‘In Grindlay Street?’
‘That’s the one. I’ll book a table for half past nine. O.K.?’
‘Fine. I must get back upstairs and pretend to be a banana.’
‘Another of Michael Vanderzee’s wonderful ideas?’
‘Yes. The perception through inanimate transference of pure emotion.’
‘Wow.’
Anna grinned again and left. Charles knocked on the office door. If Brian was back, perhaps it would be possible to arrange some rehearsal time at the Masonic Hall.
The Company Manager was wearing another executive suit, this time a beige three-piece. Charles explained his requirements and was not wholly reassured by Brian’s assurance that he’d sort it out and the movement of some coloured strips on the wall-chart. There are certain sorts of efficiency which do not inspire confidence.
The efficiency had obviously been at work on the ‘What the Press says about D.U.D.S.’ board. It was smothered with cuttings about the death of Willy Mariello. The one person to have made a definite profit from the killing was the disgruntled Glaswegian photographer. He seemed to have sold the pictures to every newspaper in the country. Charles felt a frisson of shock at seeing the scene again. ‘You’re not actually going to use those as publicity?’
‘No,’ said Brian regretfully, ‘wouldn’t be quite the thing. Not to display them. Mind you, it is an amazing spread. It’s really fixed the name of D.U.D.S. in people’s minds. Better than any publicity stunt you could devise. I remember last year Cambridge staged something about pretending Elizabeth Taylor was in Edinburgh. They got a girl to dress up as her and so on. Quite a lot of coverage. But nothing like this.’
The note of unashamed satisfaction in Brian’s voice made Charles look at him curiously. Insensitivity of that order would be wasted in the Civil Service; he should try for advertising or television. ‘I’m sure Willy would be glad to think that his life was lost in the cause of full houses for the D.U.D.S.’
‘Yes, it’s an ill wind.’ Brian was impervious to irony.
‘One thing… I was interested to hear that Willy Mariello wasn’t a member of the University.’
‘No.’
‘How did he come to be involved in this then?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose he was a friend of someone.’
‘Who? Do you know?’
‘No. I don’t know any of them very well. I wasn’t in D.U.D.S. I was Chairman of Ducker.’
‘Ducker?’
‘D.U.C.A. Derby University Conservative Association.’
‘Oh.’
‘They only brought me into this because of my administrative ability.’
The men’s dormitory was mercifully empty and Charles managed an undisturbed run of So Much Comic, So Much Blood. He was encouraged to find how much he remembered. The intonation of the poems came back naturally and he began to feel the rhythm of the whole show. A bit more work and it could be quite good.
So he felt confident as he sat opposite Anna in the French restaurant in Grindlay Street. Her appearance contributed to his mood. The ‘quick bath’ back at her flat had included a flattering amount of preparation. Just-pressed pale yellow shirt with a silly design of foxtrotting dancers on it, beautifully cut black velvet trousers. Eyelashes touched with mascara, lip-coloured lipstick, cropped hair flopping with controlled abandon. All very casual, but carefully done.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the show. I’m sorry, as I said, I don’t know anything about Hood.’
‘Not many people do.’
‘Was he Scottish?’
‘No. His father came from Dundee, but Thomas himself only went there a couple of times. Wasn’t very struck with it either. Particularly the cooking. “I sicken with disgust at sight of a singed sheep’s head. I cannot bring myself to endure oatmeal, which I think harsh, dry and insipid. The only time I ever took it with any kind of relish was one day on a trouting party, when I was hungry enough to eat anything.” Sorry, I’ve just been working on it, hence the long trailer.’
‘What do you do in the show-dress up as Hood?’
‘No, it wouldn’t work. I don’t like all that emotive bit-this is what the bloke was really like. It seems to remove the subject from reality rather than making him more real. Like historical novels about Famous People. I’m just an interpreter of Hood’s work; I don’t pretend to be him. Let the poems and lyrics speak for themselves. Certainly in the case of the poems, it would falsify them to read them in character. They were written as public entertainments to be recited and that’s how I treat them.’
‘So it’s more a sort of recital than an acting thing?’
‘I suppose so. It’s mid-way between. And it has the great advantage that I don’t have to learn it all and can actually refer to the book when I want to.’
‘Handy. So you just wear ordinary clothes for it?’
‘A suit, maybe. I’d look daft dressed as Thomas Hood anyway. I haven’t the figure of a stunted Victorian consumptive.’
‘He was another one, was he?’
‘Yes. Hence the So Much Blood of the title. Actually there is some question as to whether it was consumption-T.B. or not T.B. It may have been rheumatic heart disease. But he spat blood, that’s the main thing. It was very difficult to be a literary figure in Victorian times without spitting blood. Healthy writers started at an enormous disadvantage.’
Anna laughed. ‘If he was ill, I think you’re showing great restraint in not acting it out. Most actors leap at the chance of doing hacking coughs and their dramatic dying bit.’
‘So do I. But unfortunately it wouldn’t be right for this show. Oh, I’ve died with the best of them. You should have heard my death rattle as Richard II after Sir Pierce of Exton stabbed me.’
There was a moment’s pause. They were both thinking the same, both seeing Willy Mariello lying on the stage at the Masonic Hall. Anna went pale.
‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘It’s all right. It’s just… so recent.’
‘Yes.’ Charles hesitated. He had decided to investigate Willy’s death, but dinner with Anna was not intended to be part of that investigation; her attraction for him was not primarily as a source of information. On the other hand, here was someone who knew all the people involved, and the conversation had come round to the subject. The detective instinct overcame his baser ones. ‘Did you know Willy well?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say well. I knew him.’
‘I was amazed to discover that he wasn’t at the University. How on earth did he get involved with your lot?’
‘Oh, he… You know he used to play with a band?’
‘Yes. Puce.’
‘That’s right. They came and did a gig at our Student’s Union. I think Willy stayed around a bit. It was just round the period the band broke up. He must have met the drama lot then.’
‘And somebody asked him to do this show?’
‘I suppose so, yes. Because he lived in Edinburgh and was kind of at a loose end. He wrote all the music, you see. I think he wanted to do something different, after the band.’
‘Mary, Queen of Sots sounds pretty different. You don’t know if he made any particular friends at Derby?’
‘No.’ She seemed to remember something. ‘Oh, yes. Sam. Sam Wasserman. He’s the guy who wrote Mary. I think Willy was friendly with him. Probably it was Sam who asked him to do the music.’
‘I don’t think I’ve met Sam.’
‘No. He’s not up here. On holiday in Europe somewhere. He’s American so it has to be Europe rather than any specific country. They seem to think Europe is just one country.’
‘So Sam’s not likely to be up here at all?’
‘I think he’s coming up for the opening of Mary.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Third week. Opens on the 2nd September.’
‘Ah.’ A week after Charles’ engagement finished. No chance of picking Sam Wasserman’s brains. The investigation did not seem to be proceeding very fast. He decided that he would forget it for the rest of the evening. ‘How’s your show going?’
‘Mary’s still all over the place. We spend so much time improvising and so on, we hardly ever get near the actual script.’