Distant Music Read online

  Perhaps, Oliver thought, as he stared at his own immaculately polished shoes, some people might be reassured by this cool self-control. Perhaps they might even have been lulled into thinking that John was not after all the kind of man to object to his son’s taking to the boards. But Oliver, little as he knew his father, was nevertheless only too aware that the older man’s quiet was the next man’s storm.

  Oliver knew that the quieter Plunkett Senior became the worse his wrath, the deeper his disgust. A quiet John Plunkett was a person to be avoided for the next few weeks, if not months.

  ‘So, you want to be an actor, you said.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ His father sat down, but did not cross anything. He sat down neatly. It was almost as if he had folded his limbs into the old leather library chair in exactly the same manner his valet would fold his clothes at night, and of course Oliver could not help observing this, noting it for possible use in some yet to be written role in the future. ‘And how long has this been going on?’

  Oliver stared across at the pale, greyish face of his parent and wondered at his phrasing.

  How long has this been going on? made it sound as if Oliver had been having a never-ending, raging affair with the theatrical profession behind his father’s back, which of a sudden Oliver realised might just be the truth.

  ‘I – er – well, sir, I have always wanted to be an actor. Ever since I was quite small, I am afraid, sir.’

  ‘Did Mummy know of this?’

  Oliver did not want to say ‘Yes, Mummy did know of this’ because, although Mummy had run off with one of the hunt servants some few years before, her youngest son was nevertheless loath to get his adored mother into trouble, even in retrospect. He felt he would rather die than do that. His mother had not done the right thing, obviously, but he was not in the market for blaming her for something that was after all not exactly due to her unquenchable and overwhelming desire for a handsome, strapping six foot Welshman with a rare ability to communicate with hounds.

  ‘Mummy always knew of this, yes, I think she did, but it was not her fault. It was mine. I just have always wanted to act, ever since I was five years old, and you took me to the pantomime in Lodbury.’

  With this piece of extra-curricular information Oliver hoped that he had now shipped at least some of the blame for his acting ambitions and left it fairly and squarely at his father’s door. Unfortunately, however, adroit he might have imagined this move to be, his father was up to the challenge.

  ‘I never took you to the pantomime in Lodders, your nanny did. I took the older boys, but not you. You never went with me, not to my knowledge, not to Lodders. That would have been Nanny, not me.’

  ‘Well, at any rate …’ Oliver paused, determined not to notice the relief in his father’s voice. ‘As I say, that was when it happened, when I went to the pantomime. I just knew that I wanted to get up there, on stage.’ He did not add, which was the truth, ‘for the rest of my life’, because to do so would have been far too upsetting to his poor father.

  ‘Yes, it would have been Nanny,’ mused the older man. ‘She had more to do with you than anyone, not that I remember her ever showing a liking for the theatre. Seemed more interested in the wireless, if I remember rightly.’

  Nanny was now obviously being revealed to be fairly and squarely to blame. Which was all right really, because she was known to have long ago, and most piously, ascended into heaven. At least it was not Mummy – whose entrance into paradise, when the untimely moment came, would not, Oliver imagined, perhaps take such a direct route as Nanny’s had probably done.

  ‘There is no money coming to you from your grandfather’s estate, you know that of course?’

  This was another way of his father’s saying, You go into this acting thing, and you will not get a penny of support from me.

  ‘No, I realise that.’

  Not for the first time Oliver felt downcast by the idea that relationships between parents and children seemed to be totally governed by the cheque book. Do your best to please, and you might be granted a penny or two. Take up acting and you were on your own for evermore.

  ‘No, there has been no provision made for you by any of your grandparents or godparents. Your mother, of course, might have done something for you.’

  They both knew that Mummy’s new life had absorbed every penny, and rather more, of her private income, and that her new husband, being the kind of man he was, not content with living off her, was more than happy to part her from her personal funds at every turn with the result that she could hardly afford even to hunt any more.

