The Contessa

1

Andrew Hallowell's widowed mother told him one day at the breakfast table that his grandmother had been an Italian countess. She had only discovered after her mother had died. A strange man had arrived just before the funeral and offered to buy some letters he had sent to her mother, some of which were addressed to Contessa. Atoli.

'Who was he?' Andrew enquired.

'His name was William Berry. My mother had never told me she was an Italian contessa. She was a wonderful woman. She worked very hard to bring me up. There was no help from the state in those days.'

'You shouldn't have sold private family correspondence,'

'You've no cause to complain; the money helped to pay for your education.'

'What was he like this guy?'

'He told me he had been a Royal Air Force bomber pilot during the war. We had to make up our minds about the offer very quickly. So your father and I decided to hand over the letters. I remember him sitting down with his hat on his lap, waiting for your father to get them. He kept looking at his watch, a very expensive one – a Girard-Perregaux. Why are you so interested?'

'I'd like to meet him, if he was my maternal grandfather.'

'There's no reason to suppose that he was.'

'I'd like to read the letters.'

'He's probably dead by now.'

Andrew worked for a local newspaper, the Tyndale Gazette, in Wiltshire. Later that morning, after interviewing a farm worker who claimed to have seen a panther in a field, he returned to the Gazette office and carried out a search on the electoral roll for the name William Berry. After making made seven phone calls, he found a William Berry who lived in East Sussex and owned a Girard-Perregaux watch. Andrew pretended to be a dealer and offered to buy it.

The man swore and rang off.

Andrew's next lead concerned a micro-light aircraft which had recently landed at Faircross airfield, attracting the attention of Customs and Excise. The windsock was blowing lazily in the breeze when he arrived to investigate. He asked the manager of the airfield, Flight Lieutenant Bill Thompson, 'Where can I find details of a World War Two pilot called William Berry?'

'Try the Ministry of Defence.'

'Is the micro-light still here?'

'It's in the hangar but you can't see it. They've put screens round it.'

Later, he told his mother that he intended to call on the man who had bought his grandmother's letters.

'What do you hope to gain?'

'I'd like to find out if he's my grandfather.'

'He seemed a rather cantankerous old chap. I shouldn't mention the letters. It might put him off talking to you.'

'He lives near Eastbourne. I'll make a detour and call in and see him on my way to London this weekend. '

*

The next time Andrew phoned William Berry. he disguised his voice, and obtained an appointment with him, claiming that he was interested in writing a book about RAF Bomber Command during World War Two.

Berry lived in a large manor-type house situated in extensive grounds at the summit of a wooded hill. Andrew lifted the entrance gate and drove a few hundred yards between tall lime trees. The extensive grounds were neglected and overgrown. He rang a bell at the side of the studded oak front-door. A small, old man wearing a red dressing- gown appeared, stared at Andrew through watery blue eyes that appeared slightly off focus, and snapped: 'You're the journalist from the Tyndale Gazette who wanted to buy my watch, aren't you?'

Andrew admitted the truth.

'Well, never mind,' the old man said gruffly. 'Come in.'

Andrew followed him through a hall panelled in dark wood into a large sitting-room. He noticed a large portrait above the fireplace of a young officer in Royal Air Force uniform. Berry pointed towards a straight-back chair and offered him a drink, which he declined. William Berry poured himself a generous measure of whiskey and then sat opposite him in a green leather armchair. He rattled a poker in the fire, producing a flurry of red embers, and said: 'Now what did you say your name was?'

'My real name, sir, is Andrew Hallowell.'

'Well, first of all, Andrew, let me tell you this 52; I knew straight away you were a sham, but I decided to let you come anyway. My wife died five years ago, my housekeeper is on holiday. I need someone to talk to. How did you find out that I owned a Girard-Perregaux watch?'

'I would rather not say at this moment. But I'm not a sham. I've been thinking for some time of writing a book about the bombing of Germany as seen through the eyes of a Royal Air Force pilot.'

'What qualifications do you have?'

'I have been a journalist for six years. Two of my short stories have been published by Women At Large.'

Berry said sarcastically: 'Why single me out? Thousands of air crew did what I did. Is this just a way of persuading me to sell you my watch?'

Andrew stood up and said: 'No. And I'm very sorry I misrepresented myself.'

William Berry said querulously: 'Sit down. Sit down. I'm not finished with you yet. You mentioned Women At Large. That happens to be a magazine I founded about forty years ago. They don't publish rubbish. Supposing I asked you to write my life story 52; Bomber Command would play just a small part of it 52; would that interest you?'

'Certainly.'

'Would you paint a true picture?'

'I would try to be impartial.'

'Is there a biographer you admire?'

'Peter Ackroyd.'

Berry gave a little self-absorbed laugh, sipped his whiskey thoughtfully and said: ' I know for a fact that my daughter-in-law hates seeing me spend my own money. And she waters my whiskey on the rare occasions when she and my son come to visit me. There is nothing I would enjoy more than seeing her face when she learns that I have spent money on a foolish, self-indulgent venture.'

He closed his eyes. Andrew thought he had gone to sleep but after a while he opened his eyes again and said with a mischievous smile: 'Okay 52; go ahead write it. My daughter-in-law will probably tell everyone that I'm demented and incapable of managing my own affairs. Won't that be an interesting turn of events!'

He winked at Andrew.

Andrew said, resentfully: 'Are you making fun of me?'

'On the contrary, I'm deadly serious. I'll pay you five thousand pounds for a one-hundred-thousand word book plus the cost of printing and binding. I'll get my solicitor to send you a contract next week. You have twelve months to complete it. You'd better get on with it 52; I don't know if I shall last that long.'

'I shall need access to your personal and private papers.'

'Okay. Come and see me next Sunday and you'll find out what it feels like to have been William Berry.'

At the front-door Berry shook hands with Andrew and said: 'Sometimes you have to do foolish things just to prove that you're still alive.'

'How did you find out I am employed by the Tyndale Gazette?' Andrew enquired.

'I checked the number you phoned from.'

Andrew, embarrassed at having his ruse discovered, was nevertheless delighted with his commission. Although the amount Berry had offered was ridiculously small, writing a biography could possibly advance him professionally and might reveal the identity of his grandfather. He wondered, though, why Berry, having discovered that his name was Hallowell, had not mentioned his grandmother's letters.

2

William Berry opened his front-door when Andrew arrived the following Sunday, looked at him blankly and then, as recognition slowly came, said: 'Ah, you're the young man who's going to write my biography.' He then led him to his study and handed him a cheque for five-hundred pounds, adding: 'If your work does not come up to snuff, that's all you'll get.'

Berry closed the dark green curtains to eliminate the brilliant sunshine, directed him to a chair and sat opposite him at his desk. He shooed away a small grey kitten that jumped on his lap and said impatiently: 'Well, what are you waiting for?'

Andrew switched on his tape recorder.

As he did so, Berry muttered resentfully: 'Because the milkman who called just now couldn't change a five-pound note, he said: "Pay me next week 52; that is, if you are still around." What right had he to say that?'

Andrew pointed silently at the tape recorder.

Berry continued, seemingly oblivious of Andrew's signal, 'I haven't seen Christina Atoli for over forty years, but I can recall her face .more clearly than that of the milkman who called five minutes ago. I once tried to sketch her face but I couldn't capture her likeness. I sometimes sketched other members of air crew while we waiting to go on operations during the war. Most of them died 52; went for a Burton as we used to say. Recently, I looked at the drawings and the young men seemed to come back to life. You can cut that out when you come to edit the tape 52; it sounds too fanciful.'

He glanced at his watch and said in a surprised voice: 'Good heavens, it's over an hour since the milkman called. Time plays funny tricks on you when you get older. However, let's proceed with my story ...

'People say that drugs are the modern scourge but I can remember people of my generation taking drugs. Frank Hawkins certainly did. He had disappointed his parents, who were both doctors, by dropping out of medical school and enrolling for a course in drama. The war intervened and he was called up into the Navy. I remember clearly just after the war, when we were drinking in a pub in Islington, Frank swallowed a benzedrine pill and washed it down with beer, explaining that it was an economical way of getting drunk. I refused to take one. Not out of principle, but because it required very little even of the weak beer they brewed in those days to make me tipsy. I'm talking of a time when food, clothing and fuel were still rationed. Everyone was short of money. The black market dominated every sphere of activity We chatted up to some girls that night who had ventured into the pub but didn't get anywhere with them.

I was on a government grant, attending a teaching college after being demobilised from the Royal Air Force. The food in the lodging house where I first stayed was abysmal so Imade a special deal with the lady who owned the Anchor hotel across the road which took into account the fact that I went home at weekends to my parents' cottage in the Cotswold village of Barnsford, where my father worked as a carpenter.

I shared a table at meal times with three other men, a few years older than me. Frank Hawkins had served in the Royal Navy, Alan Green in the Royal Signals corps. George Mackay had been exempted from military service for medical reasons. He sold raincoats for a living and occasionally sang professionally at Masonic Ladies' evenings and similar gatherings. He would sometimes give us impromptu renderings in a fine tenor voice as we waited for breakfast. He often complained that his theatrical agent neglected him, but he refused to look for another one on the grounds that it's better to deal with a devil you know than one you don't ... I remember him saying: 'One day he'll come up with some decent engagements and then I won't have to sell bloody raincoats any more. I hate raincoats, do you know that. They give me a bloody pain in the arse. But the kids have to eat.'

Frank was working as an assistant in W.G. Foyle's book shop 52; 'resting' as actors euphemistically call being out of work. Alan Green assembled wireless sets at his parents' house in Brighton at weekends, brought them to London and sold them during the week.

George was singing an old Al Jolson song: There's a Rainbow Round My Shoulder, when the waitress came in carrying a tray of steaming finnan haddock. He stopped singing and said: 'Smells good, Rita, old girl. Give your uncle George a big kiss.'

'I'd rather kiss a pig's backside,'

'Easy on. When I'm a big star you'll be sorry you said that.'

'You'd be lucky if they let you sweep the stage.'

'Did you know that Enrico Caruso was wielding a broom one day when someone heard him singing On With The Motley. Before you could say Pagliacci he was singing at La Scala, Milan.'

'A likely story,' Rita sniffed.

George whispered when she had gone: 'Must be having her period. She's usually very nice to her Uncle George.'

Tom Corbett, the tall cadaverous travelling book salesman, leaned over from an adjoining table and said: 'It's not your fault, George, that you're fat and ugly.'

'At least I can sing. No woman would fancy you, you long streak of piss.'

'I could take singing lessons.' Corbett then glanced around furtively and said: 'There's a brand new book about opera singers just come out. I'll let you have a copy at fifty-per-cent discount.'

George began to eat with an absorbed expression52; obviously wondering if he could sell the book on at a profit. Black market deals were on everybody's mind. Frank told us a joke one day about a carton of sardines that had been sold and resold many times on the black market. When a customer complained that the sardines were uneatable, the supplier said: 'Don't be daft 52; those sardines aren't for eating; they're for buying and selling.'

The owner of the hotel, Mrs. Parkin, was a plump, snobbish widow in her fifties with faded ginger curly hair. She often said in a prim voice: 'I prefer to mix with people of consequence.' Her husband, a merchant navy captain, had been lost at sea, when his ship was torpedoed. The table at which she sat in the dining-room had now become in her mind the equivalent of the captain's table on board ship. Favoured guests would be invited to sit with her. As it was near the fire, and the weather in early spring was bitterly cold, no-one ever declined the invitation.

I was beginning to have doubts about my financial prospects, mainly because my table companions boasted about the lucrative careers they were going to carve out for themselves. Alan was convinced that he would become a major industrialist, even though he was often forced to borrow money to buy petrol for the ancient Wolseley motor car in which he made his deliveries. Frank was confident of becoming a leading actor on stage and screen. My prospective earnings as a teacher were modest in comparison. They sometimes discussed subjects of which I was completely ignorant 52; psychoanalysis, existentialism, relativity, quantum theory and so on. I was completely ignorant of such advanced notions. As a result my fellow diners pulled my leg unmercifully. Alan told a joke once which went completely above my head, because I had never heard of Freud. It concerned a Jewish woman who was worried because the doctor had told her that her son had a Oedipus complex. Her friend reassured her, saying: 'Oedipus, shmedipus you should worry as long as he loves his mother.' Frank Hawkins followed this by saying: 'Strange to think, isn't it, that if we could catch a lift on a moonbeam we would be able to see the past and the future simultaneously.' Observing my bewilderment, they would both laugh. Much, much worse, though, was the fact that Frank had cunningly uncovered the fact that I was still a virgin.

Andrew, what I am about to say now, is off the record. My daughter-in-law 52; the one who lives in England 52; would love to prove that I am incapable of looking after my financial affairs. During the account of my life I am about to give you I may sometimes give the false impression, especially when I quote Frank Hawkins, that I believe in magic and the paranormal. Just in case they might use it against me, if they should ever speak to you, tell them I gave no credence whatsoever to his strange theories.'

'I understand, Mr Berry. Just carry on talking ...'

One morning in the Anchor hotel, as we were waiting for breakfast, Alan Green showed me an advertisement he had placed in the Daily Mail newspaper in which offered to share his profits with anyone prepared to put capital into his radio-manufacturing enterprise. I said to him, mischievously: 'It sounds rather like the joke advertisement: "Socialist with knife and fork would like to meet left-wing sympathiser with steak and kidney pie."'

He looked offended, so I hastily apologised. In fact, Alan deserved success 52; he had studied before the war for an external degree in electronics and worked long hours assembling and selling his radios. He was a little overweight, wore horn-rimmed spectacles and was somewhat shy and gauche. Frank, on the other hand, was tall and lean and had an air of unbounded confidence. He once boasted to us that he turned down a commission in the Royal Navy on the grounds that the extra responsibility would inhibit what he called his 'creative thinking.' We didn't believe him. Who on earth would turn down a commission in the Royal Navy!

Alan, a non-religious Jew from Kemptown, Brighton, often complained bitterly that the Labour government neglected small businesses. The larger manufacturers, who exported their products, were allowed to buy new wireless components. Alan had to scavenge around in street markets for valves, coils and condensers discarded from defunct pre-war wireless sets. One morning I said to him: 'Why don't you try another line of business? George is thinking of giving up raincoats and going into ladies' skirts.'

'That would be something to see!' he commented with a grin, and indicating Mrs Parkin's table, enquired: 'Who's the girl?'

I could just make out the nut-brown curls of a young woman.

'Someone important no doubt.'

Alan laughed and said: 'When I told Mrs Parkin the other day I made radios, she said: 'Surely people don't buy them from a little person like you.'

'She'll be all over you when you're successful. What gave you the idea for making radios?'

'I used to fiddle around with crystal sets and radios when I was a boy. I knew there would be a shortage when the war ended. But I hadn't reckoned on the big manufacturers buying up all the components. I can never get hold of enough valves and condensers.'

'Things will change. Even Lord Nuffield has supply problems at the moment.'

Frank arrived and enquired breezily, glancing over at Mrs. Parkin's table: 'Who's Dorothy Lamour?'

Corbett leaned over from the next table and whispered portentously: 'She's an Italian contessa. I believe she's going to work at the Albanian embassy.'

Alan commented. 'No wonder she's sitting with her ladyship.'

That evening I took Sally Willoughby, a fellow student, to see a French film showing at the Curzon cinema in Mayfair. She was the daughter of a magazine publisher. Sally commuted to London daily to and from Eastbourne. She was keen on art. When she saw some drawings I had made of our fellow students, she had insisted on giving me some of her water colours, which like everything else in those days, were in short supply. So I asked her out on a date, even though I had overspent my monthly allowance.

We queued outside the cinema. The flimsy raincoat given to me by a grateful government when I was demobilised did little to protect me from the cold. Sally's face was half-covered with a blue knitted scarf, the hood of her duffel coat pulled well down over her forehead. Our breath condensed into clouds of steam. We clapped our gloved hands and stamped on the ground to keep warm. I pulled Sally towards me and hugged her.. She did not object. I told her stories about life in the Royal Air Force and began by saying: 'We often used to blame accidents in the Royal Air Force on gremlins. Little green men who played malicious tricks on us.'

'Tell me about them.'

'Sometimes the windscreen and aerials developed a kind of phosphorescent glow and we used to say: "That's the gremlins taking over." A pilot got lost flying west instead of east and claimed the gremlins had interfered with his compass. Of course, he had set it incorrectly. Nice perfume,' I added, as Sally's face moved closer to mine.

'Tell me more about gremlins.'

'A chap on a solo training exercise landed with his undercarriage up and claimed that gremlins had interfered with the warning lights.

We moved a few yards closer to the cinema entrance.

'One of our aircraft was shot down by anti-aircraft fire from our own ships, as it crossed the coast returning from a bombing mission. The gremlins told them it was a German Dornier. Mind you, sometimes gremlins had a fit of remorse and tried to help: I was once asked to pack up and return the personal effects of one of our chaps who had been shot down. A gremlin's voice told me to open a pack of playing cards in his belongings. They consisted of pictures of nude women. Thanks to this kindly gremlin, I was able to save his parents embarrassment.

'Such a shame that he was killed without ever loving someone properly.'

'I hadn't thought of it like that.'

'Did you have any girl friends while you were in the RAF?'

'One or two.'

'What else happened to you?'

'A cat came into my room one day, mewing piteously. A friend of mine used to take it with him on Ops for luck. I had told him the day before that it was unfair to put the cat's life in danger. So he left it behind and his luck deserted him. I felt very guilty.'

'You had no need to.'

We moved forward another couple of steps.

'An air-gunner used to take his own homing pigeon with him on operations 52; he would have got into trouble if he had been found out. His aircraft was badly crippled by anti-aircraft fire and on the way home they ditched into the sea. They were picked up by some Dutch fishermen, who looked after them for a while. Eventually, the Germans caught them and they were made prisoners-of-war. Some months later, when the Air Ministry informed the navigator's family that he was a POW, they told their neighbours they already knew because his pigeon had flown home with a message.'

'Amazing!'

We held hands during a very sentimental French film. Tears rolled down Sally's cheek. During the bus ride to Victoria station I mentioned that I had continued keeping records of unusual events in peace-time.

'What sort of things?'

A man walking along a street in Manchester was hit on the head by a tile that fell off a tall building. He was taken to hospital and he fell in love with a nurse. And guess what 52; her name was Dorothy Tile! Who in a million years would imagine such a thing! My favourite wartime story, though, is about a member of a Lancaster crew who fell ten-thousand feet without a parachute, crashed through trees into a snow drift and lived to tell the tale.'

'And your favourite peacetime story?'

'A man had decided to place a treble 52; that's when you place the winnings from one horse onto a horse in the next race and the winnings from that onto a third horse. The telephone rang and told him his daughter had had a baby. He was so excited that he failed to place his bet. He would have won three hundred-and-fifty pounds. When he went to his daughter's house to see the new baby, he found out that his son-in-law had placed exactly the same bet with the bookmaker. He shared his winnings with his father-in-law.'

'And you write all these things down?'

'It's just a hobby.'

'How many stories do you have?'

'Thousands.'

I pulled Sally close to me and kissed her just before she boarded her train for Eastbourne. She responded absent-mindedly, as though she was still thinking about my anecdotes. The reason for this I discovered later.

Sally said to me the next time we met in class: 'I told my father about your stories and he thinks they may be worth publishing.'

'You mean in one of his magazines?'

'Yes, he really liked them. Please come down next weekend. We can go on some lovely walks along the Downs. We have a tennis court. Do you play?'

'A little.'

'Okay. Bring the notebook with your amazing stories. I'm sure my parents will like you.'

* * *

I had better say more about my background. My younger brother, aged sixteen, like my father, worked for a local firm of builders. My sister was engaged to a stockbroker's clerk. She lived in London and worked in the City of London as a secretary. I was finding it difficult to live on my meagre income. I realised that marriage into Sally's affluent family would immensely improve my prospects.

The following Friday Sally and I met at Victoria station. She chatted amiably, as the train rattled noisily towards Eastbourne. But even as I strained to pay attention to what she was saying, my thoughts kept reverting to the Contessa.

A chauffeur in uniform met us at the station and drove us to the house in a Rolls-Royce. Sally's father was a thickset man about five-foot nine inches 52; three inches taller than me. He had small, shrewd amber eyes and a brick-red complexion, which became purple when he coughed. He smoked cigars. Her mother, Margaret, was a thinner version of Sally with sparse straw-coloured hair streaked with grey and sad blue eyes. The house stood on high ground overlooking the sea a few miles from Eastbourne. There were two maids, a handyman-chauffeur and gardeners.

I was welcomed with a glass of white wine in the conservatory. Afterwards, Sally and her mother, Margaret, showed me around their four-acre garden, part of which was given over to a tennis court. In the centre of an extensive lawn a Grecian maiden sprayed water into a small pond surrounded by smaller statues of nymphs. Colourful flower beds extended beyond the lawn. There were shrubberies, an orchard of apple, pear and plum trees and a copse of cypress trees. We sat for a while under a pergola covered with pale blue wisteria that overlooked the Channel. I could see ships in the hazy distance, smoke emerging from their funnels.

Margaret asked me about my time in the Royal Air Force. I commiserated with her on the loss of her son. She assured me that teaching was a good profession and turning to Sally said: 'Two teachers are bound to get on together.'

'We have totally different tastes,' she answered.

'We like the same films,' I reminded her.

'Liking each other is what matters,' Margaret intervened,

'We don't like each other, do we, William?' Sally said with a look that begged me to say the opposite.

'We hate each other,' I said po-faced. And added: 'But that could be the prelude to love.'

Sally blushed.

Margaret glanced at her watch and said: 'I think we should go inside now. Sydney has something he wishes to discuss with William.'

We strolled along flag-stoned paths. The red brick manor-type house came into view through the stand of cypress trees,

Margaret directed me to Sydney's study. He was sitting at his desk. Pointing to a wall lined with magazine covers, he remarked: 'This is what I wanted to talk to you about. I bought my first magazine just after the First World War and since then I've never looked back. A good magazine can last a hundred or more years. Even a bad one can last ten years. I have only had one failure 52; a golfing magazine. Golfers seem to prefer to play golf rather than read about the game. Do you play golf?'

'No, sir.'

'Call me Sydney.'

He pushed a box of cigars towards me. I declined. He slowly lit a cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke. After studying me for a few moments, he said: 'I gather that you are interested in the strange, weird and wonderful'

'I always make a note of it when something unusual crops up.'

'Sally told me about your notebook. Let's hear some of your stories.'

I read out of my notebook some of the strange incidents I had recorded. Sydney listened intently and then said: 'Very intriguing. If you were an editor of a magazine and you were short of material, would you be prepared to invent a few?'

'Not if it would result in readers losing confidence in the magazine.'

'What about ghosts? Nobody can reasonably expect you to provide proof that they exist.'

'It's an area where I imagine one would have to be very careful.'

'The magazine I have in mind will have a section devoted to the supernatural. An editor can always fall back on ghosts, if he's short of material.'

'I suppose so.'

He puffed at his cigar for a while and then said with a serious expression: 'I am thinking of publishing a magazine called "Quirks." When I was young, if anyone had told me that I would be able to watch black and white images of events happening hundreds of miles away, I would have said it was impossible. Our new magazine will include inventions and ideas that are presently only in the minds of inventors and imaginative people. And we'll report on the kind of strange coincidences such as you have recorded in your notebook and on the vagaries of fate which defy all rational reckoning. Why did the safest ship in the world disappear into the ocean? Why did people like Wallace and Darwin have the same idea at exactly the same time? Why is it that some people who are totally idiotic in other respects can do the most amazing sums in their heads?'

He went on, as if he was talking to himself: 'People love to be frightened. We'll address the problem that Charles Dickens found so fascinating 52; auto-combustion 52; people who for no apparent reason catch fire? And we'll ask why did the Hindenberg airship come to grief. And, yes, we'll have a ghost-hunting competition with a large prize for the most plausible evidence. Are you with me, William?'

'Yes, sir, I'm right with you.'

Sydney possessed all the qualities of a showman. He took his cigar out of his mouth and said with a mischievous grin: 'If you promise never to marry my daughter, I'll give you a job as editor of Quirks magazine.'

Relishing the surprised look on my face, his grin expanded into a genial smile. The message came home to me that he thought that I was a good match for his daughter.

I nodded assent.

'He said: 'Of course, you'll need a good deal of training.'

I replied: 'I'm willing to give it a try.'

I strove hard to make a good impression during the rest of what turned out to be an enjoyable weekend. Sally wore a succession of attractive outfits and granted me two tepid kisses.

4

Fank told me the next time I saw him that he had taken the Contesssa to Covent Garden to see The Marriage of Figaro. She had missed out on the position in the Albanian embassy, but Frank had got her a job in Foyles book shop.

I said sarcastically: 'Would your wife approve of your dating another woman?'

'Wartime marriages should be expunged from the records. Carol has refused to come home until her father's will is settled It's an unholy mess 52; he has fathered several other children on the wrong side of the blanket.'

'So what are your plans?'

'I'm going to get a divorce.'

He gave a weary grimace and left to catch a train to Worthing, where had had an audition with a repertory company..

When Alan joined me for breakfast, I told him that Frank had taken Christina to the opera. He exclaimed: 'Well, I'll be blowed! I took her out to dinner last week.'

'What's she like?'

'Very nice. She speaks very good English, with hardly a trace of an accent. She discussed business with me in a very intelligent fashion.'

Although two of my table companions had managed to date the Contessa, this did not discourage me. Seducing her would be the finest thing that could ever happen to me in my lifetime and would also be the perfect revenge on Frank and Alan for past humiliations. It was obvious that to become powerful I needed to marry into an affluent family. I skipped the last period at teachers training college that day and informed the principal of my intention to take a job in publishing. He jokingly asked if there were any similar vacancies. That evening I took Sally to dinner

at the Cumberland hotel, presented her with a red rose and asked her to marry me. Clasping it with both hands, she said, enthusiastically: 'Yes! my darling, I was hoping that you would ask me.'

I hesitated and said: 'There is one slight problem. Your father has offered me a job in his publishing house. But he said I couldn't have the job if I married you.'

'Would you have asked me to marry you if you thought he really meant it?'

'Of course. But I thought I should let you know what he said just in case he was being serious.'

'Everyone says he's a terrible tyrant at work.'

'I don't mind.'

'He was only joking. But you can always try something else, if it doesn't suit you,'

'I'll make a success of it, never fear.'

I stood up, went round the table, bent over her and kissed her, evoking a round of ironic applause from the other diners.

Just before boarding her train at Victoria station, Sally hugged me and pressed her body against mine with all her strength. I waved goodbye energetically, as the train left the station, feeling certain that she would make an excellent wife. Even so, during the Tube journey back to Islington, my thoughts kept reverting to the Contessa.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the hotel and arriving on the landing, saw Christina looking out cautiously from the door of her bedroom. Pressing myself against the wall at the top of the stairs, I watched as she hurried to the bathroom, wearing a flimsy night-dress. I remained hidden and was rewarded by an even more entrancing vision as she returned to her bedroom. I tried to dampen my ardour on returning to my room by splashing myself with cold water from the wash-hand basin but to no avail. All night long I was haunted by that supremely beautiful image.

The following weekend, Sally's parents met us at Eastbourne railway station. Her father drove us to their house. Both parents were clearly gratified that we had become engaged.

Sally and I strolled in the garden after dinner, lingering and kissing each other by the flower beds and under the trees.. She confided that she had fallen in love with me the day we had first met.

Later, her parents left to play bridge with a neighbouring couple. Sally invited me to her bedroom, to show me some of her paintings 52; pleasant, conventional images of bowls of fruit, and rose-entwined thatch cottages. As I was examining a painting of their collie dog who had died the previous year she put her arms around me. I turned to face her. She rested her head on my chest and we collapsed onto the bed. As I struggled with her clothing, she gave a heartfelt cry and said: 'No, darling! Please ... Please. Not yet ...'

Hastily buttoning up her dress, she said breathlessly: 'We mustn't anticipate our wedding night. Let's get married very soon. Long engagements can be very frustrating.'

Evading my imploring hands, she said: 'I'll tell Mummy and Daddy to go full speed ahead for an August wedding.'

* * *

Soon afterwards I entered the world of magazine publishing. Arthur Hopkins, the man whom I was later to succeed as editor of "Quirks Quarterly (it eventually became Quirks Monthly), instructed me to go into the street and invite passers by to come into the office for free drinks. We showed them extracts from my notebooks as well as other similar types of stories and recorded their reactions. We enquired if they would buy a magazine featuring ghost stories. The results were encouraging. Two weeks after I first entered the elegant, marbled floored offices of Willoughby Publishing Ltd in the Strand I was hard at work assembling pages of text and illustrations for a mock up of the magazine.

5

The following week, William Berry gathered the grey kitten onto his lap and continued his story:

Frank Hawkins's acting career suffered a setback a fortnight after joining the Worthing repertory company. During a rehearsal of Noel Coward's Private Lives he whispered: 'He sounds like he's playing Victorian melodrama.' The actor, who was blessed with acute hearing, flew at him and wrestled him to the ground. Only the intervention of a muscular actress, who had a soft spot for Frank, saved him from serious injury.

I said to him: 'You must be mad! You get yourself a decent job and then go and blow it.'

'I had to say something 52; the guy was hamming it up.'

'Didn't you once say your wife has contacts in the film industry.'

'I've already started divorce proceedings.'

Divorce was expensive, but Frank's parents were helping him with his legal costs.

'So what now?' I enquired.

'I'll have to get in touch with my agent.'

The Contessa came in at that moment, her head held high, wearing a close-fitting cerise dress. Frank went over to greet her. I followed him and introduced myself. Neither George nor Alan was present that evening, so she consented to join us for dinner. A vivid image of her almost naked body emerging from the bathroom flashed through my mind as she sat down. All my dreams of beautiful women centered on the shapely figure sitting opposite me.

Exploiting my advantage over Frank, now unemployed, I mentioned casually that I had recently started work as a journalist and told her about an article I had just written about poltergeists. Frank had not so far mentioned his setback in Worthing. Gingerly stirring a repulsive-looking sausage on his plate with his fork, he sang the title of a popular song: 'Oh, sweet mystery of life at last I've found you.'

'I would have been only too happy to eat it during the war,' Christina commented.

'It must have been tough when the German occupied Rome,' I remarked.

Frank said hastily: 'Let's not talk about the war.'

Christina then told us about a misunderstanding that occurred when a customer asked in broken English for a book about bishops. He had looked puzzled when she showed him some ecclesiastical volumes. Later, it turned out that he was looking for a specialist book on the subject of the bishop's moves in chess.

After dinner we strolled down the hill to a pub called the Golden Grapes.

'Why are you looking so gloomy?' Christina asked Frank as we sat down at a table.

He glanced around the crowded pub and confessed that he had lost his job.

'What happened?'

'My artistic conscience got the better of me. I criticised someone and got the sack for my pains.'

'Don't worry, darling. You'll find another job soon.' She took his hand reassuringly.

Her sympathetic gesture disappointed me, although I had already suspected they had formed a close relationship. This suspicion was confirmed when Frank, in flagrant breach of good manners, produced a condom from his pocket. and drew it onto his index finger. He then held it up to his face and imitating Hamlet, declaimed: 'To be or not to be: that is the question: Whether tis nobler for my spermatozoa to penetrate an ovum, or by evading it, end all my hopes of fatherhood ...'

Aware of giggles emanating from three girls sitting at the next table, Frank, stood up, placed his condom-laden index finger on the back of a chair, threw his hand up in the air and declared: 'Fly away, condom.' When his finger returned to the back of the chair the condom had disappeared. He repeated the gesture, exclaimed: 'Come back, condom, and the rubber-clad finger duly reappeared. The girls looked mystified, unaware that he had just played on them the oldest conjuring trick in the world by displaying a different finger.

'Be warned, ladies,' Frank with a cheerful smile, 'never have sex with a man who does conjuring tricks with French letters.'

He sat down and lifting his pint of beer to his lips, he whispered to us: 'That'll teach them to laugh at Hamlet.'

'Any more tricks up your sleeve?' Christina enquired.

Frank stood up, pulled a forelock over his brow, placed a black comb across his upper lip and thundered in typical Hitlerite fashion: 'How can you say that I lost zie war!' I did not lose zie war. My trusty lieutenant, Joseph Goebells, assures me that he is changing his name to Joseph Bow Bells. Zey haf already named an English town Goring-on-Thames after my obese Field Marshall. The Luftwaffe is still waffing. Soon you will be eating German sausages and drinking German bitter.' He called to the barman: 'Bitte. you heard me, mate. A pint of bitter.'

He then gave an exuberant rendition of Deutschland Uber Alles on a mouth organ.

There was some appreciative clapping. Frank collapsed on a chair, looking rather tired. Several people bought him drinks.

Christina whispered to him, when the noise subsided: 'You didn't say whether you would like to be a father one day.'

'Of course I would. What about you, William?'

'Not if we're all going to be exterminated by the Bomb.'

Frank then surprised us by delivering a very informed lecture on nuclear fission.

During our subsequent conversation I learned that Christina had lived most of her early life in England. I judged her to be about twenty-five. Her father had held an important position in an Italian bank based in the City between the wars, reporting to Mussolini what was going on in London during the early part of the Thirties. The family returned to Italy in 1936, when her father was given a post in the Italian Foreign Service. Both her parents had died during the war.

As we were about to leave the pub, a swarthy man of middle-height wearing a bowler hat came up to Frank, whispered a few words and gave him his business card.

'Who was that?' I asked on the way home.

Frank replied: 'Some idiot who appeared to think I was funny.'

I resented the fact that his arm encircled Christina. I resented even more the kiss he gave her before going to his room on the ground floor.

I said to her boldly: as we climbed the stairs, 'Don't I get a kiss as well?'

She shook her head, reprovingly.

In bed that night visions of her tender expressions as she gazed at Frank made me angry and frustrated. Now that it was clear that she and Frank were lovers, I vowed as soon as possible to become sufficiently rich and powerful to replace him in her affections..

6

The teachers training college had closed for the summer break. Sally was very busy organising her trousseau and planning the wedding. As a result we saw little of each other. We were to be married at the end of August. Because of wartime bombing, there was a severe housing shortage. But Sally's father had agreed to let us have a flat he owned in Baker Street at a nominal rent.

