Play to the End

by Robert Goddard

  “I might.” I pulled up. Derek carried on for a few steps, then turned to look at me. “On one condition.”

  “I promise to stop bothering Mrs. Flood.”

  “You promised before.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I won’t break my word again.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  “Because I broke my promise—and obliged you to miss tonight’s performance—for a very specific reason. It was to help you.”

  “Help me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How in God’s name do you reckon you’ve done that?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “No, Derek. I can’t.”

  “I’d better explain, then.”

  “Yes. You had.”

  “It’s a little…delicate.”

  “I’m sure I can cope.”

  “What I mean is…why don’t we go back to my house and discuss it? I could…make some cocoa.”

  Some offers are too good to refuse. Cocoa with Derek Oswin isn’t one of them. But soon enough there we were, in his neat, tidy sitting room, two mugs of steaming unsugared cocoa and a plate of digestive biscuits between us. He’d obviously stocked up since my earlier visit. I eyed him expectantly across the coffee-table.

  “This had better be good, Derek.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Flood. It’s Cadbury’s cocoa. Not some supermarket brand.”

  The man makes jokes. Not good jokes. And not often. But any humour’s better than none, I suppose. Mine was veering towards the rueful, given that they’d be into the interval at the Theatre Royal by now.

  “I didn’t time our appointment to test your seriousness,” he continued through a taut smile. “I didn’t doubt that you meant to do all you could to help your wife.”

  “Why, then?”

  “Well, what happened when I put in an appearance at the Rendezvous this afternoon?”

  “She called me.”

  “And what will happen now we’ve met again?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “You’ll surely let her know the outcome, though?”

  “Yes,” I cautiously agreed.

  “To achieve which you’ll have let down your fellow actors and aroused the ire of Mr. Leo S. Gauntlett.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate that.”

  “I do. And so will Mrs. Flood, won’t she?” His smile relaxed. “Don’t you see? I’ve increased her obligation to you. I’ve put her further in your debt. I’ve made it easier for you to…win her back.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. But I did believe it. Derek Oswin, Brighton’s least likely matchmaker, had decided to punish Roger Colborn for scorning his manuscript—punish him in every way that he could devise.

  “I mean your wife no harm, Mr. Flood. None at all. But…if you want to let her think I might…in the interests of spending more time with her…” He pursed his lips and gazed benignly at me. “That’s fine by me.”

  I sighed and took a sip of cocoa. It was easy to get angry with this man, but hard to stay that way. “Broken marriages aren’t so easy to put back together, Derek. They really aren’t.”

  “You don’t know till you try.”

  “OK. But look—” I pointed a finger at him. “From now on, you let me try—or not—as I see fit. Understood?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You do not interfere.”

  “Mrs. Flood won’t see me again unless we pass by chance in the street. I won’t go to the Rendezvous. I won’t even walk past Brimmers.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Of course.”

  “I can get my agent to consider your book. I can also get her to unconsider it.”

  “I do understand, Mr. Flood.”

  “All right. You’d better hand it over.”

  He jumped up, suddenly eager. “I ran off a copy for you this afternoon. Hold on while I fetch it.”

  He went out and up the stairs. I took another sip of cocoa, then turned round in my chair to inspect the contents of the bookcase, which was just behind me. I recognized my host’s Tintin books by their phalanx of narrow red spines. He looked to have the full set. I pulled one out at random—The Calculus Affair—and opened it at the title page, where, next to a picture of the aforesaid professor pottering down a country lane, a fountain-penned inscription read, To our darling Derek, from Mummy and Daddy, Christmas 1967.

  “Are you a Tintin fan?” The question came from the doorway. I turned to find Derek, photocopied manuscript in hand, staring quizzically at me.

  “No. Just…” I closed The Calculus Affair and slid it back amongst the others. “Looking.”

