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Authors: Robert Gott

Tags: #FIC050000, #FIC014000

The Serpent's Sting (9 page)

BOOK: The Serpent's Sting
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‘I rang John Gilbert last night. They live in Drummond Street. No wonder Peter Gilbert was able to come and go with ease. It's only ten minutes from Mother's house.'

It was too oppressive to walk, so we took a tram, which offered a different order of oppression. Mother's house was grand; the Gilbert house was its equal, though of a different style. It was one of an elegant, solid row, double-storeyed and deep. I knocked on the door. In another time it would have been opened by a housekeeper, or perhaps even a butler. The house was certainly large enough to have quarters for such staff. It was opened to us by Cloris. She seemed surprised to see us, and was even more surprised when I told her that we were there at John's invitation. She invited us in.

As soon as we stepped inside the door, any suspicion that Peter Gilbert might have designs on our mother's money vanished. Everything that the eye fell upon spoke of reserved opulence. We were taken into what can only be called the drawing room, where Cloris told us that John had gone out that morning and that he hadn't returned. He'd said nothing to her about expecting visitors. She was reserved, but pleasant, and said that she was looking forward to Christmas lunch.

‘Will John be coming, do you think?' I asked.

‘I think so. I know he behaved badly the other day. He needs time to think about things, and I'm sure he'll learn to accommodate the situation.'

Brian laughed, which I thought at first was a misjudgement, but Cloris laughed, too, and volunteered that she was sure our mother wouldn't appreciate being called a ‘situation'. She didn't offer us anything to drink, and I got the impression that our unexpected presence in the house made her uncomfortable.

I was, of course, curious about the rooms in the Gilbert house, particularly Mrs Gilbert's bedroom. If I could get a look at that, I'd have some notion of what kind of woman she'd been, and I don't mean that I'm a sensitive, in the clairvoyant or mystical sense. I just mean that a room can be eloquent about the person who sleeps in it. I couldn't just ask Cloris to take us upstairs to the bedrooms, so I thanked her, apologised for disturbing her, and stood up to leave. She waved the apology aside as being unnecessary, but made no move to prolong our visit. Before closing the door behind us, she reiterated that she was looking forward to Christmas lunch.

Out in Drummond Street, I commented on the fact that Cloris had gone the minimum distance in fulfilling the demands of etiquette, and no further. Brian leapt to her defence and said that just as we knocked she might have been on her way to the dunny, and that she might have been uncomfortable throughout our visit.

‘Should we hang about outside until John comes back?' he asked.

‘No. If he hasn't been home all day he might have some sort of assignation, and he might not come home at all. We know nothing about his private life. I'd be surprised if there wasn't a girl tucked away somewhere. He's his father's son, after all.'

‘Lucky him,' Brian said wistfully, and we walked back towards our mother's house.

Tuesday's performance lacked the panache of Monday's. This sometimes happens in the theatre. There's no dramatic difference, just a strange sense of enervation. Roger Teddles agreed as he scratched first his groin and then his armpit.

‘I don't think the kiddies notice, though,' he said.

When I arrived home I ran a bath, and as it was filling to the mandated depth, I remembered that I hadn't yet done anything about moving out. This would be tomorrow's priority. There was no temptation to luxuriate in the bath. Its shallowness created the effect of lying in a puddle. All I needed was to freshen up and get the smell of the theatre out of my skin and hair. My thoughts turned to Geraldine. She still hadn't returned. I was a little concerned by my inability to conjure her face clearly in my mind. This was because our relationship had been rushed, sudden, and brief. I hadn't had time to commit her to memory.

It was while I was worrying about this that Brian entered the bathroom without knocking. This habit had always annoyed me. We exchanged the time-honoured call and response of, ‘Do you mind?' and ‘Not at all. Thanks for asking.' With this out of the way, Brian sat on the edge of the bath and said, ‘I took Cloris Gilbert to the pictures this morning. I rang her up — Peter gave me the number — and I flat out asked her if she liked Bob Hope and did she want to go to see
Road to Singapore
, and she said yes.'

He paused.

‘Do you want me to say “Well done”?' I asked.

‘Yes, I do. I figured I could ask discreet questions about John and their mother.'

My heart sank. I didn't have much confidence in Brian's powers of discretion.

‘You didn't …?'

‘Didn't what, Will? Tell Cloris that her brother believes their mother was murdered by their father? Did I bring this up at interval, or during one of the musical numbers? No, I didn't, because I'm not actually a moron.'

‘All right. Keep your hair on. I didn't mean to offend you.'

‘You have a talent for giving offence. Do you want to hear what I learned, or not?'

‘Of course I want to hear. Don't be so childish.'

‘All right. That huge house pretty much belongs to Cloris and John now. Peter lives here mainly, and he's got no intention of selling it, and they can live in it as long as they want to. Why are you having a bath?'

Brian's
non sequitur
s were irritating.

‘I like to be clean.'

‘Oh, you're seeing Geraldine tonight. You should shave.'

