Murder in the Title Page 2

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘Shove It, that’s what it is. Shove It. Now there’s a modern play, if you like. Going to raise a few eyebrows in Rugland Spa, isn’t it, Velma?’

  ‘I should say so.’

  ‘But it’s the sort of show we ought to do . . . every now and then. And with Kathy Kitson in it, the people’ll come along.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘We’re very proud of the Regent here in Rugland Spa, Mr Paris.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s a lovely old theatre,’ said Charles, trying to soften the accusation in Herbie Inchbald’s tone.

  ‘Certainly is. Built in 1894, you know. Chequered career, like most theatres. Kept opening and closing under different managements. Closed completely after the last war – sold and used as a repository for corn.’

  ‘A tradition that is still maintained,’ Charles joked ill-advisedly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Anyway, virtually derelict in the early sixties, then some far-sighted lads on the council took it in hand – all refurbished – reopened in ’62.’

  ‘And has been going ever since?’

  ‘More or less, yes. Nasty scare, what, three years back? Big offer for the whole Maugham Cross site – that’s what this part of the town’s called – from a property company. Don’t know if you know them – Schlenter Estates?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh well, they’re big. Anyway, lot of the council wanted to sell, but we organized local opinion and held on. Close call, though. After that we reconstituted the Board, and I got in Lord Kitestone to be our Patron.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charles in a way that he hoped sounded interested. The name had been delivered in a way that required reaction.

  ‘Willie Kitestone owns Onscombe House, stately home out on the Ludlow road,’ Velma added helpfully. ‘Very large place.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  Once again the conversation lay inert, and Charles tried a tentative kiss of life. ‘So many provincial theatres these days seem to depend for their survival on the local council.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And the Arts Council, of course.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Still, we’re all right here.’ Velma Inchbald smiled sweetly. So long as Herbie’s on the council. He’s a real thee-ettah-lover.’

  Charles couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t like the Inchbalds and that made him feel guilty. He should have liked them, he should have approved of their support for the theatre, his profession needed more people with their attitude. And yet . . . And yet they seemed to him just boring and slightly pompous.

  No doubt a reflection of his own mood. But he felt cussedly disinclined to resuscitate the conversation yet again.

  Herbie did it for him. ‘Of course, it’s not just me,’ he said magnanimously, in a voice that seemed to invite contradiction. ‘A lot of other people help make the Regent a going concern. I mean, you know Donald – he’s a real firecracker. Full of ideas. Only been here a year, but he’s really made some changes. Bright young man is Donald. I’m always ready to listen to his advice.’

  ‘And of course Tony works so hard.’ Charles felt he should mention the Artistic Director. Though Antony Wensleigh was somewhat vague and a bit of an old woman, there was no questioning his commitment to the Regent Theatre.

  ‘Yes.’ The word contained less than whole-hearted endorsement from Herbie Inchbald. ‘Mind you, he’d be lost without Donald. And we have to be careful. This theatre’s under constant threat you know. Prime position in the town. Good few developers like to snap it up. Only take a little bit of mismanagement for the place to cease to be economically viable. Then it closes, I get out-voted on the council – there’s plenty of Philistines on that council, you know – and before you can say knife, the Regent’s gone to make way for another supermarket, or hotel, or what-have-you. And that’d be terrible.’

  ‘Terrible,’ Velma concurred.

  After The Message Is Murder Charles didn’t feel so sure. And despised himself for the meanness of the thought.

  He managed to escape the Inchbalds and get another glass of the Spanish red, which was tasting increasingly as if the bottle had been left open for a week. It matched the sourness of Charles’ mood.

  He knew its basic cause, but he also knew that it had been aggravated by the events of the evening. It really hurt him to have been described as unprofessional by Kathy Kitson at the end of the first act. And it hurt the more because he knew the charge was justified. No excuses about the state of emotional tension he was in could excuse his childish giggling at the idiocies of Leslie Blatt’s dialogue.

