Simon Brett - So Much Blood

‘Pam, what’s going on?’

‘Oh Lord, Charles, hello. There’s been the most frightful cock-up, I’m afraid. This lot say they’re booked in here for badminton on Monday nights. Apparently it was only cancelled for the two weeks and they aren’t going to budge.’

‘Whose fault is it?’

‘Brian Cassells booked it.’

‘Say no more. Where is he? Surely he should be flashing his dinner jacket and sorting it out.’

‘Oh, he’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Yes, he got the Civil Service job he was after, so he’s gone to have a holiday in Italy before it starts.’

‘Tell me, which Ministry is the job in?’

‘Social Services, I think. He’ll be doing pensions.’

That seemed apt. There was some justice after all. Charles could visualise a glowing career for Brian withholding money from old ladies.

‘So is the performance off?’

‘Oh no. The show must go on. Sam says so,’ Pam announced with pride.

‘Why? Is Sam directing?’

‘Yes. As well as playing Rizzio and Bothwell and doing the music.’

‘Where’s Michael Vanderzee?’

‘Ah. He had an offer to go and direct Humpe’s Gangrene at the Almost Blue Theatre.’

‘And he went?’

‘Oh yes. It’s a chance in a lifetime.’

‘Of course.’

At that moment Sam Wasserman appeared from behind the curtains, distraught in doublet and hose. ‘Pam, Pam darling, my tights have laddered.’

‘Don’t worry, darling, I’ve got a needle and thread in my bag. Oh Lord, I’d better go.’

‘O.K. Good luck.’ Pam bustled off, blushing. Charles decided he and Frances had time for a drink. And might need one.

They did. The audience was tiny. Brian Cassells’ theory about morbid publicity being good publicity had proved incorrect and the average Edinbourgeois was too affronted by the title alone to consider seeing the show. The atmosphere in the hall was not helped by the full houselights necessary for the badminton and the pounding feet and occasional curses of the players.

But ultimately it was the play that made the evening a disaster. Sam Wasserman’s leaden allegories proved no more lively onstage than they had when he described them. They were presented in the metronomic blank verse that can only be produced by a Creative Writing course and were mixed with songs that provided as much contrast as a bread-filled sandwich.

Charles tensed up when Anna came on, looking very beautiful in her Tudor costume. But when she spoke, he relaxed. There was no real pang, just the impression that she was rather theatrical. She was talented, but mannered. Two years at drama school might make her quite good.

At the interval Charles and Frances snuck out to the pub, giggling like schoolchildren. And somehow they omitted to return for the second act.

On the train back to London on the Tuesday morning Charles gave Frances an edited version of the whole case. When he came to the end, she tut-tutted. ‘Charles, I can’t think why you’ve suddenly developed this very dangerous hobby. Why can’t you take up golf or bowls like most middle-aged men?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not deliberate. It’s just if I get into a situation I have to find out what happened, find out the truth, I suppose.’

‘Well, you did in this case.’

‘Yes. Mind you, I took my time. I think I must have barked up every tree in the park before I found one with anyone in it.’

At King’s Cross Underground Station they paused for a moment, slightly embarrassed. Then Charles kissed Frances goodbye. She caught the Northern Line to Highgate and he caught the Circle Line to Bayswater.