Davie, who had moved down from Glasgow at the end of the war in an attempt to break a cycle of crime and punishment, was particularly keen to see Clive in a Western series – he admired both The Virginian and Rawhide equally. Clive had long since given up trying to explain that very few actors from Hampshire, especially actors from Hampshire known mostly for their radio work, had had much luck landing a part in either. Davie remained undeterred. In his mind’s eye, he said, he always saw Clive as a cowboy. Clive had always thought that Davie needed his mind’s eye tested.
Clive dropped into the Three Crowns at lunchtime on the day after the Comedy Playhouse recording to find Davie in a state of high excitement.
‘Monty called,’ he said. Monty was Clive’s agent and it was true that he didn’t call very often. ‘Do you think it’s The One?’
‘It could be, Davie.’
‘You can call him from here,’ said Davie, an offer indicating his level of excitement and his investment in Clive’s career.
The saloon bar was empty, so Clive let himself behind the bar and Davie poured him a half of bitter while he dialled Monty’s number.
‘So what’s the bad news?’
Monty had been an agent since the mid-1920s, and Clive never knew whether his best days were behind him or whether there had never been many good ones in the first place. He had approached Clive after a LAMDA performance of The Long and the Short and the Tall at Edinburgh, where Clive had made a pretty good fist of Private Smith, everybody said. Afterwards people were swarming over the insufferable Laurence Harris, who’d grabbed Bamforth for himself while the rest of them had been looking the other way; any idiot could play Bamforth and get noticed. When Monty sidled up to Clive in the bar and asked if he needed representation, Clive asked him why he wasn’t chasing Harris, like everyone else. What Clive wanted to hear from Monty was that he could see underneath the surface of performances, however flashy, to the true talent underneath. Instead, Monty said sadly that he was too old to chase after people, that he’d get trampled in the rush; he was, as he put it, ‘seeing what was left at the end’. Clive should have known then that Monty wasn’t someone with a lot of fire in his belly.
‘You always think there’s bad news,’ said Monty.
Clive didn’t say anything. He had found that this was the easiest way to unnerve Monty.
‘I can get the money up,’ he said eventually.
‘So the money’s no good.’
‘It’s BBC money. But even they can do a bit better.’
Clive stayed quiet again. If there was any bad news that didn’t involve money, he couldn’t imagine what it might be, but it was worth trying to flush it out.
‘And obviously I’m trying to get rid of the brackets.’
‘What brackets?’
‘In the title.’
‘I can’t hear any bloody brackets.’
‘Oh. Sorry. Barbara … and Jim.’
‘I’m still not hearing any brackets.’
‘Well, they’re sort of around the “and Jim”.’
‘The series is now called Barbara bracket and Jim?’
‘Bracket.’
‘What?’
‘After “Jim”. Close brackets.’
‘You’re saying that my character is now parenthetical?’
‘It’s just a little joke. To show that she’s the boss.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then,’ said Clive.
‘They told me not to tell you. But I thought I should.’
‘When was I supposed to find out?’
‘When you saw it in the Radio Times. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of course I bloody well mind.’
‘It’s sixteen episodes.’
‘That makes it worse, not better.’
Clive had never heard of a new series getting an order for sixteen episodes. It was usually six, sometimes twelve, but never sixteen. They loved Sophie, and they thought everyone in the country was going to love Sophie. And that’s why there were brackets around his character’s name.
‘Tell them to shove their bloody brackets.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know the brackets around Jim’s name? I don’t want them there.’
‘Oh, Gawd,’ said Monty. ‘I’m all right with money. I don’t mind arguing with them about that. But I’ve got no experience with punctuation.’
‘Sort it out, there’s a good chap.’
The following day, Monty told Clive that the money had gone up but the brackets were staying put.
‘Well, tell them thanks but no thanks, then.’
‘Are you serious, old chap? You’re a semi-employed actor who’s just been offered sixteen half-hours of television. It’ll turn you into a household name.’
‘It’ll turn her into a household name. Won’t do much for me. I’ll spend the rest of my life saying, I was “and Jim”. In Barbara (and Jim). Hold on … What’s the episode of Comedy Playhouse called?’
‘Barbara (and Jim).’
‘What happened to Wedded Bliss?’
‘You’re not married now. It made no sense.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake. The bastards. They’re broadcasting it under that name without asking me?’
Monty chuckled.
‘They put one over on you, I’m afraid.’
‘Right. That’s it. I’m not doing it. Find me some work, Monty.’
The day after that, Monty left a message to say that they’d offered the part of Jim to Clive’s old nemesis Laurence Harris. Clive knew Laurence Harris wouldn’t take it, not with the brackets. Unless the brackets were magically vanished, for someone like Harris. Of course, that’s what would happen. ‘Oh, well, if Laurence Harris is interested …’
Damn and blast them all to hell.