  “That’s all right.” But it didn’t sound all right. There was a tightness in his voice. He was still staring, past me now, at the row of books. He plonked the manuscript down on the table, circled round behind my chair and carefully removed The Calculus Affair from the shelf. Then, his tongue protruding through his teeth in concentration, he fingered aside two other books and pushed it into the space between them. “You put it back out of sequence, Mr. Flood,” he explained. “The Calculus Affair is number eighteen.”

  “Right. I see.”

  “Order matters, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. Up to a point.”

  “But where does the point properly lie? That’s the question.”

  “And what’s the answer?”

  “We must each find it for ourselves.” He stood upright and retraced his steps. “And then we must preserve it. Or, if endangered, defend it.”

  “So, this is The Plastic Men,” I said, leaning forward to inspect the manuscript, happy indeed to change the subject, given how hard I’d have found it to say what the previous subject really was.

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  The manuscript didn’t look as bulky as I’d feared it might. No thousand-page epic, then, for which I was grateful, if only on Moira’s behalf. But handwritten, to judge by the top sheet, which bore the words, THE PLASTIC MEN, a History of Colbonite Ltd and its Workforce, by Derek Oswin. There were traces of line markings in a rectangle in the centre of the page. As I leafed through the sheets, I saw each one was the same. Derek had written his book on feint-line A5, so that photocopying it onto A4 had isolated the words within wide, white margins. Not exactly conventional presentation.

  “Will you read it yourself, Mr. Flood, or just send it straight off to your agent?”

  “I imagine you’d like a swift response.”

  “Well, I would, yes.”

  “Best send it straight off, then.” Neatly handled, I reckoned. Let Moira get somebody to flog through it. She’s paid to do that sort of thing. “This way, you’ll probably hear something before Christmas.”

  “Oh, good. That would be nice.”

  “I can only ask her to give you an honest opinion, Derek. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “She may turn it down. Oh yes. That’s clear enough. And fair enough. It’s all I’m asking for.”

  “If she says no, I don’t want to hear that you’ve reappeared at the Rendezvous.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I’d better not, Derek. Believe me.”

  “I do, Mr. Flood. I do.” He looked so contrite that my heart went out to him, sentimental fool that I am.

  “I know you thought you were acting for the best this afternoon and I’m grateful for your concern. It was still a stupid thing to do, though. Nothing of the kind must happen again.”

  “It won’t.” He smiled, presumably in an attempt to reassure me. “I guarantee.”

  “Good.”

  “Although…”

  “What?”

  “I just wondered…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, when do you next intend…to speak to your wife?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “No. Of course not. But if I can help…” His wobbly smile reshaped itself. “Mr. Colborn’s away at the moment, you kn
ow.”

  “I do know. But how do you know?” Stupid question, really. How does he come by any of his copious store of information?

  “I, er, keep my ear to the ground. Anyway, it occurred to me…you might want to…visit Wickhurst Manor. While Mr. Colborn’s not in residence.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a very good idea.”

  “No? Well, it’s up to you, Mr. Flood, entirely up to you.”

  “So it is.”

  “Marlinspike Hall, I call it.” There came a snatch of his whinnying laugh. “Of course, if you’re not a Tintin fan…”

  “It’s where Tintin lives in the books. I know that much, Derek.”

  “Yes. Well done. Actually, Captain Haddock owns the house and Tintin and Professor Calculus also live there. But they didn’t always. It originally belonged to Max Bird, the corrupt antiques dealer. In The Secret of the Unicorn—” He broke off and blushed. “Sorry. You’re not interested in all that. Though there’s an odd coincidence. Mr. Colborn runs his business from Wickhurst Manor. Just as Max Bird ran his from Marlinspike Hall. And they both have a habit of overlooking what’s right under their noses.”

  This struck me as no coincidence at all, even if it was all true, but I nobly refrained from saying so. I made to rise. “Well, I think I’d better be—”

  “Do you want to see a photograph of the house?”

  “Of Wickhurst Manor?”

  “Yes.”

  I should have declined the offer. Instead, I heard myself saying, “All right.”

