Ned Tucker was dead, I was out of work, and the traffic on the M6 was crawling along nose to tail.

I spotted a gap in the outside lane. A white van was coming up fast but I wasn’t in a patient mood. No, damn it, I was angry, and I pulled into the lane ahead of him. He didn’t like it and flashed his lights. I floored the accelerator and left him well behind. The classic Mini Cooper is probably the best city car ever but after months of crawling around Manchester my little car’s Downton tuned engine roared with pleasure to be let off the leash.

Okay, so perhaps I shouldn’t complain. I’d been booked to play ‘Nasty’ Ned Tucker for eight episodes of Brooklands, and that’s what I’d done. I had hoped for an extension but the powers that be, in their wisdom, decided the public had had enough of him.

But why, for Pete’s sake, did they have to bump him off? If they’d just written him out there would have been a chance of coming back in a later episode - look how the old stars of Coronation Street and EastEnders keep popping up again and again - but when you’re dead, you’re dead, finito!

I blame that new writer. She works on the ‘more violence, more viewers’ theory, and in no time at all she’d wiped out half the cast! It wasn’t so bad for me but some of those Brooklands people were household names, they’d been in the show for years.

Of course Sam Abrahams claims the credit for getting me the job, (Sam’s my agent, by the way) but I know I was hired simply because some bright spark at Granada Television came up with the idea that to have Eleanor Cooper’s ex in the show would give their ratings a much needed boost - particularly as the media had cast me as the villain in our much publicised divorce. 

Thinking about Eleanor added fuel to my anger. The road ahead was slightly uphill and two huge continental juggernauts were battling it out neck and neck, holding back the all vehicles behind them. I held my foot down and flashed passed them all as if they were standing still.

Eleanor had entered my life during a summer season at Bexhill-on-Sea. She breezed in to our little theatre just like the song - tall and tanned and young and lovely - to replace one of the girls whose pregnancy was beginning to be obvious. She singled me out immediately. Imagine, a gorgeous girl like her making a play for a broken-nosed roughneck like me? I couldn’t believe my luck. And I thought I’d won the lottery when, only a matter of days later she suggested we share a room.

“I want us to share everything, darling,” she cooed sweetly.

 Things happened quickly after that. A registry office wedding with the ladies of the company throwing confetti and enjoying a little weep, an Irish theme pub reception with the men doing their best to get me tiddly on Guinness, and a one-night honeymoon in the best hotel in Eastbourne with Eleanor whispering, “Wouldn’t it be cosy if my money was tucked up with yours in a nice little joint account at the bank?”

It was money that set me apart from the other eligible young men in the company. I know that now, of course. I stood out in that hard-up little group because, thanks to a small legacy, I was the only one who could afford to run a car.

But Eleanor was talented as well as beautiful and there was no one more pleased for her than me when she landed a major part in a big West End production. The show was a smash hit and I got the biggest shock of my life when, in the midst of all the excitement and celebration, she sued me for divorce, telling the press I’d done nothing to help her in her career. I couldn’t understand why she would say that because it was far from being the truth. My incredulity quickly turned to anger when I discovered that she’d filched what was left of my inheritance to buy the lease on a swank apartment overlooking Regent’s Park.   

A reporter caught me just as I’d discovered Eleanor had cleaned me out. I don’t remember what I said to him exactly but I do know I called her a few choice names and the very next day his tabloid newspaper appeared with the headline: ‘SMALL-TIME ACTOR JEALOUS OF WIFE’S WEST END SUCCESS.’

So there I was, the villain of the piece, and a right nasty piece of work I looked too in that picture they printed of me. But then I always do, looking mean is my stock in trade.

 

It was a second or two before it registered that my mobile was ringing. My Mini is quite noisy at high speed and the phone was in the pocket of my padded jacket on the back seat. I ignored it. I needed to stop at the next services anyway and it was bound to be Sam. I’d been badgering him for a new job ever since I knew Granada were not going to renew my contract.

I pulled into the services car park and dug out the phone. The missed call wasn’t from Sam after all; it was from Susan Simmons and I was intrigued.

Susan and her younger brother, Ronnie, had played a major part in my early life. The three of us had come together as children all of twenty years ago at the Cornish home of Stan and Marjorie Earnshaw. The Earnshaws were a childless couple, well past middle-age and comfortably off, who had decided one year to give some poor kids from London’s East End a seaside holiday. Stan was a bluff Yorkshireman who had made a tidy sum of money converting old Cornish buildings into holiday homes, his wife, Marjorie, was an enthusiastic member of the local Women’s Institute and the Amateur Dramatic Society. It was originally to have been just a one-off but we all got on so well together it went on to be repeated year after year until us Cockney kids were in our teens. ‘Uncle’ Stan died not so long ago. It was his legacy that Eleanor had helped herself to.

