He went through the very small pile on his desk, found the script and began to read.
‘ “Cicely is well spoken, petite, varsity-educated, the daughter of a vicar. She is utterly unprepared for married life, and struggles even to boil an egg.” Shall I go on?’
‘That’s me. I struggle even to boil an egg. What’s it about?’
‘It’s about … Well, not much, really. Marriage. She’s married to a man. They make a bit of a mess of everything but they muddle through. It’s called Wedded Bliss?’
‘Does it really have a question mark, or are you just saying it like that?’
‘It really does have a question mark.’
‘You wouldn’t think people could be unfunny with punctuation, would you?’
‘It’s pretty wretched stuff, I’m afraid. The sad thing is, the writers are actually quite good. Do you ever listen to The Awkward Squad on the radio?’
‘I love The Awkward Squad.’
She hadn’t heard it since she left home, and she felt a sharp pang of homesickness: she loved listening with her father to the Sunday lunchtime repeat. It was the only programme on television or radio that they both found funny. They tried to time the washing-up for 1.30, and for thirty minutes they were perfectly happy, probably the only family in Britain – if two people could qualify as a family – who enjoyed cleaning the plates more than they enjoyed eating off them. Neither of them could cook a roast, but they could scrub the crusted pans with Brillo pads and laugh. The Awkward Squad was about a group of men who’d ended up working in the same factory after doing National Service together, and replicating the roles that they’d carved out for themselves in the army. The chinless, clueless captain was their boss, the owner’s son, and the loud, dim sergeant major worked as the foreman. The lads on the shop floor were shiftless or dreamy or crooked or militant. There wasn’t a single woman in the programme, of course, which was probably why Barbara’s father loved it, but Barbara forgave them that. It might even have been one of the reasons why Barbara loved it too: most female characters in comedy series depressed her. She couldn’t put her finger on how they managed it, but it seemed like each episode of The Awkward Squad was about something. There were daft jokes and silly voices and complicated con tricks, but the characters lived in a country she knew, even though nobody in it was from up north.
‘The Awkward Squad was written by Tony Holmes and Bill Gardiner, and produced by Dennis Maxwell-Bishop,’ she said, in her best BBC announcer’s voice. ‘The part of Captain Smythe was played by Clive Richardson, Sparky was –’
‘All right, all right,’ said Brian. ‘Can you do that for every show on the radio?’
She reckoned she probably could. Why wouldn’t she? Other girls dreamed of meeting Elvis Presley or Rock Hudson; she had always wanted half an hour alone with Dennis Maxwell-Bishop. It was not a fantasy she could share with many people.
‘That one just sticks in my mind, for some reason.’
‘Well, this is the same lot,’ said Brian. ‘The writers, Dennis, Clive –’
‘And if I went to the audition they’d be there?’ she said.
‘In person?’ said Brian. ‘Good Lord, no. They’re much too grand for that.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Sophie.
‘I was being sarcastic,’ said Brian. ‘Yes, Tony Holmes and Bill Gardiner, the obscure radio writers, will be there, in person. And Dennis Maxwell-Bishop the junior comedy producer. And Clive Richardson is playing the part of the husband, so he’ll be there to read. They’re trying to launch him as a TV star, apparently.’
‘Then I want to go,’ said Sophie.
‘It’s a rotten script and you’re completely wrong for it. But if you really have nothing better to do, be my guest. Next week you’re mine.’
She took the script home and read it through three times. It was even worse than Brian had made it sound, but when she was back at home doing the washing-up, probably in a couple of months’ time, she’d be able to tell her father that she’d met the writers of The Awkward Squad. It would be the only memory of London worth keeping.
The auditions for Wedded Bliss? were in a church hall in Shepherd’s Bush, just around the corner from the BBC. There were four men in the room, and two of them looked at each other and burst out laughing when Sophie walked in.
If this had been any other audition, she would have turned straight round and walked out, but she couldn’t tell her father she’d met Tony Holmes, Bill Gardiner or Dennis Maxwell-Bishop until all three of them had looked her in the eye.
‘Charming,’ she said instead of leaving.
One of the two who had managed to keep a straight face looked pained. He was the oldest of the four, she guessed, although he probably wasn’t even thirty. He had spectacles and a beard, and he was smoking a pipe.
‘What on earth has got into you two idiots? I’m so sorry, Sophie.’
‘It’s not what you’re thinking,’ said one of the idiots.