Play to the End

by Robert Goddard

  “Perpetually, I expect.”

  “The reviewers seem to think…”

  “That we’re lost without him. I know. And it’s true. Fred Durrance isn’t in Jimmy’s class. But that’s not the only problem. And I’m sure you didn’t suggest meeting so we could analyse where it’s all gone wrong, so—”

  “Sorry,” she interrupted, her voice softening.

  A brief silence fell. The sea hissed soothingly beneath the pier. “Me too,” I murmured.

  “Will it go to London?” she asked.

  “Not a chance.”

  “So, this is the end.”

  “Apparently.”

  “I am sorry, you know.”

  “Sorry enough to have me back?” I smiled thinly at her in the lamplight. “Just joking.”

  “I’m very happy with Roger,” she said, apparently assuming I doubted it, which actually I didn’t. “We’ve set a date for the wedding.”

  “Pity I left my diary at the Sea Air.”

  Jenny sighed. I was trying her patience, an art I unintentionally perfected a long time ago. “Let’s walk,” she said, rising before the words were properly out, and striding off towards the shore, boot heels clacking on the planks of the pier.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as I fell in beside her.

  “Nowhere,” she replied. “We’re just walking.”

  “Look, Jenny, can I just say…I’m glad you’re happy. Strange as it may seem, I’ve always hoped you would be. If there’s anything I can—”

  “There is.” Her voice was firm but far from hostile. That’s when I guessed what was really making her so edgy. She had a favour to ask of me. Since the last favour she’d asked of me was to get out of her life and stay out, it was, however you cut it, a delicate situation. “Will you do something for me, Toby?”

  “Gladly.”

  “You haven’t heard what it is yet.”

  “You wouldn’t ask me to do it if it wasn’t the right thing to do.”

  She might have smiled at that. I can’t be sure. “I have a problem.”

  “Go on.”

  But she didn’t go on until we’d turned off the pier and started west along the promenade, the empty beach to our left, the thinly trafficked sea front to our right. A full minute of silence must in fact have passed before she started to explain, which she did with the bewildering question, “Have I told you about Brimmers?”

  “No,” was the best answer I could give, sensing this wasn’t the time to point out that she hadn’t told me anything at all in a good long while.

  “It’s a hat shop I own in the Lanes. I’ve really enjoyed making a go of it. It’s quite successful, actually.”

  “You always wanted your own business.”

  “Yes. And now I’ve got it.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Roger’s fine about it.”

  “Good. And what line of business is Roger in?”

  “Corporate investment.” I was still puzzling over what precisely that meant when she briskly continued: “Look, this has nothing to do with Roger. The thing is, some weird bloke’s been hanging around the shop. There’s a café opposite where he sits in the window, sipping endless cups of tea and staring across at Brimmers. I find him standing around outside when I open or close up. I’ve seen him out at Wickhurst too. There’s a footpath that runs close to the house. I can’t walk along it without bumping into him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Haven’t you asked him?”

  “I’ve spoken to him a couple of times, but he doesn’t respond. He answers ‘Can I help you?’ with ‘No,’ then stares some more and wanders off. He’s beginning to prey on my nerves. I think he’s harmless, but he just won’t go away.”

  “Have you spoken to the police?”

  “To complain of what? A man patronizing a café and walking along a public footpath? They’d think I was persecuting him.”

  “Is he persecuting you?”

  “It feels like it.”

  “Sure you don’t know him?”

  “Positive.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Creepy.”

  “You can do better than that.”

  “All right. He’s…middle-aged, I suppose, but a bit childlike at the same time. There’s something of the overgrown schoolboy about him. The nerdy, socially dysfunctional kind of schoolboy. Wears a duffel-coat, with all sorts of…badges on it.”

  “Obviously dangerous, then.”

  “If you’re not going to take this seriously…” She tossed her head in a well-remembered gesture.

  “What does Roger say?”

