by Simon Brett
With this in mind, neither Dame Aurelia Howarth nor George Birkitt went up for a drink. Both no doubt (though the latter would never admit it) had gone back to do a bit of work on the week’s lines.
The absence of his idol left Aurelia’s Number One Fan at something of a loose end. Since his first contested appearance, Romney Kirkstall had come to every recording and hung around on the fringe of Aurelia’s circle in the bar afterwards. He never had a drink, neither buying for himself nor accepting anyone else’s offer.
He looked so helpless that once he had got a large Bell’s (very skilfully bought by Peter Lipscombe), Charles went across to him.
‘Dob not coming up?’ asked Romney Kirkstall anxiously.
‘Don’t think so. Busy schedule this week. I expect she’s gone back to catch up on some sleep.’
‘Oh dear.’ The little man looked very upset. The focus of his whole week had been removed.
‘I’m sure she’ll come up for a drink next time,’ Charles comforted. ‘It’s just that we’ve got an overnight shoot on Thursday, so it’s a tight week.’
Romney Kirkstall still looked distraught. ‘I wanted to see her. I’ve got a book I wanted her to autograph.’
‘Oh. Well, next week.’
‘I suppose so,’ Romney Kirkstall conceded dismally. ‘I was so excited to find it, though. It’s a biography of Dab that I’ve been looking for for ages. Found it on a barrow outside a second-hand bookshop in Putney.’
‘Oh, really.’
‘It’s very rare, you know. Called I Dream of Dancing. You know, after the song.’
‘Oh yes. I’ve heard of it.’ It was difficult not to have done. The song had been a big hit in a revue in the early Thirties and had virtually become Aurelia Howarth’s signature tune.
‘Oh, I did want to get her signature today.’ Romney Kirkstall still sounded desolated.
‘You’ll get it in a week.’
‘Anything can happen in a week.’
Charles looked up sharply, his dormant detective instinct aroused. But no, there was no threat in Romney Kirkstall’s words. He was a little man with an obsession, but that obsession wasn’t murder.
Charles thought perhaps showing an interest would cheer him up, so asked Romney if he might look at the book.
It was the right question. There was a scurry into the duffle bag and the precious trophy was presented to him.
The book was a battered little blue volume. Presumably it had had a decorative dust jacket, but that was long gone. Charles turned instinctively to the date of publication – 1940. It was not surprising that Romney Kirkstall had had difficulty in finding it. Most books vanish pretty quickly, but show business biographies must be the most quickly dated and evanescent forms of literature.
The name of the book’s author was Max de Pouray, which meant nothing to Charles. He glanced at the text as he flicked through and recognised the breathless sycophancy of the genre.
And of course Dob appeared in his famous Midnight Revue at the ‘Pav’. All the stars in London’s theatrical galaxy were there, and she outshone them all. Dressed in the simplest gown of white silk, in such company as the Prince of Wales, Lord and Lady Louis Mountbatten, Mrs Dudley Ward, the Duchess of Portland, Lady Victoria Wemyss, the Duke and Duchess of Westminster, the Duke of Norfolk and half the noble scions of Debrett’s, a glittering company that must have left most of this sceptred isle’s stately homes empty, it was Dob who was the ‘wow’ of the evening . . .
There was a lot more in similar vein, but Charles found the photographs more interesting. They were brownish, and many had the posed quality of publicity stills. What they revealed most forcibly was Aurelia Howarth’s natural beauty. At fifteen, while she was a humble member of the chorus, she already had a remarkable purity of line and, maturing through the photographs, she retained the softness of youth. In spite of the vagaries of hair-styling and the ridiculous nature of some of her revue costumes, her quality shone through. And the soft studio lighting of the period gave her outline that blurred indistinction which she somehow still retained.
There were a few less posed shots, though they still looked pretty formal. Over dinner at the Café Royal. In a deck chair on a transatlantic liner. Relaxing on the beach at Nice with a handsome young man . . . It was with shock that Charles realised that her escort must be her husband. A photograph of their wedding confirmed it.
