Simon Brett - So Much Blood

A glance at the cultural treats the literature offered revealed that there was not much he would want to see, but it was at least varied. There was Problem 32 by Framework Theatre- ‘ten young designers creating an hour’s theatre in their own terms’. The World Premiere of ScotsWha Hae, a new Scots comedy from the group that brought you The De’il’s Awa’ and Cambusdonald Royal. Paris Pandemonium Projects offered Chaos, Un Collage de Comedie. Under the intriguing title Charlotte Bronte and her Scotsmen, Accolade were presenting ‘psychological deduction of her relations with men in her last years (reduced prices for students and Old Age Pensioners)’. Or there was Birkenhead Dada with We Call for the Decease of Salvador Dali‘Shocks, poems and perversions; indefensible personal attacks; new levels of tastelessness.’

In other words the Fringe was much as usual. But with decreasing conviction. Charles remembered the heady days of the late fifties and early sixties when Edinburgh was the only outlet for experimental drama in Britain. The recent spread of little theatres in London and other major cities had eroded that unique position. And the Edinburgh Fringe seemed less important. Less truly experimental. Too many of the university groups were doing end-of-term productions of classics rather than looking for new ideas.

‘Not a lot, is there, Charles?’

He looked up and recognised one of the Guardian critics. ‘Just thinking the same. How long are you up?’

‘A week. A week of sifting dirty sand looking for diamonds. Which probably don’t exist.’

‘Sounds fun.’

‘But what are you doing up here?’

‘My one-man show on Thomas Hood. So Much Comic, So Much Blood.’

‘Oh, I’d like to see that. Did it at York, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. I missed it there. Haven’t seen much publicity.’

‘No, it’s been a bit thin on the ground. Last-minute booking.’

‘Ah. Well, give me the details.’ The critic wrote them down on the back of a Theatre Wagon of Virginia, U.S.A. handout that looked depressingly disposable. ‘Right, I’ll be along.’

‘And spread the word among your colleagues. Or rivals.’

‘Will do, Charles.’ The critic edged off into the throng.

It might be worth something. But he should have brought the handouts. His own printed sheet stood more chance of survival than jottings on the back of someone else’s.

The crush got worse rather than better. Over on the far side of the room Anna’s cropped head was instantly recognisable. She was talking enthusiastically, surrounded by a crowd of journalists. He felt a momentary pang of jealousy, a desire to go over and claim her. But no, she was right. Better to keep it quiet. Later they’d be together. The thought warmed him.

‘Hello.’ Pam Northcliffe wormed her way between a green velvet suit and a coat of dishcloth chain mail. She looked flushed and breathless. There was an empty glass in her hand which Charles filled from a jug on the table. ‘Oh Lord.’ She took a sip at it. ‘A few people, aren’t there?’

‘Just a few. How are you?’

‘Oh. Pissed, I think.’ She giggled at the audacity of her vocabulary. He was surprised. He felt he could have poured that pink fluid into himself for a year and not registered on the most sensitive breathalyser. Still, Pam claimed to be pissed and certainly she was much more relaxed and forthcoming on what she thought of her fellow-students. A wicked humour flashed into her observations and at times she even looked attractive.

Charles decided that this confidential mood was too good to waste from the point of view of his investigations. The crowd was beginning to thin out, but he did not want to lose her. ‘You rehearsing now?’

‘No, they’re doing the Dream at seven thirty-a run as-per performance. I’ll be doing props for the revue at eleven-if I’m sober enough.’

‘Come and have another drink. That’ll sober you up.

She giggled. ‘Everywhere’s closed on a Sunday.’

‘No. We can go up to the Traverse.’

The Traverse Theatre Club had moved since Charles had last been there doing a strange Durrenmatt play in 1968. But he found the new premises and managed to re-establish his membership. (The girl on the box-office was distrustful until he explained his credentials as a genuine actor and culture-lover. Too many people tried to join for the club’s relaxed drinking hours rather than its theatrical milestones.)

The media contingent from the Royal Mile Centre seemed to have been transplanted bodily to the Traverse bar. But the crush was less and Charles and Pam found a round wooden table to sit on. He fought to the counter and brought back two glasses of red wine as trophies. ‘Cheers, Pam.’

‘Cheers.’ She took a long swallow. Then she looked at him. ‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘Bringing me here.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘No, it’s kind of you. I know it’s only because you feel sorry for me.’

‘Well, I…’ He was embarrassed. He had not done it for that reason, but his real motive was not much more defensible. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re just being kind. Taking me out of myself. And I appreciate it.’ She spoke without rancour. ‘I know I’m not very attractive.’

He laughed uneasily. ‘Oh, come on. What’s that got to do with it? I mean, not that you aren’t attractive, but I mean… Can’t I just ask you for a drink because I like your company? Do you take me for a dirty old man? I’m old enough to be your father.’ (And, incidentally, old enough to be Anna’s father.)

He was floundering. Fortunately Pam did not seem to notice; she wanted to talk about her predicament. ‘I never realised how important being pretty was. When I lived at home, my parents kept saying I was all right and I suppose I believed them. Then, when I went to Derby, all that was taken away. What you looked like was the only thing that mattered and I was ugly.’ Charles could not think of anything helpful to say. She seemed quite rational, not self-pitying, glad of an audience. She continued, ‘You had to have a man.’

‘Or at least fancy one?’

‘Yes. A frustrated romance was better than nothing. You had to assert yourself sort of… sexually. You know what I mean?’

Charles nodded. ‘Yes. Have a sexual identity. At best a lover, at worst an idol.’ He played his bait out gently. ‘A public figure, maybe

… A symbol… Perhaps just a poster…’

Pam flushed suddenly and he knew he had a bite. ‘I found the poster torn up in the dustbin.’

‘Ah.’ She looked down shamefaced.

‘Did you love Willy Mariello?’

‘No. It was just… I don’t know. All this pressure, and then Puce came to play at the Union and I met him. And, you know, he was a rock star…’

‘Potent symbol.’

‘Yes. And lots of the other girls in the hail of residence thought he was marvellous and bought posters and…’ She looked up defiantly. ‘It’s terrible emotional immaturity, I know. But I am emotionally immature. Thanks to a middle-class upbringing. It was just a schoolgirl crush.’

‘Did you know him well?’

‘No, that’s what makes it so pathetic. I mean, I knew him to say hello to, but nothing more. He didn’t notice me.’

‘You never slept with him?’

Her eyes opened wide. ‘Oh Lord, no.’

‘So why the rush to get rid of the poster?’

‘I don’t know. That was daft. I was just so confused-what with the death, and the police asking all those questions…, and then you asking questions… I don’t know. I got paranoid. I thought somehow if my things were searched and they found the poster that I’d be incriminated or… I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight.’