Rod Tisdale’s final message to the world, the sixth (or, if you count the pilot, seventh) episode of The Strutters was on a theme he had used before. In What’ll the Neighbours Say? much of the comedy had derived from the conflict between the wildly bohemian (if slightly overmature) Bernard Walton character and his more conventional neighbours, the Strutters. In The Strutters, the reactionary disapproval of the Colonel and his wife was moved to the centre of the action, and directed at everything in general and at their son in particular. This character, played by Nick Coxhill, became increasingly indistinguishable from the Bernard Walton character in What’ll the Neighbours Say? He it was now who turned up in episodes with black girlfriends or wearing kaftans (sit cams must be the only places in the world where kaftans are still worn as a symbol of Bohemianism) or playing music too loud. (In the original script for this last plot, Rod Tisdale had gone daringly modern and had the character smoking pot, but West End Television, feeling this was a bit strong, had changed it to playing music too loud, which, as they said, ‘made the same point’.)
Having reasserted the basic polarities of his traditional script, Rod Tisdale seemed determined to adapt all his old plots for the new series. But for the unfunny intervention of death, there was little doubt that all of the What’ll the Neighbours Say? storylines would, in time, have reappeared in the guise of episodes of The Strutters. However, it was not to be, and with the appointment of Willy and Sam Tennison, who knew what direction the series would take? (Actually, one could have a pretty good guess. It was only a matter of time before the Nick Coxhill character was supplied with a dizzy wife to exchange darlings with, and Colonel and Mrs Strutter were moved back into subsidiary roles.)
All this preamble is necessary to explain the reason for the night filming that was so disturbing the rehearsal schedule of The Strutters. In Episode Six (or, if you count the pilot, Seven) the plot, simplified (bit not much) was as follows:
Colonel Strutter and his son argue violently about politics. The Colonel is a true-blue Conservative (jokes about being blue in the face too) and the Nick Coxhill character is a follower of Marx (sequence of jokes about Groucho, Harpo and Chico, which are compulsory in all sit corns which mention Marx). The son, in a kaftan, then meets a friend, also in a kaftan, who has just started a new political party, the Conservation (jokes about recycled paper and brown rice) and Union (brassiere jokes about ‘One out, all out’) Party. Friend suggests son should bridge the gap between the generations and invite his father to come and speak at the inaugural meeting of the new party. Son rings mother, who takes message and, daffily, mishears ‘Conservation and Union Party’ as ‘Conservative and Unionist Party’. End of Part One. Commercial Break.
Part Two opens with Colonel and Mrs Strutter (on film) in the street, looking for the venue of the meeting and being amazed by the Bohemianism of the people they see going in. (All the extras involved wear kaftans to demonstrate their Bohemianism and have long hair and beards, thus adding considerably to the make-up bill for the episode.) The rest of Part Two is a studio sequence of the actual meeting in which misunderstandings abound, and everyone gets the wrong end of every available stick with, as in all good sit coms, ‘hilarious consequences’.
The above plot had appeared in a very early episode of What’ll the Neighbours Say? in which Bernard Walton formed a new political party called ‘The Brigade of Hard Red Unions’, which his father (a character who didn’t get on with Bernard and was quickly dropped from the series) misheard as ‘The Brigade of Guards Reunion’. With, once again, ‘hilarious consequences’.
The only difference between the two was that in The Strutters episode, all the other regular characters went along to the meeting to witness the Colonel’s discomfiture. Which meant that Reg the golf club barman once again displayed his trousers, and Charles Paris had to turn up to West End Television for a nine p.m. make-up call, before being taken by coach to the condemned road in Clapham which the Location Manager had selected for the night’s filming.
All the impedimenta of filming lay ready when the coach arrived. The crew had been booked for the full night and so were guaranteed ‘Golden Time’ (the best rate of overtime), regardless of when they finished. As a result the men in lumberjack checked shirts hadn’t told them to slow down and they had been very efficient.
It was still a warm summer evening and not quite dark. But a fierce glow brighter than daylight came from the terrace of houses which was to be used as the location. Huge lights on tall metal stands were trained on them ready for filming. Cables ran from these to a variety of vans and lorries. Make-up caravans and mobile dressing rooms spread down the street. The double-decker bulk of the location caterers’ bus loomed to one side. Extras in beards and kaftans sat around, plotting as ever how to get personally ‘directed’ by the director, thus raising their status (and fee) to that of ‘walk-on’. There could be no doubt that a film crew was around.