  There was a long silence following this statement. From Oliver’s point of view this was because he simply could not think of anything to say, and from his father’s point of view, because he obviously had no more to say on the subject anyway.

  To fill the verbal void they both sipped at their drinks in silence for a few seconds.

  ‘Of course, if you don’t mind, I would rather you did not drag the family name through the newspapers. People in the acting profession always do seem to attract a great deal of press attention. On reflection, as you seem determined to pursue this course of going on the boards, I would rather, if you do, that you changed your name to something other than Plunkett.’

  Oliver nodded and stared ahead. What Plunkett Senior was actually saying was, ‘Do not, please, drag me through the mire with you.’

  But it was also undeniable that actors did feature in the newspapers. For once he could see his father’s point of view. And yet his sense of disappointment was nevertheless acute. He had grown up always secretly hoping that he would see OLIVER PLUNKETT in lights over some theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue.

  ‘Yes, of course. I perfectly understand. Daddy.’

  His replacing of the more usual sir used in deference to their parent by all three brothers for the nursery Daddy made his father wince involuntarily, and his grasp on his glass of whisky tightened perceptibly, as if it was a strap on the London Underground.

  For himself, Oliver, at his most devil-may-care, knew that his father hated being called ‘Daddy’, and always had, but there was very little he could do about Oliver’s addressing him as such, because, when all was said and done, much as he would like to deny it, he was after all, as far as they both knew, Oliver’s father.

  ‘So what will you change it to, do you think?’ His father turned his pale blue eyes on his youngest son, and stared at him. It was a moment of sublime power for Oliver, and they both knew it.

  ‘I expect I will think of something.’

  ‘Perhaps you might feel that your – ahem – mother’s maiden name might be appropriate? Quite easy to say, and so on?’

  Ah ha!

  In one blinding flash, a flash as bright as the press photographers’ flashlight bulbs of which it seemed Plunkett Senior was so in fear, Oliver saw it all. It was all right for him to drag his mother’s family name through the mud, but not his father’s name.

  ‘I don’t think Lowell is a very good stage surname, Daddy, really I don’t. No, I shall probably take my own name – Oliver – and put a first name to it. Something Oliver.’

  ‘That could be quite good,’ his father agreed rather too quickly, and then he yawned suddenly, the matter, as far as he was concerned, seemingly over.

  ‘But, no, now I come to think of it, I think you are probably right, Daddy.’

  His father stared at him, his face a picture of disappointment, his reluctance to continue talking about Oliver’s stage name more than obvious.

  ‘Oliver Lowell will be quite splendid. Not too far down the alphabet either, not too far down the billing.’

  His father continued to stare at his youngest offspring.

  ‘If, in the theatre, you have a surname beginning with, say, zed, you are the last name on the billing, which is never very good. If they decide to go for alphabetical order, that is.’

  ‘Really.’

  Oliver smiled. His father�
�s really, as usual, took not a question mark but a full stop. Still, there was no doubting his preference for his son’s using the name Lowell. It was a good solid English sort of name denoting neither one sort of person nor another, unlike Plunkett which, on account of the famous English martyr Blessed Oliver Plunkett, after whom Oliver himself had apparently been named, brought with it more than a whiff of incense and Popery.

  ‘So that is settled then. If you go ahead with this affair, you will do so not under the family name.’ His father stood up and nodded. ‘Goodbye, Oliver.’

  ‘I am not off quite yet, sir.’

  ‘Are you not? Well then I will see you anon. Oh, by the way, will you be going to arr aye em aye dee, did you say?’

  ‘The Royal Academy of Music and Drama? Yes, as a matter of fact I will, sir.’

  ‘You have obtained a place? As I remember it one of your cousins went to one of those academies once, and left shortly afterwards under a cloud. I think he found it difficult to fit in, coming as he did from this kind of background. Let’s hope you fare better. Things have changed though, I hear, since this John Eastbourne chap, and so on. Noel Coward and that sort of thing no longer make the running, so I have heard.’

