Curtain Call (11 page)

‘Greetings, all,' Jimmy called down the table, feeling an agreeable surge of bonhomie. How delightful to preside over a gathering of his familiars – his peers, if not quite his equals – knowing they were there to celebrate
him
. Well, that, and of course to eat and drink, buckshee. From the other end of the table Edie Greenlaw, his actress friend, waved and blew him a flamboyant kiss. They had met one night shortly after he had given a stinking review to a play in which she starred, though he had singled out her performance for praise. On being introduced she had said to him: ‘I suppose that, unloved as you must be, you are the least loathsome of your species.' ‘I will cherish that compliment, madam,' he replied. They had both laughed, and ended up having dinner together.

Edie was the only woman invited. On either side of her were Gilbert and Barry from the
Chronicle
, then the impresario Felix Croker, who already looked a bit tight, fellow drama critics Rufus Forbuoys and Dickie Mellinger, his publisher Jack Voysey, and his dear friend Peter Liddell, who was of the same vintage as László. But then his eye stopped on a vacant space.

‘We are only eleven. Where's Tom?' he said to no one in particular.

László shrugged. ‘Probably typing up your copy. Or fobbing off the tax inspector. Or tidying your flat. The slave's lot.'

‘Tom isn't a
slave
,' he said, resenting László's shrewdness.

‘He's your loyal factotum,' said Claude, which was meant to be supportive but didn't sound quite right either.

‘Well,' he said, feigning nonchalance, ‘we'd better get on and order.'

László and Claude resumed an argument they were having about Wagner, to which Jimmy made distracted contribution. He was still preoccupied with Tom, and the possible reasons for his absence. They had not been getting on of late, and Jimmy could only just admit to himself that it was his fault. It was more or less by chance that Tom had become his secretary – and factotum – nine years ago, and he had pretty much run Jimmy's life for him ever since. For most of that time they had rubbed along in bickering companionship. But their most recent row had been terrible. It had blown up over a typewriter, of all things: Tom had been on at him to replace the ancient one, and Jimmy had kept refusing, on the grounds of needless expense. They had argued about it on and off for months. When, finally, the machine had packed up for good, his hand was forced; a stationer he knew in Holborn did him a deal on a 1932 flat-top Smith-Corona in green. It was a beauty, they agreed, and peace was restored
chez
Erskine once more.

It had lasted until the moment Tom received the following week's pay packet and found it twenty shillings light. Jimmy explained that he'd taken out his share of the typewriter's cost, since they both used it. Tom had hit the roof, launching a tirade of wild abuse and shaking with such a fury that Jimmy worried he might have a turn. Instead he disappeared for three days. When he returned to the flat neither made any mention of the row, so it had hung in the air ever since. For the last few weeks they had exchanged a minimum of tight-lipped civilities. He had felt a quiver of guilt, though not enough to apologise, or to return the money he had docked. The worst of it was that Tom's outburst seemed born of grievances held long before the provocation of the typewriter. But still he had said nothing. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you' was, he thought, an excellent principle – for others.

‘James.
James?
' Someone was hauling him back to the present. The head of a grilled trout eyed him morosely from his plate. He had scarcely noticed himself eating. László was staring at him in puzzlement. ‘Are you all right, my dear fellow?'

‘Yes . . . of course I am,' he said defensively.

‘You looked like a tart in a trance,' said Felix Croker.

‘Was it a vision, or a waking dream?' asked Peter with his mild doctorly concern.

‘Oh, I was just thinking of some unpleasantness I saw on the way here. Two of Mosley's idiots getting seven bells knocked out of 'em.'

‘Serves them right,' said Claude. ‘You know he's marching through the East End next week?'

‘Someone'd better pull up the drawbridge,' said Croker with a snigger. ‘They'll be out for the Hebrew's blood.'

László, the only Jew present, was used to such chaffing. ‘The Englishman's home being his castle – yes, I see your meaning, my dear Croker, ha ha. Alas, my boarding house has not been equipped with such an amenity. The drawbridge is not much favoured anywhere in Shoreditch, I believe. But perhaps I may importune my landlady to prepare a cauldron of boiling oil for the occasion?'