  As he thought of the playwright, he looked across to the old man, whose claw-like hands were pawing his eighteen-year-old companion, trying to dissuade her from her assertion that she really ought to be going home. Charles shuddered. For a man in his fifties with a taste for young actresses, the sight of Leslie Blatt prompted unwelcome comparisons.

  Still, one thing he could do – indeed, should do – to regain some of the day’s lost ground, was to make his peace with Kathy Kitson.

  He looked across at her. She had changed out of her Lady Hilda De Meaux costume, but didn’t look any different. Kathy Kitson never looked any different. She was an actress who lacked the humility Mahomet had shown to the mountain. She didn’t go to her parts; they came to her. And if a few of the lines – or even the whole emphasis – of the play had to change to accommodate her performance, then that’s the way it had to be.

  Kathy Kitson’s only performance consisted of Kathy Kitson, her hair set that afternoon, walking elegantly round stages in waisted silk dresses, and speaking with brittle elocution whatever lines she thought appropriate to Kathy Kitson. This she had done endearingly in West End comedies during the fifties, popularly in the television sit com, Really, Darling? during the late sixties, and with decreasing éclat in decreasingly prestigious provincial theatres during the seventies and into the eighties. This performance she had finally brought, with the desperation of the last dodo, to The Message Is Murder at the Regent Theatre, Rugland Spa.

  And this performance, to judge from what she was saying to a young man in a leather jacket as Charles approached, was the one she intended to give in the forthcoming production of that searing indictment of contemporary society by one of Britain’s most controversial young playwrights, Shove It. .

  ‘You see, darling,’ she murmured huskily, ‘I don’t think all that . . . language is necessary.’

  ‘But,’ protested the young man in the leather jacket, ‘Royston Everett’s language is an authentic reflection of life on the streets of Liverpool.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, darling, but one can’t just present plays for the people of Liverpool.’

  ‘It’s not for the people of Liverpool, it’s about the people of Liverpool. Everett was brought up in Toxteth. He knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘I’m sure he does, but that is not really the point. You see, my feeling is that playwrights tend to fall back on bad language when their confidence is threatened.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘When they’re afraid their points won’t get across, they reinforce them with bad language.’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘In my young day that wasn’t necessary. We used something else to reinforce the playwright’s points – an old-fashioned little thing called acting.’

  This left the young man in the leather jacket without speech, and gave Charles the opportunity to intervene. ‘Kathy, I just wanted to apologize –’

  ‘And another thing I think is unnecessary,’ she went on, turning a deep-frozen, silk-clad shoulder to Charles, ‘is all this nudity.’

  ‘Oh, but sometimes,’ the young man in the leather jacket protested, ‘it’s absolutely essential.’

  ‘No, darling.’ Kathy Kitson’s put-down was gentle, but firm. ‘Again, a good actress can give the impression of nudity while remaining dressed.’

&
nbsp; In a waisted silk dress, no doubt, Charles thought vindictively. He couldn’t really blame her for cutting him, but it didn’t improve his mood. He drained his Spanish vinegar and went to replenish it. Ahead of him at the bar were two men, one crumpled, fat and unfamiliar, the other Gordon Tremlett, the actor who had played Colonel Fripp.

  The crumpled fat man was persuading the girl behind the bar that it’d save time if she filled him a pint glass of wine rather than ‘one of these piddling little things’. He succeeded, and moved away with the brim of the tankard already to his lips.

  Charles could always recognize a professional drinker. ‘Who is he?’ he asked Gordon Tremlett.

  ‘Frank Walby, love. Theatre Critic on the Gazette.’

  ‘Ah. And what’s he going to think of the show?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll adore it. Never given a bad notice in his life. Bit like a review in Stage – so nice it doesn’t mean anything. Praise for all, my dear, including the lady who tore the tickets. No, I’ve lived in Rugland Spa fifteen years and never seen a harsh word from Frank.’

