‘Yes, I’m sure.’ It seemed a good solution to Charles. Valerie Cass had probably been quite good as a mother; whereas, had she stayed in the theatre, it would only have been a matter of time before her lack of talent had been exposed.
‘No, no, Lesley-Jane carries on the theatrical tradition in our family. Of course, I give her any help I can, but. .’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid my career was cut short. So I’m just left with my dreams of what might have been.’
Charles hoped, for her sake, the dreams weren’t accurate. No, no doubt like his own, they were pure wish-fulfilment.
He still felt apologetic for not having recognised her. ‘Sorry, it was so out of context. I mean, Lesley-Jane’s name gave me no clue.’
‘No, she got that from her father,’ said Valerie Cass rather tartly. Mother and daughter, and Malcolm Harris and his womenfolk eventually left the two actors to change out of their costumes.
‘Last one in the bar’s a sissy,’ said Charles, the euphoric giggliness returning.
They both plunged for the door and, as they collided, Charles felt something heavy in Alex’s jacket pocket thump against him.
‘You great fraud! All your talk of “no stimulants” and you’re another of the flask-in-pocket brigade!’
‘Oh no,’ said Alex Household gravely. ‘It’s not a flask.’
‘Then what. .’
‘I got mugged last year, walking back from the theatre in Birmingham.’ His voice became unsteady. ‘I got beaten up. It won’t happen again. I never go out after dark without this.’
He withdrew his hand from his pocket. It was clasped around the butt of a Smith and Wesson Chiefs Special revolver.
CHAPTER THREE
The local paper thought The Hooded Owl was a success. It even raved about it. The last sentence of the notice read, ‘It is rarely that down here in Taunton we are treated to a show of such excellence. I urge everyone to go and see The Hooded Owl now, before you have to pay fares to London and West End prices for the privilege.’
So, as far as the local paper was concerned, the transfer was a certainty. Unfortunately, it wasn’t local papers that arranged such things. It was London theatre managements and, at the end of the first week’s run, even Paul Lexington’s unpuncturable buoyancy could not hide the fact that no one relevant had been down to see the show. Still, as he kept asserting cheerfully, two weeks to go, and a lot could happen in two weeks.
The local paper review, as well as backing the whole show, was also extremely gratifying to Alex Household and Charles Paris. The sentence which kept recurring in both their minds for some days was this: ‘After witnessing acting of such power and emotional truth, it is hard to imagine why these two actors are not considerably better known than they are.’
Exactly, they both thought, that’s what we’ve been saying for years. For Charles, the review was particularly welcome. For one thing, the sort of part he usually played didn’t often get reviewed. And for another, on the past three occasions when critics had deigned to mention him, their comments had been as follows:
‘Charles Paris was an odd choice for the part of the solicitor’ — Guardian
‘Charles Paris wandered through the play like one of Bo-Peep’s sheep looking for its tail’ — Evening Standard
And — ‘Among the rest of the cast was Charles Paris’ — The Stage.
In spite of the fact that nothing was happening on the transfer front, the cast could not keep down their optimism. The experience of playing in a success, endorsed nightly by the audience’s reaction, was an invigorating one, and Paul Lexington’s so-far-groundless confidence was infectious.
‘You know,’ said Alex Household, as he made up on the Tuesday evening of the second week, ‘I think it is going to work. I think we will make it.’
Charles grinned. Closer acquaintance with the other actor had increased his liking for the man. His antagonistic feelings of the first night had just been the product of nerves. Now he found that, so long as he arranged to be out of the dressing room for the ‘Rub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub-a-dub’ routine, he could cohabit with Alex quite happily. He had also found, to his surprise, that Alex had some sense of humour about his various fads and would even respond to gentle teasing on the subject.
‘Yes, it’s going to happen,’ Alex continued. ‘I feel my luck is due for a change.’
‘Hmm. I gather you’ve had a fairly rough few years.’
‘You can say that again. First I had a long patch out of work, then my marriage broke up — are you married, Charles?’
Difficult question, really. He had married Frances back in 1951, and they weren’t divorced. They had a grown-up daughter, Juliet. On the other hand, he had walked out after ten years and, though he still saw Frances and felt a lot of ill-defined emotion for her, theirs was not what most people meant by a marriage.
‘Um, not unmarried,’ he replied cagily.
Not that Alex was really interested. He continued his own catalogue of disasters. ‘Then I had the breakdown. It was an awful time. I went through everything — drugs, psychotherapy, the lot.
‘But that was three years ago. Everything’s going to be all right now. I am going on on that assumption. I’ve just bought this new flat in town, so a nice West End run is just what the mortgage and I need.’
‘And if the transfer doesn’t happen. .’
‘Treason, Charles. Don’t even say it.’
‘No, I mean have you got another job lined up after this one?’
Alex shook his head. ‘You?’
‘Good Lord, no.’
A tap on the door prefaced the bursting-in of Lesley-Jane Decker, even more effervescent than usual. She threw her arms round Alex’s neck and looked at him in his mirror. ‘Have you heard, darling?’
‘What?’
‘Wonderful news.’
‘Your mother’s gone back to London?’
Lesley-Jane giggled, then, guiltily, stopped. ‘No, no, Alex. Denis Thornton’s in tonight.’
‘Really?’ said both the actors together.
The name meant a great deal. Denis Thornton had been a successful juvenile in a long string of undemanding West End comedies, but had of latter years turned his talents and money towards management. Though he would still occasionally come back for a sixth-month run in a tailor-made comedy vehicle, most of his energies now went into Lanthorn Productions, which he owned with his partner, Gerard Langley. They were lessees of three or four London theatres and, in difficult times, made commercial theatre work. The shows they put on may have contributed little to the nation’s cultural heritage, but they certainly brought in the coach parties.
‘Ah.’ Alex looked complacent. ‘I heard that show at the King’s was doing fairly bad business.’
‘King’s would be a bit big for this, wouldn’t it?’ said Charles. ‘It’s more for your grand musicals and.’
‘It’d do. .’ Alex preened himself with a hint of self-parody. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t mind having my name in lights above the title at the King’s.’
‘I’m sure you will, darling.’ Lesley-Jane kissed the top of his head. ‘Got to go. I left Mummy in my dressing room. See you.’
‘See you.’
She fizzed out. Charles gestured towards the door with his head.
‘She part of your new start, Alex?’
‘Why not? As I say, about time my luck changed.’
‘Hmm. I thought Peter Hickton had earmarked her.’
‘So did he, dear, but experience does tell, you know. It’s my belief that all young girls should have their first affair with an older man. Anyway, dear Peter’s always so busy.’
‘You’ve been pretty busy too. Don’t know how you’ve had time or opportunity to. .’
‘Time, my dear Charles, can always be made. And you forget that Lesley-Jane and I joined the company at the end of last season. As for opportunity. . well, always sort out a bolt-hole for yourself, Charles.’