Tod seated himself at the oval mahogany table in the Greasepaint’s upstairs conference room, and looked around him with gratification.
This was it, this was the start of the marvellous journey he had dreamed for so long of making. This was the journey that would take him back to the centre. He put firmly from his mind the memory of Fael seated at the desk in her room, smudgy circles of fatigue beneath her eyes. Fael would do it, she would not let him down.
He had prepared a little speech – nothing very much, really, but he dared say people would be expecting it. Once the preliminary introductions were over, and everyone was supplied with a glass of wine or sherry, he was going to deliver it. He would do it with humility and modesty and it would be very well-received, although he would have to be careful that he was not forestalled by Julius Sherry, prosy old fool, who had always been too fond of the sound of his own voice, and who already appeared to consider himself in some kind of senior position in all this. In fiscal terms Julius’s contribution was minimal – he had suggested putting up a paltry fifteen thousand which was a mere flea-bite for a man of his substance! – but his position as a trustee of the Harlequin made him worth four times that sum and he would therefore have to be treated with a degree of respect. The old goat had obviously lunched well if not wisely, which was unfortunate, because he was eyeing Mia Makepiece with a bloodshot eye and a roué’s mien. Tod frowned. They could not afford to upset Gerald Makepiece at this delicate stage of the proceedings. Once the cheque was signed and cleared Tod did not care whether Mia Makepiece screwed the entire company and half the audience as well.
On Julius’s other side was the representative from Tod’s bank, who wore an air of strong disapproval and looked as if he might disclose the embarrassing extent of Tod’s liabilities to his masters at the least provocation. This was another anxiety Tod could have done without, because the bank’s involvement was a very hefty one indeed, in fact there had been an extremely unpleasant interview earlier in the week, at which expressions like ‘serious breach of agreement’ and ‘call in the first mortgage’ and even ‘re-possession of the property’ had been freely bandied about. Tod had come away feeling positively flayed.
Tod cleared his throat, waited pointedly for Julius to stop patting Mia Makepiece’s hand, rose to his feet and gave of his best.
Gerald Makepiece had been enchanted to find himself scurrying along into the heart of steamy Soho, and charmed to be entering a place that was apparently Tod Miller’s club. Gerald’s experience of clubs was limited to seemly emporiums for the pursuit of golf or bridge, so that the Greasepaint came as a bit of a surprise.
He had been prepared for Soho, of course – one saw the place on all kinds of TV documentaries and news items – and he had expected the streets to be teeming with humanity, and to be liberally sprinkled with sinister-looking clubs and cinemas, as well as dozens upon dozens of bistros and wine bars and restaurants of every creed and colour and persuasion. But it had not previously occurred to him that people held important business meetings in shabby-fronted buildings with the facade peeling and a lingering smell of stale tobacco everywhere. He was also slightly disconcerted by the Greasepaint’s doorman, who looked like an ex-pugilist.
The upstairs room to which they were conducted was a mite better, although Gerald would not have dreamed of holding any kind of meeting in a room where the windows were so grimy you could not see out of them. But he must remember that he was in a different section of society now. Raffish. Bohemian. The words pleased him.
He was entranced to find himself shaking hands with Sir Julius Sherry, the famous theatre magnate. Tod Miller had introduced Sir Julius as one of the trustees of the Harlequin Theatre, and said there was a good possibility that they might secure the Harlequin for the show. Gerald knew about the Harlequin; he had gone to his local reference library to read up about London theatres in preparation for today, and the book he had found had devoted quite a large section to the Harlequin. It was very well thought of by the book’s author, who said it was one of the oldest sites in London, and told how it dated back nearly to Charles II’s day. The book also said that during its years under the musical direction of James Roscius, the Harlequin had gained its present reputation for musical shows.
