by Lynne Truss
‘To the Hippodrome? This evening? Dancing girls and such like?’
‘To the Hippodrome this evening, yes, lovely, dancing girls, a marvellous idea. I can’t think of anything better.’
Mrs Groynes pulled a face, as if she couldn’t quite believe how easy this had been.
‘All right then, dear,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d have to work harder to persuade you.’
‘No, no. No need.’
‘Right then. If you want to go to the Hippodrome all that much, dear, we’d better go and do it.’
* * *
At the hospital, Oliver was quietly reading to Jupiter from his book about fictional murders, and Jupiter was deliberately not listening, staring out of the high window at the dark and thundery sky, when the doors to the ward banged open, and a Metropolitan policeman of high rank (and even higher demeanour) strode into the room, his shiny boots squeaking on the linoleum, his peaked cap tucked officiously under his arm.
It was the famous Deputy Chief Inspector Peplow of Scotland Yard, responding to the devastating news of Jupiter’s plight with a slightly belated mercy dash. To give him his due, he would have arrived sooner, but it had taken a little time to rally his team from Pathé News: cameraman, lighting man and director. While Peplow made his entrance, it was the youthful director (in a donkey jacket, glasses and roll-neck sweater) who had the job of arguing with the ward sister about being allowed in to film.
‘My dear Jupiter. Dear fellow! Dear friend!’ Peplow boomed. ‘I came as soon as I heard. Well, I came, in fact, almost as soon as I heard! I’ve got an ambulance outside to transport you to London. We’ll get you the finest specialists and have you back at the Clarion in no time. And if you don’t recover, you’ll still feature in your very own newsreel, so how about that as a crowning achievement to a brilliant career?’
Peplow waited for a response. Jupiter peered at him.
Peplow introduced himself to Oliver; the reporter (impressed) politely reciprocated. Jupiter looked on without interest. At the door, a man with a tripod tried to push his way in, but it resulted only in an unseemly scuffle with the nursing staff, which made Jupiter roar with laughter.
‘He doesn’t know who you are, sir,’ Oliver explained. ‘He doesn’t even recognise his own writings. I’ve talked to him about acid baths, and the Kennington Butcher, and even Brighton Rock, but there’s not a flicker.’
‘So how do you think this happened?’ demanded Peplow, brusquely. ‘And by the way, we might have to repeat this conversation for the cameras in a minute, but they don’t record sound, so you won’t have to worry about what you say. I find that reciting “The Walrus and the Carpenter” gets me through this sort of thing quite well, but of course you can make your own choice. As long as your lips move, it’s fine.’
Oliver tried not to be overwhelmed by this whirlwind intrusion.
‘My theory, sir, is that he was taking the opportunity of the trip to Brighton to check the details of the ghost train murder at the beginning of the film Brighton Rock, as detailed in this book.’
He handed the open volume to Peplow, who scanned the pages quickly.
‘Ha! That sounds like Jupiter, all right! Detail, that’s always been his guiding principle. Detail! And if there isn’t enough actual detail, make some up! Or perhaps I shouldn’t say that.’
‘But it went wrong somehow, you see,’ Oliver continued. ‘I think he got into a tussle with his companion on the ghost train, who unfortunately pushed him into the water – and he struck his head on the way down.’
Peplow sucked his teeth. ‘Now, I noticed you were careful to say “his companion”?’
‘Well, that’s the thing, sir. I have reason to believe it was Inspector Steine of the Brighton Constabulary.’
A great smile spread across Peplow’s face. He loathed Steine quite as much as Steine loathed him. Steine was known within Peplow’s department at Scotland Yard as the ‘FBB’ or ‘Fluky Brighton Bastard’ – and Peplow himself had started it. It was unbelievable how pure luck could elevate a person of such meagre talents. ‘Ha!’ he said. ‘Oh, that’s perfect. Poor old Fluky. Comeuppance at last. That’s wonderful.’
How bewildering this all must have been to Jupiter is hard to imagine: a self-important man in uniform bursting into the quiet ward and then reciting a children’s poem about oysters across his bed. The noisy camera whirred for at least an hour, taking shots of Peplow walking in with hat on and hat off; Peplow in earnest poetic conversation with the young reporter; close-ups of all three of them, and of a pretty nurse imported from a nearby baby clinic.