It was hard to imagine from the grinning skeleton he now was that Barton Rivers had once been such a dashing figure. With his body fleshed out and a thick crop of dark hair sleeked back on his head, he looked very much the matinée idol.
But the photographs did not offer much evidence of his career. After all, the book’s subject was Aurelia, and it seemed that they had rarely worked together. There was one shot of them with two other couples dancing in front of a backdrop of a desert island. The caption read ‘In the Palm of My Hand with a Palm Overhead from Careless Feet.’ And there was a picture of the pair sitting in a Bentley over the legend, ‘Husband and Wife – from Death Takes A Short Cut.’ The photograph looked like a film still.
What was remarkable about it was that they looked so familiar. The photograph was only a half-page and the whole of the Bentley was in shot, so it was difficult to see much detail of their faces. Aurelia wore one of her floating gowns, and a hat tied on with a scarf. Barton wore a blazer and cravat, and his hair was obscured by a large white flat cap. The car, which must have been a lot newer when the photograph was taken, was identical to the one they now drove around in.
In fact, to the casual eye, the photograph could have been taken a few weeks before, when the couple drove away from Bernard Walton’s house after the day’s filming.
‘Do you know anything about this film?’ Charles asked.
Romney Kirkstall shook his head. ‘Never heard of it. But then I’ve always concentrated on Dab’s theatrical work. That is, until she stopped doing theatre and started television.’
Charles looked again at the photograph, but was aware of Romney Kirkstall’s hands reaching out for the book. ‘If you don’t mind . . .’
There was a note of paranoia in the little man’s voice, as if he were genuinely afraid Charles was going to appropriate his prize.
‘Okay, thank you very much for letting me look at it.’ He handed the book back and, without another word, Romney Kirkstall stuffed it into his duffle bag and scuttled off.
Jay Lewis was chattering to some other young PAs. She turned round angrily when he ran a finger down her spine, but softened when she saw who it was. Which was nice.
‘Hello, Charles.’
‘Hi. I wondered if you fancied coming out for a meal.’
‘Now?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’ve just fixed to go and eat with Dinky and Lucretia.’ She indicated the other girls. ‘You could come with us, I suppose.’
‘Not really what I had in mind.’
She grinned a grin that suggested she knew what he did have in mind. And didn’t object too much.
‘Another time, maybe,’ he proposed.
‘Hock – A.’
‘And do you think your flatmate in Film Research could find out something for me?’
‘I’m sure she could.’
‘Good. I’ll tell you about it when we have our meal.’
He got another drink (had to buy his own – Peter Lipscombe had left) and looked round for someone to talk to. Most of the cast had gone. Jay and her friends were collecting their coats by the door. Knots of cameramen still drank lager. Men in lumberjack checked shirts grumbled ominously. Robin Laughton, the hearty Floor Manager, held court to some young men at a low table. Charles drifted over to join them.
Robin seemed pleased to see him. He was showing off his savoir-faire to a group of trainee Floor Managers, and wanted to demonstrate his easy familiarity with the stars. Since there weren’t any stars in the bar, he would make do with Charles Paris.
‘Charles, just passing on a few wrinkles
to the lads here. Charles Paris, this is Bob, and Tony and . . . er. . . .’
‘Dick,’ supplied the youngest young man, who looked vaguely familiar. ‘Actually. Charles, we met on The Strutters’ pilot. I was trailing Robin on that.’
‘Ah yes.’ That would explain the familiarity. ‘What’ve you been doing since?’
‘Oh, trailing other stuff. I went and did some of the Wragg and Bowen filming, and then I’ve been following this series for the elderly. Do you know they’ve got this presenter on that called Ian Reynolds, who’s nearly eighty?’
‘Yes. I had heard.’
‘He’s a great old boy. He’s not got a nerve in his body when it comes to-’,
Robin Laughton decided that the trainee had held the floor long enough and interrupted. ‘I must tell Charles about you and the walkie-talkie.’
