by Simon Brett
The house was a small Edwardian semi, but it had been rearranged and decorated with taste and skill. Or rather, someone had started rearranging and decorating it with taste and skill. As he climbed the stairs, Charles noticed that the wall had been stripped and rendered, but not yet repapered. In the same way, someone had begun to sand the paint off the banister. Most of the wood was bare, but obstinate streaks of white paint clung in crevices. The house gave the impression that someone had started to renovate it with enormous vigour and then run out of enthusiasm. Or money.
The soprano wailing of the Liebestod from Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde drew him to Geoffrey Winter’s study. Here the conversion had very definitely been completed. Presumable the room had been intended originally as a bedroom, but it was now lined with long pine shelves which extended at opposite ends of the room to make a desk and a surface for an impressive selection of hi-fi. The shelves were covered with a cunning disarray of hooks, models, old bottles and earthenware pots. The predominant colour was a pale, pale mustard, which toned in well with the pine. On the wall facing the garden French windows gave out on to a small balcony.
Geoffrey Winter was fiddling with his hi-fi. The Wagner disc was being played on an expensive-looking grey metal turntable. Leads ran from the tuner to a small Japanese cassette radio.
‘Sorry, Charles, just getting this on to cassette. So much handier. It’s nearly finished.’
‘This room’s really good, Geoffrey.’
‘I like it. One of the advantages of not having children – you have space.’
‘And more money.’
Geoffrey grimaced. ‘Hmm. Depends on the size of your mortgage. And your other bills. And how work’s going.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an architect.’ Which explained the skill of the decor.
‘Work for yourself?’
‘Yes. Well, that is to say, I work for whoever will pay for my services. So at the moment, yes, I seem to work just for myself. No one’s building anything. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s sherry or sherry, I’m afraid.’ And, Charles noticed, not a particularly good sherry. Cypress domestic. Tut, tut, getting spoiled by the ostentatious array of Hugo’s drinks cupboard. It would take a distressingly short time to pick up all the little snobberies of materialism.
While Geoffrey poured the drinks, Charles moved over to the shelves to inspect a theatrical model he had noticed when he came in. It was a stage set of uneven levels and effectively placed columns. Plastic figures were grouped on the rostra.
Geoffrey answered the unspoken question as he handed Charles his sherry. ‘Set for The Caucasian Chalk Circle. I’m directing it for the Backstagers in the new year.’
‘You’re a meticulous planner.’
‘I think as a director you have to be. In anything to do with the theatre, in fact. You have to have planned every detail.’
‘Yes, 1 could tell that from your Trigorin.’
‘I’m not sure whether that’s meant to be a compliment or not, Charles.’
‘Nor am I.’
Geoffrey laughed.
‘No, Geoffrey, what I mean is, you had more stagecraft than the rest of the company put together, but occasionally one or two tricks – like that very slow delivery on key lines, separating the words, giving each equal emphasis – well, I was conscious of the artifice.’
Geoffrey smiled, perhaps with slight restraint. ‘Don’t waste it, Charles. Keep it for the Critics’ Circle. Professional criticism.’
The record had ended. The stylus worried against the centre groove. Geoffrey seemed suddenly aware of it and, with a look at Charles, he switched off the cassette player. He replaced the disc in its sleeve and marshalled it into a rack.
The conversation clipped. Charles found himself asking about the previous night’s television. Dear, oh dear. Slip-pine into commuter habits. ‘Did you get back in time for your ration of rape and murder in 1, Claudius last night?’
‘No. I was back in time but I left Vee to watch it on her own. I did some work on Leontes. Trying to learn the bloody lines.’
‘Shakespearean verse at its most tortured. How do you learn them? Have you any magic method?’
“Fraid not. It’s just read through, read through. Time and again.’
‘It’s the only way.’
At that moment Vee called from downstairs to say the meal was ready.
There was quite a crowd in the Back Room before the Critics’ Circle. And for once they had a topic of conversation other than the theatrical doings of the Breckton Backstagers.