Bewildering for Jupiter, but exciting for Peplow. The dash from London – with the clanging of the ambulance bell, and the flashing light – was going to make a very decent little film, demonstrating the caring nature of the Metropolitan Police. The hold-up on the journey – while they filmed the right shots of the ambulance speeding past a South London milestone saying, ‘Brighton 53 miles’ – had lost them only two or three hours. But now, a thought occurred.
‘Can we take him back to the ghost train before heading to London?’ Peplow enquired, looking round for approval. The film crew definitely liked the idea, but Oliver was the only one who could speak for the medical opinion.
‘The doctors do think that if Mr Jupiter could return to
the scene, the memory might return – but it turns out they won’t let anyone remove him who isn’t next-of-kin, and for some reason his wife isn’t co-operating. In fact, when she heard what had happened, she immediately went on holiday. Also, apparently, the Pier has its own by-laws and –’
‘Oh, we can get round all that,’ said Peplow. ‘Now, what do you say, Jupiter? Fancy that ghost train again?’
‘I’m quite happy here,’ said the patient, truthfully. ‘It’s raining. And I wish you’d go away. And I wish you’d stop calling me Jupiter.’
‘He shouldn’t be moved,’ a nurse piped up.
‘I’ll telephone the office,’ said another.
‘He’s right. It’s raining,’ said a third.
‘Leave me alone,’ said Jupiter.
But Peplow got his way, as he always did. Within half an hour, the hospital authorities had conceded, and Jupiter was made to dress in his old suit – wrinkly and misshapen from its dip in the sea – and be taken in a wheelchair across the rainy hospital forecourt to the waiting vehicle with London number plates – making the journey three extra times, for the sake of different camera angles.
‘To the Palace Pier!’ said Peplow, as he and Oliver clambered into the back alongside Jupiter.
Oliver, for all his qualms about the value of this exercise, appreciated the way the senior policeman was allowing him to stay involved. In the ambulance, he thanked him.
‘Not at all, you’re doing very well,’ Peplow said. ‘These film bods make everything a bit complicated, but the resulting newsreels are always top notch, and they’re seen by everybody. And you can write about this, presumably? Sell a piece to a newspaper?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Well then, good! The Times would be nice, for a change. But I’m not going to tell you how to do your job!’
And so they sped to the Palace Pier, on a mission to jolt Harry Jupiter’s memory back.
Had Inspector Steine known what was happening, he might have been very anxious. His arch-enemy was poised to uncover what he’d done. An ambitious young reporter was poised to expose him. But he didn’t know any of this, so he cheerfully spent the rest of the day with pen and pad listing everyone who might have been rounded up to talk glowingly about him on This Is Your Life.
Was it too much to hope for Princess Margaret? He didn’t think it was.
Back at the Pier, Peplow brooked no denials from anyone. He and his film crew, and Jupiter and the reporter, took themselves straight to the ghost train, despite by-laws, despite pier regulations, despite protests from angry uniformed men and despite the continuing rain. And while Peplow made suggestions for shots, and pretended
to interview the ticket seller in his flat cap (‘“If seven maids with seven mops, Swept it for half a year,”’ he asked the startled man, ‘“Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, “That they could get it clear?”’ ), Oliver talked gently to Harry Jupiter, who seemed nervous and unhappy.
‘I’m sure you don’t have to do this, sir. What are you remembering?’
‘Brighton Rock?’ said Jupiter, with an effort.
‘That’s right, sir! Brighton Rock.’
On account of the pouring rain, there were few legitimate riders on the ghost train, so the operator was happy to keep the carriages still for half an hour while the cameraman set up his lights, and someone held an umbrella over Peplow and Jupiter, and finally a tight shot was taken, with Peplow smiling broadly in anticipation of success.
‘Do another one?’ said the director. ‘You never know.’
So for the next shot, Peplow looked depressed. For the one after that, he put his arm round Jupiter and looked caring. For the final one, he larkily put his hand to his mouth and pulled a face, as if scared of what was to come.
