rang true. The brief mystery of the poster was explained. But there must be more to be found out from Pam. ‘What did you feel about Willy when he was dead?’

  ‘Shock. I mean, I hadn’t seen a dead body before.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘No sense of loss?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, it wasn’t real love, just something I’d built up in my mind. In a way his death got it out of my system, made me realise that I didn’t really feel a thing for him. Anyway, it had been fading ever since we came up here.’

  ‘As you saw more of him?’

  ‘Yes.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘He became more real. Just an ordinary man. And perhaps not a very nice one. Anyway, I didn’t really feel the same about him after that business with Lesley . . .’ Charles picked up the last few words as if they were the ash of a vital document in a murderer’s fireplace. ‘Business with Lesley?’

  ‘Yes, I . . .’ well, I haven’t mentioned it to anyone, but . . . it may be nothing, just the way it seemed . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was after we’d been up here about a week. Willy suddenly started to take an interest in Lesley—that’s Lesley Petter who—’

  ‘I know about her. Go on.’

  ‘I think he was probably after her, fancied her, I don’t know. Anyway, one evening, after we’d been rehearsing, we were all having coffee back at Coates Gardens and Willy said he was going for a walk up to the Castle and did anyone want to come with him. Well, I said yes sort of straight off, because, you know, I thought he was marvellous and . . . But then I realised that he’d only said that as a sort of prearranged signal to Lesley. It was meant to be just the two of them.

  ‘I was awfully embarrassed, but I couldn’t say I wouldn’t go when I realised. So the three of us set off and I dawdled or went ahead or . . . wishing like anything I wasn’t there.

  ‘We went up to the Castle Esplanade and wandered around, and I, feeling more and more of a gooseberry, went on ahead on the way back. I started off down the steps that go down to Johnstone Terrace.’

  ‘Castle Wynd South.’

  ‘Is that what it’s called, yes. Anyway, I was nearly at the bottom, and suddenly I heard this scream. I turned round and saw Lesley, with her arms and legs flailing, falling down the steps.’

  ‘And that was how she broke her leg?’

  ‘Yes. I rushed up to where she’d managed to stop herself, and Willy rushed down. She was in terrible pain and I shot off to phone for an ambulance. But just before I went, I heard her say something to Willy, or at least I think I did.’

  Charles felt the excitement prickling over his shoulders and neck. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said, “Willy, you pushed me.”’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear,”

  (So he began at least to speak or quote;)

  “Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier,”

  (For passion takes this figurative note;)

  “Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier;

  Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote;

  My lily be, and I will be thy river;

  Be thou my life—and I will be thy liver.”

  BIANCA’ S DREAM

  THE SHOW BIZ RAZZMATAZZ of first nights was invented before the development of lunch time theatre. There is something incongruous about flowers and telegrams for a first lunch. Charles did not get any, anyway. There was no one to send them. Maurice Skellem was the only person outside Edinburgh who knew the show was happening and he was not the sort to spend his client’s money on fulsome gestures. Charles deliberately had not told his ex-wife Frances that he was going up to the Festival as another hack at the fraying but resilient umbilical cord that joined him to her.

  But the first night excitement was there. He walked from Coates Gardens to the Masonic Hall with a jumpy step, a little gurgling void of anticipation in his stomach. To his relief, the odious Plug had been replaced by an amiable young man called Vernon, who was not only efficient in the rehearsal but was also staying for the show. It made Charles feel more confident. And more scared. With the technical side under control, no excuses were possible; it was his responsibility entirely.

  He calmed himself by hard work. One run of the show for Vernon’s benefit, to get the cues right; then a quick double-check through all the slides; finally an as-per performance run which was depressingly pedestrian. As it should be. Charles believed in the old theatrical adage about bad dress rehearsals leading to good first nights.

