Death Of A Hollow Man (11 page)

“Right,” said his director.
“Colin. ”
A helpful soul repeated the cry, as did someone in the wings followed by someone in the dressing rooms, then finally a faint echo was heard under the boards of the stage.

“Good grief,” grumbled Harold as he stomped down yet again, “it’s like waiting for the star witness at the Old Bailey.”

Colin arrived with a woodshaving curt on his shoulder as if to designate rank, a hammer in his hand, and his usual air of a man dragged away from serious work to attend to the whims of playful children.

“You knew how many people this table had to hold. I thought you said you were going to reinforce it.”

“I did reinforce it. I nailed a wooden block in each corner where the struts go in. I’ll show you.” Colin picked his way over the still-supine actors, lifted the table, then said, “Stone me. Some silly sod’s taken them out again.”

“Ohhh, God!” Harold glared at his actors, one or two of whom were still weeping quietly. “You have no right to be in a theater, any of you. You’re not fit to sweep the stage. Better make some more, Colin. Now,
please,
let us get on.”

He was walking back to his seat when Clive Everard, hardly bothering to lower his voice, said, “That man couldn’t direct his piss down an open manhole.”

Harold stopped, turned, and replied forcefully into the shocked silence, “I hope you don’t see yourself appearing in my next production, Clive.”

“Well … I did rather fancy Telyegin… .”

“Well,” repeated Harold, “I suggest you start fancying yourself in an entirely different company. Preferably on an entirely different planet. Now, I want to get to the end of the play with—no—more—interruptions.”

And they just about did. But by this time nerves were in shreds. Umbrage had been given and taken and returned again with interest. More props had erred and strayed in their ways like lost sheep. The scenery had learned the wisdom of insecurity, and at least one door left the set almost as smartly as the actor who had just pulled it to behind him. As the final great funeral chords of music died away, actors gathered onstage, drifting into despondent clumps. Harold, after making one grand gesture of despair, flinging his arms above his head like an imperial bookmaker, joined them.

“There’s no point in giving notes,” he said. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” This admission, the first such that had ever passed his lips, seemed to shake Harold as much as his companions. “You’re all as bad as one another, and a disgrace to the business.” Then he left, striding out into the winter night in his embroidered directing slippers, not even waiting to put on his coat.

No sooner had he left than the atmosphere lightened. And as tension was released, laughter broke out, and some healthy moaning on the lines of who did Harold think he was, and it was only a bit of fun, for heaven’s sake, it’s not as if we’re getting paid.

“Personally,” said Boris, “I’m sick of saying ‘Heil, Harold.’ ”

“No one can do a thing right it seems to me,” said Rosa. “We might as well be in the Kremlin.”

“I wouldn’t mind if he were competent,” whispered a Venticelli.

“Quite,” agreed the other. Then, aside to Esslyn: “The peasants are revolting.”

There was a bit more Bolshevik rumbling, then Riley strolled down the aisle and jumped onto the stage. Several of the fifth-formers who didn’t know his nasty little ways, and Avery, who did, said, “Aahhh …”

The cat took a crouching position. His haunches quivered, his shoulders contracted, then started to jerk. He made several loud gulping noises and a strangulated cough, then deposited a small glistening heap of skin and bones and fur and blood on the boards and walked off. There was a long pause broken by Tim.

“A critic,” he said. “That’s all we need.”

“Ah, well,” said Van Swieten, “let’s look on the bright side. Everyone knows a bad dress rehearsal means a good first night.”

Causton was a nice little town, but small. People who could not adequately function without their Sainsburys or Marks and Spencers had to travel to Slough or Uxbridge. But those who stayed at home were capably if unadven-turously served. In the main street were a supermarket and a fishmonger’s, a dairy, a bakery, and a very basic greengrocer. Two butchers (one first class who hung his meat properly and could prepare it the French way), Mc-Andrew’s Pharmacy, which also sold perfumes and cosmetics, two banks, and a hairdresser’s, Charming Creations by Doreece. There were two funeral parlors, a bookshop, the wine merchant’s and post office, and a small branch library.