Denis and Mary Hobbs had been burgled. They had come home from their weekend cottage at about midnight the previous night and found the house full of police. A burglar had smashed one of the diamond panes in a downstairs front window, reached through and opened it, gone upstairs and emptied the contents of Mary’s jewel box.
That’s what’s so horrible about it,’ she was saying into her fourth consolatory double gin, ‘– the idea of someone in your house, going through your things. It’s ghastly.’
‘Were they vandals too? Did they dirty your bedclothes and scrawl obscenities on your walls?’ asked sour Reggie hopefully.
‘No, at least we were spared that. Remarkable tidy burglars, closed all the cupboards and doors after them. No fingerprints either, so the CID. boys tell us. But After her proprietory reference to the police force, she warmed to her role as tragic queen. ‘. . . that only seems to make it worse. It was so cold-blooded. And the idea of other people invading our privacy – ooh, it makes me feel cold all over.’
‘Did they get much?’ asked Reggie, with morbid interest.
‘Oh yes, there was quite a lot of good stuff in my jewellery box. Not everyday things – I dare say a lot of them I don’t wear more than twice a year. But I’d got them out of the bank for this Masonic do of Denis’s last Monday and it didn’t seem worth putting them back, because next week there’s this dinner-dance thing at the Hilton – did I tell you about that?’
The snide expressions on the faces of the surrounding Backstagers suggested that Mary missed no opportunity to give them details of her posh social life. Anyway, the question seemed to be rhetorical. The role was shifting from tragic queen to wonderful person.
‘Oh, I don’t care about the stuff as jewellery. I’m not materialistic. But they’re presents’ Den’s given me over the years, birthday, Christmases and so on. That’s the trouble-the insurance will cover the value in money terms, but it can never replace what those things mean to me.
‘It serves us bloody right,’ said her husband. ‘We’ve talked enough times about having a burglar alarm put in. But you put it off. You think it’ll never happen to you.’
‘Do the police reckon there’s a chance of getting the culprits?’
‘I don’t know. Never commit themselves, the buggers, do they? But I think it’s unlikely. They seem to reckon the best chance was missed when Bob first saw the light.’
‘What light?’
‘Oh, didn’t you hear?’ You tell them, Bob.’
Robert Chubb took his cue and graciously moved to centre stage. ‘I was the one who discovered the ghastly crime. Proper little Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps I should take it up professionally.
‘I’d been sorting through some stuff in the office last night after I handed the bar over to Reggie and I was walking home past Denis and Mary’s at about ten-fifteen, when I saw this light.’
Years of amateur dramatics would not allow him to miss the pregnant pause. ‘The light was just by the broken win(low. It shone on the jagged glass. I thought immediately of burglars and went back to the office to phone the police. Incidentally –’ he added in self-justification, in case Denis’s last remark might be construed by anyone as a criticism, ‘the boys in blue told me I was absolutely right not to try to tackle the criminal. Said they get as much trouble from members of the public who fancy themselves as heroes as they do from the a
ctual crooks.
‘Anyway, my intervention does not seem to have been completely useless. They reckon the burglar must have seen me and that’s what frightened him off. He appears to have scampered away in some disarray.’
‘Yes,’ Mary Hobbs chipped in, temperamentally unsuited to listening to anyone for that length of time. ‘He left his torch behind in the window sill. The police are hoping to be able to trace him through that.’
Robert Chubb, piqued at losing his punch-line, changed the subject. Like a child who dictates the rules of the game because it’s his ball, he brought them back to his dramatic society. ‘Oh, Charles, about the World Premières Festival, did you bring along that play of yours? The committee would really like to have a look at it. Need a good new play, you know.’
Embarrassed at the fact that he actually had got it with him, Charles handed over the script with some apology about it being very light.
‘Oh, the lighter the better. I’m sure it has the professional touch. And, talking of that, I do hope that in your criticism this evening you will apply professional standards to The Seagull. We always do and hope others will. So please don’t pull your punches.’
