Backstabbers - Chapter 6
Fierce Ghosts
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
The story so far: A chance meeting between Stu and Lena results in a passionate clinch, only to be juxtaposed by a menacing midnight meet-up with barmy (in)famous actor Ivan Stroud, who mocks Stu and his writing abilities, telling him to get some life experience before committing pen to paper.
Stu attends a drama rehearsal in hope of reigniting the passion with Lena, only to find her boyfriend present: Gary Blenny. After some semi-jealous banter between Stu and Gary, Lena informs Stu that she will ditch Gary: providing Stu can write her a killer role.
Stu attends a performance of Jesus Christ: Superstar, in which Little J is performing. Stu feigns interest in Little J’s acting career whilst pushing for more information on Lena, only for Little J to boast (or exaggerate?) about a previous actorly fling with Lena…
The sun hung low as Stu crossed a crescent-shaped slip road outside the entrance to the Bernard Saucier theatre. A blood-red convertible sped around the slip road, narrowly missing Stu. His furious glare softened when he saw the driver: Lena Darrow. Parked, she stepped from her car like a forties movie star. Stu wished he’d put more effort into his jeans/Genesis T-shirt combo. Even The Prebbles had ditched the welly boots and chunky-knit jumpers for more elegant attire.
At the chrome-plated entrance, dressed in a neon pink suit and a black shirt (which suggested a ninth Showaddywaddian vibe) gatekeeper Big J disputed the legitimacy of Nigel’s ticket to the night’s event. ‘Sorry, Nige. Genuine tickets only. No imitations.’
‘But…’ said Nigel, ‘I bought the ticket six weeks ago… From the Arts Centre over the road.’
‘You’re telling me you bought a fake ticket from the Arts Centre?’ said Big J, revelling in his temporary power. ‘Nige. Don’t make a scene. Off you trot.’
Dejected, Nigel feebly clutched his ticket, beginning the long walk of shame. Big J howled with laughter, pointing at Nigel’s glum composure. ‘Where ya going, Nige? Only kidding!’
Blank-faced Nigel supposed he might as well join in on the joke, whatever it was.
Held in the foyer of the theatre, The Bernies award ceremony was the highlight of the Am-Dram year. Failing a shower of glory and adulation, it was a fantastic opportunity to dress up, get tipsy and have a good bitch about the undeserving winners.
Accepting that his acting career had never hit the heights of his contemporaries, all of whom had gone onto television and film roles, Richard Shepperton settled where his acting career began. A pleasing symmetry, and a safe place to be loved and respected by the local community.
The theatre’s Artistic Director initially saw himself as an inspiration for the youth, who often left for much greater success. Shepperton prided himself on having “created their careers”, yet his psyche bore the scars of a man left behind; left to rot on a failing stage.
When having quaffed too many, Shepperton would let slip that a “ruinous financial sword” hovered over the theatre. His only defence was to declare the theatre as an outlet for the audience to forget about their lives. His included.
At a podium on a small make-shift stage, Shepperton amped up the star shine. ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we’ve all been waiting for! The 1979 Bernies! To commence proceedings, we have the award for Best Playwright. In no particular order:’
Pringle Plater - ‘A Soupçon of my Son’s Soup’
Max Monteith - ‘Plowman’s Lunch’
Sandy Nooks - ‘No Funny Business’
JD Slazenger - J.D. Slazenger’s ‘Kill Me in Vange’
Max sat poised with cold determination. Melody mustered a supportive smile. In the back row, Stu struggled to hide his disparaging grimace at the sight of Gary with his arm draped around Lena. On stage, Shepperton opened a golden envelope. ‘And the winner is… Pringle Plater for A Soupçon of my Son’s Soup!
Max chewed on the unbelievable truth. He lost. He promptly left with red-faced Melody in tow.
Shepperton continued. ‘Sadly Pringle could not be with us this evening, so we shall wish him all the best with his mental recovery and move straight onto the next category: Best actor. The nominees are:’
Hugh Batey as Bob Butler in ‘Any Body for Dinner’
Guy Bryers as Scott Broth in ‘A Soupçon of My Son’s Soup’
John-Paul Perkin as McWhirter in ‘Kill Me in Vange’
Reg McCluskey as Reverend Lionel Phlannel in ‘Any Body for Dinner’
Walter Carrion as Paul Spatchcock in ‘A Soupçon of My Son’s Soup’
Hugh confidently stretched out his legs. Careful not to alert her partner Tony, Paula discreetly glanced at Hugh; smoky eyes lingering with lust. Hugh folded his arms, feigning disinterest.
