I can’t think what’s happened to Hattie, you know, our Hattie, ASM at the Irving, Hattie Vickers—Charley Baines was peering crossly into the gathering crowds around the vast Trumpet Cinema. Most of them stared back blankly, their eyes shifting onwards when they realised that Charley Baines was not famous. Or rather Charley Baines was not famous enough: his Toby Belch in Randall Birley’s Twelfth Night had been nominated for a David Garrick Award in the category of Best Character Actor in a Comic Performance in a Fringe Production (by no means the most obscure category in the long list of awards).
“She was so desperate to come,” Charley Baines confided to no one in particular since everyone on the edge of the Trumpet foyer was desperate to move on, either wanting to get out of the limelight or more likely to get into it. Certainly nobody had time to worry about Hattie Vickers. You could not exactly call the Garrick Awards ceremony at the Trumpet Cinema A Hit, since it was for one night only once a year, but it was certainly A Happening.
Up to this point nobody had missed Hattie throughout the whole of Sunday. She was not that kind of person. Arrangements were pretty casual for the inhabitants of the large, shabby house in Earl’s Court where she lived, even on weekdays. Not everyone was in work and those that had work did not necessarily work regular hours. After all, Hattie’s own hours, including the nights when she stayed late to lock up the theatre, were irregular enough. Hattie was friendly with a couple of middle-aged actors who came and went; one of them was currently working in a theatre in Wales and the other was thought to be in Edinburgh.
As for Sunday, that was when the whole house was sometimes completely silent, as though all the lodgers were under some kind of dusty spell. Hattie regarded Sunday as a day she had to herself. Her adoptive parents—her mother, whom she had loved, and her father, whom she had both loved and loathed—were both dead. The small cousinage into which she had been introduced by her adoption had by degrees politely distanced themselves from Hattie after her parents’ death. In any case, Hattie felt no particular need to impose herself on their Sunday lunches, at best in the country near Guildford, at worst on the outskirts of Woking.
Hattie had always told herself, “the theatre is my life.” (She had not foreseen that it was also to be her death.) The friends she had chosen to keep up with after university were entirely those who shared this passion. One of these was Charley Baines. Charley felt a genuine affection for Hattie which included playing the role, in so far as she would let him, of brotherly protector. It helped that Charley did not particularly fancy Hattie, and she certainly did not fancy him. Hattie, as Charley had kindly told her on more than one occasion, was a star-fucker; Hattie herself would have preferred to say that she had a capacity for hero-worship. In other words, Randall Birley was by no means the first hero in her particular world to receive the gift of Hattie’s devotion. He was, however, Charley thought, the one who presented the most danger to Hattie. He simply did not trust Randall where the vulnerable were concerned. He was a user—he would certainly use Hattie if it suited him.
Although it was getting late, one or two major stars were still arriving at the Trumpet, a progress indicated by the flash bulbs of the paparazzi. Was that or was it not Joan Collins? A little bunch of protesters, all women, all holding placards, took a chance that it was Joan Collins. They started their chant again, the chant with which they had been periodically enlivening the proceedings. The words that Charley could hear most clearly were, “Garrick Pigs! Garrick Pigs!” So far as Charley Baines was concerned, the organisers of the David Garrick Awards would certainly turn out to be pigs if his bête noir Su Waggoner, also on the short-list in his own category, won a Garrick for her atrocious Mistress Touchstone in the all-woman As You Like It. Otherwise he could not quite see the connection.
“Where on earth is Hattie? She’s generally so reliable.” The crowd shifted and Charley found himself standing beside Millie Swain, who was also waiting for someone. Like Charley, Millie had been nominated for a Garrick Award (as had Randall Birley, but he, unlike his colleagues, had been nominated in no fewer than seven categories, including his role as a director and his appearances on television in the latest remakes of Rebecca and Wuthering Heights).
