about. The snowstorm varied in intensity. Then he remembered the UHF contrast knob and went round the set to turn it.
‘Television repair man.’ He’d been too close to the sound to hear Frances come in.
‘Hello.’ He stood up. ‘Look. The picture’s perfect.’
‘Are you doing an Open University degree?’
‘No. I was just getting it right. It’s the UHF contrast.’
‘Ah.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you?’
‘Bad.’
‘I thought so. Do you want something to eat?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That means yes. Did you have lunch?’
‘Pie in a pub.’
‘Ugh.’ Frances went into the kitchen and started opening cupboards. She continued talking through the serving hatch. It was restfully familiar.
‘I went down to see Juliet and Miles at the weekend.’
‘Ah.’
‘Nice to get out of town.’
‘Yes.’
‘They said they’d love to see you. You should go down, it’s a lovely place.’
‘Yes. I will. At some stage. How’s Miles?’
‘Oh, he’s doing very well.’
‘Ah.’ Charles visualised his son-in-law, Miles Taylerson, the rising executive, neat in his executive house on his executive estate in Pangbourne with his executive car and his executive suits and his executive haircut. ‘Do you like Miles, Frances?’
‘Juliet’s very happy with him.’ ‘Which I suppose,’ Charles reflected, ‘is some sort of answer.’ Thinking of his daughter made him think of Jacqui again and he felt a flutter of panic in his stomach.
Frances produced the food very quickly. It was a dish with frankfurters and sour cream. Something new. Charles felt jealous at the thought that she was developing, learning new things without him. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘shall I whip down to the off-licence and get a bottle of wine? Make an evening of it.’
‘Charles, I can’t “make an evening of it”. I’ve got to be at a PTA meeting at 7.30.’
‘Parents-Teachers? Oh, but can’t you-’ He stopped. No, you can’t come back to someone you walked out on twelve years ago and expect them to be instantly free. Even if you have kept in touch and had occasional reconciliations. ‘Have a drink together later, maybe.’
‘Maybe. If you’re still here.’
‘I will be.’
‘What is the matter, Charles?’
‘I don’t know. Male menopause?’ It was a phrase he’d read in a colour supplement somewhere. Didn’t really know if it meant anything.
‘You think you’ve got problems,’ said Frances.
She was always busy. Two things about Frances-she was always busy and she was never surprised. These, in moments of compatibility, were her great qualities; in moments of annoyance, her most irritating traits.
The next morning she cooked a large breakfast, brought it up to him in bed, and hurried off to school. Charles lay back on the pillows and felt mellow. He saw the familiar gable of the Jenkinses opposite (they’d had the paint work done blue) and felt sentimentality well up inside him.
Each time he came back to Frances, he seemed to feel more sentimental. At first. Then after a few days they’d quarrel or he’d feel claustrophobic and leave again. And go on a blinder.
The impotence panic seemed miles away. It was another person who had felt that nausea of fear in his stomach. Long ago.
They had made love beautifully. Frances’ body was like a well-read book, familiar and comforting. Her limbs were thinner, the tendons a bit more prominent and the skin of her stomach loose. But she was still soft and warm. They had made love gently and easily, their bodies remembering each other’s rhythms. It’s something you never forget, Charles reflected. Like riding a bicycle.
He switched on the radio by the bedside. It was tuned to Capital Radio-pop music and jingles. So that’s what Frances listened to. Strange. It was so easy to condemn her as bourgeois and predictable. When you actually came down to it, everything about her was unexpected. What appeared to be passivity was just the great calm that emanated from her.
When he was dressed, he needed human companionship and so rang his agent. ‘Maurice Skellern Artistes,’ said a voice.
‘Maurice.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘Maurice, I know that’s you. It’s me, Charles.’
‘Oh, hello. How’d the radio go?’
‘Ghastly. It was the worst script I’ve ever seen.’
‘It’s work, Charles.’
‘Yes, just.’
‘Were you rude to anybody?’
‘Not very. Not as rude as I felt like being.’
‘Who to?’
‘The producer.’
‘Charles, you can’t afford it. Already you’ll never get another job on Doctor Who.’
‘I wasn’t very rude. Anything coming up?’
‘Some vacancies on the permanent company at Hornchurch.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Chance of a small part in a Softly, Softly.’
‘Put my name up.’
‘New play at one of these new fringe theatres. About transvestites in a prison. Political overtones. Written by a convict.’
‘It’s not really me, is it, Maurice?’ in his best theatrical knight voice.
‘I don’t know what is you any more, Charles. I sometimes wonder if you want to work at all.’
‘Hmm. So do I.’
‘What are you living on at the moment?’
‘My second childhood.’
‘I don’t get ten per cent of that.’
‘No. What else is new?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on. Give us the dirt.’
‘Isn’t any. Well, except for the Sally Nash business…’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well, you know who the disc jockey was, for a start…’ And Maurice started. He was one of London’s recognised authorities on theatrical gossip. Malicious rumour had it that he kept a wall-chart with coloured pins on who was sleeping with who. The Sally Nash case gave him good copy. It was the Lambton affair of the theatre, complete with whips, boots, two-way mirrors and unnamed ‘show-business personalities’. For half an hour Maurice named them all. Eventually, he rang off. That’s why he was such a lousy agent. Spent all his time gossiping.
By the Thursday morning Charles’ mellowness felt more fragile. When he woke at nine, Frances had already gone to school. He tottered downstairs and made some coffee to counteract the last night’s Beaujolais. The coffee tasted foul. Laced with Scotch, it tasted better. He drank it down, poured a glass of neat Scotch and went upstairs to dress.
The inside of his shirt collar had dark wrinkles of dirt, and his socks made their presence felt. Soon he’d have to get Frances to wash something or go back to Hereford Road and pick up some more clothes.
