‘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.’
‘Won’t be the first time,’ she said dryly. ‘Thanks for the warning.’
Geoffrey Winter was still waiting outside. ‘I’d offer you a lift, but we don’t run a car. Still, I can show you a quick way down to the station. There’s a footpath.’
‘Thank you.’
‘They walked past a large house next door to the Backstagers. It was neo-Tudor with diamond window panes. No light on. Outside the porch, horrible out of period, a pair of grotesque stone lions stood on guard.
Charles drew in his breath sharply with distaste. Geoffrey followed his glance and chuckled. ‘The Hobbses. Mr. and Mrs Arkadina. Advertising their money. Ostentatious buggers. But, nonetheless, a good source of free drinks.’
Charles laughed, though inwardly he was still seething from the encounter with Hugo.
‘By the way,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I gather we see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Vee invited me down for a meal. If that’s still okay.’
‘Fine. Love to see you. I’ll show you the way when we get to the main road.’
They walked across a common where a huge pile of wood and rubbish announced the approach of Bonfire Night.
‘Good God, November already,’ observed Geoffrey. ‘Guy Fawkes to be burnt again on Friday. How time flies as you get older.’
‘You think you’ve got problems,’ Charles mourned. ‘It’s my fiftieth birthday this week.’
They talked a little on the way to the main road, but most of the time there was silence except for the soft pad of their rubber soles on the pathway. Charles didn’t notice the lack of conversation. His mind was still full of hurt after the clash with Hugo.
He didn’t really notice saying goodbye to Geoffrey. Or the train journey back to Waterloo. He was still seething, almost sick with rage.
CHAPTER FIVE
Charles spent an unsatisfactory Tuesday mooching round his bedsitter in Hereford Road, Bayswater. It was a depressing room and the fact that he stayed there to do anything but sleep meant he was depressed.
He was still fuming over the scene with Hugo. No longer fuming at the fact that Hugo had hit him, but now angry with himself for having flared up. Hugo was in a really bad state, possibly on the verge of a major breakdown, and, as a friend, Charles should have stood by him, tried to help, not rushed off in a huff after a drunken squabble.
As usual, his dissatisfaction with himself spilled over into other area of his life. Frances. He must sort out what his relationship with Frances was. They must meet. He must ring her.
Early in the afternoon he went down to the pay-phone on the landing, but before he dialled her number, he realized she wouldn’t be there. She was a teacher. Tuesday in term-time she’d be at school. He’d ring her about six, before he went down to Breckton.
To shift his mood, he started looking through his old scripts. How’s Your Father? He read the first few pages. It really wasn’t bad. Light, but fun. A performance by the Backstagers would be better than nothing. Rather sheepishly, he decided to take it with him.
He left without ringing Frances.
Vee Winter opened the door. She had on a P.V.C. apron with a design of an old London omnibus. She looked at him challengingly again, part provocative, part exhibitionist.
‘Sorry I’m a bit early, Vee. The train didn’t take as long as I expected.’
‘No, they put on some fast ones during the rush-hour. But don’t worry, supper’s nearly ready. Geoff’s just got in. He’s up in the study. Go and join him. He’s got some booze up there.’
The house was a small Edwardian semi, but it had been rearranged and decorated with taste and skill. Or rather, someone had started rearranging and decorating it with taste and skill. As he climbed the stairs, Charles noticed that the wall had been stripped and rendered, but not yet repapered. In the same way, someone had begun to sand the paint off the banister. Most of the wood was bare, but obstinate streaks of white paint clung in crevices. The house gave the impression that someone had started to renovate it with enormous vigour and then run out of enthusiasm. Or money.
The soprano wailing of the Liebestod from Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde drew him to Geoffrey Winter’s study. Here the conversion had very definitely been completed. Presumable the room had been intended originally as a bedroom, but it was now lined with long pine shelves which extended at opposite ends of the room to make a desk and a surface for an impressive selection of hi-fi. The shelves were covered with a cunning disarray of hooks, models, old bottles and earthenware pots. The predominant colour was a pale, pale mustard, which toned in well with the pine. On the wall facing the garden French windows gave out on to a small balcony.
Geoffrey Winter was fiddling with his hi-fi. The Wagner disc was being played on an expensive-looking grey metal turntable. Leads ran from the tuner to a small Japanese cassette radio.
‘Sorry, Charles, just getting this on to cassette. So much handier. It’s nearly finished.’
‘This room’s really good, Geoffrey.’
‘I like it. One of the advantages of not having children — you have space.’
‘And more money.’
Geoffrey grimaced. ‘Hmm. Depends on the size of your mortgage. And your other bills. And how work’s going.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m an architect.’ Which explained the skill of the decor.
‘Work for yourself?’
‘Yes. Well, that is to say, I work for whoever will pay for my services. So at the moment, yes, I seem to work just for myself. No one’s building anything. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s sherry or sherry, I’m afraid.’ And, Charles noticed, not a particularly good sherry. Cypress domestic. Tut, tut, getting spoiled by the ostentatious array of Hugo’s drinks cupboard. It would take a distressingly short time to pick up all the little snobberies of materialism.