West End chums to come down for a summer season, though it has to be said they only came once, and as these stars wafted back to their firmament so Raymond took on their mantle, increasingly starring in his own productions until he could only see virtue in saving money and taking the applause.
Needless to say this was not a recipe for success, and as time went by the Pavilion’s productions became as creaky as the building itself. It therefore fascinated Miss Dimont that Gerald Hennessy – oh! she thought, what a loss to acting, what a loss to the nation! – might deign to do a summer season here. Was it a last-ditch attempt by Cattermole to revive the theatre’s flagging fortunes? Indeed, a generous gesture by his old thespian colleague to help out?
Or perhaps a decision by the film star to award himself a sabbatical holiday, away from the arc-lights and the premieres and the press-men? She had managed to slide in a question to Prudence Aubrey about Gerald’s plans in Temple Regis, but the actress was too busy with Terry arranging her twirl to answer.
Miss Dimont paused for a moment before entering the theatre and looked down the pier towards the great wide ocean beyond. Its waters had many characters, far more than were ever played on the boards of the Pavilion, and this morning they were strong and silent, great giants like Othello and Lear. Only bluer.
The Pavilion was situated at the landside end of the pier, something of a design compromise by the Edwardians but one which ensured its foundations would never fail, whatever the fate of its superstructure. Miss Dimont entered, as was her habit, by the stage door, which was tucked next to a row of redundant penny-in-the-slot machines.
Inside, she could hear a curious noise, a scraping sound accompanied by a strangulated version of what she decided must be the overture to William Tell.
‘Minamin minamin minamin-min-min,
Minamin minamin minamin-min-min –
Minamin minamin minamin-min-min,
Mina MIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN ma-mina min-min-min.’
She came upon Raymond Cattermole crouching on the floor with his back to the wall.
‘Ah, Miss Dimont,’ he said, unsurprised. ‘Would you give me a hand up? Just doing my daily exercises. Learned them off Larry, you know.’
Miss Dimont blinked.
‘Sir Laurence Olivier,’ said Cattermole as if taking a bow.
‘We trod the boards together, you know.’
The actor-manager struggled up from the floor, explaining that ‘William Tell’ sung through gritted teeth while bending your knees and sliding up and down a wall was far better than Stanislavsky when it came to an actor preparing. He was unselfconscious in her presence and went over to a mirror to settle his toupee more precisely on his big fat head.
‘Henry V,’ said Miss Dimont. ‘You were the spear-carrier.’
Cattermole had forgotten he had misled Miss Dimont once before on the nature of his theatrical partnership with the colossus of British theatre.
‘He had his off nights, you know,’ he said testily. A non sequitur, maybe, but it re-established the fact that he had known Larry while Miss Dim had not.
‘I thought we could talk about the pantomime,’ said the reporter. ‘People will want to start booking soon.’ (Just like childbirth, Temple Regents had that blithe capacity to forget the pain they had endured last time around.)
‘But first,’ she went on, ‘I wanted to ask you about Gerald Hennessy.’
Cattermole looked startled.
‘I understand he was in Temple Regis to meet you,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘and I just wondered . . .’
It was always better to leave a question open. People you were interviewing didn’t care what you wondered, they just wanted to get on and give you the benefit of their superior knowledge. Furthermore, if you wondered the wrong thing, they would be put off by your complete and utter incomprehension of the situation in hand. The reputation of journalism rested on not specifying what precisely it was that you wondered.
Cattermole said nothing.
‘I wondered . . .’ tried Miss Dimont again.
‘Drink?’ said Cattermole. It was not quite midday.
‘No, thank you,’ said Miss Dimont sternly. ‘But don’t let me stop you.’
Those were the words which sprang forth but they were not what she meant. What she meant was, if it helps you to talk, then drink the whole bottle. But you are the custodian of our theatre and you churn out rotten performances which help you maintain that old Bentley and keep that mistress of yours, but if you sobered up a bit and put your back into it the Pavilion could be saved and we would love you again as we once did.
But Miss Dimont, being the non-judgemental sort, said nothing of the kind. Cattermole got down the Scotch and sloshed a little into the glass on his desk. He looked warily at the water jug next to it but decided against.
‘Ah, yes, Gerald,’ he said in drawling tones. ‘Dear Gerald. We trod the boards together, you know.’
‘The Importance of Being Earnest,’ said Miss Dimont, swiftly. ‘With Edith Evans. The Globe Theatre, wasn’t it?’
Raymond Cattermole did a wonderfully lugubrious double-take, his trademark moue that could still raise a laugh, even after all these years. ‘Well you do do your homework, don’t you?’He was now in character. Possibly Professor Henry Higgins, she couldn’t be sure just yet.
‘He played Algernon, you played Raymond.’
The Professor looked over his spectacles at the reporter. ‘He broke my arm, you know,’ he said rather wistfully. ‘And then stole my part.
‘We had an understudy, can’t remember the name, and he took over while I was in hospital. There was a bit of Bunbury business onstage, bit of a rough-house, and he broke my arm.’
Cattermole drained his glass and looked forlorn. ‘Never been the same since. I was so keen to get back onstage the doctor didn’t set it properly. The director refused to drop the Bunbury rough-house and I had to carry on with it even though I’d only just broken the old arm. I was right-handed, but I had to learn to use my left to raise a sword, point a pistol, all that stuff. Really, it was the beginning . . .’
Miss Dimont saw it all in an instant. The Wilde was the last time Cattermole had set foot on the London stage. Maybe it was the arm, maybe his already-waning fortunes as a slightly too-old young lead, maybe his self-pity (ever-present in an actor, never to be displayed) – but to save his reputation and his self-esteem, Cattermole had nimbly effected a career-change which ended with his arrival down here in Devon. For every step Gerald Hennessy took up, it would seem, Raymond Cattermole took a corresponding one down.
‘So why was he coming to see you?’
‘I didn’t say he was, did I?’
‘Mr Cattermole,’ said Miss Dimont, ‘I think he was.’
The Professor had disappeared and an ageing pink-cheeked thespian, unsettled and edgy, had taken his place. Cattermole uncorked the bottle and poured himself another one.
‘Sure you won’t?’ he asked, but he didn’t mean it. He had become distinctly cooler towards his interlocutor.
‘Everybody seems to think Gerald Hennessy was coming down to do a summer season.’ There, Miss Dimont had said it. There was no earthly reason to believe this baseless assertion, but baseless assertions were a time-honoured way of worming facts out of the reluctant and the downright unco-operative. Apart from Sergeant Gull nobody, apart from Cattermole, had a clue why Hennessy travelled down to Temple Regis.
Raymond Cattermole had not trodden the boards with Sir Laurence Olivier for nothing. He lifted his head, turned it, flicked his