Millie Swain looked magnificent, more Cleopatra than Viola, with her glossy hair cascading down in snake-like ringlets worthy of the Egyptian queen. She was wearing an extremely short white beaded dress in twenties style, suspended—becomingly low over the bosom—by thin silver straps. In spite of the cold spring, Millie Swain had no wrap. Charley Baines realised that he had never before seen Millie in such a revealing dress, showing not only her décolletage but her legs. Everyone knew that Millie Swain had wonderful long legs in trousers or tights; she now made it clear to the world that she had wonderful shapely legs and ankles in pale stockings and satin shoes.
Charley Baines admired Millie’s talent enormously. “I hope she wins and he doesn’t,” was roughly his point of view about the Garrick Awards, Randall Birley and Millie Swain. “But I bet it’ll be exactly the other way round. He’ll win everything, including an award for Twelfth Night, and she’ll miss out.”
Talented as Millie might be, Charley had never before thought of her as sexy. There was something daunting about her, he found. It could be a question of her height (Charley himself being short and stocky, not to say short and tubby), but Charley thought that was not the point since he much enjoyed wrapping himself around willowy beauties in so far as they permitted it. No, there was an odd air of austerity about Millie Swain which had put Charley off. Tonight was different: she looked adventurous, appealing.
“Have you seen Hattie?”
“Have you seen Randall?” Millie countered. Her large heavy-lidded eyes, unusually adorned with shimmering eyeshadow and eyeliner, roved over the crowds. Charley stared at her appreciatively. Millie Swain caught the direction of his gaze and grinned.
“You like it? I borrowed it. A leftover from some ghastly parody of a Coward production. As for the make-up”—she mentioned the name of a celebrated make-up artist—“we did that ghastly television series about Malta together, friends for life.”
The David Garrick Awards were sponsored by the Sunday Opinion; you could not be in much doubt of that if you gazed up at the huge banners which decorated the auditorium of the Trumpet. On the other hand, for Cy Fredericks, whose company, Megalith, was televising the Awards, giving the Sunday Op due credit for its sponsorship came low on his list of priorities.
“Lose the banners!” he cried imperiously to a young woman passing, whom he imagined by some flight of fancy was a member of the Megalith staff. She was in fact that Su Waggoner whose success in the category of Best Comic Character Actor was dreaded by Charley Baines. Despite being a modern young woman, Su Waggoner gave Cy Fredericks an extremely old-fashioned look, in which astonishment and indignation were mixed in roughly equal parts.
“Of course we’ve absolutely no intention of giving them the oxygen of publicity, as it’s now known.” Guthrie Carlyle, the Megalith producer responsible for the programme, moved smoothly to his chairman’s elbow.
Cy Fredericks gazed at him respectfully. He was prepared to deal with the Sunday Op’s claims in the most Machiavellian manner, which would leave Megalith triumphant but deny Mack McGee the opportunity for a legitimate grievance. But even Cy had not contemplated denying the Op any publicity whatsoever. He felt a new admiration for Guthrie Carlyle, whom he had always privately held to be something of a liberal wimp.
“This whole thing about the Garrick is more than usually ridiculous,” went on Guthrie. Immediately Cy Fredericks’s expression changed from that of new-found respect to one of deep habitual unease. His membership in the Garrick Club was of long standing but it continued to be something that he treasured—which was not always true where Cy was concerned, the oxygen of novelty being his particular fix. Every now and then he had an anxiety dream about finding himself in the Garrick Club dressed only in one half of his pyjamas, not the sort of dream that he would ever have about other places allegedly more crucial to him, say the boardroom of Megalith. Cy Fredericks did not like the conjunction of the words “Garrick” and “ridiculous.” Who or what was ridiculous? Since it could hardly be the club (that was unthinkable) it must inevitably be him, Cy Fredericks …
It took Guthrie Carlyle some time to explain that he was referring to the protesters’ placards rather than the banners of the Sunday Op. Nor could Guthrie altogether blame his chairman for not being able to grasp the point at issue. The protesters were demonstrating about the failure of the Garrick, an all-male club having absolutely no connection with the ceremony, to admit women members as a result of a recent vote. The coincidental use of the name of the great actor by the organisers of the Awards, had, in the protesters’ opinion, given them their chance.