  “I haven’t told him.” It was an admission she seemed reluctant to make, even though she must have known she’d have to.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really.”

  I can confess now to deriving some small but twisted pleasure from the discovery that Jenny had a secret from her affluent and no doubt handsome fiancé—and was sharing it with me. The pleasure distracted me to some degree from the mystery. Why hadn’t she told Roger? She supplied an answer swiftly enough.

  “Roger travels a lot on business. I don’t want him worrying about me or staying home on my account.”

  But it didn’t ring true. Jenny should have known better than to feed me such a line. I know her too well. Whatever she said, I had Roger down as the protective, not to say possessive, type. Her real concern is that her independence is at stake if she asks the new man in her life to save her from the stalking nerd of the Lanes. And Jenny values her independence. Very highly.

  “Besides,” she added, “what could he do?”

  Several possibilities sprang to mind, but I didn’t put the more extreme of them into words. After all, by the same token, what could I do? “He might recognize the bloke.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We were together when chummy walked past us recently. On the footpath I mentioned. I asked Roger if he knew him. He said no. Definitely not.”

  “But you didn’t explain the significance of the question.”

  “Obviously I didn’t. Besides…”

  “What?”

  “I think I might know what chummy’s connection with me is. And it isn’t Roger.”

  “What, then?”

  “You mean who.”

  “OK, who?”

  “You, Toby.”

  “What?”

  We both stopped and turned to look at each other. I couldn’t make out Jenny’s expression clearly in the shadow of her hat. But I dare say she could read me like a book. She’s always been able to. And what she must have read was disbelief.

  “Me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But it can’t be. I mean…that doesn’t make sense.”

  “Nevertheless…”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I just am.”

  “OK.” I relented. “What made you think it?”

  Jenny glanced over her shoulder. She’d noticed before I had that a group of youngsters was approaching. With a touch on my arm, she steered me to the side of the promenade. The precaution turned out to be unnecessary, because the youngsters promptly dashed across the road towards the Odeon Cinema. But still she lowered her voice as she spoke. “Sophie, my assistant at Brimmers, often goes to the café where chummy hangs about. She’s noticed him too. Well, last week, she spotted a video he’d bought lying by his elbow. He’d taken it out of the bag to look at. Guess what it was.”

  I turned the puzzle over in my mind for a moment, my gaze drifting towards the carcass of the West Pier, a hump of black against the blue-black sky. “Dead Against,” I murmured.

  “How did you know?” Jenny sounded genuinely surprised.Dead Against was the last of my all too few Hollywood engagements, released to vinegary reviews and absentee audiences all of eleven years ago. A sub-Hitchcockian thriller in which I play an English pr
ivate detective pursuing a glamorous hit-woman in Los Angeles, Dead Against turned out aptly to have nothing going for it. My co-star, however, Nina Bronsky, has gone on to better things, which is why, according to Moira, some of her earlier films are suddenly making it to the video-store shelves. Perhaps a royalties cheque eighteen months from now will quell my resentment. Then again, perhaps not.

  “There aren’t that many videos out there in any way connected with me, Jenny. Dead Against it had to be. But it could mean nothing. Maybe chummy’s a Nina Bronsky fan. He sounds her type.”

  “Be serious, Toby. Please. I’m worried about this man.”

  “Well, if he’s a fan of mine…” I shrugged. “I guess that makes me in some way responsible for him.”

  “I’m not blaming you, for God’s sake. I just want this weirdo off my back.”

  “How can I accomplish that for you?”

  “Go to the café tomorrow morning. See if you recognize him. Or if he recognizes you.”

  “I haven’t changed that much in eleven years. He should recognize me.”

  “Then speak to him. Find out who he is; what he wants. See if you can’t…”

  “Get rid of him?”

  “All I want him to do is lay off, Toby.”

  “Plus tell me why he’s on your case. If he’s on your case.”

