Dead on Cue Page 2

  Adams nodded. ‘I won’t,’ he promised. ‘It’ll be such a relief to have our Edith back again. I don’t know how I’d have gone without her. Thank you for all you’ve done, Mr Taylor.’

  Larry Coates shrugged, slightly uncomfortably. ‘There’s no need to thank me.’

  ‘Indeed, there is. You’re more than just our postman – you’re a marvel. We’d all be lost on Maddox Row if you ever decided to move away.’

  Larry Coates gave the infectious laugh which had become Jack Taylor’s trademark. ‘Don’t go worryin’ your head about that, Sam,’ he said. ‘I was born an’ bred on Maddox Row, an’ when I do finally leave, they’ll have to carry me out.’

  ‘That’s perfect!’ the young assistant director said. ‘You’ll have all the old biddies at home thinking of their own nieces and sobbing into their hankies. Let’s move on to the last scene just before the commercials, shall we? Jack Taylor’s gone off on his rounds, and Sam Fuller runs into Madge Thornycroft.’

  Larry Coates, no longer the Laughing Postman, moved across to the edge of the room, and lit up a cigarette. George Adams, losing his old man’s stiffness for a second, walked over to another set of chalk marks where Jennifer Brunton was waiting for him. Later, when the show went out, Jennifer would be wearing the hairnet and a steely expression of Madge Thornycroft, the Row’s malicious gossip-monger, but at that moment she was elegant enough to be a guest speaker at a Women’s Institute – a role she was not unfamiliar with.

  ‘OK, let’s take it from the top,’ the assistant director said.

  George Adams hunched over again and looked into Jennifer Brunton’s eyes. ‘Are you sure all them rumours you’ve been spreadin’ about Liz Bowyer are true?’ he demanded.

  Jennifer stuck out her jaw, Madge-like. ‘All I know is, I saw her leavin’ Ted Doyle’s house at well past midnight,’ she said.

  George/Sam looked suitably shocked. ‘But what were you doin’ out on the street at that time of night, Madge?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t out on the street. I got up to spend a penny an’ I saw her through the window.’

  ‘Even so . . .?’ George said dubiously.

  ‘An’ I know for a fact that Ted’s wife has been workin’ nights at the pie factory all this week.’

  ‘Still, if Liz finds out what you’ve been sayin’ about her, she’s bound to blow her top.’

  ‘I don’t care what she does. When I see somebody doin’ somethin’ wrong, I don’t keep it to myself.’

  George Adams glanced stiffly to his left. ‘She’s comin’ down the street now,’ he whispered.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Liz Bowyer. An’ she looks furious. You’d best go.’

  ‘I’m stayin’ where I am,’ Jennifer/Madge said. ‘It’d take a better woman than Liz Bowyer to make me turn tail an’ run.’

  ‘Nearly right,’ the assistant director told them. ‘Just a couple of seconds too fast. If you, George, could just count one more beat before you say, ‘She’s comin’ now,’ and you, Jennifer, could glare for a moment more before you say you’re staying where you are, we should be right on target.’

  As the two actors hit their marks again, the rehearsal-room door opened softly, and Ben Drabble entered. He looked around him, ran his hand over the hair covering his bald spot, then made his way on tiptoe to where Larry Coates was standing.

  ‘I just thought you’d like to know that the decision’s finally been made about when you leave the show,’ the scriptwriter whispered. ‘Jack Taylor’s due to be killed off next Monday.’

  Coates grinned. ‘Killed off, is he? How does he die?’

  ‘He gets electrocuted when he’s testing the iron he’s just repaired for Dot.’

  ‘Electrocuted! That’s a bit boring isn’t it? It would have been more dramatic if he’d been run over by a bus or something.’ Larry Coates paused for a second. ‘I bet Paddy wasn’t too chuffed about the idea, was he?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Ben Drabble agreed. ‘Jack Taylor was pretty much his creation, you know, and he always hoped you might come back eventually.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ Larry Coates said with feeling. ‘Still, I’m going to miss the Laughing Postman – in a way. I like to tell myself I got the new role on my own merit, but even an egotistical actor like me has to admit that it helped that I’d been playing such a strong character. And I owe that to Paddy.’

