The Serpent's Sting

by Robert Gott

  As soon as we stepped inside the door, any suspicion that Peter Gilbert might have designs on our mother’s money vanished. Everything that the eye fell upon spoke of reserved opulence. We were taken into what can only be called the drawing room, where Cloris told us that John had gone out that morning and that he hadn’t returned. He’d said nothing to her about expecting visitors. She was reserved, but pleasant, and said that she was looking forward to Christmas lunch.

  ‘Will John be coming, do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘I think so. I know he behaved badly the other day. He needs time to think about things, and I’m sure he’ll learn to accommodate the situation.’

  Brian laughed, which I thought at first was a misjudgement, but Cloris laughed, too, and volunteered that she was sure our mother wouldn’t appreciate being called a ‘situation’. She didn’t offer us anything to drink, and I got the impression that our unexpected presence in the house made her uncomfortable.

  I was, of course, curious about the rooms in the Gilbert house, particularly Mrs Gilbert’s bedroom. If I could get a look at that, I’d have some notion of what kind of woman she’d been, and I don’t mean that I’m a sensitive, in the clairvoyant or mystical sense. I just mean that a room can be eloquent about the person who sleeps in it. I couldn’t just ask Cloris to take us upstairs to the bedrooms, so I thanked her, apologised for disturbing her, and stood up to leave. She waved the apology aside as being unnecessary, but made no move to prolong our visit. Before closing the door behind us, she reiterated that she was looking forward to Christmas lunch.

  Out in Drummond Street, I commented on the fact that Cloris had gone the minimum distance in fulfilling the demands of etiquette, and no further. Brian leapt to her defence and said that just as we knocked she might have been on her way to the dunny, and that she might have been uncomfortable throughout our visit.

  ‘Should we hang about outside until John comes back?’ he asked.

  ‘No. If he hasn’t been home all day he might have some sort of assignation, and he might not come home at all. We know nothing about his private life. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t a girl tucked away somewhere. He’s his father’s son, after all.’

  ‘Lucky him,’ Brian said wistfully, and we walked back towards our mother’s house.

  Tuesday’s performance lacked the panache of Monday’s. This sometimes happens in the theatre. There’s no dramatic difference, just a strange sense of enervation. Roger Teddles agreed as he scratched first his groin and then his armpit.

  ‘I don’t think the kiddies notice, though,’ he said.

  When I arrived home I ran a bath, and as it was filling to the mandated depth, I remembered that I hadn’t yet done anything about moving out. This would be tomorrow’s priority. There was no temptation to luxuriate in the bath. Its shallowness created the effect of lying in a puddle. All I needed was to freshen up and get the smell of the theatre out of my skin and hair. My thoughts turned to Geraldine. She still hadn’t returned. I was a little concerned by my inability to conjure her face clearly in my mind. This was because our relationship had been rushed, sudden, and brief. I hadn’t had time to commit her to memory.

  It was while I was worrying about this that Brian entered the bathroom without knocking. This habit had always annoyed me. We exchanged the time-honoured call and response of, ‘Do you mind?’ and ‘Not at all. Thanks for asking.’ With this out of the way, Brian sat on the edge of the bath and said, ‘I took Cloris Gilbert to the pictures this morning. I rang her up — Peter gave me the number — and I flat out asked her if she liked Bob Hope and did she want to go to see Road to Singapore, and she said yes.’

  He paused.

  ‘Do you want me to say “Well done”?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, I do. I figured I could ask discreet questions about John and their mother.’

  My heart sank. I didn’t have much confidence in Brian’s powers of discretion.

  ‘You didn’t …?’

  ‘Didn’t what, Will? Tell Cloris that her brother believes their mother was murdered by their father? Did I bring this up at interval, or during one of the musical numbers? No, I didn’t, because I’m not actually a moron.’

  ‘All right. Keep your hair on. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘You have a talent for giving offence. Do you want to hear what I learned, or not?’

