Backstabbers - Chapter 7
A Man of Repute
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
The story so far: Aspiring playwright Stu attends an award ceremony - The Bernies - at the Sir Bernard Saucier Theatre. The highlight of the am-dram calendar, all of the various drama groups, actors and directors compete for the chance to Lord it over their associates for the coming year.
The awards compere, theatre artistic director Richard Shepperton concludes the ceremony by making a plea for volunteers, but his appeal falls on deaf ears as the the winners and losers head for the bar to celebrate/commiserate.
Determined to grow his life experience, Stu passes up on the chance to see Led Zeppelin play (what turns out to be) their final gig with his best pal Alan. Instead, he volunteers at the theatre. Stu meets the joyful/miserable double-act lighting crew of Wes and Daz, the surly ex-army doorman Dick, and the theatrically superstitious AD, Shepperton.
Shepperton schools Stu in theatre lore, and warns him of the theatre spectre, Bosie (the apparent ghost of Sir Bernard Saucier). Stu is sceptical, until he is left alone in the costume warehouse, and something menacing pursues him…
The dreaded brown envelope landed on the doormat. Exam results. All the uninspired boredom had led to this point. “Please. Please…” No amount of pleading would fix this unmitigated disaster. Whatever had been rising up his oesophagus freefell to his guts. He couldn’t understand it. Stu knew he wasn’t good in exams, but he was better than this. There must be some mistake. He repeated this to his parents, who thankfully sided with him, railing at the system.
‘You’re going to complain,’ said Godfrey. ‘Write them a letter and tell them they’ve got it wrong!’
What if it wasn’t a mistake? Confirmation as an utter dimwit wasn’t going to help. Stu pacified his parents with talk of attending the Polytec, knowing his chances of getting in were slim.
Outside the Polytechnic, Stu psyched himself up, lying to himself that this is what he wanted. From somewhere close by, a voice called out to him. ‘Hello, Stuart.’ Harriet Flaxton leaned round to make her presence known, chuckling at Stu’s blank face. They never said two words to each other throughout their schooling. Yet she seemed happy to see him.
‘So, how did the exams go?’ asked Harriet. ‘I got all A’s. You?’
‘Completely fu—failed.’ stuttered Stu. ‘No idea why I’m here. There’s no way I’m getting in.’
‘They take anyone here.’
‘Are you—?’ Stu nodded to the Poly-tec.
‘Oooh no!’ cringed Harriet. ‘I’m off to Bamber University.’
‘What about Gothard—Christopher? I thought you two were—?’
‘Well… we decided to have a break,’ said Harriet with some uncertainty.
‘I mean, that’s--that’s the sensible thing to do,’ encouraged Stu. ‘No idea what I’m going to do.’
‘What about all those stories of yours? The one about the fat kids at Summer Camp being stalked by a maniac... Really funny,’ said Harriet, nudging Stu playfully in the arm. ‘Never know, maybe you’ll surprise yourself?’
Harriet’s smile melted Stu’s burdened shoulders. Knowing she had read – and liked – his writing was enough to send Stu fearlessly on his way. Nothing else mattered.
Dinner plates on laps, the Ostridge family grazed whilst watching Top of the Pops.
‘Is this Smash mash or mash-mash?’ asked Jeffrey with a full mouth.
‘Smash mash,’ replied Jemima.
‘Thought we were having a Vesta Chow mein?’ grumbled Godfrey.
‘That’s for special. You know that,’ said Jemima.
Godfrey flicked a disparaging finger in the direction of the television. ‘Look at this ponce. Rubbish. Can’t even carry a tune.’
Stu abandoned salty scraps of liver, bacon and mash. ‘Right. I’m off out.’
‘You’ve not finished,’ bleated his Mum.
‘We’re not made of liver and bacon!’ crowed his Dad.
‘I’m supposed to be at the theatre in twenty minutes.’ Stu knew what was coming. He didn’t have time for their outrage, opting for muted soundbites. ‘I’m volunteering.’
‘Well if that’s not an admission of being a fruit…’ cackled Jeffrey.
‘Oh, you’re going to do that, are you? Theatre…’ said his Dad, slathering on the sarcasm.
Jemima followed Jeffrey’s remark about homosexuality. ‘Mrs Fentiman reckons our postman hasn’t got a lady in his life. Bit Neapolitan.’
Stu’s Dad shook his head, murmuring to himself. ‘You bodge up your exams… Don’t quit the paper round, whatever you do!’
Stu kept schtum for fear his Dad would spontaneously combust with bluster.
The bus journey provided Stu with time to predict his family’s conversation after his departure and all the responses he should have brandished to win them over.
Upstairs in the theatre rehearsal room, Stu skittishly entered unnoticed. Scripts in hand, a group of actors blocked a scene. At least that’s what Stu hoped was happening.