“It’s a photo-opportunity, that’s what,” said one of the protesters cheerfully to Guthrie as he entered. Guthrie knew her: Cynnie, a pretty red-headed young woman who worked for another TV company. Beside her stood Margaret Rose, that marvellously beautiful black woman who had worked at Megalith for Jemima Shore; Guthrie nourished an unrequited passion for her.
“Isn’t that what Award ceremonies are all about?” shouted Cynnie. “Seeing and being seen.”
“It seems not quite fair to the David Garrick Awards, which are totally separate—”
“Since when were prizes fair? We’re just part of the general unfairness, we’re drawing attention to it, that’s all.” Cynnie looked even more cheerful as she threw in a special “Garrick Pigs!” more or less in Guthrie’s face.
“Garrick Pigs!” drawled Margaret Rose. Guthrie looked yearningly in her direction. Unlike Groucho Marx, he wished to join any club of which she was a member, even if it were as alien to his needs as the Garrick.
Outside, Charley Baines had decided that something must have happened to Hattie Vickers (there were still some hours left before he would discover just how right he was: the Irving Theatre, locked after the second Saturday performance, normally remained unvisited until the cleaners arrived early on the Monday morning). But before he could move inside, the rush and glitter of the photographers intensified into an exploding galaxy of light and sound. Millie Swain, still beside him, looked stunned and disbelieving. Charley Baines witnessed the phenomenon of her new radiance being extinguished as if some plug had been pulled. A moment later she had vanished into the auditorium.
Framed in the halo of lights—including Megalith’s television lights—stood a tiny figure in a black felt hat and a man’s check suit much too big for it. Who on earth? Some Charlie Chaplin lookalike? Charley looked again. The figure revealed itself as female, and the features under the hat resolved themselves into that combination of features so beloved of the camera—the high slavic cheek bones, small neat nose, pouting mouth and huge slightly protuberant eyes which photographed flat. In short, this was the famous Hollywood star, Helen Troy. Her escort, however, Charley had no difficulty in recognising: for he was Randall Birley.
It was Jemima Shore, not Charley Baines, who was the unwilling witness to the subsequent colloquy between Randall Birley and Millie Swain. Like Helen Troy, but with a good deal less ballyhoo, Jemima was expected to present a Garrick Award. Cy Fredericks had taken a personal interest in this aspect of the Awards, although it was not, strictly speaking, any part of Megalith’s remit to do so. Such arrangements were theoretically handled by the organisers; Megalith’s responsibility was simply to televise what took place. But Cy Fredericks had announced that Jemima would present an award, and she had found herself seated close to the various short-listed actors.
It was true that this year there was an additional responsibility for Megalith. Parts of the ceremony—the actual presentations—were to be shown live, after recorded scenes of the arriving celebrities, and a panel of luminaries—also live—discussing the general theme, “What Price Prizes?”.
The live ceremony meant, for example, that the Carter-Fox family, all three of them, were able to settle in front of the television on Sunday night, to watch, as Olga told Elfi, “your aunt Millie win one of her lovely prizes.”
Elfrida Carter-Fox was a child who fully understood the concept of awards. Some basic instinct enabled her to shine at precisely those activities most likely to be rewarded publicly with prizes. “Will it be a silver cup like I won with my running? Or a book of fairy tales like I got for my Progress? Or—”
Harry Carter-Fox had his eyes closed with exhaustion, although he was not asleep: he found it increasingly difficult to sleep even during the short hours he was able to spend in bed. His depression about the possible outcome of the election in his constituency had not lifted. The Sunday polls might be showing a small shift to the Tories nationwide but it was not reflected in the soundings taken by his workers in Bedford Park. Harry Carter-Fox knew he was being squeezed between the excellent centrist Liberal-Labour candidate—an Asian lawyer who had been to Harrow—and a rogue Tory Independent so far to the right that he would make Archie Smyth’s views seem positively moderate.
