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never comes out on Tuesdays.’
    This time, surely, there was no doubt that the old boy’s mind had gone. But Gerald was not so ill-mannered as to notice any inconsistency. ‘Yes, I believe it was,’ he went on smoothly. ‘I must say, it’s a great honour to meet you too, sir.’
    â€˜Honour? “What is honour? A word. What is that word, honour? Air”,’ the old man quoted with sudden lucidity. Charles recognised the line of Falstaff and couldn’t help thinking that soon its speaker would die, like its originator, babbling of green fields. But Barton was already off on another tangent. ‘Trouble is, though, the Aussies don’t know the meaning of the word. All this damned bodyline bowling. You reckon there’s a bump on the pitch, do you?’
    Gerald replied to this direct question judiciously. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all.’
    â€˜Wouldn’t surprise you at all, eh?’ Barton Rivers guffawed his appreciation. ‘Worthy of Noel, young man. Need new young writers with that sort of sharpness. Come and see me after the show one night, young man, and I’ll introduce you to Cocky. Hear that, Dob – he said it wouldn’t surprise him at all.’
    â€˜Yes, darling,’ said Aurelia Howarth, and patted her husband’s arm with infinite tenderness. She seemed totally unembarrassed by his disconnected chatter.
    â€˜Similar thing happened in Paris,’ Barton Rivers confided to Gerald. ‘No one could be sure, but I knew who was behind it.’ He shook his head. ‘One bad apple, you know what I mean . . .’
    Gerald nodded wisely.
    Charles thought he should say something to Aurelia, to show that he hadn’t noticed anything odd about her husband. Maybe something about the dog. He looked without enthusiasm at the little rat body in its shreds of silken fur, and wondered what on earth one says about, or indeed to, a Yorkshire terrier.
    The answer was provided by Peter Lipscombe, who arrived at that moment with more drinks. He chucked the little dog under the chin and said, ‘Hello, Cocky, everything okay?’ Cocky bit his finger.
    At this moment Bernard Walton came into the bar. He was with a neat forty-year-old man in a grey suit, and he looked worried. More than worried, he looked as if he was in shock. When Charles recognised the man in the grey suit, he thought perhaps he could guess the reason for the star’s discomfiture. It was Nigel Frisch, West End Television’s Director of Programmes, the man who was delaying his decision on the future of
What’ll the Neighbours Say?
    Nigel Frisch threw his arms round Aurelia and thanked her flamboyantly for her performance. ‘Another winner on our hands,’ he effused. ‘Hello, Barton.’
    â€˜Hello, old boy. Keep a straight bat, eh?’ Guffaw.
    â€˜More news too, Dob darling,’ Nigel continued smoothly. ‘Sure you’ve all been in a bit of suspense over the
What’ll the Neighbours
situation . . .’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Bernard Walton sharply, with uncharacteristic lack of restraint.
    â€˜As you know, it’s a series that’s been really successful for the audience, one that we’re very grateful to you for . . .’ Nigel Frisch seemed deliberately to be prolonging the agony, playing Bernard Walton along. He still spoke very casually. ‘Obviously it’s had its detractors. There are people that feel we’ve got all the mileage we can out of the situation.’ He paused, sadistically. ‘I don’t know. Haven’t really made my final decision yet. But, anyway, what I wanted to say was, we’ll certainly be taking up your options for the dates proposed. So even if we don’t make the series – and I dare say we will – you’ll still get paid.’
    Bernard Walton swayed with relief. He still looked pretty tense, but was patently glad of the news. If the company was