Killings on Jubilee Terrace Read Online Free Page A
Author: Robert Barnard
gone into a retreat?’
‘Hospital would be better,’ said Philip Marston, who played Peter Kerridge. ‘People don’t always come out of hospital.’
‘Right. Good thinking. Here’s what you say…’
And so it was filmed. Lady Wharton leant over to the Kerridges and whispered: ‘It’s the new curate. While the vicar is in hospital.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Norma Kerridge.
‘I don’t know. But his family are looking very worried.’
And so the way was paved for George Price’s departure from the serial. A drunken star might perforce be tolerated, had been often enough in this and other soaps, but a drunken bit-part player was as expendable as a spent match.
Particularly as the new curate looked and spoke the part to perfection.
‘Will you, Arthur Bradley,’ he piped, in a voice that seemed to have broken only yesterday, with a benign smile that suggested he had no notion they had been sleeping together for years, ‘take this woman, Maureen Cooke…’
The pair stood there, half-proud, half-sheepish, making their responses firmly. The congregation buzzed with satisfaction. It was going to be a lovely wedding. Bet Garrett, Bill’s wife, whoplayed Rita Somerville, a florist with a fine line in snobbery and spite, whispered cynically to her neighbour: ‘Bill’s enjoying this, the bastard. All we had was a measly registry office affair.’
‘That’d be all Arthur and Maureen would have had,’ said the neighbour, ‘in real life.’
‘Oh, don’t talk about real life. In real life Bill’s a lousy husband, but he’s obviously going to be a pillar of strength to Maureen, Arthur and the kids. It ought to be as unlucky to mention real life on a soap set as to say “Macbeth” in the theatre…’
The ring bit went well, with Bill, as Bob Worseley the best man, making a nice thing out of forgetting which pocket it was in. Actually he had forgotten which pocket he had it in. Maureen squeezed some genuine tears as they were made man and wife, and the cameras caught their glisten. Garry Kopps as Arthur looked proud and pleased as punch as they walked down the aisle, and there was a jolly little scene as they signed the book.
‘Do you know that was my first wedding?’ the new curate improvised, as he shook their hands and wished them well.
‘I couldn’t have done it better myself,’ said Arthur.
Reggie was delighted, and said he’d keep it in. He took the new curate’s address for Accountsand Casting, and said that – who knew? – there might be something else for him before too long.
‘We’ve got a TB sequence coming soon. You know – young man dying. The curate could play a part.’
‘Strike a blow against the “brought here from the Indian sub-continent” school of thought?’ asked Stephen Barrymore sagely.
‘Right. That could be effective. Start a lot of discussion which is what we like. With all these programmes where the viewer talks back, discussion is of the essence though, God knows, ninety-five per cent of it is unutterable tripe. Well, as I say, we may be in touch…Kevin Plunkett. Nice sound, eh?’
Outside the police had thrown a cordon round the spectators, the real spectators, come to see the cast of Jubilee Terrace . They were kept well back, while the mock spectators – the congregation at the wedding of Arthur and Maureen – gathered on the steps of the church, little bags of confetti in their hands. Reggie Friedman was in an ecstasy of busyness arranging the cast and the extras in the best positions.
‘I’m going to do it once,’ he said, ‘just the once. They’re going to come out, and your reactions will be what’s shown. So get it right.’
It was in the final moments before Arthur and Maureen came through the door that a youngishman approached one of the policemen keeping back the knot of real spectators. Luckily the constable had been a viewer before he joined the force (there had been precious little time since), and he recognised
‘Hospital would be better,’ said Philip Marston, who played Peter Kerridge. ‘People don’t always come out of hospital.’
‘Right. Good thinking. Here’s what you say…’
And so it was filmed. Lady Wharton leant over to the Kerridges and whispered: ‘It’s the new curate. While the vicar is in hospital.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Norma Kerridge.
‘I don’t know. But his family are looking very worried.’
And so the way was paved for George Price’s departure from the serial. A drunken star might perforce be tolerated, had been often enough in this and other soaps, but a drunken bit-part player was as expendable as a spent match.
Particularly as the new curate looked and spoke the part to perfection.
‘Will you, Arthur Bradley,’ he piped, in a voice that seemed to have broken only yesterday, with a benign smile that suggested he had no notion they had been sleeping together for years, ‘take this woman, Maureen Cooke…’
The pair stood there, half-proud, half-sheepish, making their responses firmly. The congregation buzzed with satisfaction. It was going to be a lovely wedding. Bet Garrett, Bill’s wife, whoplayed Rita Somerville, a florist with a fine line in snobbery and spite, whispered cynically to her neighbour: ‘Bill’s enjoying this, the bastard. All we had was a measly registry office affair.’
‘That’d be all Arthur and Maureen would have had,’ said the neighbour, ‘in real life.’
‘Oh, don’t talk about real life. In real life Bill’s a lousy husband, but he’s obviously going to be a pillar of strength to Maureen, Arthur and the kids. It ought to be as unlucky to mention real life on a soap set as to say “Macbeth” in the theatre…’
The ring bit went well, with Bill, as Bob Worseley the best man, making a nice thing out of forgetting which pocket it was in. Actually he had forgotten which pocket he had it in. Maureen squeezed some genuine tears as they were made man and wife, and the cameras caught their glisten. Garry Kopps as Arthur looked proud and pleased as punch as they walked down the aisle, and there was a jolly little scene as they signed the book.
‘Do you know that was my first wedding?’ the new curate improvised, as he shook their hands and wished them well.
‘I couldn’t have done it better myself,’ said Arthur.
Reggie was delighted, and said he’d keep it in. He took the new curate’s address for Accountsand Casting, and said that – who knew? – there might be something else for him before too long.
‘We’ve got a TB sequence coming soon. You know – young man dying. The curate could play a part.’
‘Strike a blow against the “brought here from the Indian sub-continent” school of thought?’ asked Stephen Barrymore sagely.
‘Right. That could be effective. Start a lot of discussion which is what we like. With all these programmes where the viewer talks back, discussion is of the essence though, God knows, ninety-five per cent of it is unutterable tripe. Well, as I say, we may be in touch…Kevin Plunkett. Nice sound, eh?’
Outside the police had thrown a cordon round the spectators, the real spectators, come to see the cast of Jubilee Terrace . They were kept well back, while the mock spectators – the congregation at the wedding of Arthur and Maureen – gathered on the steps of the church, little bags of confetti in their hands. Reggie Friedman was in an ecstasy of busyness arranging the cast and the extras in the best positions.
‘I’m going to do it once,’ he said, ‘just the once. They’re going to come out, and your reactions will be what’s shown. So get it right.’
It was in the final moments before Arthur and Maureen came through the door that a youngishman approached one of the policemen keeping back the knot of real spectators. Luckily the constable had been a viewer before he joined the force (there had been precious little time since), and he recognised