  The rehearsal-room door swung open again, much more noisily than it had when Ben Drabble had opened it – so noisily, in fact, that it knocked the actors completely off their stroke.

  The assistant director swung around, ready to scream at whoever had dared to upset the atmosphere he’d been working so hard to create. Then he saw who was standing there.

  ‘Can I . . . can I help you, Mrs Houseman?’ he asked the platinum blonde in the suede jacket and tight, leopardskin pants.

  ‘I’m looking for my husband,’ Diana Houseman said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

  The assistant director shrugged. ‘When we’re only a few hours from going on the air, he’s usually got a lot on his plate,’ he said.

  ‘Is that just another way of saying I should bugger off and leave him in peace?’ Diana Houseman demanded.

  The young assistant director blushed. ‘No, of course not, Mrs Houseman. That wasn’t what I meant at all.’

  ‘Because if it is, Bill will be hearing about it.’

  ‘I only meant—’

  ‘As it happens – not that it’s any of your business – there’s something I need to talk to him about urgently.’

  ‘I’ll . . . if you like, I can put a call through to the switchboard and see if they know where he is,’ the flustered assistant director suggested.

  ‘Don’t bother, I’ll find him myself,’ the producer’s wife said contemptuously, before turning and slamming the door behind her.

  The assistant director waited until he was sure she really had gone, then said in a loud voice, ‘The woman thinks she owns the bloody place.’

  ‘She owns Bill Houseman – and that’s the next best thing,’ George Adams said softly to Jennifer Brunton.

  The assistant director took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and wiped his brow. ‘Yes, well, now that bit of unpleasantness is over, let’s get back to work, shall we?’ he suggested shakily. ‘We’ll start with the last line from Jennifer before Val makes her appearance.’

  ‘It’d take a better woman than Liz Bowyer to make me turn tail an’ run,’ Jennifer Brunton said.

  It was Valerie Farnsworth’s cue. Hips swinging exaggeratedly, she made her way between the two chalk lines which represented the edges of the pavement on each side of Maddox Row.

  ‘I want a word with you, Madge Thornycroft,’ she said.

  Jennifer put her hand on her own hip. ‘Oh aye, you do, do you?’ she said. ‘An’ what might that word be about?’

  ‘Have you been spreadin’ more of your tales about me, you evil-minded old bat?’

  ‘I’ve been tellin’ people what I’ve seen with my own two eyes, if that’s what you mean.’

  Valerie Farnsworth squared up in front of Jennifer Brunton. ‘Well, it’s got to stop,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll stop when you learn to start behavin’ yourself properly,’ Jennifer countered.

  ‘Oh no, it won’t! It’ll stop now!’

  ‘An’ if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Then you’re goin’ to be very sorry you’ve let that malicious tongue of yours flap so much.’

  Jennifer turned to George Adams. ‘You heard her,’ she said. ‘She’s threatenin’ me.’

  ‘I’ll do more than threaten you,’ Valerie Farnsworth said. ‘When I’ve finished with you, you won’t know what’s hit you.’

  ‘And we go into the break, leaving the audience holding its breath and hoping to see a resolution in the second half,’ the assistant director said. ‘Yet sadly that’s not about to happen – so they’ll just have to tune in for the next episode if they want to kno
w how it all turns out, won’t they?’ He turned to Ben Drabble. ‘Do we already know how Liz is going to get her revenge on Madge?’

  The scriptwriter nodded. ‘Yes, the whole thing’s been mapped out.’

  The assistant director returned the nod. ‘Good! Excellent! I think we’ll just run through the last scene one more time, shall we?’

  Valerie Farnsworth snorted. ‘You can if you like,’ she said, ‘but as far as I’m concerned it’s as good as it’s ever going to be – and I need some time on my own before the show.’

  ‘Now look here, Val—’ the assistant director said, trying to keep his rising anger under control.