  “I won’t be a tick.” He was off again, out through the door and up the stairs.

  I gazed at Derek’s treasured manuscript. A history of a defunct plastics company. Ye gods! I turned the title page over. Derek, to my surprise, had contrived an epigraph of sorts for his magnum opus, a skit on the start of T. S. Eliot’s poem “The Hollow Men.”

  We are the plastic men

  We are the moulded men

  Leaning together

  Headpiece filled with polymer.

  Yes, I reckoned, Moira was really going to love this.

  Then Derek was back, a wallet of photographs in his hand. He sat down and carefully laid the contents out on the table next to the manuscript. A photograph, he’d said, but he’d actually used an entire roll of 24 on assorted middle-distance views of Wickhurst Manor.

  A red-brick neo-Georgian residence of considerable size and style, the place is, viewed from any angle, absurdly large for two people to live in. Two matching pedimented bays with tall sash windows flank the central block, which boasts a four-columned portico to the entrance reached across a paved and pot-planted terrace. There are wings to the rear, one connected to a single-storey extension that doubles back on itself to enclose what looks like a kitchen garden. There’s a large lawn to the rear, bordered by trees, a smaller one to the front, bisected by a curving drive. At the opposite end of the house from the kitchen garden there’s a car park, occupied in most of the pictures by ten or twelve vehicles.

  The trees are in full leaf. Sunlight gleams on the car roofs and picks out the white curls of croquet hoops on the rear lawn. This was Wickhurst Manor in high summer. When the photographer, I reflected, would find camouflage easiest to come by.

  “I took most of them from the public right of way,” said Derek. I noted his delicate use of the word most. “The house was built in nineteen twenty-eight by Mr. Colborn’s grandfather, on the ruins of the medieval manor. The family had lived in Brighton until then, in one of the villas along Preston Park Avenue. Business was obviously booming, though Colbonite’s wage rates were still rock bottom at the time.”

  “What business is Colborn in now?”

  “General investment. Moving his money around to make the most out of it, day to day. And advising other people on how to do the same. Hence the staff. It’s an intensive operation. Mr. Colborn believes in capitalizing on any advantage, however slight.”

  “Perhaps he needs to, to maintain this place.”

  “Perhaps so.”

  “Handy for you, the right of way.”

  “Rights of way are meant to be handy. I believe in using them.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “The path leads down from Devil’s Dyke, crosses the Fulking road, cuts through the woods near Wickhurst and heads northwest towards Henfield.”

  “Sounds like you’re giving me directions, Derek.”

  “Well, if you need directions—”

  “I’ll ask.” I stood up. “Now, I’d better be going.”

  “Right.” Derek gathered the photographs and replaced them in the wallet. “By the way…” He looked at me uncertainly. “Does your offer of a ticket for Wednesday night still stand?”

  I smiled. “Of course. Unless the stunt you’ve pulled today goads the management into withdrawing my privileges.”

  “Gosh.” His eyes widened in horror, causing his glasses to slide halfway down his nose. “Do you think it might?”

  “On balance…” I affected indifference. “Probably not.”

  I left chez Oswin with The Plastic Men in a Sainsbury’s carrier bag and the dregs of the evening ahead of me. The theatre would be turning out shortly. Brian Sallis had probably left a dozen messages on my mobile, none of which I wanted to hear. Nor was I eager to return to the Sea Air—where doubtless more messages awaited me—any sooner than I had to. I dropped into a pub halfway down London Road and weighed my options over a scotch. “When do you next intend to speak to your wife?” Derek had asked. It was a good question, given that I knew she’d want to be told what I’d accomplished as soon as possible. And there was only one answer. I finished the scotch in one and headed for the taxi rank at the railway station.

  Half an hour later, I was out in the colder, darker world beyond the downs, pressing a button next to an intercom grille set in one of the pillars supporting the high black-railed gates at the head of the drive leading to Wickhurst Manor.