  A few more details checked, then down to the pub about twelve-thirty for a quick one. Just one; mustn’t risk slurring. Vernon was quiet and reassuring, a good companion for last-minute anxieties. Yes, he would hold the last fade. Yes, he would anticipate the slide of The Last Man sitting on the gallows. No, he didn’t think there was too much serious stuff in the programme. No, he didn’t think the dark suit was too anonymous.

  Back at the hall Brian Cassells was in charge as Front of House Manager. Apparently he felt that evening dress was obligatory for this role, though he looked a little out of place penguined up at lunch time. He admitted to Charles that advance sales were not that good (three seats), but he had great hopes for casual trade during the next twenty minutes.

  Sharp on one fifteen the show started. Charles had felt on the edge of nausea as he waited to enter in the blackout, but as usual actually being onstage gave him a sense of calm and control.

  The imperfect masking of the hall’s windows meant that the audience was visible, but he did not dare to look until he had received some reaction. The watershed was Faithless Nellie Gray; nothing expected on I Remember, I Remember and the rest of the preamble. But the first Pathetic Ballad should get something.

  Ben Battle was a soldier bold,

  And used to war’s alarms;

  But a cannon-ball took off his legs,

  So he laid down his arms.

  Yes, a distinct laugh. And the laughs built through the ensuing stanzas. Not a big sound, but warming.

  Emboldened, he inspected the audience as he recited. About twenty, which, on the first day of the Festival, with negative publicity, was not bad. On a second glance he realised that a lot of it was paper, members of D.U.D.S. who had been allowed in free. There was a little knot of revue cast, dark figures grouped around Anna’s shining head. James Milne leant forward in his seat with intense concentration. There were only about eight faces Charles did not recognise. And some of those might be complimentaries for the critics. Maurice Skellern was not going to be over-impressed by ten per cent of fifty per cent of that lot.

  But it was an audience. And they were responding. Charles enjoyed himself.

  The Laird insisted on taking him out to lunch. They went to an Indian restaurant on Forrest Place and managed to persuade the waiter it was still early enough for them to have a bottle of wine. After a couple of glasses Charles felt better. The immediate reaction after a show was always emptiness, even depression, and the ability t
o remember only the things that went wrong. Gradually it passed; alcohol always speeded the process.

  So did enthusiastic response to the show. And James Milne was very enthusiastic. He had only known the familiar poems of Hood, the ones which have become cliches by repetition, November, A Retrospective Review, The Song of the Shirt and the inevitable I Remember, I Remember. The broadening of the picture which Charles’ show had given obviously excited him. The punning and other verbal tricks appealed to his crossword mind. ‘I had no idea there was so much variety, Charles. I really must get hold of a Complete Works. Is there a good edition?’

  ‘There’s an Oxford one, but I don’t know if it’s in print.’ You might be able to pick up a second-hand one somewhere. Or there are some fairly good selections. But look, if you want to borrow mine, do. I should know my words by now.’ He held the copy across the table.

  The Laird was touched. By his values, lending a book was the highest form of friendship. ‘That’s very kind. I’ll look after it.’

  ‘I know you will.’

  ‘And I’ll make it a priority to find one for myself. Oh, you know I envy that kind of facility with words. Not just the facility—we all happen on puns occasionally—but the ability to create something out of it. It must be wonderful to be a writer.’

  ‘I don’t know. It was hard graft for Hood. If he hadn’t had to work so hard, he might have lived longer.’

  ‘Yes, but at least it’s congenial graft. I mean, writing, you’re on your own, you get on with it, you don’t have to keep getting involved with other people. You just write and send your stuff off and that’s it. A sort of remote control way of making a living.’

  Charles laughed out loud. ‘James, you’ve got it all wrong. Hood would disagree with you totally. He didn’t just sit at a desk toying with his muse and packing the products off in envelopes to editors. All his life was spent scurrying round, selling his own work, sub-editing other people’s, setting up magazines. No question of remote control, his Liveli-Hood, as he kept calling it, was very much involved with other people.’

  ‘But some writers don’t have to do all that, Charles.’