Sales of the first issue of Quirks Quarterly were very encouraging. Curiosity concerning unusual events served as a satisfying substitute for the excitement of war. All five members of the staff raked assiduously through newspapers for suitable stories. I managed to slip in a few of my own wartime adventures.

My secretary, Mabel Wise, a plump, freckle-faced girl, had worked as a land girl during the war 52; her hands still bore signs of her work in the fields. One day she said timidly, putting down her pencil, 'I had a funny experience during the war.'

I said, 'I'll give you two minutes in which to tell me.'

Her story concerned a wartime romance between an Italian prisoner-of-war, Guiseppi, and Olive, one of Mabel's Land Army girl friends. He found a gap in the barbed wire that surrounded the encampment. They made love. She became pregnant. He swore that when the war was over he would come back to England and marry her. But he was, in fact, already married with four daughters in his native Sicily. The baby boy was born the day the war in Europe ended. Guiseppi was among the first to be repatriated and she heard no more from him.

A year later, she was being pressed to give up her illegitimate baby for adoption. Still convinced that her lover would keep his promise and marry her, she implored her brother, who had been recently demobilised, to go to Sicily and search for him. He searched high and low but did not succeed in tracing him. While he was having a haircut in Messina one day, the barber told him in English that he had four dearly beloved daughters, but his greatest wish to have a son had been denied him because his wife had just undergone a hysterectomy. By now tired of searching, Olive's brother asked if he would think of adopting a baby boy. The barber subsequently adopted Olive's child, without realising that it was his own son.

I told the story to Frank and Alan when we were having dinner. Frank said accusingly: 'Guiseppi's wife may read it one day and discover that she has been duped.'

'Nonsense. The magazine isn't published in Sicily.'

'You journalists love manipulating the public.'

'We have to make a living like everyone else.'

Frank seemed jealous of my well-paid job. I suggested to him that he seek work in the newly-opened festival of arts in Edinburgh, in the hope that he would go away and leave Christina in my care.

The following morning, I left the Underground at Charing Cross station on my way to the office, and entered Foyles bookshop. Christina was serving a customer. When he had gone, I asked her if she would join me for lunch at Lyon's Corner House, telling her that I needed some information for a story I was writing about Italy. She demurred at first, saying it would bring back too many unhappy memories. But eventually she agreed to come. I mentioned during the meal Mussolini's gross error of judgement in entering the war. She said he had been unduly influenced by Count Ciano, his son-in-law. I formed the impression that she had actually met Ciano, who had been Italy's foreign minister. She told me she was now penniless because her father had worked for the fascist regime and her lawyers were finding it difficult to establish her claim for the family estate.

I asked her if she was a Contessa. She smiled, shook her head and said: 'What does it matter?'

I replied: 'We are a nation of snobs.'

'It was worse in Italy. I hope it will improve now they have got rid of the monarchy.'

'Will you go back one day?'

'Never!' she declared emphatically.

I said: 'Good. That means that I won't lose you to some Italian gigolo.'

'You shouldn't say things like that when you are engaged to be married.'

'I can't help how I feel.'

'You should not have asked me out to lunch.'

I pleaded with her: 'Don't tell me off. The girl I am going to marry has all the virtues, including a rich father who has given me my present job. My whole financial future depends on going through with it. But I am so obsessed with you that I would give it all up, if you would have me.'

Christina looked startled and said: 'William, I am amazed at you. I don't know what to say, except to advise you to get on with your life.'

I shook my head and said: 'I don't care how many times you turn me down. One day, when I am rich and successful, I'll make you the most indulged woman who ever lived on this earth. The heiress to the Woolworth millions, will look poverty-stricken beside you.'

Christina said with an amused expression: 'You talk like a crazy schoolboy, William.'

'Rubbish. Of all the women I have bedded in my time you're the tops.'

In response she gave me a sceptical smile that made clear she was not impressed by my claim to be an accomplished seducer of women. It appeared obvious that I would always be overshadowed by Frank Hawkins, who shortly afterwards achieved considerable success in his newly-chosen profession.

*

Alan informed me one evening that he had found cheap lodging for Christina in Pimlico, because she could no longer afford to stay at the Anchor. His own prospects had improved. His fiancée's father had offered to finance his business venture and he had rented a vacant bomb site near King's Cross station on which he proposed to erect a pre-fabricated building. He also told me that Christina had suggested a way to improve his products.

'Really! What does she know about radios?'

'Not much about the technical side. But she knows a helluva lot about design.' Waving his hands enthusiastically, he said: 'She sketched a mermaid logo for me which looks really good 52; she's very artistic I'm thinking of changing our trade name to Mermaid Radios.'

I said, thinking quickly: 'We could do with an illustrator on the magazine. Would you mind giving me her new address. Incidentally, why did you take her out to dinner?'

'I felt sorry for her.'

'Did you er 51; get anywhere with her?'

'Seducing her would be taking sweets from a blind man. She's suffered a great deal. Her parents were killed by the partisans.'

He refused to be drawn any further.

* * *

In spite of this, I still regarded Alan as a possible rival for the Contessa's affections. Although I felt guilty for having designs on another woman while engaged to Sally, I was aware that it was only by marrying into the rich Willoughby family that my plans to seduce Christina would stand any chance of success. I took comfort from the fact that her present lover had failed both as an actor and as a husband. I doubted whether his talent for comedy would make his fortune. But it turned out that in this I was mistaken.

The following morning Frank was humming to himself contentedly when I came down to breakfast. I remarked: 'You seem in a good mood.'

'Yeah, things are going my way at last. Do you remember when I did that little routine in the pub? An agent gave me his card. I telephoned him yesterday and he's offered me a chance to work as a stand-up comedian in working men's clubs in County Durham.'

'Is the money good?'

'Not bad.'

Then you'll take it on?'

'I might. I'm thinking of using some futuristic ideas as part of my comedy routine.'

'Your typical miner doesn't want to be experimented on after he's done a hard day's work.'

'I have great faith in the ordinary man.'

I didn't argue. The last thing I wanted was to dissuade him from going away.

He talked a while about his divorce, which was being strongly contested by his wife. And then, after wiping my mouth on one of the Irish linen napkins which Mrs. Parkin insisted were the hallmark of a superior establishment, I said: 'Are you aware that the Contessa's parents were fascists.'

'Christina isn't. Never has been. Never will be. Incidentally, she has promised to come up and see me perform in Durham.'

'Are you giving up your room here?'

'Yes. I shall probably move in with Christina when I come back.'

'Have you asked her?'

He laughed out loud.

'I don't need to. We're getting married as soon as my divorce comes through.'

My heart sank.

I muttered: 'Well, my advice is, if you're going to do comedy in working men's clubs, don't try any high falutin stuff. Working men want smutty jokes 52; the smuttier the better.'

Frank hunched his wide shoulders and said thoughtfully: 'We shall see.'

'Have you got any material?'

'Yes. I shall make jokes about modern science.'

That last remark assured me that his career as a comic would be very short.

7

Our stay at the Anchor hotel was coming to an end. Alan had rented a couple of rooms in a semi-detached house in Woking. His marriage was to take place during the same weekend as mine, which would prevent us from attending each other's weddings. We had arranged to meet when we came back from our respective honeymoons. I knew little about Alan's fiancée, except that her father had some tobacconist shops.

I was making good progress in my new job. The new magazine continued to grow and soon became profitable. I was rapidly learning the business side of publishing. I had enrolled for a part-time evening course in business management. Soon, I would be married and have a home in the West End of London. But I still dreamed of Christina at nights. I stayed in London one weekend instead of going to Eastbourne, because I needed to be measured for a morning suit. I telephoned Christina at her new address.

I said: Hullo, this is William Berry. Remember me?'

'Of course. How are you?'

'Fine. Have you seen Frank lately?'

'He is working in a place called Bishop Auckland. I am going there to see him next weekend.'

'Great. Perhaps I'll come with you. In the meantime, I wondered if you would be interested in a new job. Alan told me you have some artistic talent. Could I possibly see some of your work.'

She answered hesitantly: 'I could show you some sketches I made during the war. But I don't think they are up to professional standards.'

'Let me be the judge of that. The magazine I work for needs illustrations for some of the stories we publish. Don't bet on it, but it's just possible you may fit the bill. May I come and see your sketches?'

'I shall be at Foyles until six o'clock this evening.'

'Okay. I'll pick you up there.'

* * *

I ran up the stairs to my room in a state of high excitement, a scene from a French movie I had seen recently running vividly through my mind. Soon after Christina joined the staff of Willoughbys I visualised her, just like the heroine in the movie, succumbing to my ardent love making, thrashing her bare legs in a paroxysm of passion, her breasts bursting forth from the smart business suit she wore to the office.

I had just entered my room when the maid knocked on the door and said there was a telephone call for me. I returned to the pay-phone box in the hotel foyer. Sally wanted to know more about the morning suit I was to wear for the wedding. I discussed this and other details concerning my shirt, hat, tie, waistcoat and shoes. But I became irritated when she demanded an exact description of my socks.

'Darling, they are just socks.'

'Exactly what colour are they?'

'They're grey.'

'I want to know the exact shade.'

'Darling, one can't describes shades over the telephone.'

'You can at least say whether they are light or dark.'

'They're kind of medium.'

'You're not concentrating. Are they light grey or dark grey?'

'You know I'm not good at colours.'

'You're good at whatever you want to be good at. Pleasing me doesn't happen to be one of them at the moment.'

'How can you say that!'

'You sound as though you're miles away while I'm talking to you.'

'Seventy miles to be exact.'

'That's not what I mean. Are you sure you love me?'

'I love you madly.'

'Really?'

'Of course. I'll show you the socks when I come down next week. I can't wait to see you.'

'Goodbye, my love.'

We both made kissing noises down the line.

As soon as I put the telephone down, I resumed my fantasising 52; this time thinking about the journey to Bishop Auckland I intended to make with Christina, which would offer a splendid opportunity for seduction. Sally was expecting me to go down to Eastbourne the following weekend. I would tell her that I had to visit my family. Sidney and his wife, incidentally, had lavishly entertained my parents at the Savoy hotel. Any reservations they might have had about the match had been swept away by Sydney's hospitality and his enthusiastic praise for the qualities I was showing in my new job.

8

A little, white-haired lady appeared at the door of the lodging house in Pimlico. When I asked for Christina Atoli, she said briskly: 'First door on the right, upstairs. You may stay for ten minutes only,' and then scuttled like a startled rabbit into a small adjoining room. Ten minutes was the standard time limit imposed by landladies in those days as a deterrent to immoral behaviour.

I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. I caught a whiff of heady perfume, as Christina stood aside to let me in. A single bed with a green quilt stood hard up against one wall. The walls were decorated with grimy, flowered wallpaper. An ancient battered oak wardrobe stood beside a small window covered by frayed net curtains. Items of makeup and a handbag lay on a small table by the side of the bed. Christina looked at me, faintly puzzled.

I said: 'Not much of a place.'

'I've seen worse. It was very good of you, incidentally, to consider me for a job. I have only a few of my paintings here 52; I left most of them in Italy. I've no idea what happened to them.'

She knelt down and produced a pigskin case from under the bed. Opening the lid, she drew out a folder of dark brown paper containing some drawings and paintings. They consisted of some misty seascapes, water colours of narrow inner-city tenements and studies of officers in Italian army uniform. There was an excellent cartoon of a cat holding up its paw in a parody of a fascist salute. I had no hesitation in saying: 'They're good. I'll make an appointment for you to see my editor.'

'I have had no professional training.'

'Style is what we need. Our magazine doesn't cater for sophisticated people. I shall recommend that you be taken on.'

'How much will they pay me?'

'More than you're earning now.'

Christina's expression of joy made me want to kiss and hug her. I resisted the impulse, held out my hand and said: 'Let's shake on it.'

Sitting on the bed, I exclaimed: 'This mattress is lumpy 52; we'll have to get you out of here soon.'

'Thank you, William. You have been extraordinarily kind to me. Frank will be delighted when he hears about this.'

'How are you getting to Durham?'

'By train. Frank sent me the money to buy the ticket.'

'I'll drive you there 52; keep the train fare for another occasion. I really would like to see Frank in action.'

'I didn't know you owned a car.'

'I shall have one by next weekend.'

Christina suddenly looked at her watch and said: 'I must go now.'

We walked together towards the Underground station. I took her arm, immensely excited by the close physical contact.

'When are you getting married?' she enquired.

'Three weeks from Sunday.'

'You must be very happy.'

'Yes.'

On a sudden impulse, I swung her round and kissed her.

'William! What are you doing!' she exclaimed.

'I just had to do that..'

'Never do it again.'

She slipped from my grasp and ran on ahead.

Catching her up, I said: 'Look, I'm very sorry. Don't let it spoil our trip. We both want to see Frank succeed in his new career.'

She strode quickly alongside me, her face tense.

I said: 'I won't do it again.'

'Okay, but promise to behave yourself in future.'

'I promise.'

I arranged to pick her up in my car the following Saturday.

* * *

A few days later my boss asked Christina to illustrate a true story scheduled to appear in the magazine about twins who had been separated at birth and adopted by different parents. They had appeared in the same intake of raw recruits, to the amazement of the sergeant-major, who couldn't tell one from the other, One of them, incidentally, was killed on D-Day. She captured so powerfully the astonished expression on the faces of the twins when they first saw each other that he hired her on the spot.

I took her out for lunch to an Italian restaurant just off the Strand to celebrate her success. She seemed very happy. As I sat smiling foolishly at her, she said: 'Oh, William, I am so pleased. This is the best job I have had in my life. I never expected anything so wonderful to happen to me. Now I can be independent. And I don't have to worry any more about the lawyers back in Rome. You know I was made a scapegoat by the legal system because my father supported Mussolini after he was captured and taken up north by the Germans. He and my mother were killed. His possessions were confiscated and I got nothing. Now they can do what they like. I have a job and I can be happy. And you, too, will be happy, William, with your new wife.'

'Yes, of course. I bought a car last night 52; a 1934 Standard Eight from a friend of George Mackay. He even gave me a free driving lesson. It purrs along. Frank will be amazed when he sees us arrive together.'

'You have never driven a car before 52; and yet you flew airplanes?'

'I never had the opportunity to learn to drive. But don't worry. I'll get you there safely.'

'Does your fiancée know you are taking me?'

'I'll tell her. She won't mind. She's very busy at the moment with wedding arrangements.'

* * *

By the time we had passed Northampton I had learned how to double-declutch and was driving reasonably well. The weather was glorious. I kept glancing at my passenger, exulting at having such a beautiful woman sitting beside me. I felt as much in command as when I flew Lancasters. As the road slipped by I spun a web of dreams, all of which ended with Christina spreadeagled on a bed, begging me to satisfy her overpowering lust..

I said: 'Give half your love to Frank and let me claim the other half.'

'Don't be so stupid, William. You are being disloyal to your fiancée. Doesn't that bother you?'

'Yes. But I need you. I don't think your feelings towards Frank Hawkins are half as passionate as mine towards you.'

'I admire him greatly.'

'That is not the same as love.'

' I don't believe in romantic love.'

'Did someone hurt you?'

'I don't want to talk about it, William. Our lives have been very different.'

'Were you jilted?'

'Let us talk about something else. Are Frank and I invited to your wedding?'

'Yes, but you must promise not to tell Sally we took this trip together.'

'I wouldn't have come with you, if I had known you were deceiving her about it.'

'Well, we're here, enjoying ourselves, and that's it. Now I want to know more about you.'

'What do you want to know exactly?'

'Everything from the time you first sucked at your mother's breast.'

A sideways glance at Christina's breasts excited me so much that I crashed the gears.

'What are you doing?' Christina cried in alarm.

'Just experimenting.'

'Would you like me to drive?'

'No. I'm the only one insured to drive the car. I'm beginning to feel that I know a little about you.'

I described the Willoughby organization and then asked a question that had been puzzling me.

'How is that as an Italian you were allowed to come and work here?'

'My mother was British and made me take out a British passport before the war.'

'So that's why you speak English so fluently.'

'I spent much of my childhood in England. My father worked for an Italian bank in the City of London.'

'You are so beautiful you should have been a film star.'

'I have no gift for acting.'

'But a great talent for painting.'

'I love doing it. I intend to take art lessons. I earned good grades during art lessons at school. Our art teacher was wonderful. He praised and encouraged us.'

'What school was that?'

'Roedean near Brighton.'

There was silence, as I digested the fact that she had attended such an expensive boarding school.

Christina then said: 'You and Frank and Alan are all very different.'

'Yeah, they are both taller than me?'

'But you are tougher, more durable. Alan is very gentle.'

'In that case he'll never make any money. You have to be tough to make money.'

'He has a very good mind 52; a scientific mind.'

'And Frank 52; what kind of mind does he have?'

'An enquiring mind. But his greatest gift is for making people laugh.'

'He just likes being the centre of attention.'

'That is not so,' Christina said with a determined expression. 'You will find out in due course that what I say about him is true.'

I said: 'But you must admit that he is completely crazy. He came down to breakfast one morning in the Anchor with a pair of trousers he was taking to the cleaners. He put them over his head, looked through the open fly and said he was satisfying a long-standing ambition to see the world from a penis's point of view.'

Christina laughed. I was annoyed when she did so because I thought his jest childish. She then said enthusiastically: 'That reminds me. He once said to a waitress when we were having a meal in a restaurant: "If we regressed into foetuses and separated into sperm and ovum, where would we be?" She answered: "I don't know. Where would we be?" And he replied: "Inside someone's underdrawers."

Christina laughed again and I drove on grimly, thinking that Frank must have hypnotised her.

* * *

Frank had booked three rooms in the same hotel in Bishop Auckland where he was staying. I heard him whispering to Christina, as we made our way upstairs: 'I had to take separate rooms. The old guy who owns the joint wouldn't book us into the same room unless I produced evidence that we were married.'

He was due to appear in the local miner's club at around eleven o'clock that evening. We dined in a fish and chip restaurant and then went and sat in the club.

'Goin' to make us laugh, Frank lad?' an elderly silver-haired miner said, on his way to deliver pints of beer to his table. He nudged Frank in the ribs with his elbow and added: 'Let's have one of your science fiction jokes, eh?'

Christina said: 'They seem to like you here.'

'Yes, they're not as sophisticated and blasé as Londoners.'

He ordered an orangeade for Christina. Frank and I drank beer.

We sat down on a wooden bench and I said: 'What's all this about science fiction jokes.'

Frank sipped his beer and said: 'It's a vein of humour that hasn't been exploited. They like it up here.'

He took a deeper draft of beer After a while he sighed, took a small pill from his wallet and swallowed it.'

'What's that?' Christina asked.

'Just a pill. It boosts me up. Helps me get on with my act.'

'You shouldn't take pills.'

'It's not the easiest thing in the world, you know, being a comedian.'

'Isn't beer sufficient?'

'No. You'll understand one day. And now tell me what's going on in the Big Smoke. I gather that Billy-boy here has found you a job.'

'Yes, isn't it wonderful. And we're invited to his wedding.'

Frank said: 'Great. I suppose Alan will be there.'

'No. He is getting married that same weekend'

Frank then said to Christina: 'Did you ever tell Billy-boy what happened to you in Italy?'

'No. It's peace time now 52; we must all forget the past.'

Frank listened intently as I gave Christina a detailed briefing on her new job in the art department at Willoughbys, naturally inflating my own importance within the organization.

9

Berry said: 'Switch off the tape-recorder.'

Andrew reached forward and switched it off.

Berry continued: 'I have never taken drugs and I was never more than a moderate drinker 52; I was brought up in a disciplined household. Nor am I a gambler 52; my biggest gamble was when I volunteered to become air crew during the war. I enlisted not so much for love of country as love of my native county, because at the time that was all I knew of the world.

'By the way, I was shocked to see that Frank Hawkins was regularly taking amphetamines. But I was glad I had spotted a chink in his armour. Have you ever taken amphetamines, Andrew?

'Speed?' Andrew enquired, nonchalantly. He gave a shrug, intended to convey that it was none of Berry's business.

Berry went on ruminatively: 'I recently read a book by John Steinbeck. One of his characters says: "It takes great courage to back truth unacceptable to our times. There's a punishment for it, and it's usually crucifixion." Hearing Frank Hawkins spouting that night in a smoke-filled room full of miners, I thought he'll get crucified one of these days. His humour did not appeal to me in the least. Christine loved it, though. Seeing her eyes filled with admiration infuriated me. The undeniable fact is that I was in love with two women. If anyone says it isn't possible, he doesn't understand human nature. I loved them both in very different ways. Sally was kind and loving and guaranteed me a good career and a prosperous future. But the Contessa had induced in me a physical passion which was totally beyond belief. Until I met her I possessed a rational, calculating brain. But I had now become mad 52; almost as mad as Frank Hawkins. Switch on the tape-recorder now, Andrew. I have finished waffling on ... '

* * *

Frank came onto the dais, wearing a miner's helmet

'Your face is too clean,' someone shouted.

He took off the helmet, exposing a mop of curly brown hair and shouted back: 'Yes, and you've got a dirty mind. Stop looking at that lady's tasty bosom sitting beside you. But I'll forgive you 52; we are all voyeurs. I looked through the keyhole of a bedroom door when I was fourteen, and saw a lady's bottom bouncing up and down. How did I know it was a lady's bottom? I mean, imagine a line of bums on a wall could you be absolutely sure, in the absence of other clues, which are male and which are female. You couldn't be sure, could you. But I knew that that particular bottom was female, because that was what I wanted it to be. I looked again. But suddenly, instead of a bottom, there were pale pink curtains blowing in the breeze. My imagination had transformed the curtains into a lady's bottom. I drew an important lesson from this experience 52; we always see what we want to see.

Scientists look through a telescope to examine the night skies. But a telescope is nothing more than a large keyhole with lenses. The scientists kid themselves that they are seeing stars and galaxies out there, but they're mistaken. There are forms of life in deep space that we don't recognise. They are people just like us but Big. Really Big! Their bums are so huge it would take million of light years to travel from one cheek to another. And the reason we can't recognise them is because 52; wait for it ladies and gentlemen 52; it is because we're inside their bums. What does that make us? You can answer that for yourselves.

But 52; and here's another amazing thought 52; they, in turn, are inside someone else! Just imagine people inside people like those Russian dolls. And the reason scientists believe that they are looking at stars and galaxies is because that's what they want to see. Tell any normal adolescent, sex-crazy schoolboy to look through a keyhole and he sees What The Butler Saw, because that's what he wants to see.

And it's the same with an astronomer. He looks through his telescope and sees what he wants to see 52; namely, a galaxy. But it isn't a galaxy at all; it's one of those giants I was telling you about. The giant, of course, doesn't realise that inside him is our distinguished Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir Stafford Cripps. He takes a laxative and out comes Sir Stifford Craps so discombobulated that he knocks four pence off income tax! Imagine that!

And now for something completely different ...

Have you ever heard the expression that something is more than the sum of its parts? A watch, for example, is more than just cogs and wheels and springs; it also tells the time. The uneducated savage examining a watch sees only a load of springs and sprockets. He doesn't know it tells the time. And when he looks out at the universe. He says: 'It's got lots of galaxies and stuff and that's all there is to it. But ladies and gentlemen, the universe is much more than the sum of its parts; it's full of marvels and miracles and jokes, especially jokes.

I have a form here from the Ministry of Humour, which I have to fill in every time I go on stage. I'm paid according to the number of laughs I get, so if I have said anything funny this evening, please put a tick against it, because otherwise I'll starve to death. And please don't forget that jokes without words count, too. A stand-up comic, like everyone else, has to eat. So please fill in this form, which has been specially devised by Sir Stafford Cripps.

Frank then did a fair impersonation of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. "We have expended all our national treasure in the fight for victory over Nazi Germany. We must now increase our gross output of humour in order to balance our trade with the rest of the world. It is truly patriotic to laugh at British jokes. Do not laugh at foreign ones. When you laugh at an American joke you are increasing the trade deficit. Don't laugh at Bob Hope. Reserve your laughter for Frank Hawkins. He is British through and through. Do not on any account laugh at sexual jokes. They are very bad for our balance of payments."

Two fools are talking. One says: 'I'm smarter than you.' The other one says: 'Prove it.' 'Okay, what's two and two?' 'I don't know.' 'It's four. There you are, I'm smarter than you.' The stupid one then kills the smart guy with a huge blow to the head and says: 'Now who's the smart guy? And then he cries because he doesn't have anyone to talk to. And that's what it will be like if we ever use our atomic bomb.

Goodnight, ladies and gentlemen and safe home.

There was sporadic applause at first, which gradually increased. Looking a little crestfallen, Frank came down the stairs at the side of the stage. The brass band played a loud tune. Three frumpy strippers appeared and stripped down to their knickers and bras to the accompaniment of appreciative catcalls from the mainly male audience.

Frank joined us, we left the hall and sat outside in my car.

'I flopped, didn't I,' Frank said ruefully.

'No, you didn't,' Christina said. She reached forward from the back of the car and took his hand.

'The MC signalled to me to come off. What did you make of it, William?'

'Miners are too tired after a hard day's work to appreciate all that philosophical stuff. They want really smutty jokes.'

'I might chuck it in,' Frank said mournfully.

I said: 'No, don't do that. I know some good gags. Tits and bums jokes 52; that's what they like.'

'I gave them jokes about bums,' Frank grumbled.

'They want earthbound bums, not celestial bums,' I replied.

When we arrived back at the hotel, Christina, went to bed, saying she was tired. I bought two miniature whiskeys from the desk clerk. Frank was doodling a face on a sheet of paper, when I returned.

I handed him his whiskey and said: 'May I have a look at your script.'

'I haven't got one. I ad lib most of the time. I was nervous tonight 52; perhaps because Christina was there.'

'Are you in love with her?'

'I'm very fond of her.'

'What went wrong with your marriage?'

'We just couldn't get on. I'll give you an example. I once told Carol I wanted to buy a dog. I showed her a catalogue of dogs ranging through every breed from afghan to poodles She found an objection to every one of them. This breed had trouble with its ears, this one had too short a life span, this one would leave hairs on the furniture, this one was too horny. We could have it neutered, I suggested hopefully. "Then you wouldn't have a dog, would you. Merely half a dog." In the end I had to settle for an imaginary dog. We would pretend to make it sit up and beg, we used to throw imaginary sticks and invent all kinds of conversations about the non-existent animal. "I think it has fleas," Carol would say. "You'll have to buy some flea powder." Eventually, I got pissed off and insisted that we buy a real dog. But she would have none of it. She won't compromise. Challenging her father's will in the face of legal advice is typical of her.'

I gulped down my whiskey and said: 'Here's the kind of joke you should use in your act. A man tells his friend that he went home after work and discovered someone shagging his wife. "I bet you charged at him?" his friend said. "Oh, sure," he replied. "I charged him seven and six on a weekday. Ten bob on a Sunday."'

'I don't tell that kind of joke,' Frank said with a pitying look. 'You're mad if you think you can get away with the sort of material you used tonight. Your typical working man just wants smut.'

'I'll ask my agent's advice when I see him.'

We went to our respective rooms. I was convinced that Frank's new career as a comedian was about to hit the rocks.

* * *

The following morning while Frank was discussing his act with his agent, I took Christina out for a drive. A passing cyclist let out a wolf whistle as I drove from the car park, which made me proud to be with such a beautiful companion. After I had driven a mile or so, I suggested that Frank's weird kind of humour was unsuitable for a miners' club. She replied: 'Miners have a good deal more intelligence than you give them credit for.'

'You may well be right. They're too intelligent to put up with that kind of nonsense.'

Christina replied sweetly: 'He has been touring around here for several weeks and has made a lot of people laugh. There is absolutely no reason to worry.'

'He didn't do too well last night.'

'Frank is learning how to read the moods of different audiences. Did you notice that he ended on a serious note last night. That was because the newspapers have been discussing the threat of atomic war.'

The weather was cloudy but warm. We negotiated a narrow, humpback bridge on the approach to a small village.

'I'm not here to discuss Frank's act. I came because I'm in love with you.'

'Then you shouldn't be getting married?'

Instead of answering, I turned off the main road into a narrow country lane. The car rumbled over rough ground. I drove between some trees and put on the hand brake. The sun came out and shone through the leaves.

I turned off the engine.

Christina said nonchalantly: 'I presume you stopped because you want a kiss.' She gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.

I said: 'Why are you sleeping with Frank? It makes me insanely jealous.'

'It has nothing to do with you. You'll soon be a married man.'

'You're the one I should be marrying.'

'It would not be possible.'

'Why?'

'Many reasons. And one of them is Frank.'

'Then you do love him.'

'Yes. He is like a child. The child I never had and probably never will have.'

'Why do you say that?'

'I just know it.'

'I still don't understand why you kissed me just now.'

'Because you act just like a child.'

'Then you can mother both of us?'

'Certainly not. Frank is grown up sexually but a child in practical matters. You're the exact opposite.'

I tried to kiss her again. But she struggled free and said: 'I only kissed you to salve your wounded pride.'

'Is Alan a child?'

'No. He is completely grown up in every respect.'

'Have you slept with him?'

'Of course not. He is getting married soon. He is a good man. It was very kind of him to find that room for me in Pimlico.'

'You did him a good turn designing a trade mark for his radios.'

'I just drew something and it turned out to be exactly what he had been looking for.'

'Now you're working in the same organisation as me we'll be seeing more of each other.'

'That will be nice.'

She ruffled my hair with her hand playfully and said: 'Come on. Let's go and have some lunch. I'm feeling hungry.'

* * *

The audience cheered that evening in the miners' club as Frank bounded onto the stage , held up his hands and said : 'Let down your hair, drink yourself silly, smoke yourselves as dry as kippers. Tonight will be the best night you've had in your lives.

'You've all heard of that great genius, Albert Einstein. Isaac Newton invented gravity because of an apple. Did you know it was bananas that helped Einstein to discover relativity? He always arranged his bananas in a circle before eating them for breakfast. His young niece asked him why and he explained that the circle of bananas represented infinity. "What's infinity?" she asked. Einstein explained: "Something that goes on for ever." The child promptly ate a banana and a second one and then a third. When Einstein complained she was eating all his bananas, she replied: "But that was a circle of bananas, so we can go on eating them for ever." At that moment Einstein in a flash of inspiration realised that space-time is curved just like a banana and invented Relativity.

You think I have gone bananas for telling you that story.

'Now I must tell you about a tragic episode. I lost my soap in the bath last night. I looked everywhere for it, then suddenly realised it had gone down the plug hole. I shouted out: 'Charlotte! I'm having a bath and I've lost my soap.'

'Charlotte 52; she's my landlady's daughter 52; shouted back: 'The last time you lost it, it took us over an hour to find it and you made me all wet.'

'I shouted plaintively: 'Charlotte, this time it really has gone down the plug hole.'

'Go down there and find it yourself,' she replied. 'Take a ball of string and it'll lead you back to where you came from.'

' So I went down the plug hole and found the bar of soap. It was very small, so I pressed it into a new bar 52; you never waste any if you do that. When I had done this a few times, I wondered if there was anything left of the original inside the bar of soap I held in my hand. But if there was, I wouldn't recognise it. Suddenly I realised that inside me there was something left of my own great-great-grandfather. If I said to him: 'Great-great-grandpa, have you seen my original piece of soap?' he would answer: 'It's there inside your soap in the same way as I am somewhere inside you.'

Uncomfortable with the notion of having an ancestor inside me, I rushed back into the bath. By this time the bath water was cold. And so, incidentally, was Charlotte.

'The following morning when I woke up I saw a pair of shoes. I thought to myself: If I pick up the left shoe I'll get married. If I pick up the right one I won't get married. I shut my eyes, reached for the shoes and picked out the left shoe. So I got married and found that my wife was already pregnant by a drunken sailor. I wished then that I had picked up the right one, because then I might have eventually forgiven her and we would have lived happily ever after. In the event I divorced her and asked Charlotte to marry me. But she refused because I keep losing my soap and make her all wet.

'The lesson is this. Whatever decision you make, enjoy it, stick by it. Otherwise you'll end up like me telling jokes for a living in a miners' club.'

There was a round of applause and people rushed to buy Frank drinks. Soon he had more than he could handle. I helped him out and we became quite drunk.

* * *

Although Frank's surreal monologues weren't fashionable in those days, his audiences seemed to like them. I was convinced that Christina had the same doubts but kept them to herself. I can't really blame myself for being totally enslaved by her. She possessed the sculptured beauty of the Varga girls that appeared in the magazines of that era. And her face had a haunting, spiritual quality, which I now know was the result of much suffering, although I didn't appreciate it at the time. I was simply obsessed with the idea of making love to her. A combination of a repressed childhood and a long and demanding spell in the armed forces had left me at the age of twenty-three with an overwhelming urge to invest all my pent-up lust on this icon of feminine beauty. I also felt that I had I missed out during those years on something important and wanted to make up for lost time.

That night, I listened outside Frank's room. All was silent. I went back to bed. And then another thought occurred to me, so I got out of bed again and listened outside Christina's door. Soft moans and clanking bedsprings told me a story I didn't want to hear.

That didn't stop me from vowing one day to make her my permanent mistress. I lay awake that night making elaborate plans to seduce her on our way back to London.

10

Frank was still in bed asleep the following morning when Christina joined me at the breakfast table for a meal of crisp bacon and fried eggs. The tiny triangle of white flesh exposed by an open button at the collar of her frock drove me into a frenzy of desire.

While she was saying goodbye to Frank, I paid the hotel bill and carried our luggage to the car. The battery was flat. I made numerous attempts to crank the engine with the starting handle until it sprang reluctantly to life. By the time Christina came out to the car I was perspiring profusely.

As we left the car park, I began to rehearse in my mind the mechanical breakdown I intended to take place during our journey back to London. It would have to occur conveniently near a hotel 52; my wartime navigator had once sagely warned me that open-air seductions rarely succeeded. After the engine had stopped and refused to restart, Christina and I would go into the hotel, where I would supply a superb meal and oceans of champagne. Later, the greatest epic of lovemaking since Anthony and Cleopatra fell into each other's arms would take place in a hotel bedroom .

A voice broke into my reverie, saying: 'What do you think of Frank's act?'

'His material is too highbrow for a working men's club.'

'That's a snobbish remark.'

'How can I be a snob! My old man never earned more than three pounds a week in his life.'

'Perhaps that's why you are snobbish.'

'We're supposed to be discussing Frank's career.'

'You run him down every time we discuss him.'