  ‘Of course I want to hear. Don’t be so childish.’

  ‘All right. That huge house pretty much belongs to Cloris and John now. Peter lives here mainly, and he’s got no intention of selling it, and they can live in it as long as they want to. Why are you having a bath?’

  Brian’s non sequiturs were irritating.

  ‘I like to be clean.’

  ‘Oh, you’re seeing Geraldine tonight. You should shave.’

  ‘I’m not seeing Geraldine. She’s at Puckapunyal, painting jeeps. I’m not going out at all. Will you please stick to one topic? You must have been a nightmare to teach. Cloris?’

  ‘I like her. She’s very self-possessed.’

  ‘That’s an improvement on Darlene, who was just possessed.’

  I shouldn’t have mentioned Darlene, but whenever I heard her name, I had an automatic tendency to say something about her that was undeniably true.

  ‘What’s Darlene got to do with it?’ Brian asked, with a generous absence of pique.

  ‘Nothing. I’m sorry, Brian. That was small of me. Really, I am sorry.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I sometimes wonder about Darlene,’ he said, ‘but mostly I don’t give her a second thought. It’s funny how you can be married to someone and how quickly you can shunt her to an obscure siding in the mind.’

  ‘Cloris?’

  ‘I was very discreet. She was less discreet, mostly about John. She said he didn’t come home last night. That’s a fairly regular thing, although she has no idea where he goes. He’s never mentioned a girl to her. He wouldn’t, though, because they don’t really get on. They don’t argue, but they don’t talk to each other much, either. She wasn’t surprised at his over-reaction to the news about Mother’s and Peter’s relationship, and to Fulton. He’s spent his whole life over-reacting to things. He never reacts, she said. He only ever over-reacts. Apparently he used to throw the most astonishing tantrums when he was a child. Once, he put his fist through the plaster in his bedroom, and Peter refused to have it repaired. The hole is still there, as a reminder of what happens if you can’t control yourself. She thinks he’s unstable. She didn’t say that in a nasty way — she seemed sad about it, more than anything. She was happy to talk, Will. Maybe she needed to, or maybe I have the kind of manner that encourages sudden intimacy. That will be handy in this line of work.’

  I stepped out of the bath and towelled myself dry.

  ‘We can’t get any further until we meet with John Gilbert.’

  ‘I’ll telephone.’

  He left the bathroom, and by the time I was dressed, he was back.

  ‘He’s still not there. I didn’t even have to ask. Cloris said he’d never spent two nights away, and that he was usually back by late afternoon. She sounded worried. What do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea. It’s a bit early to be alerting the police. He’s a grown man, after all. I imagine he’ll turn up later.’

  ‘Cloris did seem worried.’

  ‘Has she told her father?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t want to worry him. He might come home later, as you say. She said she’ll come with me to the Tivoli tomorrow night.’

  This was one non sequitur too many, and I went to my room to read.

  Percy Wavel was waiting in the wings after Wednesday’s performance. He followed me to the dressing room when I came off, and told me without much enthusiasm that the Tivoli management was quite pleased with my performance and that they wanted to profile me in The List
ener-In. Although this was mostly a radio guide and personality magazine, it seemed appropriate, given that the Tivoli broadcast a program each Sunday.

  ‘They want you photographed in and out of make-up.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine. When?’

  ‘Now. The photographic studio is around the corner. They’re expecting you.’

  ‘You want me to walk through the streets like this?’

  ‘It’ll be quicker than taking it all off and putting it all back on again.’

  I suspected that Wavel was enjoying my discomfort, so I gathered up my street clothes and said, ‘Let’s go.’

  I’d be lying if I said that my progress up Bourke Street went unnoticed. Wavel had dropped back a few paces so as to avoid any association with me. I held my head high, and imperiously accepted both the jeers and the cheers from passers-by. Women shielded their children from me, which was odd given that some of them may well have spent good money so that those same children could laugh at me.