‘All right. I won’t.’
As soon as Charles started speaking to the rows of earnest Backstagers in the rehearsal room, it was clear that they did not like being judged by professional standards.
He began with a few general observations on Chekhov and the difficulties that his plays presented. He referred to the years of work which had gone into the Moscow Arts Theatre’s productions. He then went into detail on Chekhovian humour and stressed the inadvisability of playing Russian servants as mugging Mummerset yokels.
He moved on from this to the rest of the cast. He gave a general commendation and then made detailed criticism. He praised Charlotte’s controlled innocence as Nina and the technical skill of Geoffrey’s Trigorian. He faulted Clive Steele’s Konstantin for lack of discipline and regretted that the part of Madame Arkadina was beyond the range of all but a handful of the world’s actresses. But, rather against his better judgement and to sugar the pill, he congratulated Mary Hobbs on a brave attempt.
He thought he had been fair. Out of deference to their amateur status and because he had no desire to cause unpleasantness, he had toned down the criticism he would have given a professional cast. He thought his remarks might have been overindulgent, but otherwise unexceptionable.
The shocked silence which followed his conclusion indicated that the Backstagers did not share his opinion. Reggie, who seemed to get lumbered with (or perhaps sought after) all official functions, was chairing the meeting. He rose to his feet. ‘Well, some fairly controversial views there from Mr. Parrish. I don’t think everyone’s going to agree with all that.’ A murmur of agreement came back from the audience. ‘Still, thank you. Any questions?’
There was an ‘after you’ silence and then Shad Scott-Smith rose to his feet. He spoke with a heavy irony which obviously appealed to the mood of the gathering. ‘Well, first of all, I’d like to thank Mr. Parrish for his comments and what I’d like to offer is not so much a question as a humble defence.
‘As perpetrator of the terrible crime of The Seagull.
This sally drew an appreciative titter. ‘I feel I should apologize, both to the cast, whom I misled so disastrously, and to the good folk of Breckton, who so unwisely bought all the tickets for all four performances and who made the terrible mistake of enjoying the production very much.’
This got an outright laugh of self-congratulation. ‘And I would also like to apologize to the local newspaper critics who, out of sheet malice and stupidity, gave such good reviews to my production of The Cherry Orchard last year, since they didn’t know they were dealing with someone who had no appreciation of Chekhov. And while I’m at it, I’d better tick off the adjudicators of the Inter-Regional Drama Festival who were foolish enough to award my production of The Bear a Special Commendation.’
He sat down to a riot of applause. Charles saw he was going to have an uphill fight. ‘All right, I’m sorry. I had no intention of offending anyone. I am here as a professional actor and director and I’m giving you my opinions as I would to the members of a professional company. Everyone keeps saying that these Critics’ Circles are not just meant to be a mutual admiration society.’
‘No, they’re certainly not,’ said Robert Chubb with unctuous charm. ‘I set them up as a forum for informed discussion, for the give-and-take of intelligent ideas. I’m sure we can all take criticism and that’s what we are all here for.’
Charles thought maybe at last he had got a supporter. But Robert Chubb soon dispelled the idea as he went on. ‘The only comment I would have is that it does seem to me rather a pity that the only member of the cast for whom you managed unstinting praise was one of our newest members and that you were somewhat dismissive of some of our most experienced actors and actresses. Particularly of a lady to whom we all owe many splendid performances, not least her Lady Macbeth last year.’
This spirited defence of Mary Hobbs produced another warm burst of applause. Charles was tempted to ask what relevance a performance in a production of Macbeth he couldn’t possibly have seen should have to a production of The Seagull he had seen, but there didn’t seem any point.
He had misjudged the nature of the meeting entirely. All that had been required of him had been a pat on the back for all concerned, not forgetting the charming young man who tore his ticket and the good ladies who made the coffee for the interval. All he could do now was to insure that that meeting ended as soon as possible and get the hell out of the place. And never come back.