'Of course I do. I'm jealous.'

'You have no right to be. You should be thinking about your wedding.'

'If only you gave me some encouragement, I would cancel it and marry you.'

'I am not available.'

'Do you intend to marry Frank?'

Christina didn't answer. She had become frozen with fear, under the impression that I was about to overtake on a blind bend. I trod on the brakes to allow an oncoming car to go past. When the road was clear, I changed into second gear and overtook a lorry, shouting above the engine noise: 'I'm crazy about you. I have never felt like this about any other woman.'

'Don't you love Sally?'

'Not in the way I love you.'

'You said she's a lovely girl.'

'She but she is obsessed with tidiness. Everything with her has got to be well-brushed and in place. And that includes me.'

'Have you slept with her?'

'No, she is saving herself for her wedding night.'

'How many women have you known?'

'Hundreds. But I am desperate to sleep with you.'

'Why add to that number when you are about to get married?'

'Because I love you.'

'William, I can't take you seriously. The truth is you are a callow, inexperienced young man obsessed with sex and money.'

'You're totally wrong,' I protested.

There was silence for a while, as I nursed my injured feelings.

Christina said conversationally a few minutes later: 'Did you know Alan has big plans for his business. He is going to make television sets. He says we'll all have them eventually.'

I wasn't in the least interested in Alan's business plans. I was much more concerned with preparing the ground for my seduction. I switched on the windscreen wipers to dispel a few raindrops and said: 'Frank would probably be better off going back to regular acting.'

'He likes what he is doing now.'

'He's mad. He'll drive you mad eventually.'

Christina made a disapproving noise.

I took her hand from her lap and kissed it. At that moment a chicken, flapping its wings furiously, rose up in front of the windscreen. I swerved to avoid it. The car mounted a grassy bank and thumped into a tree. There was silence broken by a sad hiss of steam from the ruptured radiator.

Christina burst out laughing.

'What on earth are you laughing at?' I demanded angrily.

'You did it on purpose.'

'Why should I want to wreck my own car!'

'You were trying to think up some ridiculous excuse for stopping. But I never dreamt that you would deliberately run into a tree.'

'You have a very low opinion of me.'

'It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to seduce me in a motor car. But really this is going too far.'

'For God's sake, it was an accident. I had better find a telephone.'

Christina insisted on accompanying me as we walked along a grassy verge beside the road. We had covered about a hundred yards when a Triumph Gloria car pulled up. The driver, a foxy-looking man wearing a Sherlock Holmes deer- stalker hat offered assistance. He dropped us outside a small pub called the Angel's Rest about a mile further on. From there I telephoned a local garage and the proprietor agreed to tow in and repair the damaged car.

We dined off cold mutton and chips. Over a pint of beer, I whispered brokenly: 'Darling Christina, you fill my thoughts all the time. If you'll leave Frank, I'll call off the wedding.'

Christina reached across the table, grasped my hand and said gently: 'Thank you, William, for that wonderful compliment. But I couldn't marry you. You are so immature 52; amazingly so for someone who has been a pilot in the Royal Air Force. Stay with the girl you're engaged to. You will learn to love her.'

I stared down gloomily at the greasy remains of the meal on our plates.

Later, as we strolled in a small wood behind the pub, I managed to persuade Christina to sit with me on a moss-covered fallen tree trunk. My right hand wandered involuntarily to the small inlet of white at her throat. Christina removed my hand and said firmly: 'William, you are as gauche as a ten-year old. How on earth shall you manage on your wedding night?'

I dropped my head in shame.

She then delivered a very detailed and practical lecture on the art of making love. I listened intently, vowing to myself that one day I would practice that same technique on her.

After a temporary repair had been completed on the leaking radiator, we set off again for London.

11

William Berry's eyelids were drooping.

'Would you like a break, Mr. Berry. You're looking a bit tired.'

William Berry shook himself awake and said reflectively: 'You youngsters find it difficult to believe that before the arrival of the contraceptive pill girls were scared of getting pregnant, of losing their reputation, of getting diseases. French letters 52; as we used to call them 52; were considered disgusting objects. They were hidden under shop counters and were difficult to get hold of. Some girls would make love if you promised to marry them. Most wouldn't until the knot was well and truly tied. My squint may have been a handicap in the love stakes. Making love to the Contessa would have made me feel as if the world had been laid at my feet. Still, if that couldn't be at least I was grateful for the sex lesson she gave me. Her language shocked me at first 52; very few people would mention the words vulva, vagina and clitoris in those days.'

The grey kitten jumped onto Berry's lap. Berry fondled it absent-mindedly. He said: 'Ah, yes, the Contessa didn't ... '

He clutched convulsively at his chest in mid-sentence and writhed in pain. His head fell forward. The kitten meou-ed. Andrew threw it onto the floor and exclaimed: 'Are you all right, Mr. Berry?'

Berry seemed to be having difficulty in breathing. Andrew placed him gently on the carpet and found his pulse. He reached for the telephone on the desk and dialled 999. When the ambulance arrived, he followed it in his car to a hospital in Eastbourne.

Two hours later, a nurse came to the reception desk and informed him that William Berry had suffered a massive heart attack and was still unconscious. The contents of his wallet indicated that his next-of-kin, his son, Mathew, lived in Weybridge, Surrey. A hospital administrator had telephoned his wife. Her husband was in Brussels and would fly home that evening.

Andrew drove to London, feeling downcast. It seemed inevitable that the biography in which he had invested so much time and effort would be left unfinished and the identity of his grandfather would forever remain a mystery. He called Susan on his mobile to tell her the bad news.

* * *

Susan's apartment in Docklands overlooked a stretch of the Thames. The sofas and armchairs sat on a vast expanse of polished wood-flooring. She said reproachfully: 'I took a publisher out to dinner last night. She promised to take a look at your book when it's finished. It seems I wasted my time and money.'

'It wasn't my fault the old guy had a heart attack. It was pretty harrowing, I can tell you.'

'Are you hungry?'

'Extremely.'

'I'll phone for a take-away.'

'Don't bother. I'll cook something. Do you have food in the fridge?'

'No. I thought we'd be going out to eat.'

'Okay, order a pizza. In the meantime, can I have a glass of wine. I'm still in shock. At one stage I thought I'd have to give the old guy the kiss of life.'

'You poor darling.'

She went to get the wine.

Sitting on a yellow chair made of some plastic material containing a tiny gold motif, Andrew was uncomfortably aware of having again fallen short of Susan's expectations.

He gulped down the glass of Sancerre she handed to him.

Depositing herself languidly on an oblong perspex sofa that glowed with an inner light, she said: 'So now what do you propose to do?'

'I'll have to wait and see if he recovers.'

'How did you get to know him in the first place?'

Andrew told her how his grandmother had met the three ex-servicemen at a cheap hotel in Islington just after the Second World War, one of whom had since died.

Susan said: 'Why don't you try to locate the third one. You may be able to get more information from him.'

'If William Berry dies, what would be the point?'

'If you're under contract, presumably the estate will pay you to complete the biography.'

It seemed like a good idea.

12

A prosperous businessman man, walking along the beach near the West Pier at Brighton, notices a bottle glistening among the pebbles. Standing with his feet apart, to avoid the white surf, he bends down and examines it. Inside is a message in faded handwriting: 'Christina wants you to know that she threw this into the water when she was desperately unhappy. All the men she has ever known in her life have let her down.'

Alan Green's heart gives a sudden lurch. Could this have been written by the girl Christina he had met after the war? It was several years since he had seen her. The words 52;"SS Imperial"52; embossed on the sheet of paper in his hand confirm that the message has been thrown overboard from a cruise ship. Common sense then takes over 52; the odds are greatly against it being the young woman he had known. However, her lover had once told him that improbability was deeply embedded in the universe 52; physicists having worked out that the odds against conscious life emerging from the fiery, flaming debris of the Big Bang were trillions to one. Persuaded that the message might have some kind of significance, he leaves the salt-encrusted bottle behind a stack of deck chairs, tucks the piece of paper in his wallet and walks to the nearest pub. Inside its shady interior, he orders half a pint of beer, examines the handwriting again and reflects on a relationship that had left him with a sense of romantic yearning. The beer has a musty taste. He leaves the unfinished glass on the pub counter and walks slowly towards the car park.

Getting into his car, he marvels again at the coincidence. Normally, when taking a walk he stayed on the promenade. He had changed his routine that morning because he had quarrelled with his wife after she had rebuked him for refusing to attend the bar-mitzvah of a neighbour's son. Unsettled by the row he had descended onto the beach without regard for his highly polished shoes. He had muttered, as the pebbles crunched underneath them: after all, couldn't he well afford to replace them 52; he could buy a whole shoe factory if he wished. The errant thought enters his mind that God had punished him for not attending synagogue that morning. Ridiculous, he tells himself. He would never have acquired his large Georgian house and a Rolls-Royce motor car if he gave credence to such crass superstition. It was, he now realises, impossible for the message to have been written by the Christina he had once known. However, he has been given an excellent excuse for getting in touch with her again. How she will respond when he tells her about the incident he wonders. He stops on the way home and buys flowers to placate his wife and wishes he had kept the bottle which had carried the message.

* * *

When Andrew Hallowell, telephoned and asked Alan Green if he had once known a girl called Christina Atoli, he enquired: 'What's it to you?'

'I'm writing a biography of a Mr. William Berry. He mentioned Christina Atoli several times when I interviewed him. She happened to be my grandmother. I wondered if you could tell me anything about her?'

'Is William Berry still around?'

'He's very sick. He recently suffered a heart attack.'

'Yes, I did once know a Christina Atoli. My friends and I used to call her the Contessa. It's very strange 52; I've just remembered that many years ago I was walking along the beach in Brighton, when I came across a message in a bottle signed Christina. It gave me quite a shock. But it turned out to be from someone else. I met your grandmother after the Second World War. I'll tell you what I know about her, but you'll have to guarantee me confidentiality. My wife died three years ago. Even so, I wouldn't like my children to know I was acquainted with the lady in question. Not that it would matter too much, I suppose 52; they've probably both had their flings. But that's the modern way, isn't it.'

'May I come and ask you a few questions?'

'Yes, if you like. I live at The Harvesters. It's a retirement home here in Hove but it has all the facilities one could possibly want. I play bridge nearly every evening and I still, thank God, have a little stroll along the promenade in the evenings 52; that is when the weather permits.

* * *

When Andrew and Alan Green had settled down in the guest room of the retirement home, Alan Green declared: 'Okay, first of all 52; I was astonished at how quickly that tousle-haired lad, William Berry, made his way in the world. When I first met him just after the war he seemed very callow and innocent. We 52; that is to say Frank Hawkins and I 52; used to boast to him about all the women we had slept with. The truth is that my sole sexual experience up to that time had been a visit to a tumble-down brothel in the port of Anzio, where I lost my virginity to a plump, kind and considerate whore, who amazingly, bore no resentment whatsoever for the fact that a fortnight previously we had pounded the town to smithereens. Frank Hawkins 52; he later became quite a well-known comedian 52; shared our table at the Anchor hotel where I was living at the time. There was another man 52; George 52; who had a good tenor voice. But Frank was the dominant figure. He was affable, erudite and charming. He could convince people of almost anything. He told us 52; it was hard to believe 52; that he had once turned down a commission in the Royal Navy!

He had something of an obsession about a phenomenon which has long puzzled physicists 52; the paradox of Shrodinger's cat. An experiment can be performed, apparently, in which a wave or particle of light which is supposedly indivisible, passes simultaneously through two separate holes onto a screen. There is an inherent ambiguity as to whether it is a wave or a particle, so if it were a death ray aimed at a cat lying on the screen, the cat would be both alive and dead at the same time! I remember saying to him: 'Frank, if science asks us to believe that then science is just as daft as religion.'

'He replied: 'Exactly! 52; you are getting wise at last. Science is just as daft as religion,' and he added: 'You're a Jew, aren't you?'

'A secular Jew,' I corrected him.

He said: 'Okay. Then you probably know the story about a rabbi who was judging a dispute between two men. He told the first disputant he was right, then immediately afterwards told the other one that he was right as well. His young pupil protested: "Rabbi, both parties can't be right?" He replied: "Why not, if their arguments are equally valid?" We now know that the rabbi was not as stupid as he appeared to be. After all, when you look into a mirror there's no way of knowing who is the real person 52; the one looking in, or the one looking out.'

'That's a load of bullshit,' I remarked.

'Prove it,' Frank said curtly and blew cigar smoke into my face.

Frank frequently behaved perversely, you could even say, clownishly. He was totally besotted with the Contessa, as we called her then, who was staying in the hotel, but he was already married to an American girl he had met during the war.

We were all taken with the Contessa. One morning when Frank had dashed off to the book shop where he was currently working, I deliberately waited until she had finished her breakfast, then with my newspaper tucked under my arm followed her as she climbed the stairs to her room. To my delight I discovered that she occupied the room next to mine. As she put the key in the lock, I introduced myself and said: 'I hope you enjoy your stay here.'

'Thank you.' She gave me a gracious smile and said: 'I am Christina Atoli.'

She had the faintest of Italian accents, but her English was fluent.

I said, as I opened the door for her: 'If there is anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask.'

'Would you mind getting my case down from the top of the wardrobe. The stupid taxi driver insisted on putting it up there when I arrived last night.'

I struggled to get a large pigskin case bound with two large leather straps down from the wardrobe, placed it on the floor and said breathlessly: 'Will you be staying long in London?'

'I hope so. There is nothing left for me in Italy. It's a ruined country. So I must make my way here as best I can.'

She gave a helpless shrug.

'I'm sure you will do well. Perhaps you'll become a model or an actress.'

She replied: 'That would be very nice. Unfortunately I have had no experience in either field. My parents never expected that I would have to work.'

I said cheerfully: 'You'd be a gift to any movie director.'

I raced down the stairs, her beautiful face fixed firmly in my mind. I was in a hurry to deliver some radios to a shop in Tottenham Court Road. The fact that the girl was Italian 52; one of our late enemies 52; didn't bother me too much. The Italians had paid a heavy price for following that stupid braggart, Mussolini.

I already had a girl friend, Hazel Silverstone, the daughter of a Brighton tobacconist. We had agreed not to tie each other down until my business became profitable. The housing shortage was dire at that time. Even to rent two rooms cost a fortune. I remember thinking that Hazel would not exactly have approved of my chatting up a beautiful Italian countess.

I parked outside Metropolitan Electrics and discovered to my surprise that the buyer had left a message increasing his previous order.

'How come?' I asked the young, pimply-faced assistant.

'We're opening a new shop in St. Albans.'

I handed him my order book for a signature and departed, feeling extremely elated.

I then obtained a large order from another shop across the road and soon afterwards from yet another shop. At that stage I didn't know how I could possibly supply the radios. However, amazingly, a week later a wholesale warehouse that sold electronic components went bankrupt and I was able to buy a huge stock of valves, coils and condensers. In business, your luck is either in or out. I was on a lucky roll. Soon afterwards, the bank manager gave me an overdraft, which enabled me to meet all the new orders.

When I returned to the Anchor hotel, the Contessa was standing in the hallway, looking across the road with an anxious expression on her face.

'Is anything the matter?' I enquired.

She replied bitterly: 'That man who owns the newsagent said he would come over here to offer me a job. But he hasn't kept his promise.'

'What about the job at the Albanian Embassy.'

'It fell through when they learned of my Italian connections. They still harbour ill feelings about our occupation. I have only enough money to last for a few days more.'

'You'll find something. Don't you worry.'

Buoyed by my successful sales drive, I changed my mind about driving home to Brighton that evening and asked her out to dinner.

'Thank you. What time shall I see you?'

'I'll meet you downstairs at six-thirty. Okay?'

She smiled, nodded and we went into our respective bedrooms.

I was quite dazzled by her beauty. I had been going out with Hazel, my regular girl friend, since were we were at school together. Our parents were friends and approved of the match. It had been agreed that we would get married when my radio business provided a sufficient income.

Shortly after this event, Hazel's father offered to lend me enough money to set up a small factory in London. Orders were now sufficient for me to take on the responsibility of marriage. I suppose I took Christina out to dinner than night to reassure myself that I could still attract a woman. At the time I thought that a mild flirtation would do no harm. The girl was lonely and I thought I could help her. In the event she helped me. You do someone a good turn and sometimes it redounds to your advantage.

We had a pleasant meal in a Lyon's Corner House 52; it was considered posh in those days. I told her that I had learned while serving in Italy as a sergeant in the Army to say: "Quanto ha costato?" and "Volontà fate'amore?" She did her best to smile at my foolish banter. Later, I learned that both her parents had been killed by Partisans when they followed Mussolini into the North of Italy, where Skorzeni took him after plucking him from a prison on a mountain top. It was clear that her wartime experiences had been far from pleasant.

I noticed, while we were waiting for our meal, that she was doodling on the back of a menu. The figure of a mermaid emerged. I complimented her on her drawing skill and asked her if I could keep the drawing as a memento. The idea had suddenly come into my mind that it would serve as a logo for my business. I told her so. She laughed and said: 'I'd be very flattered if you found a use for it.'

'If it works, I'll pay you something for it.'

'You were kind enough to take me out to dinner. That is more than enough.'

'What made you draw a mermaid?' I asked.

'Perhaps because I chose the fish on the menu.'

I learned that she came from a very rich family and that the war had left her stripped of all possessions. Later, when she announced that she could no longer afford to stay at the Anchor, I managed to find her a reasonably-priced room to rent. Frank Hawkins was infatuated with her. We all were, I suppose, including that little runt William Berry. Later, he gave her a job in his organization. Although he was small and had a slight squint, I was more jealous of him than of Frank, because although Frank had a charismatic personality, he somehow seemed vulnerable. Berry reminded me of a very snappy and determined Jack Russell terrier. I couldn't help hoping when Frank became Christina's lover that she would eventually tire of him. But she remained loyal, even when things began to go badly wrong.

I am digressing.

When we returned to the hotel that evening Christina asked me to come into her bedroom. My heart started beating faster. But, fool that I was, I had put the wrong construction on her invitation 52; she simply wanted to show me a photograph of a young Jewish friend of hers who had died in Auschwitz. I said: 'That is very sad. If the war has been cruel to you, at least you managed to survive. You can always turn to me when you need a friend.'

To my surprise, she threw her arms round me, gave me an enthusiastic kiss and said: 'Thank you for a wonderful night out.'

I said: 'I'd give you the whole Cumberland Corner House for another kiss like that.'

She laughed and pushed me out of the room.

13

Big weddings were popular in those days. Perhaps people thought the more one spent on the wedding the longer it would last. To please our parents, Hazel and I agreed to have a traditional Jewish wedding in a synagogue. There was a large congregation. Everyone was dressed to the nines. The rabbi emphasized the importance of preserving traditional Jewish life. The bride walked around me seven times. I broke a glass under my foot, in accordance with ancient tradition, symbolising the irrevocability of the commitment I had just made.. No turning back now! There was a lavish feast in a hotel afterwards, interspersed with speeches and jokes 52; some in doubtful taste 52; followed by dancing. But why am I telling you all this? It's your grandmother you want me to talk about.

After a honeymoon in Torquay, we moved to a rented house in Woking, so that I could be within easier commuting distance of my new factory in King's Cross. Now began a new phase in my life. Hazel soon became pregnant. I concentrated my energies on expanding Mermaid Radios. Great technical developments were taking place in those years. Printed circuits were replacing laboriously wired and soldered circuits. Soon, transistors replaced thermionic valves. I asked a technician on my staff, who later became factory manager, to buy a television set, so that we could dismantle it with a view to manufacturing televisions sets ourselves. But even in those exciting times your late grandmother was never far from my thoughts. I always remembered that kiss she had given me 52; there was something about her that lifted her above the general run of women.

I was going around my daily business, happy to be able to provide for my growing family. The last thing I had in my mind was infidelity. I had a good marriage. Hazel enjoyed sex and accepted motherhood with good grace. Nor was she the jealous sort. Occasionally, if she saw me glancing at a good-looking woman, she would nudge me and say, jokingly: 'Go on, Alan, she'll give you a nice time if you ask her. You're the handsomest man around.' Which, of course, was utter nonsense. I wore pebble glasses and was quite plain. My hair was thinning rapidly.

In 1951, the year the Festival of Britain was being celebrated, a message came from my father saying that William Berry had been trying to get in touch with me. I telephoned his company and when he answered, I joked: 'Is that the William Berry who used to think Einstein's relativity had something to do with uncles and aunts?'

'None other. How's the radio business?'

'It's doing very well.'

'I thought you might like to know that Frank Hawkins is playing at the Metropole Variety theatre in Edgware Road next Saturday evening. We're going to see him. I wondered if you and your wife would like to join us. I've bought some tickets.'

'How did you know he was appearing?'

'Christina told me. She works for me.'

'Of course. I had forgotten. How's Sally?'

'Fine. We have two sons.'

'We have a son and a daughter. Yes, we'll come. I look forward to seeing the old gang. Are Frank and Christina married?'

'No. But they are pretty close to it I imagine.'

I arranged to meet him in the foyer of the Metropole. After coming off the phone, I plunged back into a discussion with my second-in-command about the location of our new factory. We needed to raise more finance. Our accountant advised caution. We ignored his advice, moved to a new factory near Elstree, narrowly survived an unexpected recession and a few years later found that the factory was worth several times what we had paid for it. However, that's by the by ... '

Driving home that night in my new car my heart gave a sudden tug at the thought of seeing Christina again. I was surprised to hear that she was still working for William Berry. It sounded as if he had moved up in the world. Which wasn't altogether surprising, taking into consideration that he was Willoughby's son-in-law. It promised to be an entertaining evening. Hazel wasn't keen on Variety, preferring good drama, but she agreed to come. She asked: 'Is Frank the actor whom you met when you were staying at the Anchor hotel?

'Yes. His girl friend, Christina, was also staying there.'

'Who else will be there?'

'William Berry, of course, and his wife, Sally. Do you remember their marriage coincided with ours, so we couldn't go to each other's wedding.'

'He's the one in magazine publishing?'

'Yes, Christina works for his company. That's how he knew that Frank was going to be appearing at the Metropole.'

Hazel complained that she had nothing to wear. But this was duly remedied and it turned out to be an enjoyable evening. I was fascinated by the remarkable changes that had taken place since we had stayed in the Anchor hotel. William was celebrating not only Frank Hawkin's success in topping the bill at the Metropole but also his own recent promotion to Deputy Managing Director of the Willoughby organization. He had booked a table at a nearby restaurant after the show. His rapid advancement had come about as the result of his father-in-law suffering a disabling heart attack. I learned much later that William had sold most of his shares in the company before his boss's illness became public knowledge and had bought them back again when the share price was depressed, greatly enhancing his holding. The little runt whom we had mocked had turned out to be a tiger in business.

The billboard above the entrance doors to the theatre advertised 'Professor' Frank Hawkins the Master of Paradoxical Humour. William Berry was standing by the ticket office, his overcoat over his arm, with Sally, his plump pallid wife. Christina standing beside them, looked regal and dignified. She was wearing a dark blue coat and a glittering diamonte comb which stood out against her dark hair. She greeted me with a warm smile, as we approached.

'How splendid to see you again, Alan. And this is your wife?'

'Hazel, meet Christina. We used to call her the Contessa.'

After they had shaken hands, Christina said: 'It's wonderful for us all to meet like this. I do hope everyone enjoys it.'

Hazel's beaming response suggested that she, too, was falling under the Contessa's spell.

William joined us, clutching a wad of tickets. 'Here we go, folks,' he said cheerfully. 'Front stalls 52; couldn't be better. And I've booked seats for us all in a nearby restaurant.'

He introduced us to his wife, Sally, and we moved into the dimly lit theatre. The safety curtain was still down. The smell of cigar smoke was overwhelming 52; practically everybody smoked in those days.

I glanced sideways at Christina as we took our seats. She seemed no less mysterious and glamorous than when I first saw her in the dingy ambience of the Anchor hotel.

The safety curtain lifted. The orchestra played a rousing rendition of Happy Days are Here Again. A troupe of dancing girls in short pink skirts and matching bras swept onto the stage and did a tap dance routine.

My ankle starting itching. As I reached down to scratch it, I heard a familiar voice. When I looked up a stout man in evening dress on stage was singing: I Want To Go To Idaho. It was George Mackay, the fourth man at our table in the Anchor hotel. There were two reasons why William had wanted us to attend the show.

There were some fine performances by an excellent juggler, a very funny ventriloquist and a doleful comedian who claimed that after spending a lifetime in the circus cleaning up elephant's dung he had now been promoted to cleaning up after Max Miller. I don't know why the particular quip about that very smutty comedian should have stuck in my memory. William Berry bought ice-creams during the interval. Hazel, sitting on the other side of me, was chatting to Sally. I whispered to Christina: 'Let me have your telephone number, so that we can keep in touch.'

She handed me her card and said: 'Frank travels all round the country. He stays at my place when he's in town.'

'He must be very happy to have made it to the top of the bill.'

'He'd like to go back to straight acting. Shush! He's coming on.'

'And now ladies and gentleman,' the compere announced, 'the man you have all come to see, master of strange stories and intriguing paradoxes, Professor Frank Hawkins!'

There was a fanfare of trumpets. Frank strolled onto the stage, wearing a brown sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows, baggy grey flannels and a very large, flamboyant bow tie. He hummed into the microphone and then announced softly: 'Newton discovered gravity. But I've discovered levity. A good joke, like a hot air balloon, lifts you out of your drab daily routine. Now let's see if I can find one.

'Life keeps changing. Remember, lads, when you first went into long trousers and you asked yourself: where have my knees gone to all of a sudden. It was quite a shock not seeing your bare knees. And, ladies, there was something you had to get used to when you reached puberty ... But, of course, that's nothing compared to losing sight of your knees!

'And now you have to get used to something else 52; this electric light shines whenever I tell my jokes.

An electric light in his huge bow tie suddenly lit up.

'This is my Belisha Beacon. It flashes amber whenever I tell a new joke and you can cross the road. Put your hands over your ears when it turns blue, because that means I'm going to tell a dirty one.

'A friend of mine who lost an arm complained because he could no longer clap when he heard a good joke. I told him to shout "Hurrah" instead and consoled him with the thought that if he looked in the mirror he could still see two hands. He failed to smile, so I reminded him that he was better off than the man who bought the very first telephone.

'And now I must tell you about my friend who fell madly in love with a lamppost. He used to talk about his leibschen lamppost52;his fluffy-wuffy lamppost. "She's so slim," he would say. "And when I embrace her, her face lights up. But, alas, when we make love she doesn't make a sound." My friend got so depressed about this that he consulted a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist was sympathetic. He understood because he was also treating another patient who was having an affair with a double-decker bus. He told him that the lamppost probably failed to respond because she was frightened of being pee-ed on by a dog and advised my friend to find someone else. The patient exclaimed: "How can I possibly give her up? We've been together for twenty years. I want to make an honest lamppost of her but they won't give us a marriage licence." However, you'll be pleased to hear that all is well now 52; he has taken the psychiatrist's advice and is now happily married to a vacuum cleaner.'

Frank then performed an extremely funny mime, pretending to make love to a vacuum cleaner, making the appropriate whooshing noises.

He went on: 'My car's number plate was WC2. People used to call her W.C. for short. She worried about it. You think I'm joking? Cars have feelings as well as us 52; I'm not saying they are brilliant intellectually. My car, I will freely admit, cannot add two and two. But come to that neither can my cat or my dog. Cars deserve to be treated with dignity. And do you know why? Because, just like us, they have this fear of finishing up in the junk yard.

'When WC2 finally broke down, I gave her a proper funeral. The vicar said: "She had seventy-five-thousand miles on the clock. She is now standing alert and proud in a showroom for new cars in Heaven with zero miles on the clock. We should not mourn her, because she now has a brand new number plate A1 52; well deserved because of her exemplary behaviour here on earth."

'But I'm sorry to tell you that WC2 was an alcoholic. Her favourite tipple was petrol with a splash of lead. Her carburettor eventually developed a red nose She was doing nineteen gallons to the mile in the end until she finally gave up the ghost.

WC2 had seventeen owners, who drove her to distraction. I was the last and drove her to the junk yard. Cars, though, have the advantage over human beings. They can always be given a new engine. That's what my wife says I need.'

The laughs were not coming easily. I glanced at Christina, who looked a little anxious.

Frank carried on bravely like a true show biz professional. 'Have you heard of Darwin's Theory of Ovulation? Dinosaurs' eggs were huge. If you threw one at a politician he never made another speech. I asked a guide guarding a huge dinosaur in the Natural History museum how old it was. He said it was seventy-million and fifteen years old. 'How can you be so exact?' I asked. He explained that the dinosaur had been exactly seventy-million years old when he arrived on the job fifteen years previously.'

Frank then brought a member of the audience from the front stalls, invited him to sit on a chair facing the audience and announced: 'I am now going to hypnotise you.' He snapped his fingers and the man's head dropped onto his chest. Frank woke him up, showed him a mirror and asked him what he saw. The man said a 'blintz.' What's a blintz?' Frank asked, pretending to be puzzled.

'A blintz is a sort of pancake.'

'And when you look in the mirror you see a pancake?'

'No, it's a blintz.'

'Is it a pretty pancake?'

'It's a blintz.'

'So your face is a blintz?'

'I've already told you.'

'Okay, so it's a blintz. Supposing I said you have three noses, would you believe that?'

'Yes, I can see three noses.'

'Are they vertical or horizontal.'

'Three in a row.'

'Now can you see three noses one on top of each other.'

'Yes, yes, exactly right.'

'A blintz with three noses?'

'Yes.'

'Get out of that chair and go back to the audience. I don't allow my subjects to make fun of me. A pancake with three noses!'

The man returned to the audience, shouting: 'It wasn't a pancake with three noses, it was a blintz with three noses.'

Frank shrugged helplessly. He then recalled the man and released him from his hypnotic spell.

Suddenly his bow tie lit up. A girl ran on stage and handed him a tennis racquet. He performed a brilliantly funny mime, playing himself at tennis, running to and fro across an imaginary net.

Finally, returning centre stage, he held the microphone and said:

'Dr Jeckyl beat Mr. Hyde at tennis. May your good side always triumph over your bad side. Good night.'

This time the applause was tumultuous.

At the end of the show we made our way to the restaurant. I remarked to Christina as we sat down: 'They seemed to like his miming act best of all.'

She toyed with a spoon and said: 'Yes, and they liked his hypnotism spoof. I wasn't expecting him to do that.'

'How does he get his material? '

'He got his idea for the lamppost joke from Havelock Ellis.'

William said to the waiter: 'One of our guests will be a little late. Frank Hawkins 52; we're waiting for him to wash his greasepaint off.'

'Ah, Frank Hawkins! 52; very funny man.'

Christina noticed his Italian accent and spoke a few words to him in his native tongue.

Hazel then enquired: 'Have you been to Italy recently, Christina.'

'No. It has too many unhappy memories for me.'

We drank champagne. I reminisced about my days in the army during the Italian campaign. The conversation flowed. Frank finally arrived and collapsed into the chair next to Christina. Putting one arm around her, he said: 'Wonderful to see you folks again. George will be here soon. He's chatting up one of the chorus girls. William, it was very good of you to organise this party.'

Looking round the table, he asked: 'Did you all enjoy the show?'

We all agreed that we had.

George Mackay appeared soon afterwards and joked that he had been gargling with one of Frank's dinosaur's eggs.'

Frank quipped: 'That's right 52; you sounded exactly like a seventy-million year old dinosaur.'

William proposed a toast: 'To our friends in show biz.'

We drank with enthusiasm.

A waitress served hors d'houvres.

'Is it true,' William asked Christina, 'that all comedians are gloomy devils?'

Frank interjected: 'Not me. I'm as happy as a sand boy 52; that is until the tide comes in and washes my sand pies away.'

'Does he complain, Christina?' William enquired, determined to make his point.

'All the time.'

William said. 'There you are 52; that confirms my theory that comedians are sad sacks. But tonight we all have reason to celebrate. George has finally made it into show biz. Frank is a big star. Alan is making superb radios. and I'm now in charge of one of the biggest magazine groups in the country.'

I called out: 'Let's have one of your stories from Quirks magazine.'

'Okay,' William answered with a smile: 'Recently the magazine looked into the case of a foreign radio station that was reported to have broadcast the result of the Grand National before the race had been run. Some gullible people said it was an amazing example of clairvoyance. We looked into it and discovered that it was a bookmaking scam taking advantage of the difference in the times zones.'

Sally said, mildly: 'But darling, some people are genuinely clairvoyant.'

'All the ones we have investigated so far have all turned out to be liars and charlatans,' William replied.

'I know a genuine clairvoyant, Frank announced, his face expressionless.

William said briskly: 'Introduce him to me and I will prove he is a liar.'

'It's Christina.'

Christina protested: 'Don't take any notice of him. He always goes crazy after a show.'

Frank said: 'Oh, come off it, baby.' He looked round the table and said: 'My lovely Christina is definitely fey. Let me explain. During the German occupation of Rome, some Nazis were going around looting valuable objects. Christina was praying in a church when some Nazi officers barged in and asked a priest for a painting by Giovani Bernini. He didn't understand German. They couldn't speak Italian. So they asked in English: 'Where's the Bernini painting that belongs to this church?' The priest replied: 'The Bernini has vanished.' The German cocked his pistol and said: 'You lying dog, it hasn't vanished 52; it's here somewhere. Hand it over I'll shoot you.' The priest was speechless with fear. At that moment a statue of the Virgin Mary winked at Christina and inspired her to say: 'No, no, the priest said "varnished" not "vanished." The painting is being varnished because the colours were fading. He will give it to you.' The Nazi was mollified. The priest, realising his foolishness, led them down into the vault and handed over the painting. Christina saved his life. The painting, incidentally, was recovered after the war.'

Christina looked embarrassed as Frank told the story but said nothing. William merely commented sarcastically: 'A likely story!'

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough.

On the way home Hazel commented: 'William and Frank don't seem to hit it off too well.'

'They are both equally egotistical,' I replied.

She rested her head on my shoulder and said: 'I thought Frank's act with the vacuum cleaner was extremely funny.'

'A bit close to the bone.'

'But it was a brilliant piece of mime.'

'I'm sure Frank had his tongue in his cheek when he told the story about the Bernini painting.'