Harry was meditating on his mistakes: “Should I have made that fighting speech about pensions at the party conference?” he wondered. “Olga was worried at the time.” For a moment he had a gratifying image of the Prime Minister calling him “the conscience of the party” as he congratulated him at the end of it. But did the conscience of the party necessarily get re-elected? Certainly HG had skipped away from his side pretty swiftly after that, before a single camera had a chance to record them together.
Elfi’s piping voice caught his attention, and Harry frowned. He wanted to say to Olga above Elfi’s head (in French) that this concentration on prizes was surely unwise, but unfortunately he could not remember the French word for prizes. Furthermore, he had a gloomy feeling that his daughter would already know it, since at the age of seven she had already won two of them for French.
“You would never think that all television used to be live!” groaned Guthrie Carlyle to Jemima. They were old friends from Megalith days. “I don’t trust my panel one inch. The live camera is bound to bring out the worst in them.”
“Who have you got? Melvyn? Germaine? David Mellor? That sort of person?”
“For God’s sake, Jemima, we’re talking elections here. No one who has ever expressed even the teensiest weensiest opinion of any sort is allowed even to peep round the door of this programme. Given that Germaine has expressed more or less every opinion, it’s terribly unfair, and of course Mellor and David Melvyn, whoops, correction, are out of the question. I can’t even get Jamie Grand as chairman—and he’ll chair anything that moves—because he’s already chairing the panel of the Garrick judges, given that he’s moonlighting these days as dramatic critic for the Sunday Opinion. I suppose, Jemima, that you—” “I am a very political person,” said Jemima firmly. She had so far done nothing for the Labour Party during the election, but disliked having to admit it.
It was due to the election that the Garrick Awards ceremony was being shown more or less live on Sunday night; normally an edited version would have been put out on the Monday. The remaining evenings before the election were occupied by a series of lavish political commercials in which it could be said that the various parties presented themselves with awards.
Where Randall Birley and Millie Swain were concerned, Jemima was still at this point unaware that they had not arrived together. But she was transfixed by Randall’s voice. He did not bother to moderate it. “Betsy, yes Betsy Wright. My agent, just to remind you. Have you any objection if I have supper with my agent from time to time?”
Millie on the other hand was trying to whisper, except that emotion made her voice difficult to control and thus audible. “But you were so late! I was there for ages before I just pushed off. Why did you give me your key if you don’t expect me to turn up? I think I’ll give it back to you, by the way, then if you want to stay out half the night with someone else—including your agent of course—you won’t have any problems, will you?”
Jemima, uneasily aware that Randall must be lying if he had told Millie that he had spent his evening with his agent, wished that she had not overheard this conversation. In an attempt to stop it, she turned around and smiled as charmingly as possible at Millie. Fortunately the angle of her head enabled her to ignore Randall. Jemima was on the point of making some anodyne remark about hoping Millie would win (perfectly sincere: like Charley Baines, Jemima really did hope that Millie would win) when the lights dimmed. Cy Fredericks came on to the stage.
Much later there would be those who described Cy Fredericks’s speech as deliberately provocative. Mack McGee, as publisher of the Sunday Opinion, would have been far more suitable, expert as he was on long home-spun speeches which left everyone secretly grateful they had not had an Aberdeen upbringing. No, Cy was a disaster. After all, someone had to be responsible for what happened next: a noisy disruption of the ceremony by the “Garrick” protesters. Not cheerful Cynnie and glamorous Margaret Rose but others in the media world who had genuine invitations to the occasion, discreetly distributed round the auditorium. Even Jemima, Cy’s devoted friend in spite of everything (which encompassed a good deal) wondered why he had chosen this particular function to make a courageous stand. Generally speaking, courageous stands were no part of Cy’s pattern of behaviour. However this particular controversy had evidently touched a nerve.