Susan and Ronnie’s father was a widower who, although confined to a wheelchair, did his best to run a small photographic shop in Stepney. And me, I was an orphan, forever being bundled from one care home to another. ‘Family’ was a word I didn’t know the meaning of until I went to the Earnshaw’s house in Cornwall.

Susan would climb trees with me and play football but all her little brother did was to follow me around like a faithful puppy. This irritated me and try as I might I couldn’t shake him off so I began to teach him things, like how to make rude noises with a blade of grass between his thumbs and to whistle through his fingers.

Years passed and the time came when Susan discovered that trying on pretty dresses in the big stores in Truro with ‘Auntie’ Marjorie was infinitely preferable to scrambling over rocks to catch crabs with me, so Ronnie replaced her as my eager confederate and willing accomplice. He treated me like a big brother and that was okay but with burgeoning adolescence my feelings for Susan were not in the least brotherly. I had a king-size crush on her. She was my first love and I still remember the tender moments we then shared. Looking back I must have been a fumbling, bumbling lover but at the time I was John Travolta and Susan was my Olivia Newton John. I was thirteen and, of course, I knew it all.

Marjorie Earnshaw would take us regularly to the Minack, that exquisite mock-Grecian amphitheatre overlooking the sea at Porthcurno. What a place of magic that was.  I was spellbound by the music and the costumes. It was there that I caught the acting bug and back in London I took to wandering around the West End, gazing longingly at the photographs outside the theatres. One day I spotted a crowd of kids waiting to be auditioned for a new production of Lionel Bart’s Oliver. On the spur of the moment I joined the queue and to my amazement and joy I was offered a part.

I never gave parental consent a second thought. My foster father at the time paid me scant attention anyway, his only interests in life being West Ham United and the local workingmen’s club, which was a laugh in itself because for as long as I knew him he was drawing unemployment benefit. Anyway, he refused point blank to allow me to accept the part. I was flabbergasted. I begged and pleaded with him to change his mind but he wouldn’t budge. Days went by and I’d just about given up hope when right out of the blue - and to my immense relief - he gave permission. I didn’t find out until later that he’d done a deal with a national newspaper for the story. I can still see the headline: ‘EAST END WAIF IS WEST END URCHIN’.

Ronnie blew his share of Uncles Stan’s bequest on a motorbike, a camera and the high life - not necessarily in that order - and much to Susan’s disapproval he followed me onto the stage. He telephones me regularly and the two of us meet as often as our respective engagements allow. We have a slap-up lunch, which I invariably end up paying for, and talk about the theatre, taking pictures (Ronnie inherited the love of photography from his father) and his latest romantic conquests. Susan, I regret to say, I haven’t seen for years. A pragmatist through and through, she wasn’t interested my world of make-believe. She studied hard and went to University, using Uncle Stan’s legacy sensibly for food and accommodation. She got a first in something or other. We keep in touch but it’s very much a Christmas and Birthday Card relationship. She only phones me when she’s worried about Ronnie.

Her number rang for a long time before she answered. “Nicky, hi!” she said eventually. “Sorry about that, I was in the office. I’ve come outside; I didn’t want everyone listening . . . It’s Ronnie. I’m worried about him.”

Luckily, she couldn’t see the look on my face.

“He’s with a little touring company, playing at village halls and the like.”

“Yes, I know.”

There was a moment’s silence before she said, quietly, “He’s worthy of better things, you know.”

That was a dig at me, and not unexpected. “Well, at least he’s got a job,” I retorted irritably.

“You’re not out of work!”  

“I am.”

“But you’re on television three times a week?”

“They shot my last scene yesterday. ”

There was another pause while that sank in. Then, completely ignoring my earth-shattering piece of news, she said, “I always talk to Ronnie on Saturdays. It took me ages to get him to understand that he can’t just phone when suits him - you know what a mobile junkie he is - but now he calls me every Saturday morning at half past ten. You can set your watch by him. He’s been doing it for months.”

I was impressed. “I should try that,” I said. “He phoned me in the middle of a take once. It was very embarrassing. I was furious with him but really it was my own stupid fault for taking my mobile on the set . . .”

 “But he didn’t call me last Saturday!” she cut in. “I’ve tried calling him but there’s no answer. I think his phone must be out of order or something.”

“Did you call his digs?”

