Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

Charles found himself disarmed by this discovery. Having seen Bernard in action on the hospital visit was not going to make it any easier to challenge him over the deaths of Sadie Wainwright and Scott Newton (though he knew that, if Bernard had an inkling of his suspicions, the star was quite capable of deliberately fostering such a mood of doubt).

The visit only took half an hour. The matron and a few giggling nurses saw them to the main door. ‘Haven’t seen you on the television so much recently, Mr. Walton,’ commented the matron.

He grinned. ‘Ah no. Have to ration myself. Don’t want the public to get bored with me.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that wouldn’t happen.’

‘All too easily, matron, all too easily.’

‘I bet you’ve got another big series coming up soon, haven’t you?’

Bernard Walton laid his finger slyly along the side of his nose. ‘Big secret, matron, big secret.’

‘Ooh, I bet you have got something coming up.’

‘All,’ he announced mysteriously, ‘will become clear at the proper time.’

Back in the car, Charles asked the blunt question, ‘Have you really got a new series coming up?’

‘No,’ replied Bernard gloomily, ‘but I can’t tell them that, can I?’

As they approached London, Bernard asked if he had any plans for the evening. Charles, whose plans rarely aspired beyond a visit to the Montrose, said he hadn’t.

‘I’d thought of dining at my club, the Greville. Be delighted if you’d join me.’

‘Oh, but I. .’ Charles instinctively thought of his usual dress (once dignified by Gerald Venables with the description ‘neo-woodcutter’). But no, of course. Reg the barman’s blazer and ungiving trousers were quite suitable for dining in a gentleman’s club.

So it proved. As they entered the splendid hallway of the Greville, an elderly member, mellowed by alcohol, seized Charles by the hand and confided that he’d always recognise an Old Millingtonian tie and had he heard anything from Stubby Harbottle.

They dined well in a small, darkly panelled room. It was still early and they were alone. As Charles had suspected, Bernard was now in confiding mood. Not only confiding, but morbidly realistic.

‘I don’t need to tell you, Charles, the news about What’ll the Neighbours :. . was pretty serious for me.’

‘Oh, something else’ll come up,’ Charles assured him easily.

Bernard Walton shook his head. ‘No sign of it. I need a starring vehicle and there just ain’t another one around.’

‘Oh, come on. You’re not going to be out of work.’

‘No, not out of work, but out of the right sort of work. Okay, I can do a few guest appearances on other people’s shows, I can do panel games, that sort of stuff, but I need the continuity of my own show. Everything else springs from that. You heard that Matron — “Haven’t seen you on the television so much recently, Mr. Walton..” It doesn’t take long for the public to forget a face, you know.’

‘And, apart from that, there’s the money. It takes a few bob to maintain the sort of establishment I do.’ Charles could well believe him. ‘It isn’t just the money for the television series that counts, it’s all the other spin-off stuff. You get booked for cabaret or after-dinner speaking or other shows because you’re seen regularly on the box. And now, it seems, I’m not going to be seen regularly on the box.’

‘I’m sure some other series’ll come up for you.’

‘I hope so. I’ve been talking to a few writers to see if they’ve got ideas. I’m prepared to put up development money. I’m trying to get Rod Tisdale. He’s the best for my sort of comedy, but he’s always got so much work. Still, there’s an idea of his that might work out, but it’s early days yet. I need another property.’

It was interesting to hear how Bernard thought in properties. He didn’t just want a job, he wanted a personal setting for his own personality. It was an attitude to show business which Charles had never found necessary.

But as Bernard talked, the precarious nature of his position became clearer. The top-rating series was essential to his operation. Without it, the celebrity bookings would only continue for a short time and he would degenerate into a professional celebrity, a tree without roots, famous for being famous, without any basis of other work to justify his status. The stakes were high and a character with a star complex like Bernard Walton might go to considerable lengths to maintain his position.

He was surprisingly aware of his limitations. ‘What worries me about it most, Charles, is that I think this is a symptom. Nigel Frisch stopped What’ll the Neighbours ., saying that there was nowhere left for the series to go. Rod had worked out every possible permutation of the basic situation. Okay, that’s true enough, but it’s not a reason for cancelling. Almost every sit cam continues long after the basic situation’s been exhausted. No, I’m afraid that what Nigel was saying was that he reckoned the public’s getting sick of me. After all, I do only do one thing, and they may just have had enough of it. If that is the case, then I really have got problems.’

There was a pause. They both drank from their glasses of wine. What Bernard said next took Charles completely by surprise. ‘Which is why,’ he pronounced slowly, ‘I need your help.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I need your help. I need someone involved in The Strutters to keep me informed as to how things are going.’

‘What?’

‘Listen, that series is thriving at the expense of my series. The company’s decided they can’t do both. That’s been obvious since the spin-off was first mooted. They can’t give Dob and George Birkitt star billing in one series and then put them back as supports in What’ll the Neighbours . .’

‘So you’ve known from the start that they wouldn’t make any more of yours?’

‘No, no, I thought they’d make more with new neighbours. Pay off Dob and George and introduce a new couple. I talked to Rod Tisdale about it and we worked out a few story-lines. But now they’ve cancelled the series flat.’

Bernard looked at the light through his wine glass before continuing. ‘What’ll the Neighbours Say? will only come back if The Strutters doesn’t get made.’

Charles nodded, waiting.

‘I keep trying to think what could stop it from getting made. The best thing I can think of is if Dob were to die.’

It was spoken very casually, but Charles felt a cold chill. It seemed incredible that he was with the same man whose philanthropy with the spastics he had witnessed a couple of hours earlier.

‘Unfortunately,’ Bernard went on, ‘though she’s the right sort of age to pop off at any moment, she seems remarkably robust. Have to wish for something else. That’s why I’m glad you’re there in the cast, Charles.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, I think you owe me a few favours. I mean, I got you the job, after all.’

‘Are you asking me to sabotage the show?’

‘No, no, no. Nothing as dramatic as that. I just want you to keep me in touch with the production, how it’s going, you know. There may be something I can use. I mean, how did this week’s recording go, for instance?’

‘Not very well.’

‘Good. That’s exactly the sort of thing I want to hear.’

Charles tried to recover himself. The new direction of the conversation had come as a shock to him. It had confirmed his conjecture about Bernard’s motivation, but he had not expected such a direct statement of the situation. ‘I suppose then,’ he began slowly, ‘you must have been pretty pleased to hear about Sadie’s death. And Scott’s. Both liable to slow down the advance of the series.’