'If it's true, Christina showed great presence of mind. But it's a bit hard to swallow.'

'All miracles are hard to swallow. That's what makes them miracles. William's experience as an editor of Quirks magazine has naturally made him very sceptical.'

I braked heavily, swerved to avoid a cyclist travelling without lights and said: 'Bloody hell!'

When I had calmed down, I said: 'William couldn't take his eyes off Christina.'

'Nor could you.'

'What rubbish. You just imagine things.'

'I don't mind you worshipping her from afar, darling. As long as it is from afar.'

She gently massaged my ear with her fingers.

'If you keep doing that, I'll treat you like Frank treats his vacuum cleaner.'

'Okay. And I promise to make all the right noises.

14

My family was beginning to outgrow the house in Woking. My business was prospering. Hazel, who had always lived by the sea, was keen to live in Brighton near her parents. So I bought an Edwardian family house in Hove and a one-bedroom flat in Edgware for those occasions when I needed to stay overnight in London.

The first time I stayed in London, I discovered that I had forgotten, of all things, to install a television or radio. As it happened Hazel had put some books in the car, saying in her facetious manner that having something to read would keep me out of trouble. One of the books called an Experiment With Time expressed some newfangled theory about time. I flipped idly through some of the pages and put it down on a coffee table. Then suddenly remembering the occasion when I had found a bottle on the beach with Christina's name in it, I decided I would use it as an excuse to get in touch with her again.

I was a little put out when Frank answered the phone. I had thought he would be away on tour. But I said brightly : 'Hi, Frank. Alan Green speaking,' and added: 'How's show biz?'

'Pretty good, thanks. I'm having a shot at television soon. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?'

'I wondered if Christina would consider designing a new logo for us. We need something a little more classy.'

'Okay. I'll put her on.'

The idea of a new logo came to me to explain my motive for contacting Christina. But as it happened our expanding business required something new and imaginative. Christina wasn't sure whether the terms of her employment allowed her to do freelance work but I suggested that William Berry would not object if he knew it was for an old friend. I then told her about the bottle I had found on the sea shore and added, after a significant pause: 'Seeing your name made my heart leap. It seemed like a miracle.'

She responded coolly: 'How interesting.' Which left me feeling rather foolish. But my spirits rose later that evening when she rang and invited me to join her and Frank for lunch the following Sunday at Skindles, a hotel in Maidenhead.

Aware that Hazel would make fun of me if I told her of my appointment with the Contessa, I made the excuse that I was going to London the following weekend to inspect the production lines at the factory. The reason, by the way, I mentioned that distinctly odd book called An Experiment With Time was because of Frank Hawkins's propensity to mention the strange qualities of Time in his comic monologues.

* * *

Shortly after we had sat down in Skindles restaurant Christina sketched a simple shape that suggested crystal-clear television images. Its lines were to adorn our television sets, brochures and letter headings for many years to come. She pointed out that the drawing needed to be worked on and hesitantly suggested a fee of a hundred pounds. I wrote a cheque on the spot for a hundred-and-fifty pounds, reminding her that I hadn't paid her for the previous logo. She looked questioningly at Frank, who shrugged and said: 'If he's fool enough to pay you, accept it.'

I said: 'I'm the one who's getting a bargain. She has an absolute genius for expressing an abstract idea in a few simple lines.'

The dining-room had a magnificent view over the Thames. As a skiff with a single rower emerged from the bridge, Frank suggested we might like to go on the river.

After an excellent lunch we strolled down by the river bank, until we found a boatyard. A tall, lean man with grizzled curly hair guided Christina into the rear seat of a rowing boat, his weather-beaten face twitching with excitement. We faced her, took up our oars and began rowing rather raggedly. Frank called out to Christina, as she tentatively moved the rudder, 'You don't know your port from your starboard.' But she ignored his teasing remark and smiled as she became more confident in her ability to control the boat.

I was enjoying the sight of her opulent thighs enclosed in some light, pink summery material. The boat rocked gently in the wake of a passing motor boat; its occupants waved to us and we waved back. We passed a large white house with gardens that extended to the river's edge. Children stood on the bank feeding the swans. The thought occurred to me that one day perhaps I would buy a similar house with river frontage.

'Watch out!' Frank called out to Christina, as we drifted dangerously close to an oncoming rowing-boat. We tugged hard on our oars to regain the right-hand channel.

The harsh tone in Frank's voice made me speculate that he and Christina might be tiring of each other. I permitted myself the luxury of hoping that there might somewhere be room for me in her life. My muscles were beginning to ache. But observing that Frank's strokes were slowing, I put on a show of increased vigour, which I hoped would impress Christina. Soon Frank called out: 'Turn the boat towards that island and we'll take a break under the willow trees.'

Standing up, he nearly lost his footing as we approached the bank. Christina guided the slowly-moving boat under some overhanging boughs. As the boat rocked slightly in the wake of a passing motor vessel, I tied a rowlock to one of the sturdier branches with my belt. Wiping the sweat from my face, I indicated the broad sweep of the river and said appreciatively: 'Phew, isn't this magnificent! We should do it every day.'

Christina gave me a bright smile. I returned it, wondering if she had thought me an absolute fool for telling her about finding her name in a bottle.

I asked Frank about his television project.

'BBC Light Entertainment has asked me to take part in a new programme based on the old-time music halls.'

'Is the money good?.'

'Excellent. But I'm not sure if it's right for me.. I like to exercise my gift in the way God intended.'

'What does God have to do with it?' I enquired, sarcastically. I suppose you still believe that Christina had a clairvoyant experience in Rome.'

'She was brought up as a Roman Catholic to have reverence for the virtues of the Virgin Mary. That may well have inspired her quick response.'

'Would you say it was a miracle?'

'One can't be positive about such matters.'

I responded sarcastically: 'Don't tell me that you believe in Pillars of Fire, Burning Bushes, Feeding the Five Thousand and all that junk.'

'You must take into account the spirit of the times.'

'Lies, in other words they were lies told with the best of intentions. '

'Not necessarily. When I hypnotise people on stage they believe that they are seeing the truth. The fact that the audience see it differently doesn't necessarily make the person being hypnotised a liar.'

'Stop bullshitting, Frank. You either believe in miracles or you don't.'

He put on a rather zany expression and looked across the river to discourage further questioning,.

'He's talking nonsense, isn't he?' I appealed to Christina.

'Frank must be right,' she said somewhat wearily. 'He always is.'

'Good!' Frank said to her with brutal emphasis. 'You've got the message at last.'

I persisted: 'Okay, Frank, give me one example of a modern miracle that everyone can accept.'

Frank stroked his chin thoughtfully and said after a moment: 'There was a famous occasion when Bertrand Russell, in the course of giving a public lecture on Isaac Newton, explained that it was the force of gravity that stopped the Earth from floating away from the sun into outer space. A woman in the audience said: 'That's not true.' Bertrand Russell said: 'Okay, can you provide an alternative explanation?' The woman said: "Yes. The Earth doesn't float away because it's perched on top of a giant turtle."

Russell asked impatiently: "Then can you explain why the giant turtle doesn't fly off into space?" "It's obvious, isn't it," the woman replied. "It's because there is another giant turtle underneath him and one beneath him and so on.." And, of course, the woman was right. Common-sense might suggest that there isn't a succession of invisible giant turtles, but it isn't possible to prove otherwise. Even if it were true, Newton's formula would still apply. The force of the turtle in this case weakens in inverse proportion to its distance from another turtle' He added with a whimsical smile: 'And to clinch the matter, every one knows that you get excellent nourishment from turtle soup but none whatsoever from gravity soup.'

Irritated by his mocking expression, I said crossly: 'Don't make fun of science. We'd be in a bad way without it.'

'I'm not knocking science; I'm knocking gullible people who accept unquestioningly information handed down from above. A hundred years ago, people thought it acceptable for bishops to bless warships. Most enlightened people nowadays would pour scorn on the notion. But they allow themselves to be bamboozled by a crop of scientific theories, which may be just as crass and ill founded. Science has taken over from religion in wiping the public's eye. Take a glass of beer for example. The more I drink the nicer place the world seems, which is all I need to know. But along comes a scientist who says: "Pleasure equals the strength of the beer multiplied by the number of units consumed divided by the weight of the consumer." '"How drunk are you?" a policeman asks the scientist as he staggers out of a pub. "I'm fifty-eight per cent happy and forty-four per cent miserable," the scientist answers. "That doesn't add up," says the constable and promptly arrests him. What I'm getting at is that Science doesn't, and cannot tell the whole truth, because our area of ignorance becomes larger as our balloon of knowledge expands.'

My suspicion that Frank was a little drunk was confirmed, when he continued: 'I was telling Christina the other day that thought waves leak beyond the boundaries of the present. The very instant you make up your mind to do something, time expands. We affect the future by merely thinking about it, just as an observer affects the outcome of an experiment in quantum physics. We are all science fiction writers creating our own personal dream. Even taking the simplest decision means entering the world of the future and we do it every day of our lives and every moment of the day.'

I said belligerently: 'You still haven't give me an example of a miracle that everyone can accept.'

He said: 'Okay. Here's one for you. What I once predicted has actually happened: Christina became pregnant even though we haven't had intercourse for months.'

Christina's expression changed and her eyes filled with tears.

I exclaimed: 'You are totally mad, Frank. That's a bloody cruel thing to say.'

He guffawed.

I untied my belt from the branch and pushed the oar against the bank to bring us into the river. We both rowed in complete silence.

Christina, trying hard to control herself, bravely steered the boat towards the boat yard.

15

I felt too embarrassed to mention Frank's outrageous accusation as we walked back to Skindles hotel. On reaching the car park Christina came over to my car, her face tense, and promised to send me proofs of the logo when they were ready.

I drove back to London in a confused state of mind. I was quite unable to accept the implication that lay behind Frank's disgraceful statement. Not even the pressures of show business could justify such a cruel outburst. I thought of telling Christina to leave Frank and come and live with my family. But though Hazel always joked about my admiration for the beautiful Contessa, I realised that this would be quite unacceptable to her. My anger against Frank steadily rose. I hated him for the humiliation he had inflicted on Christina.

The fact was that although I was happily married, with a bright, pretty wife and two young children, I still cherished the distant hope that one day the Contessa and I would have an affair. It was a vague, woolly kind of dream that seemed as unlikely to happen as winning a fortune at the races. It was totally removed from reality. I told myself that there was probably a place reserved in Heaven for would-be adulterers like myself whose dreams were destined never to materialise.

I telephoned Hazel from the Edgware flat and she complained that there had been no reply when she rang the factory. I explained that I had gone out to lunch with the foreman and promised to be home the following evening.

As I waited for the kettle to boil, I picked up the book about Time I had opened a few days before and thought how easy it is for weak-minded people to become victims of pseudo-science.

Incidentally, I should mention at this stage that my son was a two-year old, extremely active, fascinating olive-skinned version of myself. My daughter, at six months, was an adorable replica of her mother. Hazel made enthusiastic noises whenever we made love, leaving me in no doubt about her enjoyment. Why should I think anything better existed in this world?

I can offer no explanation other than that I am a weak and fallible human being.

16

Christina telephoned to say that the proofs were ready and we arranged to meet for lunch in Fortnum and Mason's restaurant. I admired her smart tan costume and navy-blue blouse, as she came through the door. She didn't look pregnant. I transferred the proofs to my briefcase without examining them, saying that I had every confidence they would be suitable and enquired: 'How is the boss?' .

'Okay. He seemed quite pleased that I was doing this work for you.'

'Are his magazines doing well?'

'Very well indeed.'

I told her about our plans to open a factory in Wales to produce colour television sets 52; plans yet to be finalised.

When we were seated at our table, I asked in a low voice: 'What the hell did Frank think he was doing when we were in the boat. It was monstrous. You shouldn't put up with such treatment.'

The wine waiter appeared. Christina requested orange juice, I ordered a gin and tonic. When he had gone, I said fiercely: 'There must be some reason for such a crazy outburst.'

Christina shrugged and said: 'He often says provocative things just to see how people react. That's how he gets his material.'

'He's mad.' I commented sourly.

'He likes to push out the boundaries of comedy.'

'That's no excuse. His behaviour was intolerable.'

The waitress served soup.

I felt a powerful impulse to kiss Christina's slender fingers, as she picked up her spoon. A moment later, I said: 'The truth is that Frank is certifiable.'

'No!' she protested. 'You don't understand. He is passionate about his work. He doesn't think about much else.'

'He obviously doesn't think about you. What he said in the boat was positively obscene.'

Christina then cast a nervous glance round the room and whispered: 'What I've just said isn't the whole truth. There was another reason for Frank's behaviour. He desperately wants a child, even though it will be illegitimate. I recently had a miscarriage and he was terribly disappointed. He was lashing out blindly. Something must have snapped to make him say what he did.'

'I'm sorry I raised the subject. It's none of my business.'

'You had a perfect right to complain 52; he placed you in an impossible situation.'

I have been very worried about you.'

'It's very kind of you, Alan. I know I can always count on you.'

I pulled a wry face.

Later, puzzling over Frank's erratic behaviour, I said: 'Tell me honestly did that statue of the Virgin Mary really wink at you in Rome?'

'Frank never lets me forget that I once said that it appeared to wink at me. . Now when I deny it, he says: "You only deny it because it is unfashionable to believe in miracles."'

'Did it wink at you?'

'Of course not. The statue happened to be in my line of sight at the time. I was desperately seeking help. You cannot imagine how tense the moment was. As I keep telling Frank, the really significant thing is that my nerve held and enabled me to defuse a very dangerous situation. The whole episode only lasted seconds.'

'Then he's a nut case,' I muttered.

'Yes, I worry about him. What is so difficult is that I never know whether he serious or is just practising for his next stage appearance. The other day, while he was shaving, he said he intended to apply to the National Health Service for permission to treat patients as a laughter consultant.. He said he would wear a black coat and pinstriped trousers on his rounds like the other consultants, but would guarantee to get much better results. He's an extraordinary person. I see new sides to him every day.'

She smiled and I realised with dismay that she was still in love with him.

* * *

Alan Green's heavy eyelids were closing. Andrew enquired: 'Would you like to take a break?'

Green shook himself awake and said after a moment or two: 'How much are you getting for writing this biography?'

'Not as much as I would have liked. It looks now as though I may have to abandon it.'

'You should be careful doing business with William Berry 52; he'll do you down. What was I saying? Yes, I got to know Christina better in the months ahead. She continued to treat Frank as though he was some great comic genius, which in my view was far from being the case. He had a talent for making people laugh, but he had an even greater capacity for making Christina cry. I hated to see her suffering. I practically gave up hope of ever becoming her lover and that led me astray in another direction. But that's another story.

'Frank probably didn't know what he was doing half the time. Sometimes he sounded like a maniac. At other times he sounded perfectly sensible. When he was in good form he could enthral an audience. At other times he performed dreadfully. His radio debut was a disaster.

'He should have stayed at medical school. He had a weakness for challenging people's fundamental beliefs. You can get away with it for a while but it's disastrous for an entertainer. Eventually his audience will say: "Who is this guy who's messing with our well established ideas? Never mind if they are wrong, those ideas he's decrying have served us well for thousands of years. So we'll kick him up the backside to make sure he shows a proper respect." And that is what happened to him in the end.'

* * *

A certificate of provenance was attached to the head rail of the bed in which Susan and Andrew were lying which said: "This is to certify that this bed was owned by the Marquess of Kensington and was used by members of the Hell Fire Club during their debaucheries."

As they drew apart their bodies made a squelching sound. They both laughed. The creamy wake of a passenger ferry making its way across the Thames caught Andrew's attention just as Susan complained that he was lying on her hand. She invariably cast around for some minor grumble after enjoying a particularly satisfying romp. Five minutes later she would be hugging him and asking him for more.

Susan said: 'That was quite an interesting tape you played to me 52; the one where Alan Green is talking about the Contessa's miscarriage.'

'Is it possible that she had an abortion without her partner knowing?'

'Abortions were illegal in those days. The answer is probably no.'

'Life must have been very difficult for her. Frank Hawkins comes across as a pretty unpredictable character.'

'Yes. Get my ciggies, will you.'

He padded to the drawer in her dressing-table where she kept her cigarettes and lit one for her. She drew on it gratefully and said: 'Was William Berry having it off with the Contessa?'

'If he was, the chances are we'll never find out.'

'The letters you told me about might provide a clue.'

'I have no idea where they are.'

'Both Alan Green and William Berry seem to have been fascinated by the Contessa. Which one of them is your grandfather?'

' Frank Hawkins probably.'

'That would explain the madness in your family.'

During the resulting tussle Susan lost her cigarette. There was a frantic scramble to find it in the bedclothes. Susan stubbed out the still smouldering cigarette and began to put on her pink and grey silk dressing-gown. As she slipped it over her shoulders, she asked: 'Have you enquired recently about Berry's condition?'

'I telephoned yesterday. He is out of intensive care but still very ill. I may not be able to finish the biography.'

'The letters might fill in the gaps. You should try to get hold of them. Alan Green seems to know quite a lot about him. What about Berry's family?'

'His wife is dead. One son lives in Australia. The other one, Mathew, lives in Weybridge.'

' You had better set up another meeting with Alan Green soon. I'm dying to find out your pedigree.'

'I'm not a race horse.'

'But you're quite a stud.'

Which started another round of lovemaking.

17

The following Wednesday Andrew telephoned William Berry's son, Mathew Berry, to enquire about William Berry's condition. He was told that he was still poorly. Asked who was calling, Andrew answered: 'Just a friend,' and put down the receiver. Still uncertain whether Berry would ever recover from his illness, he decided to seek more information from Alan Green.

Interviewing Green in his room in the retirement home, Andrew enquired 'Did you see any more of Christina after you had lunch with her?'

'Not for a while. The development of the new factory in Wales took up a lot of my time. Financing was a nightmare. I had problems with merchant banks who wanted me to float the company on the Stock Market. My own bank manager warned me against it. On this occasion he was right. I would soon have lost complete control and my ambitions to become a big player in the electronics industry would have been thwarted. I eventually achieved that ambition 52; make no mistake about it. My son and daughter by now were out of the baby stage. Hazel had developed an interest in ceramics. She needed an outlet for her energies and asked me if she could open a shop in The Lanes in Brighton. I thought if it will make her happy, why not. Incidentally, from her I learned a lot about eighteenth-century creamware and porcelain. However, what's the old saying 52; every silver lining has a dark cloud behind it. My marriage started to go through a bad patch. I can't say whose fault it was. But our sex life deteriorated. Hazel made jokes about it and the more she joked the less we made love. Inevitably, I began to dream about the Contessa. Perhaps Hazel also had a dream lover. Two people in a bed dreaming about other people! 52; it's a funny world, isn't it. Paradoxical as it sounds, Christina attracted me in the first place because she always seemed so virtuous. I suppose a man has an instinct to go for a chaste woman because he wants to know that he is the true papa of his children.

Frank's erratic behaviour had raised my hopes that Christina would eventually tire of him. He was still getting lucrative engagements, but his peculiar brand of humour did not please everybody. Today we would call it alternative comedy. People then were reluctant to laugh at their weaknesses. Upsetting their preconceived notions, as Frank frequently did, made them feel uncomfortable.

I'll get to the point. A few months later 52; it must have been late November 52; I received a phone call at the office from Christina asking if I would mind calling on her to discuss a personal matter. I said I would drop in on my way to Victoria station. When I had finished dictating a letter to my secretary, Barbara Miles, I asked her: 'Did you ever see Frank Hawkins, the comedian?'

'No, but I heard him on the radio the other day. He's very funny, but I'm never quite sure why I'm laughing.'

I hadn't realised that Frank had obtained a contract with the BBC 52; it was quite an achievement. I asked Barbara to order a taxi to take me to Christina's apartment, half-hoping she was going to tell me that her affair with Frank was over. I was disappointed. When Christina let me into her flat, I found Frank sprawled on the floor of their sitting-room, eating a bag of crisps in front of a monochrome television set.

I muttered: 'Hello, Frank.'

He popped a crisp into his mouth, and said with faint irony: 'Well, if it isn't my old friend, Alan Green. Christina says you're going to help us sort things out.'

Christina shot him a warning glance and said: 'We only want you to give us some advice on Frank's divorce.'

She switched off the television, directed me to an armchair and gave a warning sign to Frank not to smoke 52; he had just pulled out a cigarette packet. Frank stuffed his cigarettes back in his pocket and sat in an armchair opposite me.

Christina, still standing, said: 'It was very good of you to come and see us at such short notice, Alan. We think you have excellent judgement. Frank's wife has heard about Frank's success in show business and she's insisting that the divorce settlement should take account of his future earnings. We have to decide whether to concede her claim.'

I looked at Frank and said: 'What do you think?'

He shrugged. 'It really doesn't worry me one way or the other. If I get involved in a legal battle over this issue it could go on for years. On the other hand, I don't much like being blackmailed.'

I said: 'It does seem unfair that Frank should have to pay Carol money he hasn't earned yet. He only lived with her for a short while.'

Frank said: 'To please Christina, I'm prepared to make any sort of a deal.'

'How do you feel about it, Christina? I enquired, fascinated by her violet eyes.

She said resignedly: 'Even if Frank gets his divorce, the Roman Catholic Church still won't recognise our marriage. We could marry in a registry office but I'm beginning to think it's too late for that. We have been talking about it for ages.'

I said: 'Carol sounds very rapacious. I think you should fight her every inch of the way.'

Frank and Christina looked at each other questioningly.

We discussed the unfairness of the current divorce laws until it was time for me to catch my train.

Frank accompanied me to the front-door and remarked as I was about to leave: 'I'm auditioning for the part of Malvolio in a British film version of Twelth Night. I'm typecast as a buffoon because I've been earning a living as a comedian.'

'You should worry, as long as the money is good.'

I hoped that the wrangling over the divorce would .continue indefinitely. I didn't want Christina to marry Frank in a registry office, or anywhere else for that matter. While her marital situation remained indeterminate I could continue dreaming about having an affair with her.

There was a lot of traffic on the way to Victoria and I missed my train. I phoned Hazel and told her I had been delayed. When I finally arrived home I saw a copy of the Radio Times on the kitchen table. Noticing that a comedy program featuring Frank Hawkins was about to start, I switched on the radio and shouted to Hazel, who was sitting in the back porch, to come in.

An announcer declared in impeccable tones: 'The BBC is happy now to let you share Frank Hawkins's idiosyncratic view of the universe. An ironic-sounding trumpet blast sounded and he began:

'Ladies and gentlemen, Time stops for no man. But it does for my wife. She can nag till the last syllable of recorded time. This programme lasts for fifteen minutes. I wanted half an hour but the BBC gives no quarter. I shall make up for it by talking faster.

Time is a complete mystery. We advise someone to have a good time. But the more you enjoy yourself the faster time goes by and the sooner you die. When you have an incandescent good time making love time ceases to exist at all. But it slows down again while you are waiting for a kettle to boil to make that post-coital cup of tea. If you spent your whole life watching kettles you could probably live for ever. On the other hand you could die from drinking too much tea.

My local GP, Doctor Clockovitch, is passionately interested in the subject of time. He told my ninety-four year old grandfather, who had come into his surgery: 'If you want to reach a hundred, when you go to bed at night sleep slower. The old man left saying mechanically to himself: 'Sleep slower. Sleep slower. Sleep slower.' A mother came in to have her six months-old baby checked. Doctor Clockovitch examined it and said, shaking his head: 'He will grow up to be a fine young man. But after that he will grow old and for that there is no known cure.' A patient came in asking for time off because he didn't feel well. Doctor Clockovitch told him: 'Your factory is on short time, so there isn't enough time to give you a certificate.'

Recently, he rebelled because he had too many patients. He made them come in two at a time and to speed things up, asked them to swap their illnesses. When they complained, he said: 'Consider yourself lucky. I used to work in the Soviet Union and I got to see ten patients at a time. If they didn't get well quickly, they were sent to Siberia. That's why I came here. We had practically got rid of ill health in the Soviet Union.'

Should we kick doctors like Dr. Clockovitch out of the National Health Service? Many would say: yes. But this is not a society which values honesty.

He blew a loud "raspberry."

Hazel and I looked at each other in amazement.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he continued, that was a small example of the seventeen trillion cubic feet of hot air which comes out hourly from the BBC. And that is trivial compared with what comes out of the Houses of Parliament. At least Dr Clockovitch tells the honest truth. Recently, he told a friend of mine that he was suffering from triangles. Being told you are suffering from triangles is enough to make anybody an invalid. The doctor put him on a strict diet of circular food. A few days later, he was out walking, trying to avoid triangles, when a motor car knocked him down and broke both arms and a leg. Dr Clockovitch called to see him in the hospital and found him encased in plaster-of-Paris. Asked if he should continue his diet of circular food, the doctor told him: 'Of course, my dear fellow. The hospital will supply you with circular food. Keep on avoiding triangles at all costs and you'll be fine.'

In due course my friend recovered. He then fell in love with someone else's wife. The husband shot him. His dying words were: 'Doctor Clockovitch, you were absolutely right. Eternal triangles are very bad for you.'

And now dear listeners, we all enjoy Alistair Cook's Letter from America. I am going to read to you my Letter from Insanity' 52; a land familiar to most of our distinguished scientists and politicians ...'

Hazel switched off the radio and said: 'That's enough of Frank Hawkins. I must tell you 52; a customer came into the shop today and offered me a lovely Chelsea grenadier. I gave him what he asked for it and discovered I had another one of the pair in stock. Wasn't that a fantastic piece of luck!'

I protested that I wanted to hear the rest of Frank's monologue.

'Why do you want to listen to that madman?'

'Precisely because he's mad.'

I was convinced that he was insane and that an opportunity would arise soon that would allow me to rescue the Contessa from her demented lover.

18

Two years passed. The factory in Wales near Pontypridd was built and in production. In those days I used to get bogged down in detail at work 52; I had not learned then how to delegate. I became very tired and irritable. One of the paradoxes of our world is that the more money you earn the less you are able to enjoy it. As soon as you have made what seems a tidy sum you are plagued with the knowledge that it can disappear in less than the time you took to make it. So you feel under a compulsion to make a little more, and a little more, and so it goes on endlessly. Not that I advocate being poor. There's much to be said for having enough. But it's not easy to define exactly what is enough.

I used to travel a lot between the TV factory in Wales and the radio factory in Elstree and my home in Hove. Hazel was busy with her china shop 52; or 'showroom' 52; as she insisted on calling it as well as running the home. She was getting more and more knowledgeable about porcelain and establishing a reputation for herself in the field. She kept the Jewish festivals. I attended synagogue at the New Year and pretended to fast on Yom Kippur. My heart wasn't in it. My heart wasn't in our marriage, if the truth be known. We still made love occasionally. 'Let's do it, lover-boy,' was Hazel's laconic way of reminding me of my duty. Our lovemaking had become as automated as the assembly lines in my factories.

I am discussing what one usually likes to keep private because I want you to have the background to what was going on at the time. Some things happened which, when I look back on them, seemed a trifle odd: coincidences 52; that sort of thing. But I want to make it clear that I have no patience with hocus-pocus. I take a determinist view 52; one event leads to another and so on. Religion was designed to keep people happy and out of mischief. Miracles were invented by priests to reinforce religious beliefs. There is always a rational scientific answer to the most baffling of mysteries. However, some things happened which bother me to this day when I think about them. I am not sure whether they deserve mention in your book. However, here goes ...

I came home late one evening. The children were already in bed. Having had a business lunch in town, I made myself a cheese and pickle sandwich. Hazel, who had been delayed at her shop, dumped a Sainsbury's carrier bag on the kitchen table and said: 'Who do you think I saw today?'

'No idea,' I said, grumpily.

'Frank and Christina! They came into the shop. Frank is doing a turn in our local theatre. He hasn't been very well, so Christina has taken a couple of days off to support him. They're staying at the Grand. I've asked them to Sunday lunch.'

'I didn't think you liked Christina.'

'She's a bit overpowering. But I felt I had to ask them. Oh, and Frank has given us a couple of tickets for his show on Saturday night.'

'Very nice.'

I said it out of politeness, because I wasn't keen on Frank's style of humour. I had not recently been in contact with him or Christina. The last time I had telephoned to enquire whether they had taken my advice about the divorce, I learned that she was about to take six months leave, in order to accompany Frank on a tour of Australia's clubs and theatres. She added that the divorce was still bogged down in legal complexities. I was secretly delighted that Christina was now back in the U.K. and that I would be seeing her soon.

Taking our seats in the theatre, we found ourselves sitting next to Sally and William Berry. We assumed that Frank had booked seats for them immediately adjacent to ours and chatted happily to them as we waited for the show to start. William's curly light-brown hair seemed thinner than when I had last seen him. His squint seemed more pronounced. But they both looked well.

Frank was not quite as bouncy and exuberant as on the last occasion we had seen him on stage. Two of his jokes I had heard before. But his miming, when he put on white make-up and white gloves, was superb, and I applauded enthusiastically with the rest of the audience.

As we made our way out of the theatre, Hazel said to Sally: 'Frank and Christina are coming to lunch tomorrow. Would you care to join us?'

Sally answered: 'Thanks, we'd love to.'

I gave them instructions on how to find our house and then mentioned that Frank had toured Australia.'

William replied: 'Yes, the Aussies gave him a good reception. Do you like his stuff?'

'Like the curate's egg 52; it's good in parts.'

William then said, frowning: 'I gave Christina special leave to go on that tour of Australia with Frank. Between you and me she would be better off without him. She's a splendid artist. I'm thinking of lending her some money to open her own gallery.'

His announcement made me jealous 52; not of his wealth, which at that time I was sure I could match, but of his power over Christina. I would have liked to have found her a suitable position within my own organization.

We parted to go to our respective motor cars.

* * *

The lunch party began well. The children had been sent down to the beach with Mrs. Morgan, our housekeeper, to get them out the way. Wearing a large apron emblazoned with our new company logo 52; I had put it on to please Christina 52; I began carving a large sirloin of beef. Hazel said brightly to our guests: 'You don't mind eating kosher meat, do you?' Hazel loved to make fatuous jokes 52; in fact the meat wasn't kosher.

Sally enquired innocently: 'What exactly does kosher mean?'

Frank intervened and explained that the animal has its throat cut by a highly-qualified slaughterer with a clean knife and bleeds to death.

'You're very well informed,' Hazel said, in surprise.

'My parents up in Newcastle were friendly with a Jewish family. I've eaten so much kosher meat I consider myself Jewish.'

'Have you been circumcised?' William Berry enquired, mischievously.

Frank ignored him and told an old joke about a vicar who, having been given a new car by his parishioners, blessed it in front of his congregation. The Jewish community decided to honour their religious leader in a similar manner so the rabbi ceremonially cut an inch off the exhaust pipe.

Frank then turned to me and asked me: 'Why do Jewish male babies have a piece of skin cut off their penises?'

I replied: 'As far as I can remember the biblical legend God first ordered Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. Just he was about to kill him God ordered him to desist. Abraham then made a covenant that obliged all his descendants to circumcise their male children as a permanent reminder to obey God's Commandments.'

Frank commented thoughtfully: 'Isaac had probably made his dad very angry. Driven half crazy, as only kids can drive you crazy, I guess he must have shouted: "I'll kill you!" Afterwards, ashamed of his murderous impulse, he decided to make amends. That great comedian, W.C. Fields, would have sympathised with him. He used to say: "How can you possibly dislike a man who hates children?"' Looking down at his plate, he added inconsequentially: 'Terrific kosher beef.'

He looked out of the window and then, addressing Christina, said: 'Darling, while we on the subject of religion, I once asked you whether the statue of the Virgin Mary had winked. You still haven't answered.'

Christina whispered: 'That's enough, Frank.'

Frank said: 'Okay, okay.' He then muttered to himself: 'What's wrong with miracles? And for that matter, what's wrong with ancient biblical legends.'

I handed out plates of sliced beef, confirmed in my view that Frank was a decidedly odd character. William Berry seemed of the same opinion, because he said sourly: 'Frank, it will improve our digestive systems if you stop blathering on.'

Frank replied airily: 'Your magazines blather on all the time about the most trivial topics imaginable.'

'At least they're funny. That's more than can be said for your jokes.'

Sally exclaimed, grabbing William's arm. 'Don't take any notice of William, Frank. He has been bad-tempered all day. Your jokes are wonderful.'

Hazel placed tureens of potatoes, brussels sprouts and Yorkshire pudding on the table. 'It's impossible to be funny all the time,' she declared.

Christina said hastily. 'Please don't discuss Frank's work. It upsets him.'

Frank, quite unperturbed, said: 'Yeah, let's discuss instead the remarkable fact that William happened to book seats right next to the ones I had booked for Alan and Hazel. If it wasn't for that singular coincidence we wouldn't be sitting around this table at this very moment.'

. 'Coincidences happen all the time.' William said belligerently.

'I agree but 52;'

Christina interrupted Frank and appealed to him: 'No more arguments. Tell them that joke about the Jewish word: Chutzpah.'

Frank grimaced and complied with her request, saying: 'An example of Chutzpah is the footballer who, when he had achieved an own goal, demanded an lucrative transfer to the opposing team. A better one is that of the man who murdered both his parents and then pleaded to the judge for mercy on account of his being an orphan.'

Everyone laughed. Relieved that peace had been restored, I poured out more red Burgundy. Hazel served a delicious trifle.

Soon afterwards, Frank enquired: 'Hazel would you mind if I went for a little walk by myself. I'm feeling a bit low.'

Hazel said: 'Of course not.' She asked me to get Frank's coat.

'I don't need one,' he said and strode out of the room.

Sally said to Christina after he had left: 'It must be quite a strain being a comedian.'

Christina replied: 'Yes, comedians are constantly under pressure to innovate.'

Hazel interjected: 'Frank has a very serious side to him.'

William replied scornfully: 'He talks a lot of sanctimonious rot.'

Christina looked down at her plate but did not respond.

'I'm sure he's difficult to live with, Christina,' Hazel said. 'But I assure you that living with Alan is a thousand times worse!'

'Don't you believe it, Christina!' I protested.

Sally interjected eagerly: 'William sometimes smokes a pipe in bed. I only tolerate it because I love him.' She gave him a fond look.

The woman continued to discuss the failings of their husbands, until Christina remarked: 'Frank has been away a long time.'

'Does he wander off like that very often?' Hazel enquired.