Shepperton allowed a dramatic pause before announcing the winner. ‘The award goes to… Reg McCluskey for the role of the demonically possessed Reverend Lionel Phlannel in Any Body for Dinner!’ Leathery, wire brush-haired Reg McCluskey collected his award. Hugh’s smile curdled.
Paula pouted a “Sowwwy” sad face. Hugh smiled angelically, extending his middle finger to Paula.
On stage, Reg clutched a small trophy. ‘I’m humbled, humbled. I share this award with my fellow cast members. J Cathro. Yvonne Herpy. Hester Cronshaw. Peter Sistern. Our brilliant director Pat Clater, and the writing of Nutkin Rix. Sadly not nominated but take this as validation, Nutkin.’ Reg retook to his seat, trophy held high to great applause. Hugh hissed at Reg. ‘What about me? I was in that bloody show with you!’ Realising his gaffe, Reg softly patted Hugh on the shoulder.
Shepperton took to the mic. ‘Next up: The award for Best Actress. The nominees are:’
Lena Darrow as Rubella Kendler in ‘Plowman’s Lunch’
Celia Landaker as Pamela Ponting in ‘Plowman’s Lunch’
Kitty Croucher as Bunny Hopper in ‘Bedside Manor’
Reenie Shatswell as Janet Fever in ‘Kill Me in Vange’
Annette Pastille as Lesley Squelch in ‘A Soupçon of My Son’s Soup’
Excitedly groped from both sides by Emily and Gary, Lena batted them away. Celia smiled enigmatically; sat beside her suave-but-blank husband. A few rows back, Ryan Deutsch smirked a sickly grin. Devoid of his Jesus wig, Ryan’s hair was short and black, with a crisp side parting. His shiny, off-colour complexion had a whiff of an alien department store mannequin. He whispered to Little J. ‘Who will win? Will it be the woman whose husband’s land development company is sponsoring the award ceremony? Hmm, I wonder…’
Shepperton read out the winner. ‘And the award goes to… Celia Landaker!’ Ryan shrugged, point proved. Celia collected her award, speaking into the microphone. ‘Great victories have humble beginnings. Thoughts become words. Words become character. Character becomes destiny.’
Once Celia was clear of the stage, Shepperton moved on to the next category. ‘The award for Best Production. There have been some exceptional shows this season. I’ve not seen any of them, but I heard things… The nominations for Best Production.’
‘A Thong Farewell’: A farce in which a vicar accidentally discovers a coffin full of scanty underwear.
‘No Funny Business’: A violent thriller in which a clown must hang up his red nose to manage
his late father’s bank, only to be robbed on his first day on the job.
‘Plowman's Lunch’: An introspective drama; Harold Plowman must contemplate his existence over a pub lunch.
‘Fudging the Numbers’: An abstract drama about a bookkeeper at a fudge factory.
‘Any Body for Dinner’: A murder-mystery farce: The vicar is coming for dinner and Paul Butler has forgotten to defrost a lamb joint: Which family member will Paul murder and serve for tea?
Shepperton opened the envelope, forcing a pleased smile. ‘And the winner is… Plowman’s Lunch! Directed by Celia Landaker.’ Celia took to the stage once again. Ryan’s vitriol flowed from behind Stu and Little J. ‘The Celia Landaker award for excellence in being Celia Landaker. Tonight should win 'best farce' because this is nothing more than a self-congratulatory back-slap.’
On stage, Celia collected her award, blowing kisses to the cheering audience. Checking his watch, Shepperton played up to the audience's tittering. He held aloft the final golden envelope. ‘Our penultimate award. Yes, it’s almost over. Best Director. The nominees are:’
Prunella Sloman - ‘Fudging the Numbers’
Arthur F. Sake - ‘Bedside Manor’
Pinky Hazelbaker - ‘A Thong Farewell’
Terry Twaddle - ‘Kill Me in Vange’
Bob Rothwell - ‘No Funny Business’
Celia Landaker - ‘Plowman’s Lunch’
‘And the final winner of the evening is… Pinky Hazelbaker! For A Thong Farewell!’
