Simon Brett - Star Trap

Pete Masters, the M.D., had written a simple but catchy tune and was very pleased with himself. Wally Wilson had written the lyric and when Christopher Milton first sang it through with the piano, Charles could feel the gyrations of Oliver Goldsmith in his grave accelerate yet again.

When you’re out on the fiddle

And you’re trying to pull a con

And the cops come in the middle

Of the trick you’re trying on,

Then all you’ve gotta do

Is just give a little pause,

Give a little smile

And come back with ‘I Beg Yours?’

Not ‘I beg to differ’ or ‘I beg to remain…’

Not ‘I beg your pardon’, but an easier refrain,

Not ‘I’ve lost my bottle’ and not ‘I’ve lost my drawers -

The answer’s very simple -

All you say is ‘I Beg Yours?’

When you’re selling some jew’l’ry

And the jew’l’ry don’t exist

And the victim of your fool’ry,

(Who you thought was very… drunk)

Turns out to be a cop

And says he’ll bring down the laws,

Don’t lose your cool,

But come back with ‘I Beg Yours?’

Not ‘I beg to differ’ or… and so on through four more verses of variable scansion and anachronism. Christopher Milton ended the song with a flourish and Charles couldn’t help joining in the applause that followed it. He was once again struck by how good Christopher Milton was. The applause was not sycophancy; it was the genuine praise of professionals.

But in spite of the performance, the song was hopelessly wrong for the show. Charles knew it and felt he had to say something. He was just assembling a tactful objection when Mark Spelthorne came in with his own drawling complaint. Typically, it was completely selfish. ‘But we can’t really have that number there, Christopher. I mean, that would make it three solos for you in a row. Surely, it would be better for the balance of the show if we had an ensemble number at this point.’ (What he really meant was, ‘I had a lot to do in Liberty Hall. Now I’ve lost a number.’)

Christopher Milton did not snap back at Mark. He didn’t bother when Dickie Peck was present to do it for him. ‘That’s nonsense,’ barked the agent. ‘The audience will have come here to see Christopher Milton and the more of him they see, the happier they’ll be.’

‘There is such a thing as over-exposure,’ Mark Spelthorne observed in a voice that wouldn’t remain as cool as he wanted it.

‘Something you’re never going to have to worry about, sonny,’ Dickie flashed back. ‘No, it’s a great number. Really good. Just done overnight, you know — ’ (appealing for admiration from the company. Charles’ admiration conformed with Dr Johnson’s comment about a dog walking on its hinder legs — ‘It is not well done, but you are surprised to find it done at all.’) ‘- No, I think this is going to be the number of the show. Make a great single too. I don’t see actually why it shouldn’t be the title of the show. I Beg Yours? I mean it’s catchy and it’s — ’

‘All the publicity’s already gone out,’ David Meldrum interposed, thus at least killing that ridiculous idea. But Charles still thought someone ought to question the suitability of the number for a show which, in spite of major surgery and transplants, was still set in the eighteenth century and was about Tony Lumpkin rather than Lionel Wilkins. It would stick out like go-go dancers in the middle of the Ring Cycle.

He cleared his throat to remonstrate, but fortunately Winifred Tuke anticipated him. ‘We can’t have this song.’

‘Why not?’ asked Dickie Peck aggressively, pausing with a match held up to a new cigar.

‘Well, honestly, darling, I mean, I know we’re not doing She Stoops… straight, but this does make nonsense of it.’ It was daring and impressive and she should have left it at that. Instead she went on, getting more actressy and vague. ‘I mean, the whole thing about this play is that it’s Town life versus Country and we’re already losing that by playing Tony London, but if we start putting in bits from other shows then — ’

‘It isn’t a bit from another show,’ said Christopher Milton softly.

‘Not exactly, darling, but this song is absolutely based on that divine character you play in the telly, and I mean it just isn’t Tony Lumpkin… is it?’

Her ginny voice faltered as he gazed at her coldly. The tableau was held in silence for a full minute. Then Christopher Milton turned to David Meldrum and said, unfairly, ‘Come on, we should be rehearsing if we’re to get this number in by tonight.’

‘And are we?’

‘Yes, we bloody are. For Christ’s sake assert your authority.’ Which was rich, coming from the person who had done most to undermine it.

I Beg Yours? was in the show on the Tuesday night. It was under-rehearsed and a little untidy, but the audience loved it. Once again, Christopher Milton’s instinct seemed to have been vindicated. The reaction to the rest of the show was mixed, but they latched on to that number.

Ruth was out front. Charles had given her a ticket, though after their silent parting in the morning he wasn’t certain that she’d come. However, there she was at the stage door after the show. When he saw her, he felt an awful sense of shame. It was not exactly that he was ashamed of her, but he felt wrong with her. He tried to hurry her away, but Michael Peyton called out to him just as they were leaving, ‘Hey, everyone’s going out for a curry. You want to come?’

Charles started to refuse, but Ruth chipped in and said she hadn’t eaten and would love to go.

He hated the meal, because he hated being thought of in conjunction with Ruth. He knew how cruel it was to resent someone’s company in that way and the knowledge only made him feel guiltier. Ruth, on the other hand, enjoyed herself. Surprisingly, Christopher Milton and Dickie Peck had joined the party, the star having decided to be one of the boys for a night, and he chatted up Ruth shamelessly. She luxuriated in this and Charles, embarrassed by her naive questions and provincial tastes, was annoyed to find that he felt jealous too. To be jealous about a woman whom he was embarrassed to be with, it all got far too complicated to cope with. He drank heavily and wished Frances were there.

Ruth was drunk too and drove back unsteadily, chattering about Christopher Milton, to the grim inevitability of bed.

There was a small paragraph in the Yorkshire Post on the Wednesday morning, which mentioned the mugging of Kevin McMahon. From the management’s point of view, it could have been worse. It didn’t make a big issue of the incident and, on the bonus side, it was a free advertisement for the show.

The morning’s rehearsal schedule was more work on I Beg Yours? which didn’t involve Charles, so, hoping to shrug off the depression engendered by the scene with Ruth, he set off for the home of Kevin McMahon’s parents. Remembering a mention of Meanwood in their conversation in the pub, he easily found the right McMahons in the phone book and rang them to check that Kevin was out of the Infirmary.

He travelled by bus. The pebble-dash semi had a two-tone doorbell.

Mrs McMahon was small and sixtyish, with fuzzy white hair. She went on about how nice it was for one of Kevin’s friends from the play to come along and treated Charles like one of her son’s school friends. She also muttered regretfully about this terrible thing happening to Kevin on the night of his great triumph.

‘You enjoyed the show on Monday?’

‘Oh, we thought it was grand. That Christopher Milton, he’s lovely, isn’t he? I bet he’s one of those who’s just the same offstage as he is on. No side, if you know what I mean, isn’t that right?’