number.’)
Christopher Milton did not snap back at Mark. He didn’t bother when Dickie Peck was present to do it for him. ‘That’s nonsense,’ barked the agent. ‘The audience will have come here to see Christopher Milton and the more of him they see, the happier they’ll be.’
‘There is such a thing as over-exposure,’ Mark Spelthorne observed in a voice that wouldn’t remain as cool as he wanted it.
‘Something you’re never going to have to worry about, sonny,’ Dickie flashed back. ‘No, it’s a great number. Really good. Just done overnight, you know — ’ (appealing for admiration from the company. Charles’ admiration conformed with Dr Johnson’s comment about a dog walking on its hinder legs — ‘It is not well done, but you are surprised to find it done at all.’) ‘- No, I think this is going to be the number of the show. Make a great single too. I don’t see actually why it shouldn’t be the title of the show. I Beg Yours? I mean it’s catchy and it’s — ’
‘All the publicity’s already gone out,’ David Meldrum interposed, thus at least killing that ridiculous idea. But Charles still thought someone ought to question the suitability of the number for a show which, in spite of major surgery and transplants, was still set in the eighteenth century and was about Tony Lumpkin rather than Lionel Wilkins. It would stick out like go-go dancers in the middle of the Ring Cycle.
He cleared his throat to remonstrate, but fortunately Winifred Tuke anticipated him. ‘We can’t have this song.’
‘Why not?’ asked Dickie Peck aggressively, pausing with a match held up to a new cigar.
‘Well, honestly, darling, I mean, I know we’re not doing She Stoops… straight, but this does make nonsense of it.’ It was daring and impressive and she should have left it at that. Instead she went on, getting more actressy and vague. ‘I mean, the whole thing about this play is that it’s Town life versus Country and we’re already losing that by playing Tony London, but if we start putting in bits from other shows then — ’
‘It isn’t a bit from another show,’ said Christopher Milton softly.
‘Not exactly, darling, but this song is absolutely based on that divine character you play in the telly, and I mean it just isn’t Tony Lumpkin… is it?’
Her ginny voice faltered as he gazed at her coldly. The tableau was held in silence for a full minute. Then Christopher Milton turned to David Meldrum and said, unfairly, ‘Come on, we should be rehearsing if we’re to get this number in by tonight.’
‘And are we?’
‘Yes, we bloody are. For Christ’s sake assert your authority.’ Which was rich, coming from the person who had done most to undermine it.
I Beg Yours? was in the show on the Tuesday night. It was under-rehearsed and a little untidy, but the audience loved it. Once again, Christopher Milton’s instinct seemed to have been vindicated. The reaction to the rest of the show was mixed, but they latched on to that number.
Ruth was out front. Charles had given her a ticket, though after their silent parting in the morning he wasn’t certain that she’d come. However, there she was at the stage door after the show. When he saw her, he felt an awful sense of shame. It was not exactly that he was ashamed of her, but he felt wrong with her. He tried to hurry her away, but Michael Peyton called out to him just as they were leaving, ‘Hey, everyone’s going out for a curry. You want to come?’
Charles started to refuse, but Ruth chipped in and said she hadn’t eaten and would love to go.
He hated the meal, because he hated being thought of in conjunction with Ruth. He knew how cruel it was to resent someone’s company in that way and the knowledge only made him feel guiltier. Ruth, on the other hand, enjoyed herself. Surprisingly, Christopher Milton and Dickie Peck had joined the party, the star having decided to be one of the boys for a night, and he chatted up Ruth shamelessly. She luxuriated in this and Charles, embarrassed by her naive questions and provincial tastes, was annoyed to find that he felt jealous too. To be jealous about a woman whom he was embarrassed to be with, it all got far too complicated to cope with. He drank heavily and wished Frances were there.
Ruth was drunk too and drove back unsteadily, chattering about Christopher Milton, to the grim inevitability of bed.
There was a small paragraph in the Yorkshire Post on the Wednesday morning, which mentioned the mugging of Kevin McMahon. From the management’s point of view, it could have been worse. It didn’t make a big issue of the incident and, on the bonus side, it was a free advertisement for the show.
The morning’s rehearsal schedule was more work on I Beg Yours? which didn’t involve Charles, so, hoping to shrug off the depression engendered by the scene with Ruth, he set off for the home of Kevin McMahon’s parents. Remembering a mention of Meanwood in their conversation in the pub, he easily found the right McMahons in the phone book and rang them to check that Kevin was out of the Infirmary.
He travelled by bus. The pebble-dash semi had a two-tone doorbell.
Mrs McMahon was small and sixtyish, with fuzzy white hair. She went on about how nice it was for one of Kevin’s friends from the play to come along and treated Charles like one of her son’s school friends. She also muttered regretfully about this terrible thing happening to Kevin on the night of his great triumph.
‘You enjoyed the show on Monday?’
‘Oh, we thought it was grand. That Christopher Milton, he’s lovely, isn’t he? I bet he’s one of those who’s just the same offstage as he is on. No side, if you know what I mean, isn’t that right?’
Charles replied appropriately, making a mental note that Kevin was beyond the age for confiding in his parents. The writer was in his childhood bedroom and seemed to have grown younger to match his surroundings. There was a poster of the Leeds United team of 1961. Uneven piles of magazines and carefully dusted Airfix aeroplane models suggested that his mother had kept his room ‘just as he liked it’ for whenever he decided he needed the comfort of home. But this could hardly have been the return she had hoped for.
Kevin’s eyes were nearly closed by puffy blue lids. Face criss-crossed with strips of plaster and open scratches. His right hand was bandaged in gauze and one finger stiffened with the square outline of a splint. No doubt the covers hid comparable injuries on the rest of his body.
‘How’re you doing?’
‘Not too bad, Charles. It’s good of you to come.’ He was subdued and formally polite, as if his surroundings brought back years of being taught good manners.
‘No problem. I wasn’t called for rehearsal this morning. They’re doing the new — something that doesn’t involve me.’
Kevin showed no interest in what was happening to the show. There was a silence.
‘Was it very bad?’
‘I don’t know. I think I was more or less anaesthetised by alcohol at the time it happened.’ Charles chuckled encouragingly. ‘And when I came round, the hangover was so bad I hardly noticed my injuries. It’s only today I’m really beginning to feel it.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Not too bad. Just very stiff all over. As if every bone in my body has been pulled out of its socket and reassembled by an enthusiastic amateur.’
‘Hmm. Do you mind talking about it?’
‘No, but there’s nothing to say.’
‘Why not?’
‘I was so honked I can’t remember anything. There was one bloke, that’s all I know. And no, I didn’t get a look at him. The police have asked me all this.’
‘You couldn’t even say whether he was old or young?’
‘No. Why do you ask that?’
Charles decided honesty might elicit the best response. ‘I was wondering if it was Dickie Peck who got at you.’
‘Dickie Peck? Why?’ The question was dully asked; there was no animation.
‘Well, you had that fight earlier in the evening…’
‘Yes.’ He sounded very tired. ‘Look, Charles, I was mugged. It’s not nice, but it happens. I have no reason to believe it was anyone I know who did it. My only comfort is that it was hardly worth his while. I’d drunk away practically all the money I had, so all he got was a couple of credit cards.’
‘Did he say anything to you, or just hit?’