Celia Landaker’s indignity resembled a bulldog chewing a wasp. Pinky, an aged embodiment of a saucy seaside Carry-On character, wobbled onto the stage, barely contained in her gown. Pinky snatched her award from Shepperton with the grace of an intoxicated elephant. ‘Er… Uh… Ooooh, that’s a large one! But then all the best parts are, as the actress said to the Bishop!’
Before Pinky could land any more smutty one-liners, Pinky slipped off-stage with a squeaky giggle. ‘Oooh me bum!’
Tired of it all by now, Shepperton brusquely reeled off his next announcement. ‘Now for our final award. The Edith Frippit Award for dedication to the performing arts, presented by Mayor Denny Hazelbaker.’ Mayor Hazelbaker had a low, blurry lacquered hairline and beaten Cro-Magnon features. Haunted eyes suggested he had lived a life packed full of things which could not be unseen. He tapped the mic awkwardly, laboriously unfolding his speech.
‘The award goes to a writer who was the son of an ex-Nun. He began his writing career with I’m Having Nun of It, And Then There Were Nuns, Nun with the Wind, Nun of Your Business, the cricket-themed Nuns with the Runs, and Nunny Nun Nunny. Writing classic lines like “As a smoking nun I face constant disapproval but I have no intention of giving up my habit.” He moved into less Nun-related works as a story advisor on episodic television such as Catweazle, and… Oh… such as Catweazle. That’s it. The award goes to Lawrence Wintercoat.’
A tall man in his late sixties dressed as a John Le Carre spy took to the stage in his own time. Collecting the tacky award, his deathly glare scanned the enamoured faces.
‘I’m not one for speeches,’ said Wintercoat, before leaving the stage to a dribble of uncertain applause.
Mayor Hazelbaker wrangled the audience’s attention by thumping the mic and whistling at an ear-piercing pitch. ‘Listen, er, don’t forget, everyone… This weekend is the grand unveiling of the new, Hollywood-style sign. Just by the exit slip road at junction 19. That’s this weekend. Come along, show support, it cost a fortune.’
The Mayor fumbled the mic, giving up in frustration. Shepperton took the mic from him, unable to hide his withering contempt for the man. ‘Mayor Hazelbaker… Fantastic. Well, that’s it for another year… We always need volunteers at The Bernard Saucier Theatre! We are nothing without the support of our dedicated community! You are the lifeblood…’ Shepperton’s words fell on oblivious ears as the audience filed downstairs into the bar. ‘Oh, what’s the bloody point?’
Within an hour, Shepperton was legless. Holding court behind a wall of bodies, his husky cackle was audible over the chatter, occasionally dipping into shrill hilarity.
At the far end of the bar, Stu guzzled another lonely pint. Stood sentry behind the bar with his unnerving stare, Fred Scrim glowered at Stu. At least somebody sees me, Stu mused. But why him?
Stu watched Big J showboating with Emily and Lena. What did she see in him? Other than his strong chin, toned physique, laddish David Essex charm, and dense mane of curls. Stu’s jealous fixation was brought to an abrupt end by raised voices across the bar.
Stu looked around to see Bedford Baker prodding Gary in the chest. ‘Hands to yourself, son. Elke is not some dolly bird for you to chat up.’
‘Temper temper. You should see a doctor,’ grinned Gary, ten sheets to the wind. Stu stepped in, apologising for whatever Gary had done to upset Bedford.
‘A word of professional medical advice. Stay away from intoxicants. You end up fat, bloated and dying on the crapper,’ said Bedford, draping his arm around Elke as Stu hauled Gary upstairs to the foyer.
‘Come on. I think everyone’s heard enough of ‘The World According to Gary’.
‘Such a good boy. Always doing the right thing. Give yourself a Blue Peter badge,’ slurred Gary.
Disposing of Gary through a side door and into a minicab, Stu exhaled with relief.
The peace and stillness of the night turned on its head by a heart-stopping, fierce kiss. Stu pulled back to see Lena looking back.
