‘Maurice.’
‘Who’s calling him?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Maurice, don’t you ever recognise my voice? It’s me — Charles.’
‘Ah well, can’t be too careful in this business. Don’t want to give anything away.’
‘You don’t give much away by answering to your name. Anyway, never mind that. Did Dickie Peck get through to you?’
‘Yes, Charles. Sounds very good, this musical. I think it’s about time you got into that sort of show. I mean, haven’t I been saying for years that you ought to be doing shows that are more… more important?’
‘No. You’ve been saying for years that I ought to be doing shows that are better paid.’
‘Ah, now that’s not fair, Charles. Okay, I’ve always said you should keep out of these fringe capers, this experimental stuff, but I’ve always been thinking primarily of your career, of your artistic development.’
‘That’s very generous of you.’
‘I do my best.’
‘So what am I getting for the current artistic development?’
‘Well, Charles, Dickie Peck was offering, on behalf of the management, twenty-five for rehearsal, forty on tour end sixty for the run and I said you wouldn’t consider it for under forty for rehearsal, eighty on tour and a hundred for the run and I wouldn’t budge from that and that was my final word on the subject.’
‘So?’
‘You’re getting thirty for rehearsal, fifty on tour and eighty for the run.’
‘Oh well, could be worse. Christopher Milton’s in this show. Got any form on him?’ While Maurice Skellern was pretty useless as an agent, he was an invaluable source of theatrical gossip.
‘Nothing much, no. He doesn’t do a lot of work, really.’
‘It’s just that everything he does is massively successful.’
‘Yes, if you look back on his career it’s all award-winning shows. Not a lot, but it’s all been chosen just right.’
‘That’s what having a good agent is about.’
Maurice didn’t seem to notice the edge in the remark. ‘He’s a talented boy, Charles.’
‘Where did he start?’
‘I’m fairly sure he came out of one of the stage schools, but I don’t know which one. Think he may have been a child star in films. Not sure, though.’
‘Know anything of his working reputation?’
‘A bit temperamental, I’ve heard. But that’s third hand. I mean stories like that go around about every big name in the business.’
‘Yes. Is he gay or anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Sure not, actually. He married that girl who was in that film… you know.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘Oh, the one who played opposite Nigel Thingummy in that… Oh, you know. Name like Elsa or Virginia or — Charlotte Fable, that’s it!’
‘I’ve heard of her. Still together?’
‘No, I think they split up eighteen months or so ago.’
‘Divorce?’
‘Haven’t seen anything about it. No, I shouldn’t think he’d like the publicity. Rather lets down the image of lovability, and that’s what the public expects of him.’
‘Hmm. Oh well, thanks.’
‘If you really want form, ask Johnny Wilson. He worked with him on the telly show.’
‘Oh yes. What’s that called?’
‘Straight Up, Guv. Surely you must have seen it.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Oh, it’s a very funny show, Charles. I never miss it. It’s on tonight at seven-thirty. These are repeats, actually, second time round, or is it third? Think of the money on a show like that. Probably sells round the world. That’s what you need, Charles, a big, long-running television series.’
‘As part of my artistic development?’
‘Of course.’
That evening Charles watched television. He went round to see Jim Waldeman, a fellow actor who lived in Queen’s Gardens with his wife Susie and a fairly new baby. He took a bottle of Bell’s to ensure his welcome, but it was unnecessary. As he entered the door, both Jim and Susie’s eyes lit up and, with a cry of ‘Baby-sitter!’, they installed him in an arm-chair in front of the television and went off to the pictures. ‘Imagine,’ said Susie, ‘actually going to see a film. The excitement. We used to go about twice a week, but since that came along, we just haven’t. At all. Bless you, Charles.’
‘What happens if it — ’
‘Oh, he won’t. He’s terribly good. But if he does, there’s some Phenergan on the dresser. Cheerio.’ And the door slammed.
‘What’s Phenergan?’ asked Charles weakly, but he realised they couldn’t hear. He also realised that the slam of the door had woken the baby.
He switched on the television, determined that the child would soon be asleep again. It was a colour set (Jim’s career was obviously flourishing), but Charles caught the end of an old black and white movie. It was British, some story about a small boy bringing together his estranged parents. The father was an airman and there was a lot of stiff upper lip stuff about one last mission. The boy was a beautiful child, with a perfectly proportioned baby face and blond curls. Charles wondered idly if it was Christopher Milton in his child star days.
It was becoming clear that the baby was not going back to sleep. The keening cry sawed through the noise of the television. Charles looked at his watch. Twenty-five past seven. The crying showed no signs of abating and he didn’t want to miss the beginning of the show. He went into the night-lit nursery and mumbled soothingly over the cot. The screams redoubled in volume. In the sitting-room music built to an heroic conclusion. He picked up the baby in its blanket and returned to the television.
The film credits flashed past. The child star was not Christopher Milton. Gareth Somebody, another who had no doubt vanished without trace to become an accountant or an estate agent or a double glazing salesman. After the film came a trailer for a programme on Northern Ireland to be shown the following night.
The baby was not taking kindly to its move. The little mouth strained open like a goldfish and the pebble eyes almost vanished in folds of skin as it screamed. It was a long time since Charles had held a baby and he had forgotten the little tricks he had used when his own daughter Juliet was small. He tried rocking the little bundle and murmuring the Skye Boat Song. It didn’t work.
On the television screen the credits rolled. Inevitably, ‘CHRISTOPHER MILTON’ came first. Then ‘in STRAIGHT UP, GUV — by WALLY WILSON’. Then ‘with’ the names of a couple of those comedy supports who are never out of work and the inevitable wild studio applause faded into the show proper. (Why do studio audiences always applaud signature tunes and credits? The fact that they clap when nothing has happened casts serious doubts on the credibility of their subsequent reactions.) The episode started; Charles couldn’t hear a word above the baby’s howls.
In desperation he dipped a finger in his Scotch and proffered it to the bellowing mouth. The tiny lips closed round it as if determined to remove the skin. But there was silence.
It didn’t last. After a few moments the suction was released and the bellowing recommenced. Charles hastily dipped his finger back in the glass and the mouth clamped on again. By repeating the process every two minutes he found he could watch Straight Up, Guv in comparative comfort.
It was not bad. The show was built around the adventures of a second-rate con-man Lionel Wilkins (played of course by Christopher Milton), whose attempts to pull off the big coup were always crowned with disaster. Wally Wilson’s script was workmanlike, but uninspired; it was Christopher Milton’s performance which raised it above the ordinary. Lionel Wilkins was a genuine comic creation, whose doomed cockiness was strangely engaging. He was the original Wobbly Man; every time you pushed him over, he bounced back up again. As catastrophe followed catastrophe and his face crumpled into crestfallen embarrassment, the audience roared. Each time he picked himself up with some new incongruous scheme and the audience roared again. Even Charles found himself laughing
