The Serpent's Sting (13 page)

It was at this point precisely that a heavy knock on the door announced the arrival of Strachan and Radcliff.

Neither detective treated Mother to the easy disdain they'd lavished on me and Brian. Mother's demeanour discouraged poor behaviour, even in smug detectives. They expressed their condolences, and asked politely if they might speak with her in private, just to clarify a few matters. Mother said that she'd give them as much information as she was able to, but that, although she'd known of her putative stepson all his life, she'd only known him, in the sense of having met him, for a few days.

‘His father and I had been waiting for Mrs Gilbert to die so that we were able to regularise our arrangement,' she said, with gob-smacking frankness. I saw Radcliff and Strachan exchange looks, and it seemed to me that they were admiring of Mother's unselfconscious honesty. Or perhaps they were simply astonished.

It was Detective Radcliff who interviewed Mother. Detective Strachan sat with Brian and me in the living room, and in the hours since we'd last seen him he must have been briefed by the detectives who'd visited the Gilbert house. His questions were routine, and there was no suggestion in either their tone or their structure that they were designed to inveigle from us information that he suspected we were withholding. His manner with me was familiarly supercilious. I seem to bring this out in people susceptible to this weakness in their characters. When he closed his notebook, he couldn't resist the observation that it was unusual to find two men in their thirties still living at home with their mother.

‘The word “still” is misplaced, detective,' I said. ‘It implies the arrangement has been continuous since childhood, which is not the case. I'm afraid both Brian and I are constrained by the secrecy provisions of the Crimes Act from saying anything more.'

This was nonsense, of course. Our work with Military Intelligence was well and truly over. Strachan was annoyingly unimpressed.

‘Are you saying that living with your mother is a matter of national security?'

Brian, who must have been stung by Strachan's earlier remark about Darlene, entered the fray.

‘I'm afraid you'll have to address that question elsewhere, detective.'

I was proud of him. He almost brought it off. If he'd been a better actor he'd have struck precisely the right note. As it was, he came admirably close — and I was happy to tell him so later.

Peter Gilbert didn't return that night, and Mother stayed in her house. She wanted to join Peter, and Peter wanted her there, but both agreed that Cloris might find her presence an insensitive response to the shared grief between father and daughter. I ungenerously wondered if Cloris was safe in the house with just her father for company.

Given the range of matters that were troubling me — Geraldine's inexplicable disappearance, and the possibility that the man who was on the point of marrying my mother might be a murderer — I slept remarkably soundly. Mother had gone round to Drummond Street by the time I'd completed my ablutions and come downstairs. Brian, who'd been out early to get the paper, was chortling quietly as he read a magazine that was in his lap. When I came in, he held it up to me.

‘Who the hell is the bloke on the cover?'

It was the new
Listener-In
. I wasn't expecting it to be published so soon, and I certainly wasn't expecting the photograph on the front to be quite so flattering. Brian handed it to me, and I looked at it closely. It both resembled me and looked unlike me at the same time. The photographer had warned me that he was in the business of creating illusions. I wasn't sure whether I was pleased to be glamorised in this impossible way, or whether I was embarrassed by the distance that lay between the man on the cover of
The
Listener-In
and the man who looked back at me every day from the mirror.

‘They've taken a few liberties with your biography,' Brian said. ‘I had no idea that you were one of Australia's leading actors, and that you'd unselfishly abandoned your career to entertain the troops.'

I sighed.

‘It's show business, Brian. As you very well know, it's all smoke and mirrors. Just a few weeks ago you were shimmying on stage in a white satin sheath dress. I shouldn't have to point out to you the gap between illusion and reality.'

He looked wistful.

‘Ah, that dress. I enjoyed wearing it.'

‘It was probably a lot more comfortable than the one I have to wear.'

‘There was certainly a lot less of it.'

I ran my eye over the article. The writer had played fast and loose with the truth. There were only a handful of people who'd know this, and although it was gilding the lily to call me ‘one of Australia's leading actors', I rather liked it. In fact, seeing it there in black and white made me think that it might even be true.

The Boxing Day matinee was a full house, possibly as a result of the piece in
The Listener-In
. There were more unaccompanied adults in the audience than was usual, and a higher proportion of women than was usual as well. Percy Wavel, always reluctant to give praise or credit, nevertheless spoke to me with uncharacteristic civility before I went on.

‘What are we going to do about Sophie?' he asked.

‘Perhaps she just needs extra rehearsing. I'm happy to stick around and help with that, however ungrateful she'll be.'

‘You and I both know that rehearsal is no substitute for talent. That girl has the star quality of a potato. If Geraldine turns up in time for Monday's performance, I might, might, forgive her. If she's not on stage, then as far as I'm concerned, she's finished, and I'll start looking for a decent replacement. I don't suppose you know anyone?'

