‘Ah,’ said Dennis. ‘That’s the thing.’
‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ said Sandra the midwife. ‘Not after everything I’ve done this week.’
This, they could only presume, was a reference to her relative punctuality and her willingness in rehearsal to read the lines as they were written.
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Dennis.
‘They specifically said I couldn’t come?’
‘No, but … they don’t actually know you exist.’
‘But if they watch every week, they’ll see me next week, and –’
‘They invited “the team”, said Dennis. ‘Would you say you’re part of “the team”?’
‘Yes,’ said Sandra. ‘You’ve all made me feel very welcome.’
Dennis looked at Sophie helplessly. None of the others would be any use to him.
‘If there is a spare place,’ said Sophie, ‘it should probably go to Betty Pertwee.’
Betty Pertwee, who played Barbara’s mother, had appeared in the show three times so far, and Tony and Bill were planning to use her again in the christening episode.
‘But I don’t think even Betty is going to be able to come,’ said Dennis.
‘But she’s your mother!’ said Sandra.
‘I know,’ said Sophie glumly. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’
And thus Sandra was mollified, and a crisis in morale averted. And it was all Sophie’s doing. She was so clever, Dennis thought, and so kind, and he found the familiar gloom descend upon him.
That night, Sophie called her father, who wasn’t as impressed as she’d hoped he might be.
‘My dad says we should refuse to go,’ she said at work the next day.
‘I’m not going to listen to your dad,’ said Bill. ‘I’m bloody going.’
‘So am I,’ said Tony.
‘Good,’ said Clive. ‘As long as Harold can get his photo taken with the writers he’ll be happy.’
‘Very funny,’ said Bill.
‘May we ask what objections your father has?’ said Dennis.
‘He thinks the country’s going to the dogs,’ said Sophie, ‘and we shouldn’t prop him up.’
‘And in which direction are these dogs going?’ said Bill. ‘Where are the kennels?’
‘Are you asking what he’s unhappy about?’
‘I think he was, in his own ponderous and pretentious way,’ said Clive.
‘He doesn’t like the balance of payments,’ said Sophie.
‘None of us do,’ said Clive. ‘But I’m sure the nation can still run to a pot of tea and a few biscuits.’
‘And he’s worried about the coloureds.’
‘Are they causing him a lot of trouble in Blackpool?’ said Bill.
‘A coloured man whistled at me last week,’ said Sandra. ‘A window cleaner.’
‘Disgraceful,’ said Bill. ‘Send him back. No white man has ever whistled at a woman in the entire history of window cleaning.’
‘No white man has ever whistled at me before,’ said Sandra.
There was a respectful silence.
‘And he thinks Harold should have offered more support to Mr Smith in Rhodesia.’
‘Oh,’ said Bill. ‘That explains everything.’
‘Does it?’ said Sophie hopefully.
‘Yes. Your old man is an imperialist buffoon. I’ll bet he reads the bloody Daily Express.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Do you think these things?’ said Bill. ‘Or is it just your dad?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sophie. ‘I’ve never really thought about them before.’
‘You’ve never thought about what you think?’
‘Sounds funny when you put it like that.’
‘You’re a clever girl,’ said Clive. ‘Why do you trot out that poisonous rubbish?’
‘Do you think it’s rubbish?’ said Sophie. ‘And poisonous?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Clive.
‘Everyone does,’ said Bill.
Sophie looked round the table. There was no sign of dissent, unless one was to count Sandra’s sudden hunt for a cough sweet in her handbag.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I had no idea.’