Curtain Call (45 page)

Even the supercilious arts editor Lambert appeared to have entered the convivial mood, though the way he kept smiling in Jimmy's direction was far from reassuring. The man was seldom known to smile for any reason unless it involved another's personal misfortune. Dropping his voice, Jimmy leaned over to Barry.

‘Have you any idea why Lambert keeps grinning at me?'

Barry protruded his lower lip. ‘Could be he's sweet on you.'

‘I doubt that
very
much.'

He didn't have to wait long for an explanation. Lambert, lighting another of his Woodbines, had narrowed his gaze on Jimmy.

‘I was wondering if we'd recognise you tonight, James.'

Jimmy frowned his incomprehension. ‘Why's that?'

‘Well, I gather you're more likely to be seen around town these days in a ball gown and gloves up to here.'

He felt a warmth spring to his cheeks. ‘Moss Bros suits me fine, as you can see.'

‘Oh, shame. I was hoping for flounces, frills, the works,' said Lambert.

‘Then I recommend you find the name of a good dressmaker.' Barry and Gilbert sniggered at that, but Lambert was not to be thrown off the scent.

‘So you wouldn't know anything about a drag ball up at Highgate, few weeks back? They say half the theatre folk in London were there when the police raided the house.'

‘I must belong to the other half, then,' sniffed Jimmy. ‘I find very little occasion to go to Highgate.'

But the smirk wouldn't budge from Lambert's face, and Jimmy, refusing him further satisfaction, decided to take a walk. He needed a pee in any case before the speeches began. Navigating a path through the gossiping throng of diners he muttered under his breath, still somewhat nettled by Lambert's mocking insinuations. What a ghastly little shit . . . It was only on account of his being close to the throne that he was allowed such . . . such
impudence
. And then his step faltered as he considered how much of what Lambert knew got passed onto the mob upstairs – the management, the proprietor Lord Swaim. He already knew the latter couldn't stand him.

The hotel Gents was sparsely peopled, just a couple of punters standing at the urinals. He had to curb his instinct to join them and have a quick peek. Instead he locked himself in a stall and sat down. A minute or so later his ears pricked up at the arrival of a voice he knew; it was the
Chronicle
's editor, Bostock, talking to someone in a vaguely appeasing manner.

‘I think it would come better from you,' he was saying.

His interlocutor demurred: ‘. . . rather not . . . most objectionable fellow . . . He's been doing that column far too long in any case.'

‘It's been said. But he deserves the courtesy at least . . .'

Jimmy, his curiosity fired, soundlessly cracked open his stall door – and froze. Side by side at the urinals with Bostock was Lord Swaim himself. And plainly the subject under discussion was Swaim's bête noire, one J. Erskine Esq. Their confidential tone indicated an awkwardness, and Jimmy had an instinctive notion what it meant.

He strained his ears to catch their receding phrases. ‘Let's get it over with . . . I understand your . . . after dinner . . .' The voices drifted away, and they were gone. He emerged from his hiding place, and felt himself shaking. What dreadful serendipity, to overhear the boss and the editor lining him up for the firing squad.
Let's get it over with
. It was coming.

On returning to his table Jimmy found he had no appetite left, even for the hot chocolate soufflé. Now he understood Lambert's sardonic allusions to the drag ball; Jimmy's night of shame was out, and had handed Lord Swaim his excuse at last. He looked around the company and wondered who else had heard. Gilbert and Barry? Rumour whipped through the paper at such speed it was practically impossible they didn't know, and yet neither of them had tipped him the wink – the blighters. Or were they simply too embarrassed to mention it? Gilbert was looking rather oddly at him.

‘Everything all right, Jimmy?'

‘I hardly know,' Jimmy replied. ‘Is it?'

Gilbert shrugged. ‘You just seem a bit quiet, that's all.'

Jimmy switched his gaze to Barry. ‘So much for friends . . . One of you might at least have told me.'

Barry said, ‘What are you talking about?'

He looked over to make sure Lambert wasn't earwigging, and said, sotto voce, ‘I'm a dead man. I just overheard Bostock and Swaim discussing it in the lav – they're getting rid of me. You didn't know?'