Jimmy felt his heart ache as he listened to László's courteous English, still inflected with traces of his Hungarian forefathers. They had come to London in the last century seeking a refuge from the wildfires of local anti-Semitism. The young László had been a prodigy at the violin, and the pride of his family. At nine years old he was playing solo at the Queen's Hall; at twelve he had written an opera. Alas, as he matured into nervous youth, his public recitals became faltering and error-strewn, so much so that he eventually admitted defeat and stopped performing. Now in middle age he scraped by as a music teacher and lived in what was practically a hovel off Commercial Road. He was Jimmy's closest friend; sometimes, he thought, his only friend.

‘You must come and stay with me, László, out of harm's way,' he said.

‘That is most kind of you, James, but it would be simply
crazy
to hand those Fascist fellows the victory by scurrying hither and thither.' Crazy, which he pronounced ‘chray-zee', was László's favourite word.

‘I'm afraid there's going to be an awful lot of scurrying if Herr Hitler continues unchecked,' said Peter.

‘Depends how far they're prepared to let him go,' said Claude. ‘Austria will be next.'

Barry said with a journalist's decisiveness, ‘It's war, sure as eggs is eggs.'

Croker shook his head. ‘You're wrong about that. We fought Germany in a British quarrel. We aren't going to fight them in a Jewish one.'

‘That, may I say, is spoken like a true Mosleyite,' said Peter. ‘In any case it's not just Hitler. Look at what the Italians did in Abyssinia. Gassed the poor blighters.'

‘Abyssinia is a long way from Charing Cross.'

‘Not for an air force it isn't.'

More Cassandra-like forecasts and counter-forecasts flew back and forth as Germany's expansionist ambitions were debated. Jimmy, impatient at not being the centre of attention, looked down the table at Jack Voysey, who seemed to read the appeal in his eyes, for a few moments later he tapped on his wine glass and stood up.

‘Gentlemen – oh, and Miss Greenlaw, I beg your pardon – I'm so pleased we are gathered to celebrate the connoisseurship of a very singular man. Jimmy, as he has written somewhere, has a great taste for old books, old manners, old wine, old music –'

‘And young men,' snickered Croker, just audibly.

‘– but it is his marvellous instinct for identifying what's new in drama which has been his special gift to readers. This collection of his latest reviews and essays,
Withering Slights
, shows the full measure of the man' – there was more stifled tittering at that – ‘in his wit, his erudition, his incomparable discernment. It is a book we are very proud to publish. So kindly raise your glass – to Jimmy.'

Voices rang in enthusiastic echo of the toast. Somebody called out ‘Speech!' and Jimmy, needing no encouragement, rose to his feet.

‘Thank you, Jack, for that ebullition of unmitigated generosity. A newspaper man once wrote of me that “you could learn more from Erskine when he's wrong than from most other critics when they're right”. I suppose he meant that as a compliment. What I would say to him, in all humility, is that I haven't been wrong about a play since 1924, and on
that
night I happened to be afflicted with a head cold.' This provoked a gratifying ripple of laughter, though Claude's murmur of ‘Very true' somehow flattened it as a comic sally. Having warmed them up with a few of his shorter anecdotes, he took a deep breath. ‘There is another I would like to thank today, someone who has read the proofs of my last six books, corrected them – even, I might say, improved them. He has been a punctilious editor, a faithful understudy, and a cheering companion of more first nights than I care to remember. He also gave me the title of this latest tome. I only wish he was at table with us now, but I shall toast him all the same – to my secretary, Tom Tunner.'

As the toasts dwindled in chorus, László, who alone of them knew the truth of Jimmy's debt to Tom, said, ‘Where
has
the dear fellow got to? James, you did remember to invite him –'

‘For God's sake, man, who d'you think organised this damned lunch?' Jimmy snapped, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice, and László shrank back in surprise. Peter, quick to mollify, looked about him.

‘While we wait for pudding, shall we have a round of Five Greatest?'