'Yes, he gets very restless. He's usually trying to improve on his script.'

At that moment our children, Daniel and Gloria, and the housekeeper appeared at the door. Frank stood behind them. My little daughter Gloria announced: 'Daniel went paddling in the sea and got knocked over by a wave. This man picked him up and brought him back to us.'

Mrs. Morgan said defensively: 'I would have picked him up, but he got there first. Daniel is quite okay. Just a little damp.'

Hazel hugged the children and took them to their room for a change of clothing. Christina and Sally followed her.

Frank's trousers were soaked, so I led him upstairs and lent him a pair of my grey flannels, which were several inches too short. As he put them on, I said: 'Mrs. Morgan shouldn't have let Daniel go down to the sea by himself.'

'She would have saved him if I hadn't been there.'

'How did you know they were my children?' I enquired.

'I didn't,' he said with a grin, 'until we were on the way back and they pointed to this house.'

We returned to the dining-room, where I poured him out a large brandy.

Frank couldn't resist teasing William: 'How about that for a coincidence. I rescued a child from the sea without even knowing that he was Alan's.'

William grimaced, lit a cigar and then waved his hands, dismissively.

Frank must have taken offence, because he stared menacingly at William and he said 'Why did you offer to open an art gallery for Christina?'

'Because she's a splendid artist. Why should it worry you?'

Frank made two horns on his head with his index fingers. William scowled but did not reply.

The children appeared none the worse for their adventure. Soon afterwards, our guests took their leave. It looked as though a truce had been declared, because William and Frank were deep in conversation as they walked to their cars.

I mentioned Frank's accusing gesture to Hazel while we were clearing up.

She remarked: 'He's a strange fellow.'

'Is he right to be jealous of William?'

'It wouldn't be surprised if you were all trying to shtup Christina.'

'What a terrible thing to say!'

'It's true. Not that you'd stand a chance.'

'How about William?'

'His chances are better than yours. But it was odd that he refused to recognise that it was a coincidence that our theatre tickets were immediately adjacent to William and Hazel's.'

'He can't bear to give Frank credit for anything. It was damned lucky he took it into his head to go down to the beach when he did.'

'That reminds me 52; I'm going to get rid of Mrs. Morgan.'

'Frank says she would have rescued Daniel anyway.'

'I don't trust her any longer. I'm going to give her a week's notice.'

And in spite of my protestations she did.

19

It was obvious that Frank was making life very difficult for Christina. But there was little I could do. She had never given the slightest sign that she reciprocated my romantic feelings, so shortly afterwards, perhaps out of a sense of frustration, I began an affair with Barbara Miles, my personal secretary.

The affair started when I discovered that Barbara's first husband had been killed in action while serving with the Eighth Army in Italy. I mentioned that I had also served in Italy. We seemed to have something in common, so one day I took her out to lunch. Stumped during the meal for something to say, I remarked jokingly: 'They say a second marriage is the triumph of hope over experience.' She and pretended to see the joke. But when we got to the dessert stage she became very emotional and started telling me about Ralph, her second husband. He gambled; she believed he went with other women, and he was horrid in bed.

I was extremely embarrassed and told her that I had had no intention of prying into the secrets of her private life when I made the quip about second marriages. She replied: 'I know Alan, you're too much of a gentleman to do that. But I have been longing to confide in someone. You're a very good employer. To tell the truth when you first interviewed me I had received a better offer 52; salary-wise that is. But you struck me as being such a nice person that I decided to work for you.'

I'm not immune to flattery and she was very attractive. Anyway, to cut a long story short, shortly afterwards we began sleeping together in my flat.

Why do I mention this? I suppose because it's because I'm in a confessional mood.

20

S usan said primly to Andrew: 'Time for tea,' as she placed a cone-shaped pewter tea pot, two cups and saucers and a plate of thinly-sliced cucumber sandwiches on a coffee table by his side. They had both been listening intently to the tape-recording of Andrew's latest interview with Alan Green.

Andrew remarked, as he took a sandwich, that the coffee table was wobbly. 'The reason,' he added, 'is obvious 52; it only has three legs..

'It won a design award, Andrew.'

'I can't imagine why.'

'Because it is aesthetically pleasing,' Susan said, impatiently.

'A horse with three legs wouldn't be aesthetically pleasing.'

'It's furniture, not a horse,' Susan commented tartly. She said, after a pause: 'Alan Green's information doesn't seem all that helpful.'

'He's been doing his best. Why my late grandmother shacked up with the crazy comedian, Frank Hawkins is hard to imagine.'

'Have you found out yet what happened to him?'

'Not yet. I'll ring the nursing home to see how William Berry is getting along.'

'Yes, do that. And in the meantime I've just had an idea 52; I could ask the BBC for a recording of Frank Hawkins's broadcasts. You may find it useful.'

Andrew was dialling the number of the nursing home.

He spoke briefly, put down the receiver and said with a wide grin: 'Our man is recovering. He's at home receiving full-time nursing care.'

* * *

Three weeks later Andrew was given permission by Mercedes Berry to call on her father-in-law at his Sussex home. Pleased by her decision, he wondered why Berry had been critical of her. A plump black nurse appeared at the front-door, introduced herself as Muriel Windsor and ushered him into the living-room. Berry was sitting in a wheelchair, gazing at a log fire.

'You mustn't stay too long,' the nurse warned Andrew.

He shook hands with Berry and said: 'Glad you're feeling better, sir.'

Berry gave an impatient sniff and asked him to pour him out a large whiskey.

Andrew hesitated. Berry bellowed at him: 'Get on with it, man 52; I'm at home now, I'm not in that damned nursing home.' Andrew went to the rosewood drinks cabinet Berry had indicated and poured him a malt whiskey.

'Help yourself,' Berry said, as Andrew handed him the glass, and commented: 'That's a wimp's drink,' when he saw Andrew pouring himself a glass of bitter lemon.

'I'm driving.'

'A couple of drinks never did anyone any harm.'

Andrew placed his tape-recorder on a table and said: 'I'll read out to you from my notebook where the last recording ended and we'll continue from there.'

He had written in shorthand: "... I felt very grateful for what she taught me about sex. Her forthright language shocked me at first 52; very few women would have mentioned the words, vulva, vagina and clitoris in those days."

Berry shook his head and looked at him suspiciously.

'I don't recall saying anything like that.'

'It's on the tape. I'll play it back to you, if you like.'

Berry frowned and said: 'If that's what you say I said, I must have said it. It's amazing that Christina gave me such good, practical advice. Sex wasn't much discussed in those days. Sally and I never discussed it. She was a good wife. I miss her very much. It wasn't her fault she didn't live up to my romantic ideal. Perhaps I'll meet her and Christina in an afterlife. Three-in-a bed is probably all right up there.'

He pointed with his stick at the ceiling.

He then leaned towards Andrew and said: 'I may have to have another heart by-pass. It's ten years since my last one.'

'What do your doctors say?'

'They say there's a fifty-fifty chance.'

He sat for a while deep in thought and then said: 'Well, let's carry on with my recollections. It'll give me an interest in life. Unfortunately, my memory has hasn't been too good since my infarction.' He grinned at Andrew and said: 'I can still remember medical jargon. Isn't that encouraging!'

Andrew said: 'Perhaps some of your old correspondence would help to bring back the past.'

Berry gave a little chuckle and said: 'I knew you'd ask eventually about the letters I bought from your mother. I haven't mentioned them until now because you weren't honest with me when you first made my acquaintance. But from now on we must trust each other. I can't let you see the letters they're too personal. I'll refer to them if and when I need to. How is the book going, by the way?'

'I used the period while you were ill to write up what you have told me so far. You haven't said much about your life before you went into the Air Force and hardly anything about your flying experiences.'

'It's not all that important in the scheme of things. And I don't like to talk about it.'

'This is supposed to be the story of your life.'

'What is there to say? I grew up in a country village. I got my wings 52; that was a very proud day. I flew in Bomber Command and was petrified with fear most of the time. I got very drunk and tried to seduce girls, who invariably rebuffed me. Probably because of my strabismus. That's another good word, isn't it!'

Andrew winced, as Berry tapped him sharply on the knee with his stick,

He went on: 'It's ironic, isn't it, that the Contessa's advice resulted in my having a blissful honeymoon. I'm reliably informed that most honeymoons are pretty awful. My squint, by the way, was a cause of much misery when I was at school 52; I was bullied unmercifully. But it probably made me try harder. I took my Cambridge entrance certificate when I was sixteen and that helped when I applied to become a pilot. In spite of the squint, my eyesight was very good. But I always imagined it put the girls off. Amazingly, it didn't bother Sally.

'I've told you how Frank Hawkins took up a career as an entertainer. My own career progressed rapidly after my father-in-law fell ill.'

He pointed at the portrait over the fireplace. 'That's Sally's brother Geoffrey. He was a navigator in Coastal Command Beaufighters. He got shot down near Heligoland. I was a replacement for him in the Willoughby family. I never looked back after my marriage. Sally was a doting wife from the very beginning. The magazine business did so well under my guidance that Sidney, my father-in-law, who was obliged by his illness to give up as managing director, thought I was a near genius. Christina painted that portrait from a photograph. I feel a pang of conscience when I look at it. It always reminds me of the chaps in my squadron who got killed while I stayed alive.'

'It's odd, isn't it, that my interest in bizarre and unusual happenings led to my marrying into the magazine business. I had a flair for publishing. I watch people's reactions all the time. I detected changes in public taste long before my editors did and kept ahead of the game. I had a strict policy: if one of my magazines suffered a decline of fifteen-per-cent I either sold it, or ceased publication.

'But I'm waffling on ...

'Sally and I noticed one day that Frank was playing at a theatre in Brighton and we booked seats 52; more out of interest than anything else, because we weren't particularly enamoured of his style of entertainment.. We found ourselves sitting next to Alan Green and Hazel and they invited us to lunch the following day. Frank and Christina were also there. Anyway, a couple of weeks later Frank was performing at our theatre in Eastbourne and we invited them to call in for tea before Frank's evening performance. It was in this very house. We were living with Sally's parents because of Sidney's illness.

Sally showed Christina a photograph of her late brother and she offered to turn it into an oil painting 52; that's the one hanging over the fireplace. Sally had tried to do this but she had no talent for portraiture, so she gladly accepted Christina's offer. After Frank and Christina had gone home, Sidney pointed out that Christina could only guess what Geoffrey was like from the black-and-white photograph. I suggested that he and his wife provide a detailed account of their son's colouring, what he was like generally, and I promised to pass on the information to Christina. They ended up writing ten pages of foolscap paper!

'I called on Christina with the notes that the Willoughbys had made a few days later.'

Thinking that Berry looked tired, Andrew asked him if he wanted to take a break. But he insisted that he was all right and continued reminiscing:

'Christina, was wearing a grey skirt and a pink angora wool sweater when I called on her. She had a figure just like Betty Grable. The flat was light and airy, furnished with the latest style Scandinavian furniture. She took me into her studio and showed me her preliminary charcoal sketch of Geoffrey Willoughby. It was an amazing likeness. Her gift made me feel quite humble. I told her so, putting my arm round her waist as I did so. But she removed it without any change of expression and made me realise I had overstepped the mark.

We returned to the living-room. I gave her the notes Sidney and Margaret had written and asked if Frank's divorce had come through.

She shook her head and said: 'No. She won't let go unless Frank makes it worth her while. He pays an enormous amount in income tax and doesn't want to hazard his future earnings.'

'What would happen to you if Frank died?'

'I could manage perfectly well.'

'I was serious when I offered to open an art gallery for you.'

'That was very sweet of you, William. But I don't really see myself as a business woman.'

'You could sell your own pictures.'

'I am happy doing what I'm doing. This portrait of Geoffrey Willoughby is giving me enormous pleasure. And I love my job. There is only one thing missing in my life 52; children.'

'Does Frank want them?'

'Yes, he was terribly disappointed when I had a miscarriage. Our chances are not good.'

'Has the miscarriage spoiled your childbearing prospects?'

She hesitated and then said: 'People always think it's the woman. But in this case it's Frank.'

'Is he impotent?'

'No. But he has a low sperm count.'

I was pleased to learn that Frank was not in every respect the all-conquering hero I had imagined him to be.

'Do you want a child badly?'

'Of course.'

'Even though you're not married?'

'Frank won't convert to Roman Catholicism. So we can never be married in the eyes of the Church.'

'Does it worry you?'

'No. I would go through a civil ceremony if he obtained a divorce. At least the child would be legitimate in the eyes of society. But, alas, it may never happen.'

'Frank isn't the only man in the world.'

'I would never leave him.'

'Are you in love with him?'

'He couldn't survive without me.'

'Perhaps he doesn't deserve to.'

'That is a wicked thing to say.'

'You must admit he's quite mad. Do you remember that rude gesture he made at me in Alan's house?'

'You tried hard enough to seduce me before you were married.'

'That was a long time ago. Frank is always making an idiot of himself.'

'That's what he's paid to do. Under his fool's mask, he's a good deal cleverer than most people I know.'

'Did he behave himself when you were in Australia?

'William, you have no right to question me like this.'

I have every right. I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you, Christina. If you had given me any encouragement, I would have married you instead of Sally. I only want your happiness. You must promise me that if things go wrong between you and Frank you'll let me know. I gather you had a rough time during the war, but there's no reason why you should suffer any more. If ever you need help, let me know. Okay?'

Christina smiled and said: 'Yes, William, I will. You are very kind.'

And so began my second campaign to win the Contessa.

21

Berry was in a belligerent mood the next time Andrew visited him. 'That bloody nurse has been trying to stop me drinking whiskey,' he said, jerking his thumb towards the study door. She's worse than Mercedes. And what's more I've a pain in my back. The doctors keep telling me it's nothing to worry about. 'But I don't think I'll live long enough to read what you've written about me.'

'You will, 'Andrew assured him, although he had recently begun to harbour doubts about the project. His boss complained that it was taking up too much of his time and energy. Susan grumbled that she rarely saw him. The journeys to Sussex were adding to his petrol bills and his credit card debt was mounting alarmingly. The BBC had refused Susan's request for a tape of Frank Hawkins's broadcast, in spite of an assurance that the copyright would be respected.

Andrew said: 'By the way, I noticed when I telephoned Mercedes, your daughter-in-law, that she has a foreign accent.'

'Her mother's French, father's German. Can't stand either of those races. Always going to war and dragging us into the mess.'

'I gather she disapproves of your drinking.'

'She hasn't complained lately. She's probably hoping I'll drink myself to death.'

'She didn't seem to mind that I am writing your biography.'

'She's frightened to say anything in case I cut them out of my will. I have to concede, though, that Mathew has made a first-class job of managing the company. I'm still a majority shareholder. Perhaps my heart attack has changed Mercedes's perspective. It has certainly changed mine. Incidentally, the magazine business is so fascinating because it covers such a vast range of interests. Quirks magazine resulted in my being obsessed with the supernatural for a while. While I was its editor I made a list of the spookiest people I knew. Frank Hawkins came top of the list. They say that if you're in the fish business all you see is fish.'

'Why did you think he was spooky?'

'I could never quite put my finger on it. But he just wasn't normal like the rest of us.' He added, anxiously: 'Do you think I'm going soft in the head?'

'No.'

'It sounds as if I was frightened of him. But that's because he was such an unpredictable bugger.'

He said testily, after a pause: 'There is nothing Mercedes would like more than to have me put in a funny farm so she can get hold of my money. She's just waiting for me to make a false move. Switch on your tape-recorder ...'

* * *

'Naturally, I tried my best to show Frank in an unflattering light whenever I spoke about him to Christina. All's fair in love and war. I wanted her badly. I had a powerful libido in those days. I haven't entirely lost it .... I'm thinking of making a pass at Nurse Muriel!'

Berry laughed. His laughter turned into a violent coughing fit. Andrew brought him a glass of water. When he had recovered, he handed the glass to Andrew, cleared his throat and continued: 'As I've told you, I had my sights on the Contessa from the very first time we met. The only reason I got her a job was because I hoped it would provide me with an opportunity to seduce her. If I sound like an arch villain, you must understand that it needs guile to succeed in this world. I'll let you into a little secret. When she gave me instruction on how to behave on my wedding night, I deliberately exaggerated my ignorance to keep her talking on intimate matters. It drove me crazy imagining myself making love to her. I was always finding excuses for taking her out to lunch, hoping she would eventually tire of Frank Hawkins. I've just remembered one thing that made me think Frank was a little strange. After we had discussed a magazine cover, I puffed at my cigar and said casually: 'You didn't give me a satisfactory reply when I asked if Frank behaved himself when you were in Australia.'

'I said you had no right to ask me.'

'Come on. Obviously something happened. You might as well tell me.'

'It wasn't serious.'

'What was it exactly?'

'One night when we were in Melbourne, he came back to our hotel bedroom about two-thirty in the morning and I noticed lipstick on his face. So I asked: 'What have you been up to?'

He said: 'I had a couple of drinks with John Barley and Mick O'Hara.' They were a transvestite act.

'Were they kissing you!'

He replied: 'Good God, no! We were having a couple of beers in a bar and I saw this girl 52; quite good-looking, long blond hair 52; sitting by herself moaning and shaking. I asked the barman: 'What's the matter with her?'

He said: 'Oh, that's Psychic Liz. She's got more spirits in her head than we have up there,' pointing to the bottles behind him. 'She's always acting like that. Nobody takes any notice.'

'Is she pissed?'

'No, she hardly drinks anything.'

She started screaming and frothing at the mouth. Frank said: 'Hadn't you better call a doctor.'

The barman gave her a quick glance and said: 'She'll be okay. She'll quieten down after a while.'

Mick and John went back to their hotel. Shortly afterwards the girl calmed down, came to the bar and asked for a glass of orange juice.

The barman poured her out a drink and said: 'You okay, now, miss.'

She said: 'Yes. Sorry if I disturbed you.'

Frank then asked what was it all about.

She fastened a pair of very attractive cornflower-coloured eyes on Frank and said: 'I had a visitation from a former boy friend of mine, who died in a Jap prisoner-of-war camp.'

Pretending to sympathise with what he assumed were her spiritualist beliefs, Frank said: 'You must like getting in touch with him.'

'Like hell!' she replied. 'He tries to have sex with me. It's awful.'

'Are you a medium?'

'No. I'm a typist in a government office. But every now and again I have this vision of Tom and he's all over me. It's horrible.'

Frank shared a taxi with her 52; her home was on the way to the hotel. When they got to her apartment block, she insisted that Frank accompany her to her front-door.

The wine waiter interrupted Christina's story and enquired if she would like a drink. To my surprise she asked for a gin and tonic.

Christina then told me that Frank went into the girl's flat and talked her out of her psychosis, or whatever you like to call it. She wrote to him when he returned to England thanking him because her symptoms hadn't returned. But the most surprising thing of all is that Christina believed every word Frank told her, including his explanation for the lipstick on his face. He told her that the girl had kissed him out of sheer gratitude.

When Christina had finished telling me about it, I said: 'And you accepted his explanation?'

'Of course. Why shouldn't I?'

'It's not unknown for people in show biz to have one-night stands.'

'Frank doesn't do that sort of thing. I know his story is true because he has a genuine healing gift. He sometimes uses it on me. Do you remember I took a few days off last April?'

I nodded.

'I was in deep depression. Frank cured me without any pills 52; just by talking to me.'

'Why doesn't he cure himself?'

'That is much more difficult to do.'

'Why were you depressed? Don't I pay you well enough?'

'Of course you do. It's something to do with what happened to me during the war. I'd rather not talk about it.'

'Okay. Some other time perhaps.'

* * *

Berry's head fell forward, his face set in a glum expression. Andrew suggested a short break. Berry nodded and shut his eyes. Andrew asked the nurse to keep an eye on him, while he took a stroll in the garden. She let him out through the conservatory. Before stepping outside, he asked: 'Do you get along well with the old chap?'

'Yes.. But he keeps asking if he can rest his head on my chest.'

Andrew gave her a sympathetic smile and stepped into the garden.

A pink glow from the setting sun appeared in the low stratus clouds ahead. As he walked along a path beside the unkempt lawn, he remembered that the house had once belonged to William Berry's in-laws. The tennis court was covered with moss, the flower beds cluttered with leaves. The statue was stained with verdigris and no longer sprayed water into a pond that was now clogged by unsightly debris and loose bricks. It was difficult to imagine the sick old man inside systematically deploying the power of his money to seduce his friend's lover. But at least he was honest about it. He wondered again if he was his grandfather.

After sitting for a while on an old bench under a wysteria-covered pergola, he returned to the house.

William Berry was being attended by the nurse. Andrew waited in the study. Shortly afterwards, Nurse Muriel reported: 'He's complaining again about pains in his back. But I've checked and there's nothing wrong with him. He's a hypochondriac and very manipulative. It's just his nature.'

'I'm sure you're right,' he told her.

He left, hoping he would soon have enough information from Berry to complete the biography.

22

Susan telephoned Andrew at work, to tell him that although the BBC still refused to send the audio tape of Frank's programme they had agreed to send her a copy of the typescript.

'Was it obscene?'

'No. But they said that at the time it was feared it might cause offence to some religious groups.'

'Will you post it to me?'

'Can't it wait until you come up to town?'

'I may not come next Sunday. I have a backlog of work and if I don't complete the biography by the deadline I won't get paid.'

'We need to discuss the script. It may be important.'

'Okay. Okay. I'll come.'

* * *

The following Sunday the weather was mild and sunny when Andrew called on William Berry.

'How is the patient?' he asked Muriel Windsor.

'Much better, judging from his disgraceful behaviour,' she answered, dryly.

Andrew followed her to the conservatory. Berry, wrapped in a plaid blanket, was sitting in a wheelchair listening to a gramophone. He switched it off when he saw Andrew and said: 'Don't you think Elgar was a sentimental old fool.'

'Do you prefer Punk Rock?'

'I hate all Pop music. You've come to squeeze more secrets out of me, I suppose.'

'I want you to be absolutely honest.'

'Who's said I haven't been honest?'

Andrew had telephoned the Harvesters Retirement Home and had learned that Green would soon be returning from California. Thinking that it might disturb the flow of his reminiscences, he had not so far told Berry that he was in contact with his old friend. He sat on a bamboo garden chair, tape-recorder in hand, and enquired: 'Have you seen your son and daughter-in-law lately?'

'Yes. How's the writing going?'

'Okay.'

'My other son, Alistair and his wife, Anne, are coming from Australia to see me at Christmas 52; that is if I'm still alive.'

'You'll be alive for a good many more Christmases,' Andrew assured him. 'I want you to tell me more about Frank Hawkins. I understand that he quarrelled with the BBC.'

'Yes. The court jester got above himself and the king put him into the dungeons.'

'I presume he continued to work as an entertainer. What happened to him in the end?'

'We'll come to that in good time. Switch on that torture implement there.'

'Mr. Berry, just before we start, would you mind advancing me another five-hundred pounds?'

'How many words have you written so far?'

'About forty-thousand.'

'You'll never finish it at this rate.'

'I promise I will. But I have to do some extra research and that costs money.'

'You youngsters have no idea what thrift means 52; when I was a boy I had to put cardboard inside my shoes to keep the rain out. Okay, I'll give you a cheque for five-hundred pounds before you leave. Now press the button on that thing ...'

* * *

I don't want you to think that all I did was moon about Christina in those day. I had a lot on my mind. Magazine publishing is very unpredictable. We were expanding rapidly and that is the time when businesses can run into real trouble. I was very busy negotiating with banks and locating other sources of finance. Sally, incidentally, was a good support. We held tennis parties and invited people with money to invest to stay with us. I had always thought of Sally as being rather naive, but she became the perfect hostess when our affluent guests came down. About that time I shut down Quirks magazine. Its circulation fell as the public became more sophisticated. We replaced it with a popular science magazine which is doing well to this day. My parents, incidentally, were amazed at how I had risen in the world. I helped them buy a house in Barnsford, because they had been unable to continue paying the rent on the cottage in which I had been brought up. I own the house to this day and it is worth many times what I paid for it.

Our sons, Mathew and Alistair, were attending a preparatory school. Sally had put their names down for Lancing College. I was too busy running the business to attend to such things. As I say, Sally turned out to be a good helpmeet. I had nothing to complain of. We made love regularly. But I still had this tremendous itch for the Contessa. One day she came into my office, looking anxious. Someone had recently told me that the editor of our new science magazine had taken a fancy to her. This really angered me. There were lines round her eyes. But she was still incredibly good-looking. I was more determined than ever to have her..

'What can I do for you, my love?' I said, lighting up a cigar.

'I'm very worried about Frank. He has been behaving very erratically. But he refuses to see a doctor.'

'Yes, go on.'

'He quarrels with everyone, including his agent. He has a new one called Eva Bailey and she has already told him to take a long holiday. He's exhibiting the same traits that ruined his acting career. He is very irritable, won't concentrate on anything and he says the craziest things.'

'Like what?'

'Like he's going to build a Time Machine.'

I gave an explosive chuckle.

Christina went on: 'He has lost all sense of proportion. He is living in a fantasy world.'

'Perhaps I should have a word with him.'

'He's in America at the moment. He decided to go and see Carol. Through her late father she has a lot of contacts with film studios. He's hoping she will help him make a new career in Hollywood.'

'Is she willing to help?'

'I don't know. He telephoned me when he got to Los Angeles and said he'd be in touch. That was a week ago. I haven't heard from him since.'

'Do you think he might go back to her?'

'No. But he says that in return for helping him make a career in the movies, he might change his mind about giving her a share of his future earnings. If she agreed, he would divorce her, marry me and we'd all live happily ever after. He is living in a dream world.'

'You're right. It's very hard for a British performer to make it over there. And if he did get work in Hollywood, where would that leave you?'

'I suppose I would join him.'

'Willoughby Publishing can't afford to lose you, Christina. Perhaps he needs to see a psychiatrist.'

Christina chewed her lower lip. I hated seeing her do that because it marred her beauty.

. After a while she said: 'I don't blame him for going to America 52; it might work out. But it's his obsession with time that worries me.. He keeps asking: Can time go backwards? Does time pass more quickly as we grow older? Does time travel at a different rate when we dream? Can time exist independently of human beings. And so on. When I tell him to concentrate on normal, everyday things he gets very angry. I'm hoping this trip to America will help him forget about such nonsense.'

'Can you persuade him to see a doctor?'

'The last time I asked him to see a doctor, he wrote a comedy script that trashed the whole medical profession.'

'At least it shows he still has his wits about him,' I said with a reassuring smile. 'When he returns from America, come down and spend a weekend with us. Sally would soon tell you if she thought there was something wrong with him.'

We discussed a recently-launched photographic journal and she returned to her office.

I then asked Robert Hastings, the science magazine editor, to come up and warned him against propositioning female members of our staff. I did not intend, after all these years, to be robbed of my prey by some little pip squeak of an editor.

I also issued a memorandum to all departments demanding that the highest standards of moral conduct be observed within the Willoughby organization

23

Susan said petulantly: 'You make love as if you're playing rugby, Andrew.'

'What have I done wrong?'

'Everything.

'When are you going to get a job in London?'

'I have been looking at web sites and trawling through the newspapers. Meantime, I still haven't discovered who my grandfather was.'

'Probably the comedian, Frank Hawkins. He must have been a great lover 52; you certainly haven't inherited his talent.'

'If I'm so unsatisfactory, why do you want me to get a job in London?'

'So I can keep you up to the mark.'

'I'm not your toy poodle. Let's have a look at this typescript you got from the Beeb.'

Susan took photocopied documents from a drawer by the side of her bed, put on her reading glasses and said: 'Here's the second of Hawkins's Letters from Insanity 52; the one they objected to. I'll read it to you:

'Good evening, folks. This week I am going to tell you a story. A very rich man made advances to one of two beautiful twin girls and promised to pay her a million pounds if she would bear his child. She refused. Her twin sister, however, dazzled by the large sum of money, took her place. The sister, who had refused to sleep with the millionaire subsequently became pregnant but insisted that she had not slept with anybody, and had no idea how she had become pregnant. The sisters demanded the million pounds which, naturally, the multi-millionaire refused to pay.

The case came to court.

The multi-millionaire's counsel pointed out that since his client had not slept with the mother of the child, he clearly was not the father, and was therefore under no obligation to pay the agreed sum of money. At a critical stage in the court proceedings, when the twins' case seemed irretrievably lost, their counsel tried a last desperate tactic. He quoted the Virgin Birth of Jesus as proof that it was possible for a miracle to happen. The rich man's counsel poured scorn on the notion, maintaining that the kind of miracle, which in any case only a small proportion of the world's population believed in, could not possibly have repeated itself.

The world's press got hold of the story and it caused an international furore. Ironically the multi-millionaire denying the possibility of such a miracle was himself an Irish Catholic, who had earned his fortune as a builder and property developer. The girls' case seemed lost. Fate, however, had another strange twist in store. A well-known comedian by the name of Frank Hawkins jokingly suggested that perhaps, during the eleven-minute gap that had occurred twenty-one years before between the births of the twin sisters, Heaven had got their souls mixed up, and this had resulted in the wrong twin becoming pregnant. His comment was quoted by the twins' counsel and was duly laughed out of court..

The multi-millionaire, however, was so intrigued by Frank Hawkins's maverick theory that he decided, after all, to give the million pounds to the pregnant twin, the canny fellow making it a prior condition that he would be entitled to all publication and serial rights arising from any books, articles or films associated with the case. Needless to say, he became richer than Croesus. The whole point of my story is that it illustrates how the desire for a well-balanced ending is so deeply embedded in human nature that it can bring about quite unexpected results 52; in this particular case the ideal outcome for all concerned.

'I am now going to tell you some other jokes which illustrate how we often prefer illusion to reality.

'A Scotsman on board a small ship was suffering from appendicitis. There was no doctor available and no anaesthetic, so the captain hypnotised him by waving a bottle of whiskey in front of his eyes. A dentist who happened to be on board performed the operation. When it was over, the captain took the bottle of whiskey back to his cabin. The Scotsman immediately went into convulsions of extreme pain. Upset by his cries of agony, the captain returned with the bottle, which the Scotsman promptly drained to the last drop. Asked afterwards by a friend if he had felt any pain during the operation, the Scotsman declared:: "The worst part was when the captain took awa' ma bottle a' whiskey 52; it felt like he'd stuck a knife in ma stomach.'

Susan said: 'We won't bother with the rest of the jokes. But you can see why the BBC refused to broadcast his script. The story about the twins might be taken seriously by some people and could encourage superstitious belief.'

Andrew replied wearily: 'I would say that the BBC was being unnecessarily stuffy. The spirit of a story can sometimes be more important than the facts.'

'Andrew, you sound as though you have been brainwashed.'

'What are we arguing about, for God's sake! This all happened nearly fifty years ago. The world has moved on since then.'

'There are still forces trying to drag us back into the dark ages.'

'Bullshit, Susan. I can understand that type of humour.'

'Frank Hawkins was sick in the head and I'm beginning to think you are as well.'

'Okay, think what you like. I'm going to sleep.'

He turned on his side away from Susan, fell asleep and dreamed that he was wandering about in the strange, unfamiliar world in which his grandmother had lived fifty years before.

24

Berry went on broodingly: 'Frank was capable of being very funny even though he had a fatal tendency to choose the wrong subjects. I saw him once doing an impersonation of Einstein on stage in Birmingham when I was up there on business. He pulled up his trouser legs, and addressing the audience with a German accent, said: 'Zey make fun of me because I don't wear socks. But always I get holes in my socks and my professor's salary is not so big I can afford to buy socks every day. So I tell myself, if I am wearing half a hole and half a sock, why don't I just wear the hole, which doesn't cost anything. People zey make fun of me. Let them make fun! I am zee one who is saving money.

'Now it occurred to me that if zee hole in my left-hand sock starts moving anti-clockwise around the sock in a circular motion there is no motion in relation to the hole in my right-hand sock which is also moving anti-clockwise. Against my heel there is motion, but there is no motion between one side of my ankle and the other side because both sides of the hole in my sock are moving at exactly the same speed. So if something moves relative to my heel but not to my ankle, it proves there can be no such thing as absolute motion.

'From this I have devised an equation: E equals Maceys squared 52; because I always buy my socks from Macey's in New York. But now comes zee interesting part. If I am running at the speed of light, having left my socks behind me on a park bench in Central Park, I can circumnavigate the universe and arrive back before I started. Unhappily, when I start looking for my socks, zey are not zere. For zer very good reason zey have not yet been manufactured. I cannot complain to Maceys because the store has not yet been built. Since they cannot yet supply socks, I now have a perfect justification for not wearing any.'

I remembered Christina's worry about his fanatical obsession with the subject of time. Once again he was allowing his personal proclivities to creep into his script. Not surprisingly some of the audience were confused 52; their notions about the theory of relativity being hazy to say the least. The laughter he evoked was moderate not what you would call wholehearted. I wasn't sorry that he appeared to be losing his touch, because this would improve my chances with Christina. I left the theatre, having decided to do some work for my meeting the following day, convinced that he was on a downward path.

Berry's next pause lasted so long that Andrew almost lost patience. Berry then said haltingly 'I don't know whether I contributed to Frank's downfall. It's always very hard to know the result of one's own actions.'

He looked closely at Andrew, who remained impassive.

Berry then ran his hand over his face and in a measured tone, said: 'If I should die while you're working on my biography, you have my full permission to consult the letters that I bought from your parents and make use of any information they contain. I'm not at all interested in my family's opinion of me after I'm dead, although I have to say we all rubbed along reasonably well until my wife died. Sally was always the uniting force in the family. As for me, well, I'll freely admit I'm a crotchety old devil now. It's too much of an effort to be polite.

'The letters, if you ever read them, will give you some idea of our relationship, which was far from ideal. I'm not sure whether I contributed to Frank's death.. No doubt my respected biographer will form a view on the subject. He flashed a bright smile at Andrew, which seemed like a glimpse of sunshine in a dark, gloomy wood.