  “It’s something to do with you. It must be. The video proves that. He’s found out we used to be married and—”

  “We still are, actually. Married, I mean.”

  Jenny addressed the quibble with a seaward glance and a brief silence. Then she said, “Will you do it?”

  “Of course.” I smiled. “Anything for you, Jenny.”

  I meant it. I still do. But there’s more to it than that, as I suspect Jenny’s well aware. The video alone proves nothing. If our duffel-coated friend is interested in me, he could also be interested in Roger. Jenny says she doesn’t want to worry Roger. But maybe she doesn’t quite trust Roger. Maybe she wants to find out on her own terms what this is really all about—if it’s about anything beyond the daily habits of a millinery fetishist. And maybe she knows she can rely on me to dig out the truth, because I still love her and haven’t given up hope of making her love me all over again. She’s playing a dangerous game, my once and future Jenny.

  “What time should I show up?” I asked.

  “He’ll be there by ten. Without fail.”

  “I’d better get an early night.”

  “Don’t come to the shop. Don’t let him think I’ve sent you.”

  “I’ll do my best. Ad libbing’s always been my forte.”

  “Thanks, Toby.” There was genuine relief in her voice and maybe fondness too, although there I admit I could be kidding myself. “I’m more grateful than I can say.”

  “Shall I phone you…afterwards?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “But you’d rather I didn’t pop round to report?”

  “It’s not that. I…”

  “Perhaps Roger wouldn’t be pleased. If he got to hear about it.”

  “This has nothing to do with Roger.”

  Jenny brushed a strand of hair back beneath the brim of her hat, exploiting the action to avoid my gaze. “As it happens,” she said, “Roger’s away on business at the moment.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” she replied coolly.

  “So, this is just between us.”

  “I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I understand.” So I did. And so I do. We have an understanding all right. But it depends on not being made explicit. Neither of us is being entirely honest.

  “I’d better be going,” said Jenny, with a sudden conclusive motion of the head. “I’m meeting friends for dinner.”

  Jenny’s always been good at making friends. I didn’t realize how good until she left me, taking most of them with her.

  “Goodnight, Toby.”

  I watched her cross the road and head up West Street past the cinema. Then I started back along the promenade, towards the Palace Pier and the Sea Air beyond.

  Eunice said I was looking cheerier when I got back than I had been earlier. She’d probably have said that whether it was true or not, harbouring as she does a romantic Burton and Taylor vision of me and Jenny. But a glance in the hall mirror told me she was right. I saw reflected there what I haven’t glimpsed so much as once during our long weeks on the road: a faintly optimistic sparkle in the eye.

  After tackling Eunice’s steak-and-kidney pud, I needed a walk. Time spent in reconnaissance being seldom wasted, as my old dad used to say, I made my way to the Lanes and prowled around, until, after several double-backs, I found Brimmers.

  Jenny’s good taste is pretty obvious just from the stylish window display and candy-stripe colour scheme. I couldn’t see much of the interior and, if I’m to obey Jenny’s orders, I’m not about to. But who knows? Not me. I’m just hoping.

  The Rendezvous café was also closed, as you’d expect. The sign promises morning coffee, light lunches and afternoon teas. There’s a counter at the rear, tables and chairs in the centre and a broad ledge along the glazed frontage, with stools, where customers can perch and watch the world of the Lanes go by as they sip their beverage of choice. You can easily keep Brimmers under observation from there, of course, though not without being observed yourself, which may or may not be the object of the exercise for my alleged fan. We’ll see about that. Tomorrow, as promised.

  Reconnaissance done, I ambled off to a pub I generally end up in at some point during Brighton runs—the Cricketers in Black Lion Street, allegedly Graham Greene’s favourite—and downed a reflective pint. Sunday in Brighton had already exceeded my expectations, which admittedly wasn’t difficult, but little did I realize that it still had a surprise in store for me.