Sir Julius was a far more robust person than Gerald had been expecting; he had clapped Tod Miller on the back on his arrival, and immediately launched into an anecdote about some luncheon he had just attended, which appeared to necessitate the use of several words Gerald had not thought people employed in mixed company. But he thought he managed to laugh in the right places, and he began to think he was not acquitting himself so ill. Mia, of course, was completely at home here; she was able to laugh with Sir Julius as if they were old friends, and then to talk in a serious and responsible fashion with somebody called Simkins, whom Gerald vaguely understood to be representing some kind of bank investment.
They were all given a glass of wine to toast the new venture, and Gerald opened the notebook he had brought, with its orderly headings about ‘Salaries’, and ‘Staff’, and ‘Premises’, and ‘Profit and Loss’. Tod Miller made a little speech and Gerald listened attentively. Most interesting it was, all about how they were about to take a journey together and how they were about to become wayfarers in the motley land of chance with Tod at the helm. It was unfortunate that Sir Julius belched rather loudly at this point, but he covered it up quite well and everyone was mannerly enough to pretend not to have noticed. Of course, he was not a young man, Sir Julius, although Gerald noted wistfully that he had a good head of snowy hair. But set against that he was stout and florid-complexioned and very nearly grotesque, so that it was generous and sweet-natured of Mia to listen to his stories so tolerantly and not to mind when he patted her hand and leaned close to her.
Tod had reached the part in his speech about steering them all through turbulent waters and reaching the haven of success, when the door at the end of the room was flung open and a derisive voice said, ‘Jesus God, Toddy, are you speechifying again? It’s time someone broke you of that habit, for it’s a terrible bore to everyone.’
Framed in the doorway was a young, or at least youngish man, with untidy black hair that needed cutting, a long, belted raincoat that looked as if it had been dragged on in the dark, and black-fringed grey eyes.
He received a rather mixed welcome.
Sir Julius, with a mischievous look on his jowly face, rose at once, and said, ‘Flynn. My dear boy, come in.’ And then to the table at large, ‘Flynn Deverill. One of my co-trustees of the Harlequin, ladies and gentlemen. Flynn, this is Gerald Makepiece, his wife, Mia. And – ah – Mr Simkins.’ The glance he sent to Tod crossed from faintly mischievous to definitely malicious. ‘I asked Flynn to join us, Toddy,’ he said. ‘The board likes to have two trustees present when considering new ventures. And I knew you’d be glad to welcome him on board your – ah – storm-tossed ship.’
‘Toddy’s ship sounds more like the Hesperus,’ said the irreverent young man. ‘But so long as it doesn’t turn out to be the Marie Celeste or – God forfend! – the Titanic, and us the rats scuttling away from it, it won’t matter. Will I sit down now that I am here?’
‘I suppose you’d better,’ said Tod, ungraciously.
‘Oh, do sit here,’ said Mia Makepiece, who had fixed her eyes on the newcomer the minute he appeared. She leaned forward and smiled, patting the vacant chair next to her. Flynn appeared to consider this and then walked to the other side of the table and took a chair opposite Sir Julius.
‘How far have you got?’ The grey eyes that were far too beautiful for a man surveyed the company. ‘Has Toddy milked you all of your life savings yet?’ said Flynn. ‘Or promised you the riches of the world if you’ll bow down and worship him? I wouldn’t believe a word he says if I were you. He wrote one musical twenty years ago and after that he sold his soul for a mess of pottage.’
Tod said very coldly, ‘I didn’t know you were on the Harlequin’s board, Deverill.’
‘Why should you?’
‘Flynn was one of Professor Roscius’s protégés,’ said Sir Julius.
‘Well, I know that, of course. I didn’t think boards and finance were your style, Flynn.’
‘Did you not?’
‘Roscius was instrumental in involving Flynn in the Harlequin’s board,’ said Sir Julius.
‘Ah yes, Professor Roscius guided your early footsteps, didn’t he?’ said Tod.
‘He did, but it was the devil who guided them afterwards,’ said Flynn. ‘Is that wine you’re serving us? Then I’ll have some, unless it’s that rubbish Toddy gets off the wood.’