They stared for an eternal five seconds before Lena broke away, leaving Stu dumbstruck. In the time it took to weigh up whether Lena liked him or was wantonly drunk, Lena was struggling to unlock her nearby car.
Stu approached her with many unanswered questions, but all Lena had to say was ‘I’m not drunk.’ Stu’s confused, tilted face was left with a trail of exhaust fumes, as Lena fled the scene at speed.
Early Saturday morning. August heat. Hairy Jim loaded a battered VW Camper van with sleeping bags, beer and an inflatable sheep. Alan stood arms-folded and stony-faced. ‘Nobody says no to Led Zeppelin. First time in four years they've played in this country.’
‘They'll play another gig,’ said Stu.
‘And you could volunteer at the theatre any day of the week. I know what this is about. It was only a snog on a staircase. Don’t park your slippers under the coffee table just yet.’ Alan closed the camper van hatch, resting his head to hide his hurt. A homemade print on the back of his t-shirt read ‘Led bloody Zeppellin, that's who’.
Stu offered friendly advice as an olive branch. ‘Alan… you spelt ‘Zeppelin’ wrong.’
Alan hurled an empty beer can at Stu, bringing that matter to a close.
The old was making way for the new, which filled Stu with enough bravado to quit his job as the oldest paperboy in Falking Hill. For such a momentous occasion, there was no fanfare.
The other twelve-year-old boys didn’t doff their caps as their elder moved on. Stu informed Mr Westacott he wanted to quit. With a surly tightening of his mouth, Mr Westacott slid a final pay packet across the counter. Stu cycled his old paper around one last time, passing by Harriet’s house as the milkman made a delivery of fresh orange juice. Classy. Recalling the longing, Stu let go with a staged smile of whimsy. At the last stop - Rumbelow’s house - The land was ring-fenced with corrugated iron, either to keep vandals out or to hide the shame of an uncaring society.
Mid-morning at The Bernard Saucier theatre. Stu cautiously trod the mind-bending carpet, searching for signs of life. He followed the sound of hoovering. Before Stu could call out, Fred Scrim sensed Stu’s presence. Locked in Fred’s soul-dicing dead stare, Stu pretended a fascination with the golden masks hung on the wall near the box office. Comedy and Tragedy.
The box office door sprung open. Out stepped two faces which strikingly resembled the masks.
Rotund and exuberantly fruity, Wesley Siner wore a bright knitted jumper and garish spectacles. Baby-faced with a giggly demeanour that pitched him between the age of eighteen and late thirties. His cohort was Robert ‘Daz’ Dazzler, a thin, spiky man in his twenties. Daz didn’t so much as chain-smoke cigarettes as sourly seethe them. When amused, he revealed tombstone-like teeth.
The pair joked, in mid-conversation. ‘… Said the actress to the bishop! What would Liza say?’
‘Life is a cabaret, old chum!’
The two men halted, eyeballing Stu. Wesley beamed. Daz bored a hole into Stu’s soul.
‘Uh... I’m looking for work,’ said Stu.
Wesley bowed theatrically. ‘Verily, we are home to waifs, strays and the dispossessed. Tell me your dreams.’ Stu blinked, not understanding a word. Wesley clarified. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘I… I want to write.’
Daz hissed smoke, looking Stu up and down. ‘Should’ve known, judging by the stiffness of pleat.’
Stu stared down at his ironed trousers, then wounded at Daz, who huffed in annoyance.
‘Oh... bloody hang on,’ snapped Daz, reaching through the box office window for the telephone, dialling. His demeanour lightened when the recipient answered his call. ‘Richard! I’ve a young urchin here in the foyer seeking fame and fortune. Righty-o.’
Daz hung up, enthusiasm instantly vanishing. ‘King Richard will see you in his den.’
Part scrapbook archive, part nostalgic shrine to youthful glory days, Shepperton’s den was a musky room filled with books, worn sofas and a fire hazard of cushions.
Thick sun rays cut through the dusty air. Shepperton lounged, puffing elegantly on a cigarette; his strong chin and angular cheekbones were perfected with a scoop of dashing hair.
Or as Stu observed, a mix of Jason King and Captain Hook. Anything from fifties-to-late sixties, Shepperton had a wistful charm, full of yearning. Stu struggled to get comfy, sinking in the marshmallowy surroundings; a stuffed dog sat beside him.
