‘I spoke to Vee on the phone this morning. She told me.’
‘Damn. I hope she’s not telling everyone.’
‘Why? What does it matter? Presumably everyone’ll know when it comes up in court.’
‘If it does come up in court. I’m trying to see that it doesn’t.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you stood much chance. I mean, if the police picked him up, they’re going to bring charges.’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to ask them not to proceed. I’m going to stand bail for him and try to keep it as quiet as possible.’
‘But why? I mean, there’s no question as to whether he did it or not.’
‘No, he’s’ admitted it.’
‘Then why shouldn’t he pay the price of his actions?’
‘Well, he’s…’ Denis was having difficulty in framing his thoughts (or his wife’s thoughts) into words. ‘He’s a friend.’
Mary took over. ‘It’s terribly embarrassing. I mean, he’s been in and out of our house so often. This place becomes a sort of Backstagers’ annex when the Back Room closes — particularly when we’ve got a show on. Geoffrey’s a very close friend.’
‘I can see it’s embarrassing, but the fact remains that he has stolen your property.’
‘Yes, but people are so materialistic, Mr. Parrish. What’s a bit of jewellery?’ Mary sat surrounded by the fruits of middle class affluence as she posed this ingenuous query.
‘The thing is,’ Denis contributed, ‘we didn’t realize the financial state he was in. We could have helped, lent him some money or something, not driven him to this.’
‘Hardly driven. He did it of his own free will, presumably to get himself out of a spot.’ Charles was bewildered by their reactions. Instead of being affronted and disgusted by Geoffrey’s betrayal of their friendship, they were trying to justify his actions.
Mary gave Charles the patronizing smile of sainthood. ‘It may be difficult for you to understand, but we feel an enormous loyalty to Geoffrey. He is a wonderfully talented person and we just didn’t understand the terrible time he had been going through. To steal from us was a terrible lapse, which I’m sure he’s regretted bitterly, but it’s only an expression of the dark side of his impulsive artistic temperament.’
Now Charles had heard it all. That old fallacy about artists being answerable to a different code of morality from the rest of society. It was a view he had never subscribed to in the cases of the extremely talented writers and actors of his acquaintance who had tried it on, but for it to be used in the context of a moderately talented amateur was ridiculous.
Denis Hobbs nodded as his wife continued to expound her views. Charles was saddened by the sight of a man so emasculated by marriage. He wanted to get Denis on his own again and find out what the man really thought, not just hear him echoing Mary’s opinions.
‘You see, Mr. Parrish,’ she continued, ‘it’s often difficult to explain to people that we don’t just believe in materialistic values, that we have an appreciation of art — the theatre, poetry, painting.’ She gestured vaguely in the direction of a Hawaiian sunset scene luminously painted on black velvet.
‘We’ve been lucky, we’ve made a lot of money…’
Charles thought it was magnanimous of her to include Denis in this statement. She spoke of money as if it were an unfortunate skin condition. He was surprised Denis didn’t get up and knock her block off. But her husband’s brainwashing had been completed too long ago for him even to notice the slight.
‘So what we feel is, Mr. Parrish, that it’s our duty — being of limited artistic talent ourselves — ’ She simpered in expectation of some complimentary remonstrance, but then remembered Charles’s expressed view of her acting abilities and moved hurriedly on. ‘- to share some of our good fortune with more artistic people. That’s why we make this room a second Back Room and provide lots of drinks and things…’ (she couldn’t resist quantifying their altruistic generosity.) ‘… so that we can do our bit for the spread of cultural ideas, stimulate lively conversation, discussion of the arts and so forth.’
Charles began to understand her cock-eyed reasoning. Mary Hobbs saw herself as the leader of an artistic salon, the Madame de Stael of Breckton. Geoffrey Winter’s crime was just the errant behaviour of one of the young geniuses she was nurturing. In fact, it was a challenge to her values, an opportunity for her to show how far above material considerations she was.
He wondered to what extent Geoffrey had anticipated this reaction. If he had known that the theft, if it ever came out, rather than ruining him socially, might increase his stock among the Backstagers and build up his mildly roue image as a man above conventional morality, then it was not such a risk as it might have appeared.
‘Oh dear.’ Mary Hobbs gave a tragedienne’s sigh. ‘I wonder if the police will be persuaded to drop the charges against him.’
This abstraction seemed to be directed at Denis. ‘I don’t know, dear. I doubt it. But perhaps Willy will be able to get him off lightly. Our solicitor’s looking after Geoffrey,’ he explained for Charles’s benefit.
Good God. The man broke into their house and stole their property and there they were leaning over backwards to defend him. ‘What’ll happen, Denis? Will he be up before Breckton magistrates in the morning?’
‘Yes. My solicitor’s going to ask for bail. We’ll be going down to give moral support. We’ve got to get him free as soon as possible.’
Mary agreed. ‘Otherwise it’s going to interfere dreadfully with Winter’s Tale rehearsals.’
Charles kept having to remind himself that these people were real when they came up with remarks like that. ‘And then straight on as before… Geoffrey rehearsing, no mention of the theft, coming back here for drinks after the Back Room closes.’
‘And why not? Geoffrey’s a friend.’ Mary’s constant repetition of this was like a child’s assertion that someone is ‘my best friend’. In children it is always symptomatic of insecurity and only heard from those who have difficulty in making real friends. And in adults too.
Charles found something infinitely pathetic about the Hobbs trying to buy friendship with a constant supply of free drinks and afraid to lose a friend even when he abused their trust so disgracefully.
Denis seemed to think Mary’s view of Geoffrey needed endorsement. ‘Oh, he’s a very lively bloke, Geoffrey. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen him in full flood. Life and soul of the party. Always full of ideas for games and what-have-you. What was that thing he started here after the first night of The Seagull, love?’
Mary Hobbs giggled with the memory. ‘Oh yes, it was a great game. One of you goes out of the room and dresses up and then when they come back in, you all have to ask questions to find out who they’re meant to be. You know, you can be politicians or show biz people — or members of the Backstagers, if you like.’ She laughed again, a comfortable ‘in’ laugh. Her Backstagers’ identity was a vital support to her life. ‘Do you remember, I pretended to be. Reggie, the secretary?’
Denis guffawed at the recollection.
‘Actually he wasn’t very pleased, was he, Den?’
‘No, can’t take a joke, our Reggie.’
‘Did Geoffrey himself have to go?’ asked Charles.
‘Oh yes. He was a riot. He did Margaret Thatcher. He found a wig of mine and a smart overcoat and… oh, it was hysterical. He’d got the voice just right, hadn’t he, Den?’
Denis agreed on cue. ‘He was great. Oh, it was a great party, that. Charlotte — she looked really lovely that evening — wore this long check sort of smock thing.’
‘Yes, well, she’s dead,’ snapped Mary with unnecessary brutality. Denis recoiled as if struck. Mary hastened to paper over the rift. ‘Oh, it was a marvellous night. We had so much fun. Of course, Charlotte spent most of the evening with young Clive Steele.’
This seemed to be put in as another rebuff to her husband. His attraction to Charlotte must have been the subject of some marital tiff. She went on. ‘Such a clever boy, Clive. And so good-looking. You know, I think he had rather fallen for Charlotte. He certainly seems very cut up about her death.’
‘I suppose he’s only just heard,’ said Charles.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he was away working all last week in Melton Mowbray, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh, no, apparently that was called off. No, Clive was here all last week.’
