Murder Most Fab (13 page)

Her
words made a strange kind of sense to me. I stopped crying and felt a calm
serenity descend on me.

‘You’re
so like me!’ she said, as if my tears had been a cause for celebration. ‘Far
too intense, probably, but at least we experience life, you and I. We don’t do
bland, do we, darling?’

I shook
my head and tried to smile. She had her arm round me and gave me a long,
twenty-second squeeze, so tight I could only manage shallow breaths.

‘Think
of all the people who never feel a millionth of what you’ve felt for Tim.
They’re missing out. They’re half-wits, effectively. The sort of people who
end up reading the
Daily Mail.
We can only pity them. Think of Tim as a
blessing in your life, not as a punishment.’

‘I’ll
try.’

‘Good
boy.’ Mother got up languidly. ‘What a day for you! I’ve half a mind to crack
open the paracetamol, but I think it’s best if you work through the pain. How
about something nice from the biscuit barrel? I should be able to lay my hands
on an iced ring, if you’re lucky. You’ll be right as rain in the morning. Trust
me.’ She patted my knee as she went through to the kitchen. ‘Your first broken
heart. How thrilling!’

Mother was wrong as,
sadly, she often was. It wasn’t thrilling and I wasn’t as right as rain. For
forty-eight hours I cried until I vomited. I was unable to leave the house,
sure that Tim would appear at any moment to tell me he’d made the most terrible
mistake of his life and beg me to take him back. But he didn’t come.

The
following week, when I knew for sure that Tim had gone to Cambridge and that he
had no intention of contacting me, I fell into a deep depression.

My
mother tried to cheer me with little presents and my favourite food, but she
couldn’t lift me out of my misery. ‘It’s time to move on, Johnny. You’re too
young for such a
grand malaise,’
she said, as she cleared away another
uneaten dish. ‘You don’t want to peak too early. Save yourself. The tortured,
emaciated look works much better in your twenties.’

She
might have been reading the last rites for all I knew. I wasn’t listening. I
was lost in a spiral of sadness. I couldn’t speak.

‘Is
anyone at home?’ asked my mother.

‘What
am I going to do with my life?’ I wondered, when at last the mists cleared
enough for me to form a sentence. I sat listlessly at the table, playing with
the meal she’d prepared. ‘I feel as though everything’s over for me. I’m
seventeen, I’m gay and I don’t know what I want to do.’

‘Hmm.
That’s the whole point of being seventeen. I don’t know how much help I’m going
to be, darling. I’ve not done anything with my life — except have you, of
course — and I’m perfectly happy. Follow your instinct, that’s my advice.’

‘I
can’t stay here.’

‘That’s
a shame. It’s so nice, just the two of us. But I do understand if you need to
see a little of the world beyond Kent. Maybe you’d like to go and investigate.
Go somewhere you don’t have all these memories of Tim.’

‘Like
where?’

‘There’s
a place called London. Young people flock there, apparently. I’ll phone your
grandmother.’

The next afternoon I arrived
at Grandma Rita’s. I stood on her doorstep clutching my suitcase, feeling lost
and emotional. The butler showed me into the drawing room, where she sat at her
desk writing a letter. She stopped, took off her glasses and came over to kiss
my cheek.

‘Welcome
back, Johnny. It’s been a long time.’ She looked me up and down, as if I were a
piece of brisket in a butcher’s window.

‘Wipe
your eyes, for goodness’ sake. If you’re choosing to be homosexual you’d
better get used to being miserable. No need to cry about it. I met Nod Coward
once. He covered his misery very well. Wrote a lot of silly songs to keep his
spirits up. Let’s have some sherry. It’s rather good at deadening everything.’
She poured two glasses and made sure I’d downed mine before she spoke again.

‘Now.
Your mother’s told me everything that’s happened and I think I’ve found the
perfect solution. If you’re going to be gay you’d better go into musical
theatre. That’s what Nod did, rather sensibly. I don’t suppose you’ll be very
happy there either — none of them is — but at least you’ll be able to do the
splits, which will be a boon in your particular avenue of life, if you call it
living.’

Through
my fug of misery, I vaguely understood what she was saying. Why not? I was
beyond caring. Life was over for me, anyway. She could have suggested I swim
the Channel in a straitjacket and I would have agreed.

Within
days I found myself filling in application forms for drama schools under my
grandmother’s careful supervision. I didn’t show much enthusiasm so she took
over. ‘I’m going to say you were one of the chorus of
Oliver!
in the
smash-hit Stockholm production. They’ll never check.’

I spent
the next few weeks sleeping and writing love letters to Tim that I never
posted. I still felt grief-stricken, but my appetite returned and a sense of
survival kicked in. I had to consider the future, however much I dreaded it.

‘You’ve
had some replies. We’d better learn some audition pieces,’ Grandma Rita told
me. ‘I think you’ll make a convincing Fool.’

Auditions
were duly arranged. I went along nervously, tripped over my speeches and
stumbled through my unaccompanied song.