Old Character Actor: Dinner is served! Tuck in, tuck in.
Leading Man: Breast or thigh, Ms Coggleshall?
Female Ingénue: I’m rather partial to a thigh. Timothy loves a breast.
The rehearsal was thankfully interrupted by the breathless arrival of Richard Shepperton. ‘Apologies. Something’s come up which cannot be avoided, said the actress to the Bishop.’
Stu stood up with a winning smile, making his presence known. ‘Ah, oh yes. You,’ said Shepperton, barely recalling Stu’s face, let alone his name.
Unsure of how to cover his forgetfulness, Shepperton burst into an introduction of the rep cast. ‘Have you met my wonderful cast? My leading lady Fenella Redriff and leading man Terry Blemish. Antonio Panash and Clemency Coppell, our ingénues. Finally our seasoned performers Carrington Belgrave and Venetia Sturtevant. We’re about to put on an acerbic comedy of manners entitled Spit Roast.’
The Rep cast mumbled unenthusiastic hellos. Stu raised a lame hand of greeting. Shepperton guided Stu closer for a quick conflab. ‘Dear boy. Seek out Jackie Jiggins. She’s the stage manager. Blonde. Wears vests. Good upper arm definition. Tell her to oversee the rehearsal. I’ve an urgent meeting to attend. Go! Chop chop!’
As per Shepperton’s description, Jackie Jiggins was blonde, wearing a vest top and smoking with Daz and Wesley in the foyer. If I had upper arms like hers, I’d wear vests all the time, Stu thought.
Stu delivered the message to the vexed trio, as Shepperton strode stone-faced from the building. Daz clicked his fingers at Stu.
‘Boy. Follow Shepperton. Get your ear to the door. Find out what’s going on.’
Orders received, Stu trailed Shepperton across the road to the Arts Centre. Through open sash windows, Stu saw Celia sitting composed, flanked by Tony Nedwell and a few unknowns. Shepperton entered, taken aback by the welcome party. Stu crouched under the windowsill, eavesdropping.
‘Richard,’ greeted Celia, ‘Thank you for coming at short notice. And thank you to the board of Trustees, Councillor Nedwell and the delegates from The Guild.’
The Falking Hill Guild of Dramatic Arts, a collective of six amateur dramatic groups:
1. Stage-Fright Arts Group
2. Sugarplum Players
3. The Nick-Nack Paddywhackers Communication & Theatre Arts Society
4. Steady on! Productions
5. Clappers Stage School
6. Churning and Heaver Theatre Company
‘Cutting to the nub,’ began Tony Nedwell, ‘Richard, we understand the theatre is in the grip of financial issues. Is there any way the council and Guild can support you?’
‘Blame the bloody idiot box,’ said Shepperton, dismissively. ‘If people switched it off and left their Houses…’ Celia interrupted Shepperton’s flow. ‘Then give them a reason. Endless end-of-pier seaside specials are not—’
‘Pfft! What do you know about theatre?’ snorted Shepperton. ‘You have no understanding of the grand traditions of the stage!’
‘If you are unwilling to discuss options perhaps the Board of Trustees would…’
Celia continued her loaded threat as, outside at the window, Stu strained his neck for a better view. He saw Tony attempting to simmer the fraying tempers.
‘Consider this an intervention. Our suggestion is a trial run of plays in the rehearsal space. Overseen by the Guild.’
Shepperton wasn’t laughing anymore. ‘You think a bunch of bloody amateurs will save the day? Standards will drop and it’s bon voyage, Bruce. I thought you were going to offer something useful like a grant. Who are you people? You have no mandate to tell me how to operate—’
Outside, an arm wrapped around Stu’s neck with a familiar, overpowering smell of Bensons.
‘What are you playing at?’ growled Graham Ackhurst. ‘It’s me, Graham!’ strained Stu, struggling for air and words.
‘I’m Graham!’ exclaimed the Arts Centre manager, failing to grasp the context of Stu’s plea.
Graham shoved Stu aside, catching his breath with his hands on his hips. ‘What are you playing at? I could have snapped your neck like that,’ said Graham, clicking his fingers. ‘It very clearly states on the threshold that loitering will not be tolerated. You bloody youth of today, you can read, yes?’
Stu took the telling off, looking beyond Graham’s lecturing gesticulation as the arts council meeting fell apart. Stu saw Shepperton launch out of his chair and direct a furious tirade at the panel. Stu couldn’t hear the angry exchange of words, but he got the gist.
‘So. The peasants are at the gates demanding cake,’ said Daz in reaction to Stu’s update. ‘Well. We’ll see about that, won’t we?’ Daz and Wesley flounced off backstage, shutting Stu out.