He could tell from their shocked faces that they did not. Barry shook his head. ‘It doesn't make sense. Bostock has always defended you – for one thing he knows how many readers you bring in.'

‘But it's Swaim's paper,' said Jimmy sadly. ‘I'm as good as buried.'

The lights in the room dimmed of a sudden, cutting short further opportunity for speculation. The speeches were beginning. Jimmy hunkered down in his chair, feeling like some ancient Roman who'd just cut his veins in the bath and was waiting to bleed out. He had envisaged his departure from the paper quite differently: a gracious signing-off to his readers, many years hence, with some wry reference to having strutted and fretted his hour upon the page (rather good, that). His last word? ‘Curtain.' This would be soon followed by a dam burst of lamentation from those very same readers, besieging the editor with letters
imploring
their beloved critic to reconsider, which in turn would prompt the paper's management to ask their beloved theatre critic to reconsider. And Jimmy, while professing his delight at this public show of support, would turn down their plea, quoting that grand old stage motto (it had the right air of regret), ‘Best to leave 'em wanting more.'

But it wasn't going to happen like that, and realities had to be addressed. Cast out by the
Chronicle
, how would he get by? Vacancies for a theatre critic rarely came up, and whenever one did there would be someone keener – younger – waiting to snap it up. In any case, he had offended too many people to feel sure that another paper would want him. He could survive on bits and bobs from other outlets, but not for long, not with his extravagance. He imagined the dwindling commissions, the telephone's long silences, the slow fade into obscurity. And penury. Where would he go? He wondered if there might be some retirement home for distressed theatre folk. Even if there was, he could hardly expect a welcome there – the critic was the mongrel dog that whined and cocked its leg against the purebreds. No, he would slink away, unwanted, and lay himself down to die. My God, the pity of it –

Jimmy felt a nudge at his shoulder. Gilbert had leaned in to whisper: ‘You should listen to this.'

The editor, Bostock, was at the podium, though nothing he had been saying had penetrated Jimmy's clouded consciousness. It seemed he was in the middle of some panegyric on the
Chronicle
's veterans, ‘a doughty breed of scribes who have helped make this the great paper that it is'. Through the applause and the ragged ‘hear, hear's he droned on, for the evening would not be complete (he said) without his acknowledging one especially renowned member of the old guard, a servant of the
Chronicle
for twenty-seven years.

Jimmy was making a vague calculation of his own span at the paper when Bostock's next words caused him a convulsive, scalp-tingling shock: ‘. . . and Lord Swaim has allowed me the honour of presenting this trophy – please be upstanding for our peerless theatre critic,
Mr James Erskine
.'

Was he hallucinating?

No. All eyes had turned on him amid the purling thunder of applause. They were not giving him the sack. They were giving him an award! He thought of Kipling's line about Triumph and Disaster, and treating those two impostors just the same. Well, you had to try, you had to try . . .

Barry was laughing, his hand cupped over Jimmy's ear, trying to be heard above the noise. ‘
Getting rid of you, are they?
'

Madeleine stepped off the tram on Camden High Street and headed for home. She was carrying a few things she had bought in town, an aquamarine brooch and silk stockings (Christmas presents for Rita), a jar of honey and some little pastries from an Italian cookshop in Soho. She thought she might save some to take round to Rita, who was doing Christmas dinner for her and a couple of the girls she knew from the Blue Posts. She stopped off at her local to buy a bottle of wine, a red, she thought, was best on a cold night. It was a relief to her she could still afford treats. Her savings from the Elysian were meagre, but she had the pub shift three nights a week and Stephen was paying her over the odds for the two afternoons she spent cleaning his studio.

When she entered the hallway at Bayham Street the place was in darkness. She called the landlady's name, without reply. It was odd, she could have sworn she had put a shilling in the meter yesterday. Ascending the stairs she reached her door on the second-floor back and let herself in. Setting down her bag on the kitchen table she went to the cupboard where the candles were kept. But before she had opened it a sound made her jump – the rasping of a match – and turning she saw a figure behind her. He had been waiting. The wick of the oil lamp was lit, and in its flickering illumination she recognised him.

‘Madeleine.'

