“No, no, darling.”
“No cruise?”
“Of course a cruise would be lovely, but …”
“You’ve just said I’ve been doing too much.”
“You have. You go to business every day.”
“From ten to four—at the latest.”
“You still drive yourself there and back. That in itself is a strain in London traffic.”
He laughed again and then, pushing away his plate, he leaned forward in mock severity. “No it isn’t. The car is specially adapted so there are no foot controls. The steering is power-assisted. And as for the risk of accident … well, you insisted that I should have bumpers fore and aft built of quarter-inch solid steel and that the bonnet and engine bulkhead should be strengthened so that the engine can’t be pushed backwards. Darling, if I had any sort of shunt, the other chap involved would think a tank had hit him.”
“You haven’t drunk that last cup of coffee.”
He lifted the cup. For a few moments there was silence and then Margot got to her feet and pushed her chair under the table. As she did so she said, “You don’t always get home by four o’clock. A day or two ago you stayed in town for a stage party.”
“A very mild affair. Everybody was just a bit sad at reaching the end of the run. No high jinks. Just chat. You know that. You were there.”
“But it was still a long day for you, and a strain.”
“You drove me home.”
“I know all that. But you won’t be coming home at four this afternoon, either.”
“No fear. Opening night of a new show. But there again, Mags, you’ll be with me to take the strain.”
She sighed in exasperation, pulled out her chair and sat down again. “And on Saturday you have insisted on having a party here.”
“It’s my birthday.”
“I like you to have a party on your birthday. But that will make three occasions in one week, and that’s too much for you.”
“Eight days, actually, but you must admit it’s a very exceptional eight days. We often go for months without attending any evening function.”
“Quite right, too.”
“Darling, remember I’ve been told to keep active. Don’t the doctors threaten me with all sorts of bumps and blains if I sit back and don’t move?”
“They do. But they don’t suggest you should overdo it, which is what you have been doing just lately. Or are about to do.”
He smiled at her. “I’d rather carry on, Mags. I can still run the business successfully, and as for the stage … well, it’s my hobby. It always has been. Oh, I know I’ve made a bit of money from being an Angel, but that’s not the point. I love being involved. Always have done, from the moment I first put a hundred and twenty-five quid into The Diarist. That was well over twenty years ago, and let’s face it, my sweet, that was how I met you. So I haven’t done too badly from supporting the Arts. Made a few bob from time to time and got the fairest flower in the bunch into the bargain.”
“What you got,” she replied, rolling her napkin for the ring, “was a girl totally disillusioned by her inability to act, who was, if anything, slightly better at painting scenery for a repertory company than making a success of any part she was given, and who was financially on her uppers when you met her.” She looked up at him. “Your flower, as you call her, was ripe for the picking.”
“So what are you saying?”
She got up and came round to him. With her arms round his neck and her cheek against his, she said: “That I think we were both lucky. I know I was.”
“Me too. And it’s damned nice of you to say so, Mags, with me in this state. That was something we never bargained for.”
She straightened up. “No, but if it had happened to me … well, you’d have carried me about in your arms and cared for me like a baby.”
“True.” He eased the chair backwards. “And I do know why you are frightened, really.” He took her hand. “These damned demyelinating diseases are progressive. You think if I do too much I’ll precipitate further deterioration.”
“No, darling, no.”
“Maggie, I know you too well. You’re edgy. Frightened.”
“You’ve got it all wrong, Hugh. Of course your condition worries me, but I’m optimistic about it, really. You’re so cheerful, and your mental attitude reassures me. So often your …”
“Disorder?”
“Yes. So often there are remissions. I’ve read a lot about them happening. And even if there is none in your case, in many patients like you, with the will to make the best of things, the condition remains mild and doesn’t interfere with ordinary life any more than it does initially. I’m sure things won’t get worse. Sure of it.”
“Then why the jitters, my love?”
She said, a trifle wildly: “If you must know …”
“Yes, please.”