‘Oh, give him a drink, somebody,’ said Tod, crossly. ‘Flynn, the meeting started half an hour ago. If you knew about it, I do think it might have been polite of you—’
‘Oh God, has somebody told you I’m polite? Don’t believe him, whoever he was. The thing is, you see, that I wanted to miss your speech, Toddy, and I almost did, only – God Almighty, is this your idea of wine? Is it? Well, all I can say is, it’s not mine.’
Mr Simkins, who privately agreed with Flynn, said reprovingly that they had a lot to get through and he had another appointment.
‘Then get on with it, Toddy, before your man here sends in the bailiffs. Are you wanting me for design director of your little concert, by the way? Because if so, you’d better make sure you can afford me.’ He tilted his chair back and rested the heels of his boots on the edge of the table, addressing the company generally. ‘That was something Roscius taught me, you know – that people will always take you at the value you put on yourself. So I always put a very high value on myself indeed.’
Mia Makepiece said, warmly, ‘I’m sure any fee you charged wouldn’t be too high, Mr Deverill,’ and Gerald said carefully that of course they would want to engage the best they could get.
‘You see, Toddy? That little fowl with leggings over there wants me in the company.’
‘I didn’t actually say—’
‘Oh, yes you do want me,’ said Flynn, instantly. ‘You really do, you know.’
Gerald interposed a hesitant question as to the amount that might be in question here, and turned to the page headed ‘Salaries’, his pen poised expectantly. Flynn grinned and named a figure, and Gerald’s pen skidded across the page.
‘But I’m worth it,’ said Flynn. ‘Because I’m very good, in fact I’m probably the best in London. And it so happens that I’m free at the moment, aren’t you in luck?’
‘Stop showing off,’ said Sir Julius repressively, and Flynn grinned again, and raised his glass. ‘And take your feet off the table.’
‘I thought it would be cleaner than the floor,’ said Flynn, but did as requested. ‘And now, will we talk about forming this company and finding out what Toddy’s going to write for us all, before I’m sick on the mat from that terrible wine? And we’ll hope we don’t have to repair to the wine bar downstairs, because the claret they serve’s even worse than this horse-piss Toddy’s giving us, and Bill lets the hookers in for half-price booze at five o’clock.’
Gerald Makepiece went back to the small, quiet Kensington hotel, his mind in a happy tumult.
The afternoon had not been like any afternoon he had ever experienced, and the meeting unlike any meeting he had ever attended. At Makepiece Enterprises they had serious and responsibly-minded conferences, where people presented reports; where figures were carefully considered and budgets balanced to the farthing. Coffee was served if it was morning, and tea if it was afternoon, and on Gerald’s birthday, or if somebody was retiring or getting married, they all had a glass of Crofts dry sherry, and it was all very orderly and respectful.
There had not been a great deal of order about this afternoon’s meeting, and there had not been very much respect, either! But despite it, they appeared to have formed the nucleus of a company, the articles of association for which Gerald’s solicitors would draw up, and the directors of which would be Tod Miller, Julius Sherry, Gerald himself, and Miller’s bank. Gerald had wanted Mia to be included, but she had very prettily declined.
‘I shouldn’t know the first thing about being a director,’ she had said, and Sir Julius had at once made a joke about sleeping partners which made everyone laugh very heartily.
Then there had been some question as to whether Flynn Deverill would be drafted onto the board as well. Sir Julius had been inclined to favour the idea on account of the Harlequin connection, but Flynn had refused point-blank.
‘I’ll design Toddy’s concert for him, but I’ll only do it as a paid employee.’
It had not previously occurred to Gerald that anyone would refuse a seat on any board, and he had stared at Flynn in fascination.
Sir Julius Sherry said in an exasperated voice, ‘For goodness’ sake, Flynn, why not?’
‘Oh, if you make me a director there’ll be no authority for me to challenge,’ said Flynn. ‘I like challenging authority, in fact it’s the very breath of life to me. And my best work’s done when I’m quarrelling with people.’