The
more prestigious ones sent me packing but eventually I was accepted. ‘You’ll
fit in with us very nicely,’ said a lisping tutor at the Lewisham School of
Musical Theatre. I was on my way at last.

A week
before my first term began, my grandmother announced that she had found me some
lodgings near the school. ‘Your room sounds a bit Anne Frank, but that’s part
of the experience. I’ve arranged a bank account for you and a minimal
allowance.’

‘Can’t
I stay here with you?’ I asked. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to leave.

‘Oh,
no, Johnny,’ said Grandma. ‘If you don’t go and see what life has waiting for
you it will be a waste of your grandfather’s St Christopher. You’d better go
and pack your things.’

The day that my life was
to change, I had no warning or sixth sense about it. These things just happen,
as if by the decree of a higher force. Nor did I know I was taking the first
steps towards my finest and darkest hours.

I had
endured another gruelling day at college, tap-dancing, singing Bertolt Brecht
songs and being sneered at by Sean, the evil anorexic. I had had enough, so I
decided, rather recklessly, not to attend the evening rehearsals for
Oklahoma!,
which was to be our end-of-term show. There were so many brothers in that
show I doubted that my absence would be noticed, and I was miscast anyway.
Second husband from the left was never going to work for me. So, at five
o’clock, I went home to the bedsit on Brownhill Road, intending to pass the
evening quietly with a cup of tea and a book, and perhaps a cheeky vodka or two
with Catherine later when she got in from her late shift. Now that I’d skipped
my rehearsals, I had the evening off.

At
about seven thirty the telephone rang.

‘Hello,
Johnny here!’ I said cheerily, hoping it was Madame with some work for me.

‘Johnny,
it’s Miss O’Connor.’

‘An.
Hello.’ Miss O’Connor was the principal at the Lewisham School of Musical
Theatre. ‘Of course, Miss O’Connor. How can I help you?’

‘Mr
Grey has just informed me that you’re not at this evening’s rehearsals for
Oklahoma!
.
Apparently, without the extra man, the barn dance is a complete shambles.
Why aren’t you there, Johnny?’ The enquiry was polite, but there was a steely, over-enunciated
edge to her voice.

‘I’m
not feeling terribly well, actually, Miss O’Connor,’ I bluffed. ‘I’m a bit snuffly
and thought it would be best if I stayed at home. I didn’t want to spread any
germs and jeopardize the whole production.’

‘That’s
very thoughtful of you,’ said Miss O’Connor. ‘But I’ve already written three
times to warn you that your persistent absence from both classes and production
rehearsals will not be tolerated. We’ve reached the end of the line with you.
Tonight’s absence means you no longer have a place with us. The contents of
your locker will be returned to you in the morning. I’m sorry, Johnny. I always
felt you had something but you don’t have the necessary application. Others
want your place who are prepared to work. I regret that things didn’t work out
for you at the Lewisham School of Musical Theatre, but I wish you every success
in whatever path you decide to follow. Goodbye.’

‘But,
Miss O’Connor—’ The phone was already dead.

I went
back to my room. It was rather disappointing to be thrown out of drama school,
particularly on a one-year course. It didn’t say much about my staying power.
Even though I’d felt I couldn’t face another week in the company of a bunch of
dysfunctional theatricals, I’d never thought of leaving. I’d planned to stick it
out for the remaining few months, get my diploma and see what happened. And
now, just like that, I was history. No discussion, no chance of appeal. I was
out, with the briefest dismissal. I could only imagine how exultant Sean and
the others would be feeling.

I sat
on my bed, surprised to find I was rather hurt. In the minute it had taken me
to go downstairs and answer the phone, I had lost my identity. I was no longer
a musical-theatre student, just an aimless young man adrift in London and
dabbling in the oldest profession.

I
couldn’t wait to confide in Catherine. She would put an interesting slant on
things. My expulsion would appeal to her —she’d be thrilled by the drama.
Anticipating our needs — particularly Catherine’s, as she could drink like a
fish after a late shift — I nipped to the corner shop and bought us a bottle of
gin. As she wasn’t expected back until ten, I called my mother to share the
news with her.

She
answered with the usual tentative ‘Hello?’ She didn’t hold with telephones. She
seemed to think they were on a par with battery farming and pulled a face
whenever hers rang.

‘Mummy,
it’s me.’

‘My
precious peacock, my boy! How are you?’

‘I’m
fine and dandy, but I have something to tell you.’

‘What’s
the matter? I knew there was something. I can always tell from your voice if
things aren’t good. Not more love trouble, is it?’

‘No,
nothing that bad. They’ve dismissed me from college.’

‘Dismissed
you? How silly of them! Was it that tutor of yours? Go and see Miss O’Connor at
once. She’ll sort it out.’

‘It was
Miss O’Connor who gave me the boot.’

‘Oh.
How strange. She seemed such a sensible woman when I met her at your last
production, that one where you were so brilliant as Salman Rushdie. Would you
like me to call her and remonstrate?’

‘I was
Badger in
The Wind in the Willows,
Mother. There’s really no point in
you phoning Miss O’Connor. Her mind was made up. I’m afraid it’s a done deal.
Don’t be upset.’