“Yes, I did. The company are staying at a pub called The Grapes, in Chapel Heath. The people there said he was out. They said he’s always out taking pictures, when he’s not on the stage that is . . . He sells them to newspapers. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I’ve seen his work,” I said. “He’s remarkably good at it. He told me he’s toyed with the idea of giving up the stage to become a full-time freelance photojournalist.” I paused expecting her to say that anything would be better than the life of an itinerant actor but surprisingly, on this occasion, she didn’t.

“I really wanted to have a good heart-to-heart with him after Tuesday.”

I was confused. “I thought you said Ronnie only speaks to you on Saturdays?”

“By phone, yes. But on Tuesday I was in Cannford on business and being so close I made a point of going to see him.” She sighed. “Oh, Nicky. He’s seriously in debt - and he’s in love again.”

So what’s new about that? Uncle Stan would have described Ronnie as living a Champagne lifestyle on a bottle-beer income - and the good-looking young devil was forever in love with someone or other, his cornflower blue eyes and blond hair, which nowadays he wears shoulder-length, his slight build and his artistic sensitivity make him quite irresistible to fellow actors - of both sexes.

“He loses his heart with boring regularity,” I said, “but who knows, one day one of his romances may actually come to something.”

“Not this one I hope, this is one tough cookie. A female Hell’s Angel, if there is such a thing, with a ring through her nose and a tattoo on her neck.”

“Wow! Is she with the touring company?”

“No, she works for her parents who run the pub – and she’s a single mother with a young child to look after!”

“He needs a good talking to.”

“Quite, but it will do no good on the phone.”

Suddenly I knew what was coming.

“I know it’s asking a lot, Nicky, but I was hoping that if you had a couple of days free? I’d go myself but I’m really tied up . . .”

Well, I still had this thing for Susan, didn’t I? And I was between jobs. “Actually, I’m on my way south at the moment.” I said. “I suppose I could make a detour. What did you say the name of this place was?”

 

Following my roadmap I found myself driving along country lanes that were uncomfortably narrow even for my small car. Some miles out from Chapel Heath, a tractor towing a lethal-looking piece of agricultural equipment pulled out ahead of me. It took up almost the full width of the road and I had no option but to crawl along behind it. To add insult to injury, it spattered my windscreen with mud from its huge wheels – at least I hoped it was mud! I suppose it could have been worse, it could have been coming the other way.

After some of the longest minutes of my life the tractor finally pulled into a field leaving the road to me. With a sigh of relief I accelerated away. I passed a sign telling me that Chapel Heath welcomes careful drivers, rounded a bend and, “Wow!” Ahead of me was a panorama that was a location finder’s dream. Whitewashed, red-tiled cottages with roses round the doors, a grey-stone church spire pointing to the heavens, a comfortable-looking, half-timbered pub with a thatched roof, a duck pond, and a village green complete with a carefully mown cricket pitch in the middle. It was a scene straight off the cover of This England.

I parked the car in the cobblestone yard behind the pub and went inside, where it was all oak beams and shiny brass. All very welcoming, which was more than you could say for the po-faced barmaid who seemed to regard each new arrival with suspicion. She had that defiant, me-against-the-world look that I’d seen a lot in the streets where I grew up, women deserted by their partners who were struggling to raise a family and hold down a job of work at the same time.

Her blouse had a high collar so I couldn’t see a tattoo but the nose ring was there - plus an eyebrow stud that Susan hadn’t mentioned.

“What can I do for you?”

I realised I was gawping. “Er, just some information.”

She tensed visibly.

“I’m told the Pembroke Players stay here.”

“The theatricals?” she said cautiously. “Yes they do - but there’s none of them here at the moment.”

“Can you tell me where I can find them?”

“Try the village hall.”

“And where’s that?”

This was obviously one question too many and she let out an exasperated sigh. “On the other side of the common.”

A paying customer attracted her attention by banging his empty glass on the bar. She turned away.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Would you know if Ronnie Simmons is with them?”

 She swung back to face me. “You’ve not come here to cause trouble have you?”

“Certainly not!”

She looked away, her bottom lip trembled and she seemed to crumple. “I can’t say where he is,” she said quietly.

I walked thoughtfully back to my car. It looked as though I’d got a lot of straightening out to do. I drove off, turning left out of the car park thinking that if I kept the common to my nearside I would come to the village hall eventually.