‘Oh.’ Dick did not look keen on having the anecdote repeated.
But Robin Laughton pressed on with enthusiasm. Clearly it was a story that was going to show up Dick’s inexperience. ‘Charles, you know we all carry round these walkie-talkies, so that we can talk back to production control?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, one thing you’ve got to remember is to switch them off, otherwise you’re wired for sound at all times . . .’
‘Yes.’
The other two trainee Floor Managers snickered in anticipation of the story they had heard before, and Dick looked even more uncomfortable, but Robin continued inexorably. ‘Well, when Dick was very new, two or three months back, he was all wired up and he forgot about it and went off to the Gents to have a shit.’
This was the cue for the other trainees to burst into open laughter, which they dutifully did.
‘Everyone,’ Robin Laughton continued, ‘heard everything. You got a round of applause when you came back into the studio, didn’t you, Dick?’
‘Yes.’ He grinned and, reckoning that his baiting was now finished, tried to change the subject. ‘What interests me, Charles, about –’
But Robin Laughton wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. ‘Oh. Dick kept doing things like that when he started. After the lavatory incident. he went and lost his set one day.’
‘Well, I mislaid it.’ Dick was not enjoying this crude masculine teasing. ‘I just put it down somewhere. There’s a lot to think about when you start.’
‘Oh yes, a great deal,’ Robin Laughton mocked. Charles saw the Floor Manager for what he was, the sort of man who would offer no sympathetic assistance to trainees in his charge, but would take delight in watching them make mistakes. Having started niggling at Dick, he couldn’t leave the subject alone. ‘Actually, it was on The Strutters’ pilot you lost it, wasn’t it? Lost it for the bloody Dress Run. My, you were a useful Floor Manager, weren’t you?’
The other trainees laughed obediently. Dick spoke angrily. ‘Look, I found it straight after. Right at the beginning of Line-up.’
Robin Laughton continued his mockery. ‘He’d left it switched on, needless to say. Relaying anything it picked up into Production Control. Lucky the batteries weren’t completely flat.’
‘Where had you left it?’ asked Charles, suddenly interested.
‘In the Quick Change Room.’
‘And you found it just after six?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was there anyone in the Quick Change Room?’
Dick was relieved at the change of interrogator and replied readily. ‘Yes. Sadie Wainwright was in there, being her usual bad-tempered self.’
‘Bad-tempered to you or to someone else?’
‘Both. She appeared to be in the middle of an argument when I went in. and then bit my head off.’
‘Who was in there with her?’
‘Aurelia Howarth.’
CHAPTER NINE
ROD TISDALE’s FINAL message to the world, the sixth (or, if you count the pilot, seventh) episode of The Strutters was on a theme he had used before. In What’ll the Neighbours Say? much of the comedy had derived from the conflict between the wildly bohemian (if slightly overmature) Bernard Walton character and his more conventional neighbours, the Strutters. In The Strutters, the reactionary disapproval of the Colonel and his wife was moved to the centre of the action, and directed at everything in general and at their son in particular. This character, played by Nick Coxhill, became increasingly indistinguishable from the Bernard Walton character in What’ll the Neighbours Say? He it was now who turned up in episodes with black girlfriends or wearing kaftans (sit cams must be the only places in the world where kaftans are still worn as a symbol of Bohemianism) or playing music too loud. (In the original script for this last plot, Rod Tisdale had gone daringly modern and had the character smoking pot, but West End Television, feeling this was a bit strong, had changed it to playing music too loud, which, as they said, ‘made the same point’.)
Having reasserted the basic polarities of his traditional script, Rod Tisdale seemed determined to adapt all his old plots for the new series. But for the unfunny intervention of death, there was little doubt that all of the What’ll the Neighbours Say? storylines would, in time, have reappeared in the guise of episodes of The Strutters. However, it was not to be, and with the appointment of Willy and Sam Tennison, who knew what direction the series would take? (Actually, one could have a pretty good guess. It was only a matter of time before the Nick Coxhill character was supplied with a dizzy wife to exchange darlings with, and Colonel and Mrs Strutter were moved back into subsidiary roles.)
