frighten me. It reminds me of being on stage, in the way that you are wrapped round by another world, not this one. I try to think about poor Bill Terry, and how his agony is my good fortune, but the thoughts slip away from me, and I am not going to pretend a compassion I cannot really feel.
I think I was by the embankment—at least I heard water and felt a parapet—when he joined me. For some time I have known he was around, and I suppose I have not been quite honest with myself about this.
Of course I couldn’t quite see him in the night and fog, but I know he was big and dark, and rough smelling, though with that overriding odour of mothballs I had noticed before. It was his presence that I felt most strongly, the presence of a man who has been outside and alone for too long, of someone who was everyone’s enemy except mine. And I was only his temporary and convenient ally.
‘Who the hell are you?’ I have put off the question for too long.
‘Jesus Christ. The Emperor of Johore. My name it is MacGregor and my foot is upon my native heath. And you are my heir.’
‘What do you want?’
‘What do I want? What do I want?’ The man and his voice seemed to swell with anger. ‘What d’ye think? Meat, money and fame, boy. Meat, money and fame.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, ye do, son. Ye do. We’re the same under the skin. We’re actors both. And what do actors want? Meat, money and fame!’
‘Leave me alone. Go away.’
‘I canna go away. I am your man and your maker. So tell me what ye think?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of the play, man! Of the play!’
‘Do you mean Countess Otho ?’ I had to force the words out. Everything in me was rebelling against the impossibility of it all.
‘What d’ye think?’
‘Extraordinary.’
‘Aye . . . My hour has come. I have been waiting. So what will ye do?’
‘Do?’
‘As payment for services. The quad pro quo, as they say. The quad pro quo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ye know what I mean. Y’are bound to me, and I canna let ye go. Blood brothers we are. Lo I am with you always even unto the end of time. D’ya ken now?’ His voice rose to a roar.
The mist cleared a little and I saw his face, a shaggy, dark, unshaven thing with hungry, restless eyes hanging over me. He pushed his head down close to mine and his smell was like a blow in the face. It was the age-old smell of vagrancy and desolation. He had been out in the cold far, far too long.
When I came to, I was standing outside the theatre, looking up at my name in foot-high golden letters over the entrance canopy. A solitary taxi was coming down the Strand. I hailed it and took it back to my flat in the King’s Road.
13th January 1988
A third huge parcel of Great Aunt Cecily’s papers has arrived from Vince. It consists of letters, postcards, loose photos, bits cut out of magazines and newspapers: the usual detritus of a long life. Had Vince felt anything except contempt for me, he wouldn’t have treated me as a kind of human rubbish tip. But I’m glad he has.
Among the garbage were two items of importance. Though my Great Aunt Cecily kept them both, it was for different reasons, and she could not have made the connection that I did. The first is a cutting from the Sunday Express from the 1960s, one of those gaudy ‘historical true crime’ pieces with which the paper once adorned its centre pages.
THE MELODRAMA THAT REALLY HAPPENED:
THE JEALOUS ACTOR AND THE STAR.
On Thursday December 16th 1897 William Terriss, leading actor of the day, and one of the handsomest men of his time was stabbed to death outside the stage door of the Adelphi theatre in the Strand. His attacker was one Richard Archer, or Richard Archer Prince, as he styled himself, an out-of-work actor who had once played walk-on parts in Terriss’s company. Archer, an uneducated Scotsman from Dundee, harboured impossible ambitions to become a great and famous actor, and these delusions had been fostered by
I think I was by the embankment—at least I heard water and felt a parapet—when he joined me. For some time I have known he was around, and I suppose I have not been quite honest with myself about this.
Of course I couldn’t quite see him in the night and fog, but I know he was big and dark, and rough smelling, though with that overriding odour of mothballs I had noticed before. It was his presence that I felt most strongly, the presence of a man who has been outside and alone for too long, of someone who was everyone’s enemy except mine. And I was only his temporary and convenient ally.
‘Who the hell are you?’ I have put off the question for too long.
‘Jesus Christ. The Emperor of Johore. My name it is MacGregor and my foot is upon my native heath. And you are my heir.’
‘What do you want?’
‘What do I want? What do I want?’ The man and his voice seemed to swell with anger. ‘What d’ye think? Meat, money and fame, boy. Meat, money and fame.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, ye do, son. Ye do. We’re the same under the skin. We’re actors both. And what do actors want? Meat, money and fame!’
‘Leave me alone. Go away.’
‘I canna go away. I am your man and your maker. So tell me what ye think?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of the play, man! Of the play!’
‘Do you mean Countess Otho ?’ I had to force the words out. Everything in me was rebelling against the impossibility of it all.
‘What d’ye think?’
‘Extraordinary.’
‘Aye . . . My hour has come. I have been waiting. So what will ye do?’
‘Do?’
‘As payment for services. The quad pro quo, as they say. The quad pro quo.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ye know what I mean. Y’are bound to me, and I canna let ye go. Blood brothers we are. Lo I am with you always even unto the end of time. D’ya ken now?’ His voice rose to a roar.
The mist cleared a little and I saw his face, a shaggy, dark, unshaven thing with hungry, restless eyes hanging over me. He pushed his head down close to mine and his smell was like a blow in the face. It was the age-old smell of vagrancy and desolation. He had been out in the cold far, far too long.
When I came to, I was standing outside the theatre, looking up at my name in foot-high golden letters over the entrance canopy. A solitary taxi was coming down the Strand. I hailed it and took it back to my flat in the King’s Road.
13th January 1988
A third huge parcel of Great Aunt Cecily’s papers has arrived from Vince. It consists of letters, postcards, loose photos, bits cut out of magazines and newspapers: the usual detritus of a long life. Had Vince felt anything except contempt for me, he wouldn’t have treated me as a kind of human rubbish tip. But I’m glad he has.
Among the garbage were two items of importance. Though my Great Aunt Cecily kept them both, it was for different reasons, and she could not have made the connection that I did. The first is a cutting from the Sunday Express from the 1960s, one of those gaudy ‘historical true crime’ pieces with which the paper once adorned its centre pages.
THE MELODRAMA THAT REALLY HAPPENED:
THE JEALOUS ACTOR AND THE STAR.
On Thursday December 16th 1897 William Terriss, leading actor of the day, and one of the handsomest men of his time was stabbed to death outside the stage door of the Adelphi theatre in the Strand. His attacker was one Richard Archer, or Richard Archer Prince, as he styled himself, an out-of-work actor who had once played walk-on parts in Terriss’s company. Archer, an uneducated Scotsman from Dundee, harboured impossible ambitions to become a great and famous actor, and these delusions had been fostered by
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