Carole turned her face away, unwilling to meet his gaze. The ‘eyes and ears of Fethering Beach’ were proving far too well attuned for her taste. Without looking at Old Garge, she asked, “And how did you spend yours?”
“None of my days are very different from each other. Christmas Day I spent here, just like usual. Walked on the beach with Petrarch – that’s the dog – doing my usual ‘Care in the Community’ impression, listened to Radio 3, read some poetry. Do you know, quite often I read poetry out loud in here. No problem this time of year. This time of year I can read away all through the night, if I want to – sleep not being something I’m very good at these days. In the summer, though, when I’ve got the doors open and I’m reading poetry, I do get some funny looks. Parents putting protective arms round children, hurrying them away.” He seemed embarrassed for a moment, as though an unwanted memory had invaded his mind, before hurrying on, “They seem to feel that there’s something unnatural about poetry being read aloud. Makes them think I’m some kind of weirdo.”
“It sounds as if you don’t mind them getting that impression.”
“Well,” he said, rubbing a scaly hand through his white whiskers, “never does any harm to have a bit of mystique, does it?”
“What did you do,” asked Carole boldly, “before you started on your current way of life?”
“What makes you think I haven’t always done this?”
“Something in your manner.”
“Ah, but what?”
“That I can’t currently say.”
The man turned an intense gaze on her. Through the layers of wrinkles around them, his eyes were a pale blue, not unlike her own. He seemed to be assessing whether or not to give her the information she had asked for. After a moment, Old Garge decided in Carole’s favour.
“I used to be an actor,” he said. “In the view of many people, I might still be an actor.”
“Playing the part of Old Garge?”
“Exactly. How very perceptive of you. A role which suits me, possibly the most comfortable piece of casting I’ve ever encountered. Old Garge fits me like a glove.” He gave her another piercing look. “Do you have anything to do with ‘the business’?”
Carole felt very proud that she recognized the expression from conversations with Gaby. “My daughter-in-law is a theatrical agent. Well, that is, she was, until she had her baby. I dare say she’ll go back to it soon.” And yet Carole couldn’t really see that happening in the near future. Gaby seemed so happy and fulfilled with Lily that more babies and full-time motherhood might well keep her away from the agency for quite a while. To her surprise, Carole found the prospect appealing.
“So when,” she went on, “did you give up acting?”
“I thought we’d just established that I haven’t given it up.”
“When did you give up being paid for acting?”
“A better question, but one which I fear I find rather difficult to answer. It’s not so much that I gave up acting as that acting gave up me. Calls from my agent dwindled, reflecting a comparable dwindling in enquiries for my professional services. Then I received the news that my agent had died, and I was faced with the question of whether I should endeavour to get a replacement or not. I fairly quickly decided there wasn’t much point. So I moved out of London and down here, to an area which I have known and loved since my childhood. That would be…some three years ago…probably more. I’ve reached the age where, in discussions of the past, I have to double the number I first thought of. And it may have been some years before that when I last had a professional booking. I still receive occasional, minuscule repeat fees for long-dead television series being sold to Mongolian cable networks, but the last occasion when I received a fee for a current project is lost in the mists of time.”
“Presumably you didn’t act under the name of ‘Old Garge’?”
“No, that would have been a trifle fanciful, wouldn’t it? Going way beyond the demands of having a mystique.” He rose from his seat, reached up to exactly the right spot in his shelves, and pulled down a fat book jacketed in two shades of green. “
From much usage, the book opened immediately at a page revealing the photographs and agent details of four actors. “I graced the ‘Leading Man’ section in those days. Later I was downgraded to ‘Character’.”
He held the book across to Carole. In spite of the changes wrought by time, she had no difficulty in identifying the right actor. With dark hair and eyebrows, a long, rather delicate face, Old Garge was still recognizable. Very good-looking in a dated, matinee idol way. The name beneath the photograph was ‘Rupert Sonning’.
Its owner looked fondly at the image. “Yes, me just about ‘on the turn’, I would say. Even then the photograph was a good seven years younger than I was. By that time the waist had thickened, the face spread, the veins in the nose become more visible. No longer in the market for romantic leads, moving towards seedy aristocrats, venal politicians and child molesters.” The thought seemed to cause him pain.
Remembering what she had thought after seeing Flora Le Bonnier in
Old Garge – or Rupert Sonning – burst into laughter. “Full marks for tact, Carole. I know you used to be a civil servant, I think I can now rule out the possibility that you worked in the Diplomatic Service.”
“I’m sorry.” She was flustered both by her social gaffe and also again by his detailed knowledge of her life story.
“Don’t worry, I’ve always favoured the direct approach myself. And the answer to your question is probably yes. In my young days my face was – literally – my fortune. ‘You want a handsome young devil – call for Rupert Sonning!’ Oh yes, I was put through the Rank Charm School, learned how to deal with the press, not to tell them anything except the stories the publicity department had dreamed up for me. Then I did a few of those Gainsborough costume dramas, had a very nice time, thank you very much. And, looking like I did, I was also rather successful as a ladies’ man.” He chuckled, but there was sadness in the expression with which he looked again at his
There was a silence, then Carole asked, “In your acting career, did your path ever cross with that of Flora Le Bonnier?”
He grinned. “Ah, the lovely Flora. Lady Muck herself. Oh yes, our paths crossed. And how.” He chuckled at some fond reminiscence.
“Have you seen her recently?”
A hint of caution came into his pale blue eyes. “Why should I have done?”
“She spent Christmas not far away from here. Near Fedborough. With her son and family.”
“Ah, did she?”
Carole couldn’t tell if this was news to him, but she rather thought it wasn’t. For the first time in their conversation Old Garge had become cagey. But, she reasoned, there was no way he couldn’t know the Le Bonnier connection with Fethering. If he could summon up so many details of her own life – even embarrassing ones about how she’d spent recent Christmases – he must have been aware of Gallimaufry’s opening and of Lola’s connection to Flora Le Bonnier.
“I think you know she did,” said Carole firmly.
The actor spread his hands wide to indicate the end of his small subterfuge. “Yes, all right, I knew that.”
“So have you seen Flora recently? In the last few days?”
“You’re very persistent, Carole, aren’t you?”
“I can be.”
“Hm.” He thought about this. “I don’t think I ever had that quality. Of being persistent. Something lacking in my genetic make-up. Perhaps, had I been more persistent, I might have sustained a more enduring career as an actor.” He shrugged. “Still, one cannot change one’s nature, can one?”
“One can try.”
He considered this assertion, then asked, “Have you tried, Carole? Have you tried to change your nature?”
“At times, yes.”
“Didn’t work, did it?”