Causton also had three eating places: Adelaide’s, which produced every combination of fried food known to man from behind a phalanx of hissing tea urns, and the Soft Shoe Cafe, which served home-made cakes, cream teas, dainty triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and morning coffee. There was also a pub, the Jolly Cavalier (née the Gay Cavalier), which sold shepherd’s pie and goujons in a basket. And, of course, there was the theater.

Saturday, November 17, was a brilliant day. The pavement sparkled crystalline with frost, and people strode briskly about, visibly preceded by the white exhalations of their breath. Carol singers held forth. Deidre and her father stood, arm in arm, outside the fishmonger’s. She was worried about the cold air on his chest, but he had so wanted to come out and had seemed very calm and collected, so she wrapped him up in two scarves and a balaclava, and here they were. Mr. Tibbs held tightly onto the empty shopping basket and gazed at his daughter with the same mixture of pride in achievement, anxiety in case he might be found wanting, and simple love that might have been found on the face of a Labrador in a similar position. Together they studied the display.

Red mullet and a huge turbot flanked by two crabs rested on a swell of pale gray ice. Humbler creatures lay, nose to tail, on white trays, plastic parsley flowering in their mouths. Mr. Tibbs regarded this piscatorial cornucopia with deep interest. He was very fond of fish. Deidre opened her purse, guiltily aware that if it wasn’t for her involvement with the Latimer, her father could dine on fish every day of his life.

“D’you think … the herrings look nice, Daddy?”

“I like herrings.”

“I could do them in oatmeal.” Deidre smiled gratefully and squeezed his arm. “Would that be all right? With brown bread and butter?”

“I like brown bread and butter.”

They joined the queue. Deidre was so used to people ignoring her father, even when she knew those same people to be his former pupils, that she was quite overwhelmed when a woman next to them turned and said how nice it was to see him up and about and how well he was looking.

And he did look well, agreed Deidre, taking a sidelong glance. His eyes were clear and shining, and he was nodding in reply to the greeting and offering his hand. He evinced some concern when the plump, glittering herrings disappeared inside sheets of the
Daily Telegraph,
but relaxed again once they were safely in his basket. Then he shook hands with the rest of the queue, and he and his daughter left and made their way to the church.

After listening to the carols for a few minutes and putting something in the vicar’s box, they went to the bakery, where Deidre bought a large, sliced loaf of white bread, and a cheap sponge cake oozing scarlet confectioner’s jelly and mock cream, then they went home. Mr. Tibbs took to his bed, saying he was tired after his walk, and Deidre made some tea.

She made her own bed while waiting for the kettle to boil and, smoothing the coverlet, caught sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror. She avoided mirrors usually, except for the briefest of toilets in the morning. What was the use? There was no one special to make an effort for. This had not always been the case. Ten years ago, when she was eighteen and a boy at the office seemed to be interested, she had studied the magazines for a while and tried to do things with her dark curly hair that stuck out in all directions and her overly rosy complexion, but then her mother had died and she had got so involved with domestic affairs that the boy had, understandably, drifted off, and was now happily married with three children.

It wasn’t that she was a bad shape, thought Deidre, removing her glasses so that her image became a reassuring blur. She was quite tall and quite slim, although her bottom was a bit droopy. And she had nice eyes if only she didn’t have to wear the hideous glasses. Joyce had suggested contact lenses at one point, but the expense made them out of the question, and in any case Deidre feared her prescription was too strong. She had worn the glasses since she was three. At school a Catholic friend, knowing her loathing for the wretched things, had offered to petition Lucia, patron saint of the nearsighted, on her behalf. But although she assured Deidre a few days later that this had been done, the results were negligible. Either the deity had not been in the giving vein that day or, more likely, had sniffed out a heretical supplicant and resolutely withheld the influence. Deidre gave a brief sigh, put the glasses back on and, hearing the kettle whistle, hurried downstairs.

She took some tea and a piece of cake upstairs, waiting to make sure her father drank the warm brew. Suddenly he said, “How’s it all coming along, dear?
Amadeus?”