  Gordon Tremlett had an unusual history for an actor. He had come into the business after taking an early retirement as, of all things, a bank manager. Always a keen (and talented) amateur actor, he had managed to get his Equity ticket, and worked at the Regent whenever there was a suitable small part for him. He had hardly ever worked anywhere else, but demonstrated the fanaticism of all converts and was far more theatrical than most lifetime actors.

  His colleagues regarded him with amused tolerance and occasional resentment. The latter arose whenever he tried to identify too closely with the rest of the company. They could not treat as an equal in their own hazardous profession someone cushioned by a large pension from Barclays Bank.

  Gordon Tremlett’s talent was serviceable, but he was an example of Antony Wensleigh’s tendency to surround himself with casts of friends rather than searching out excellence.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ Gordon apologized, picking up a tray of drinks and moving off. ‘Got some people in.’

  Gordon always had people in. His own little claque, all members of the amateur dramatic society he had formerly supported and now patronized, all still slightly breathless at the fact that one of their number was working in the ‘real’ theatre.

  Charles was walking away from the bar with another glass of gall, when Donald Mason again busied up to him.

  ‘Charles,’ the General Manager whispered. ‘Just a warning.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lad in the leather jacket – he’s one of the Arts Council assessment team.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And our prospects of getting a grant for next season are dicey enough, so just be careful.’

  ‘Sure. But you’d better detach him from Kathy. He seems to be a big fan of Royston Everett’s work, and she’s calmly telling him how she plans to expurgate all her lines in Shove It.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not the sort of thing that’s going to worry him. No, I’m more concerned that he doesn’t hear about Tony’s mismanagement.’

  ‘What mismanagement?’ It was news to Charles that the Artistic Director had been guilty of any.

  ‘Oh, you know, cock-ups over the budget and all the other things. For God’s sake don’t let the Arts Council bloke hear about those.’

  Charles raised his head and, over Kathy Kitson’s shoulder, met the eyes of the young man in the leather jacket. There was no doubt that the Arts Council bloke had heard Donald Mason’s words.

  Mr Pang, owner of The Happy Friend Chinese Restaurant and Takeaway, watched impassively as Cherry Robson rose from the table, slapped Leslie Blatt round the head and swept out. Cherry, a former dancer now toying with the idea of becoming a straight actress (she was playing Wilhelmina in The Message Is Murder), was a tough girl who knew with great accuracy what she wanted from life. It didn’t include being touched up by septuagenarian playwrights.

  Leslie Blatt, totally unsquashed, leered at Charles. ‘I’ll get her, you know. Women are like that, always say no when they mean yes.’

  Charles shuddered and returned to his congealing Number Forty-Three. He shouldn’t have come on to the restaurant. He wasn’t hungry. He knew he was only there because he didn’t want to be alone yet, and also so that he’d get back too late to catch the appalling tea and curiosity of his landlady, Mimi.

  He felt alienated and alone as he looked along the table. Rick Harmer, the young Assistant Stage Manager, appeared to be baiting Leslie Blatt. Rick was a bright boy, who had got the Rugland Spa job straight out of R.A.D.A.. When he’d served his forty weeks and got his full Equity ticket, there was no doubt that he would go far. His readings-in for other members of the cast at rehearsal had revealed considerable talent, and he was already signed up with one of the biggest London agencies, Creative Artists Ltd. He treated the Regent Theatre with a slight air of patronage but, since he did all the many duties required of him with more than the usual efficiency, it was difficult to find fault with him. But his certainty (probably quite justified) that he was going to be a lot more successful than the rest of the company had ever been didn’t endear him to his colleagues.

  He had also had some success as a writer of comedy sketches for radio and television, and it was with this that he was baiting Leslie Blatt.

  ‘Yes, they’re making a radio pilot of one of my scripts in a couple of weeks. Up at the Beeb.’