So was a large crowd of gawpers. This was inevitable. The paraphernalia always attract an audience, and the clemency of the weather increased their numbers. Many had been standing outside local pubs and followed the film transport with interest. It was not an area where a great deal happened.
There was some raucous shouting from the crowd, but they seemed fairly good-humoured. Robin Laughton, the Floor Manager, walking round with his walkie-talkie, was of the opinion that they would soon disperse once the novelty had worn off and it got later.
The Location Manager, looking a little anxious, said he hoped that was the case. ‘There seem to be a lot more people round here than I expected. I thought all the houses were empty. Most of them are boarded up.’
‘Squatters, I should think,’ said Robin Laughton. ‘What time of day did you do your recce?’
‘Afternoon. Hardly anyone around then. Just the old couple who live in that house right in the middle. I fixed a fee with them all right.’
‘If you get trouble, maybe you’ll have to pay some of this lot off.’
The Location Manager nodded uncertainly. It was part of his job to carry round pockets full of flyers to buy off anyone who objected to the filming. ‘There are a lot of them, though.’
‘They’ll soon clear off once they see how boring it is. Don’t you worry, my son.’
‘Is Bob ready to start filming?’
Robin Laughton shook his head. ‘Dob’s not here yet.’
‘Wasn’t she coming in the coach?’
‘No, special dispensation, she was to come and get made up here.’
‘What, that old looney coming here in the Bentley? He’s probably driven her to the wrong place.’
‘No, no, we’ve sent a hire car for her. Old Barton’ll be safely tucked up in bed by now.’
George Birkitt, standing by Charles, had overheard the end of this conversation. ‘Oh no, it’s the bloody limit!’
‘What is?’
‘Bloody Dob. Coming straight here. Not getting made up at W.E.T. like the rest of us.’
‘Oh, come on. She’s tired. Needs as much rest as she can get.’
‘Don’t you think I’m bloody tired?’
‘I’m sure you are, but you’re not seventy-five.’
‘Huh. It’s all very well, everyone kow-towing to her all the time, but who’s carrying this bloody show, that’s what I want to know. I mean, really, I’m the one who has to keep the thing going. I carry the story-line every bloody week, while she just twitters around charmingly. And yet who gets the top billing? Huh. You know I’m not the sort of person to fuss over details, but I think that billing’ll have to be looked at on the next series.’
Aurelia arrived soon, clutching Cocky’s basket, full of apologies for being late. The minicab driver, like all minicab drivers, hadn’t known the way and had got lost. But she wouldn’t be a minute honestly, darling. And she hurried into the make-up caravan.
Charles strolled over to the lit area and leant against one of the tall light-stands. ‘’Ere, keep off that. Not stable,’ said the voice of one of the men in lumberjack checked shirts.
Charles moved away and looked at the stand. It was perfectly stable, in fact, mounted on a wheeled tripod. Metal locks were fixed down on the wheels to prevent it from slipping down the incline of the street. Still, television is full of people telling you not to touch this or that. Charles didn’t want to precipitate a demarcation dispute by arguing.
Rather than getting smaller, the crowd of sightseers had increased. He looked at his watch. Of course, pubs just closed. The thought made him feel in his pocket, where his hand met the reassuring contour of a half-bottle of Bell’s. Essential supplies for a night’s filming.
There was irony in the scene before him. Here was a television crew setting out to film television’s idea of an Alternative Society scene, and being watched by genuine members of the Alternative Society. It wasn’t just their make-up which distinguished the television extras from the people they were meant to represent. Even those who weren’t wearing kaftans looked far too groomed, far too designed. Television, particularly colour television, is a glamorising medium and it is very bad at reproducing authentic shoddiness.
But there was no doubt that the crowd of spectators was authentically shoddy. They were dusty and poor and bored. The interest the filming was arousing suggested that nothing else much happened in their lives.
Probably a lot of them were unemployed. And, as their numbers grew, their good humour seemed to diminish.
Charles heard another whispered consultation between the Floor Manager and the Locations Manager.
‘You have cleared the filming with the police, haven’t you?’
‘Of course I have. First thing I always do.’
‘Oh well, if they don’t disperse once we start filming, we can get the cops to move them on.