  I was at a table in the corner of the bar not visible from the door, idly watching a middle-aged married man and a woman who clearly wasn’t his wife getting slowly sloshed. Sunday night can induce more than its fair share of morbidity. It’s my only free night of the week at present, so I should know. Tonight, however, I was feeling just fine.

  That’s probably why my heart didn’t sink when a bloke sidled over from the bar, said, “Mind if I join you?” and plonked himself down next to me.

  He struck me at first sight as your typical garrulous pub bore. Short and stout, with moist blue eyes, veinous nose and cheeks, thin sandy-grey hair and a tongue that seemed too large for his mouth, he was dressed in a crested blazer that could surely never fasten round his paunch, off-white shirt and stained cavalry twills. In one hand he held a glass of red wine, in the other a flier advertising Lodger in the Throat.

  “You’re Toby Flood or I’m a Dutchman,” he announced.

  “And you’re not a Dutchman,” I replied.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I’m fine for the moment, thanks.”

  “It’s a relief to see you, to be honest.”

  “A relief?”

  “I’ve got a ticket for Tuesday night.” He held up the flier. “So, it’s good to know you’ve made it down. Syd Porteous. Pleased to meet you.” He extended a large, saveloy-fingered hand, which I had little choice but to shake.

  “You a regular theatregoer, Syd?” I ventured.

  “No, no. Leastways, I didn’t used to be. But I’ve been trying to…broaden my horizons…since I’ve had more time on my hands.”

  “Just retired, have you?”

  “Not exactly. More…downsized. You’ve got to duck and dive in this town. Well, city they call it now. Nice for the councillors, that, but bugger all use to those of us who keep them in expenses. Anyway, I can’t claim to have been to the theatre” (or thee-eight-er, as he pronounced it) “more than the gee-gees this year, but maybe next, hey? It’ll soon be New Year resolution time and I’ve turned over more new leaves than the average rabbit’s eaten, so…”

  The way he’d started gave me the impression I could be on the receiving e
nd of a stream-of-consciousness monologue till last orders. I was just beginning, in fact, to devise an excuse to leave him to it when I became aware that there was a small, still point to the turning world of his rambling thoughts. And I was it.

  “Any chance of a new series of Long Odds, Toby?” Syd suddenly asked. “I used to be glued to that.”

  Sad to say, Syd was in a small minority there. My 1987 TV series about a compulsive gambler who dabbles in private investigations on the side (or was it the other way round?) is about as likely to be revived as Empire Day. “No chance, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t seem to have seen you much on the box lately.”

  “I’m concentrating on the theatre. Live performance is more challenging.”

  “Yeah, well, there’s that to it, I suppose. Your fans get to see you in the flesh.”

  “Exactly.”

  “This play must be getting you a lot of attention. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Good.”

  “I met him, you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Orton.”

  Against my better instincts, my curiosity was aroused. “Really?”

  “Oh yes.” Syd lowered his voice melodramatically. “Here. In Brighton. Just a couple of weeks before he died. Summer of ’sixty-seven.”

  I’m familiar enough with the diaries Orton kept from December 1966 until his death in August 1967 for Syd’s reference to have struck me as at least superficially authentic. Orton and Halliwell came to Brighton in late July, 1967, to spend a long weekend with Oscar Lewenstein, co-producer of Loot. Orton was bored out of his brain by the visit. I didn’t recall a younger version of Sydney Porteous lurching onto the scene, however.

  “How did you come to meet him?” I casually enquired. A public lavatory sprang to mind as the venue, given Orton’s sexual habits, but Syd’s answer was rather more disconcerting.

  “Bumped into him in this very pub. A Sunday night, it was—like now. We chatted about nothing much. He didn’t say who he was, though the name wouldn’t have meant a thing to me if he had. I was an ignorant young shaver. Clocked his face in the papers a fortnight or so later, though. A bit of a shaker, that was. Looking back, I think he was trying to pick me up. Weird, isn’t it?”