Julius said, in a resigned fashion, ‘The fighting Irish.’
‘Exactly. So you can pay me that enormous salary the little fowl’s got written down there, but you can leave me below the salt. I’ll lead the mutinies and foment the unrest and stir up rebellion amongst the all-licensed fools and the rude mechanicals.’
‘How appropriate,’ said a lugubrious voice from the other side of the table, and Flynn at once raised his glass of the disputed wine to Simkins of the bank.
There had been a point in the discussions when Gerald had been afraid that Tod Miller was going to fly into a real rage with Flynn, and throw the disrespectful young Irishman out of the Greasepaint Club neck and crop. Miller had actually started up out of his chair, his face purpling in a way that made Gerald wonder uneasily about heart attacks and strokes, but the bank representative cleared his throat and began to say something about the need to get swift returns on investments, and Tod Miller had said ‘Hrmph’, and sat down again. In the end he had agreed to accept Flynn as the company’s designer. Gerald had no very clear idea of what this entailed, but had grasped that it was a position of some importance and that they were fortunate to have Flynn.
‘It’s the most important thing of all,’ said Flynn. ‘And you’re very fortunate indeed to have me. I’ll design you the most startling show you ever heard of. You’ll see. Toddy, when will we see the book?’
‘Oh hum, well, when it’s finished,’ said Miller, and Gerald saw Julius Sherry look up sharply.
‘There’s no problem, is there, Toddy?’
‘Oh no, absolutely not, my word, no problem at all. It just isn’t ready for anyone to see it yet.’
‘Hasn’t Toddy been telling us all for years he’s got a drawerful of West End successes just waiting to be staged?’ said Flynn. ‘Six musicals in search of an angel.’ He looked at Tod through his lashes. It was ridiculous for a man to possess such extravagantly long lashes. It was a very good thing indeed that Mia had no eye for these insolent young men, as well, because Flynn Deverill possessed the kind of startling good looks that ladies sometimes became silly about. But he was shockingly rude, and Mia would not care for that.
‘It’s all very fine for the rest of you to make jokes,’ said Tod, crossly. ‘But you’ll have copies in plenty of time.’
‘Well, could we have a general idea?’
Tod said irritably that writing was not like working on a factory bench. ‘Dammit, I’m an artist. I’m a creator. I can’t be yoked and fettered.’
‘I’m sure no one expects it, Mr Miller,’ said Mia.
‘Well, no. Thank you, Mia.’
Flynn Deverill remarked that a full-blown musical would inevitably take longer to dash off than a handful of television commercials. ‘It takes a bit longer than Stilton Hooker, doesn’t it?’
‘Camembert Crumpet,’ said Tod, infusing the words with as much dignity as was possible. He stood up, pointedly ignoring Flynn. ‘Julius, are you getting a taxi back, because if so—’
But Sir Julius, it appeared, had agreed with Mia that the two of them would just nip across to the Harlequin Theatre together. ‘Only a very quick nip,’ he said. ‘Our little lady is not familiar with the house, and we’re going to review the ground. So to speak. You don’t mind do you, Makepiece? No, I didn’t think you would. Flynn, can we drop you anywhere?’
It was not immediately clear to Gerald how or at what point this arrangement had been arrived at, or quite why it was necessary for ground (what ground?) to be surveyed, but since Mia was going to be involved, she would want to know as much as possible about what was ahead of her. It was extremely kind of Sir Julius to go to such trouble.
Gerald stepped cautiously out into the street and waited for a taxi to drive past. There were certainly quite a lot. He placed his left foot on the kerb edge and lifted his right hand in a hailing gesture, which was what you saw people do in films. He felt very daring and nonchalant, and he managed not to appear too startled when it actually worked.
As night began to shroud the London streets, the Greasepaint’s doorman went quietly down the stair that led to the wine cellars, and unlocked the subterranean room that was only ever used on Sunday nights.