Berry went on: 'When Frank ran into difficulties with his career, I offered to help him. Comedians' careers are very unpredictable. You often hear famous entertainers saying how they were reduced to their last few dollars until some unexpected event lifted them up to fame and fortune. There is no doubt that Frank had a considerable talent and a great capacity for establishing a rapport with a live audience. If it hadn't been for his odd choice of subjects I think he would have become one of the great comedians of his age. His success posed an even greater challenge to me to try to prise Christina from him. She was at the time of which I am talking an exemplar of feminine beauty. Her aristocratic background added a touch of extra glamour. No doubt if she had stayed in Italy she would have moved in high social circles. But as a poverty-stricken refugee from a former enemy she was at a disadvantage in this country. Perhaps if I had known what a hard time she had had my attitude towards her might have been different. But I didn't learn about it until I found among those letters from your mother a letter she had written to a friend back in Italy. Christina resigned from her job with my organization after Frank Hawkins died. She told me that she was going abroad. But I learned much later that she had started a new life down in Cornwall.

Anyway, to continue with my story, I wanted to take advantage of the weaknesses that were showing up in Christina's relationship with Frank. Sally and I were about to hire a villa in Tuscany for our annual holiday. I told her that Frank's career had taken a turn for the worse and suggested that we should invite them to spend a week with us while we're down there. I added: 'Christina could teach us a little Italian. The children might even pick up a few words from her as well.'

Sally offered no objections. But when I put the proposition to Christina she refused, saying that she had sworn never to go back to Italy because of a bad wartime experience. In the meantime, Frank suffered more bad luck 52; his contract for a series of seaside summer shows was suddenly cancelled.

I said to Christina: 'How about coming to France instead?'

She replied: 'You can't change your plans just to suit us.'

'I can, you know,' I replied, with a big smile.

Sally agreed and after studying some brochures, we settled on Arcachon, a small seaside town on the Atlantic coast.

25

Andrew's mother rang him at the office and told him that William Berry had died. He enquired sharply: 'Who told you?'

'His son Mathew telephoned.'

'Thanks. I'll ring him later on.'

'Does this mean you won't get the money for writing the biography?'

'I don't know,' he replied irritably.

He asked his boss whether the clause in his contract relating to payment in the event of Berry's death would be legally enforceable.

Browning replied, caustically: 'He was paying you peanuts. Why bother?'

'I don't want to waste the work I've done. And I still want to find out who was my grandfather.'

'I'd say your chances are not good. Incidentally, what happened to that article about the farmer whose GM crops were damaged?'

'I'll go and to see him on Wednesday.'

'Make it today' Browning said, gazing at him coldly.

'Yes, sir.' Andrew gave his boss a half-hearted salute and left his office.

Although he disliked William Berry, Andrew couldn't help having a grudging admiration for the way in which he had clawed his way to financial success. He still clung to the hope that the Berry family would honour the contract. But now it was plain that to complete the final chapters he would have to rely on the last survivor of the group, Alan Green.

He decided to attend Berry's funeral.

* * *

Alan Green commented, when Andrew informed him over the telephone that William Berry had died: 'So the old so-and-so snuffed it.'

'You obviously didn't like him.'

'He was always a schemer. I suspected his motives when he offered a job to your grandmother. The same goes for his offer to help when Frank was ill.'

'Would you elaborate on that?'

'I'll tell you when I see you.'

Andrew made an appointment to see him the following Sunday morning.

*

There seemed to be something different about Green when Andrew met him in the Harvesters's guest room. But he was unable to identify it until Green told him he had undergone laser treatment in California for the myopia that had afflicted him since he was a child. The lenses in his glasses were now much thinner than the ones he had worn previously. He explained: 'My daughter urged me to have it done. When I said: "What's the point of having an operation at my age?" she said: "Live to be a hundred and twenty and you'll enjoy the benefit for forty years." So, now I can see you properly, what do you want to know?'

Andrew went straight to the point: 'Was William Berry intimate with Christina Atoli?'

'Intimate-shmintimate! You mean did they fuck? They use the F-word all the time in California. The answer is: How should I know? What I do know is that after Frank Hawkins was committed to a psychiatric hospital, Berry moved her into a flat in Baker Street. It was supposed to be an incentive for her to stay with the firm. But it was really a bribe so he could get her into his clutches.'

'Were you in love with her?' Andrew enquired, quietly.

Green grimaced and said: 'Shall we say that I thought about her more than was appropriate for a married man.'

'Did you sleep with her?'

Alan Green looked out of the window overlooking the West Pier, and said thoughtfully: 'It used to be said that a man wants his wife to be a chef in the kitchen, a lady in the drawing-room and a whore in bed. Nowadays it's the men who have to be multi-talented. Hazel and I had a few rough patches. I suppose it happens in most marriages. I wondered sometimes, when she was searching for rare pieces of china in the markets in London, if she was also searching for something else. Anyway, if you ask me if I was emotionally involved with the Contessa, then the answer to your question is yes. When I first knew her I was kind to her because she had had a hard time, although I asked her to design our logo for purely commercial reasons 52; she was very gifted artistically. We didn't see all that much of each other but I thought about her a great deal. My wife knew and that's why she made sly remarks whenever the Contessa's name was mentioned. You may ask why did Christina make such an impression on me. She was outstandingly beautiful. Add her aristocratic background, her air of mystery and a generous, caring nature and it made her irresistible. Her loyalty to that idiot Frank Hawkins drove me to distraction. I was also irritated by the fact that she worked for that shifty-eyed William Berry. I often wished I had not told him where she lived, because that led to him offering her a job.

'I shouldn't be telling you all this. We're supposed to garner wisdom in our later years but the follies of our youth haunt us in our old age. She was a lovely woman, God rest her soul!'

Tired of Green's mawkish recollections, Andrew said: 'Okay, you say they use the word all the time in California. Tell me straight out then: did you fuck her?'

'Why is it important for you to know?'

'Because I want to find out if you are my grandfather.'

Green looked shocked for a moment. Then he frowned and said: 'Impossible!'

26

Alan Green refused to elaborate on his statement. He ended the interview, saying it was time for his bridge game. Andrew, watching him shuffle out of the room, thought what the hell does it matter who was my grandfather. They were all hypocrites in those days, endlessly repeating virtuous platitudes but cheating on each other like mad.

Later, however, on his way home, his curiosity returned with greater intensity. Knowing one's grandfather was an important part of one's identity. Green had not given him a satisfactory answer when asked if he had sexual intercourse with his grandmother, even though he had freely admitted to sleeping with his secretary. The three men who might be his grandfather were all deeply flawed. Given the choice he would probably prefer Frank Hawkins to be his grandfather, even though he was generally believed to be a madman.

Susan was away that weekend on holiday in the Dordogne with a girl who worked in her department. Andrew had met her once 52; a slim, myopic girl who might well benefit from the operation old man Green had undergone during his stay in California. She and Susan were working on a television script 52; something to do with the bonding of parents and offspring. Susan assured him the topic was likely to grow in importance as women spent more time at work. She always made it abundantly clear that she didn't want children.

When he arrived home, Andrew pulled up outside the house which had once belonged to his grandmother and examined it with a critical eye. It was a modest, stone-built three-bedroom semi-detached dwelling. The paintings inside which had been executed by his grandmother formed so much a part of his familiar landscape that he had never really noticed them. He resolved to inspect them more closely when he had spare time, to see if they provided a clue to her character.

He drove the car into the short drive leading towards the garage and as he let himself in through the front-door, a stained-glass panel in the door threw a pattern of coloured light onto the black and white tiled floor of the hall. Opening the door to the sitting-room, he found his mother patiently stitching a petit-point tapestry.

'You're home early,' she remarked, looking up.

'Yes. It's a pity you sold those letters. They might have enabled me to find out more about my grandmother. I don't suppose you can recall anything about them.'

'I only glanced at them. My mother never spoke about her past. Was Alan Green able to help you?'

'He was very evasive. If he had a relationship with your mother, you'd think after all these years he would be prepared to be open about it.'

'Perhaps he doesn't want his wife to know.'

'His wife is dead.'

His mother bent over her work and sewed a few more stitches.

Then she looked up and asked: 'Are you hungry?'

'No, I stopped at a service station on the way back and had hamburger and chips.'

'You shouldn't eat junk food.'

Any food is good when you're hungry.'

'You haven't seen Susan lately.'

'She and a colleague in her television company have gone away together to work on a joint project.'

His mother bent her head over the canvas again.

Andrew said: 'Tell me more about my grandmother.'

'What do you want to know?'

'Did she have any men friends when you were a child?'

'Only what you might call business acquaintances.'

'What sort of business was she in?'

'We lived in Cornwall near a small village called St. Ives. My mother had a shop where she sold artist's materials. She also did picture framing. There was a colony of artists in the vicinity and she supplied them with goods. She had tried to make a living selling her own paintings but couldn't make ends meet, so she opened the shop, using her savings.'

'Did she ever talk about the man she lived with for some time, a man called Frank Hawkins?'

'Not that I remember.'

'Did she ever mention either William Berry or Alan Green?'

'No.'

'How old was I when your mother died?'

'Seven, I think.'

'I don't remember the funeral.'

'Your father and I sent you to stay with his sister in Kent, so that you wouldn't be upset.'

'I can hardly remember my grandmother. I have a vague vision of a plump, grey-haired lady, who used to hug me before I went up to bed.'

'She was very fond of you.'

'How old was she when she died?'

'About seventy I think.'

Andrew made no comment. His mother was notoriously bad at arithmetic. In fact, she was not very bright, which was surprising when her own mother, by all accounts, had been a brilliant woman. Frances Atoli had married the village postman. They had both made sacrifices to give their only child the best education they could afford. As a reporter with a country newspaper he was a brilliant success in his mother's eyes. Not so, unfortunately, in Susan's, although she had been slightly less critical since he had started to work on the biography.

'William Berry bought those letters when he attended Grandmother's funeral How did he know Grandmother had died?'

'He may have seen it in the newspaper. She asked us just before she died to put a brief announcement in the London Times and in a Rome newspaper.'

'Did she ever mention Alan Green.'

'I don't think so.'

Andrew decided to cross-examine Alan Green even more closely about his relationship with his grandmother during their next interview

27

William Berry's funeral took place in St Margaret's church, Eastbourne on a windy day in late October. The wind lashed Andrew's head as he stood hat in hand at the graveside. Touching his head, he realised with horror that his hair was thinning. He was only twenty-four 52; his father had a good head of hair until the day he died. Alan Green was bald. Perhaps that proved he was his grandfather. Andrew smiled at the thought.

Afterwards, he followed a string of cars to the late William Berry's house. Sandwiches, glasses of sherry and canapés were laid out on tables set up in the sitting-room. Andrew watched the crowd jostling around. He took a cup of coffee from a waiter. Some of the guests wore dark suits; others more informally clad he guessed were journalists and photographers employed by Berry's publishing company. He asked a man wearing a black leather jacket to identify Mathew. He pointed to a tall, gaunt-faced man with a head of tight grey curls, who faintly resembled William Berry.

'And that's his wife,' the man added, pointing to a tall woman with an imperious profile who was talking to Nurse Windsor.

Andrew waited until they ended their conversation. He then approached Mercedes Berry and said: 'I should like to offer my condolences. I'm Andrew Hallowell, the journalist he commissioned to write his biography.'

She replied coldly: 'Thank you for coming to his funeral. However, we have decided that the biography is a complete waste of money and we shall no longer need your services.'

She moved towards her husband and whispered something to him. He looked grimly at Andrew, making him feel unwelcome. The heirs to the estate obviously considered that his contract with William Berry was invalid. His months of hard work appeared to have been in vain.

Andrew left his empty cup on a side-table and went out into the corridor, feeling resentful of the Berry's attitude. Then remembering that the letters Berry had spoken about recently might be important if he decided to complete the biography, he decided to look for them and ran up a flight of stairs leading to the bedrooms. The risk of being caught was well worth taking.

There were doors on the landing on either side of the staircase. He examined wardrobes and chests-of-drawers in three bedrooms without success. Going to the other side of the staircase, he entered another bedroom and was surprised to find a young woman bending down over a large trunk. He blurted out: 'Sorry! Just wondered what it was like up here. I'm a journalist 52; a friend of the late Mr. Berry.'

The girl looked up in surprise and said: 'Mrs. Berry asked me to clear up this room. Her father-in-law kept copies of his magazines up here.'

There were dozens of magazines spread out on the carpeted floor. The walls were decorated with magazine covers. The girl was pretty, with short, wavy fair hair and a slender figure enclosed in blue jeans and a light grey sweater.

He said: 'Did you ever meet William Berry? I'm Andrew Hallowell, by the way.'

'I'm Alison Wandar,' the girl replied 52; Please don't call me Alice in Wondarland 52; my parents' sense of humour almost ruined my life. No, I never met William Berry. I've only just joined the company. He was something of a tyrant, I believe. We've recently joined up with a firm of Belgian publishers.'

'And what exactly is your job?' Andrew enquired.

'I'm just a dogsbody at the moment. But I have a degree in French and Italian. Most of the magazine article translations are being done in Brussels. But I suppose they will eventually find some use for my language skills.'

Andrew said: 'Actually, I came up here to look for some correspondence that passed between William Berry and a former Italian countess.'

Alison pointed to a tea chest and said: 'There are some parcels in that box. Mrs. Willoughby told me to clear out the room completely and throw everything away other than magazines less than two years old.'

Andrew walked over to the tea chest Alison had indicated and found under a pile of discarded magazines a buff-coloured parcel wrapped around with string marked: "Private correspondence. Not to be opened until after my death." It was signed William Berry.

Andrew showed Alison the parcel.

She looked alarmed and exclaimed: 'Gosh! When you give it to them, please don't tell them that I nearly threw it away.'

Andrew then told her of his recent conversation with Mrs. Berry and explained that his work on the biography would be entirely wasted if the family failed to honour the dead man's wishes.

Alison looked unimpressed.

But she listened intently when he added that the woman to whom Berry's letters had been addressed was his own grandmother. 'So you see these letters belong as much to my family as to the Berry family. And, what is more, I desperately need them to finish the job the late Mr. Berry asked me to do.'

'But suppose they found out I'd given the letters to you.'

'I solemnly promise that before the book is published, I'll ring you up and we'll discuss the matter over lunch. I'd love to take you out, anyway. How about it?'

Alison smiled.

He kissed her gratefully on the cheek and made a dash for the front-door, keeping the parcel hidden under his jacket. He joined some visitors who were just leaving and walked out of William Berry's house for the last time.

On reaching his car, he placed the parcel on the passenger seat and cut the string with a penknife. The first letter he opened was addressed to Christina and contained a reference to Alan Green and his family being invited to call in on the Berrys when they were on holiday. It was signed: Yours sincerely, William.

28

Driving from the house, with the parcel of letters lying on the passenger seat beside him, Andrew called up Alan Green on his mobile and was agreeably surprised when he consented to see him that afternoon.

He stopped at a pub just outside Brighton for a coffee and a sandwich. The brief encounter with Alison Wandar had left a pleasant impression on his mind. He decided to find an excuse to see her again as soon as possible.

Alan Green greeted him cordially when he arrived at the Harvesters' Retirement Home. Andrew put a new tape in the tape-recorder and sitting opposite to him, said: 'Mr. Green, it seems that you were quite overwhelmed simply because you found a bottle with the name Christina inside it. Did you ever sleep with her?'

Alan Green replied haughtily: 'You young folk don't seem to understand that it is perfectly possible for two people to be friendly without putting their genitalia together. Call me Alan. It makes me feel younger. Anyway, have you considered the possibility that the lady in question did not reciprocate my feelings?'

'I just asked if you had slept with her?'

'The answer is no.'

'There was no physical relationship?'

Alan Green looked uncomfortable.

'I didn't say that. Something happened. Something I am not very proud of.'

'You don't want to talk about it?'

'No.'

'You called in on the Berrys in Arcachon, when you were on your way down to the South of France.'

'How did you know that?'

'It was mentioned in some letters written by William Berry to my grandmother.'

'Really? Where did you find the letters?'

'It doesn't matter.'

'I can't recall ever writing to her. Do right unto all men and don't write to any woman was the advice an uncle once gave me. Were they very informative?'

'I haven't read them all yet ...Mr. Green 52; Alan 52; what was there about my grandmother that fascinated you and your friends?'

'Let me see ... She wasn't pushy like some modern women. She kept her own counsel. She was tender and compassionate. She had great style and painted wonderful portraits. And she had a face like a Boticelli angel. Her legs were beautiful. Her figure was on the full side 52; I doubt if she would get a look in today in that regard. Her eyes were sort of blueish-violet. They varied according to the light. Very expressive. And yet, when I come to think of it, they were sad. Very sad. She suffered a lot.'

'Because of her partner?'

'Partly. She should have left Frank Hawkins when he went to America. But he bounced back into her life 52; taking it for granted that she would clean his bib, blow his nose, and cosset him for the rest of his life. In the end she was keeping him on her salary as an arts editor. He used to spend his mornings in the British Library reading about his favourite subjects, psychology, relativity and quantum physics. He usually got very drunk in the afternoon. Occasionally, he earned money telling jokes in pubs. A girl went around collecting coins in a tankard when he had finished his act. The publicans sometimes gave him free drinks. A friend of mine once told me about an occasion when he was in a pub in Soho and the drinkers were rolling around with merriment as a tall man told jokes about Surrealism and science fiction.

'I responded: 'That sounds like Frank Hawkins'

'One of his jokes was about Salvador Dali's famous painting of limp watches. Frank pointed towards a print of the picture on the pub wall and said: "Listen to this." As the audience strained their ears, Frank whispered: "Tick-tock, Dick-Cock, Dick-Cock, Dick-Cock. Salvador Dali painted those floppy watches when his cock was down and his time was up." He went on to tell some weird stories about time travel. The audience were engulfed in laughter. But if I'm giving the impression that Frank was just a mindless drunk I am doing him an injustice. Christina wouldn't have stuck by him if that were the case. She was an intelligent woman. When it comes to the question of the bottle I found on the beach, I remember it led to an argument.'

'What was it about?'

'I had better explain. We all ended up together in France. It came about when Hazel decided she wanted portraits painted of our two children. I telephoned Christina and asked if she would accept the commission. We haggled. That is to say she asked too little and I offered too much. We ended up splitting the difference. She told me she wouldn't be able to start the sittings for a while because she and Frank had been invited to take a holiday with Sally and William Berry and their children at a villa in Arcachon. It so happened that same fortnight I was taking the family for a holiday in the South of France, so I telephoned Sally and asked if it was convenient for us to call in on the way. She invited us to stay with them for a couple of days. The argument about the bottle occurred while we were down there.'

'But you knew the message in the bottle wasn't from Christina.'

'You're missing the point. I had told her about it in order to let her know that I still had a soft spot for her. I didn't think it would do any harm. But I'm getting ahead of myself ...

'Hazel liked the idea of calling in on the Berrys. She never really took seriously the idea that Christina and I might be having an affair. She pretended to be jealous simply to flatter me. I was never very good-looking. Many years later, though, as we walked along the promenade at Brighton, she told me: "It wouldn't have worried me if you had had other women. I knew that you loved all of us 52; by which she meant the family 52; too much ever to break it up." She was absolutely right. Robbie Burns said: "I wish the power the gods would gie us to see ourselves as others see us." A man gains that power when he marries and sees himself through a woman's eyes.

'Our children, Gloria and Daniel, were very excited at the prospect of staying with the Berrys. They were about the same age as the Berry's boys, Mathew and Alistair, who were respectively six and four. In those days the roads were practically empty. My car, a Silver Wraith, purred along when we left Calais. It was perfect for such a journey, although it had a terrible thirst for petrol.

After exploring the environs of Arcachon we managed to find the villa William Berry had rented. It had seven bedrooms, stood on an acre of land surrounded by pines trees and had its own private path to the beach. A wonderful place for a family holiday. I think we enjoyed our two days there more than our stay in Cannes, which turned out to be pretty ghastly. I had set my heart on seeing how the rich lived. I thought I would be able to strut and posture in the South of France with the best of them, but I soon found otherwise. Even though I had plenty of francs stashed away under the back seat 52; foreign exchange was still rationed 52; I wasn't in the same financial league as most of the people I met down there. I vowed that one day I would equal their wealth and I suppose I eventually succeeded.

Mathew and Alastair rushed down the garden path when we arrived and clung to the driver's door while the car was still moving. William and Sally came out of the front-door and greeted us warmly. It was a sunny day. A balmy breeze helped to cool us down, as I unloaded the luggage. Staggering up the path with a heavy suitcase, I saw Frank and Christina coming back from the beach. She was wearing a one-piece bathing suit and moved as gracefully as a ballerina. She waved to us from the shadow of the trees through which they were walking. I dropped the suitcase and looked at her goggle-eyed.

Hazel said in a hectoring tone: 'Don't look at her like that!' But she was only pretending to be angry. She once said when she saw me looking at a pretty girl: 'She can have your admiring glances 52; I'll have your prick. It shocked me. It was rare for a woman to use a word like that in those days.

Sally said briskly, in a schoolmarm fashion: 'Come along all of you. Let's go and find your quarters.'

We were taken up to a very pleasant shady room with a large dormer window overlooking trees with the dark blue sea beyond. The kids were given a room next to ours. It was the perfect set-up for a holiday. The bathroom facilities were a trifle primitive. Rusty taps let water into an old-fashioned tub standing on four claw legs. But it would have taken more than that to dampen our enthusiasm. After splashing water over ourselves from the china hand-basin on the dressing-table, we went downstairs.

William and Frank were sitting in a conservatory that led off from the dining-room. An ancient vine straddled the roof, dangling bunches of grapes over the windows. The interior walls were lined with tubs containing bougainvillea. and hibuscus plants. William poured out glasses of excellent French beer. Sally was helping the French housekeeper to prepare the meal. Hazel joined her.

'Frank was looking vacantly into the distance.

'I said jocularly: 'Any good jokes, Frank?'

'He looked startled and then said: 'God has just played a joke on me. But I suppose one must accept whatever that great Humourist in the Sky offers.'

'You think God is a humourist?'

'He is the greatest in all things, so by definition he must also be a great joker.'

'You're pretty good yourself, Frank,' I said, feeling slightly uncomfortable, because I was aware that his career wasn't going well.

William said: 'You really think God plays jokes on us?'

Frank replied. 'He has certainly played one on me.'

William said pleasantly, flourishing an unlit cigar: 'Stop worrying, Frank. Public taste has always been fickle. You'll soon make a comeback.'

Frank lit a cigarette with a disgruntled expression. I noticed that his fingers were stained with nicotine. 'The BBC took against me simply because I made up a story which went against the spirit of the age. They treated me as if I'm some sort of dangerous heretic.'

'There's plenty of other work besides broadcasting.'

'They've turned other people against me as well.'

William gave me a meaningful look.

I reminded Frank of the occasion when he had performed at the Metropole and added: 'You topped the bill on that occasion.'

Frank's face brightened. And then his expression changed and he said: 'Do you remember in the restaurant we discussed Christina's experience in the church in Rome. Christina refuses to accept that it was a minor miracle.'

I said: 'I don't blame her. Nature's laws are never broken.'

'And yet it seems you regarded finding a bottle with Christina's name as something of a miracle.'

I had assumed that Christina would keep the foolish remark I had made about it to herself. I shrugged and replied: 'That was just a figure of speech 52; it was a coincidence, not necessarily a miracle.'

'So why bother to tell Christina about it?'

'As I said, because it struck me at the time as a remarkable coincidence.'

Hazel's appearance at that moment saved me from further embarrassment. She was closely followed by Sally. Loud shrieks were coming meanwhile from the children playing on the lawn outside.

Hazel, wearing white shorts and a lemon-coloured blouse that emphasized her large breasts, said breathlessly: 'Sally has organised our stay here like a Butlin's holiday camp, making sure we're busy from morn till night.'

Sally smiled and said: 'We mustn't waste any time. We hardly ever see each other. And we have always been such good friends since we met after the war.'

We reminisced for a while about the Anchor hotel and Mrs. Parkin's predilection for high achievers.

Christina came in, looking a little flushed, her hair slightly awry, her green dress held together at the sides by loops through which tiny sections of flesh were visible.

'Hazel asked her: 'When do you think you will be able to do portraits of Gloria and Daniel?'

'In September, if William doesn't load me with extra work. But I could make some preliminary sketches while you're down here.'

In my imagination the loops holding together Christina's dress disintegrated, exposing her magnificent torso. My lustful thoughts were interrupted by Frank, who stood up and shouted playfully: 'Who's for tennis!' He ran outside through the open door of the conservatory, grabbed a plastic racquet from Daniel and went into the tennis-playing routine we had seen him perform in the theatre. The children loved it. They laughed and threw tennis balls at him, as he pranced around pretending to be on the centre court at Wimbledon.

William eyed me in a peculiar fashion. he had obviously noticed my preoccupied expression. I had been thinking: why is Christina harnessed to that buffoon, Frank, while I'm tied to lumpish Hazel? Which was totally unfair. It was not her fault that she lacked the soft curves and the flawless features of the incomparable Contessa. I wondered how Frank had managed to capture her affections so quickly when she first appeared at the Anchor hotel. I looked outside and the answer was apparent. Acting the inspired fool came as naturally to him as music came to Puccini.

29

The trouble with with old people, Andrew thought impatiently, as Alan Green closed his heavily-lidded his eyes, is that they die leaving unfinished business. If Alan Green was dead 52; and he certainly looked it at the moment 52; that would end his hopes of finishing the biography.

'Alan,' he said loudly.

'Yes, what's the matter?'

'You look as though you're falling asleep.'

'Nonsense. I never nap in the afternoon. I usually play bridge. But one of my bridge partners died yesterday. That's why I was able to accede to your request for an interview at such short notice.'

'Sorry to hear that. Now what happened next?'

'Ah, yes. Where were we? 52; Arcachon. What a delightful place! We spent two magical days there. Playing with the kids helped Frank recover his spirits. Later that morning we walked into town to buy some ingredients for the housekeeper's speciality dessert, creme caramel. Hazel gave strict instructions that the children should be barred from the beach in our absence. As a precautionary measure William locked the garden gate. The housekeeper's husband, a Pole incidentally, had been killed flying with the Royal Air Force during the war. She and William Berry seemed to have a special rapport because of that.

'I'm digressing again. On the way back from town, Hazel and Sally were earnestly discussing French cuisine. Frank and William were talking about the havoc that the German battleship, the Bismark, had wreaked on Allied shipping until it was put out of action. Christina told me that Frank had narrowly missed being aboard the battleship Hood when it was sunk by the Bismark 52; a sudden change of posting almost certainly saved his life. He called it his own personal miracle.

I replied: 'He was very lucky.'

'He has never forgotten that it was a death sentence for the person who replaced him. Frank takes life very seriously.'

'Surprising, really, isn't it,' I commented, 'considering that he earns his living making people laugh.'

'Frank is always aware of the delicate balance in life between comedy and tragedy. It plays on his mind a great deal. I worry about him.'

'He seemed all right this morning, when he was larking around with the kids. They simply loved it.'

'He forgets his troubles for a while. But his depression keeps coming back. He hates being out of work.'

'He must have earned very good money.'

'Income tax hit him very hard, so he hasn't saved very much. It is not the money, it's his mental state that worries me. He is on tranquilisers.'

'It must affect your life.'

'Of course. I never know where I am with him. He has these sudden enthusiasms which flair up and just as suddenly go away. He has some kind of weird theory about miracles at the moment. He hates the BBC because he insist that they misinterpreted his script.'

I murmured: 'Talking of miracles, it really did seem like a miracle when I found your name in the bottle. At this very moment, being with you I feel more alive than I have ever been before in my life.'

Christina did not reply. It seemed that what I had just said was unwelcome. The others were disappearing ahead round a bend in the narrow road. Our walking pace slowed even further.

She said: 'I feel I have to tell somebody. Frank's madness is dragging me into his own private world. He insists that I should believe in miracles as well.'

'I reminded him this morning about that time the Germans had demanded the painting in Rome.'

'Yes. I did humour him at first by agreeing that it was a miracle. He gets angry now when I deny it. He is becoming increasingly irrational. I don't know what to do.'

'Do you love him?'

As I said it, I took her hand to steer her around a fallen branch. She did not reply, so I repeated my question.

Letting go of my hand, she said: 'Whatever happens I don't intend to leave him.'

Frank, when I first knew him, had been a rationalist. Now, he gave the impression that his belief in the objectivity of science was weakening. And it was affecting his career. His Letter from Insanity had introduced a controversial note into what should have been a humorous program.

I said: 'There is another piece of advice you should give him. He shouldn't make those jokes about time. It's far too serious a subject to joke about.'

Christina nodded agreement.

I said enthusiastically: 'Anyway, it's wonderful that we're together again. My heart nearly burst with excitement when I found your name inside that bottle. It made me realise that I had always loved you.'

Christina said, impatiently: 'Don't be ridiculous, Alan. It was from someone else. Come on 52; we must catch up with the others. They'll be wondering what's happened to us.'

Christina ran on ahead, obviously trying to distance herself from my ill-judged declaration. By the time we had rejoined the others, I was panting heavily.

Frank had just started telling a joke about a hotel in Limbo, where everyone waits before they can enter Heaven. The manager of the hotel was mystified when, in spite of an earthquake which killed hundreds of thousands of people, he was assured that there would be no room shortage. He rang up Heaven and God explained to him very patiently that in Limbo hotels there is always an infinite number of rooms.

'Yes,' the manager replied: 'But supposing the earthquake had killed an infinite number of people Plus One Other Person, what would we do then?'

'I shall have to ask my tame mathematician,' God replied.

'How long will it take him to work out a solution?' the hotel manager asked.

God ruminated for a while and said: 'About an eternity.'

'So in the meantime what do we do with the One Other Person?'

'Don't worry. Just put him up in the broom cupboard.'

30

Mrs. Bronski served lobster thermidor followed by a delectable creme caramel for lunch. Berry, treated us to a lecture on the history of the wine as he poured a vintage Chablis. He told us that he had recently laid down a stock of wines as an investment. We were all suitably impressed. My spirits, however, remained subdued because Christina had ignored my romantic declaration.

William, by contrast, was in an ebullient mood. Marriage and success in business had mellowed him. When I first met him he had been shy, gauche and ill at ease. Now he was full of confidence. His late father-in-law had been right in guessing that someone who piloted a wartime bomber would not lack courage and resourcefulness.

I asked him if he ever contributed articles to his magazines. He laughed, poured himself out another brandy, and said: 'No, I have taken the advice of the editor of one of our rags called Mental Health. He says writing is for the neurotic, living is for the healthy.'

Sally remarked: 'I loved those amazing stories you used to tell me.'

'Yes, sweetheart,' he replied, solemnly: 'And you swallowed them all hook, line and sinker.'

Sally looked round the table and enquired: 'Why do men become so cynical after they're married?'

'My husband is still the same old romantic innocent,' Hazel said, grinning at me mischievously. We were childhood sweethearts. We used to snog under the West Pier at Brighton.'

'Really!' Sally commented. 'How lovely!'

'I was never allowed to touch her below the chin,' I said with a self-deprecating grin.

'What does snog mean?' Gloria, enquired. The question came from an adjoining card table, draped with a white cloth, where she and the other children were sitting.

'Smooch, darling,' Sally said soothingly. 'Having a kiss and cuddle.'

Frank interjected with a gloomy expression: 'I'm not cynical. Only successful people can afford to be cynical.'

'You're the most successful of all of us,' I remarked. 'Making millions of people laugh is the acme of success. It's a God-given gift.'

'I've been kicked around by the BBC.'

'You're still my favourite comedian,' Hazel said, gently. 'I just loved that joke you told this morning. How do they come to you?'

'Usually when I'm in bed.'

William, gesturing with his cigar at Christina, said: 'I only think of sex when I'm in bed.'

Sally gave him a warning glance and muttered: 'Mind the children.'

William shrugged and re-lit his cigar. He reached for a box of Havana cigars which were on an adjoining sideboard and offered them around the table. Frank and I declined. Frank handed round a packet of Senior Service cigarettes. I had been trying to persuade Hazel to give up smoking, but she took one, leaned forward to allow Frank to light it, and inhaled deeply, staring at me defiantly.

I ignored her. I was fuming over William's disrespectful attitude towards Christina. In fact, I don't think she had noticed because her attention had been concentrated on a large seagull pecking at a crust of bread on the lawn.

Suddenly Frank enquired: 'How many people are there around this table who have found a bottle on the beach.'

I became instantly alert.

'There are plenty on our beach at Eastbourne 52; mostly Coca-Cola bottles,' William said, fixing him with his slightly out-of-focus stare.

'When did you notice that there was a message inside the bottle you found, Alan?' Frank enquired.

'As soon as I picked it up.'

'You found it remarkable, then, that it was signed Christina?' Frank enquired, innocently..

'Throwing bottles overboard with messages inside them is probably a favourite pastime with bored passengers on cruise liners,' William interjected, suppressing a yawn.

Frank persisted: 'Still, finding Christina's name in the bottle apparently made quite an impression on Alan.'

'Christina is a common enough name,' Hazel remarked, lazily expelling smoke through her nostrils.

Completely unaware of the rising tension, Christina continued gazing at the seagull until it flapped its wings and flew away over the tops of the pine trees.

'Answer me this, Hazel,' Frank went on remorselessly: 'If it was so unremarkable, why did Alan bother to tell Christina about it?'

Hazel shrugged. 'I don't know. Ask Alan?'

Frank looked at me questioningly.

A childish voice came from the adjoining card table: 'Why did you, Daddy?'

'Why did I what?'

'Do whatever Uncle Frank asked you.'

I smiled at Hazel and said: 'It's obvious isn't it. Because it was such a fantastic coincidence.'

'Supposing Hazel's name had been in the bottle,' Frank said, with a quizzical expression, would you have brought it home?'

'Of course.'

'Or Betty or Polly 52; would you have bothered?'

'No. In that case the names would have had no significance whatsoever.'

'But Christina's name had some significance for you.'

'Of course.'

'Because you are holding a torch for her?'

'Its only significance was that it was such an amazing coincidence.'

Frank said with a deadpan face: 'So there you are. At least we have one person prepared to admit that it was a coincidence, even if he does so to disguise his hidden passion for my girl friend.'

I protested: 'You're twisting things, Frank. I have never looked at Christina in that way.'

'Aha,' Frank said darkly. 'But has she looked at you?'

'You're getting paranoid, Frank.'

Frank laughed, lit a cigarette and said between puffs of smoke: 'It's okay, Alan. Just testing you out.'

Christina gave Frank an angry look. A suspicion arose in my mind that she had told Frank about my declaration that morning. Then I remembered that Frank had once made a similar accusation against William and guessed he might be suffering from mental illness. My suspicions were confirmed by events later in the day.

