‘I must do that. Oh well, cheers.’
They raised their glasses and drank. The older one grimaced at the taste. ‘’Ere, I don’t reckon this lot’s chateau-bottled. Might have a word to Rog about that, and all.’
The arrival of George Birkitt beside him prevented Charles from concentrating further on this illuminating conversation. Colonel Strutter’s mood had not improved.
‘Did you see that? Bloody Bernard Walton’s taken bloody Aurelia and her lunatic husband off to lunch.’
‘They’ve known each other a long time.’
‘Huh. Well, I don’t think there should be any discrimination of that sort. We’re all of us actors, for God’s sake, neither more nor less.’ He took a mouthful of pate. ‘And notice I wasn’t invited to the private lunchipoos.’
‘Don’t worry, the food’s not bad here.’ He reached out to fill his glass a third time from the bottle of red wine.
‘Not too much of that, Charles. Got to work this afternoon.’
‘You have, George. I haven’t. I’m finished.’
‘Oh yes. Well, Charles, do watch it in future. I’ve got a lot of scenes with you in this series, and I’ve got enough to do without worrying whether you’re going to be sober enough to remember the lines.’
‘I’ll be very careful,’ said Charles, mock humility masking his annoyance.
‘Good.’
‘Mind you, though, George, I am one of those actors who has always been said to be B.W.P.’
‘B.W.P.?’
‘Better when pissed.’
The location caterers had no sense of economy. W.E.T. was paying, so they didn’t mind the half-finished plates left by technicians who had overestimated their capacity. They seemed content to scrape half-full terrines into their rubbish bins. And they had no objection at all to Charles Paris appropriating a bottle of red wine to see him through the afternoon. (In fact, when he offered to pay them for it, they looked at him as if he were the first of some newly hatched species hitherto unseen on this planet.)
So, since it was a nice sunny day, and since Bernard Walton’s garden was a very pleasant place to loll in, Charles spent a pleasant afternoon lolling. Occasionally he would stroll back to the filming to show a token interest, but nothing ever seemed to be happening. They were always waiting. Waiting for the sun to emerge from behind a cloud. Waiting for an aeroplane to pass, so that its sound wouldn’t affect the recording. Waiting, on one occasion as Charles passed, for Debbi Hartley to complete a costume change.
This had clearly been taking some time. The men whose function it was to wear lumberjack checked shirts were looking at their watches and smiling, as the odds on overtime shortened. Scott Newton and Peter Lipscombe, who had appeared at some point during the day to see that everything was okay, were looking extremely frustrated. At last the director could contain himself no longer. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ he cried. ‘What the hell is she changing into?’
‘An actress?’ Mort Verdon asked, almost inaudibly.
Once, just for a change of scene, Charles wandered down the steep zigzag of the drive towards the main road. He had it vaguely in his mind to walk along by the river. An interest in fishing, which he had not recently indulged, drew him to rivers. But when he got to the bottom, he saw that the Thames was a good deal further away than it had looked. There was a two-mile stretch of fields to traverse, so he turned round and started back up the drive.
It really was steep. It made him realise, gloomily, just how out of condition he was. Not enough exercise, too much booze. He knew he should take more of the first and less of the second, but something stubborn within him resisted the notion. It made him think of Frances. That was the sort of advice Frances would give him. She was nearly always right. That was what at times annoyed him about her and made him, perversely, turn against her advice.
He must ring her, though.
Half-way up the drive he felt puffed and sat on the wall for a moment by one of the tall flower-filled urns. He leant his back against it, but it wobbled, so he sat upright and looked over the deep green to the Thames.
Must start fishing again, he thought. Must start fishing, and must see Frances. In some way, the two intentions seemed related. Could it be that both of them offered the prospect of a kind of peace?
The day’s filming finished in time. At twenty past five, Scott Newton said the magic words, ‘It’s a wrap,’ and it was all over. The director looked buoyantly confident. The men in lumberjack checked shirts looked disgruntled for a moment, and then started dismantling everything with a speed and efficiency that hadn’t been approached during the day. There were fixed payments for their tidying-up time, so there was no point in hanging about.
Everyone was now in a hurry to be off. The actors made for the coach. They still had ahead of them the tedious business of returning to the W.E.T. dressing rooms where their day clothes were. Aurelia Howarth, to the annoyance of Wardrobe, said that she and Cocky were tired and so she’d go home in her frock and bring it back the next day. Barton Rivers appeared, white-gloved and grinning, to squire her to the Bentley. He shook everyone’s hands and urged everyone ghoulishly to play up, play up, and play the game.
The traffic jam on the gravel in front of the house was increased when Bernard Walton brought his dark blue Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud out of the garage. He had to be up in Town for the Charity First Night of some new movie, and was suddenly dressed in a midnight-blue dinner suit, with a midnight-blue butterfly bow at the neck of a froth of pale blue shirt. He didn’t lock the house, since his housekeeper remained. (Bernard Walton was unmarried. He and his Publicity Manager had not yet found a woman who would keep her fashion value long enough for him to justify this step.)
Charles, in the mellowness of the afternoon’s wine, felt confident that however the traffic was sorted out, the coach would probably he the last to leave, so he didn’t rush into it to sit and wait.
The Bentley went first, its huge power held back to cope with the dangerous curves of the hill. Aurelia turned and waved, while Barton grinned ahead. They looked like something out of a Thirties film. The noise of the engine faded quickly to silence as they passed out of sight. The steep bank cut off sound quickly and ensured that the domestic calm of the great Bernard Walton should not be disturbed by the vulgar sounds of traffic on the main road below.
Bernard himself set off next, the Rolls moving faster than the Bentley, secure in its knowledge of every contour of the steep drive. Once again the powerful engine sound died quickly.
Scott Newton moved over to the side of his Porsche, his face beaming the unrestrainable smile of a father with his first daughter. But once there he hesitated. He wanted to make a departure which would be noticed, or rather by which his car would be noticed, but he wasn’t sure how to time it.
The sight of Peter Lipscombe came to his rescue. The Producer, having checked with everyone that everything was okay, was about to get into his company BMW and return to London. Scott Newton called across to him, ‘Last one back to W.E.T.’s a sissy.’
The producer smiled. I’ll be back before you, Scott.’
‘No chance. Yours doesn’t go as fast as this.’
‘I’m not saying it does. But I know the back ways when we get to Town. You may get there first, but I’ll beat you through the rush hour. I’ve done it back from here within the hour.’
‘Want a bet on it?’
‘Fiver.’
‘You’re on.’
The Producer and Director walked towards each other and shook hands. ‘What’s more,’ said Peter Lipscombe, ‘I’m so confident I’ll beat you, that I’ll let you go first.’
Scott Newton thought for a second, but then decided to take advantage of the offer and make his exit while everyone was still watching. He leapt into the silver Porsche, gunned the engine and shot off in a burst of gravel.
The sound of the engine faded, but just before it disappeared, the note changed to a scream of metal. This was followed by a series of heavy thuds, and then a great boom which seemed to shake the hill on which the house stood.
Charles Paris reached a viewpoint of the accident a little behind the younger men who had rushed down the drive. There was no doubt what had happened.
Round one of the hairpins in the drive, an urn lay in the middle of the gravel, its bright confusion of flowers