Left alone in the foyer, Stu didn’t understand what he’d done to upset them. In fact, it was mission accomplished as far as Stu was concerned – but still, he felt like a gunned-down messenger.
Later that evening in the downstairs theatre bar, Stu sipped a pint alone. He saw Fred the barman keeping a watchful eye on the rabble of noise in the corner: The Rep cast, increasingly giddy with alcohol. The cast drank up, grabbing their coats. Not wanting to be left alone in the bar with spooky Fred, Stu knocked back his lager, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
The Rep Cast hobbled drunkenly into the back of a rusty-looking, medium-blue-coloured van adorned with hippy-trippy orange flowers. The driver, ageing leading man Terry Blemish, popped a tic-tac in his mouth and hoisted himself into the driving seat. The engine struggled to turn over, before the van pulled away, narrowly avoiding a passing car.
From one of the foyer windows above, Fred the barman watched the van swerve off into the night with his typically blank, unemotional expression.
Sunlight dazzled through the enormous panes of glass which lined the Saucier theatre foyer. Daz, Wesley and Jackie lounged in the theatre foyer, idly chatting and smoking.
A few tables away, Stu smirked at their jokes, and nodded at sincere moments, never part of the conversation, but close enough for Daz’s put-downs.
‘My Dad took me shopping for vests last week. He doesn’t want to admit that I wear bras and have done for many years,’ said Jemima with a bored stare.
‘You can get away with vests,’ said Daz. ‘Stu’s got bigger jugs than you.’
Stu pretended not to hear Daz’s remark, made worse by Jackie trying not to laugh. Shepperton appeared as if from nowhere, dark glasses on; his head scarf framing his heavily made-up face.
Wesley sat up, concerned at Shepperton’s state. ‘Richard? Are you feeling well?’
‘Show’s cancelled,’ said Shepperton with fragility. ‘The cast has been hospitalized. I shall be medicating in my den.’
Daz stood up with disbelief, calling out as Shepperton traipsed away in a trail of cigarette smoke. ‘The entire cast? Hospitalized?’
‘You heard!’ yelled Shepperton. ‘Strike the set!’
On the stage, Daz and Jackie picked over Shepperton’s news whilst nonchalantly clearing the set. Stu idly pushed a broom around, listening in on their conversation.
‘The entire cast. In plaster. How is that even possible?’ wonder Jackie.
Daz held his cigarette from his lips to deliver his opinion. ‘You’d have thought with their thick skin they would be impervious to injury.’
Wesley joined them on the apron, maternally delivering an update. ‘Richard is sleeping. He blames himself. Apparently, he said the ‘M’ word a lot last night.’
‘Did you get any sense out of him?’ asked Daz.
‘It seems the cast went for a post-rehearsal tipple,’ said Wesley. ‘Next thing, they’re being driven home by our stalwart lead actor Terry Blemish. The Amber Gambler. Never knowingly stopped at traffic lights. Always ten sheets to the wind. Never clunk-clicked. Mounted the pavement and ploughed through what was left of the old Tooty Fruity Ballroom.
Daz hurled a piece of 2x4 aside in a fit of pique. ‘Fantastic. No cast, no play. Unless the boy wonder here fancies performing a solo version of I Spit on Your Roast.’
At that moment, Stu decided there would be no more fake smiling at Daz’s put-downs. Being Daz’s foot scrape was beginning to wear thin.
Perched on a lift-up seat at a bus stop, Stu checked his watch for the fifteenth time, shielding his eyes from the summer sun. Alan slouched past the bus stop, guitar case and amp in hands; topless and wearing a bobble hat. Happy to see a friendly face, he called out. ‘Alan! Al! Oi! Mutton Jeff!’
At first, pretending not to hear, Alan quickly gave in, unable to deny Stu’s presence any longer.
‘Oh, what, you want to make small talk? said Alan with some hostility. ‘Hot today, ain’t it?’
‘Your ears are surprisingly cold, I see.’ said Stu, referring to Alan’s bobble hat. From Alan’s grouchy stare, it was clear he wasn’t in the mood for jokes, so Stu changed tact, softly enquiring how the Led Zeppelin Knebworth gig went.
‘Got drunk and passed out,’ said Alan. ‘Missed everything.’
A significant stillness followed before Alan broke his silence. ‘Alright. This is it. Here we go. Don’t see you anymore. Don’t hear from you anymore. You’ve changed.’
‘If I’ve changed it’s because I don’t want my crowning achievement in life to be the creation of a massive Scalextric track,’ said Stu.
‘Don’t fall for it. You cannot trust these people,’ warned Alan.