On the right I passed the village shop and post office, and a small school but to my left there was an awful lot of grass. Eventually I reached a rather neglected-looking, wooden-clapboarded structure with a felt roof and broken windows. I pulled up outside. Surely not, I thought, but there, pinned in a glass-fronted notice board by the entrance doors, was a large notice that read:

 

                                THE PEMBROKE PLAYERS    

                                        Proudly Present

                                 WAITING ON THE BRIDGE

                                     A play in three acts

                                                By

                                      Quentin Minnow

               Evenings at 7:30 Commencing Monday 27th June.

                                (No performance Sunday)

 

So, the Players had been in Chapel Heath for four days, more likely five as they would need a day to set things up. I got out of the car and walked over to the notice board. The small print on the poster gave the ticket prices and went on to inform the paying public that this play was, ‘a landmark in drama’, ‘profoundly moving’, and offered audiences ‘a powerful and stimulating theatrical experience’.

Ronnie had not only copied me in his choice of career but also in the services of an agent. I could just imagine Sam Abrahams selling him this job. “It’s not everyone that gets a golden opportunity like this so early in their career, my boy,” he’d say. “You should grasp it firmly with both hands!”

How many touring company jobs had that big, cigar-smoking, wheeler-dealer talked me into? Still, he was right. A beginner in this crazy acting business couldn’t wish for better training.

I could hear a loud, male voice booming inside. I went in through the double doors and into in the world of theatre.

A completely bald man wearing bib and brace overalls was busily working on the footlights. A spiky-haired teenager in black jeans and a West Ham football shirt was sweeping the hall and a tall, elderly, scholarly-looking man with an incongruously looking, floppy bow tie was setting out rows of tubular metal and canvas chairs.

Tall canvasses painted to represent Doric columns screened the wings on either side of the stage, which was set to look like the interior of a room with a pair of large French windows in its centre. A screen behind the windows was painted to represent a garden. It was a universal set, one that could be used for anything, from Night Must Fall to See How They Run.

The loud, plummy, Donald Sinden-like voice emanated from a smallish, thickset man who was strutting about the stage shouting instructions. His profile was classically handsome and his hair was a shade too long for a man of his age. His velvet jacket was well cut but the cuffs and elbows were shiny, and from where I stood I could see that his shoes although polished to a brilliant shine were rather down-at-heel.

“Mayberry!” he shouted. “There’s damned graffiti on the garden again! Get your brushes out, there’s a good fellow . . . Where the devil’s the telephone, Melanie? I told you not to leave anything portable on the stage . . . Dolan! What am I always telling you about booking halls that we have to share with kiddies’ playgroups? Avoid them like the plague, dear boy, like the plague!”

This, without a doubt, was Ronnie’s boss, Roland Pembroke. When Susan mentioned the name it had meant nothing to me but I instantly recognised the face. I’d seen it in dozens of films and TV dramas but never in what you would call a starring role. I’d seen him dining on the Orient Express, in a lifejacket on the Titanic and running to a Spitfire in the Battle of Britain. He was playing another part now, that of an actor-manager of a touring theatre company, and I would say he was thoroughly enjoying it. I’d met dozens like him, old actors that just can’t stop acting.

“Excuse me, can I help you?”

I’d been so engrossed in watching Roland Pembroke that I didn’t hear someone come up behind me. I turned around to discover a slim girl of about twenty or so staring at me expectantly. The face behind the large, round glasses wore a worried expression. She was dressed in a shapeless, woolly cardigan, a thick, tweedy skirt and heavy-looking brogue shoes. She held a clipboard to her chest defensively

“Yes, I hope you can,” I said. My smile seemed to go some way in relaxing her a little. “I’m looking for Ronnie Simmons. I’ve tried ringing his mobile but think there’s something wrong with it.”

She looked away. “I’m sorry, Ronnie’s not here.”

Roland Pembroke strode to the front of the stage and peered out over the footlights. “I say! You there!” he bawled. “Are you from the newspaper?”

“No, sir,” I replied. (Why on earth did I call him ‘sir’?) “My name’s Nick Carter. I’m looking for my friend, Ronnie Simmons.”

He leapt down from the stage with amazing agility and strode purposefully across the hall, staring at me appraisingly all the way. He had a large, powerful, upper body but very short legs. I judged him to be a good four inches shorter than me and I’m not tall by today’s standards.

“Huh! Aren’t we all?” he muttered. He continued to look at me intently and then he had it. “I know you!” he cried, triumphantly.

Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to say, “You’re that nasty piece of work, Ned Tucker, in Brooklands.” I get it all the time. I’ve had little old ladies come up to me in a supermarket to tell me I should be ashamed of myself, I’ve even had lager louts wanting to take a pop at me. And that pleases me, because it means I must have made the character believable.

“You’re the fellow that married Eleanor Cooper!” he said.

