Charles had had enough of this barrack-room talk. He rose, ‘I’ve got to be going now actually, Hugo.’
‘No, don’t go.’ The appeal was naked, almost terrified. Charles sat down.
They left the Trattoria an interminable half-hour later, just after three. Diccon Hudson (who had drunk Perrier water through the meal) said he had to go off to his next recording session.
‘They keep you busy,’ Charles observed and was rewarded by a complacent smile.
‘Got an evening session tonight, have you, Diccon?’ asked Ian in his usual insolent style.
Diccon coloured. ‘No,’ he said and left without another word.
After Ian Compton had also gone, Charles turned to his friend. ‘Well, Hugo, thanks for the lunch. Look, I’ll no doubt see you tomorrow down in Breckton for this Critics’ — ’
‘Don’t go, Charles. Let’s have another drink. ‘S a little club in Dean Street where I’m a member. C’mon, little quick one.’
The club was a strip joint with gold chairs and a lot of hanging red velvet. A party of Japanese executives and a few morose single men watched a couple of girls playing with each other.
Hugo didn’t seem to notice them. He ordered a bottle of Scotch. The boisterous, vulgar stage of drunkenness was now behind him; he settled down to silent, cold-blooded consumption.
Charles drank sparingly. He had the feeling that Hugo was going to need help before the day was out.
He tried asking what was the matter; he offered help.
‘I don’t want help, Charles, I don’t want talk. I just want you to sit and bloody drink with me, that’s all.’
So they sat and bloody drank. Clients came and went. The girls were replaced by others who went through the same motions.
Eventually, Hugo seemed to relax. His eyelids flickered and his head started to nod. Charles looked at his watch and put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Come on, it’s nearly six. Let’s go.’
Hugo was surprisingly docile. He paid the bill (an amount which took Charles’s breath away) without noticing. Out in the street he looked around blearily. “S find a cab, Charles. Get the six-forty-two from Waterloo.’
They were lucky to find one and got to the station in good time. Charles went off to buy a ticket and returned to find Hugo on the platform with a copy of the Evening Standard tucked under his arm. Charles made to move a little further down the platform. ‘No, Charles, here. Right opposite the barrier at Breckton.’
Sure enough, twenty minutes later they got out of the train opposite the ticket collector. Hugo showed his season ticket with an unconscious reflex movement, turned right out of the station and started to walk along a footpath by the railway line. After a few steps he stopped.
‘Come on, Hugo, let’s get back to your place. See Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte.’ There was a deep misery in his echo.
‘Yes, Come on.’
‘No,’ Hugo dithered like a recalcitrant two-year-old. ‘No, let’s go up to the Backstagers and have a drink.’
‘Haven’t we had enough drinks?’ Charles spoke very gently.
‘No, we bloody haven’t! Don’t you try to tell me when I’ve had enough!’ Hugo bunched his fist and took a wild swing. Charles was able to block it harmlessly, but he felt the enormous strength of frustration in the blow.
Hugo went limp. ‘I’m sorry, Charles. I’m sorry. Silly. Come on, come to the Backstagers — just for a quick one. Often go there for a quick one on the way home.’
‘All right. A very quick one.’
In the Back Room bar (manned that evening by Robert Chubb) Hugo recommenced his silent, systematic drinking. Charles, himself no mean performer with a bottle, was amazed at his friend’s capacity. What made it unnerving was the fact that after the outburst by the station, it no longer seemed to have any effect. Hugo spoke with great care, but without slurring. And still the alcohol poured in, as if fuelling some inner fire, which must soon burst out into a terrible conflagration.
There were a good few Backstagers about. Apparently, this was one of their rare lulls between productions. The Critics’ Circle for The Seagull the next day and then, on Wednesday, rehearsals for The Winter’s Tale would start. Charles visualized Shakespeare getting the same perfunctory treatment as Chekhov.