“Proud to associate myself with the manly name of Garrick,” he began. The words aroused a torrent of cries, “Garrick Pigs! Garrick Pigs!” from all corners of the auditorium and his next remarks were drowned.
Of course there were also those who said that Cy was innocent of provocation since he had not for one moment understood the issue at stake. The kind of woman Cy Fredericks so passionately admired—Lady Manfred, for example, the elegant chairman of the Arts Council—had no wish to belong to any club since they were already ruling the Establishment effortlessly.
As for the unfortunate choice of the word “manly,” Jemima for one was quite prepared to believe that it was a coincidence. She had noticed before how Cy homed in on words he associated with Britain’s chivalrous past. This was especially true when he was making speeches; “Arthurian” had been a previous favourite. It was a pity, in a way, that it had been superseded. “The Arthurian name of Garrick” might have led more to puzzlement than protest.
Order was not restored for some time. It was certainly not restored before poor Jamie Grand had waded through his long chairman’s speech, full of careful allusions to winners and losers in dramatic literature. The babble of protest and counter-protest made it difficult to follow, even supposing it had been easy to follow in the first place.
“Humour and loss: let Beckett lead us by the hand,” Jemima heard him say during a temporary lull. However, viewers at home, in contrast to those at the Trumpet, had the full text delivered to them. This was because Guthrie’s cameras, resolutely denying the oxygen of publicity to the anti-Garrick protesters, had perforce to close in on Jamie Grand with no possibility of cutaways.
“What on earth’s happening to that fucking panel? This is their chance to pull their weight,” Guthrie Carlyle exploded, driven beyond endurance by Jamie Grand’s lecture and definitely not prepared to let Beckett lead him by the hand. For one ghastly moment Guthrie, who tried not to swear, feared he was close to a live mike. But he was spared that particular trauma.
At home, Elfi Carter-Fox, who believed in airing her knowledge where possible when watching TV, was busy relating the sad story of Thomas à Becket to her parents. “You see, you have to be very careful about wishing bad things to people, in case bad people hear you, like four bad knights—” But her father had at last been granted the gift of sleep by Jamie Grand’s lecture and Olga was too preoccupied with her own agonised, unvoiceable thoughts to listen to either Jamie Grand or her daughter.
At the Trumpet it turned out that Guthrie’s so-called anodyne panel was also nothing but trouble. Really, it would have been far, far better to have the professionals, however allegedly political—Germaine, Melvyn, David Mellor and company. A glass box had been built within the Trumpet auditorium, so the panel could be seen (but not heard) by those in the audience, as they made their illuminating comments on the awards. The idea was that these comments would be cut, at relevant moments, into the programme. In the event, the audience at the Trumpet found themselves treated to a fascinating dumbshow which made it clear the panel itself contained at least one anti-Garrick protester. When the first (male) fist was raised and the first hank of hair (also male) was demonstrably pulled, Guthrie thought it wise to plunge the whole panel into darkness so that the Trumpet audience should not watch further events.
This, as it turned out, was an unwise decision. For at that very moment, for some reason no one ever discovered, the panel—now shrouded in blackness—found itself live on television. Among the confused sounds, “You bitch!” was the first audible cry and things went downhill from there.
“Mummy, Daddy, the television’s broken,” said Elfi Carter-Fox. But she did not regain her parents’ attention until she asked brightly, “What does ‘sod off’ mean? I know what a sod is, we have sods in our garden—”
Jemima Shore began to think that she would have to present her own award—for the Best Actress in a TV Serial in Period Costume—amid a hail of barracking. For the individual protesters had staggered their interventions to prolong them as much as possible. This meant that the chucking-out process was also prolonged.