‘Ah, those long golden summers, punting up the Falking River with Montmorency, Sir Bernard and…’ Shepperton broke from his reminiscing, troubled by a thought. He flapped it away. ‘The world needs more writers. What makes you different from the rest?’
Stu gazed to heaven, smiling it out. His voice rose about ten octaves in a bid to appear breezy.
‘I dunno… I dunno…’
‘If you don’t, then how do I know? One cannot go through life somnambulant. How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone.’
‘I’ve been speaking with Ivan Stroud. Have you heard of him?’
The mood in the room clouded over.
‘Merry Hell in pancake make-up. Never speak his name in my presence,’ snarled Shepperton.
Like a puppy that had been clipped around the ear, Stu shifted awkwardly. Shepperton simmered, gazing into the distance as if staring down the hallways of time.
‘He who shall not be named once played in Summer stock. Back when we were mere slips, learning the ropes from Sir Bernard. Ivan Stroud may play the subversive but deep down he lusts for my stage.’
Shepperton paused, reeling in his loose words. He changed tact, waving a finger at a wall of hanging masks.
‘The Wise Old Man. The Smiling Fool. Tragedy. Comedy. We all wear masks. We take a bow, the masks come off. Then we stand before each other, naked. Here you will discover the real you by rummaging elbow-deep in strange delectations. Only then will you become a writer.’
Shepperton led Stu through porridge-coloured backstage corridors, passing comment on framed photos of past productions. Shepperton rarely finished his point, segueing from conversation into poetic outbursts, airing his melancholy soul as if beating a gritty doormat. Stu didn’t understand what lurked behind these theatrical declarations - he wasn’t even sure if Shepperton was talking to him or the spirits, as the memories clanged, bringing out the dead.
‘… Wounds my heart with a monotonous languor! All suffocating and pale when the hour strikes. I remember the old days. And weep.’ Stu thought it was best to remain silent. Wait for the theatrical emoting to blow over.
‘We are a repertory theatre with a resident company, performing a different play every week,’ said Shepperton. ‘Musical, a revival, one of the classics. Nothing untested, should we lose our core audience. The money men would love to swap this place for a block of flats. And if it’s not them, it’s delusions of grandeur from the Falking Hill Drama Guild wanting to slay the king and seize his stage. We humour them with agreeable sounds…’
Shepperton trailed off, tutting his admiration at a blown-up photo of a hulking actor emphatically posing with a skull in his hand.
‘Sir Bernard Saucier (pronounced ‘Swah-see-ay’). Former Sergeant Major and drag queen. You would never know by this photograph, but the man had been stung by a bee. He ballooned during the show. When the final curtain dropped, so did he. Dead. That’s professionalism.’
Stu attempted to relate. ‘We studied Shakespeare in our final year. Macbeth.’
Thrown against the wall, Stu reeled at Shepperton’s crooked finger. ‘Do not say another word. Run around the outside of the building three times. Clockwise from the main entrance. Well, don’t stand there, boy! Run!’
Doubled over breathless, having finished his last lap of the theatre exterior, Stu winced. He was red-faced and sweating as Shepperton concluded his induction. ‘There are rules. Rules to which we in the theatrical arts are beholden.’
The Bernard Saucier Theatre Laws:
1. NEVER MENTION THE ‘M’ PLAY. EVER.
2. Always wish someone to break a leg. Forget this and somebody will break a leg.
3. Always bid good morning to ‘Old Bosie’ – the ghost of Sir Bernard Saucier. He will seek vengeance at the faintest hint of a perceived slight.
4. Green costumes are bad luck.
5. Green costumes with gold lining are good luck.
6. Always leave the ghost light on. It keeps the ghosts away.
7. Don’t fall out of the flies. You’ll die.
Shepperton led Stu to the stage door, propped open to let in the warm summer air and release the bitter stench of cigarettes. Dick Pitkin perched on a stool at his barn-doored office, smoking. A weather-beaten man in his sixties with a thinning comb-over and rolled-up brown shirt sleeves, revealing faded anchor tattoos from his naval service.
‘Dick’s our very own Popeye,’ said Shepperton. ‘Killed a leopard with his bare hands. Or was it a Shark?’ Dick glowered up from his newspaper. ‘Both. Not at the same time.’