I was disappointed, but then, I don’t suppose Roland Pembroke gets much time to watch telly.

I nodded.

He grinned and said jubilantly, “My dear boy, you are an ac-tor!” He pronounced the last word meticulously, giving each syllable its full value. Stepping closer, he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Tell me, are you, er, working on anything at the moment?”

“As a matter of fact I’m not.”

“Capital! Capital!” he cried, and began pacing the floor, thumping his fist into the palm of his hand. He stopped and swung back to face me. “Mr Carter, you are in the unique position of being able to save a theatrical production!”

“I am?”

“Most certainly! You, sir, are an actor currently, er, resting, right? And you are also a friend of young Simmons, are you not?”

 I wondered what on earth he was leading up to. “Guilty on all counts,” I said guardedly.

He turned his head heavenwards and closed his eyes, giving me the full benefit of that classic profile. “Your friend, Mr Simmons, has walked out on us.”

I was stunned! “He’s what?” I gasped. I looked around in desperation. The girl had backed off a few paces but was watching us intently, the clipboard still held firmly to her chest. The old man, the floor sweeper and the electrician had abandoned their tasks and had moved in closer.

“Yes, Mr Carter,” Roland Pembroke continued, “Young Simmons packed his bags and rode off into the sunset - on that noisy motorbike of his - without a word to anyone.”

“I don’t believe it! Ronnie wouldn’t do a thing like that!”

The girl took a cautious pace forward. “It’s true Mr Carter, he’s gone.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a ridiculously small handkerchief.

“It’s all that damned camera nonsense of his . . .” Roland Pembroke continued.

“Ronnie takes pictures for the newspapers,” Melanie explained. 

“It was taking over his life, preying on his mind. No man can serve two masters. I told him he must decide between acting and photography - and it looks very much as though he has done just that . . . I said earlier, Mr Carter, that you have the opportunity to save a theatrical production. I’ll now go further and say you can save an entire theatre company.”

I couldn’t accept that Ronnie would quit his job without an explanation. It wasn’t like him to let people down.

“How?” I said automatically. I was only half listening to him.

“By taking over Ronnie Simmons’ part in the play.”

That got my full attention. “You’re not serious!” I gasped.

Roland Pembroke drew himself up to his full height. “I most certainly am. Our budget doesn’t run to understudies.” He swept an arm in the direction of the others in the hall. “Neither Mr Mayberry nor Mr Dolan here is an actor and young Chambers is but an apprentice. Your friend’s departure on Saturday has resulted in the cancellation of four performances – four performances, Mr Carter! I’ve spent all week on the telephone trying to find a replacement for him without success, so it looks as though I’ll have to cancel tonight’s show as well . . . We cannot go on like this Mr Carter; our sponsors are not happy, not happy at all. Any more cancellations and I fear they will withdraw their support.” He paused and adopted a softer, almost a beseeching expression. “You, Mr Carter, are heaven sent. I beg you to stay, stay and save the Pembroke Players from extinction . . . What do you say?”

I looked around. All eyes were on me. Roland Pembroke was staring at me tight-lipped, anxiously waiting for my answer. Melanie’s hands were folded in front of the clipboard as if in prayer and the other three had crept even closer. For whatever reason, Ronnie had left these people in serious trouble. I couldn’t walk away, could I? I took a deep breath and agreed to take over his part.

“But only until you find a permanent replacement,” I added firmly.

There was an audible sigh of relief all round and Roland Pembroke’s smile would have given the Cheshire cat some competition. “Capital! Capital!” he said again. “When we’re back at The Grapes, remind me to give you one of those forms to fill in for Income Tax and National Insurance, that sort of thing. Mundane stuff I know but we do have to conform . . . You are familiar with the play, of course?” I said I was. “Then you’ll know that Quentin Minnow saw Seth Cartwright simply as a means of enabling the more powerful character, Sir William Haslett, to deliver the most dramatic lines in the play.”

I’d always thought Seth Cartwright was the hero of the piece but I kept that to myself. “I take it I’m Seth and you play Sir William?”

“Of course, dear boy, of course. Melanie, go with Mr Carter to The Grapes will you, m’dear? We are still paying for young Simmons’ room so tell them to put him in there . . . and don’t forget to see he has a script!” Turning back to me, he said, “Brush up on your lines, dear boy. I’ll give you a run-through tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp, right? Has to be early, we have a drama workshop in the afternoon at the sixth-form college. Come along if you like, the sooner you get into the swing of things the better. You’ll be surprised how interested young people are in the theatre nowadays. They have excellent facilities – and they provide free lunch!”