‘Right, off you go,’ said the director, and the carriage trundled off inside, through the thick curtain and into the dark.
What actually happened once the carriage was out of sight, no one will ever precisely know. It was only Ben Oliver who had any misgivings about the possible outcome. Everyone else believed that Jupiter would come out of the ghost train with his memory restored, and Peplow the big hero of the day. But unfortunately, there were other possibilities.
All that is known for certain is this: when the carriage returned to view, with the camera and lights in place to film it (‘Ready, everyone! Now!’), it was empty. The newsreel of that empty carriage rattling into view, in the rain, became one of the great hits with cinema audiences of 1957. People gasped in horror. Women sometimes fainted. That last shot of the two men sitting so awkwardly in the little carriage – the famous newspaperman looking depressed and miserable with his head in a bandage; the star of the Metropolitan Police with his hand to his mouth, pulling a funny face – lived long in people’s minds.
Rounding off the newsreel was an interview with Inspector Steine of the Brighton Constabulary. It was filmed a few days after the horrific events, and took place at the entrance to the Pier, on a bright morning, with purposeful holidaymakers in stylish sunglasses queuing for the turnstiles behind him.
Steine’s performance was perfectly judged. He was solemn, steadfast, reassuring. He said that a) the whole episode was deeply regrettable, almost unimaginably tragic; and that b) the gap in the Pier was being filled in forthwith, to prevent any more such accidents. What was cut was Steine going on to say that c) DCI Peplow had sadly brought it all on himself by his arrogant behaviour in bypassing proper procedures in a town where he held no jurisdiction, d) there had been a real and irresponsible risk of electrocution and fire with all that filming equipment being used on a wet day on a wooden structure, and e) he personally blamed that damned book Brighton Rock, because apparently it encouraged such irresponsible mock-violent behaviour on a moving fairground attraction and led to terrible misunderstandings, sometimes involving blameless people of high rank.
When the filming was finished, the crew thanked him and started to pack up their gear. They were not to know that Steine might also have added f) that he was himself miraculously off the hook, and actually in a better position than he’d ever been. Fluky indeed. With Peplow conveniently out of the way (and having died so needlessly – and so stupidly – in the line of duty), Steine was now not only free of two very serious charges – grievous bodily harm (Offences Against the Person Act, 1861) and absconding from the scene of a crime – but a pretty safe bet for 1957’s popular-vote award for Policeman of the Year.
Eleven
Unsurprisingly, Inspector Steine had never been to the Hippodrome before, so he was unsure what to expect, apart from horses (his classical education leading him up the wrong path here, as it so often did). So it was only when he and Mrs Groynes had taken their seats towards the front of the crowded and smoky auditorium that he put two and two together: this must be the place Brunswick was always talking about – with its sweating comedians and high-kicking dancing girls and exotic Portuguese contortionists.
Predictably, the place was hot and noisy and reeked of cheap cigarettes and acrid body odour; it was full of louts and teddy boys and young girls wearing too much make-up. Steine was utterly revolted, but also mystified: why would the makers of This Is Your Life choose such an awful place to record their show about him? Why not the Wigmore Hall? At what point in the evening would the true purpose of his presence be revealed?
Again and again, Steine had to repress the urge to ask Mrs Groynes these questions. Again and again he had to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to know what was going to happen.
So he pretended to be interested. It seemed the polite thing to do.
‘I’ve never been to the Hippodrome before, Mrs Groynes!’ he called, over the noise.
‘You haven’t lived, dear,’ she replied. She was peeling an orange and dropping the peel on the floor. She had brought a pound and a half of oranges from a street stall en route. She offered him the bag.
‘No, thank you.’ He smiled, weakly. ‘Look, I know I shouldn’t say this, but I can’t help wondering why –’
‘Wondering why what, dear?’ she snapped, with a worried expression, licking juice from her fingers.
Steine sighed. ‘Oh, nothing.’