As luck would have it, he had arranged to visit his parents in Eastleigh that weekend. It was never an enjoyable occasion, Sunday lunch with his parents, for two reasons. The first was his job. It wasn’t so much that they disapproved of his choice of profession. His father was a dentist, but his wasn’t the traditional middle-class strait-laced disapproval of bohemianism; Clive had tried that one and got nowhere. If Clive had been able to earn a decent living, his father wouldn’t have given two hoots about what he got up to, what he wore, what he drank or who he slept with. ‘You’re just no bloody good at it,’ he said, loudly and often.
The second thing that made his visits home so miserable was the permanent and inexplicable presence of Clive’s ex-fiancée, Cathy. They had got engaged when he was eighteen, after his first term at LAMDA, for reasons that Clive could no longer recall, but which almost certainly had something to do with sex. He had broken it off soon after, presumably once he had got what he wanted, but it didn’t seem to have made much difference to her position in the family. As far as Clive could make out, she went to the parental home every Sunday. Cathy had somehow become a daughter-in-law while remaining unmarried. She was a sweet, dull girl, and Clive feared that he would be eating Sunday lunch with his mother’s daughter-in-law once a month for the rest of his life.
He had made the mistake of telling his parents that he was to appear in an episode of Comedy Playhouse, and that this would almost certainly lead to a job in a series. His father asked him about it almost as soon as the fatty lamb and the wet cabbage appeared on the table.
‘How did that BBC thing turn out?’
‘Oh, that. Not as well as I’d hoped.’
Cathy and his mother made sympathetic faces. His father chortled.
‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
Clive briefly entertained the notion of telling his father the truth: that he’d turned down the chance to star in a television programme because he didn’t like the way the title was going to be punctuated.
‘It wasn’t really what I was looking for, so I said no.’
‘You mean it was work?’
‘That’s not fair,’ said his mother. ‘He’s always looking for work.?
??
‘Hasn’t he just found some? And turned it down?’
‘It doesn’t sound as though that’s what happened,’ said his mother.
Sometimes, Clive didn’t know which parent irritated him more. His mother’s blind devotion could be every bit as dispiriting as his father’s scorn; he was patronized either way. He decided, perversely, to turn on his mother.
‘Were you even listening? That’s exactly what happened. We made the Comedy Playhouse, it went all right, they offered me sixteen episodes, I didn’t like the part.’
‘Believe that and you’ll believe anything,’ said his father.
Clive groaned.
‘I thought that’s what you did believe? And you accused me of being work-shy? I was backing you up!’
‘You hadn’t told us the full story. The full story is not believable.’
‘Why not?’
‘Nobody’s going to offer you sixteen episodes on television.’
‘They just did!’
‘And you turned it down. Now what?’
‘I may end up going to the United States.’
‘Oh, Clive,’ said Cathy. ‘America?’
Clive’s imaginary plans seemed to be driving a distressing hole through their imaginary relationship.
‘Yes,’ said Clive.
His father put down his knife and fork and rubbed his hands.
‘What?’ said Clive.
‘I’m going to enjoy this.’
‘Why?’
‘Because whatever you’re about to say will be both amusing and untrue.’
‘God, Dad. You’re a monster.’
He tried to think of a lie that wouldn’t make his father laugh.
‘I’ve been offered something in The Virginian.’
‘The Virginian,’ his father said flatly. ‘The Western serial.’
‘Yes,’ said Clive. ‘It’s not much, but it might be rather fun.’
‘And do they know you cried when a horse came too close to you in Norfolk?’
‘Yes. I told them. They wanted me anyway.’
‘The Virginian!’ said his father. He was pretending to wipe tears of mirth away with his napkin. ‘So this might be the last time we see you for a while?’
‘Oh, Clive,’ said Cathy.
‘Unless I take the other thing,’ said Clive.
‘What other thing?’
‘The BBC comedy series.’
‘Oh, we’re still pretending that exists?’ said his father.
Clive was tempted to move to America and beg for the chance to play a cowboy, or even a cow, just to prove his father wrong. But then it occurred to him that there was an easier way of proving his father wrong, while at the same time earning a living at the only thing he was capable of doing.
He got Monty to phone Dennis the next day. The brackets were staying, the money had gone down and Clive had a job.
Sophie’s first-ever press interview was for a new magazine called Crush. The journalist had asked if she could do it in Sophie’s home, but as she was still living with Marjorie, Brian didn’t think it was a very good idea and told her to come to his office. She’d bought a new skirt for it, as short as she could find, and a new pair of shoes, and when Brian saw her, he shook his head and tutted, and reminded her that he was a very happily married man, as if she had made an improper suggestion.
When Diane from Crush arrived, Brian showed them into a spare room that had become a repository for broken furniture and old accounts, and they had to sit side by side on a dusty old brown sofa. For the first few minutes of the conversation, Sophie was distracted by a box file which was labelled ‘ARTHUR ASKEY 1935–7’.
‘Do they always make you come in here?’ said Diane.
Diane looked like someone from a pop programme on TV. She had long, dark hair, white boots and no bust. She was as skinny as Sophie’s twelve-year-old cousin.
‘Why would they make me come in here?’ said Sophie.
‘For interviews.’
‘Oh. No. I’ve never done one before.’