All this preamble is necessary to explain the reason for the night filming that was so disturbing the rehearsal schedule of The Strutters. In Episode Six (or, if you count the pilot, Seven) the plot, simplified (bit not much) was as follows:
Colonel Strutter and his son argue violently about politics. The Colonel is a true-blue Conservative (jokes about being blue in the face too) and the Nick Coxhill character is a follower of Marx (sequence of jokes about Groucho, Harpo and Chico, which are compulsory in all sit corns which mention Marx). The son, in a kaftan, then meets a friend, also in a kaftan, who has just started a new political party, the Conservation (jokes about recycled paper and brown rice) and Union (brassiere jokes about ‘One out, all out’) Party. Friend suggests son should bridge the gap between the generations and invite his father to come and speak at the inaugural meeting of the new party. Son rings mother, who takes message and, daffily, mishears ‘Conservation and Union Party’ as ‘Conservative and Unionist Party’. End of Part One. Commercial Break.
Part Two opens with Colonel and Mrs Strutter (on film) in the street, looking for the venue of the meeting and being amazed by the Bohemianism of the people they see going in. (All the extras involved wear kaftans to demonstrate their Bohemianism and have long hair and beards, thus adding considerably to the make-up bill for the episode.) The rest of Part Two is a studio sequence of the actual meeting in which misunderstandings abound, and everyone gets the wrong end of every available stick with, as in all good sit coms, ‘hilarious consequences’.
The above plot had appeared in a very early episode of What’ll the Neighbours Say?, in which Bernard Walton formed a new political party called ‘The Brigade of Hard Red Unions’, which his father (a character who didn’t get on with Bernard and was quickly dropped from the series) misheard as ‘The Brigade of Guards Reunion’. With, once again, ‘hilarious consequences’.
The only difference between the two was that in The Strutters episode, all the other regular characters went along to the meeting to witness the Colonel’s discomfiture. Which meant that Reg the golf club barman once again displayed his trousers, and Charles Paris had to turn up to West End Television for a nine p.m. make-up call, before being taken by coach to the condemned road in Clapham which the Location Manager had selected for the night’s filming.
All the impedimenta of filming lay ready when the coach arrived. The crew had been booked for the full night and so were guaranteed ‘Golden Time’ (the best rate of overtime), regardless of whe
n they finished. As a result the men in lumberjack checked shirts hadn’t told them to slow down and they had been very efficient.
It was still a warm summer evening and not quite dark. But a fierce glow brighter than daylight came from the terrace of houses which was to be used as the location. Huge lights on tall metal stands were trained on them ready for filming. Cables ran from these to a variety of vans and lorries. Make-up caravans and mobile dressing rooms spread down the street. The double-decker bulk of the location caterers’ bus loomed to one side. Extras in beards and kaftans sat around, plotting as ever how to get personally ‘directed’ by the director, thus raising their status (and fee) to that of ‘walk-on’. There could be no doubt that a film crew was around.
So was a large crowd of gawpers. This was inevitable. The paraphernalia always attract an audience, and the clemency of the weather increased their numbers. Many had been standing outside local pubs and followed the film transport with interest. It was not an area where a great deal happened.
There was some raucous shouting from the crowd, but they seemed fairly good-humoured. Robin Laughton, the Floor Manager, walking round with his walkie-talkie, was of the opinion that they would soon disperse once the novelty had worn off and it got later.
The Location Manager, looking a little anxious, said he hoped that was the case. ‘There seem to be a lot more people round here than I expected. I thought all the houses were empty. Most of them are boarded up.’
‘Squatters, I should think,’ said Robin Laughton. ‘What time of day did you do your recce?’
‘Afternoon. Hardly anyone around then. Just the old couple who live in that house right in the middle. I fixed a fee with them all right.’
‘If you get trouble, maybe you’ll have to pay some of this lot off.’