Every so often he stood up, ostensibly to stretch his legs, but in fact to scan the crowd for Eamonn Andrews. It was so hard to control his feelings: he was excited, but also anxious. The idea of seeing his mother after all this time – after just those curt, functional letters at Christmas for the past twenty years. If she had agreed to come all this way, did it mean that she’d finally forgiven him for what had happened on his last, fateful trip to Kenya in 1937, when he’d accidentally ‘bagged’ her rich neighbour, the Hon. Hugh Lees-Chetwynde? As Steine had argued at the time, it was an honest mistake: what else could a man expect if he lurked on all fours in the undergrowth draped in an animal skin?
‘Ooh, it’s starting, dear,’ said Mrs Groynes, tugging at his tunic. So Steine sat down, but not before noticing the flash of a police uniform from a figure taking a seat in the front row – a figure he couldn’t quite make out, as it was surrounded by a group of large men, one of whom was holding a fully extended umbrella, which was preposterous behaviour once indoors, as well as very dangerous.
‘Did you see that?’ he asked Mrs Groynes.
‘See what, dear?’
‘Man with an umbrella up. Indoors!’
But the lights had gone down now, and a figure appeared on the stage in a top hat and tails. For a moment, Steine thought he recognised a giveaway Irish accent, and took a deep breath. He turned to Mrs Groynes as if to say, ‘Wish me luck’, and prepared to stand up – but then he realised the man was in fact from Lancashire, and was the Master of Ceremonies, and was already telling a joke in questionable taste, so he sank back in his seat instead.
For Inspector Steine, much of the show that evening passed in a blur of anguish. One ghastly act followed another: a line of half-naked dancing girls coming onstage sideways, linked at the elbow; a ventriloquist with a huge, unfunny lion for a puppet; a man who caught darts between his teeth (which ought to be illegal); a shiny-skinned body builder in tight swimming trunks, who elicited lewd and depressing wolf-whistles from the women. Steine was so bored and disgusted that he nearly wept.
He kept thinking, This is the wrong audience. He pictured his mother, possibly brought here by flying boat, obediently telling stories of the child Geoffrey Steine –‘Well, he was always arresting other children, of course. He would catch them committing minor misdemeanours and march them down to the police station. We took no notice. We put it down to normal boyish exuberance. And then one day we took him to the London Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park, yo
u see, but he disappeared and we were so worried. And do you know where he had gone? To His Majesty’s Stationery Office in the City! He wanted to study the latest edition of the Highway Code!’
This crowd was accustomed to a diet of crude dancing, clashing music, sparkly outfits and catchphrase humour. Wouldn’t such wholesome and heart-warming stuff be totally lost on them?
‘Enjoying it, dear?’ Mrs Groynes would ask, from time to time. But she often found him with his eyes closed, controlling his breathing. It was in this state that he managed to miss two singing stars of yesteryear, a magician, a trapeze artist and a comedian who did a comic monologue about West Indian immigrants, which of course broke no laws at the time, but would one day (thankfully) be sufficient cause for prosecution.
It was after half-past nine when the star of the show took to the stage, and Steine reluctantly opened his eyes. Huge applause went up as the band in the pit played the signature music for Professor Mesmer, Last of the Phrenologists (‘Nice Work If You Can Get It’ by George and Ira Gershwin), and Mrs Groynes nudged him.
‘Cheer up,’ she said. ‘This bloke’s very good by all accounts, dear.’ Then she nudged him again. ‘Oh, look, there’s the sergeant over there. Yoo-hoo, Sergeant Brunswick!’
While the curtain parted to reveal Professor Mesmer and a row of dining chairs painted gold, Steine stood up (to the annoyance of the people behind him) and looked to where she had pointed. Brunswick was indeed here, in the far aisle, evidently clinging to a curvaceous young woman in a rather ostentatious show of affection and relief. He appeared to be in tears. Steine could scarcely believe it. ‘What on earth?’ he said. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s with that Maisie.’
‘Maisie?’
‘I expect she’s been messing him about again, leading him a merry dance. Some people never learn, do they? Ooh, but look, dear. Here he is! Professor Mesmer! They say he’s at the height of his powers, whatever that means!’
Before he sat down, Steine was briefly conscious again of the flash of uniform in the front row; he also spotted (at the back of the hall) the young reporter from the Argus who had been at the Theatre Royal on the night of Crystal’s murder. Was the uniform in the front row Constable Twitten’s, by any chance?
