Travels Through An Imaginary Landscape

Everingham & Redgrave (Deceased), Part Two

EPISODE ONE: EVERINGHAM & REDGRAVE (DECEASED)

PART TWO

          So it was that I went to the pictures with CJ Sturridge. The cinema was largely empty, a fact which Sturridge noted with marked disapproval. “Where is everybody?” he muttered as we settled into prime seats in the middle of the third row. “Why does nobody appreciate well crafted entertainment anymore?”

          “Well I can tell you where most of the student population are right now,” I couldn’t help retorting. Sturridge merely sunk a little lower into his seat but I couldn’t help noticing that little private smile of his playing momentarily across his lips.

          The film was as good as I remembered it and all the better for being played out on the big screen of a cinema and not some scratchy television set as I had always seen it previously. For ninety minutes I managed to lose myself in the trials and tribulations of Margaret Lockwood and Michael Redgrave as they hunted a missing English governess on a train speeding through central Europe.

          It was barely after eight o’clock when we emerged, blinking, into the foyer. The other few cinema-goers soon straggled away down the stairs but Sturridge paused and seemed momentarily preoccupied as he gazed blankly out of the window. I stood and scratched nervously at the back of my head, suddenly feeling awkward once again. Then, appearing to recollect himself, Sturridge turned to me abruptly. “Well then? How about a drink to say thank-you for rescuing me?” he said brightly. “Unless, of course, you have other plans.”

          “No, nothing planned. Absolutely not,” I quickly replied.

          “Excellent. Steer me bar-wards!”

          So we strode across to the bar and Sturridge bought me a drink. And then another. And then another. Not wanting to blow my own trumpet or anything but me and the great author really got on rather well. We talked about anything and everything that came into our heads; literature, cinema, politics, sport… But for some reason Sturridge seemed to be ruminating on the nature of classic story-telling and he kept returning again and again to the film we had just seen.

          “Of course The Lady Vanishes has all the classic ingredients,” he suddenly announced somewhere around our fourth whisky and soda. “A dash of foreign adventure, the romance of the steam train, a devious villain to outwit…”

          “The star crossed lovers thrown together by circumstance…” I added.

          “Exactly!” exclaimed Sturridge. “The delightfully plucky Margaret Lockwood. And let’s not forget that Michael Redgrave was a handsome old devil in his day.”

          “He’s certainly about the only person I’ve ever found attractive in a tweed suit and a bow tie,” I confessed.

          “A character admirably fitted for purpose. Who better to escort you on a complex and dangerous adventure?”

          “Who indeed?”

          The conversation lulled as I sipped my whisky and Sturridge seemed to disappear into some kind of private reverie once more. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” I ventured cautiously.

          Sturridge looked up sharply. “I suppose that depends on just how personal,” he eventually responded.

          “Why did you really come to Bristol?” I asked. “I’m guessing it wasn’t the prospect of lecturing to a bunch of students that brought you here.”