“I know you’ve been getting threatening letters. Anonymous ones.”
This time he really gave way to mirth. “Oh, my sweet! Those?”
“I saw one on your desk. You’d left it lying there. And since then I’ve made sure I’ve taken in the post in the mornings. I’ve seen two more in the same sort of envelope.”
“Don’t pay any attention to those. I don’t. If I’d taken them seriously I’d have shown them all to you and told the police.”
“But besides threatening you, they called you names.”
“The most repeatable of which, if memory serves, was Ruthless Bastard, with capital initial letters.”
She shook her head. “But what does it all mean, Hugh? What are they referring to?”
“Haven’t a clue. I assume it refers to something to do with the business. But I can’t guess what and I certainly haven’t the time to try to find out. And I don’t suppose you want me to expend any energy on a witch hunt, do you?”
“I confess I found them frightening.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll stop as they began, and they’ll be forgotten.”
“I hope so.”
“They will. Now I think it’s time I made a move. It’s nearly nine o’clock and here’s Mrs. Hookham coming to clear the table.” He waved at the middle-aged woman plodding down the ramp. “Morning, Mrs. H. Lovely day again.”
“Beautiful. My hubby says it’s set fair for another few days yet.”
“If he’s right,” said Margot, “we shall be able to hold the party out here on Saturday evening.”
“Good idea,” said Carlyle. “We’ll have the fairy-lights strung in the bushes. Are you coming, Mrs. H.?”
“I’ll be here, Mr. Carlyle. Washing up and the like and keeping an eye on those outside caterers you’ve got coming in. I know them of old. Full of horsey-borsey, they are. Think they own my kitchen. They use every dish we’ve got in the house and just pile them up. Mucky tups! No order, that’s what I don’t like. Me, I like a tidy kitchen, and so does Freda. I’ve taught her my own ways and I’ll have to warn her to watch her tongue, Saturday, or there’ll be ructions out back.”
Carlyle laughed. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. H. We’ll all have a splendid time. Freda included. Don’t forget to bring your old man along.”
“He’ll come for a bit of supper in the kitchen, I expect, sir. But only after closing time.”
Detective Chief Superintendent George Masters ushered his wife, Wanda, out of the door of their little house behind the Westminster Hospital and into the cab that had backed its way down the narrow road and was now waiting for them.
“The Victory Theatre, please.”
“Right, Super. Going to the first night, then?”
“That’s it.”
“Foyer entrance, then, if we can get near it. You might have to flash your card to clear the way.” The driver closed the window behind him and concentrated on turning out of the little street into the mainstream traffic.
“The cabby obviously knows you, darling,” whispered Wanda. “Do you know him?”
“No, but the taxi was ordered
by Tip in my name and I suppose she mentioned my rank. But apart from that, these drivers know everybody and everything. It wouldn’t surprise me if a good many of them who work this area know me by sight and name.”
Wanda smiled. “Fame?”
He grinned back. “Hardly. They get to know who to be wary of.” He took her hand in his. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Very well, darling, thank you.”
“Good. I’ll try not to fuss you about it, but are you sure Mrs. Thing will be all right looking after Michael? He seemed a bit boisterous just before we left.”
“Molly Howlet will cope with him wonderfully well. She and Michael are great friends. You seem to forget she often sits with him during the day when I’m out and can’t take him with me.”
Masters shrugged. “If you’re happy with her, I am.”
“I’m very happy to be able to call on Molly. But you, you’re getting to be a bit of an old woman yourself when it comes to looking after your precious son. You could have another to worry about before long. But let’s forget all that. We’re going out to enjoy ourselves even though Round the Barley is not likely to be a show we would have chosen for ourselves.”
They were making use of the two complimentaries Hugh Carlyle had given Wanda a couple of days before. Masters fully expected it to be nothing more than a run-of-the-mill farce of the Whitehall-Aldwych variety. He, himself, was very wary of accepting any gift from a member of the public, but these two seats had been given to Wanda. She and Margot Carlyle had been very friendly from long before the Masters had even met, so the DCS had no reason to refuse these particular complimentaries for an opening night. Indeed, it would have been churlish of him to have done so since they were, in essence, not his to refuse.