  ‘No, you look here,’ Valerie Farnsworth interrupted. ‘I know you like standing there playing the boss, but when all’s said and done, you’re only one step up from the tea boy. And if you’ve think I’m going to tire myself out before the show, just so you can feel important, then you’ve got another think coming.’

  She turned, and flounced towards the door.

  ‘Talk about your prima donnas,’ Jennifer Brunton said in a quiet aside to George Adams.

  ‘Yes, she can be pretty bloody when she wants to be,’ Adams agreed.

  ‘And it’s not just that poor lad she’s treating like dirt. She’s the same with everybody – even her fellow actors. It’s all about Liz – and bugger everybody else! She doesn’t only want to be in all the best scenes, but she wants the best lines in them as well. Who do you think will come out best in this row between Liz Bowyer and Madge Thornycroft?’

  Adams smiled cynically. ‘If I had to put money on it, I’d bet it would be Liz,’ he said.

  ‘You’re damn right it will be Liz Bowyer! Val’s probably already had a word with the scriptwriters about it. And if they won’t do what she wants, she’ll go whining and complaining to Bill Houseman. Of course, I could do the same thing myself. But I won’t. I’ve got far too much self-respect for that.’

  ‘Besides, it probably wouldn’t get you anywhere,’ George Adams said.

  ‘She thinks that just because she gets more fan mail than anybody else, she’s the queen bee round here,’ Jennifer Brunton railed. ‘But she bloody well isn’t! There’s a lot more to Maddox Row’s success than just Valerie high-and-mighty Farnsworth. Madge Thornycroft’s an important part of the show, too.’

  ‘And even Sam Fuller gets the occasional fan letter,’ George Adams said sourly.

  ‘Of course you do, George,’ Jennifer Brunton said hastily. ‘You’re important, too. We all are. And it’s about time Val learned that. In fact, if you ask me, it’s more than time that somebody taught her a lesson she won’t forget in a hurry.’

  Three

  The first episode of Maddox Row had been broadcast on the same day as Fidel Castro had nationalised all private businesses in Cuba, but for the executives of NWTV there was soon little doubt about which of the two events would turn out to be more world-shattering. Even in its first few weeks it had become apparent that Madro was a television phenomenon, and that the cramped NWTV studios were placing too much of a limit on its potential. And so the company’s top executives had decided, over one of their long expense-account lunches, that a new home had to be found for the programme.

  The old Calcutta Mill on the outskirts of a village near Bolton had immediately suggested itself as the ideal choice. Not only was it large, but – since no one else was interested in buying it – it was also going cheap. There had been the inevitable objections to the change of usage, of course, most notably from the Lancashire Industrial Archaeological Society, which claimed the mill had great historic interest and should be retained for educational purposes. But since the members of the society were known to be cranks of no consequence, and since the local authority was tired of being responsible for a relic of a bygone age, the objections were brushed aside. Thus it was that, as the Society’s members were writing impassioned letters to the local newspapers and even thinking about getting around to organising some kind of protest, a team of bricklayers was hard at work in the mill’s weaving shed, transforming the vast, open space into a number of smaller, more manageable units. The past was dead. From now on, the mill would be dedicated to creating an image of a present reality which was already starting to slip away.

  Bill Houseman wandered – apparently aimlessly – through the studio which had been constructed at the far end of the old mill. All around him there were signs of activity: the lighting technicians were carrying out last-minute adjustments to their lamps; the grips moving equipment and laying fresh cables; the set dressers stood in the middle of the interior sets, adjusting an ornament here and a picture frame there.

  It was Bill Houseman’s fancy – and as the man with overall control of the programme he was entitled to whatever fancy he cared to indulge – to see the team which worked inside the mill as one living entity, a single huge creature with its own pulse, heartbeat and moods.

  ‘And it’s very much a creature of habit,’ he said softly to himself.

