TP Fielden - The Riviera Express

*

A weekend is what you make it, thought Miss Dimont, as she let herself into the Express offices on Monday morning. Domestic chores need not rule the roost – let there be music!

And so there was – the long-awaited visit from the Trebyddch Male Voice Choir to the village hall on Saturday night was a triumph, with their exquisite harmonies in ‘All in the April Evening’ bringing her to the verge of tears. Then the men pulled off their ties, brought out some guitars and a washboard, and sang some noisy skiffle songs to which she danced giddily.

At the reception afterwards – beer for the men, ginger beer for Miss D – she found that miners from the Valleys could be wonderfully charming. Muscular, handsome, incredibly dark, there was one who . . . but no! She moved her thoughts swiftly on to Sunday matins at St Margaret’s – 003 in Hymns Ancient & Modern , ‘Awake My Soul and With the Sun’.

But now back in the office, the sour smell from the back copies of the newspaper piled on the windowsill behind assailed her nostrils and reminded her that the weekend was over. It was time to go out and make The Calls.

Which was good, for Miss Dimont had been doing some thinking.

What, she asked herself, had happened to Gerald Hennessy’s wife, the glorious Prudence Aubrey? Almost as famous as Gerald, she had starred in a string of black-and-white classics opposite her husband in the early fifties. Her style was about as sophisticated as it comes – sharply pulled-back hair, Norman Hartnell dresses, muted but expensive jewellery, perfect maquillage – and with that slightly sharp delivery which told you this was not a woman to stand any nonsense.

Less had been seen of Prudence on the silver screen of late, but that was probably because she was at home keeping Gerald’s slippers warm, or translating Russian verse into French (her hobby, if you believed the publicity handouts).

Miss Dimont entered the battered portals of Temple Regis police station, a rugged edifice in local red stone as stout and dependable as the town’s constabulary itself. Its interior, however, was another matter – dull paintwork, no carpets, dust and carbolic, and an air of barely controlled confusion. Her regular Monday morning colloquy with Sergeant Gull was now in session.

‘The inquests, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, Miss Dimont?’ The sergeant took out his tobacco-pouch and stared at it doubtfully.

‘Which is the suspicious one?’

‘Couldn’t say, nobody tells me nothing.’

It was always like this. It took ten very irritating minutes to warm the sergeant up before you could get anything out of him, even a cup of tea.

Miss Dimont changed tack.

‘Strange, isn’t it, that Mrs Hennessy hasn’t come down?’

A rapt smile swept slowly over the sergeant’s face. Here, clearly, was a fan of Prudence Aubrey. Was it Shadows of the Night which had enslaved him, or No, Darling, No! , possibly even her Emmelina Pankhurst ?

‘She be down this morning,’ he said dreamily, as though already employed by her team of press spokesmen. ‘ Riviera Express . The 11.30.’

That would do – she and Terry would be there! The arrival of a film star on the Riviera Express was news, whether they were dead or alive, and this would be a useful follow-up story.

‘Now, Sergeant, on to Mr Shrimsley. Was there a Mrs Shrimsley?’

A wintry smile. ‘That’s a joke, miss, iznit?’

‘Come along, Sergeant, I’m late as it is.’

The sergeant clammed up – either he didn’t know, or wasn’t saying. Always the same with the self-important Gull, and on such a small point too. His answer meant more time having to be spent tracking down relatives.

There seemed no more to be said. The reporter took herself off to the council offices to see what crumbs of information might be gleaned from the forthcoming week’s proceedings, en route taking in the large public notice-board outside the Corn Exchange. This unassuming block of wood had proved a goldmine of stories over the years, a virtual town crier of tales in fact – from lost cats to appeals for assistance; from the emergence of new religious gatherings (they never lasted long) to announcements of the arrival of the latest phenomenon, beat groups. The town prided itself on staying au courant .

Miss Dim herself was much taken by beat groups. Temple Regis had already been visited by Max Bygraves and Pearl Carr and Teddy Johnson, but though there were whispers that Tommy Steele might make a surprise visit, the best they had had of this new music was Yankee Fonzie, just back from a barnstorming tour of France where there had been riots – though having watched his act at the Corn Exchange, Miss Dimont could not be sure quite why the French had gone so mad. Maybe it was his bubble-car; it certainly wasn’t his hairdo.

*

The Calls completed, she retraced her steps to the office but as she approached the police station out popped Sergeant Gull.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Got news fer you.’

‘Oh?’ said Miss Dimont. This was unprecedented.

‘Hennessy.’

‘Yes?’

‘’E were going to do a summer season. ’Ere, Temple Regis. Think of that!’

Miss Dimont asked Gull to repeat himself.

‘Oh yers,’ said Gull, as if he had discovered a nugget of gold.

‘At the Pavilion?’

‘Where else?’ said the Sergeant smugly.

Miss Dimont adjusted her spectacles and stared Gull in the eye. ‘How do you know?’ she grilled. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

She turned up the heat because it was the only way with Gull. On the rare occasions he had something worth telling, the policeman invariably prevaricated, wandered round the houses, kept the best wine till last. She hadn’t got time this morning.

‘Come on, Sergeant!’

Gull enjoyed this game of cat-and-mouse but was eager to demonstrate his superior knowledge. ‘Card in Hennessy’s pocket,’ he declared proudly. ‘From Mr Cattermole.’

Raymond Cattermole ran the Pavilion Theatre, an old actor-manager out to grass but clinging to past glories.

‘Most unlikely,’ said Miss Dimont firmly and stepped off towards her office.

‘Card in his pocket,’ called Gull as she rounded the corner.

Miss D swung round. ‘What did it say?’ she demanded crisply.

‘Not much. Something about “looking forward to seeing you then”,’ said Gull.

‘Doesn’t prove a thing,’ snapped the reporter, setting off again for the office. But, as she walked, she chewed over the possibility.

Or impossibility – for Gull’s assertion made no sense. Gerald Hennessy was at the height of his fame as a screen actor – successful, admired, his career as a nation’s favourite well established. Why would he want to spend six weeks in Temple Regis at the Pavilion, where turgid production after turgid production made successive generations of holidaymaker swear they’d never set foot in the place again?

Indeed the perpetrator of these epic failures, Ray Cattermole himself, loved starring in them – so what place would there have been for Gerald Hennessy? Was Cattermole thinking of retiring? Maybe planning a sabbatical next year? ( Oh, please , thought Miss Dimont, whose duty it was each summer to review Ray’s dreary fare.)

But no – he’d already informed her in lordly tones of next year’s offerings: Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan , and a stage show starring Alma Cogan. There would be no male lead next year for Gerald Hennessy to play.

Unless, of course, Cattermole had been lying – as he often did. Miss Dimont had doubted from the outset whether Temple Regents, while undeniably welcoming, could secure a star of Alma’s lustre to spend six weeks among them any more than they could expect Gerald Hennessy ever to give them his King Lear.