There were quite a few announcements on the loudspeakers that lunchtime, calling meetings of various branches of various unions, but, remarkably, the entire studio crew reassembled to continue work at two o’clock.
Charles began to feel nervous as the final scene of the episode drew near. He was taking a terrible risk. If something went wrong, another person could die.
Perhaps he should have gone to the police. But even as the idea came to him, he dismissed it. His story was so fanciful, so ridiculous, that no one would believe him. He remembered from his interview after the night’s filming in Clapham how little the police cared for the romantic notions of amateurs.
The recording continued. The penultimate scene was completed and the set had to be redressed before the final one, in which Colonel Strutter’s Japanese neighbour was to present him with a samurai sword.
Dob Howarth, whose work for the day was finished, came into the audience, yawning. She smiled at Charles, giving him once again the full beam of her eyes. ‘Oh, I think we’ll get it all in the can now.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘I’m exhausted. Come and sit with me and tell me sweet stories, darling.’
Charles was torn. Barton Rivers sat two rows in front of him and he wanted to keep within range of the old man. Equally, he didn’t want to arouse Aurelia’s suspicions by not accompanying her up to the back of the audience seats.
It’d be all right. The sword wasn’t even on the set yet. And it would only take a second to get down on stage. He moved up to join Aurelia in the back row.
‘Be a relief when all this industrial trouble’s over, won’t it, Dob?’
‘Will rather, darling. I must say it doesn’t make the whole process any less tiring.’
Her voice was intimate and close. He decided to talk to her about Barton. She must know a bit of what was going on. Maybe, if he told her all of it, she would agree to having the old man put away. It could all be sorted out without further risk.
Charles put his arm along the back rail of the audience seating and asked gently, ‘How
She sighed. ‘Not getting better, I’m afraid.’
Charles looked down on to the set. Mort Verdon walked into the light bearing, like Miss World with her sceptre, the samurai sword.
Six rows down, the long figure of Barton Rivers rose to his feet.
Immediately, Charles did the same and started down the steps.
But Barton didn’t go for the sword. Instead, with his fixed gentlemanly grin, he came up towards them.
Charles subsided back into his seat with relief. The danger had passed for the time being.
‘Barton’s mind works strangely, doesn’t it, Dob?’ he murmured.
She sighed. ‘I’m afraid so, darling.’
There was a sudden commotion on the set. Charles tensed, but Barton Rivers was still moving away from the sword.
Everyone seemed to be flooding into the studio looking bewildered. At last Bob Tomlinson emerged from the melee. He turned to the audience seats and shouted in his coster’s voice, ‘That’s it, folks. A.C.T.T. has called a strike. We’re all out. It’s over.’
Then everything happened fast. Charles saw Mort Verdon put the samurai sword down on the sofa. Barton Rivers, who was now almost at the top of the audience steps, turned back towards the set.
But as Charles rose, the old man’s arm suddenly swung round and caught him in the chest, toppling him backwards.
As the rail behind him gave way and Charles felt himself falling, falling backwards, his last thought was he wished he’d read
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He landed with a terrible jolt that rearranged every cell in his body. He was winded and may have passed out for a few moments. Time seemed to have elapsed when he became aware of his surroundings.
Two men in lumberjack checked shirts lay on the studio floor with him. Both looked dazed and were rubbing various of their extremities. Around the three prone figures a little semi-circle of technicians had gathered.
One of the men on the floor found his tongue. ‘Bloody strike-breaker,’ he grumbled. ‘Where the hell did you come from?’
Charles pointed weakly up to the top of the bank of seats, where the back rail hung loose and the outline of his tipped-up seat showed.
‘You’re bloody lucky we’re not seriously injured,’ continued the man in the lumberjack checked shirt. ‘Bloody lucky.’
‘He didn’t fall on purpose,’ a voice said defensively.
‘Comes to the same thing whether he did or didn’t. Falling down on top of union members — that’s the sort of thing that could cause a strike.’
‘But we’re already on strike.’
‘Oh yes. Bloody lucky for him we are.’
The other lumberjack checked shirt groaned.
“Ere, you all right?’ asked his mate.
The only reply he got was another groan.
The speaking shirt turned accusingly to Charles. “Ere, you really hurt him. I reckon falling actors comes under industrial accident. We’ll take the company for a lot of insurance on this.’
That thought seemed to make his own injuries worse, and he too groaned.
‘You’ve chosen a bad time for that,’ observed one of the watching cameramen. ‘Now we’re on strike, the company’s not liable. In fact, with the security men on total strike, even the building isn’t insured.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Both the lumberjack checked shirts stopped groaning, stood up, and walked off, grumbling.
Charles lay still. He didn’t know if it was shock or genuine injury, but he felt numb, unable to move. There was no pain, just a lassitude, an unwillingness to come back to the real world.
He vaguely heard voices asking if he was all right and vaguely felt hands lifting him. With infinite caution, he put weight on first one foot, then the other.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ He focused on the anxious face of a young cameraman. There should be a nurse on duty in the building. I don’t know if she’ll have gone on strike yet. I could ring. I think the phones are still working.’
Slowly, Charles’s faculties were coming back to him. He tried his voice and it seemed to work. ‘No, no, I think I’m all right. Just shock, really. And I feel as if I’m a bit bruised. Let me go. I’ll see if I can walk.’
He could. Just. It hurt. The feeling had come back to his body as well as his mind.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much. I’ll be okay.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
He moved very slowly out of the studio. Each footstep, however gently he tried to place it, jarred his back, and he felt himself sweating with the pain.
But he had no doubt about what he had to do. Or where he had to go. With pain, but determination, he moved slowly towards Dressing Room Number One, which had been allocated by
He knocked, and her husky, cultivated voice gave him permission to enter.
She was sitting at the mirror adjusting her make-up. Her usual diaphanous gowns and the ones she wore for the show were so similar that he couldn’t tell whether she had changed or not.
Barton Rivers was not there.
Charles’s appearance shocked her. ‘You survived,’ she gasped.
He nodded, which he found a rather painful action.