The Sunday meetings at the Greasepaint were a queer old set-up; the doorman had to say they were very strange indeed. Normally you got your girls and you got your pimps, and as a rule the pimps went to the girls’ flats or to the nearest pub to settle up all the monies and so on. Sometimes you got trouble between them, and the police had to be called, and quite often you got trouble of a more private kind as well: pimps poaching girls, or girls poaching territories, and private feuds and jealousies and scores to be settled. Sometimes the police got involved with those and sometimes they did not. It was mostly how it operated and although the system was a bit rough and ready, everybody knew the rules and on the whole it worked all right. If you lived or worked in Soho you knew about it almost without thinking about it, although probably it was different with the class girls who had maids and regular bookings. It would probably be a whole lot different in Mayfair and St John’s Wood; the doorman was not very familiar with those areas.
The main thing that stood out about the Sunday night meetings was that they were organised. In fact the doorman had only remarked the other week to Bill on the bar, that if this arrangement ever caught on they’d find themselves with a hookers’ trade union, and Bill had said, well, why not? The girls worked their arses off most nights, poor cows, why shouldn’t somebody take up their cause? He had not actually said ‘cows’, and he had not actually said ‘arses’ either.
The room had to be ready at midnight, to the tick. Neither of them knew where the initial instructions had come from, but they knew the arrangement had been there for two or three years and that payment for the room was made scrupulously but anonymously each Sunday, the cash left in a sealed envelope on the table after everyone had gone. The arrangements were fairly easy, really; there had to be the table at the far end, with the velvet cloth thrown over it, and there had to be the thick crimson curtains drawn behind the table, so that they hid the small door that opened onto the passage leading to the area steps. The area was sometimes used as a delivery yard and not many people knew it was there, but the man who came here every Sunday knew it was there and he had his own key, although neither the doorman nor Bill knew how he had come by it. This was only one of the faintly sinister things about him.
The chairs had to be lined up for the girls, neat rows facing the velvet-draped table. Bill and the doorman usually took down the stackable chairs from the upstairs meeting room. And, eeriest of all, every light bulb had to be removed and the special low-wattage, red-tinted bulbs put in place. Bill ordered them in bulk from the same suppliers Raymond’s Revuebar used. It was cheaper that way. The meeting began at midnight exactly and ended an hour to an hour and a half later. No refreshments were served, but a decanter of brandy and a glass had to be left on the table, and it had to be the good brandy as well.
Neither Bill nor the doorman himself had ever questioned what would happen if the room was not ready one night or if the preparations deviated from the instructions, quite simply because it must never happen. The man who paid for the room’s use, and who entered through the low door in the wall and sat at the table each Sunday night and drank the very good brandy was not someone either of them wanted to risk angering. This was remarkable in itself when you remembered the doorman’s Navy and boxing years and the fact that Bill had grown up in one of the roughest parts of the East End.
They always told one another that one of these nights they would creep down and hide somewhere and see exactly what went on at the meetings. They were both becoming very curious indeed about the identity of the man who came under cover of darkness, and whose name nobody seemed to know, but who apparently wielded such authority in the neon-lit demi-world of Soho’s night streets.
Putting the final touches to the room tonight, the doorman straightened up and looked about him. Like this, with the sulky lights burning, you might almost mistake it for a stage set – something from one of those slightly raunchy, sometimes bizarre shows in the sixties and seventies, where fantasy and fiction and reality all overlapped a bit. The rock musicals like Hair and Oh Calcutta! and Jesus Christ Superstar. Or that curious dark fairytale musical that had been such a cult at one time – the Dwarf Spinner. The doorman was familiar with the Dwarf Spinner; when he had left the Navy he had got a job at the Harlequin for a time, scene-shifting and carpentering, and he could remember helping to set the stage for the eerie scene where the twisted evil genius, Rossani, made his first appearance.
Looking about the red-lit cave that was the Greasepaint’s deepest cellar, he was reminded very strongly of Rossani. Which was the outside of absurdity.
He shook his head to dispel the clustering shadows, and went back up the stairs.