  There was a crackle. Then I heard Jenny’s voice, nervously pitched. “Yes?”

  “It’s me, Jenny.”

  “Toby?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Why didn’t you phone?”

  “I thought you’d want to hear what I have to say in person.”

  “Oh God.” There was a pause. Then she said, “Well, since you’re here now…” Then there was a buzz. The gates began to swing open.

  I stepped back to pay off the taxi driver, then hurried in through the gates and started along the drive.

  The noise of the taxi’s engine faded into the distance. All I could hear after that was the hiss of the wind in the trees and my own footfalls on the tarmac of the drive. I rounded a screen of shrubs and saw light from the house spilling across the lawn. Then I saw the house itself. There was a figure standing in the brightly lit porch, waiting for me.

  Jenny was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, a stark contrast with the outfit I’d glimpsed her in at Brimmers. But her expression, I realized as I drew closer, was much the same. She wasn’t smiling. Then a dog barked and appeared at her side—a reassuringly placid-looking Labrador.

  “Yours or Roger’s?” I asked, nodding to the dog, who padded out across the terrace to meet me.

  “Roger’s father’s originally,” said Jenny. “Here, Chester.” Chester obediently retreated. “You’d better come in.”

  “Thanks.” I followed the pair of them into a wide hall, panelled in light wood and scattered with thick, vividly patterned rugs.

  “You shouldn’t have come here, Toby,” said Jenny, calmly but firmly. “I asked you not to.”

  “Did you?”

  “It was understood between us.”

  “But we haven’t always understood one another properly, have we, Jenny?”

  She sighed. “Why did you come?”

  “To tell you what’s happened.” I held up the bag. “This is part of the price I’ve paid for getting Der
ek Oswin off your back. For good, this time.”

  “Are you sure I’ve seen the last of him?”

  “Nothing’s certain, I suppose. But I’m confident. Because of this.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “I’m not sure you’ll believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “Why don’t we…go in and sit down?”

  “This was just an excuse, wasn’t it, to nose around here?”

  “Not just, no.”

  “All right. Come up.” She led the way up the elegantly curved staircase. “Roger uses the reception rooms on the ground floor for his office. We do most of our living on the first floor.”

  The stairway and the landing were decorated with tasteful lavishness, modern abstracts jostling for space on the mellow-papered walls with landscapes and portraits from a more distant era. We entered a drawing room where logs were crackling in a broad fireplace, in front of which Chester had already stationed himself. The furnishings were like a cover shot for an interior-design magazine—throws, rugs, urns; fat-spined books on the table; thin-stemmed candlesticks on the mantelpiece. Jenny favouring to my certain knowledge a plainer style, I categorized it as stuff Colborn had probably had shipped in for him by a lifestyle consultant. Disliking him was already proving to be simplicity itself.

  “Do you want a drink?” Jenny asked. She held up a bottle of Laphroaig.

  “Thanks.”

  She poured me some and handed me the glass.

  “I’d have had Roger down as a Glenfiddich man.”

  “You’ve never met Roger.” And you’re never going to, her eyes added.

  “Derek Oswin’s met him. Many times.”

  Any reaction Jenny might have displayed she artfully hid in the motion of sitting down. She waved towards an armchair opposite her and I lowered myself into it. Then she said, “Just tell me, Toby.”

  “All right. Oswin used to work for Colbonite. You know about the company?”

  “Of course. Roger’s father closed it down…years ago.”

  “Thirteen years ago.”

  “There you are, then. Ancient history. Roger wouldn’t remember one employee out of…however many there were.”

  “He’d remember this one. Odd you should mention history, actually, because that’s what’s in the bag. Oswin’s history of Colbonite. He’s been trying to persuade Roger to help him get it published. Roger hasn’t wanted to know. But Oswin’s not one to take no for an answer, so, in his very own crackpot fashion, he’s tried to pressurize Roger into reconsidering…by harassing you. The fact that he’s a fan of mine…is purely coincidental.”