‘Well, I haven’t actually spoken to him, but I spoke to Joanne-that’s his secretary-and I’ve fixed for you to see him this afternoon at four. That’s if he’s back. Apparently he’s been down at Streatley since the weekend, but Joanne says he should be back today. Got some charity dinner on.’
‘Look, Bernard, I… er…’ Charles’ smashed brain tried to put the words together. ‘Thanks very… I… er… don’t know how-’
‘Don’t mention it, dear boy.’ Bernard’s voice sounded as if it was opening a fete, big-hearted and patronising. ‘Do you know Marius’ office?’
‘No. I-’
‘Charing Cross Road. Milton Buildings. Just beyond the Garrick.’
‘Ah. Look, I…’
‘My dear fellow, not a word. I just hope it does you some good. Always glad to oblige. You helped me in the early days. Eh?’
If anything could have made Charles feel sicker, it was Bernard’s bonhomie.
By quarter to four the pain in his head had subsided to a dull ache. He found Milton Buildings in Charing Cross Road without too much difficulty, though the entrance was narrow, shuffled between a cafe and a book-shop.
Inside, however, the buildings were spacious. The board downstairs carried an impressive list of theatrical impresarios, agents and lawyers. ‘Marius Steen Productions’ was on the second floor. Charles travelled up in the old-fashioned cage lift. The envelope in his inside pocket seemed to bulge enormously. He felt as he had in Oxford, the first time he had taken a girl out with a packet of French letters in his wallet. He remembered the sense of an obscene lump under his blazer, revealing his intentions to the entire university. Didn’t know why he’d bothered. Virginal Vera, besotted with phonetics. Middle English and nothing else. The time that one wasted. He felt a twinge of embarrassment for the gaucheness of his youth.
‘ENQUIRIES’ and an arrow in gold leaf on the wall. It pointed to a panelled oak door. Charles knocked. ‘Come in.’
A secretary was sitting behind a solid Victorian desk. This must be Joanne. Unmarried, about forty, but not the standard over-made-up spinster secretary. She looked very positive and rather attractive in a forbidding way. Unmarried by choice, not default. She rose to meet him. ‘You must be Mr Paris.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought I recognised you from the television.’
‘Ah!’ There’s no answer to that, but it’s gratifying. ‘Mr Paris, I’m so sorry. I would have tried to contact you, but I hadn’t a phone number. I’m afraid Mr Steen hasn’t come up from the country.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. I thought he’d be back today. It appears that he’s reading some scripts and…’
‘Oh, that’s all right.’
‘There’s no one else who could help? Mr Cawley deals with a lot of the management side.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Or Mr Nigel Steen should be in town later. He’ll certainly be here over the weekend.’
‘Has he been down at Streatley?’
‘He went down yesterday. Perhaps he could…?’ ‘No, no thanks, I wanted to see Mr Marius Steen personally.’
‘Ah. Well, I’m sorry. I explained to Mr Walton that…’
‘Yes. Don’t worry.’
‘Perhaps you could let me have your number and then I’ll give you a call when Mr Steen is back in town and we could fix another appointment.’
‘Yes.’
So that was it. Charles left the office with his pocketful of pornography, feeling flat. He wandered along the Charing Cross Road, trying to think what to do next, Galahad on hearing that someone else had found the Holy Grail, Knight Errant without an errand. He rang Jacqui from Leicester Square tube station and reported his lack of progress.
‘You say he’s in Streatley now?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Nigel’s coming up to town?’
‘Probably, but, Jacqui, don’t try to contact him. Leave it to me. I’ll get in touch with him after the weekend.’
‘Yes…’ Wistful.
‘I’ll sort it out, Jacqui.’
‘Yes…’ Drab.
Charles wandered aimlessly through Leicester Square to Piccadilly. A cartoon cinema was offering Tom and Jerry and Chaplin shorts. He hovered for a moment, but his mind was too full to be side-tracked. He had to find out more about Marius Steen. So he went down the steps to Piccadilly Underground station and bought a ticket for Tower Hill.
V
The Old People’s Home was designed for daylight. Plate glass welcomed the sun in to warm the inmates who sat in armchairs, waiting. But now it was dark. The nurse hadn’t been round yet to close the curtains and Charles Paris and Harry Chiltern looked out on galvanised frames of blackness. The offices around were empty and dead, street lights in the backwater thought unnecessary in the emergency. The windows seemed more forbidding than walls.
‘I saw some programme on the television the other day,’ said Harry after a moment’s musing. ‘All the club comics it was. Just telling gags. Terrible. No technique. Or do I mean all the same technique? I tell you, I’ve seen more variety in a tin of sardines.
‘They don’t have variety now. Not even the word. Variety with a big V. Used to mean something. No, I rang a mate in the Variety department at the BBC. Couple of years back, this was. He said, it’s not Variety any more, it’s Light Entertainment. Light Entertainment-now that’s a different thing altogether.
‘I mean, when Lennie and I done our act, we worked on it. Worked hard. A few gags, monologue-that was Lennie’s bit-a few more gags, I’d do my drunk routine, and finish with a song and a bit of tap. I mean, rehearsed. Not just standing up there telling some joke you heard from a man in a pub. It was an act. People who come to see the Chiltern Brothers knew they’d get a real show. Get their money’s worth. No, this television, I don’t hold with it. Entertainment in your living-room. That’s not the place for entertainment-it’s for your knitting and your eating and your bit of slap and tickle. You gotta go out-that’s part of the entertaining. Make a night of it, eh?’
‘Yes. I suppose the television’s on all the time here.’
‘From the moment it starts. Some of the old biddies stuck in front all day long, watching-I don’t know-how to speak Pakistani, or what kiddies can do with a cotton-reel. All bleeding day long. I tell you, there’s one old cripple, ugly old bird-more chins than a Chinese telephone directory-sits there nodding away at the test-card when it’s on, doesn’t notice. Mind you, it’s a lot more interesting than some of the programmes, eh?’
Harry Chiltern cackled with laughter and subsided into silence as the nurse at last arrived to draw the curtains. ‘Evening, Mr Chiltern.’
‘Evening.’
‘I see we’ve got a visitor. Hello.’ The nurse smiled conspiratorially at Charles. Harry contemplated his highly polished shoes until she had left the room. ‘Silly old cow. Thinks we’re all gaga. “I see we’ve got a visitor.” Who’s we, eh? Apart from Georgie Wood, eh?’ He laughed again, then stopped suddenly. ‘Come on.’ He eased himself out of the chair.
‘What?’
‘She’s off now, doing the other curtains. We can whip down to the Bricklayers for a pint.’
