Simon Brett - Situation Tragedy

Jay Lewis was still in the bar and seemed to be looking his way. He sidled up to her and whispered, ‘What does Ernie Franklyn Junior say about PAs sleeping with the same person twice?’

‘Oh, he says that’s all right. He says it’s inevitable that relationships develop.’

‘Oh, does he? That’s very nice of him.’

Charles thought he would like to meet Ernie Franklyn Junior one day, and smash his teeth in. Or perhaps set a posse of indignant PAs on him to revenge his unflattering generalisations. Charles’s previous experience of PAs had taught him (by the unquestionable empirical method of trying to get off with them) that their inclination towards promiscuity was no greater than that of other women. They weren’t all as gullible as Jay Lewis.

But he couldn’t really complain, as he seemed currently to be a beneficiary of the Ernie Franklyn Junior teaching. He was in no position to argue.

Nor, for the first hour after they got back to Jay’s flat, was he in a position to think much either. But he was in some nice positions that didn’t involve too much thinking.

There came a lull and they lay back on the pillows.

‘You’re just using me for experience, aren’t you, Jay?’

‘Yes. Ernie Fr — ’

‘Sure, sure.’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Why should I mind?’

‘You know,’ she said slowly, ‘I may be coming off The Strutters .’

‘Oh yes.’

‘They need an extra PA on Wragg and Bowen .’

‘Ah.’

‘I’ll see if I can get it. Learn more on a big variety show.’

They turned the light out and dozed.

‘Oh, by the way. .’ Jay said suddenly.

‘Hmm.’

‘I did ask my flatmate about that film you mentioned and she found out about it.’

‘What did she find out?’

Was this going to be important? Was this going to be the key that unlocked the Chinese box of mysteries?

Apparently not.

‘It never got made,’ said Jay.

‘Oh.’

‘No, it was all set up in 1939. They started, did a couple of days’ filming, then war was declared and the whole production was cancelled.’

‘Ah,’ said Charles Paris, and went to sleep.

West End Television Ltd,

W.E.T. House,

235-9 Lisson Avenue,

London NW 1 3PQ.

18th July, 1979.

Dear Charles,

Just a quick note to say how super last night’s show was and to thank you for all the hard work you’re putting into this very exciting series.

A few days rest now, which I’m sure you’ll be glad of, and then. . on with the fun! We’ve got some smashing scripts from Willy and Sam and I think the series is going to go all the way to the top of the ratings!

Look forward to seeing you at the next read-through on Friday, 27th July.

With the warmest good wishes.

Yours sincerely,

Peter

Peter Lipscombe

Producer The Strutters

Good God, did the man never stop writing notes, Charles wondered. Where did he get the time? On the other hand, of course, he was a television producer and there must be a limit to the hours in the day you can spend buying people drinks.

The only other mail he had that day was something offering him a piece of leatherette if he applied for an American Express card and a photocopied sheet from the Red Theatre Co-operative, demanding workers’ solidarity against the Right Wing Fascist take-over of Equity. He put these two, together with Peter Lipscombe’s note, straight into the wastepaper basket, and decided he might go for a stroll down the Charing Cross Road.

The man in the bookshop was desolated, but the book was gone. ‘Sold it to a dealer yesterday. Know him well. He’s always on the look-out for that sort of stuff. You a collector?’

‘Well, not really. I was just interested in that particular book.’

‘Oh. ’Cause I could do you a nice 1930 Austin Freeman. Mr Pottermack’s Oversight , first edition. Or I got a few early Ngaio Marshes. Died in the Wool, 1945. And I think I still got a couple of S. S. Van Dines.’

‘But no R. Q. Wilberforces?’

‘No, sorry, don’t get many in. He didn’t really do that many, don’t think he did any after the War. Maybe he was killed, don’t know. I could take your number, if you like, and if I get an R. Q. Wilberforce, give you a buzz.’

‘OK. Thanks.’ Charles gave his number. ‘But don’t worry. It isn’t important. You say a dealer bought the one you had. .’

‘Yes. Of course, if you’re really keen, I could put you in touch with him.’

‘I would be grateful.’

‘Right. I know him well. Comes in here about once a month. His name’s Gregory Watts and he lives down in Kew, I think. Here’s his number.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘And you’re sure it’s just the R. Q. Wilberforce you’re interested in?’

‘For the moment, yes.’

“Cause I mean, far be it from me to tell you your business, but if you are starting a collection, you ought to go for a few more in the genre. I mean, there aren’t many R. Q Witberforces and they’re fairly rare, so I reckon you should widen your sights a bit. I mean, I got a nice early American edition of The Lady in Black. That was the title of Trent’s Last Case over there. You know, Bentley.’

With a loud clang, a penny that had been jammed for some days in a slot in Charles’ brain, dropped.

‘I’ve got it!’ he shouted.

‘Have you really?’ asked the bookseller, with some surprise at his vehemence. ‘Well, that’s quite rare. Now that’s a very good basis for a collection.’

But he spoke to an empty shop. The potential collector of R. Q. Wilberforce had shot off down the Charing Cross Road.

Charles contemplated making up for the job, but reckoned it was too risky. Part of him wanted to appear in the tramp guise he had worn as Estragon in Waiting for Godot at Glasgow (‘Never mind Godot, I spent the entire evening waiting for some distinguished acting’ — The Scotsman ). Another part suggested a socially committed researcher, using the earnest Midlands voice he had perfected for some forgotten Play for Today (‘Tried to fit a quart into a pint pot and drowned the unfortunate actors in the resulting spillage’ — Sunday Times ).

But he rejected both of these. His prospective quarry had seen him before, and Charles knew from experience that disguise in such circumstances could all too easily lead to discovery.

No, he had to go in his own persona, but he had to have a reason to justify his presence. And it had to be something that would disarm the prejudice his appearance was bound to arouse.

His quarry hadn’t heard him speak, so he could certainly do something with his voice, which might help. Perhaps he could use the Liverpudlian he’d used in The Homecoming at Leatherhead (‘I laughed till I left’ — Leatherhead Herald). Or the non-specific East Anglian he’d developed for a small-time villain in Z Cars (‘As regular as clockwork and about as interesting’ — Evening Standard). Or the Midlands one. .?

But that wasn’t really the problem. He could choose a voice when he got there. The difficulty was a reason for his appearance. He thought.

It came in a flash. Of course, nothing is wasted. Everything is meant.

He went through the contents of his wastepaper basket until he came to the photocopied sheet from the Red Theatre Co-operative.

And he studied it hard.

It was strange revisiting the scene of the near-riot and Robin Laughton’s death. The weather was benign, early summer sun washing the old frontages of the condemned terrace and giving them a kind of apologetic grandeur, as if they had somehow regained their youth. In the brightness of the sun he wasn’t so aware of the boarded windows and padlocked doors, the flaking paint and angry graffiti.