‘I'm not seeing Geraldine. She's at Puckapunyal, painting jeeps. I'm not going out at all. Will you please stick to one topic? You must have been a nightmare to teach. Cloris?'

‘I like her. She's very self-possessed.'

‘That's an improvement on Darlene, who was just possessed.'

I shouldn't have mentioned Darlene, but whenever I heard her name, I had an automatic tendency to say something about her that was undeniably true.

‘What's Darlene got to do with it?' Brian asked, with a generous absence of pique.

‘Nothing. I'm sorry, Brian. That was small of me. Really, I am sorry.'

He shrugged.

‘I sometimes wonder about Darlene,' he said, ‘but mostly I don't give her a second thought. It's funny how you can be married to someone and how quickly you can shunt her to an obscure siding in the mind.'

‘Cloris?'

‘I was very discreet. She was less discreet, mostly about John. She said he didn't come home last night. That's a fairly regular thing, although she has no idea where he goes. He's never mentioned a girl to her. He wouldn't, though, because they don't really get on. They don't argue, but they don't talk to each other much, either. She wasn't surprised at his over-reaction to the news about Mother's and Peter's relationship, and to Fulton. He's spent his whole life over-reacting to things. He never reacts, she said. He only ever over-reacts. Apparently he used to throw the most astonishing tantrums when he was a child. Once, he put his fist through the plaster in his bedroom, and Peter refused to have it repaired. The hole is still there, as a reminder of what happens if you can't control yourself. She thinks he's unstable. She didn't say that in a nasty way — she seemed sad about it, more than anything. She was happy to talk, Will. Maybe she needed to, or maybe I have the kind of manner that encourages sudden intimacy. That will be handy in this line of work.'

I stepped out of the bath and towelled myself dry.

‘We can't get any further until we meet with John Gilbert.'

‘I'll telephone.'

He left the bathroom, and by the time I was dressed, he was back.

‘He's still not there. I didn't even have to ask. Cloris said he'd never spent two nights away, and that he was usually back by late afternoon. She sounded worried. What do you think?'

‘I have no idea. It's a bit early to be alerting the police. He's a grown man, after all. I imagine he'll turn up later.'

‘Cloris did seem worried.'

‘Has she told her father?'

‘No. She doesn't want to worry him. He might come home later, as you say. She said she'll come with me to the Tivoli tomorrow night.'

This was one
non sequitur
too many, and I went to my room to read.

Percy Wavel was waiting in the wings after Wednesday's performance. He followed me to the dressing room when I came off, and told me without much enthusiasm that the Tivoli management was quite pleased with my performance and that they wanted to profile me in
The Listener-In
. Although this was mostly a radio guide and personality magazine, it seemed appropriate, given that the Tivoli broadcast a program each Sunday.

‘They want you photographed in and out of make-up.'

‘Well, that's fine. When?'

‘Now. The photographic studio is around the corner. They're expecting you.'

‘You want me to walk through the streets like this?'

‘It'll be quicker than taking it all off and putting it all back on again.'

I suspected that Wavel was enjoying my discomfort, so I gathered up my street clothes and said, ‘Let's go.'

I'd be lying if I said that my progress up Bourke Street went unnoticed. Wavel had dropped back a few paces so as to avoid any association with me. I held my head high, and imperiously accepted both the jeers and the cheers from passers-by. Women shielded their children from me, which was odd given that some of them may well have spent good money so that those same children could laugh at me.

Percy Wavel introduced me to the photographer, and left, claiming that he had a new act to rehearse for the Tivoli show. He barely spoke two words to me. He barely spoke to anyone, it seemed to me, so I didn't take offence. I simply thought him strange and repulsive.

The photographer was a squat, bull-necked man in his sixties, whose low brow and dark five-o'clock shadow exactly fitted my idea of the criminal type. It was a surprise to discover that he considered photography an art, and that he expected his sitters to express no impatience as he made innumerable adjustments to his lights, and barked out instructions to tilt the head this way, to widen the eyes marginally, or to lift the skirts higher. When he thought he'd captured enough of me in my grotesque incarnation, he directed me to a small dressing room where I was to change into clothes that had been prepared for me. There was a young woman there who helped me, and I thought what a blessing it would be if the Tivoli employed a dresser. My wig was taken off, my make-up removed, my hair shampooed and towelled dry, in no time at all. I sat before the mirror in my underwear as she applied discreet eyeliner, defined my eyebrows, and invisibly evened out my skin. I had no idea what I was to wear, and was delighted to discover that it was black-tie, with a winged collar. She combed my hair, and trimmed it where it needed trimming.

‘This is very glamourous,' I said.

‘Apparently that's the idea,' she said, and smiled.

I liked her enormously, although I didn't ever learn her name.

In the studio, Alex, the photographer, examined me with a critical eye and said, ‘I've made worse heads than yours look good. You're an improvement on the bloke before you. They tried this idea with him — ugly dame, glamorous actor, in and out of make-up. I took the pictures, but frankly the before-and-after weren't that much different. They decided not to run with the story. Did they fire him in the end?'

BOOK: The Serpent's Sting
7.74Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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