Situation Tragedy

dated and evanescent forms of literature.

The name of the book’s author was Max de Pouray, which meant nothing to Charles. He glanced at the text as he flicked through and recognised the breathless sycophancy of the genre.

And of course Dob appeared in his famous Midnight Revue at the ‘Pav’. All the stars in London’s theatrical galaxy were there, and she outshone them all. Dressed in the simplest gown of white silk, in such company as the Prince of Wales, Lord and Lady Louis Mountbatten, Mrs Dudley Ward, the Duchess of Portland, Lady Victoria Wemyss, the Duke and Duchess of Westminster, the Duke of Norfolk and half the noble scions of Debrett’s, a glittering company that must have left most of this sceptred isle’s stately homes empty, it was Dob who was the ‘wow’ of the evening. .

There was a lot more in similar vein, but Charles found the photographs more interesting. They were brownish, and many had the posed quality of publicity stills. What they revealed most forcibly was Aurelia Howarth’s natural beauty. At fifteen, while she was a humble member of the chorus, she already had a remarkable purity of line and, maturing through the photographs, she retained the softness of youth. In spite of the vagaries of hair-styling and the ridiculous nature of some of her revue costumes, her quality shone through. And the soft studio lighting of the period gave her outline that blurred indistinction which she somehow still retained.

There were a few less posed shots, though they still looked pretty formal. Over dinner at the Cafe Royal. In a deck chair on a transatlantic liner. Relaxing on the beach at Nice with a handsome young man. . It was with shock that Charles realised that her escort must be her husband. A photograph of their wedding confirmed it.

It was hard to imagine from the grinning skeleton he now was that Barton Rivers had once been such a dashing figure. With his body fleshed out and a thick crop of dark hair sleeked back on his head, he looked very much the matinee idol.

But the photographs did not offer much evidence of his career. After all, the book’s subject was Aurelia, and it seemed that they had rarely worked together. There was one shot of them with two other couples dancing in front of a backdrop of a desert island. The caption read ‘In the Palm of My Hand with a Palm Overhead from Careless Feet.’ And there was a picture of the pair sitting in a Bentley over the legend, ‘Husband and Wife — from Death Takes A Short Cut.’ The photograph looked like a film still.

What was remarkable about it was that they looked so familiar. The photograph was only a half-page and the whole of the Bentley was in shot, so it was difficult to see much detail of their faces. Aurelia wore one of her floating gowns, and a hat tied on with a scarf. Barton wore a blazer and cravat, and his hair was obscured by a large white flat cap. The car, which must have been a lot newer when the photograph was taken, was identical to the one they now drove around in.

In fact, to the casual eye, the photograph could have been taken a few weeks before, when the couple drove away from Bernard Walton’s house after the day’s filming.

‘Do you know anything about this film?’ Charles asked.

Romney Kirkstall shook his head. ‘Never heard of it. But then I’ve always concentrated on Dab’s theatrical work. That is, until she stopped doing theatre and started television.’

Charles looked again at the photograph, but was aware of Romney Kirkstall’s hands reaching out for the book. ‘If you don’t mind. .’

There was a note of paranoia in the little man’s voice, as if he were genuinely afraid Charles was going to appropriate his prize.

‘Okay, thank you very much for letting me look at it.’ He handed the book back and, without another word, Romney Kirkstall stuffed it into his duffle bag and scuttled off.

Jay Lewis was chattering to some other young PAs. She turned round angrily when he ran a finger down her spine, but softened when she saw who it was. Which was nice.

‘Hello, Charles.’

‘Hi. I wondered if you fancied coming out for a meal.’

‘Now?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’ve just fixed to go and eat with Dinky and Lucretia.’ She indicated the other girls. ‘You could come with us, I suppose.’

‘Not really what I had in mind.’

She grinned a grin that suggested she knew what he did have in mind. And didn’t object too much.

‘Another time, maybe,’ he proposed.

‘Hock — A.’

‘And do you think your flatmate in Film Research could find out something for me?’

‘I’m sure she could.’

‘Good. I’ll tell you about it when we have our meal.’

He got another drink (had to buy his own — Peter Lipscombe had left) and looked round for someone to talk to. Most of the cast had gone. Jay and her friends were collecting their coats by the door. Knots of cameramen still drank lager. Men in lumberjack checked shirts grumbled ominously. Robin Laughton, the hearty Floor Manager, held court to some young men at a low table. Charles drifted over to join them.

Robin seemed pleased to see him. He was showing off his savoir-faire to a group of trainee Floor Managers, and wanted to demonstrate his easy familiarity with the stars. Since there weren’t any stars in the bar, he would make do with Charles Paris.

‘Charles, just passing on a few wrinkles to the lads here. Charles Paris, this is Bob, and Tony and. . er. . ’

‘Dick,’ supplied the youngest young man, who looked vaguely familiar. ‘Actually. Charles, we met on The Strutters’ pilot. I was trailing Robin on that.’

‘Ah yes.’ That would explain the familiarity. ‘What’ve you been doing since?’

‘Oh, trailing other stuff. I went and did some of the Wragg and Bowen filming, and then I’ve been following this series for the elderly. Do you know they’ve got this presenter on that called Ian Reynolds, who’s nearly eighty?’

‘Yes. I had heard.’

‘He’s a great old boy. He’s not got a nerve in his body when it comes to-’,

Robin Laughton decided that the trainee had held the floor long enough and interrupted. ‘I must tell Charles about you and the walkie-talkie.’

‘Oh.’ Dick did not look keen on having the anecdote repeated.

But Robin Laughton pressed on with enthusiasm. Clearly it was a story that was going to show up Dick’s inexperience. ‘Charles, you know we all carry round these walkie-talkies, so that we can talk back to production control?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, one thing you’ve got to remember is to switch them off, otherwise you’re wired for sound at all times. .’

‘Yes.’

The other two trainee Floor Managers snickered in anticipation of the story they had heard before, and Dick looked even more uncomfortable, but Robin continued inexorably. ‘Well, when Dick was very new, two or three months back, he was all wired up and he forgot about it and went off to the Gents to have a shit.’

This was the cue for the other trainees to burst into open laughter, which they dutifully did.

‘Everyone,’ Robin Laughton continued, ‘heard everything. You got a round of applause when you came back into the studio, didn’t you, Dick?’

‘Yes.’ He grinned and, reckoning that his baiting was now finished, tried to change the subject. ‘What interests me, Charles, about — ’

But Robin Laughton wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. ‘Oh. Dick kept doing things like that when he started. After the lavatory incident. he went and lost his set one day.’

‘Well, I mislaid it.’ Dick was not enjoying this crude masculine teasing. ‘I just put it down somewhere. There’s a lot to think about when you start.’

‘Oh yes, a great deal,’ Robin Laughton mocked. Charles saw the Floor Manager for what he was, the sort of man who would offer no sympathetic assistance to trainees in his charge, but would take delight in watching them