  Oliver immediately coloured for two reasons. The first was because he realised that his father was implying that he would doubtless fail as his cousin had, and the second was because in Oliver’s reply, inevitably, would be contained, as they both knew, the revelation that he had already applied to several theatrical academies without telling Plunkett Senior.

  ‘Yes, sir. I went up for auditions to the – er – various academies when I was last in London, staying with Howard Hampton’s daughter, remember – Coco Hampton? I often stay with her – have stayed with her – at her guardian’s flat.’

  ‘Coco Hampton. Oh, yes. Sparky little thing, she was, but I expect she’s turned out a handful, coming from that kind of background. When did all this take place? When did you stay with Coco Hampton and her guardian?’

  ‘I – er – can’t quite remember the exact date.’ Oliver cleared his throat, and at the same time adjusted his tie, which was one better, he supposed, than nervously jangling the change in his pocket.

  ‘Some time ago, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Some time ago, I think that was it, can’t quite remember, not exactly.’

  ‘Good. Well, as long as you have a place at arr aye em dee aye, or somewhere, then you are at least on course, are you not? At least you have that satisfaction, a good start, before the long periods of resting set in.’

  John Plunkett walked quickly out of the library, leaving Oliver staring at nothing in particular as people do when waiting in banks or post offices for their turn to come.

  He had not thought that his father would be exactly overjoyed at his intention to become an actor, but even so he had hoped for a little more. A little more reaction, even anger or impatience, a few more questions about how he planned to embark on his career, what roles he might be thinking of playing, not just a quick enquiry or two before scurrying off like a rabbit to its burrow.

  Oliver had even prepared a few impassioned speeches about the need for people like himself still to enter the noble profession of David Garrick and Laurence Olivier. Speeches about how he thought that people like him could bring fresh blood to acting in this stark post-war era. But he had been give no opportunity to deliver them, and was not now, he recognised all too clearly, ever going to be.

  His father had quietly and efficiently closed the door on the matter of his younger son’s becoming a member of the dreaded profession, an actor, a strolling player. Happily his other two sons were everything that they should be, fine upstanding members of the Plunkett family, not in the least bit interested in the demi-monde, the raffish, classless world of the theatre. Obviously, judging from John Plunkett’s acceptance of the situation, he had long ago made up his mind that he would have to make do with the first two and forget the third son, wipe him off the slate, take his name out of the family bible, or – as he had perhaps just done – simply shrug him off.

  As far as he was concerned Oliver was now a closed book, a skeleton in the proverbial cupboard, and, satisfyingly, a Lowell – and not a Plunkett. Oliver realised that he had been lured into the change of name as quietly and efficiently as his father had exited from the room, and that he had given his consent without much protest, which was a little humiliating. He now wondered, rather too late in the day, whether his mother too would be upset.

  Not that anything much upset his mother nowadays, except Charley the former hunt servant, but even so she might have misgivings, however much she pretended otherwise. He pushed this thought quickly away from him. There was nothing much he could to about it now, and, he realised, with a growing sense of maturity, there was nothing much that he would ever be able to do about his mother. She was after all now someone else, not entirely his mother, and yet not entirely not his mother either, but someone quite different, as people who run off leaving their responsibilities to be taken care of by everyone else always seem to be.

  Oliver was still staring at nothing when the library door opened once more and his father was yet again revealed, of a sudden, and quite incongruously, reminding Oliver of the famous painting of Jesus with the lamp that had used to hang in the corridor outside his nursery, and one of his brothers had broken when they had been playing indoor cricket on a rainy day.

  ‘By the way, in view of – your announcement. I have been thinking it over, and I have to tell you that I think it will be as well if I have Father Bill say a mass for you on the first of every month.’