Mentally he cursed Hugo for ever letting him in for it, or at least for not briefing him as to what to expect.
He then realized with a slight shock that Hugo wasn’t there. Nor was Charlotte. Nor Clive Steele. It seemed strange.
As he thought about it, he started again to feel guilty about the way he had left Hugo the night before. He hated to let things like that fester. Stupid misunderstandings should be cleared up as soon as possible. He was too old to lose friends over trivialities. Once he’d stopped the Backstagers baying for his blood, he’d go round and see Hugo and apologize.
But there was still more Critics’ Circling to be weathered. It was hard work. There was no common ground for discussion. The Backstagers were only capable of talking about the Backstagers. When Charles made a comparison with a West End production of The Three Sisters, someone would say, ‘Well, of course, when Walter directed it down here When he praised the comic timing of Michael Hordern, someone would say, ‘Oh, but Philip’s a wonderful actor too. If you’d seen him in The Rivals . . .’ It was like talking to a roomful of politicians. Every question was greeted, not by an answer, but by an aggrieved assertion of something totally different.
It did end. Eventually. Reggie gave an insipid vote of thanks with some vague remarks about ‘having been given lots of food for thought . . . interesting, and even surprising, to hear the views of someone from the outside.’
Charles prepared his getaway. He thanked Geoffrey and Vee for the meal and made for the exit, hoping that he was seeing the last of the Breckton Backstagers.
As he reached the door, he overheard a lacquered voice commenting, ‘Don’t know who he thinks he is anyway. I’ve never seen him on the television or anything.’
Charles Paris knew who they were talking about.
Hugo opened the front door. His eyes were dull and registered no surprise at the visit. He was still wearing the clothes he had had on the day before and their scruffy appearance suggested he hadn’t been to bed in the interim. The smell of whisky which blasted from him suggested that he hadn’t stopped drinking either.
‘I came round to apologize for going off like that last night.’
‘Apologize,’ Hugo echoed stupidly. He didn’t seem to know what Charles was talking about.
‘Yes. Can I come in?’
‘Sure. Have a drink.’ Hugo led
the way, stumbling, into the sitting room. It was a mess. Empty whisky bottles of various brands bore witness to a long session. He must have been working through the collection. Incongruously, the scene was cosily lit by an open fire, heaped with glowing smokeless fuel.
‘Was cold,’ Hugo mumbled by way of explanation. He swayed towards the fire and removed the still burning gas poker. ‘Shouldn’t have left that in.’ He unscrewed the lead with excessive concentration. ‘Whisky?’
‘Thank you.’
Hugo slopped out half a tumbler of Glenlivet and handed it over. ‘Cheers.’ He slumped into an armchair with his own glass.
Charles took a long sip. It was welcome after the idiocies of the Critics’ Circle. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’
‘Huh. Charlotte.’ Hugo spoke without violence but with great bitterness. ‘Charlotte’s finished.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Charlotte – finished. The great love affair, Charlotte and Hugo – over.’
‘You mean she’s left you?’
‘Not here.’ Hugo was almost incoherent.
‘She wasn’t here when you got back last night?’
‘Not here.’
‘Where do you think she’s gone?’
‘I don’t know. To see lover boy.’
‘Is there a lover boy?’
‘I suppose so. That’s the usual story. Pretty young girl. Middle-aged husband. Don’t you read the Sunday papers?’ Hugo spoke in a low, hopeless mumble.
‘Have you been in to work today?’ Hugo shook his head. ‘Just drinking?’ A small nod.
They sat and drank. Charles tried to think of anything he could say that might be helpful. There was nothing. He could only stay, be there.
After a long, long silence, he started to feel cold. The fire was nearly dead. Charles got up briskly. ‘Where’s the coal, Hugo? I’ll go and get some more.
‘You’ll never find it. Let me. Come on, I’ll show you.’ Hugo led the way unsteadily into the kitchen. He picked up a torch and fumbled it on.