  ‘Beeb?’ asked Leslie Blatt, out of touch with such colloquialisms. ‘BBC. No, I’ll be going up to the recording-ooh, that reminds me, must tell Tony I’ll need the time off. Only radio, of course, but that’ll lead to telly. LWT have got one of my other scripts at the moment. My literary agent . . .’ He left a little pause to ensure that the distinction between this figure and his performing agent was not missed ‘. . . says they’re very keen. Think it might be a good vehicle for Christopher Milton.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Leslie Blatt, rather testily.

  ‘Haven’t you heard of him?’ Rick Harmer did not comment further on this ignorance of the entertainment scene. ‘Has all your work been tatty old thrillers, Leslie?’

  The playwright bridled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, have you done much telly?’

  ‘Not a lot, no,’ the playwright replied, cautiously dressing up failure to its best advantage. ‘I’m really a man of the theatre, you know. The theatre and the boudoir . . .’

  Further down the table, Laurie Tichbourne, seen earlier in the evening in the tennis kit of James De Meaux, preened himself in the beams of adoration that emanated from the girl beside him. He was one of those people, many – though not all of whom are actors, who reckon that being born with exceptional good looks excuses them from all further effort in life. Laurie Tichbourne, now in his mid-thirties, had had a perfectly satisfactory career exposing his looks and moderate talent as juve leads in most of the reps in the country. He was well-liked (indeed, there was nothing about him to dislike, unless one wanted something positive, like a decision, out of him) and it was quite possible that one day a casting director would swoop down and carry him off to star in a television series or even a feature film. It was quite possible. So long as getting the job didn’t involve any effort on his part, quite possible.

  His current source of adoration was the Regent Theatre’s other A.S.M., a girl of quite astonishing prettiness called Nella Lewis. In looks she was the perfect complement to Laurie Tichbourne though Charles suspected she rather outmatched her escort in seriousness of emotional intent (and intelligence).

  ‘Thing was,’ Laurie drawled, ‘they wanted me to dye my hair blond for the part. Can you imagine that, Nella – me with blond hair?’

  ‘No, I can’t, Laurie.’

  ‘Well, I’d had it done once before, for a day I did on a film, and I knew it made me look an absolute fright. Absolute fright. So I said, come on, I know I’m meant to be a German, but all Germans aren’t blond. And if this girl’s meant to fall for me, she’s not going to fall for m
e with blond hair.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Oh, the director took my point.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  Charles wondered how long Nella’s intelligence could be curbed by infatuation. Then he became aware of a voice on his left.

  ‘You see, every performance is a political statement. Don’t you agree, Charles?’

  The voice belonged to Gay Milner, the actress who had played Felicity Kershaw.

  Charles gave his usual response to questions about politics in the theatre. ‘Um . . .’

  ‘No, I mean every part reflects some facet of society, and if you feel that society’s got to change, then you can express that in the way you play the part.’

  Unwisely, Charles decided to pursue this line of thought with her. ‘But you can’t apply that to every play. I mean, take tonight’s little epic. The Message Is Murder has nothing to do with any society that’s ever existed. It’s set in its own little cloud-cuckoo-land of country houses and butlers and bodies in the library. You can’t make political points when you’re acting in something like that.’

  ‘Oh, but you can, Charles. If you’re committed, you must. I mean, it’s more difficult. You know, I was in Scrag End of Neck at the Bus Depot.’

  ‘Ah.’ Charles nodded appreciatively, as if he’d heard of the play and the theatre. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. And there of course the political message is overt, so it’s that much easier to play. The Message Is Murder is more of a challenge.’

  ‘Hmm. So what is there in your playing of Felicity Kershaw that makes a political statement?’

  ‘Ah well, you see, she is obviously a representative of the propertied classes.’

  ‘Yes, I accept that.’

  ‘The small percentage of the population who own a disproportionate amount of the country’s wealth.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, by making her repellent and untrustworthy, I am sounding a warning to the audience to distrust people of that class.’