Six pints of lager later at ‘The Bitter End’, grievances were forgotten, Alan invited Stu to his next gig: A sausage and chips supper (with complimentary bread basket) at Coppoffs Reach Indoor Bowling Green and Function facility. The venue promised a change of direction for the band, which now comprised solely of Alan since he’d accidentally left Hairy Jim in a Knebworth field.
Stu agreed to lug Alan’s amp to The Bowls Club on the understanding that Alan could swing a free supper for him, which transpired to be big talk. Sat on the kerb outside, Alan spoke solemnly.
‘Who knew about their no jeans, no trainers, no blacks policy?’
‘The manager’s an arsehole. And he’s a drunk. A massive drunken arsehole,’ said Stu.
‘Starting to wonder why I bother. Sick of this place. Sick of dealing with people like that. Sick of writing songs nobody likes. And when I do play covers, everyone moans about the wrong lyrics.’
Stu immediately thought of Alan’s version of ‘Bad Moon Rising’, featuring his misheard lyrics “There’s a bathroom on the right.”
‘I like it when you play Rentaghost,’ said Stu, attempting to comfort his friend.
‘It can’t all be Rentaghost, though, can it?’ said Alan, wistful for the days when it was enough.
Topless on his bed, Stu wrote in his diary; “Ma-Ma-Ma-ing” to Bony M’s Ma Baker which was playing loudly on his radio. Unable to hear his bedroom door slowly opening, the first Stu knew of his Mum’s presence was when she spoke. ‘Stuart. There’s some girl here to see you.’
Jemima made way for Lena. Mortified, Stu leapt to his feet, grabbing a YES T-shirt to save his modesty.
His Mum spoke to Lena in her poshest voice. ‘May I fetch you a cup of tea?’ Lena smiled back, a little troubled at the over-politeness. ‘Oh. No, thanks. Can’t stay long. I’ve got colour guard in twenty minutes.’ Jemima smiled, not really understanding.
Alone with Lena, Stu exhaled nervously. Like a visit from the Warden, Lena inspected his room. Please don’t notice the Rupert the Bear annuals, thought Stu.
Lena inspected a Princess Leia figure. ‘Bit old for all this, aren’t you?’
‘That’s my brother’s,’ said Stu, unconvincingly.
Lena cracked a chuckle at Stu’s flimsy attempt to distance himself from himself. Before Stu could protest his innocence, Lena handed him a leaflet advertising One-Act plays.
‘The one-act play competition is this Saturday. We could do with some help. Fancy it?’ Before Stu could stop gaping and provide an answer, Lena spoke. ‘I’m also performing at the weekend. The “grand unveiling” of the Falking Hill sign. Come along. No one else will. I play in a brass band. The Puff ‘n Stuffs. Euphonium. Most people pull that face until I play the theme tune to The Flumps.’
A thought was troubling Stu. ‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘You’re in the phone book. You’re not Batman,’ smirked Lena. ‘Emily’s waiting outside in my car. Need to get her home before she transforms into a pumpkin.’
On her way out, Lena halted, singling out one of Stu’s posters on the wall. ‘Suzi Quattro? All the boys love a bad girl.’
‘Suzi’s not,’ said Stu, protectively. Besides, if anyone was a bad girl, it was Lena Darrow.
‘You kissed me,’ said Stu. ‘Twice. Why?’ Without giving it any thought, Lena shrugged.
‘Why not?’
In a heavy fog of cigars and rollies, aged cloth-capped men drowned their lonely sorrows at The George and Mildred Public House.
Stu sipped his beer, miming cheerfully along with Lieutenant Pigeons’ plodding Mouldy Old Dough.
In a grey mood, Gary stared at the table; his cigarette burning down between his fingers.
‘The more I try to make Lena happy, the more she seems to hate me...’ Gary stopped speaking, frustrated at Stu’s light-hearted demeanour. ‘Stop mouthing mouldy old dough, will ya?’
Stu half-smiled an apology, and Gary returned to his moping. ‘It’s like - and I find this pretty hard to believe - Lena doesn’t like me. I’m losing her.’
Confidently swigging his lager, armed with insider knowledge, Stu spoke bluntly. ‘Was she ever yours?’ Gary’s skin prickled at this piercing insight. ‘I mean… Lena is her own person. She’s a modern girl. She’s outstanding. Unique.’
Gary blew smoke at Stu’s rosy expressions. ‘Alright, bender.’ Gary took a long sip of his lager, wiping his mouth with the edge of his hand. ‘Pffft. Don’t even know if I like her, anyway. All those flowery dresses…’
She could be wearing a cloth sack and smelling of onions and still epitomise perfection, Stu thought.
Gary produced a thin roll of A4 papers from his coat on the back of his chair. ‘I’ve been throwing myself into my art. Putting the hours in on my film script. You should read the latest draft. There’s a new character called Tina. She’s an absolute stuck-up bitch who gets her comeuppance.’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022