‘Gosh,’ said Diane. ‘Well, it’ll be painless. Have you seen Crush? It’s for girls. We just want to know what you wear and who your boyfriend is and what you cook for him.’
Diane crossed her eyes and made a face to indicate that Crush wasn’t her favourite magazine. Sophie laughed.
‘You don’t like your job?’
‘No, I do,’ said Diane. ‘It’s fun. I get to meet pop stars and people off the telly. Like you. And people are always sending us gear. But it isn’t what I want to do for ever.’
‘What do you want to do for ever?’
‘I want to write, but not this stuff. I’d love to do Tony and Bill’s job.’
Sophie was surprised she even knew their names. Not many people cared about who wrote telly and radio programmes.
‘Do you think you could?’ said Sophie.
‘Will anyone let me? That’s the question. There aren’t many funny girl writers.’
‘You should just write something,’ said Sophie.
‘Ah, well,’ said Diane. ‘When you put it like that … it sounds impossible. Anyway. Answer my wretched questions. Clothes, boyfriend, cooking.’
‘Oh,’ said Sophie. ‘Well, I don’t have a boyfriend and I don’t cook. I wear things, though.’
‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend?’ said Diane.
‘I had one at home in Blackpool, but we broke up when I came here, and … well, I haven’t met anyone.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought you needed to meet anyone.’
‘I don’t know how you get a boyfriend without meeting them first.’
‘I thought all the men would be phoning you up after they saw you on the telly,’ said Diane.
‘I haven’t got a telephone, so they’d have a job.’
‘You haven’t got a telephone?’
Sophie realized that she didn’t want to talk about Earl’s Court bedsits or Marjorie, not to Crush magazine.
‘I’ve just moved and they haven’t come round to put it in yet.’
‘Oh, that’s fabulous,’ said Diane. ‘It’s all happened so fast for you. Where have you moved to?’
‘Oh, that would be telling.’
‘Just the area. I won’t put in your address.’
‘Kensington. Near Derry and Toms,’ said Sophie.
‘That’s where you used to work, isn’t it?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘The BBC press officer told me. Cosmetics. I’ve got all that. Complete unknown walks in off the street, wows everyone at the audition, gets the job. It’s a great story. Where do you like to go out?’
She was interviewing somebody else, Sophie thought, someone who had done something. Sophie had come to London, worked in a department store, listened to Marjorie snoring and then been cast in a television series. She didn’t watch television, though, because she didn’t have one of those either.
‘I like the Talk of the Town,’ she said.
There was really nothing left now. All her London experiences had been used up.
‘Fabulous,’ said Diane. ‘Lovely. And are you excited about the series?’
‘Really excited.’
‘Great,’ said Diane, and she stood up.
‘Is that it?’
‘That’s plenty. No boyfriend, no phone, new flat, the Talk of the Town … Really, I just have to say that I met you. If you told me your favourite Beatle, my editor would explode with joy,’ said Diane joylessly.
Sophie laughed. She liked Diane.
‘George.’
‘He’ll read this and ask you out.’
Sophie blushed.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’
‘He won’t,’ said Diane. ‘I was pulling your leg.’
‘Can we do another interview one day?’ said Sophie. ‘When … when something has happened to me?’
‘We’ll see how the show goes,’ said Diane.
She wasn’t being unkind. She wa
s just refusing to make promises. It hadn’t occurred to Sophie that her first interview might also be her last. She wished she’d enjoyed it more, and she wished she’d found something to say.
Tony and Bill weren’t writing in the coffee bar any more. They had rented an office, a room above a shoe shop on Great Portland Street, around the corner from the Underground station. On the day they moved in, they had gone out shopping on Oxford Street together, and bought two desks, two armchairs, a lamp, a record player and some records, a kettle and some tea bags. In John Lewis, they had argued about buying an expensive sofa. Bill wanted to lie down during the day and stare at the ceiling. Tony thought that a sofa would lead to inactivity and sleep, and told Bill he wouldn’t pay half for something that would produce only a reduced income. Bill said he would buy it himself, in which case Tony wasn’t even allowed to sit on it. And Tony told Bill to be his guest, that his rear end would never touch the sofa. And then it turned out that there was a twelve-week delivery time, so Bill decided not to bother, but there was a residual irritation that took them a couple of days to shake off. They had never argued before, but everything had seemed more casual before. Now they had a sixteen-episode commission, an increase in fees, an office, a kettle … They were in deep.
And they weren’t quite sure how they were going to fill eight hours of television time either. They weren’t even sure how to fill the first thirty minutes. They sat in their new office, on their new armchairs, facing each other, with notepads on their knees, and they chewed their pencils.
‘So,’ said Tony eventually, ‘Barbara and Jim are a couple.’
That much they knew. Barbara and Jim became man and wife at some time between the Comedy Playhouse episode and the first episode of the brand-new series. Jim was going to carry Barbara over the threshold and drop her in the opening ten seconds.
‘Shall I write that down?’ said Bill.
‘I just meant … We need some couply stuff. As well as all the brave, brilliant, witty important stuff about class and England.’
‘Shall we go back to the Gambols? Hairdos and burnt dinners?’