An Awfully Big Adventure - Beryl Bainbridge [64]
Meredith sat on the grass with his chin tilted to the sky as if sunbathing. Bunny waved aside the comedian’s offer of a little nip from the hip flask.
‘It might do more harm than good,’ he said, alarmed at the amount of blood running down Meredith’s face.
‘For God’s sake,’ choked Meredith, ‘I’ve a nose-bleed not a stomach wound.’
‘You were knocked out,’ Bunny protested.
‘I fainted,’ corrected Meredith. ‘The pain was excruciating.’
‘You’re going to have to get rid of dear Geoffrey,’ cried John Harbour, flushed with excitement. ‘He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with such vile behaviour. You must tell Rose to send him packing.’
‘What a brilliant idea,’ said Meredith. ‘Just the ticket when you think about it.’ He got to his feet and pushed Harbour contemptuously aside. ‘My coat,’ he told Bunny. ‘I want my coat.’
Harbour, having scanned the field for Geoffrey – he had some notion of rushing him from the rear and felling him with a rabbit-chop – ran off to compare notes with Dotty and the others.
Meredith was unthreading his monocle from its bloodstained ribbon when Vernon approached. Together they strode towards the path. ‘I like these sort of mornings,’ said Vernon. ‘A hint of frost, a touch of sunlight.’
‘It’s invigorating, isn’t it?’ agreed Meredith. ‘A man can stand upright.’
Vernon was nodding his assent when he tripped. For an instant, startled by that snapping sound, he thought he had trodden on a twig. He fell down, felled by a white bolt of agony.
‘Stella,’ he cried out, ‘where’s our Stella?’
Stella watched from behind the poplars as the comedian’s limousine bumped up the path to where Vernon lay. She wanted to climb the wall and run forward to comfort him. He was quite close. His trouser-leg had fallen back, exposing the elasticated suspender circling his diamond-mottled calf. ‘Stella,’ he called again, as if asking for the only person he needed. His hat tipped off and began to bowl away in the wind. She closed her eyes and stuffed her fingers in her ears. She hummed a song in her head.
That evening, responding to a note from Desmond Fairchild, O’Hara went to Grace Bird’s dressing-room at the quarter hour. Dotty and Babs were there.
‘Look here, Squire,’ said Desmond, ‘we were wondering if you would have a word with Potter.’
‘Geoffrey’s behaviour was inexcusable,’ Grace said. ‘But it does seem like a cry for help. And he’s been saying some very wild things to George. The prop-room’s a positive nest of intrigue.’
‘Thing is,’ Desmond reasoned, ‘it would be best coming from you. You’re off at the end of the run. We’ve got the rest of the season to get through. Besides, I gather you’ve tangled with Potter before.’
‘Yes,’ admitted O’Hara.
‘Not a word in front of John,’ warned Dotty.
‘O’Hara knocked on Meredith’s door during the first interval. Apart from a swollen lip Meredith’s face was unmarked. Rose was with him.
‘Another time,’ O’Hara said. ‘It was nothing important.’
Meredith came to him when he was changing into his Mr Darling costume for the final scenes.
‘Good of you to bother,’ O’Hara said. ‘It could have waited.’ He felt uncomfortable. Now that the moment had come he had no stomach for it. Plastering his face with grease and wiping away Hook’s villainous eyebrows, he said what he had to say. Several times he apologised for using what was perhaps the wrong word.
‘I’m not a narrow man,’ he concluded, ‘whatever you might think. God knows, I’m no saint.’
Meredith had remained silent throughout. Now he said, ‘It’s a wise man who recognises his own sins,’ and smiled. He opened the door to leave. ‘Before you go down to the nursery, he said, ‘may I remind you that it’s a criminal offence to consort with a minor.’
After the curtain call O’Hara waited in the band-room until Freddie Reynalde had played out the audience. Freddie poured a measure of whisky into a coronation mug. ‘He’s got you there,’ he said, when O’Hara had recounted the conversation. ‘She is under age.’
‘No one can prove anything,’ blustered O’Hara. ‘She’d be the first to deny it.