came on for her last number A Bunny Girl’s Lament (a reasonable idea, marred by flabby lyrics), dressed in full Playboy Club kit, showing her long brown legs, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. It was not just that she looked sexy; she managed to incorporate an archness which distanced her from her material and was also extremely funny. Anna Duncan was that rare creature, a woman who can be funny onstage without sacrificing either her dignity or her sex appeal.
It was late when she tapped on the door of the Lawnmarket flat. The first night junketings must have gone on a bit. Perhaps the Brown Derby cast had been drowning their sorrows. Or perhaps they were celebrating, thinking that the enthusiastic final applause for Anna was meant for all of them.
She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Well, what’s your cool professional assessment?’
‘Can you take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I thought the show was terrible. The only constructive suggestions that I can make are that your writers should go and sell vacuum cleaners, your male cast should join the Army and your director should become a monk.’
‘Hmm.’ The navy blue eyes kept their level gaze fixed on him. She knew there was more to come.
So he let it come. ‘I would also like to say that you are one of the most talented young actresses I have ever seen.
She smiled and allowed herself a slight relaxation of relief. ‘Charles, I asked for your cool professional assessment.’
‘That was my cool professional assessment.’
‘Hmm. Sounds biased.’ But she was obviously delighted.
‘Biased nothing! I may also happen to think you are the best screw in the world, but I do genuinely believe that you are exceptionally talented as an actress. Now come and make love.’
She grinned suddenly. ‘You talked me into it.’
It was even better. They were completely together. He rolled apart from her and cradled the strong slender body in his arms. Her breasts were slack against his ribs, her breath soft on his shoulder. He recited gently into her hair.
‘“O, happy times! O happy rhymes!
For ever ye’re gone by!
Few now-if any-are the lays
Can make me smile or sigh.” But you’re one of them. You can make me smile and sigh.’
‘I don’t think Thomas Hood meant “lay” that way,’ she murmured lazily.
‘No, I don’t think he did.’
‘Incidentally, I liked your show. I think I was too uptight over dinner to mention it.’
‘Thank you. Mutual admiration society.’
‘Hmm.’ There was a long pause. He wondered if she had gone to sleep. But she spoke again. ‘Do you really think I’m good?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good enough to make it in the professional theatre?’
‘Yes.’
‘In spite of all you said about needing to be tough and calculating, and needing lots of help?’
‘I’ll help you, Anna.’
Soon she was asleep. Charles lay thinking. He could help her. Get her work, maybe. Even cast her in plays he was directing. He felt useful and wanted to give to her. To give a lot. Was it so ridiculous for a man of nearly forty- eight to go round with a girl in her early twenties? His experience could help her. He felt something for Anna that he had not felt for a long, long time. Possibly even love.
CHAPTER EIGHT
O William Dear! O William Dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.
Tuesday 20th August was an unsettling day.
It started all right. Charles felt at one with Anna and at one with the world. She left the flat at about half-past nine. (Michael Vanderzee was champing at the bit to get his workshop sessions restarted after the layoff caused by the revue’s opening.) Charles had a leisurely breakfast of floury bacon rolls at the Poppin and then, as a token gesture to detective work, he went back to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery to see if he could work out the reason for Martin’s visit.
The Gallery was well laid out and should have been interesting, but he was not in the mood for inspecting the faces of people he had never heard of. The whole business of searching for clues and motives was beginning to bore him.
He was gazing at a wax model of William III when he remembered the newspapers. The day after a first night (or at least a first lunch) and he had not yet checked to see if there were any notices. The rest of the portraits could wait. He hurried out under the disapproving glare of the large nosed-faces of Scotland’s heritage.
There was a big newsagents on Princes Street. Rather than behaving logically and starting with just the Guardian, he went mad and bought every available daily. Which meant a great deal of waste paper; So Much Comic… had so far failed to capture the interest of the nationals.
He stood in the street reading and dropped the inadequate newspapers one by one into a litter-bin. Nothing in the Guardian; so much for his conversation at the Fringe Reception. Charles realised he was being naively optimistic to expect to be noticed on the first day of the Festival, particularly with negative advertising.
Only the Glasgow Herald left. He opened it without hope, and on the review page, there it was.
So Much Comic, So Much Blood, Masonic Hall, Lauriston Place. Thomas Hood is now remembered, if at all, for about three poems which recur in anthologies. It was therefore a pleasant surprise to get a broader view of the poet’s work from this enchanting lunch-time show. Charles Paris has compiled a skilful programme from poems and letters, which maintains a fine balance between humour and pathos without ever slipping into sentimentality. He performs the show with the clarity and understatement which are the hallmark of real talent. Do try to catch this. It’s only on for the first week of the Festival and I guarantee more laughs than in most of the late-night revues.
Charles could not control an ebullient smile. What he held in his hands was a good old-fashioned rave.
Thanks to the review and a couple of large Bell’s, he arrived at the Masonic Hall at a quarter to one in high spirits and totally devoid of nerves. He felt confident as he waited in the wings for the lights to go down.
From that point on the day deteriorated. For a start, the show did not go well. A second performance is always difficult, because of the feeling of anticlimax. And the size of the audience did not augur well for the circulation figures of the Glasgow Herald. There were about twenty, apparently under doctor’s orders that laughter was injurious to health. Puns and wisecracks vanished into the spongy void of the hall.
And, to add to that, Frances was in the audience. The woman he had married, to whom he had given the unfortunate name of Frances Paris. He recognised her as soon as the show started from her loyal, and solitary, laughter. When he stopped to consider, it was quite logical that she should be in Edinburgh. She came up most summers to give a couple of her sixth formers a quick cultural immersion. There were two girls sitting with her, one black and one white.
Charles was very fond of Frances, but he wished she was not there. Since he had walked out on her twelve
