TP Fielden - The Riviera Express

The interview concluded quite rapidly thereafter and Miss Aubrey was wafted away to the Grand by a uniformed chauffeur who materialised out of nowhere – as they always do in Temple Regis when film stars sail over the horizon. It was not a town, after all, peopled entirely by hayseeds.

Terry got his photos. You had to give Miss Aubrey that, she knew how to pose even in a railway waiting room. Somehow widow’s weeds had never seemed more Parisian, more desirable. Cecil Beaton was said to have fallen in love with her, which seemed remarkable to those who knew Cecil, and here she was – in Temple Regis! She was front-page material wherever she went – it was just that she now seemed to be famous for being famous, for, alas, her millions of fans had been waiting a long time for her next film.

Terry drove Miss Dimont back to the office in the Minor.

‘Did you notice how she suddenly turned – just like that?’ said an unsettled Miss Dimont to Terry.

‘Fabulous coat she ’ad,’ said Terry, ignoring the question as usual. ‘Did you see that twirl I got her to do? Talk about New Look all over again! The way that fabric just floated in the air!’

‘A disgrace,’ snorted Miss Dim. ‘Twirling? They haven’t even had the post-mortem on her husband yet, let alone the inquest!’

‘No disrespect,’ said Terry, scratching his head. But the whole encounter – its timing, its focus, and the unexpected bolt of lightning which concluded it – troubled the reporter.

It was lunchtime. Peter Pomeroy, the chief sub-editor, was jerkily dipping his head towards his desk like a heron stabbing at a fish. Seen from a distance this behaviour might seem odd to the newcomer, alarming even, but it was Pomeroy’s way and nobody said anything. After you’d worked at the Riviera Express for a few weeks you came to realise that everyone had their quirks – after all, Miss Dim and Herbert, just think of that! – and if he wanted to pretend he wasn’t eating sandwiches concealed in his desk drawer then who was anyone to say otherwise?

Miss Dim took an apple from her raffia bag and placed it next to her Quiet-Riter. ‘Exclusive,’ she rattled. ‘ Riviera Express talks to Gerald Hennessy’s widow, Prudence Aubrey.’ (Exclusive because no other paper thought to turn up, a cause of intense dissatisfaction to the nation’s newest widow.)

She ratcheted down the page with two swift stabs of her left hand. There was no time to spare – the printers were waiting for her copy.

‘The tragic widow of Gerald Hennessy revealed to the Express that she had planned to make another film soon with her husband,’ she rattled.

‘Prior to her husband’s inquest on Monday, Prudence Aubrey disclosed that her ambition to make a British version of The Magnificent Ambersons was well advanced but . . .’ and so went the tale, innocuous, sympathetically worded and lacking any clue to avid readers that its tragic star was a nasty piece of work capable of sudden and vicious twists of temper.

When she had finished, Miss Dimont pulled the copy-paper – three sheets sandwiching two carbons – from her Quiet-Riter and separated the component parts. The bottom sheet was hooked on to the spike on her desk – a handy filing tool in the ordinary course of events and, unbent, an even more useful murder weapon – handed one to the sub-editors, and the top copy went into Mr Rhys’s in-tray.

Grabbing her apple, she stalked off to the coroner’s court, munching furiously, thinking hard. Prudence Aubrey’s unwarranted savagery had upset her – and after all the effort she and Terry had taken to treat her with kid gloves! Well, thought Miss Dimont, not next time – next time she would get the full Sergeant Hernaford treatment.

Her presence in court was about as vital to the proceedings as that of anyone else – that is to say, not at all. Dr Rudkin paid lip service to the occasion by donning a black coat and pinstripe trousers with a nice stiff collar and a suitably drab tie, and in return was shown the deference that all coroners must be shown; for they, and only they, hold the key to a dead man’s future reputation.

In ten minutes the whole thing was over. Dr Rudkin opened and adjourned the inquest into the death of Gerald Victor Midleton Hennessy pending a post-mortem report, then did the same in the case of Garrick Arthur Shrimsley. This was the way things were generally done to give the key players time to properly prepare themselves before the full inquest at a later date. Everybody rose, decorously awaited the doctor’s exit, made a mental note to be here again on Friday, then swarmed out into the September sunshine.

As they all paused momentarily on the pavement, Prudence Aubrey glanced over at Miss Dim, blinked hard, then turned sharply away and headed for her car. In that instant the reporter realised that her question, as to when the actress last saw her husband, had hit the nail squarely on the head.

Only she had no idea why.

Was it that Prudence had been out with a man friend? There had been several sightings of her in the company of handsome young chaps, written up by the Daily Mail ’s diarist, Paul Tanfield (‘the column which brings champagne into the lives of caravan dwellers’). Was it simply that this supremely self-centred prima donna could not remember when she’d last seen her husband? That her well-polished script, delivered to Miss Dimont and Terry, an actress’s soliloquy which brooked no interruption, had failed to incorporate this fundamental in its preparation?

Or was it just that the question was, when it came down to it, about her husband and not about her? Certainly the posing of it had exposed a chink in Miss Aubrey’s haute-couture armour and had momentarily left her vulnerable and exposed.

But Miss Dimont – even clever, perceptive, worldly Miss Dimont – was unable to see past the film-star artifice. Thus protected, Prudence Aubrey retained her beautiful enigma, the single quality upon which she had built her reputation, and one which she was not about to relinquish to a corkscrew-haired provincial.

Outclassed and – perhaps – outwitted, the reporter beat a hasty retreat back to the office. Her account of the proceedings would make a small Page One paragraph, no more, and anyway she had to quickly scan the minutes of the Highways Committee before its meeting to consider the siting of a new public lavatory, a matter which was proving highly contentious to the good people of Temple Regis.

*

Life on the Riviera Express consisted of passages of frantic activity followed by equal periods of stasis. There was a chance to telephone friends, make shopping lists, dream about holidays, or write the occasional letter. Fridays were generally such a time for Miss Dimont and on this particular day she had completed all her work-displacement activities by the time the mid-morning coffee came around.

After chatting to Betty Featherstone about her latest boy-friend, some big wheel in Rotary, Miss Dimont decided on a whim to pay a visit to Raymond Cattermole at the Pavilion Theatre. There was always the panto to talk about – so far Miss Dimont had resisted thinking about Christmas but it was sure to come around sooner or later, so she had an excuse.

The Pavilion, Edwardian in construction, was living proof that there are jerry-builders in every age. Time and tide had taken their toll, and though the posters which adorned its frontage were bright and fresh, that was as much as you could say about it.

Including the manager, Mr Cattermole. There had been a time, when he first arrived after the War, when there was a spring in his step and an air of promise about the place. He had even managed to get some of his old West End chums to come down for a summer season, though it has to be said they only came once, and as these stars wafted back to their firmament so Raymond took on their mantle, increasingly starring in his own productions until he could only see virtue in saving money and taking the applause.