Mr Campion's Fault Read Free Page B

next term.
    With that we must and can cope, but Bertram’s death has left us with a more pressing problem as he was involved in – nay, he was the originator, producer and director of – a musical version of
Doctor Faustus
which is to be the centrepiece of our Speech Day celebration at the end of this term. (And lest you discard this letter at this point, let me assure you that I was never
totally
convinced about Bertram’s musical adaption of Marlowe, but he was set on it and we are now committed to it, the programmes having been printed and paid for.)
    In short, as we like to be in Yorkshire, where fair words often cost money, Bertram’s death has left our nascent musical production without a guiding hand on the tiller, so to speak. To be blunt, as we also like to be in Yorkshire, I am at a loss when it comes to things thespian, or I was until I remembered my goddaughter. I am also aware that unemployment in the acting profession is rife and therefore it is statistically possible, if not probable, given the rather cruel reviews of the musical show
Lucky Strike
which I read in the
Daily Telegraph
earlier this term, that you may be in need of a theatrical challenge on the getting-back-on-the-bicycle-after-falling-off principle.
    And whilst I appreciate that two performances of a syncopated
Doctor Faustus
in the School Hall here at Ash Grange (one for the staff and pupils, one for parents and visitors) hardly reeks of greasepaint and West End crowds, a ‘producer/director credit’ as I believe it is called, for an original (nay, experimental) dramatic production would surely fit well on to one’s curriculum vitae. There would, of course, be a small stipend with the post, which will be called Assistant Drama Teacher and which will run until the Christmas holidays.
    Although our pupils are all boys, we have several female members of staff and accommodation and board would be provided in the Headmaster’s Lodge as guests of my wife and myself.
    I do hope you will feel able to ride to our rescue on the flimsiest of obligations to a most recalcitrant godfather. Please convey to your husband both my best wishes and the enclosed note for his attention.
    In order to further save the school unnecessary postage, would you please also deliver the enclosed letter to your mother-in-law, Lady Amanda?
    Warmest regards,
    Brigham Armitage
    Post Scriptum:
    I hope it is clear from the desperate tone of this request that the vacant positions in question require filling
immediately
.
    ‘For a man who believes words are not cheap and should not be wasted, he doesn’t half go on,’ said Rupert Campion across the breakfast table. ‘Do you actually know this character?’
    ‘He’s my godfather,’ said his wife casually.
    ‘But do you actually
know
him? I’m sure I’ve got several godmothers whom I wouldn’t know from Adam and certainly not Eve.’
    ‘Given your family’s peculiarities that should be counted as a blessing,’ Perdita said without lifting her eyes from the letter she held in one hand as if balancing it against the triangle of toast in the other. ‘My parents were less conspicuous consumers of godparents and appointed only one from each sex. My godmother, being an actress, naturally abdicated all responsibility as soon as her agent offered her a spear-carrying role in some overblown medieval epic being filmed in Spain by Italians. She put her dogs – ghastly little chow things – into Battersea, gave her clothes to Oxfam, her furniture to the local church and jumped on the first plane heading for sun, Spain and fame. The last I heard, she’d married a bullfighter, but that was probably wishful thinking on her part.’
    Rupert watched his wife’s prim baby face as her large, round blue eyes followed the paragraphs of the letter again as she spoke, and not for the first time wondered how such a perfect young mouth could produce, when required, the voice of a middle-aged governess.
    ‘I haven’t seen
her
since my