  At long last Oliver had found something suitable at which to stare – his father’s face. Disconcertingly his father stared right back, at the same time giving a sharp nod, as a priest might give an altar boy when he was too late with the water and wine, or otherwise remiss. Realising that clearly something was expected of him, some form, if not of penitence, at least of gratitude, Oliver said, ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  Another sharp nod and John Plunkett was gone, and Oliver sank thankfully down into one of the much worn brown leather library seats. If he had not known that due possibly to having three sons, not to mention a butler cum valet, it was his father’s nightly habit to measure the amount taken from the decanters, Oliver would have poured himself a much, much larger whisky. Instead he contented himself with draining his glass and staring at the chimneypiece.

  He was going to be prayed for by Father Bill once a month, in the family chapel, doubtless with all the locals and friends of the house joining in. He was going to be prayed for, because it was that serious going into the theatre.

  It was that dangerous.

  It was that shocking.

  Oliver closed his eyes momentarily, of a sudden experiencing a sublime feeling of danger ahead, as if the theatre was a dangerous motor bike, or a sports car with its speedometer fixed to travel at a certain frantic pace. If the whole family and their dependants were going to pray for him, Oliver’s life must, truly, be going to be one fantastic roundabout of colour and excitement. After all, if it was not, they would not be going to pray for him, would they?

  ‘Yes, do pray for me! Pray for me to be a big star, sir,’ Oliver called out suddenly and mockingly to the various ancestors staring down from the library walls, a few minutes after his father had left the room. Of a sudden, as if, as always, from nowhere, Clifton the family butler stood at the open library door.

  ‘Of course, Master Oliver, we all will,’ he replied smoothly on his master’s behalf. ‘We will all pray for you, and your success. Meanwhile, if you don’t mind putting me in the picture, Master Oliver, are we leaving for arr aye em aye dee today, did you say?’

  Oliver sprang up. Clifton always listened at doors, and Oliver for one could not blame him. It saved so much trouble, made for a sort of shorthand, kept him quickly in touch with all the family politics.

  ‘Ramad?’ he asked, pronouncing it the way
all his friends did, as opposed to the refined Plunkett family delivery. ‘Am I leaving for London today, Clifton? Well, not quite today. Have to see Hopkins and prise a few pennies out of him first, perhaps – um – ten pounds, if I’m lucky. But after that, yes. I am.’

  ‘Mr Hopkins has already been apprised by me, and you will find the result on the hall table in your name. But I expect you have yet to find lodgings in London, have you not, Master Oliver?’

  Before Oliver could reply Clifton produced a card from the pocket of his striped waistcoat. The card was small and cheap, but the writing on it was quite clear.

  ‘Try Mrs Beasley in Tavistock Street, sir. Always sure of a good warm bed and a nice hot cup of cocoa there. Very important, that. Actors need to keep healthy when they are resting, and good plumbing and dry sheets will help you do that.’

  ‘I hope not to be resting very much, Clifton, but thank you anyway.’

  ‘The day has at last come, then, Master Oliver. How I envy you! But there you are, it was not to be. Mother never wanted to leave Yorkshire, and I never wanted to leave Mother. So, as we both know, it just was not to be.’ Of a sudden Clifton hummed ‘An actor’s life for me’, only a short bar, but surprisingly tuneful. ‘I shall look forward to coming to London to see you as Hamlet, Master Oliver. You have the legs for the tights, I always think. Bit difficult now though, Hamlet, after Laurence Olivier’s film, but nevertheless, it must be tackled anew in your generation, I would say. Every generation must struggle with a Hamlet or two, as you know, and I would like to see you as just one of those, at least. Although how you find a new and original interpretation is going to be something of a struggle, I would say.’

  ‘Tell me, you do – I mean, you actually do go along with Olivier’s Oedipal interpretation, don’t you, Clifton?’

  They were both leaning against the library shelves now, which was their wont on rainy days since Oliver was quite small, and following his mother’s flight from the family home, Clifton had been revealed to be the only member of the family to take an interest in matters artistic. The older boys having grown up boasting that they hardly ever opened a book and dreading the day when they might be forced to start, Clifton had been a godsend.