Hugo introduced him liberally to everyone in sight and then left him to fend for himself. Geoffrey Winter was lounging against the bar with a middle-aged balding man dressed in a navy and white striped T-shirt, white trousers, plimsolls and a silly little blue cap with a gold anchor on it.
This refugee from H.M.S. Pinafore turned out to be Shad Scott-Smith, director of The Seagull. ‘Now, Charles,’ he emoted when they were introduced, ‘promise me one thing — that when you do the Critics’ Circle you will really criticize. Treat us just as you would a professional company. Be cruel if you like, but please, please, do be constructive. There’s an awful tendency for these meetings to end up just as a sort of mutual admiration society, which really doesn’t help anyone.’
‘I’ll do my best to avoid that.’
‘Oh, super. I’m just here actually buying the odd drink of thanks for members of my hardworking cast — libations to my little gods, you could say. Oh, the whole gang did work so hard. I tell you, I’m still a washed-out rag at the end of it all. Still, I at least get a bit of a break now. Do you know, Geoff’s going straight on to play Leontes in The Winter’s Tale. Honestly, I don’t know where he get the energy. How do you do it, Geoff?’
Geoffrey Winter shrugged. Charles thought that was a pretty good answer to a totally fatuous question. He warmed to the man.
Shad went on. ‘Oh, something happens, I know. The old adrenaline flows. Leave it to Doctor Footlights, he’ll sort you out.’
He breathed between gushes and changed the subject. ‘By the way, Geoff, do you know if Charlotte’s going to be in this evening? I do want to buy my darling Nina a drink.’
‘I’ve no idea what she’s up to. Ask Hugo.’
Charlotte’s husband was hunched over a large Scotch at the bar. Shad swanned over. ‘Any idea what the little woman’s up to this evening?’
‘Little woman?’ Charles heard a dangerous undertone in Hugo’s echo.
‘Darling Charlotte,’ Shad explained.
‘Darling Charlotte…’ Hugo began, unnecessarily loud.
‘Darling Charlotte may be in hell for all I know. Don’t ask me about Charlotte the harlot. She’s a bloody whore!’
After the shocked silence which followed this pronouncement, Shad decided that he’d ring Charlotte from home. As he minced away, other Backstagers joined the exodus with desultory farewells. Charles felt guilty, responsible. ‘Geoffrey, has Hugo driven them away? He’s drunk out of his mind.’
‘No, it’s not that. This place is used to dramatic outbursts. The mass evacuation is due to the telly. I, Claudius tonight. Nine o’clock. Becoming a great cult show. I haven’t seen any, been rehearsing. But I’m told it’s just the thing for bourgeois commuters’ wish-fulfilment. Lots of rapes and murders.’
‘Living vicariously.’
‘Yes, well, we don’t get all that at home. At least, not many of us.’
Charles laughed. ‘Actually, I’d better get Hugo home. I hate to think how much alcohol he’s got inside him.’ He moved over to the bar. ‘Hugo, time to go, don’t you think?’
Once again this suggestion touched some trigger of violence. Hugo shouted, ‘Just keep your bloody mouth shut!’ and dashed his glass of Scotch in Charles’ face.
Charles was furious. Unaware of the shocked gaze of the remaining Backstagers, he turned on Hugo. ‘You’re drunk and disgusting!’
‘Get lost!’
‘You ought to go home. You’ve had enough.’
‘I’ll go home when I bloody choose to. And that won’t be before closing time.’ Hugo banged his glass down on the bar and then, as if to deny the force of his outburst, asked politely, ‘May I have another Scotch, please?’
As Robert Chubb obliged with the drink, Charles stormed out. In the lobby he found Geoffrey Winter had followed him. Geoffrey offered a blue and white handkerchief to mop up his jacket. ‘Thanks. Is there a phone?’
‘There. Just behind the door.’
Charles got through to Charlotte. ‘Look, I’ve just left Hugo. He’s in the Backstagers’ bar. Says he won’t be leaving till it closes. He’s extremely drunk.’
