‘That’s very kind, but I think the coach’ll be going back shortly and. .’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’ve got to drive up to Town later. Got to go on some radio chat show. Live at ten o’clock — ugh. Bloody inconvenient, but I’d better do it.’
‘Well, in that case. .’ A snag. ‘But I’m in costume.’
‘Oh tell them you’ll take it in tomorrow.’
‘They won’t like it.’
They didn’t, but Charles was too determined to grab his chance of talking to Bernard to worry about the affronted flouncing of a dresser.
They sat by the window of Bernard’s sitting room with glasses of brandy and watched the cavalcade of buses and cars depart.
‘How’s it going?’ asked the star of
‘Hard to judge, really. I’m not very good at assessing comedy, least of all this sort of stuff.’
‘I think it’ll probably be very successful,’ Bernard condescended.
‘Hmm. Of course, it’s got off to rather a disturbed start. .’
But the opportunity to talk about Scott’s death was ignored. ‘You’ve heard they’re not going to proceed with
Charles nodded. ‘Still, nice big pay-off, I gather.’
‘Yes.’ Bernard’s tone did not suggest that the money was a great comfort. ‘Oh well, maybe I should go back to the theatre. Might get a job in rep. at Cardiff,’ he suggested ruefully.
This reference to their first meeting released a variety of reminiscences. Charles played along. He wanted to bring the conversation round to the deaths of Sadie and Scott, but he had to do it gently. Also, there was something about Bernard’s manner, the way he had buttonholed Charles and insisted on his staying, that suggested he might want to unburden himself of some confidence. But it mustn’t be hurried.
It was about half-past five when Bernard suggested they should leave for Town. ‘I have a call to make on the way. It won’t take long. I hope you don’t mind.’
Charles didn’t. His social calendar was as empty as ever. Whether he arrived back at Hereford Road at seven or midnight or indeed three a.m. made little difference. He had had a vague intention to ring Frances that evening, but it’d keep.
The call Bernard had to make proved to be at a home for spastics. Charles said, no, he didn’t mind coming in with him.
It was a strange experience, prompting mixed reactions. On one level, Charles knew that it was a carefully engineered public relations exercise. He felt sure that Bernard had made his call before in other more eminent company. After all, there was little point in impressing Charles Paris with the great star’s big-heartedness. They had known each other too long. Charles knew the kind of calculation that went into everything Bernard did, and had a shrewd suspicion Bernard knew he knew.
On the other hand, it was undeniable that, whatever his motive, the star was doing good. The expressions on the distorted faces of the children he addressed spoke their welcome. And his familiarity with names and interests vouched for the regularity of such visits. As did the gratitude of the nursing staff.
Charles was brought back to a conclusion that he had often reached before: that a good action remains a good action, whatever its motivation. The fact that Bernard was making capital out of his work with the handicapped, the fact that he was very deliberately supplying a lack of natural humanity, that he was consciously building up an image of caring, and quite possibly scoring points to be recognised in some future Honours List, did not detract from the pleasure that he brought to the objects of his manufactured concern.
Charles found himself disarmed by this discovery. Having seen Bernard in action on the hospital visit was not going to make it any easier to challenge him over the deaths of Sadie Wainwright and Scott Newton (though he knew that, if Bernard had an inkling of his suspicions, the star was quite capable of deliberately fostering such a mood of doubt).
The visit only took half an hour. The matron and a few giggling nurses saw them to the main door. ‘Haven’t seen you on the television so much recently, Mr. Walton,’ commented the matron.
He grinned. ‘Ah no. Have to ration myself. Don’t want the public to get bored with me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that wouldn’t happen.’
‘All too easily, matron, all too easily.’
‘I bet you’ve got another big series coming up soon, haven’t you?’
Bernard Walton laid his finger slyly along the side of his nose. ‘Big secret, matron, big secret.’
‘Ooh, I bet you have got something coming up.’
‘All,’ he announced mysteriously, ‘will become clear at the proper time.’
Back in the car, Charles asked the blunt question, ‘Have you really got a new series coming up?’
‘No,’ replied Bernard gloomily, ‘but I can’t tell them that, can I?’
As they approached London, Bernard asked if he had any plans for the evening. Charles, whose plans rarely aspired beyond a visit to the Montrose, said he hadn’t.
‘I’d thought of dining at my club, the Greville. Be delighted if you’d join me.’
‘Oh, but I. .’ Charles instinctively thought of his usual dress (once dignified by Gerald Venables with the description ‘neo-woodcutter’). But no, of course. Reg the barman’s blazer and ungiving trousers were quite suitable for dining in a gentleman’s club.
So it proved. As they entered the splendid hallway of the Greville, an elderly member, mellowed by alcohol, seized Charles by the hand and confided that he’d always recognise an Old Millingtonian tie and had he heard anything from Stubby Harbottle.
They dined well in a small, darkly panelled room. It was still early and they were alone. As Charles had suspected, Bernard was now in confiding mood. Not only confiding, but morbidly realistic.
‘I don’t need to tell you, Charles, the news about
‘Oh, something else’ll come up,’ Charles assured him easily.
Bernard Walton shook his head. ‘No sign of it. I need a starring vehicle and there just ain’t another one around.’
‘Oh, come on. You’re not going to be out of work.’
‘No, not out of work, but out of the right sort of work. Okay, I can do a few guest appearances on other people’s shows, I can do panel games, that sort of stuff, but I need the continuity of my own show. Everything else springs from that. You heard that Matron — “Haven’t seen you on the television so much recently, Mr. Walton..” It doesn’t take long for the public to forget a face, you know.’
‘And, apart from that, there’s the money. It takes a few bob to maintain the sort of establishment I do.’ Charles could well believe him. ‘It isn’t just the money for the television series that counts, it’s all the other spin-off stuff. You get booked for cabaret or after-dinner speaking or other shows because you’re seen regularly on the box. And now, it seems, I’m not going to be seen regularly on the box.’
‘I’m sure some other series’ll come up for you.’
‘I hope so. I’ve been talking to a few writers to see if they’ve got ideas. I’m prepared to put up development money. I’m trying to get Rod Tisdale. He’s the best for my sort of comedy, but he’s always got so much work. Still, there’s an idea of his that might work out, but it’s early days yet. I need another property.’
It was interesting to hear how Bernard thought in properties. He didn’t just want a job, he wanted a personal setting for his own personality. It was an attitude to show business which Charles had never found necessary.
But as Bernard talked, the precarious nature of his position became clearer. The top-rating series was essential to his operation. Without it, the celebrity bookings would only continue for a short time and he would degenerate into a professional celebrity, a tree without roots, famous for being famous, without any basis of other work to justify his status. The stakes were high and a character with a star complex like Bernard Walton might go to considerable lengths to maintain his position.
He was surprisingly aware of his limitations. ‘What worries me about it most, Charles, is that I think this is a symptom. Nigel Frisch stopped