* * *

After lunch, I sat watching as Christina made a preliminary sketch of Daniel in the garden. He kept fidgeting, so Christina told him a story about a boy who owned a bird that flew round the world, bringing him every treasure he could wish for. When his toy box was full, the boy's mother told him that it would only be fair if he performed a similar errand for the bird. He asked the bird what was the thing she would like most. She requested an egg. The boy searched world-wide but couldn't find one. He came home from his travels empty-handed and offered his box of toys to the bird as compensation. But the bird refused to accept it, saying that all the toys in the world would be no substitute for the one small egg she craved.

Daniel sat quietly, listening to the story, as Christina, with deft strokes of her charcoal pencil produced an extraordinary likeness.

Hazel and Sally were sitting by my side, discussing the latest fashion in clothes. Frank, in his swimming trunks, was sitting in the lotus position listening to William as he described how his magazines needed to be constantly adjusted to keep up with the ever-changing tastes of the British public. His yachting magazine was doing well, but another periodical devoted to power boats was in danger of being shut down. An illustrated nudist magazine was having extraordinary success at the same time as nudist camps were losing customers.

'Draw your own conclusions from that,' he said to Frank.

Frank was looking gloomy. I tried to imagine how he felt with his career in ruins. My own business was doing well. But it would not survive without constant vigilance and hard work. There was powerful competition both from home and abroad. Constant reminders and frequent prodding were needed to keep our research and development department acquainted with the latest technical advances, our production lines running efficiently, and our sales department on track for meeting its targets. The essential difference between myself and Frank was that whereas I headed a large team which could function at all times, Frank was an individual relying solely on his personal ability to transmute ordinary events of life into the stuff of comedy. Once he became ill and his imagination dried up, his career was finished. And Christina would surely suffer as a result.

Outwardly he looked fit enough 52; his lanky frame was very muscular. He still had a good head of slightly wavy dark brown hair and, apart from furrows in his lean, tanned face, still looked young. It occurred to me that he was too clever for his own good and his mind was buckling under the strain. The truth of this was dramatically illustrated by what happened some minutes later.

I lay back, gazing up at the blue sky in which a few clouds had just appeared. A bee buzzed just above my head. Rolling up a copy of Le Figaro that lay next to me, I slashed at it wildly. Frank cautioned: 'Don't make it angry. It's just trying to pollinate you.'

I exclaimed: 'To hell with that!'

It buzzed again loudly in my ear.

Frank sang mockingly the song composed by another well-known comedian of that era, Arthur Askey: 'Buzz, buzz, busy bee, busy bee. Buzz, if you like but don't sting me --' .

I flicked at the bee and by some lucky chance caught it with my index finger. It fell and lay dead on the grass by my feet.

I was astonished.

I was even more astonished when Frank raged at me: 'You brutal bastard. It wasn't doing you any harm. A bee has as much right to live as you have.'

'Go and tell the Bee Protection Society,' I said sarcastically, rubbing my right ear to silence the memory of its buzzing. 'It was a chance in a million that I caught it like that.

Frank's face screwed up childishly and he began to sob.

I looked at him in sheer amazement and said: 'Frank, what's up with you? It was only a damned bee.'

'You kill me when you kill innocent creatures.'

'Don't talk rubbish, Frank. You must be sick.'

And of course he was.

Christina came over, put her arms round Frank's shoulders and said tenderly: 'Darling, you forgot to take your medicine this morning.'

He stood up, gazed at her in wide-eyed wonderment and said: 'Did I? Silly man, aren't I.'

He then said to me: 'It's okay, Alan. I give you absolution for committing bee-i-cide,'and strolled back into the house with his arm around Christina.

Daniel, assuming that his ordeal was over, came over to me and asked: 'Can I go down to the beach now, Daddy?'

I said: 'Sure. You were very patient. I'll buy you an ice cream.'

'Une glace,' he corrected me, having just been taught that word by one of William's children.

'Yes, of course. What flavour would you like?'

Our subsequent game of beach cricket attracted the amused interest of the mainly French holiday-makers.

Killing a bee with a flick of the finger would probably qualify for the Guinness Book of Records. What happened later that afternoon was even more extraordinary. You must have formed a mental picture of me, Andrew. I am a normal man with plenty of flaws like the rest of humanity. I used to give a favourable view of how much money I was making for the benefit of shareholders and strove to do precisely the opposite for the Inland Revenue. I don't need to tell you that having a lot of money carries with it a great deal of temptation. Not having the looks that drive women wild, or that other equally important attribute, charm, it was undoubtedly the sheer power of money that persuaded my secretary to go to bed with me. We had a good time until she went to New Zealand to join her mother and brother. I paid her and her husband's fare and was very glad to get rid of an unnecessary complication in my life. The whole episode was sleazy but very flattering to the ego. To tell the truth, when I look back, I realise that Hazel was a much better lover than Barbara. Perhaps it was because Hazel didn't take sex at all seriously that she was so good at it. The episode with my secretary was a kind of reward I gave to myself for becoming a tycoon. To have a more romantic dream fulfilled was too much to hope for.

Frank, it seemed, was very close to the edge of a nervous breakdown. I was relieved that we were due to leave the next day. I didn't want my children to witness such an alarming event.

* * *

I went through the garden gate to where a group of bathers were splashing around at the water's edge. Frank, by now apparently recovered, was playing with the children again. Christina suddenly appeared by my side, clad in a black bathing suit and matching cap, resembling some siren from the days of silent films. She whispered conspiratorially: 'How about a swim, Alan?'

I had been a keen swimmer in my youth, bathing regularly from Brighton beach during the months May to November, so I responded eagerly: 'Great idea. I'll change into my togs.'

As I ran back to the house, I heard her shout: 'See you back here.'

I came back, wearing a pair of tartan swim shorts that Hazel had bought for me in preparation for our holiday. Christine was paddling in the white surf at the water's edge.

Incidentally, Hazel and I had been involved a protracted and acrimonious debate about where we should take our holiday. Hazel wanted to go to Scotland. She had some fanciful idea that she would do some fly fishing and proposed that we should stay at a hotel which combined a championship golf course with local fishing rights. Her suggestion was that one day I would play golf and the next day she would go salmon fishing, taking it in turn to look after the children 52; this was necessary because someone had "poached" our nanny. I had pointed out to her that the fishing skills she had acquired during a week's holiday with an angling uncle ten years previously were insufficient to guarantee that she would enjoy the experience again. Furthermore, my embryonic golfing wouldn't be able to cope with a championship golf course. Eventually, we agreed that for young children the seaside is the best place.

To tell the truth I was fascinated by the thought of visiting the millionaire's playground called the Cote d'Azure. I was not far short of being a millionaire myself. What was the point of working so hard, I thought, if I could not meet other millionaires on an equal footing. I soon discovered, when we arrived there that most of the people we met were much richer than I was. But that is another story which has very little to do with what happened next.

'Are you a good swimmer?' Christina asked as we entered the water.

'Good for ten miles at least,' I replied, plunging forward and swallowing sea water in the process. Trying to suppress my spluttering, I set off towards the horizon in a powerful crawl, expecting to gain a commanding lead. But when I looked round, Christina was only a few yards behind me swimming an elegant side-stroke.

I slowed down, waiting for her to catch up.

Wisps of cloud overhead occasionally parted, allowing the sun to shine down on my balding head. Sails on a small boat a hundred yards further out to sea were collapsing, as it turned into wind. A narrow spit of land on our right separated us from a small sandy bay that had escaped the attention of the developers and was little used by holiday makers. As Christina drew alongside me, I said: 'I'm used to deep-water swimming. We can go back if you like.'

Christina shook her head and smiled.

'No, I love it out here. I used to swim for miles in the Bay of Naples. It is wonderful getting away from everybody.'

If she meant getting away from Frank, I was prepared to swim another million miles.

I said: 'Are you finding it heavy going staying with the Berrys?'

'No. William is all right. He's really just a shy little boy with a brash exterior. It's Frank who's the problem.'

We were still swimming out to sea.

I swam more slowly, to allow her to catch up again, thinking that it would be heavenly to swim for ever with two mistresses 52; the ocean with its endless, rolling billows and Christina with her equally enchanting curves.

I said, changing to breaststroke: 'Frank looks to be physically in good shape. By the way, did you repeat to him what I told you this morning?'

'That would have been very indiscreet, don't you think?'

'Then it was just a coincidence that he raised the subject of my finding your name in the bottle?'

'Frank says coincidences exist only in the mind.'

'Surely he doesn't really suspect we're having an affair?'

'No, it's a kind of displacement activity. He makes problems for himself to escape from his inner tensions. It's the only way his life can be made bearable at the moment.'

The sea was becoming rougher. I changed course and we swam parallel to the shore towards the other bay. The sun vanished at that moment and the clouds above coalesced into a uniform grey sheet.

I said: 'You must make sure Frank doesn't come to any harm. Living in a dream world can be dangerous.'

'He believes everything we experience is just illusion.'

'That's rubbish. if I touched you, we'd both feel it.'

'Why don't you?'

Unable to believe my ears, I remarked: 'We always seem to meet in the water. Do you remember that time on the Thames at Maidenhead?'

She ducked under the water for a moment and her face was tense when she re-emerged and said: 'Yes, of course I remember.'

'You told me later on that you had had a miscarriage.'

'Why remind me!'

''I'm very sorry. I shouldn't have. But I'm sure you'll have children one day. You're both quite young.'

'No. Time is running out for both of us.'

She drew ahead of me and I put on speed to catch up.

I said: 'It was unforgivable the way William motioned at you with his cigar during lunch.'

'Did he? I didn't notice.'

'He said he only thinks about sex when he is in bed.'

'Men who boast like that are usually not very successful in that area.'

'You're very tolerant.'

'One has to be 52; life is difficult for everybody.'

'Did he ever make a pass at you?'

'Who doesn't make a pass at me!'

She smiled a teasing Mona Lisa smile.

'I haven't,' I said stoutly.'

'So what were you doing when we were out walking this morning?'

'That was an old-fashioned declaration of love. There would be no point in making a pass at you.'

A long silence followed, as we rounded the head of the spit of land, and then she said so softly that I had difficulty in hearing the words: 'There might be a point.'

I got the message, I trod water, put my arm round her and kissed her cold lips.

We clung to each other for a while. I kissed her breasts and lowered myself under the water, kissing the rest of her body, until I ran out of breath and surfaced.

Christina laughed, as I bobbed up and said: 'Isn't this wonderful! We are separated from the human race and its ridiculous taboos. We are free, Alan! We are free!'

I put my hands on her shoulders, as we trod water, and said: 'Why didn't you respond when I told you this morning about the utter joy I had felt when I saw your name in the bottle?'

She replied: 'You didn't have to mention it 52; I knew it all the time. Anyway, we are in a different world now, Alan. We are together now in the ocean.'

We were indeed. The waves were lapping around us. The sandy peninsular seemed miles away. The sailing boat had disappeared. A solitary gull hung in the air above us.

I said: 'Don't you love Frank any more?'

'He is just a memory at this very moment.. We are together in another world. And how heavenly it is! Make love to me, Alan.'

She wriggled out of her bathing costume. The sight of her glorious breasts awash in sea water made me giddy with desire. But something restrained me and I said: 'Are you sure, my darling?'

'Yes, yes, yes.' Christina tied her bathing costume round her waist and began kissing me, one hand pressing hard on the back of my head.

I gasped: 'What's gone wrong? You and Frank were so close to each other.'

'Alan, darling.' There was a pleading note in her voice. 'Frank and I are oceans apart. I will still look after him. But at the moment I need you. I need you 52; you 52; you!'

She clung to me with all her force, her breasts moulding themselves against my chest. Her legs, still gently treading water, moved further apart. I kissed her and entered her at the same time. And then, a moment later, slithered out.

'It's no use,' I spluttered.

'Can't you come inside me? That's all I want. A token of the love you said you had always felt for me.'

I began to laugh.

'What are you laughing at?' Christina entreated, her face distraught with anxiety.

I said, with amused desperation: 'Your name came to me out of the sea in a bottle and now you want to make love in the sea.'

'You don't love me. You were just playing,' Christina said, angrily.

'Yes, darling, of course I do. But the water is cold out here. Let's go back on shore and make love there.'

'No, no, no. It has to be here and now. Don't you like my body?'

Oh, it's beautiful, ma'am,' I whispered softly.

White foam licked my face, as I dived and kissed her body. When I emerged, gasping for air, she drew me towards her again and treading water, we made love for a few unimaginably beautiful moments. A huge wave then swept over us.

31

I can't deny that it was a wonderful experience 52; a gift from the gods. I was a trifle disappointed at the way it had happened 52; making love in the sea is both difficult and inelegant. And cheating on an old friend, who was sick at the time, was nothing to be proud of. But for all that I was immensely grateful that at least a small token of my long cherished dream had been realised.

I asked Christina, as we made our way back to the villa, what had made her do it She replied it was something our long friendship deserved.

I said: 'We are bonded by something special now 52; we're like a couple of dolphins.'

She smiled, shook her head 52; were walking along the path that led from the beach towards the villa and said: 'It was very lovely and special but it was simply my revenge on Frank for daring to suggest that something has been going on between us. Now we're back on terra firma it's time to resume normal relations.'

She gave me a quick kiss, then ran ahead, leaving a trail of water droplets on the grass and pine needles.

We never referred to it again. The rest of our holiday in Cannes was something of an anticlimax. But the kids had a good time.

Shortly after that Frank had a spell in a psychiatric nursing-home. I was told that William Berry paid the bill, but I don't know if that is true.

In the middle of September, Hazel saw in our local news- paper that Frank Hawkins was appearing in a theatre in Hastings. Knowing that he had been ill, we thought it our duty to drive over and watch him perform. He came jauntily on stage, carrying a golf club, wearing ridiculous plus-fours, a tartan bomber jacket and a very large red golfing cap. One of his yellow socks was markedly higher than the other.

He shuffled his feet and announced: 'Don't laugh at the outfit I'm wearing. My golfing coach has given me the secret of how to win the Scottish Open. He assures me that if I raise my left leg until the top of the left sock is level with the top of the right one the ball is guaranteed to go straight down the fairway. I was a bit worried about the expense. The socks are fifty pounds each. But he said: "They're cheap at the price 52;they're going to help you win the one hundred-thousand pounds prize!" He made me buy this special shirt which prevents me from lifting my head when I strike the ball. It cost a hundred pounds. The safety-pin alone was fifty pounds 52; it's made of titanium. And my cap has a special alarm that reminds me to follow through when I hit the ball. That cost two-hundred and forty pounds .... And the special golf ball I bought that has enough rubber thread inside it to go round the world three times cost one thousand pounds. And the funny thing is I'm only here as a spectator ...

Frank swung at the ball with his club. There was a whizzing sound and a clunk. A ball from behind the curtains appeared to hit him on the back of his head. He sank to his knees, got up and said with a grin: 'He was right about that damned golf ball 52; it has been right round the world and has just came back. My jokes do that. Someone came up to me today and said: 'Have you heard this one?' and he told me a joke I only invented yesterday. It reminds me of getting sick on strawberry jam, which tastes just as good coming up as going down. I said: "Hello, joke. Haven't seen you for a long time. This time my gag truly made me gag ...' He pretended to retch.

Frank then made a rambling speech about space and time and multiple universes. The audience became restless. Someone heckled him. He got very angry and shouted to the audience: 'St. Paul was the apostle of Christ. I am the apostle of Einstein, the genius who gave us the power to understand that everything goes round in circles, which proves that the Kingdom of Heaven is all around us.'

A voice from the gallery shouted: 'You're bonkers, mate.'

Frank shouted back: 'Ignorance will not save you.'

'Do something funny,' came a call.

'Okay. Okay.' Frank held up his hands and said: 'I'll tell you a joke. An idiot went into a zoo looking for God. He asked a giraffe: 'Are you God?'

The giraffe was too tall to hear what he was saying, so he asked an opossum: 'Are you God?' The opossum answered: 'I haven't been here long enough to find out.'

He approached a chimpanzee and asked him: 'Are you God?'

The chimp screamed: 'Get out of here, you lump of shit.'

So the idiot asked a drunk in a pub: 'Am I a lump of shit?'

The drunk said: 'You may be now but you won't be when you've had as much to drink as I have.'

By this time the auditorium was becoming very noisy. Hazel and I stood up and tried to leave. Frank started hurling abuse at the audience. When we looked back, he was being dragged offstage by a pair of stage hands, his red golfing cap askew over his face.

This ignominious end to Frank's performance made us very sad

On the way back to Brighton, I said to Hazel: 'Do you think that is the end?'

She replied: 'I'm afraid so.'

'What do you think is the matter with him?'

'I think he has educated himself beyond his capacity to think.'

32

Susan enquired: 'Who's Alice in Wonderland?' .

'She's the girl who allowed me to take my grandmother's letters when I was in William Berry's house.'

'Weren't you taking a bit of a chance?'

'Nobody else knows they exist.'

Susan's encompassing arm was uncomfortable, Andrew shifted his position and said: 'It looks as if I may have to look elsewhere for the money to publish it.'

'Don't be absurd. Who would want to read it? You should give up on that ridiculous project. Why don't you look for a job in London.'

Andrew grimaced and enquired: 'How's your project going?'

'We've signed a contract. It's going into production next year. Why did Alice let you take the letters?'

'Her name is Alison. I think she did it out of the goodness of her heart.'

'Why did you call her Alice in Wonderland?'

'I gather it's some kind of family joke.'

'You seem to know her quite well.'

'She did me a really good turn.'

Andrew had not told Susan of his recent lunch with Alison, although she had always insisted on their right to have other partners.

Susan said peremptorily: 'Come here!' and began unbuttoning his belt.

He said: 'Just imagine Alan Green making love to my grandmother in twenty-fathoms of water.'

'So?'

She bent over him and kissed him.

'Doesn't that make it possible he's my grandfather?'

'What is the matter with you, Andrew?'

'Could he have made my grandmother pregnant out at sea?'

'The salt water would act as a douche. Andrew, you should get more exercise.'

'I won gold in the Sex Olympics only a few minutes ago.'

'Andrew, you're impossible!'

She jumped out of bed in a huff, threw on the red dressing-gown she had recently bought in France and went to the bathroom.

When she returned, Andrew was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the floor.

'What's the matter with you, Andrew?' Susan enquired, testily.

'Just tired. And I do not intend to give up on the biography. I'm going to interview Green again to get some more information.'

'What's the point of a biography no one will publish?'

Sitting at a dressing-table, Susan began energetically brushing her cropped blond hair. Her argument had compelling logic. Alison, on the other hand, had argued that it would be a useful exercise and might in the long term interest a publisher.

'I particularly want to find out why William Berry was worried about giving the impression that he believed in the paranormal.'

'He can't tell you if anything freaky happened now that he's dead.'

'Alan Green may know something.'

'Frank Hawkins finished up in a psychiatric ward. If you're not careful you'll end up the same way.'

'Oh, come off it, Susan.'

'I am bored with the whole business. I think you should give it up. Get me a ciggy, please.'

He lit one for her. She took it out of her mouth and kissed him. For a brief moment, desire seemed about to return. But a question came into his mind and he said: 'Why did my grandmother seduce Alan Green in the sea?'

Susan said: 'God knows. Perhaps some aquatic sex would bring you up to the mark.'

He remained silent..

* * *

It became apparent to Andrew when he had taken Alison out to lunch that she was much too junior to be able to make representations on his behalf to the Berrys. She had told him that she had read some of his articles in the Tynmouth Gazette and when he smiled, had teased him, saying: 'I didn't say I liked them. I only said I read them.' He felt at ease in her company. Finding out that her father, an airline captain, owned a small farm less than twenty miles from his own home, he offered to show her over the offices of the Tynmouth Gazette the next time she visited her parents.

'That would be very nice.'

They exchanged telephone numbers. As she disappeared into the throng of passers-by outside Charing Cross Underground station, he felt a pang of disappointment at the thought that he might not see her for several weeks.

His next mission was to interview Mercedes Berry. He retrieved his car from the car park and set off for Weybridge. An electronically-actuated pole barred entry to the four-acre estate where Mathew and Mercedes Berry lived. He spoke into the microphone, announcing himself as Andrew Hallowell from the Tynmouth Gazette. A disembodied voice instructed him to proceed. The pole lifted. He drove past stables and a tennis court to an entrance hidden behind a stand of chestnut trees and parked his car on the semicircular drive.

A middle-aged Portuguese woman opened the wide mahogany door and told him: 'Mrs. Berry will be with you in a few minutes. Please to wait in the library.'

She showed him into a book-lined room with a bay window. A pile of magazines on a table resembled those he had seen Alison retrieve from William Berry's house.

Mrs. Mercedes Berry came in, looking preoccupied. She looked older than when he had last seen her. There were heavy pouches under her eyes.

'It's very kind of you to see me, Mrs. Berry. I hate to intrude but I need to speak to you about the biography Mr. Berry commissioned from me.'

She said with an aloof expression: 'That was an entirely ill-conceived idea on my late father-in-law's part. We have no wish to have our name associated with it in any shape, manner or form.'

'You will be free to leave out anything you dislike.'

'Mathew and I have discussed the matter again. We have definitely decided against providing money out of the estate.'

'Even though Mr. William Berry expressly provided for it in his contract with me?'

'Our solicitor advises that, the signatory having died, the contract has no validity whatsoever.'

'There was nothing your late father-in-law told me that would reflect badly on your family.'

'I'm sorry Mr. Hallowell. Our minds are made up.'

'Would you object if I found someone else willing to pay for its publication?'

'I doubt if you will find anybody interested in the reminiscences of that vain old man.'

He tried one last desperate approach: 'William Berry was a wartime bomber pilot and a highly successful businessman. Don't you think the world should be told more about him?'

'Certainly not. I regret you have put yourself to the trouble of coming here. My housekeeper will show you out.'

Mercedes left the room. Shortly afterwards the housekeeper escorted him to the front-door.

33

Andrew commented to Alan Green, as he began his next interview. 'You're an ex-army man and you made love to my grandmother in the sea at Arcachon. What about the ex-Royal Air Force man, William Berry? Did he sleep with her as well?'

'I doubt it 52; Christina was not promiscuous.'

'He tried to seduce her before he was married. It wouldn't be at all surprising if he tried it on again.'

'She would soon have given that little squint-eyed twerp the heave-ho. The reason she and I had sex was exceptional. It arose because of our long friendship. I always behaved towards her like a perfect gentleman.'

'William Berry struck me as someone who would always get what he wanted.'

'We'll never know now, will we. I should like to think he didn't succeed. Are there any clues in the letters you found in his house?'

'I haven't had time to read them all. Some are just business letters. Discussions about magazine covers and so on. But there's little doubt that he was completely captivated by her. It's to his credit that he did everything he could to help when Frank Hawkins became mentally ill.'

'You can bet he had an ulterior motive.'

'Why do you say that? It was decent of him to invite Frank Hawkins and Christina to stay with his family at Arcachon.'

Alan Green gave an apologetic grimace and said: 'I suppose you're right. Although I don't wear pebble glasses any more, there are still some distorting lenses left in my mind. Perhaps he did invite them out of the goodness of his heart. Certainly they needed help at the time. They both suffered because Frank's career was slipping. Not having children grieved them both. They were gifted people. Gifts come at a price. Incidentally, I think that Frank might have had some sort of presentiment he would come to a sticky end.'

'What happened to him?'

'Didn't William tell you?'

'No.'

'Then I'd rather not talk about it.'

'Oh, come on. Alan. What's the point of my coming all this way if you don't tell me the whole truth.'

'I'm amazed that a journalist with all your experience hasn't found out.'

'What's stopping you from telling me?'

'I'll tell you about it next time you come. By then you will have read the letters you told me about.'

Andrew said grumpily: 'Well, I suppose I can't force you. Just one last question 52; Berry's family have refused to allow his estate to pay for the biography he commissioned from me. Have you any idea why?'

'There could be all sorts of reasons. Commissioning a biography was typical of him. it's the last thing I should want.'

Standing up, Andrew said: 'And what did you mean by Frank having a presentiment of his death?'

'Just what I said. Stranger things have happened.'

'You're not, I hope, thinking of going off to California in the near future.'

Green gave a mischievous chuckle.

'I haven't made up my mind yet. I trust you will give me due credit in this book you're writing.'

'Of course. Do you want it to be known that you made love to my grandmother in twenty-fathoms of water? Incidentally, it was just as well you were both strong swimmers.'

'Drowning in those circumstances would have been a pleasure!'

On his way home after the interview, Andrew thought deeply about his relationship with Susan 52; it was by far the longest he had ever had. It was going to be difficult to break it off. His thoughts then reverted to his grandmother. Alan Green was now the only survivor of the four people who had originally met just after the Second World War. In a curious way, Andrew reflected, he owed his own existence to Hitler. If Poland had not been invaded and there had been no war, his grandmother would have remained in Italy and his mother would not have been born. It was impossible for a human being to fathom the mysterious and complicated chain of circumstances that led to one's existence.

Just after he had passed through Salisbury a hitchhiker wearing a baseball cap thrust a placard in front of him. Glad to be relieved of his puzzling thoughts, he stopped the car and opened the passenger door. A bearded man in his late thirties threw in his knapsack and struggled into the seat next to him. 'Thanks, mate,' he said nonchalantly, with an Ausssie accent. Don't usually travel this way. But I lost a packet on the horses today.'

Andrew said: 'Do you gamble a lot?'

'I'm a professional punter. When my wife left me I made up my mind to live for five years by gambling. I'm in my third year now and I have had some marvellous times and some bad times as well. But that's what life is all about, isn't it.'

'Did your wife leave you because you were gambling?'

'It had something to do with it. But there were other factors. She's a black girl. Her family didn't like me.'

'Any children?'

'Two. And I'm trying to support them.'

'Difficult when you lose.'

'Yeah.'

To break the awkward silence that followed, Andrew enquired: 'Do you have a system?'

'I go on numbers.'

'What about form?'

'I tried that. It didn't work, so I tried numbers and it was quite successful for a while.'

'How do you arrive at the number of the horse you are going to back?'

'I multiply the date of the race by a certain prime number and take the square root and use the first one or two numbers.

'Why not use a pin?'

'You mean my cash till pin number?'

'No. Why don't you just shut your eyes and stab the list of runners with a pin.'

'That would simply be choosing at random.'

'But isn't that what you are doing anyway?'

'No, I told you 52; a secret prime number ultimately determines which horses I back.'

'So how did you arrive at the prime number?'

'Do you mind stopping the car.'

'What?'

'Stop the bloody car.'

Andrew braked and stopped the car by the entrance to a farm. His passenger grabbed his knapsack, got out the car and waved him on, wearing a grim expression. Andrew hesitated and then drove off.

He regretted having applied a brand of logic the man neither needed nor wanted. If a gambler insisted on gambling, what did it matter what system he used? Everyone's life, including the extraordinary chain of circumstances leading to one's birth, was a gamble. If he hadn't been intrigued by the discovery one morning that he was the descendant of an Italian countess, he would not now be stuck with a half-finished book destined never to see the light of day. Should he continue working on it? He would postpone his decision until he had read all the correspondence that had passed between the Contessa and William Berry. It might shed more light on the tangled relationships that existed between the four main protagonists. Armed with this knowledge, he might then be in a position to ask the Berry family to reconsider their decision to refuse him payment for the biography.

34

Andrew declined his mother's offer to cook a meal for him when he arrived home. He carried the parcel up to his bedroom and placed it in a suitcase. He had decided not to inform his mother that he had recovered the letters, in case their subject matter disturbed her peace of mind. Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, he hastily shut the lid and when she opened the door said brightly: 'What can I do for you, Ma?'

'A young lady called Alison telephoned.'

'Yeah.'

'She said she would ring you at your office tomorrow.'

'Great!'

'Has something happened between you and Susan?'

'You shouldn't ask questions like that.'

'Treat her in a civilised way. I didn't bring you up to be a breaker of hearts.'

'Susan is quite capable of looking after herself.'

'What are you hiding inside that case?'

'Nothing. Now will you please leave me in peace. I've had a very hard day.'

'That's your own fault. You should never have gone searching for William Berry in the first place. I never liked the man.'

'He gave me a commission to publish a full-length work. It wasn't his fault he died.'

'There's nothing you can do about it. As your father used to say: When you find yourself in a hole stop digging.'

'Dad never got out of his particular hole.'

'He didn't need to. He had a good job in the Post Office.'

'You're right. I shouldn't have said that.'

When she had gone, he realised that he must keep the correspondence elsewhere. He glanced at the first letter before settling down for the night.

Dear Christina,

Just to let you know how proud we are to have you joining our staff. You will be both a credit and an ornament to Willoughbys.

I am still immensely grateful for that advice you gave me when my car hit a tree on the way back from Bishop Auckland.

Hope Frank is still making everyone laugh.

Let me know if you have any problems. By and large they are a good bunch in the art department.

Sincerely

William B.

The following morning Andrew got up early and placed the suitcase in the boot of his car before returning to the house for breakfast. When he arrived at the Gazette offices, he placed the letters in a filing cabinet, with some misgivings because the key was missing. Alison rang soon afterwards.

Raising one hand in a silent, gleeful salute, he said: 'Hi, Alison, nice to hear from you.'

He arranged to meet her in his favourite pub in nearby Faircross the following Saturday.

*

He looked approvingly at her slim figure neatly encased in blue jeans and a tee-shirt, as she came into the pub. The barman was unfamiliar with the drink she ordered, so she settled for a half pint of the locally-brewed bitter. Andrew ordered the same. When they had settled on a bench, Alison enquired whether the letters had proved useful.

'I have only glanced at them. I don't want my mother to see them. She might find them unsettling.'

'You can keep them at my parent's house, if you like. I'll put them in a drawer in my room. I promise not to look at them.'

'I don't mind if you read them. But they cover an area in my grandmother's life my mother knew nothing about. She's very unworldly. I suspect she might find details of her mother's past life disturbing.' He added: 'I shall need to study them and take notes.'

'I'll tell my parents you'll call in to inspect them.'

The following morning he telephoned Susan and told her that he wouldn't be in town the following weekend.

She replied: 'We're cooling off, aren't we. I can read the signs.'

He didn't answer but was relieved that at least the subject had been raised.

35

Alison Wanda's parents farmed fifty acres near the local airfield. Andrew had passed it many times during his journeys around the county. The fields were now empty, the dairy herd having been slaughtered because of an outbreak of brucellosis. Her parents were on holiday. Mrs. Caldecot, their cheerful, dumpy housekeeper, had been told that he might call. She led him up to Alison's bedroom and showed him where the parcel lay in a drawer. He accepted her suggestion that he should read the letters in the sitting-room.

'Nice girl, Alison, isn't she,' the housekeeper declared conversationally, after he had settled in an armchair with the correspondence. Having little time to spare before his next appointment, he nodded briskly and bent his head over the letters.

Dear Christina,

Just to tell you that I think your work is excellent. Your design for the cover of Toddlers is superb. Initial reports have been very encouraging.

Call in and see me at any time.

Sincerely,

William B.

Dear William,

Thank you for the recent increase in my salary. Frank is having some difficulty in getting bookings at present and is feeling rather depressed. Earning a living as a comedian is never easy. The extra money will be extremely helpful.

Our lease is up on our present flat, so we shall be moving shortly.

I will certainly be glad to take a course in photography, if you think it might be useful.

Sincerely,

Christina.

Dear Christina,

Sorry to hear that Frank is out of sorts.. Comics live on their nerves. It is a lonely feeling standing in front of an audience. I can sympathise because I have kittens when, as often happens these days, I am called upon to make an after-dinner speech.

I may be able to help you with your housing situation. The tenant in a flat I own in Baker street has indicated that he wishes to end his lease. Call in at my office some time and we can discuss the terms.

Sincerely

William B.

Dear William

Thank you for letting us have the flat at such a reasonable rent. We're both delighted with it.

Frank has finally managed to get some bookings in Manchester. He is quite ecstatic.

Yours truly,

Christina.

Dear William,

It was inappropriate for you to call in unexpectedly the other day. The fact that you were drunk does not excuse your behaviour.

Regards,

Christina.

Dear Christina,

A thousand apologies for what happened. The fact that I am your employer makes it a thousand times worse.

The train I intended to catch at Victoria was cancelled because of some trouble on the line. On learning that the delay was going to be over two hours I went to the bar, had a couple of brandies and then decided on the spur of the moment to check whether you were settled in your flat.

Please forgive my loutish behaviour. I promise never again to turn up unannounced.

Hope Frank is well.

Your repentant

William Berry.

Dear William,

Thank you for enquiring after Frank. He is getting a few engagements in London pubs, but it is demeaning for someone who, only a short time ago, was a national figure. I hasten to say that I am the one who worries about his standing in the profession; Frank's only concern is to earn money.

He has recently been saying the most outrageous things. I never know whether he is being serious or is merely practising his script.

I intend to return to work next Monday.

Thank you for your forbearance and understanding.

Sincerely,

Christina.

Dear Christina,

Sally has reorganised our holiday. We are going to stay for a fortnight at Arcachon on the Aquitaine coast of France. She has rented a large villa, which could accommodate an army, if necessary. We shall be there between July 16 to the 30th. We hope you and Frank will join us. Getting away from it all will do you both the world of good and perhaps put Frank back on the road to recovery.

Sincerely,

William.

Dear William

Our thanks to you and Sally for your kind invitation, which we are very glad to accept.

Sincerely,

Christina.

Dear Christina,

Sally and I are delighted that you will be able to join us in Arcachon. You will be pleased to learn that Alan and Hazel intend to call in on their way to the South of France.

You mentioned that Frank has been saying outrageous things. I know a consultant psychiatrist who is highly esteemed in his profession. I would be very happy to pay his bill. Freeing you from worry would be ample compensation.

Let me know what you think when you join us in France.

Sincerely,

William.

Dear William,

Thanks for your offer regarding the psychiatrist. Frank is already much better. We look forward to seeing you at the Villa des Pins.

By the way, Alan Green rang the other day. Apparently, my name cropped up in a rather unusual manner. I'll tell you about it when I see you.

Sincerely,

Christina.

Dear Christina,

Yes, it was a great holiday 52; for me the greatest ever. The kids loved it.

I never gave up hope that one day you would allow me to put into practice the lesson you once gave me. The experience has filled me with extraordinary happiness. When and where can we repeat it?

