returned. Given that this was the last time we would see each other, I was prepared to be generous. Jim Stokes was not. He sniffed at me and suggested that I might like to take acting lessons between now and my next engagement. This was rich, coming from him, who lumbered about the stage, bovine in both grace and wit.
âYouâre very overweight,â I said. âI think you might be dead soon.â
With my make-up removed and back in mufti, I made my farewells to the mostly pleasant cast. They at least expressed some small regret at my departure. Percy Wavel wasnât on the premises, so I was unable to farewell him. He was probably drinking in a nearby hotel.
I emerged from the theatre into Bourke Street at 6.00 p.m. It was a bright, hot day, and the pavements were busy. I experienced a sudden surge of misanthropy â I am prone to this â and hated all the smiling faces for their complacent belief that they had something to smile about, and hated with equal vehemence the glum faces for their self-important certainty that their problems mattered.
It had been arranged that we would have drinks before dinner. Brian had managed to buy a bottle of single-malt whisky â a luxury now, and more than ever the preserve of the rich and unscrupulous. I presumed Brian had found the whisky through someone in Military Intelligence. How else could he have come by it? He didnât appear to be working. He claimed he was looking for work and that he had sufficient savings to see him through for a while. He denied, as he did every time I raised it, that Intelligence was his master. The denial was proof enough for me that he was lying. However heâd come by the whisky, we were to enjoy it before dinner. Initially Iâd baulked at the idea, not wishing to engage in small talk with the Gilberts for a moment longer than was necessary. However, it occurred to me that a few whiskies would anaesthetise me against their company over dinner. I said Iâd be home by 6.30.
The air was still, and I decided to walk home, as it would save me the cost and the discomfort of the tram ride. As I walked out of the city and up Lygon Street, I was filled with an extraordinary romantic yearning. I passed the cemetery, and was chillingly conscious of the secret it held. My role in the disposal of a corpse (had it really been only, what, twelve weeks ago?) was unlikely now ever to be discovered, but the guilt and the awareness of my foolishness would never leave me. I have no wish to go over this matter here. My memoir A Thing of Blood will answer all queries.
These uncomfortable feelings were soon supplanted by an awful ache that I recognised as the absence of a woman in my life. Iâd been disappointed in the past, both distant and recent, and perhaps, too, Iâd been a disappointment â although I acknowledge this more in the interest of balance than truth. Oneâs own capacity to disappoint is never the equal of this capacity in others.
I enjoyed the vague melancholia of loneliness for a while, but suppressed it when I opened the gate to Motherâs house in Garton Street. I entered, and heard chatter and laughter coming from the front room on the left. I couldnât face them without first taking a bath and washing the Tivoli off my skin.
I filled the bath with cold water, defying the current regulations as to depth. I sank into it and gasped. My body quickly adjusted, and I must have dozed off, because I was awakened by Brian splashing water in my face.
âWeâre waiting for you, Will. Get a wriggle on.â
He was smiling his gentle whisky-smile, and generally exuding the air of a man for whom all was right with the world.
âI donât have to like them,â I said.
âThat is a true statement. You donât have to like them, and as you donât actually like anyone, they might learn not to take it personally.â
âYou should have seen the way Peter Gilbertâs
âYouâre very overweight,â I said. âI think you might be dead soon.â
With my make-up removed and back in mufti, I made my farewells to the mostly pleasant cast. They at least expressed some small regret at my departure. Percy Wavel wasnât on the premises, so I was unable to farewell him. He was probably drinking in a nearby hotel.
I emerged from the theatre into Bourke Street at 6.00 p.m. It was a bright, hot day, and the pavements were busy. I experienced a sudden surge of misanthropy â I am prone to this â and hated all the smiling faces for their complacent belief that they had something to smile about, and hated with equal vehemence the glum faces for their self-important certainty that their problems mattered.
It had been arranged that we would have drinks before dinner. Brian had managed to buy a bottle of single-malt whisky â a luxury now, and more than ever the preserve of the rich and unscrupulous. I presumed Brian had found the whisky through someone in Military Intelligence. How else could he have come by it? He didnât appear to be working. He claimed he was looking for work and that he had sufficient savings to see him through for a while. He denied, as he did every time I raised it, that Intelligence was his master. The denial was proof enough for me that he was lying. However heâd come by the whisky, we were to enjoy it before dinner. Initially Iâd baulked at the idea, not wishing to engage in small talk with the Gilberts for a moment longer than was necessary. However, it occurred to me that a few whiskies would anaesthetise me against their company over dinner. I said Iâd be home by 6.30.
The air was still, and I decided to walk home, as it would save me the cost and the discomfort of the tram ride. As I walked out of the city and up Lygon Street, I was filled with an extraordinary romantic yearning. I passed the cemetery, and was chillingly conscious of the secret it held. My role in the disposal of a corpse (had it really been only, what, twelve weeks ago?) was unlikely now ever to be discovered, but the guilt and the awareness of my foolishness would never leave me. I have no wish to go over this matter here. My memoir A Thing of Blood will answer all queries.
These uncomfortable feelings were soon supplanted by an awful ache that I recognised as the absence of a woman in my life. Iâd been disappointed in the past, both distant and recent, and perhaps, too, Iâd been a disappointment â although I acknowledge this more in the interest of balance than truth. Oneâs own capacity to disappoint is never the equal of this capacity in others.
I enjoyed the vague melancholia of loneliness for a while, but suppressed it when I opened the gate to Motherâs house in Garton Street. I entered, and heard chatter and laughter coming from the front room on the left. I couldnât face them without first taking a bath and washing the Tivoli off my skin.
I filled the bath with cold water, defying the current regulations as to depth. I sank into it and gasped. My body quickly adjusted, and I must have dozed off, because I was awakened by Brian splashing water in my face.
âWeâre waiting for you, Will. Get a wriggle on.â
He was smiling his gentle whisky-smile, and generally exuding the air of a man for whom all was right with the world.
âI donât have to like them,â I said.
âThat is a true statement. You donât have to like them, and as you donât actually like anyone, they might learn not to take it personally.â
âYou should have seen the way Peter Gilbertâs