“Oh …’’ Deidre looked at him, surprised and pleased. It had been so long since he had shown any interest in the drama group. She always talked to him about the current production, playing down her subservient role, telling him only about her ideas for the play, but not for months had he been responsive. “Well, we had the most appalling dress rehearsal yesterday. In fact, it was so bad, it was funny.” She retailed some of the highlights, and when she came to the collapsing table, her father laughed so much he almost spilled his tea. Then he said, “D’you know, I think I might come to your first night. That is,” he added, “if I don’t have one of my off days.”

Deidre picked up his cup and turned away. She felt the quick sting of tears, yet at the same time a flood of hope. This was the first time he had referred directly to his illness. And what a brave, lighthearted way to speak of it. “One of my off days.” What a calm, rational, intelligent,
sane
way to describe things. Surely if he could talk about his other self in this detached manner, he must be getting better. Going to the theater, mingling with other people, above all, listening to the glorious music, could surely do him nothing but good. She turned back, smiling happily.

“Yes, Daddy,” she said. “I think that’s a lovely idea.”

The Blackbird bookshop was, briefly, empty of customers. Avery sat at his beautiful
escritoire
near the door. The ship was on two levels connected by an ankle-snapping stone step glossy with use. There was a convex mirror over the step, revealing the only hidden corner, so that Avery had a comprehensive view. People still managed to pinch things, of course, especially during the Christmas rush. Avery got up, deciding to put away some of the volumes that browsers had left out any old way on the two round tables. The Blackbird’s stock was displayed under general headings, and customers occasionally replaced books themselves, often with hilarious results. Tutting loudly, Avery pulled
The Loved One
from the Romance shelf and
A Room with a View
from Interior Design.

“Look at this,” he called a moment later to Tim, who was stirring something on the hot plate, in the cubbyhole at the rear of the shop.
“Forever Amber
in Collecting for Connoisseurs.”

“I should leave it there, if I were you.”

“And
A Severed Head
under Martial Arts.”

“That’s nothing,” said Tim, lifting the spoon to his lips. “I found
A Fatal Inversion
under Pure Mathematics. In any case”—he sipped again—“I’m not sure that Martial Arts is an entirely inappropriate designation for Murdoch.”

“I don’t know why you’re stirring and tasting in that affected manner,” cried Avery, moving to the cubbyhole, “we all know what a cunning way Mr. Heinz has with a tomato.”

“You said I could have what I liked for lunch.”

“I must have been mad. Even a bay leaf would add a smidgen of veracity.”

“All right, all right.”

“Or a little yogurt.”

“Don’t make a meal of it.”

“No danger of that, duckie.” They both laughed. “What’s in the rolls?”

“Watercress and Bresse Bleu. And there are some walnuts. You can open the Chablis if you like.”

“Which one?” Avery started pulling bottles out of the wine rack under the sink.

“The Grossot. And give Nico a shout.”

“Isn’t he at work, then?” Avery opened the bottle, then pulled aside the thick chenille curtain and bawled upstairs.

“Says he couldn’t concentrate with the first night so close.”

“All those empty shelves. The housewives of Britain will be in a tizz.
Nico
…”

“Who were you waving to just now?”

“When?” Avery frowned. “Oh, then. Poor old Deidre and her papa.”

“God, what a life. Will you promise to shoot me if I ever get like that?”

Dazed with joy at this casual assumption that they would be together when Tim was old and gray, Avery took a deep breath, then replied crisply, “I shall shoot you long before you get like that if you bring any more muck into my kitchen.”

There was a clattering of footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs, and Nicholas appeared. “What’s for lunch?”

“Cheese and whine,” said Tim. “You’d be better off upstairs, believe me.”

“I thought I smelled something nice.”

“There you are,” said Tim. “Someone else with a nose for a bargain.”

“Like Dostoevsky’s for a dead cert.”

“Clever dick.”

“Famous for it.”

“Be quiet,” said Tim. “You’re embarrassing Nicholas.”

“No, you’re not,” Nicholas replied truthfully, “but I am jolly hungry.”

“Oh, Lord …” A woman wearing a squashed felt hat was staring urgently in at the window. “Nico—run and put the catch down, there’s a love. And turn the sign. I know her of old. Once she’s in, you’ll never get her out.” When Nicholas returned, Avery added, “She’s very religious.”