  At nine o’clock in the morning it was still only half-awake, yet looking forward to the day with some optimism. By one o’clock in the afternoon, having gone through countless repetitions of same routines – but also having endured periods when nothing much seemed to happening at all – the beast was ready for some food, even if that food was only the soggy sandwiches and lukewarm soup which the catering company provided. Most of the afternoon was conducted on autopilot – the beast accepting that certain things had be done, and stoically getting on with them. Then the big hand of the studio clock touched twelve, the small hand scraped against six – and the whole atmosphere changed.

  Now, at five minutes past six, the beast was as alert as any hunter, knowing that its performance in the next two hours would determine whether or not it went home satisfied – or with a gnawing ache in its stomach.

  It was always Houseman’s favourite time of day, and no more so than when he needed a shot in the arm, as he did at that moment. For the last half-hour he’d been suffering the effects of the emotional battering he’d received at the hands of his wife, but now he was starting to feel like a god again. And not just any god. Not the petty god of some low-budget children’s programme which centred on the moronic activities of glove puppets, but the mighty god of a roaring, runaway success of a peak-time drama.

  ‘A mighty god!’ he repeated to himself.

  And why shouldn’t he feel like that? He was, when all was said and done, the creator of all he saw before him. Without him – without his inspiration – none of these people would be there, and something entirely different would be filling the six or seven million flickering television screens in an hour and twenty-five minutes time.

  He was relieved to find that this feeling of divinity had finally returned with all its former force. For the previous few weeks, even as he’d watched the world from the top of his Olympian mountain, he had been hearing the low, menacing thunder of the viewing figures in the distance. The show had been losing some of its audience – not a significant portion, but enough to cause concern – and he had been living in fear that he would soon be cast out of his paradise by a younger, more virile god. But that fear had passed now. For a god to remain strong, he had to sustain himself on the sacrifice of human blood, and that process – thank Himself! – was already under way.

  He glanced up at the central control room – the eyes of the beast he had created. There were two people in it at that moment. One of them was a man in his late thirties with foppish brown hair who, whatever the weather, always wore a short silk scarf around his neck. Jeremy Wilcox had been the show’s director for only a few months, but already he was acting as if it were his show – as if any success it had came from his basic ability to order the right camera to be pointed in the right direction at roughly the right time. And Wilcox’s ambitions didn’t stop with directing, Houseman suspected. The fop in the scarf was already starting to see the words ‘executive producer’ after his name.

  The other occu
pant of the control room was a woman – or perhaps, more accurately, a girl. Lucy Smythe had blonde hair pulled tightly to her skull and heavy-framed glasses which she probably didn’t even need. She had joined the series at the same time as the director, and followed at his heel like a too-eager-to-please puppy. Wilcox, for his part, took great pains to show that he took her for granted, in the hope that this would create the impression that he was used to such dogged devotion from his subordinates. Houseman wondered whether this devotion would be sustained once Wilcox was back to directing trailers for other people’s creative work, which – once the human sacrifice had made him strong again – would not be long in coming.

  The cast dressing rooms were at the other end of the weaving shed to the Maddox Row studio. From the outside, they looked like nothing more than low brick boxes constructed under the mill’s tall roof. Inside, however, they were cosy little retreats where the actors could enjoy relaxing during their free time.

  Most of the boxes were designed to be shared between two or three members of the cast. But there were some actors – the fortunate chosen few – who had a dressing room entirely to themselves, and Valerie Farnsworth was one of them.

  At the moment, less than an hour and a quarter before the show was due to go out, Valerie was sitting at her dressing table and examining her reflection in the mirror. It was a slightly rounded face which gazed back at her, with full lips and big, dark eyes. An attractive enough face – certainly one which turned a few heads whenever she entered a pub – but not one which she had ever thought would be her fortune.

  Yet that was just how things had turned out! After nearly twenty years on the stage, first in the music halls and then in provincial repertory theatre, she had finally made a name for herself. And what a name! She was Liz Bowyer, Maddox Row’s resident divorcee – a bit of a trollop, if truth be told, but only in a sanitised, peak viewing hours sort of way, of course. She had risen from obscurity and was now an opener of village fêtes, bingo halls and self-service shops. At just a shade under forty she had become, if she believed the papers – and she did! – a national sex symbol.