Shepperton instructed Dick to conclude the tour. Folding his paper, Dick extinguished his rolly.
‘Come on then, John.’
Dick flicked switches, lighting up the empty stage. Stu stepped from the wings onto the apron, taking in daunting rows of empty seats before him. A shiver charged up his spine. Dick pointed to a box room at the back of the auditorium. The lighting box. The musician’s pit was below them.
‘Don’t fall in. Be surprised how many walk backwards into there,’ advised Dick.
In the wings, Dick climbed a ladder fixed to bare brick. Stu reluctantly followed. Heights became a new entry in his top 20 fears. On a wooden catwalk high above the stage, Stu’s stomach spiralled.
Dick pointed to a fire exit. ‘Door to the roof. No perving through the changing room skylights. Actors might be exhibitionists, but keep the drama on stage.’
Dick pointed out the lighting rig, suspended high above the stage. The fly system: A bank of ropes, blocks and counter-weights. Dick released a handle, pulling on a rope to hoist a backdrop high above the stage. ‘Whatever you do,’ said Dick, ‘don’t overload the cradle like the last plonker who volunteered: Goodbye fingertips, hello third-degree burns.’
Out on the pavement, the contrast between the dark theatre and the blinding summer sun forced Stu to shield his eyes. Dick led him across a quiet backroad to a nondescript warehouse. Mass of keys jangling at his hip, Dick opened up the costume and set-storage department. A treasure trove of deconstructed fantasy. Dick handed Stu the key, ordering him to lock up when finished.
Alone on a mezzanine floor, Stu overlooked a large area rammed with castle walls. Fairy-tale cottages. Forests. The HMS Pinafore. Long rows of costumes filled the mezzanine. Some were displayed on mannequins. Stu gave in to curiosity, trying on a musketeer’s hat.
Within minutes, Stu was in full costume. He posed bravely at a long mirror on the wall.
Stu’s giddy buzz was shaken as he spied a red-cloaked figure standing guard at the far end of the walkway.
The slam of the warehouse door startled Stu. He hastily removed the costume, tip-toeing down to the bay. Footsteps clanked somewhere on the mezzanine. Through the rows of costumes, movement.
Heart pounding, Stu glimpsed a swish of a red cloak.
Footsteps closed in, prompting Stu to get the hell out of there fast.
The pathway to the exit was blocked by an assortment of set dressings and various theatrical backdrops. Stu squeezed through a narrow gap between two large flats, shuffling along in a desperate bid to escape.
Something pushed against the flats, squashing Stu inside like a bug in a fly trap. With his arms at awkward angles and struggling to breathe, Stu shimmied along, inch by inch; his feet kicking against anything that would give some traction.
His arms and legs thrashed with increasing intensity as if he could feel the presence of death closing in on him. Stu finally clambered out of the flats, tumbling and swirling before careering out of the warehouse door and onto the hot pavement; firmly kicking the door shut.
Back inside the theatre, the warehouse key landed firmly on the ledge of Dick’s barn door. In his office, Dick remained engrossed in his newspaper. A close excited voice did little to help Stu’s heart rate.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’ glowed Wesley, placing a chubby hand on Stu’s forehead. ‘Ooh, you’re all sweaty...’ Wesley paused, joining the dots. ‘Ah. The young man has met Bosie. Our resident supernatural entity. The ghost of Sir Bernard. Unusual that you saw him so soon. He must like you.’
Daz lit up another cigarette. ‘No chance. This boy is as straight as the pleat in his jeans.’
The two comrades sauntered on, tittering at Stu’s misfortune. Dick glared over the top of his paper at Daz; no love was lost between them. ‘This place was founded on superstitious claptrap. Although the one about locking the dressing room door is true. Unless you wanna be goosed.’
That evening, Stu fretted in front of the television as his Mum ironed. Without taking his eyes off the television, Stu attempted to play it easy-going, yet he spoke with a quiver in his voice.
‘Mum… Could you not… iron a crease into my jeans?’
Jemima frowned. ‘Why ever not? You’re not going out all creased.’
Stu meekly persisted. ‘Yeah, but… can you just not do it.’
Offence taken at her son’s request, Stu’s Mum didn’t speak another word to him that evening.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022