I thought of Annie Hudson, but I assumed that she was still in Maryborough, in Queensland, where the Will Power Players had mutated into the Annie Hudson Players. Even if she were in Melbourne, the idea of working with her again wasn't attractive. I told Percy that I'd ask around.

After the performance, which was something of a triumph — if that term could ever be used to describe a pantomime — Roger Teddles and I found Percy Wavel seated in our dressing room. We shed our dame accoutrements under his silent gaze.

‘I love watching actors take off their make-up. It's a kind of miracle in reverse — the shift from the glamorous to the mundane.'

If this was an overture of friendship, it was an odd one, but everything about Percy Wavel was odd. I'd seen little evidence of his directorial skills, beyond complaining that an actor couldn't be heard, or that an actress needed to show more bosom. Yet, here he was, nominally the director of a Christmas-season pantomime that was proving to be an unexpected success. Rolled up in his hand was a copy of
The
Listener-In
. He unrolled it, looked at the cover, and then at my reflection in the mirror as I removed the last of the pancake.

‘The miracle of photography,' he said.

‘You seem fixated on miracles, Percy,' Roger said.

‘I'm a sucker for a good illusion.'

Was I to take this as a subtle insult?

‘When my wife takes off the war paint before we get into bed,' he said, ‘she looks pretty much the same.'

The mention of a Wavel wife took me by surprise. I hadn't thought of Wavel having a private life.

There was a knock on our door, and the stage-door wallah poked his head around it to say that there was a small crowd waiting to get my autograph.

‘Are you sure?' I was genuinely flummoxed.

‘Yes, Mr Power. They're all clutching copies of
The
Listener-In
. Shall I send them away?'

‘No you shall not,' Percy Wavel said emphatically. ‘Will will sign every one of those magazines, if it takes him all night.'

‘I don't think there are more than twenty people, Mr Wavel.'

‘Twenty star-struck women is a good start,' Percy said.

‘Only some of them are women, Mr Wavel.'

‘Of course I'll sign for them,' I said. I dressed quickly, checked that my fountain pen was full (I never went anywhere without my fountain pen), and prepared to meet the novelty of fans.

‘Come back here afterwards,' Percy said. ‘I need to discuss something with you, and with you, too, Roger.'

As I walked towards the stage door, I was strangely nervous. The photographer's warning words about the disappointment generated when careful lighting gave way to sunlight were uppermost in my mind. How would I feel if, when I appeared before these people, they failed to recognise me?

I needn't have worried. There was, perhaps, a slight pause when I opened the door, but these people were politely eager to have me sign their magazines. Nice remarks were made. No one was rude. Two of the men slipped me their telephone numbers, which I thought was a bit forward, but I'm as susceptible to flattery as the next person, and grateful for it, no matter from whom it comes. I smiled at the men, but shook my head. I wanted to dash their hopes gently, while expressing not the slightest shock or disapproval. I thought I saw Private Dervian at the back of the small crowd, but it was only a glimpse and then he wasn't there, so perhaps shyness had caused him to leave without an autograph.

It's a strange sensation to be asked for an autograph. I supposed that at least some of the stage-door Jills and Johnnies were management plants. Nevertheless I can say without embarrassment that I relished the experience. When I returned to the dressing room, I casually asked Percy Wavel how many of the fans were a claque.

‘Oh, I imagine most of them, at this stage. I must say, Will, it's refreshing to have an actor who actually understands how the business works.'

I smiled. I was glad to be able to represent myself as more knowing than most, but was quietly disappointed that my autograph hunters were salaried. Still, those telephone numbers were above the call of duty, so that was at least something.

‘I have news,' Percy said, ‘which I hope will please you.'

He paused for effect.

‘
Mother Goose
has been an unexpected success. The Tivoli management wants to capitalise on this. They want to tour it in the regions. This will mean a change to your contract, Will, but management is willing to offer you an increase in your salary, in return for a commitment from you to don that wig and frock until the end of February next year. Roger's contract already commits him to a tour.'

‘At no extra pay. I wasn't expecting this tat to travel.'

I was simultaneously pleased to have some financial security, and appalled that my turn as a pantomime dame might be never-ending.

‘When do we start?' I asked.

‘As you know, the last performance in town is New Year's Eve. Three days after that, you open in Ballarat.'

‘You? Don't you mean, we?'

‘I won't be going with you. I'm needed here. The Tivoli shows don't direct themselves.'

Given Percy Wavel's minimal understanding of stagecraft, I suspected that that's precisely what they did do — direct themselves.

‘The towns after Ballarat haven't been confirmed yet. It'll be hectic, and we can't possibly send Sophie. Finding a replacement is urgent.'

‘Geraldine may turn up,' I said, without conviction.

‘As I said, she has twenty-four hours, or she's finished.'

With that, he left us.