‘I thought you were the one, Robin, who said they’d all disperse without any bother.’
‘There weren’t so many of them then.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Well, I think if you slip the noisiest ones a fiver, you’ll be all right.’
‘I might try it. See how things go.’
Bob Tomlinson bustled up to Robin Laughton. ‘Come on, where are the bloody artists? We don’t want to fart around all night, for God’s sake.’
‘I think Dob’s nearly ready.’
‘Then get her out here. And George. And the others. Come on, if we move, we can knock this lot off in an hour.’
But progress did not prove to be so fast. The artists were assembled and their first set-up, a walk along the road looking at house numbers, was rehearsed. The actors spoke their lines, and the director was satisfied.
‘Okay. Let’s go for a take.’ There was silence. The clapper-board was duly filmed and the item identified verbally by the Floor Manager. ‘And — Action!’
But the cast weren’t the only people who took the cue. As soon as the word was spoken, the crowd behind the camera started up their noise again, shouting and baying, chanting in unison.
Bob Tomlinson tried again. Again there was silence while the shot was set up. Again, as soon as he cued the actors, the crowd started up. ‘Talk to them, Robin,’ he said tersely.
Robin Laughton went across towards the crowd in his most jovial Floor Manager manner. He spread his arms wide for attention. ‘Listen, everyone, could we have a bit of hush while we’re working? We’re in a filming situation for a series called The Strutters, which you’ll be able to see on your telly screens in the autumn. It’s going to be a jolly funny show and I’m sure you’ll all enjoy it. So we’d be really grateful if you could give us a bit of hush while we’re doing our filming. Okay?’
‘Why?’ asked a tall black youth in a Bob Marley T-shirt.
‘Why?’ echoed Robin Laughton.
‘Yes, why? Why should we let you disrupt our lives just for some tatty television show?’
Robin was baffled. It was a question that had never occurred to him so he had never considered the answer to it.
The black youth spoke very fluently. He was obviously well educated and not randomly obstructive. He was making a political point. What was more, the rest of the crowd listened to him. He was their leader and they did what he said. The disruption seemed to be an organised protest.
Robin Laughton, unable to provide any sort of answer to the black youth’s question, wandered back to Bob Tomlinson and beckoned the Location Manager across. They conferred.
Then the Location Manager went across to the crowd. The black youth had his back turned and was talking to a group of other young men. The Location Manager joined the group and appeared to make some suggestion.
Suddenly the black youth leapt in the air, waving a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Hey, look, man — five pounds. You ever see one like that, man? Come on, everybody, this man’s giving away five pound notes. Make sure you all get one.’
‘No, no,’ protested the unfortunate Locations Manager. ‘I haven’t got enough for everyone. I just wanted to persuade everyone that — ’
‘What is it — bribery now?’ The black youth was suddenly very quiet. ‘Oh yes, money buy off everything, eh? Well, listen, man, why should we put up with you coming round here? What you say it is — comedy show? So you think the way we live’s funny, eh?’
‘No, not at all. We just want to get on with our work. Look, you wouldn’t like it if we came along and interfered with your work now, would you?’
This proved an unfortunate thing to say. ‘Our work, is it? Sorry, brother, we don’t have any work. That’s why we live here, you know. That’s why we live in these houses. That’s why we don’t like you making fun of our houses.’
The Location Manager was beginning to lose his temper. ‘But they’re not your houses. You’re only bloody squatters.’
‘And why are we squatters, man? We’re squatters because this lousy government don’t build no houses. We’re squatters because this government don’t care about anything except making the rich richer.’
Hearing the political turn of the conversation, Bob Tomlinson decided to join in with his common touch. ‘Listen, mate, I’m with you. I vote Labour, just like you do. I don’t want this lot in. But they’re here and all we have to do right now is to get the work I got to do done, and get into bed for a good night’s sleep. So what do you say? You give us no bother and we’ll give you no bother.’
He chuckled disarmingly, but didn’t persuade his audience. ‘What do you mean?’ asked the black youth. ‘You don’t give us any bother, huh? You take over the whole bloody street, and half the side streets of it. You fill the whole place with your bloody vans and buses and your big cars — all your bloody BMWs and Rovers and Bentleys and Daimlers and Mercs — and you say you don’t give us no bother. Why should we be put out by you fat cats, eh?’
