Towards the End of the Morning

by Michael Frayn

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mounce. ‘For stinking consistency you just about take the stinking biscuit.’

  They reached the Television Centre in Wood Lane some ten minutes or so before the programme was due to go on the air. The sight of the place brought on a new spasm of anxiety in Dyson.

  ‘Oh God!’ he cried. ‘I haven’t even thought what I’m going to say! I haven’t got anything prepared at all!’

  He sprang out of the taxi as it drew level with the entrance and rushed up to one of the girls at the desk inside as if he were going to strangle her.

  ‘New Perspective!’ he shouted. ‘Which studio? Which studio?’

  The girl examined a list. Very slowly she ran a finger down one page, then turned over and ran it down another.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ cried Dyson. ‘It’s starting in ten minutes!’

  ‘Here we are,’ said the girl. ‘New Perspective. They don’t do that one at the Centre – it’s Lime Grove. Out the back gate – down Frithville Gardens. It’ll only take you five minutes, if you run all the way.’

  It was in effect a race between Bob and Dyson, though neither of them was aware of it as such, which perhaps didn’t matter greatly in the event, since it was won by Erskine Morris.

  Morris was actually on the screen when Samantha Lightbody showed Dyson and Mounce into Hospitality Room Number 8 at Lime Grove. They were both panting hard.

  ‘My God!’ gasped Dyson. ‘Not him!’

  The room was full of people sipping gin-and-tonic and nibbling smoked salmon sandwiches. ‘John!’ cried several of them, turning at the sound of his voice. Bob was the only one Dyson took in at first.

  ‘Bob!’ he cried. ‘You mean to say you let them put that unspeakable little tit on my programme?’

  ‘John,’ said Bob quickly, ‘do you know Erskine’s friend Lake?’

  Dyson turned round in surprise.

  ‘Honestly, Bob,’ he said, ‘couldn’t you have stood in for me yourself? You are a rotten swine. You really are.’

  ‘John, I can’t explain now,’ said Bob. ‘Why don’t you say hello to Jannie?’

  Dyson turned round in surprise.

  ‘Jan!’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sh!’ hissed a number of people sitting in one corner of the room – the friends and relations of the other performers, perhaps – who were gazing at the monitor screen as if they actually wanted to see what was going on.

  ‘I came to watch Bob on the programme,’ whispered Jannie. ‘He was supposed to be on it.’

  ‘We all came to watch him!’ cried Mrs Mounce. ‘Didn’t we, Tessa?’

  ‘Well, well,’ said her husband. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Reg, darling! Where have you sprung from?’

  ‘Bei-bloody-rut and Ljub-stinking-ljana, if you’re interested.’

  ‘Darling! How super!’

  ‘Sh!’ hissed the viewing faction.

  ‘Let me get you both drinks,’ whispered Samantha Lightbody to Dyson and Mounce.

  ‘If Bob was supposed to be on the programme,’ said Dyson, trying to keep his voice down too, ‘why isn’t he on it?’

  ‘That’s a long story,’ said Bob.

  ‘I’m afraid there was a slight misunderstanding,’ said Samantha Lightbody. ‘Let me get everyone drinks.’

  ‘Bob just let himself get shoved out of the way like a booby, as usual,’ said Jannie.

  ‘Sh!’

  ‘Jannie, that’s not really fair,’ said Bob. ‘Erskine must have thought I was inviting him to do the programme instead of me. I couldn’t really insist on his standing down again after he’d gone to all the trouble of coming out here.’

  ‘You were shoved out of the way, Bob,’ said Jannie.

  ‘Sh! Sh!’

  ‘It was just one of those balls-ups,’ whispered Samantha Lightbody. ‘Let’s all have stiff drinks and forget about it.’

  Dyson sank down into the chair next to Jannie’s with his glass of whisky, and put a hand over hers.

  ‘Jan,’ he whispered, squeezing her.

  ‘John,’ she said, putting her other hand on top of his.

  They gazed at the screen. Morris appeared on it again, talking about certain social developments he had noticed in the Western Region of Nigeria when he had been out there earlier in the year. His voice flowed on like the smoke rising from his cigarette, steady and unemphatic, but definitely hypnotic.

  ‘There goes my future,’ said Dyson sadly.

  Jannie rubbed his hand.

  ‘Bob’s future, too,’ he said. ‘We’re both washouts, Jan.’

  Morris cut Lord Boddy off in mid-reminiscence with a deftly-placed Sure sure, and put the chairman right on a couple of points of fact.

  ‘He’s good,’ whispered Bob.

  ‘He’s a nasty little prick,’ said Dyson.

  Mounce leaned across to Bob.

  ‘How are things at the office these days, Bob?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Has all that Other Arrangements business blown over yet?’

  ‘Haven’t you been in this week, then?’ asked Bob.

  Mounce thoughtfully eased some shreds of Yugoslav ham sandwich from between his teeth.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll stay away permanently and see if anyone notices,’ he said. ‘Really give it a month or two to sort itself out.’

  Lake was talking to Mrs Mounce.

  ‘My feet feel as if they’ve been put in a vice,’ she whispered.

  ‘Do you suffer with your feet at all?’

  ‘With me it’s my glands,’ whispered Mrs Mounce. ‘Honestly, darling, you’d never believe the amount of time I’ve spent seeing specialists . . .’

  The door opened, and a commissionaire ushered a tall, gaunt woman in a hat into the room.

  ‘Miss Pennycuick?’ called the commissionaire. ‘Is there a Miss Pennycuick in here?’

  ‘Mummy!’ said Tessa, jumping to her feet and going bright red.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Pennycuick,’ said Bob, getting up too.

  ‘Mrs Pennycuick . . . ?’ said Jannie, in an appalled whisper.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mummy?’ asked Tessa.

  ‘I’ve come up to town to look for you, Tessa. We’ll talk about it afterwards, outside.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Jannie. ‘This is entirely my fault! I simply didn’t know that Tessa’s name was . . . I mean, I didn’t realize . . . It didn’t occur to me that . . .’

  ‘Shush!’ hissed the enthusiasts.

  ‘I’ll talk about it privately with my daughter afterwards, if I may,’ whispered Mrs Pennycuick.

  ‘Yes, but for heaven’s sake don’t think . . .’ said Jannie. ‘I mean, don’t imagine that . . . I mean, after all, they are engaged . . .’

  Mrs Pennycuick stared at the television screen, as if unwilling to commit herself to looking at any of the people in the room. Tessa gazed at it, too, to hide her confusion, and after a few seconds Bob and Jannie turned their heads towards it as well. Everyone in the room found it a convenient place to rest the eyes, except Lake, who had drawn her right foot up into her lap to examine the condition of her toes, and Dyson, who had his head back and his mouth open, and was falling asleep. In silent conciliation, Bob held out his tube of peppermints to Mrs Pennycuick, half turning his head towards her, so that he could see Lake with her slim white knee drawn up to her ear, and the long bleached hair tumbling around it.

  Morris gazed impassively out at them all, the flesh bagging judicially along the line of the jawbone.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, with the suggestion of a cryptic smile. ‘Oh, sure, sure.’

 

 

 
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