She stood paralysed, rooted to the spot. How? And yet something in her knew that this moment had always been coming. Beneath the terrible pounding that had started in her breast she realised her fate had come to meet her, that this was the reckoning for the life she had chosen, all the men, all the hotel rooms, all the brief encounters . . . She had tried to forget them, banish them from sight. But not this one. He had never been forgotten. We meet our end on the road we take to avoid it. The stillness of his head, the dark, hooded eyes, and that voice, the way it almost purred her name.

She knew what he had come to do, but still she forced herself to ask him: ‘Why me?' It came out as barely a whisper.

Druce looked at her, and almost smiled. ‘Why you? I remember enjoying the fear in your eyes. And once you'd seen my face there was the problem . . .'

She swallowed, and nodded. ‘Well, I'm – I'm ready. If you are.'

He cocked his head. ‘You begged me last time. You begged me to stop, remember?'

She nodded again. ‘Yes. But not now. I'm ready.' It was the simplest thing to say. In the near-dark of a terraced house in Camden, with the world outside hurrying on, endless in its indifference, she was ready to face her last – for she knew there was no escaping it for anyone.

He had removed his tiepin and tossed it onto the kitchen table, where it glinted. He pulled the tie loose from his neck and held it straight with both hands in front of his face. And now he did smile. ‘Come here, then.'

She was still trembling, but she took a step towards him, and then another. He went to raise the tie over her head when, from below, an urgent rapping sounded at the door. Druce froze momentarily; he retreated some paces to stand at the kitchen door. It was a man's voice now, calling her name. She thought she knew it. They looked at one another, as if conspirators. Hesitating, Druce quietly opened the door and crept onto the landing. With an answering softness of foot she followed, so that when he turned back she was right behind him.

‘There's nothing –' he began, but the sentence turned into an astounded roar of agony as she thrust the tiepin deep into his right eye. Madeleine released her fingers from it and darted past him. As she bolted blindly down the stairs she heard the front door being forced open, wood splintering; Stephen had made it to the first turn, they were almost in one another's arms when a shadow plummeted between the banisters, dropping fast, and the noise it made at the bottom sounded to her like a full suitcase hurled to the pavement from a high window.

When they looked down, Everett Druce's body lay sprawled, motionless, his neck at an odd angle to his shoulders.

THE STREETS LOOKED
odd at the end of Coronation Day. They were aflutter with banners, and the pavements were strewn with discarded flags, bunting, splashes of red and white and blue. But there wasn't a single bus to be seen, and Tom trudged home amid droves of tired revellers. The busmen had gone on strike the week before, leaving the city in chaos. Tramcars had been so tightly packed that they didn't bother to stop for boarders. Every private car and taxi seemed to be out on the road, and parked anywhere they fancied. Tom hadn't gone on the Underground since he'd left the hospital at Christmas. He had been told to avoid confined spaces or potential scenes of disorder. So he walked.

In Green Park people had camped out so as to secure themselves a good view on the day. He overheard one old boy say to another, as he surveyed the rows of tents, ‘Reminds me of base camp at Étaples – without the smell.'

Tom had wondered about going to the West End at all; he had no great affection for the monarchy, and nothing about the recent squabble over the American woman had endeared the institution to him. But something more than curiosity impelled him to go. He had an unfathomable intuition that this was the sort of day he would bump into her, with all of London in carnival mood, and strangers roaming about, greeting one another as if they were old familiars. He had once called in at the Elysian to ask about her. Nobody knew where she'd gone. He would even have asked Ronny, or Roddy, or whatever his name was, but he wasn't there either. He could imagine reminiscing some day in the future about the coincidence of their meeting, and being able to pinpoint it by the occasion: ‘You remember, of course, it was the day of the Coronation – to think of running into one another in all those crowds!'

But he didn't run into her, or anyone. And now he was tramping back to his digs in Wapping, alone.

Since the start of the year he had picked up quite a bit of freelance work, more than he had expected. It seemed that his time in Jimmy's employ had won him a reflected prestige; one editor flatteringly called him ‘Erskine's dauphin'. Tom wanted to believe the work coming in was down to his own talent, but sensed it was bestowed merely on his reputation for reliability. He felt destined to be always known as the willing secretary, the one who had ‘kept Jimmy going' for the last ten years. It was not, he supposed, such a bad reputation to have.