Nor was this the first occasion on which they had enjoyed complimentaries from the same source. Hugh Carlyle had been a theatrical Angel for so many years that by now he was considered to be something of an Archangel. For Hugh, the business was a hobby and the hobby a business, as he was very fond of telling people who had the time and patience to sit alongside him and listen. And Masters had listened. To the full story.
When the young Hugh Carlyle had just made a tentative offer to an aspiring producer, he had done it out of love of theatre. Not out of love for any particular play, or plays in general, but for the fascination of the buildings themselves. The ambience! Even the smells of an empty house which, in those early times, had often been dominated during the day by the odour of a certain type of raw disinfectant which lingered until overpowered each night by the compounded atmosphere of heterogeneous audiences. Hugh had explained, with some verbal imagery, how he had enjoyed that particular smell and the, to him, tangible atmosphere of an almost dark auditorium, with cleaners passing along the rows, crashing up seats, emptying ashtrays, hoovering, sweeping, mopping, spraying and, or so it seemed, forever singing or humming some current hit from the world of popular music.
This, Masters was told, was what had driven the young Hugh into offering to buy a share in The Diarist when he had heard the management was seeking backers. One hundred and twenty-five pounds. A lot of money at the time and a sum which, Hugh readily confessed, he had fully expected to lose. But he had been very happy to buy just one-eightieth of the show simply for the pleasure of being involved, no matter how minutely.
Although he didn’t openly discuss the profit he had made, Masters had gathered that the pleasure had been, at least, slightly profitable. Among other qualifications, Hugh Carlyle was a trained business manager. He had had enough sense to keep his hobby separate from all else—an account on its own, making a little very often, rarely losing.
From his track record it had become clear that Carlyle seemed to have the knack of backing shows which, if not wildly profitable, rarely left him out of pocket. But by now each unit he bought in any production was just ten times as big as that first one, and he seldom bought single units. Though offers to managements would sometimes oversubscribe their production estimates, the established fundraisers would usually approach Carlyle. A contribution from him, they believed, would almost guarantee success, and he, still besotted with the theatre world, could generally be counted on to buy at least four units in anything he reckoned would have the chance of breaking even or better. Five thousand pounds was his minimum stake, still coming from the old account set up so many years ago and still thriving gently despite the annual onslaught of tax collectors.
Masters had gleaned that from time to time Carlyle had invested much larger sums, for by the time the two men had become acquainted, the Archangel felt he had developed a nose for real success. It was obviously a conceit, and though he was by no means infallible in this respect, he had gained a reputation for sound business sense not only among the managers, but also among many of the players whose careers he had helped by his activities.
Masters had learned all this by listening to a crippled man with a pleasant obsession and, since his marriage to Wanda, had become friendly with Margot as well as enjoying Hugh Carlyle’s company on the relatively few occasions he had met him.
“When Hugh phoned me he said he and Margot would be there tonight.”
“Certain to be, at an opening he’s got an interest in,” replied Wanda, “though whether we shall meet them or not is another matter. I don’t know what provisions there are at the Victory for Hugh’s wheelchair. I know that at some theatres he goes in through the scenery bay doors and he’s then lifted bodily up into a stage box. We are in the stalls.”
“At least we’ll be able to give them a wave of thanks,” said Masters as the driver slowed to approach the theatre outside which was a melée of other cars as well as people on foot. “From the look of this lot the first night at least will be a sellout.”
“Hugh usually knows what he’s doing. It’s obviously going to be a light, frothy piece and I don’t think there’s one like that on in the West End at the moment. So somebody has seen the gap and decided to plug it and Hugh has backed him. It will run, all being well, until something similar comes along to supersede it.”
“Good commercial stuff, in fact.”