John Barrymoor got up to receive the prestigious Doctor Johnson Independent Voice Award, for the third time in a row. His awesome presence, that shock of hair which still trailed wisps of glory of its former fiery red, and his undimmed blue eyes bent fiercely upon the audience, had the effect of calming everybody. It was either that, or the last protester had been evicted. Barrymoor’s speech was comparatively short (for him). To Jemima, it bore a particular significance. He spoke of corruption, the need to root it out, to expose scandals and treacheries “however ancient.” He concluded menacingly, “There is no statute of limitations where evil in high places is concerned,” and stalked from the platform amid a tempest of applause.
This time it was Elfi, of the Carter-Fox family, who had fallen asleep. Her long eyelashes were fanned out on her petal-pink cheeks. Olga’s heart churned with love for her daughter, whose prattling voice was for once silent. Olga pulled Elfi to her; over the child’s head, her eyes met those of Harry.
“What is that dreadful communist snooper hinting at? I don’t like it, Olga, I don’t like it one bit,” Harry said. “I wish I could have a cigarette. No, don’t worry, I’m not, repeat not, going to slip. It’s socially irresponsible. What an example to Elfi!”
“Elfis asleep. You know, Harry, I think maybe you should have a cigarette. Listen to what I have to tell you.”
Olga Carter-Fox had been telephoned personally by Burgo Smyth that afternoon while Harry was in the park with Elfi. It was a call whose message she had not yet fully digested. She had tried in vain to reach Millie to pass on the horrifying news about the discovery in their childhood home, but her telephone remained obstinately on answer. Olga had therefore postponed telling her husband, but she did not think she should do so any longer. Even if John Barrymoor was so far referring only to her mother’s revelations before her death, the media explosion on the subject of Franklyn Faber must come soon.
Olga switched off the television. Why on earth had she thought she wanted to watch her sister, with her successful career and her wonderful lover, receive a prize?
“Darling,” she said, “Burgo Smyth rang me up this afternoon—” Painfully, Olga noticed on her husband’s face that look of hope with which a junior politician wontedly greets the news that a senior minister has been trying to make contact. Swiftly, Olga Carter-Fox put an end to those expectations.
As it happened, by switching off the television at that juncture, Olga did not miss watching Millie get her prize. For Millie Swain did not receive an award for her performance as Viola. Exactly as Charley Baines had predicted, it was Randall Birley who scooped the awards from Twelfth Night both as director and actor. Clearly, the judges had found Best Actress to be one prize too many. For that matter, Charley Baines did not win either, but he consoled himself that Su Waggoner had also been pipped at the post by an ageing raffish actor named Charles Paris playing Davies in The Caretaker (with words, many but not all of which were supplied by the author).
For Jemima Shore, however, the drama of the evening was not over. It was Helen Troy herself, on stage growing from a small tramp to a delicious star, who presented Randall Birley with his Best Actor Award. As Helen Troy began to speak—“My friend, my very dear new friend”—there was a rustle behind Jemima. For a moment she feared that it was yet another demonstrator. But the protest, if it was a protest, was of another sort. The noise was caused by Millie Swain pushing her way out of the row, under the cover of the heavy applause for Randall Birley, or was it for Helen Troy? Or for what was perhaps a new combination?
It was quite a while after that the ceremony, at last, at very last, drew to a close. Yes, thought Jemima, you could say with Randall Birley that award ceremonies were boring if you got (or gave) an award and even more boring if you didn’t. She could not blame Millie Swain for exiting, even if it was hardly politic under the curious eyes of the whole theatrical world and television.
Cy Fredericks was bustling past her with Mrs. McGee—a homely but not undignified figure in a tartan skirt and waistcoat—on his arm: “Jem, my gem, come with me, we are all going to the Ivy, you remember.” Cy had not actually mentioned this plan before, but he was obviously in need of company if the party would otherwise consist of the McGees and himself. Jemima was prepared to go along with him for want of anything better to do, when she felt a savage grip on her upper arm.
“No, you are not!” said the voice of Randall Birley in her ear. “You’re my prize. I’m going to take you home.”