  Percy Wavel introduced me to the photographer, and left, claiming that he had a new act to rehearse for the Tivoli show. He barely spoke two words to me. He barely spoke to anyone, it seemed to me, so I didn’t take offence. I simply thought him strange and repulsive.

  The photographer was a squat, bull-necked man in his sixties, whose low brow and dark five-o’clock shadow exactly fitted my idea of the criminal type. It was a surprise to discover that he considered photography an art, and that he expected his sitters to express no impatience as he made innumerable adjustments to his lights, and barked out instructions to tilt the head this way, to widen the eyes marginally, or to lift the skirts higher. When he thought he’d captured enough of me in my grotesque incarnation, he directed me to a small dressing room where I was to change into clothes that had been prepared for me. There was a young woman there who helped me, and I thought what a blessing it would be if the Tivoli employed a dresser. My wig was taken off, my make-up removed, my hair shampooed and towelled dry, in no time at all. I sat before the mirror in my underwear as she applied discreet eyeliner, defined my eyebrows, and invisibly evened out my skin. I had no idea what I was to wear, and was delighted to discover that it was black-tie, with a winged collar. She combed my hair, and trimmed it where it needed trimming.

  ‘This is very glamourous,’ I said.

  ‘Apparently that’s the idea,’ she said, and smiled.

  I liked her enormously, although I didn’t ever learn her name.

  In the studio, Alex, the photographer, examined me with a critical eye and said, ‘I’ve made worse heads than yours look good. You’re an improvement on the bloke before you. They tried this idea with him — ugly dame, glamorous actor, in and out of make-up. I took the pictures, but frankly the before-and-after weren’t that much different. They decided not to run with the story. Did they fire him in the end?’

  ‘No. He died.’

  ‘Well, the idea just might work with you. It’s always hard to tell until I see the final image.’

  This was hardly a ringing endorsement for my looks, but at least he didn’t think I was a gargoyle. For the next two hours, I stood, sat, and leaned as Alex photographed me from every conceivable angle. He finally declared that he thought he had a sufficient number of shots to work with, and he said that by the time he’d finished touching up and fiddling with the images, I wouldn’t recognise the improbably handsome creature in the pages of The Listener-In.

  ‘The problem with this sort of photography,’ he said, ‘is that it leads gullible people to believe that you actually look like a movie star, and even movie stars don’t look like movie stars. I’ve seen Dietrich in the flesh, and, believe me, von Sternberg is a genius. You’ll have to get used to the fact that when people meet you, they’ll always be disappointed.’

  I recognised the truth of his caution, and assured him that at this stage of my life I’d become used to the disappointment I engendered in others.

  With my make-up removed and in my ordinary clothes, I felt positively drab. I walked past the Tivoli and wondered how Cloris had enjoyed her descent into vaudeville. The theatre was closed, but the stage door was still manned, and there were a lot of people about as I returned the dame’s costume to my dressing room. I sat in my chair and stared at myself in the mirror. The circle of lights around it were brutal, and I was in danger of becoming maudlin as I failed to reassure myself that my resemblance to Tyrone Power was as striking as I’d always thought it to be.

  Percy Wavel interrupted my contemplation. Without being invited, he sat beside me in Roger Teddles’ chair. I cast a sideways look at him. I would like to say he was like a bottled spider, simply because I so love that expression from Richard the Third, and I’d never met anyone who fitted it. Percy Wavel didn’t fit it, either. He was plain, but lacked the energetic, frantic creepiness implied in the description. He was ordinary; less than ordinary. He was my director, and I had no sense of him as a man.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Where is who?’

  ‘Geraldine Buchanan. I don’t like her understudy.’

  ‘She’s where she always is when she’s called away.’

  ‘I have no idea what that means.’

  ‘She’s painting jeeps at Puckapunyal.’

  Percy Wavel laughed incredulously.

