Situation Tragedy

straight into the wastepaper basket, and decided he might go for a stroll down the Charing Cross Road.

The man in the bookshop was desolated, but the book was gone. ‘Sold it to a dealer yesterday. Know him well. He’s always on the look-out for that sort of stuff. You a collector?’

‘Well, not really. I was just interested in that particular book.’

‘Oh. ’Cause I could do you a nice 1930 Austin Freeman. Mr Pottermack’s Oversight, first edition. Or I got a few early Ngaio Marshes. Died in the Wool, 1945. And I think I still got a couple of S. S. Van Dines.’

‘But no R. Q. Wilberforces?’

‘No, sorry, don’t get many in. He didn’t really do that many, don’t think he did any after the War. Maybe he was killed, don’t know. I could take your number, if you like, and if I get an R. Q. Wilberforce, give you a buzz.’

‘OK. Thanks.’ Charles gave his number. ‘But don’t worry. It isn’t important. You say a dealer bought the one you had. .’

‘Yes. Of course, if you’re really keen, I could put you in touch with him.’

‘I would be grateful.’

‘Right. I know him well. Comes in here about once a month. His name’s Gregory Watts and he lives down in Kew, I think. Here’s his number.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘And you’re sure it’s just the R. Q. Wilberforce you’re interested in?’

‘For the moment, yes.’

“Cause I mean, far be it from me to tell you your business, but if you are starting a collection, you ought to go for a few more in the genre. I mean, there aren’t many R. Q Witberforces and they’re fairly rare, so I reckon you should widen your sights a bit. I mean, I got a nice early American edition of The Lady in Black. That was the title of Trent’s Last Case over there. You know, Bentley.’

With a loud clang, a penny that had been jammed for some days in a slot in Charles’ brain, dropped.

‘I’ve got it!’ he shouted.

‘Have you really?’ asked the bookseller, with some surprise at his vehemence. ‘Well, that’s quite rare. Now that’s a very good basis for a collection.’

But he spoke to an empty shop. The potential collector of R. Q. Wilberforce had shot off down the Charing Cross Road.

Charles contemplated making up for the job, but reckoned it was too risky. Part of him wanted to appear in the tramp guise he had worn as Estragon in Waiting for Godot at Glasgow (‘Never mind Godot, I spent the entire evening waiting for some distinguished acting’ — The Scotsman). Another part suggested a socially committed researcher, using the earnest Midlands voice he had perfected for some forgotten Play for Today (‘Tried to fit a quart into a pint pot and drowned the unfortunate actors in the resulting spillage’ — Sunday Times).

But he rejected both of these. His prospective quarry had seen him before, and Charles knew from experience that disguise in such circumstances could all too easily lead to discovery.

No, he had to go in his own persona, but he had to have a reason to justify his presence. And it had to be something that would disarm the prejudice his appearance was bound to arouse.

His quarry hadn’t heard him speak, so he could certainly do something with his voice, which might help. Perhaps he could use the Liverpudlian he’d used in The Homecoming at Leatherhead (‘I laughed till I left’ — Leatherhead Herald). Or the non-specific East Anglian he’d developed for a small-time villain in Z Cars (‘As regular as clockwork and about as interesting’ — Evening Standard). Or the Midlands one. .?

But that wasn’t really the problem. He could choose a voice when he got there. The difficulty was a reason for his appearance. He thought.

It came in a flash. Of course, nothing is wasted. Everything is meant.

He went through the contents of his wastepaper basket until he came to the photocopied sheet from the Red Theatre Co-operative.

And he studied it hard.

It was strange revisiting the scene of the near-riot and Robin Laughton’s death. The weather was benign, early summer sun washing the old frontages of the condemned terrace and giving them a kind of apologetic grandeur, as if they had somehow regained their youth. In the brightness of the sun he wasn’t so aware of the boarded windows and padlocked doors, the flaking paint and angry graffiti.

He wasn’t sure what a Red Theatre Co-operative member of his age would wear, because he had never met one. In fact he rather wondered whether there were any members of his age; the ones he had come across were all in their twenties and thirties. They were angry young men — no, he mustn’t say that, the use of the expression dated him — committed young men — that was better — and girls, often with very short hair, tight jeans and leather blousons, who tended to interrupt rehearsals with queries about what the Equity representative intended to do about the rising unemployment figures, or whether Shakespeare was inextricably allied to the capitalist system. Charles had even, briefly, worked with a Red Theatre Co-operative director on a production of King Lear, which saw the play as a socialist parable. To justify this reading, the King had to be seen as a symbol of traditional landowning conservatism and the division of his kingdom as a necessary step towards public ownership. As a result, the political sympathies of the audience had to be with Regan and Goneril in their attempts to reduce the power of the traditional hierarchy and impose a socialist state. Cordelia became a symbol of wishy-washy bourgeois uncommitted apathy, and the entrance of Lear with her dead in his arms showed how non-participation was tantamount to alliance with the corruption of capitalism. The tragedy of the play was the deaths of Cornwall, Regan and Goneril, martyrs to the cause of progress, but the production ended on a note of hope. Albany’s lines in the final scene.

All friends shall taste

The wages of their virtue, and all foes

The cup of their deservings,

were transposed to the very end of the play, and signified the start of the revolution. They were greeted by a great shout from all the company, dead bodies included, who all sang The Red Flag. The production, in spite of being hailed by Time Out as ‘a milestone in political theatre, showing that traditional plays need not just be commercial bullshit’, played to small houses throughout its short run.

The same director’s productions of Othello (about a black school-leaver unable to get a job) and Macbeth (an interpretation based on the lines

No, this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red)

also failed to reach more than a minority audience.

Given the lack of middle-aged models for his chosen role, Charles wore his own clothes. He went first to the house which had been cleared for filming, and summoned the elderly couple who lived there to the door.

‘Hello. My name’s Charles Paris. I was involved in the filming that West End Television was doing here the other week.’

‘Oh yes.’ The old man did not look unwelcoming. ‘I wondered when you lot would be back.’

‘Oh.’

‘I said to Rita, they’re bound to be back, didn’t I, Rita?’

‘You did, Lionel.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, the way I saw it was, you didn’t get no filming done that night, did you? So I put two and two together and realised that you’d want to do it another night, because you need it for your show.’

‘No, in fact — ’

‘And before you say anything else, let me say that I’m going to want twice the money you paid last time. The disruption and noise was much more than what you said it would be.’

It took Charles some time to explain that the filming had been covered in the studio and there wouldn’t be