The Location Manager nodded to Bob Tomlinson and walked away. ‘Now listen, son,’ said the Director in a new, hard voice. ‘He’s gone to phone for the police. We have police permission to be here, you know, and if they come along, I think you’d be wise to be out of sight.’
‘Oh, I see, it’s threats now, is it? What d’you think we care about the bloody pigs. Okay, so you’ve got police permission. Big deal. Did you ever ask our permission? Eh?’
‘We got permission from the couple in that house over there, who, as I understand it, are the only people with a legal right to live here.’
‘What do you know about legal rights?’
‘I know who deserves them.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean I know the difference between someone who works for a living and someone who just scrounges on the state.’
‘Hey, who you calling a scrounger, man?’
‘You know bloody well who I’m calling a scrounger.’
‘You want a punch in the mouth?’
‘Why, do you?’
Slap on his cue, at this moment Peter Lipscombe appeared beaming through the crowd. ‘I say, is everything okay?’
His appearance did at least avert the incipient fight between Bob Tomlinson and his antagonist, but it didn’t bring the start of filming any nearer. He tried to explain the complex costs of filming to the crowd, but they didn’t seem susceptible to budgetary arguments.
The actors were still standing round in the lit area, ready to resume work if required, but eventually Robin Laughton came across and suggested they should go into the caravans until the atmosphere settled a bit.
Charles found himself in the make-up caravan with Aurelia Howarth. The actress busied herself with Cocky in his little basket.
‘Quite frightening, all those people, aren’t they?’ he observed.
She shrugged. ‘I suppose so. It reminds me of entertaining the troops during the War. You got that same feeling of the power of a crowd.’
‘And you don’t find that frightening?’
‘Not really, darling.’ She sounded genuinely unconcerned, though a note of anxiety came into her voice as she turned back to the dog. ‘How’s my little boy then?’
‘Do you think we’ll get anything done tonight?’
‘Oh yes, surely, darling. They’ll get bored and go away.’
The noise had certainly died down. Charles looked through the caravan window. The crowd was dwindling.
‘Yes, they’ve made their point. And if the police do come. .’
‘I think it would be as well if the police didn’t come,’ Dame Aurelia Howarth observed shrewdly. ‘That might just antagonise them further.’ But her attention was elsewhere. ‘How’s my little Cocky then?’
‘Is he okay?’ Better show an interest.
‘He’s not a well boy.’
‘He means a lot to you.’
‘Of course. If anyone hurt Cocky, I’d. .’ She looked at Charles very straight and he felt the daunting power of those famous blue eyes. When she continued, her voice was very quiet, but very determined. ‘I’d kill them.’
Everything fell into place. As well as determination, there was obsession in the eyes. On three occasions Aurelia Howarth had had the opportunity. She had been definitely identified as the one who had threatened Sadie Wainwright. The PA had certainly spoken dismissively of Cocky. Was it not likely that Scott Newton and Rod Tisdale had done the same? Or was he back to his earlier blackmailing theory? Had Scott Newton witnessed Sadie’s death and. .?
Well, if there had to be a confrontation, there was no time like the present. Charles took a deep breath. ‘Aurelia, when Sadie Wainwright died — ’
But before he could say more, they were disturbed by a sudden shout of anger from outside. The crowd had once again erupted in fury. Charles and Aurelia rushed to the door of the caravan to see the cause.
It was the location caterers. Oblivious to the commotion, they had started to lay out a lavish selection of salads and meats and wines on trestle tables outside their bus. A section of the crowd had seen this and, infuriated by the ostentation, screamed for the others to join them as they rushed forward.
The horde descended, seizing plates and bowls and throwing them to the ground. When the film crew tried to intervene, they had food hurled at them. Within seconds, everyone was involved in a bizarre fight outside the location caterers’ bus.
Terrines of pate cracked against skulls, rare beef slices slapped in faces, glazed chicken wings rediscovered flight, strawberries spattered, mayonnaise flowed down denim shoulders, coleslaw matted into layered hair.
How the fight would have developed was impossible to say. An awful thud and a scream froze the action and drew everyone’s attention back to the lit area.
In the middle of it lay the still body of Robin Laughton, pinned beneath the metal mass of a toppled light.
‘Oh no.’ Aurelia Howarth’s face had lost all its colour. ‘Not another death. Oh, my God, no!’
But there was no doubt that the Floor Manager was in a death situation.