A mixture of groans and cheers met this suggestion. Jimmy loved to make lists of his favourite things, and ‘Five Greatest' was a parlour game that allowed him wide indulgence. That he was the authority on theatre nobody at the table would dare to question: he had seen more plays, and more of the great stage performers, than all of them put together. Yet he also prized his discrimination in many other fields of interest, including horses, wine, painting, American film and French literature. It didn't much matter what was at issue: Jimmy was confident that in any dispute over taste he would always carry the day. He looked along the table in search of challengers.

Rufus Forbuoys, an elderly theatre critic with a face like a jaundiced owl, spoke up. ‘I wonder, Jimmy, how you are on cricket . . .'

‘Pretty good,' said Jimmy, which counted as modesty from him.

‘Right, then. The five greatest batsmen?'

Jimmy protruded his lip thoughtfully. ‘Well, you'd start with W.G., of course. Then the three aitches – Hobbs, Hammond, Hendren. And Bradman, on behalf of the colonies.'

There ensured some debate over whether Sandham and Hayward should be in the running. Edie Greenlaw looked around, bemused. ‘Can you explain what sort of game this is?'

‘Hard to say,' said Jack.

‘But – how does one
win
?'

Dickie Mellinger shook his head. ‘Not that kind of game, poppet. It's really just a chance to show off.'

‘You pick a subject, and Jimmy will give you the five best examples off the top of his head – or you challenge him with a better one.'

‘And then he tells you that you're wrong.'

Edie frowned lightly. ‘What d'you mean by “wrong”? It's just an opinion.'

Nobody deemed this worthy of a reply. Peter said, ‘How about . . . five greatest names in Dickens?'

Jimmy nodded in approval. ‘Splendid, Peter. Let's see . . . Poll Sweedlepipe, Jerry Cruncher, Podsnap, Wackford Squeers . . . Mrs Todger!'

Hoots of laughter and mock-affronted ‘oohs' greeted this last. ‘How about Dick Swiveller?' called Croker.

‘Are you talking about a character or an occupation?' said Jimmy, catching the ribald mood.

‘I always liked the sound of Tulkinghorn,' said Claude, not catching the mood at all, ‘but I won't challenge the master.'

Jimmy replied with a gracious nod, then glanced at László, who had fallen silent since his snappish rebuke. Seeking forgiveness, Jimmy decided on a subject to bring his friend back. ‘Let's have a music round, what d'you say?'

‘I'd say let's have a different game,' said Edie, and was immediately shouted down. Greatest operas was considered too boring. Greatest symphonies was too easy. Then Dickie Mellinger suggested string quartets, and Jimmy was off and running.

‘Haydn's Emperor Quartet. Mozart, string quartet in D major. Beethoven, “Rasumovsky”, number 8 in E minor. Hmm. Schubert, number 14 in D minor, “Death and the Maiden”. And Chopin, I should say, “Valse Brilliante”, Opus 34, number 2. How about that?'

‘Sound, very sound,' said Peter.

‘What do you say, László?' asked Jimmy.

László, seeming to hear the apology in Jimmy's tone, nodded his head. ‘All good. Perhaps great. But not the
greatest
. With respect to my friend, I would list them so: Purcell's Fantasia for four in G major. My beloved Brahms, number 1 in C minor. Charles Ives's second. Ravel's one and only. And Beethoven's number 14 in C minor, which the man himself called the greatest of his late quartets.
C'est tout!
'

Jimmy listened in a kind of wonder. Where friends were concerned, his expectations of intellectual replenishment were low. You kept bringing a bucket to the well, and found it nearly dry – it did not take long to discover the shallowness of their conversational range. So he associated with them out of mere habit and affection. László was the exception. You dropped the bucket, and when you hauled it up there was always something surprising from him, something that slightly altered your view of things. He had known László for nearly twenty-five years, yet to his knowledge they had never once discussed Purcell, or Charles Ives. He sensed the table awaiting his response, the critic's verdict on the amateur.

‘Bravo, my dear. I couldn't have chosen better myself – and didn't.'

László, warming to this benediction, revealed a toothy smile like two octaves of a miniature piano. He had the sudden pleased look of a twelve-year-old boy. Peter gave him a little pat on the back. The arrival of the pudding trolley put an end to the competitive jollity, and while the others were umming and aahing over the
tarte aux pommes
Jimmy ordered a bottle of Sauternes to see them through.