  ‘So she’s done a runner,’ he said.

  It was my turn to be incredulous.

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I was hoping you might know. You left with her on Friday, correct?’

  I had no intention of giving Percy Wavel even a glimpse into my private life. I didn’t answer his question. Instead, I asked one of my own.

  ‘How often did the army second her services?’

  ‘That’s easy. Never. What services?’

  ‘She’s an artist.’

  ‘She’s an actress.’

  ‘The army has never seconded her so that her understudy covered her performance from time to time?’

  ‘Never. She was here on Friday, and now she’s not here, and Sophie is terrible.’

  ‘Are you saying that this is the first time Geraldine has been away?’

  ‘The first time. It’s unprofessional. She told no one, except you apparently, and you didn’t think the company might be interested.’

  I was torn. My feelings for Geraldine meant that I was reluctant to agree with Percy Wavel that Geraldine’s absence seemed, on the face of it, to be unprofessional and inconsiderate. As an actor, one was always conscious of one’s responsibilities to a whole cast.

  ‘It was my understanding that Geraldine was regularly called away to do war work, and that the Tivoli was happy to accommodate this.’

  Percy Wavel’s bland face was enlivened by disbelief.

  ‘This is what she told you, is it? And you believed her? Have you ever heard of such an arrangement, in any occupation?’

  ‘The theatre isn’t just any occupation, though, is it?’

  I felt foolish saying this, largely because I realised the truth of what Percy Wavel had said. I’d accepted what Geraldine had told me simply because it had been she who’d told me. Now I saw how ludicrous it was.

  ‘She seems to have either taken you into her confidence, or taken you for a ride. Or both. Do you have any idea where she is?’

  ‘She’s at Puckapunyal army base.’

  ‘If you’re sure of that, perhaps you’d be good enough to telephone the base and ask Miss Buchanan what the fuck she thinks she’s doing.’

  He stood up, and to my amazement, before he left he said, ‘I like what you’re doing with the part. You’re a vast improvement on Jim Stokes.’

  I’m ashamed to say that his praise gave me a lift.

  It was quite late when I arrived at Mother’s house, and I went straight up to my room. I was exhausted. The hours I’d spent in the photog
rapher’s studio had been draining. There was no point telephoning Puckapunyal at this hour. I’d do that in the morning. I was troubled by Percy Wavel’s remarks about Geraldine. It was clearly a misunderstanding, or a miscommunication at the very least. My concern was ameliorated by a general feeling of satisfaction with the direction my career was taking. Playing a pantomime dame wasn’t the ideal role for me. It would, however, lead to other opportunities, particularly as the production was proving successful at the box office. I closed my eyes in a state of gentle euphoria, and I descended into such a deep sleep that I didn’t hear Brian knock on my door or enter my bedroom. He had to shake me quite vigorously by the shoulder to rouse me, and for a moment I couldn’t place him in the landscape of the dream I’d been having.

  ‘John Gilbert’s gone missing.’

  Still only half-awake. I thought he was talking about the actor.

  ‘He died in 1936, didn’t he?’ I asked vaguely. ‘Has someone stolen his body? They should check Greta Garbo’s attic.’

  ‘No, not that John Gilbert. Our John Gilbert. I’ve just come from Cloris’s house. We came back from the Tivoli, and he still wasn’t back from wherever he’d been. No, that’s not exactly true. He’d been back, while we were at the theatre. His room was a mess, the front door of the house was open, and one of his shoes was just outside the door. It looks like he left under duress.’

  ‘You think someone kidnapped him?’

  ‘Either that, or he wanted it to look that way. Cloris thinks he’s been taken.’

  ‘Well, have you gone to the police?’

  ‘Yes, of course we have. Immediately. They didn’t seem too concerned. In fact, they were a bit bloody blasé, and reckoned people staged their disappearance all the time — to avoid Manpower mostly. I didn’t tell Cloris what John told you, and now I don’t know what to do.’