Low life
Apollo aftermath
Jeffrey Bernard
To Camden Town for lunch with two literary ladies last Monday and what a delight it was. I had almost forgotten what a pleasure the company of women can afford. It was a civilising two hours we had of it. Beryl surprised me a little when she said she no longer much liked writing. Anna has to write. I believe that she once started a novel on the back of a shopping list.
They asked me about the play and in passing I mentioned the fact that I have been depressed ever since the first night at the Apollo. I told them that my brother Oliver says it is 'post-natal depression'. Beryl said she feels miserable whenever she finishes a novel. Thank God Keith Waterhouse doesn't feel depressed. If he does he must be as good an actor as Peter O'Toole.
I had received a royalty cheque in the morning and I still felt decidedly autumnal as I walked to the bank in Soho Square. The colour of the leaves on those lovely trees did not alleviate the gloom. When I left the bank I fell over crossing Greek Street. It was painful. The weakness of my legs has become an obsession. I totter from place to place and I shall have to go into hospital yet again to see what they can do if anything. There is no weight left to lose.
Then I went to Camden Town for the lunch and Beryl and Anna very soon made me forget the aches and pains. At the end of the meal Anna put the left-over crispy duck in a doggy bag for her Puss she used to mention in 'Home life'. It was an almost domestic scene and I couldn't help but wonder what the Sunday Telegraph's pro- file writer would have made of this boring drunk's behaviour. Not once did I collapse under the table and vomit on the floor. Anyway, it was with great reluctance that I taxied back to Soho dropping Beryl off on the way. She has just recommended me for a small but well paid bit of hackery and I was delighted to get it. She sent me a lovely bunch of flowers on the day of the launch of More Low Life. What a thoughtful woman.
But then, alas, back to Soho and a post mortem in the pub about the death of the Red Baron. He was murdered two weeks ago and in a particular nasty way. (Is there a nice way?) I nicknamed him the Red Baron when he first came into the pub about six years ago. He didn't look any-
thing like Baron Von Richtofen but- he looked even more Germanic than Goring in lederhosen. He wore leather, had a monocle, carried a cane and he had an old world courtesy that must have died out in 1933. He spoke English well and very precisely and • he could be a bore. He worked, I don't know what at, in a solicitor's office. In his free time he went in for rough trade. A sometimes dangerous sport, as it proved to be. A slightly sinister aspect of his behaviour was that when he had picked up a young man he would insist that they go to church before they went to bed. So, two weeks ago, he was found murdered. As well as other parts of his anatomy, his throat had been cut. No one deserves that.
A neighbour told the police that she saw two men, one middle-aged, the other pretty young, one of them covered in blood, running from his house. The hunt is on and it is to be hoped that they catch the bastards. It is very odd that none of us knew his real name. He was like a man playing a small role in a novel, drifting in and out and skipping the odd chapter. But he always came back, anonymous but so instantly recognisable. I have never known anyone before whose fate it was to be murdered. Hollywood has made it routine. I have been saddened by newspaper re- ports of murder, but now I have really gruesome pictures in my head. And why him? Anybody could have robbed him without cutting his throat. And we never even knew his name. Rest in peace Red Baron.
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