“With Hugh, everything is commercial. Or he gives me that impression. He’s generous to a fault, but with him business is always business.”
“My impression, too,” said Masters, stretching to reach the door handle as the cab stopped several feet away from the kerb, prevented from getting closer by the throng.
The theatre was beginning to fill up. They had to pass several people to reach their seats in the middle of Row C. Masters handed Wanda the programme he had paused to buy, and a flat pack of plain Neapolitans, no bigger than an old-fashioned box of cigarettes. Wanda smiled her thanks. Neapolitans were a favourite with her and it was customary for Masters to carry a small box in his pocket on occasions such as this. Easy to handle, not noisy to open and not too many contents. At times she had thought that the choice was typical of him. Had even imagined, in fact, that if so convenient a pack had not existed, he would have invented it.
As they had guessed, and as the name suggested, Round the Barley was a romp. A sophisticated romp, of course, well-scripted, well-dressed, well-staged and unashamedly supporting the nostalgic belief that all who appear in such things should be good-looking, personable, well-spoken and—particularly in the case of the woman members of the cast—not too old for the parts they were playing.
“Chase me Charlie, round the barley …” Masters thought the words of the old song just about summed up the plot. Reason didn’t matter. It was the chasing that counted, and the one being chased most of the time by all and sundry was Carla Sanders, a young and very curvaceous blonde with good legs and the sinuous qualities of an eel when, as so often happened, she was obliged, literally, to avoid capture.
Masters admired the direction. Full use had been made of every stick of carefully chosen furniture as well as the plethora of exits and entrances to make the girl’s escapes possible. Her quick, well-timed but natural movem
ents always managed to put a double-decker revolving bookcase or a mobile tea trolley—activated by the same instrument that was used for controlling the television set—bang between her and her pursuer at every critical moment. It was as well-done and as entertaining as one of these modern underwater balletic displays by well-rehearsed teams of bathing girls.
The audience liked it for what it was. They had been entertained, not instructed or made to think, and had showed their appreciation by the number of calls after the final curtain.
As Masters and Wanda got to their feet to file out, Masters asked: “Have you to see Hugh and Margot again before we go?”
“No. As you know, they’re up in the stage box and it’s a long climb. I said goodbye to Margot in the interval when she came into the bar. In any case, they are going to a cast party.”
“So we can go straight home?”
“Oh, yes. I shall be ringing Margot tomorrow. She asked me to, to talk about Housmans, now you and Hugh seem to have come to some definite arrangement.”
“Fair enough.”
Masters and Wanda wandered slowly with the crowd to the foyer and found their cabby waiting for them.
“You haven’t been held up, I hope?” asked Masters.
“We can always get the nod about the time the curtain’s coming down, Chief. Give it another ten on an opening night and you’re never far out.”
He ushered them into the cab and slowly began to pick his way through the crowd. Backstage at the Victory, at about the same time, the cast was percolating off the stage. They were all happy. They had come through the gruelling feat of a first night without any drastic mishaps and it seemed certain they had a success on their hands. There was a lot to talk about, to joke about, to laugh about. After the first round of congratulations among themselves, kissings, darling-you-were-wonderful type splurging, they had begun to leave the set. Carla Sanders, overwhelmed with more bouquets than she could safely carry, and beset by the male members of the cast, moved towards the prompt exit to get to her dressing room. Somebody had once said he knew why the theatre had been named the Victory. On the deck of Nelson’s famous flagship was the brass plate bearing the inscription “Nelson fell here.” A less than respectful visitor, after slipping on it and then reading the words inscribed thereon, is reported to have said he wasn’t bloody surprised Nelson fell at that spot. Anybody treading on it would measure his length just as he had done himself. This, claimed the one who knew, was why the Victory Theatre had been so named. The dressing rooms were all below stage level, and the descent thereto was by means of a short but wickedly spiralled metal stairway. From time to time, various actors had emulated Nelson and had fallen there. Which is just what Carla Sanders did.
Bitter Water Page 2