Yours gratefully,

William.

Dear William,

Thank you for the lunch today. I repeat what I told you that I do not wish to have an affair with you. You applied your lesson with enthusiasm and considerable artistry. But as everyone knows holiday romances should never extend into everyday life.

I love Frank too much for it ever to happen again.

Your affectionate,

Christina.

My beloved Tina

I shall still go on hoping that you will relent.

I have to tell you that an Irish friend of mine recently saw a comic giving a performance in a Kilburn pub. He informed me that the comic in question ended the evening hopelessly drunk. I hope he arrived home safely!

How about reconsidering my suggestion that he should see a top rank psychiatrist.

Your affectionate,

William.

Dear William

Naturally, Frank takes a drink or two when he is working in a pub environment.

For your information he did arrive home safely.

Sincerely,

Christina

My Dearest Tina,

Don't be upset with what I have to tell you. With the intention of setting your mind at rest, I went myself into the pub in Kilburn where Frank was working, taking great care to ensure that he didn't see me. He has not lost his skills at what he calls 'tweaking an audience's laughter muscles.' But he is becoming increasingly wild and undisciplined. This is an example of the nonsense he was providing for his, admittedly, drunken audience.

'A man came into a pub and told the barman: My dog, Rafferty, pees on lampposts. Do you know why?' The barman says: 'Go on, tell me.'

'He is establishing territorial rights. Recently, we moved to Mayfair and he now has territorial rights there.'

'It'll be Buckingham Palace next, I suppose,' the barman said, nonchalantly.

'Oh, no,' the man said, horrified, 'The lampposts there belong to Prince Phillip. 'I've seen him piddling on them.'

Frank went on: 'Dogs can't resist the natural instinct to piddle on lampposts anymore than we can resist our natural instinct to knock back pints. The trouble is the more you drink the faster the pub clock whizzes round. But that admirable Irishman, Albert O'Einstein, assures me that soon we shall be able to rectify this. When it's closing time, we'll go backwards in time, reset the pub clock and start all over again.

Another pint of Guinness, barman. Slainte. Good night everybody. Good night.'

Frank was so drunk he had to be helped afterwards into a taxi. One doesn't need to be a psychologist to see that his drinking habits are affecting his work. Soon he will be beyond help. I think you should do something about it.

Your devoted

William.

Dear William

I think you are exaggerating. His agent is currently negotiating a six-week engagement in Blackpool. As a result he is feeling a great deal better.

I have to remind you that, although the jokes you quoted may seem weak, Frank's inimitable delivery enables him to win over his audience.

It's unseemly for you to address me as Tina. I was recently offered a job by a rival firm. If we cannot resume our former relationship, I may have to accept the offer.

Yours sincerely,

Christina.

Dear Christina,

I entirely accept the rebuke in your recent letter. We shall go back to our former footing.

Willoughbys cannot afford to lose you.

Sincerely,

William.

Dear William

I shall soon have to have some time off. I am pregnant.

Yours sincerely

Christina.

Andrew looked at his watch. It was time to go for his appointment. The remaining letters, including one written in Italian which appeared never to have been posted, would have to wait. He replaced the parcel of letters in the chest-of-drawers in Alison's bedroom, before leaving the house.

36

Susan asked Andrew: 'Is she pretty?' after he had told her that he had dated another girl.

'Not bad,' he answered, thinking this a gross understatement.

They were sitting in a. fish restaurant near Sloane Square. The prices on the leather-bound menu horrified him.

He told Susan how Alison had suggested he keep his grandmother's letters at her parents' farm.

She's making a play for you, Andrew. You'll never get away.'

'I may not want to.'

'Why are you so concerned about your mother seeing the letters?'

'They might upset her. By the way, when will you get paid for your television series?'

'They have sent us a first instalment. I shall soon be able to pay off my mortgage. It doesn't look as if your magnum opus is going to improve your finances.'

'I intend to finish it all the same.. I can't understand why the Berry family refuses to honour the contract. The amount of money is piddling compared with what they'll receive from William Berry's estate.'

'They obviously don't want to waste money pandering to a dead man's whim.'

'I always thought that in English law a dead person's wishes should be honoured.'

'It might have been different if he had put it in his will.'

Andrew picked up the bill.

Susan searched for her credit card in her handbag and said: 'Since I'm rich now, I'll pay.'

Andrew shook his head and said: 'No, this one is on me.'

Susan stopped rummaging, looked up sharply and said: 'I can see you're mad keen on this girl. So this is our last date?'

Andrew said: 'Yes, I guess so.'

He kissed Susan on the cheek and paid the bill, feeling relieved that the deed had been accomplished with so little fuss. On the way to Brighton, he wondered whether Alan Green's claim that he had made love to the Contessa was true. It was clear that she had slept with William Berry while they were all on holiday together. It was hard to imagine that she would also have had sex out at sea with another partner.

Joining the M23 motorway he remembered having a dream during the course of which a group of furies wearing cloaks with vermilion linings had surrounded him, taunting him for his lack of courage. His mother tried to interfere but her ineffectual protests were shouted down by the marauding females. He found himself in the cold, vibrating fuselage of a Lancaster bomber flying over Germany. Flak burst all around. Suddenly Mercedes Berry appeared, her eyes like saucers, her hair awry. As an explosion shook the aircraft, she commanded him to bail out. He landed by parachute among a torch lit procession of uniformed Nazis. In the nick of time he was rescued and hurried away by his grandmother. 'Grandma!' he asked, 'Who did you sleep with when you were on holiday in Arcachon?' 'You should never ask such indiscreet questions,' came the reply.

It was dark when he arrived at the Harvesters Retirement Home in Brighton. He was two hours late for his appointment. He apologised profusely. A game of bridge was in progress. Alan Green told his friends the purpose of Andrew's visit. As they removed cards, ashtrays and scoring pads from the table, Andrew whispered to Alan that he had an important question for him.

Green led him into the adjoining bedroom and gazed at him quizzically.

Andrew said: 'Look, I've reached a critical stage in the book. It sounds entirely uncharacteristic of my grandmother to have made love to you in the water that time. I just want you to confirm that it actually happened.'

'It's hard to believe. But I wasn't bad looking then,' Alan Green added with a self-conscious grin.

'Are you absolutely sure?'

Alan Green's expression changed and he answered in a grimmer tone: 'Of course I'm sure. Don't ask me why she did it. She might have been revenging herself on Frank. He was giving her a hard time.'

Andrew heard someone in the room next door enquire: 'When do we get to read the book?' Probably never, Andrew thought gloomily. After months of hard work he was becoming less enthusiastic about the project, perhaps because his grandmother's behaviour had disappointed him.

Alan Green left him to say goodnight to his friends.

Afterwards Andrew sat facing Alan Green across the green baize of the card table. The old man poured himself a glass of brandy. Pressed to take a drink, Andrew accepted a small sherry. Alan Green said: 'Okay let's try to clear up this matter for all time. The reason I was reluctant at first to tell you all about my relationship with your grandmother is that it was such an intensely personal thing. That brief interlude in the water came as a bolt from the blue. It was just as if a distantly-worshipped movie star suddenly came down from the silver screen and became a real flesh-and-blood lover. From the very first moment when the Contessa arrived at the Anchor and Frank Hawkins took up with her, it seemed that neither William Berry nor I stood any kind of a chance. He grabbed her before either of us could make a move. As you may have found out by now, he eventually committed suicide. He was extremely jealous. I swear nothing would ever have happened if she had not invited me to go for that swim.'

'How did he find out?' Andrew asked.

'I don't know for certain if he did. Christina became pregnant shortly afterwards. He seems to have suspected that it was someone else's child. His doubts, incidentally, about his ability to become a father were probably the cause of the wild outburst that occurred when we were in a rowing-boat on the Thames.'

'Surely the fact that Christina once had a miscarriage suggests that he wasn't infertile.'

'He may have blamed himself for that. People are never entirely rational.'

'So is it possible that you are my grandfather?'

'I once asked a doctor if a woman could conceive after what happened between us in the water, and he answered that it was perfectly possible. We could take a DNA test to find out.'

He added after a pause: 'You would make a fine grandson.'

'Thank you. But how can you be sure that Frank Hawkins didn't make my grandmother pregnant?'

'We can't be sure of anything, can we. Which perhaps is just as well.'

'Supposing I told you that someone else besides you and Frank had intercourse with my grandmother during that same week.'

'Who?'

'Isn't it obvious?'

'Not that bastard Berry!'

'One of the letters that passed between my grandmother and William Berry makes it very clear that they had intercourse while they were on holiday in Arcachon.'

'Well, I'm mortified! That little squint-eyed sod! I would never have thought Christina was a loose woman.'

'Who says she was?'

'It's incredible to me that she would have had sex with three different men while on holiday! I simply don't believe it.'

'Maybe just two 52; we can't be sure about Frank.'

'Even so ...'

'How did he commit suicide?'

'I'd rather not say.'

'Okay. When did it happen?'

'Wait 52; let me think back. Yes, I remember 52; it was the year of the Sputnik.'

'The what?'

'The Sputnik. The year Russia launched the world's first satellite. I remember seeing it streaking across the night sky and thinking it must be carrying Frank's soul, because he had just died. I have revised my opinion of him since then. He thought more about the mysteries of life than was good for him. People waste themselves and their lives thinking about insoluble problems. It's far better to be practical, enjoy life and make a bit of money to protect yourself in your old age. Delving into matters too complicated for the average brain to cope with is plainly daft.'

'Mr. Green 52; I mean Alan ... '

'If I may interrupt 52; what I have just said is good advice for you as well as my grandchildren. He beamed and added: 'But, of course, you may be one of them!'

'Alan, there is a last question I must ask you. I may not come again. Why did you go overboard for a poverty-stricken girl who had just escaped from war-torn Italy, when you were already betrothed to your childhood sweetheart?'

Alan Green's face became a mass of worry lines.

'I suppose because she fitted the picture of my ideal woman and seemed completely unattainable, until that amazing thing happened in the ocean, for which I thank God with all my heart.'

To Andrew's immense embarrassment, tears appeared in the old man's eyes.

37

Andrew helped Alison to remove the sheet from the bed in the guest-room in her parents' house. He said, as they hopped around naked: 'Do you mean to say all the time at Uni you never fucked anyone.'

'I didn't meet anyone I liked enough.'

'Not even that chap with the Italian name you were telling me about.'

'He was exceptionally horrible,' Alison said calmly.

'Well, what can I say 52; except, thank you very much.'

'That's all right.'

'I'm not in this just for the short term.'

'We'll have to see, won't we.'

'Your parents won't suddenly appear.'

'I've told you 52; they're on holiday in Madeira.'

'I came over here to study my grandmother's letters. I had no intention of seducing you.'

'It was mutual. Two minds with but a single thought. That was a ghastly thing that happened to your grandmother.'

'Yeah. Thank you for translating the letter. She had a pretty miserable time.'

'That's some understatement!'

After remaking the bed, they sat in the sitting-room overlooking empty green pastures. Andrew was wearing a voluminous red bathrobe which Alison's father had once bought in an Oxfam shop, in defiance of his wife.

'You look like a Turkish pasha; it really suits you,' Alison said, and exploded with laughter.

'Are you okay?' Andrew asked anxiously.

'Of course, why shouldn't I be?'

'I hope I didn't hurt you.'

'Nothing to worry your pretty little head about,' she replied, mischievously.

'As long as you understand that I don't go around deflowering virgins every day.

'We'll do it again when we've had coffee ... That is, if you're capable.'

'I'll be capable.'

Alison went into the large kitchen that lay on the opposite side of the corridor to make coffee. Andrew relaxed in his chair and began to dwell on his grandmother's life. A cuckoo clock chimed. When Alison returned with mugs of coffee, he said: 'Your cuckoo clock has just reminded me that Frank Hawkins was cuckolded by both his friends.'

'That's a horrible, anachronistic expression.'

'Shall we make love in the sea one of these days?'

'I'm not a very good swimmer.'

'I'll hold you up ... What impression have you formed of my grandmother?'

'She was great. Surprisingly modern, really.'

'But why did she put up with that guy, Frank Hawkins?'

'Who knows. He sounds very weird.'

'I suppose if he made her laugh it was some compensation for his weirdness.'

'Will that letter I translated help you finish your book?'

'Certainly. Come here.'

'What for?'

'I want to kiss you.'

Alison slid onto his lap

Two hours of lovemaking later he awoke in her bedroom. Alison's side of the bed was empty 52; she had gone to the bathroom. He began to review Christina Atoli's life. Her father had been a confidant and friend of both Count Grandi and Mussolini's son-in-law, Count Ciano and had followed the latter when Mussolini formed a puppet government in the north of Italy. Both he and his wife were subsequently killed by partisans. Christina had refused to accompany them. Her ordeal began during the German occupation of Rome in 1943 before the Allies arrived.

She had written to her friend: Dear Anna, I shall post this letter when I find out your address in the Argentine. Life has been very difficult for both of us.

I arrived in England with just enough money to pay for a meal and a night's lodgings. My parents had applied for an English passport for me when I was a child attending an English school, and this persuaded the authorities to let me come here. Before that I had spent months in France in a camp for stateless people. I have found a job in a book shop here in London that will keep hunger from my door for a while at least. I have recently fallen in love with a most extraordinary man. He has been an actor and is now a comedian. I try to understand him but succeed only part of the time. His jokes are sometimes incomprehensible to me. But he makes me feel gay and carefree, in spite of everything.

I hope you kept yourself safe. You could have no possible understanding of what happened to me after you left me at the trattoria. That man sitting at the next table was an agent of the Gestapo. The Germans suspected that my brother, Sergio, in spite of my father being totally committed to Mussolini, was in favour of ending the war. Sergio had worked for Count Grandi. He had recently changed his address as a precautionary measure. Unfortunately he had given it to me, so that I could contact him.

Andrew fell asleep again.

His last sensation was of Alison's body cuddling against him. A pasty-faced clown shouted in his ear: 'Time stretches like a piece of elastic when you are asleep and permits you to view the past and future. Now you can see how the destinies of you and your grandmother are interwoven ... '

A young man with a fine, imperious profile said to Christina as she left the restaurant: 'Would you please come with me.' He held her wrist in a grip of iron and forced her to cross the road to where a Mercedes car was waiting. He spoke Italian with a German accent. 'You will come to no harm,' he said with an almost pleading expression as he bundled her into the car.'

'But why? What are you doing? I have done nothing wrong.'

I think you can help us.. But don't be alarmed.'

There were two men sitting in a low-slung Mercedes car. The atmosphere of the interior was heavy with cigarette smoke. The driver was bearded, the other short and bald with a stubbled chin 52; there were many Italians in those days who cultivated a likeness to Il Duce. Christina tried to draw the attention of a passer-by to her predicament. But her captor imprisoned her arm and placed his gloved hand over her mouth. The Mercedes drove off at a fast pace and eventually pulled in at a building which Christina recognised as a former sports complex Il Duce had turned into a jail.

She spent a day in a small cell in solitary confinement without food or water. She lay for hours on the concrete bunk bed, desperately trying to think of how to deal with the situation. Her sympathies lay with Marshall Bagdolio, who had negotiated an armistice with the Allies and she had refused to accompany her father, whose misguided sense of loyalty had led him to join the puppet government in the North. Her brother Sergio also stayed behind. After being wounded during the disastrous naval battle of Taranto, he had worked as an aide-de-camp to Count Grandi. The Germans knew that he was still in Rome and wished to capture him.

For four days Christina withstood the interrogation, which included being forcibly fed with castor oil. Finally she was taken to another cell, where five grinning, uniformed carabiniere were waiting. 'They raped me repeatedly,' she informed her friend, 'damaged my internal organs, but worse of all, stole my capacity to love.' She confessed to her friend that she eventually succumbed under torture and gave the secret police Sergio's address. He was captured, taken to the North of Italy and suffered the same fate as Count Ciano, who had been shot in the back as a traitor to the Fascist cause.

'So you see my grandmother was no heroine,' Andrew remarked to Alison when they woke up. 'But I suppose we all have our limits.'

Alison replied indignantly: 'Who wouldn't yield in those circumstances. Apart from that she deserved a medal for living with 52; what was the name of the guy?'

'Frank Hawkins.'

'I wouldn't have been brave enough to have a baby if I had suffered as she did.'

'It still doesn't explain why she was unfaithful to him.'

'Perhaps she just wanted a child. There was no artificial insemination by donor in those days.'

'Sounds a bit extreme.'

'Nothing would seem extreme to a woman who had suffered like that.'

'Perhaps you're right. Frank Hawkins eventually committed suicide. I am still in the dark as to which of the three men fathered my mother. Incidentally, it's the people associated with William Berry, including my grandmother, who provide the main interest of the biography. Unfortunately, the Berrys won't pay for its publication. So what should I do?'

'Finish it and trust to luck. In the meantime, if I ever get the opportunity, I'll speak to my boss, Mathew Berry, about it.'

'You're a doll, Alice in Wonderland.'

'And you're a regular guy, Mr. Hallowell.'

He told her as she made a cheese omelette in the kitchen: 'I recently split with a girl friend who lives in London. She's a high-flying script writer who earns far more than I can ever hope to. I'm desperately in love with you. I hope you'll marry me one day.'

Alison vigorously whipped up the omelette and said: 'I'll marry you when you've sold ten thousand copies of your biography.'

'By that time we'll be able to honeymoon on Mars. At the moment I don't even see my way clear to completing the book. I am not sure how Frank Hawkins committed suicide. Alan Green seems very reluctant to talk about it.'

'It's not a very agreeable subject. Why don't you telephone him and ask for another appointment?'

Andrew pulled out his mobile telephone.

He was just in time. Alan Green informed him that he had decided to spend his last days with his daughter in California. He was very busy settling his affairs. But he consented to give Andrew a final interview the following Sunday morning.

38

Anrew told Alan Green: 'One of the things that puzzled me when I was interviewing William Berry was that he seemed to be worried in case he gave the impression that he believed in the supernatural. Unfortunately, he died before he was able to tell me what it was all about.'

Because Alan Green's sitting-room was full of cases and boxes in preparation for his move abroad, they had decided to continue their discussion about William Berry's while taking a walk along the Brighton sea front.

Alan answered: 'Anyone with a belief in the supernatural is considered a head case these days. They're a bit more tolerant in California.'

'So what do you think he might have had in mind?'

'It's hard to know.' Alan Green pointed to the beach and said: 'That's where I found that bottle. It's amazing how an insignificant event like that can have such unexpected results. The mere fact that I mentioned it to Christina was enough to make Frank jealous. And that in turn led to us making love out at sea. It's a good illustration of Chaos Theory, which says that the fluttering of a butterfly's wings can cause a hurricane thousands of miles away.'

'I still don't understand why Berry should have been so concerned about other people's opinion of him. Something must have been playing on his mind.'

'He was probably worried about being certified mentally ill by his family. It might have been something to do with Frank Hawkins's far fetched ideas. Frank was capable of hypnotising people 52; both on and off the stage 52; into believing impossible things by employing all kinds of plausible arguments. I remember him once telling us that since the potential neural connections within the brain outnumber all the events than can possibly occur in the universe, anything and everything human beings can possibly think of must eventually happen. Miracles, he used to say, are benign statistical blips. When malevolent ones occur, we call them "catastrophes." The odds against them happening in both cases are exactly the same, but if you wait long enough they will all eventually occur. Frank loved to confuse us by talking in this way. We never knew whether he was being serious, or was just pulling our legs.'

'Is there anything else William Berry might have had in mind?'

Alan, staring at a distant ship on the horizon, said absently: 'My eye operation seems almost like a miracle. If I hadn't had it I wouldn't be able to see that ship over there. When we were living in the Anchor hotel, William Berry appeared to be in considerable awe of Frank's familiarity with relativity and quantum theory 52;and to a lesser extent my own. In hindsight I suppose we enjoyed putting William down, because of our prejudice against the 'Brylcream boys 52; that's what we used to call RAF pilots in those days.

'You keep asking me about the supernatural and I'm racking my brain to think of something. But I remember vaguely William once saying that Frank had mentioned something about Christina having had an Immaculate Conception. Of course he 52; that is to say 52; Frank must have been have been joking.

'Berry admits to having slept with Christina himself, so he couldn't possibly have harboured such a ridiculous notion. And you've admitted that you had intercourse with her.'

'William didn't know that I had. If he used a condom, Christina's pregnancy might have puzzled him, because he was under the impression that Frank was infertile.'

'Even with a low sperm count, Frank could still have fathered a child. Incidentally, if he was infertile and Berry used a condom then you are probably my grandfather.'

'Turn off your tape-recorder.'

'Okay, it's turned off.'

'I hate to admit it but now I will tell you the truth. I mentioned that a gigantic wave washed over us when we were making love in the sea. It swept us apart. Most of my semen was ejaculated outside of Christina's body.'

'Then Frank Hawkins must be my grandfather.'

'Either that, or it was a virgin birth.'

'Don't be absurd!'

Alan Green smiled and said: 'Frank Hawkins had a genius for mystifying everything. He once said scathingly: Lenin said that religion is the opium of the people. Now that they have lost their beautiful communist dream, they console themselves with opium, which does even more damage than religion. He claimed that anyone who scorned the supernatural should also scorn humour as well, because it is just as mysterious. A good joke, he was fond of saying, tells us that God's in his Heaven and all's right with the world.'

'Getting back to ordinary things, did my grandmother stay at home to look after the child?'

'Berry gave her maternity leave, which was quite unusual in those days.'

'And Frank 52; what was he up to around that time?'

'He managed to get the occasional engagement, but his depressive episodes were becoming more frequent. Eventually, he consulted the psychiatrist William Berry had recommended. And that's when the real trouble started. Let's go and have lunch in Wheeler's fish restaurant.

* * *

Afterwards they sat in a shelter on the sea-front. Alan Green looked out at the calm sea and said reflectively: 'I have lived here most of my life and I'll be sorry to leave. But I'll have a better life with my daughter and grandchildren in La Jolie and it's a warmer climate. Mind you, California is experiencing an electricity shortage at the moment. Isn't it amazing 52; even though they have a monopoly of the finest brains in the world they didn't foresee such a thing. Computers are very good when it comes to number-crunching, but they are not so good at guesswork. I remember once we employed an agency to find a site for a new factory; they selected one which they assured us was eminently suitable. One of my employees who was in the vicinity, purely out of curiosity went over it with a divining rod and discovered a hidden stream underneath. We then discovered that the whole site was subject to frequent flooding. I gave him a large bonus which he well deserved. We sued the firm of surveyors ....'

Andrew interrupted him, saying: 'I don't suppose you saw much of my grandmother and her partner after she had the baby.'

'We saw them occasionally. Hazel and I visited Christina when the baby was about six-months old. We telephoned to tell her we were in town after doing some shopping in the West End and she invited us to her flat in Baker Street. Frances was a lovely child. Hazel said on our way home: 'She looks just like you, Alan. Same nose, same chin.' I replied, knowing that she would never believe me: 'Yes, I shtupped Christina while we were swimming together, so it's probably mine.' And Hazel replied: "I bet you wish it were."

'Christina looked radiant. Motherhood obviously suited her. And fatherhood suited Frank. He was immensely proud of his daughter. At a later date Christina confided in me that Frank would sometimes taunt her by asking who was the child's father. But though he had a low sperm count he could have fathered a child.

'Now that I have had time to consider it, I believe that the Contessa allowed both Berry and I to make love to her because she was desperate to become pregnant. She may have hoped that having a child would save Frank's sanity. I muffed my opportunity, unfortunately. We don't know whether William Berry was more successful and it is likely now that we shall never know.'

'Doesn't the fact that Berry continued to give her financial support suggest that he was the father.'

'No. He was in love with her. That doesn't prove that Frances was his child.'

'So I shall never know who my grandfather was.'

'You have the choice,' Alan Green said with a wry smile, between coitus interruptus, a leaky condom or a resurgence of someone's sperm. I favour the latter theory myself.'

Andrew said with a cheeky grin: 'You've left out an alternative.'

'What is that?'

'A virgin birth.'

They both laughed.

39

Aan Green continued, as they walked along the promenade: 'People need laughter to help them cope with a tragic world. Perhaps the sheer scale of the task caused Frank to have a nervous breakdown. While he was in the depths of depression William Berry persuaded him to have an operation.'

'Operation? I thought you said he consulted a psychiatrist.'

Alan Green did not appear to have heard. Gazing out to sea, he said abstractedly: 'The fact that the top sails of a sailing ship appear over the horizon before the hull becomes visible gave people the first clue to the fact that the Earth is spherical. Frank said something similar must have given Minkowski and Einstein a clue to the fact that we live in a four-dimensional hyper-sphere.'

Ignoring his remark, Andrew enquired quietly: 'Tell me again why my grandmother fascinated you.'

Alan Green brushed a fly from his face and said reflectively: 'She had a musical voice with just the trace of an accent. And she had this magnificent dignity and serenity. Those qualities plus her exceptional features made her irresistible. I felt that a little bit of her belonged to me after that experience in the sea. I shall take the memory with me to La Jolie.' He added with a rueful grimace: 'And beyond that to the grave.'

'What did Berry get out of his relationship with her?'

'He liked to take possession of things. That's a miserly kind of satisfaction. But then perhaps I shouldn't say that. We were probably two of a kind.'

'Did Frank love my grandmother?'

'I'm sure he did 52; although it was very difficult for him to give her the attention she deserved while he was working in the mad world of show business. He was always busy devising new ways of making people laugh. Nowadays a famous comedian will have a team of writers turning out gags for him. Frank did the whole lot himself. Which may be the reason why he failed 52; although his manic-depressive personality probably had something to do with it.'

'You said something about an operation.'

'I'm coming to that. He was quite crazy. He lived in a fantasy world.'

'Was he on drugs?'

'I'm sure he used them occasionally.'

'You still haven't told me how he committed suicide.'

'I hate talking about it. You know it has just occurred to me that what William intended to tell you concerning the supernatural might have had nothing at all to do with Christina's pregnancy. It might have had to do with Frank's suicide note. Let me tell you what led up to it first.

About a year after the birth of Christina's child William and Sally decided to throw a weekend house party in their house near Eastbourne. He wanted publicity for a new glossy fashion magazine he was about to launch. Christina played an important part in its design and production.. He invited personal friends for the first night. The second night he invited numerous journalists and television stars. Christina had a nanny, who came with her to look after Frances. Hazel's sister baby-sat for us the two nights we were away.

William's brand new shiny Rolls-Royce Phantom was standing in the drive, when we arrived. Hazel whispered: 'It looks as if he changes his car every time it needs a wash.'

Sally welcomed us and her maid showed us to our room, which had an en-suite bathroom, quite a novelty in those days. I remember being impressed by the opulence of the household. I had travelled far from my penniless youth. But I had an uncomfortable feeling that William Berry had travelled further.

I was fussing over the labrador in the hall downstairs just before dinner, when William appeared, wearing a houndstooth jacket with a yellow waistcoat and a loud red tie. He said, laughing at his own wit: 'Christina and Frank have brought a nanny who comes from Copenhagen. I told her I love Danish pastries --especially ones with long blond hair!'

I enquired: 'How's Frank?'

'He seems on a more even keel 52; he's got an engagement in Worthing next week.'.

'I'm glad he's feeling better,' I said, dismissing the dog with a final pat.

'There's no need for him to suffer from depression when there's a known cure.'

'What kind of a cure?' I enquired.

'A psychiatrist friend of mine told me all about it. Hi, Hazel, you're looking very glamorous.'

Hazel had just appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing a black blouse with a plunging neckline, and a long white skirt.

She descended the stairs, trailing the baluster with her little finger, giving a passable imitation of Joan Crawford and said to William: 'How's my gorgeous big hunk tonight?'

She was being ironic, of course. William was three inches shorter than I am. I have shrunk since then. However, I am here, still alive, and telling you my life story. What was I saying? Yes, we drifted into the dining room, which was full of rather heavy, dark Jacobean furniture they had inherited from Sally's father. William poured out a dry sherry for Hazel and a malt whisky for me. He offered me a Cuban cigar, which I declined. After lighting up his cigar he told us with relish some scandals involving some of the celebrities and television stars he had invited to the party the following night.

*

Examining the meat on his plate during dinner that evening, Frank quipped: 'This poor lamb was a vegetarian 52; she would have loved these greens. What do you say to that, Master William?'

William replied: 'There's no answer to that, Master Frank.'

Frank then took a great gulp of wine and quoted William Blake:

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower."

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour."

'Our lives,' he went on 'are governed by infinitesimally small forces. The effects are sometimes out of all proportion to their size. Take Coreolis for example --'

'You take it,' I interjected, rudely.

Ignoring me, Frank went on: 'Coreolis, for example, affects the direction of spin of water draining from our baths.'

Hazel said: 'If you want to discuss small things, why not talk about your baby daughter?'

Frank looked momentarily abashed.

'He's a wonderful father,' Christina said, looking up. 'He gives Frances the bottle whenever he is at home.'

'I take a swig of her milk when Christina isn't looking,' Frank, said assuming a villainous grin. Suddenly changing expression, he went on: 'Talking of babies, Thomas Edison once showed a lady the very first electric light bulb. She said: 'What use is electricity?' and he asked her: 'What use is a baby?'

William said: 'Okay, okay Frank. Now tell us a really funny story.'

'Let's hear one of your magazine stories first.'

William then told us that one of his magazines had recently featured on its cover a giant halibut that had been caught in an angling competition. The editor of the magazine became suspicious, made enquiries and discovered that the winner had bought the fish in Billingsgate market.

He said: 'Your turn now, Frank.'

Frank described how a golfer had sliced his ball onto the main road that ran alongside the fairway. When he returned to the clubhouse, the club professional told him that his ball had gone through the windscreen of a bus, causing a multiple car pile-up which had killed twenty-nine people. Aghast at the accident, the horrified golfer exclaimed: 'What can I do about it?' The professional said impatiently: 'Next time hold the club properly,' and proceeded to demonstrate the correct grip.

Frank's hapless expression provoked gales of laughter.

Christina rose from the table to give the nanny some instructions. As she left the room I remembered Aphrodite in the sea and thought how privileged I had been to make love to her.

Frank entertained us for the next hour or so telling jokes, impersonating politicians and movie stars and miming with comic genius. He was great company until a giant black squid dragged him down into the depths of depression. Then he became another person ...

* * *

Alan Green continued: The following day was very pleasant. William enjoyed playing the convivial host. After Hazel had telephoned home to make sure the children were all right, we drove along the coast to Hastings. Frank and the Contessa remained behind 52; he was preparing his script for a show at the Worthing theatre and she was nursing her baby. William and I stood in the drive for a minute or two, arguing over which car we should use. Eventually, I yielded to his suggestion that I should test out some refinements in his car, which he had pointedly remarked, were lacking in my slightly older Rolls-Royce. I had already made up my mind to remark that the improvements were purely cosmetic. But when for some reason Hazel said that she preferred Bentleys, I perversely changed my mind and announced that I intended to order the new Rolls-Royce

William indicated Beachy Head, a famous five-hundred foot cliff on our right-hand side, as we drove past. In spite of his pathetic attempts to score points off me, I was enjoying the weekend. The air was warm. A few tiny tufts of golden sunlit clouds hung in a clear blue sky. The sea on our right was calm. When William said that a 'nuts and bolts' business such as mine must be rather boring. I pointed out that the only important factor in business was a healthy balance sheet. Nevertheless, he continued boasting about the famous people he met during the course of his normal working week.

We had coffee in a restaurant in Hastings. William drove on the return journey. As we neared his house, he called out: 'Sally, turn on the charm for Joe McNulty this evening, won't you.' McNulty was a TV presenter, famous for the fierce grilling he gave politicians.

'I shall be wearing my strapless black dress.'

'Good girl! That'll knock their eyes out. And you, Hazel.'

'If he's as good-looking as he appears on screen, I'll have him for dinner.'

Four of us went for a stroll in the gardens after lunch. Frank remained behind on the wooden bench on the patio, his head bowed over his script. Christina sat beside him, with the baby in her arms, making coo-ing noises.

I took Sally's arm. As we strolled along a path by the lawn, she told me about William's romantic proposal of marriage. He was walking ahead of us, his arm familiarly draped over Hazel's shoulder. I took satisfaction from the fact that he looked quite small beside her.

'Christina looks well,' I commented to Sally.

She replied: 'Yes, she's a beautiful woman. I can see why William constantly refers to the occasion when he met her at the Anchor hotel. I believe she had a bad experience in Italy during the war.'

'Yes, I believe so. Where will your new guests be staying?'

William has booked them into the South Downs hotel. They should arrive just after six. He is hoping to get some publicity for his new Grace and Style magazine. Christina's cover design was wonderful.'

'How did he manage to persuade Joe McNulty to come down.'

He met him at the Garrick club. He says he's excellent company.'

Hazel and William sat on a battered wooden bench on a promontory overlooking the sea and we drew up two garden chairs. William said to me jovially: 'Your wife says you're a workaholic. Always tearing round the country inspecting your factories. She wonders what you're up to half the time.'

Hazel smiled and said: 'I told him I wouldn't be surprised if you had a secret mistress.'

Sally exclaimed: 'I would die if William was unfaithful!'

William declared: 'You needn't worry 52; Hazel doesn't fancy me.'

'Sally, be honest,' Hazel interjected: 'If William had a fling, it would upset you at first but you'd eventually forgive him.'

'No, I would immediately ask for a divorce.'

William protested. 'Apart from seducing ninety-per-cent of my female staff, I have never done anything wrong. How about you, Hazel 52; any infidelities to declare?'

'No, but we live in hopes.'

I laughed, in the knowledge that she would certainly reject the squint-eyed runt who had asked the question.

We spent the afternoon playing Monopoly in the conservatory, while Frank continued working on his script. Sally, who probably had the least financial expertise among us, won both games.

At about five o'clock the caterer's van arrived. A huge bearded man donned a smock and a white chef's hat and took over the kitchen. Four men and an attractive, plump blond girl stocked three bars placed at strategic locations in the house with champagne, liquor, wine and beer. I noticed that William went to some considerable lengths to ensure that his precious stock of vintage wines was stashed away safely. About five-thirty a maid served tea and pastries on the patio. Frank took a crème feuille and asked if we would mind listening to his script. Christina wiped a dab of cream from his mouth with a napkin and protested gently: 'Darling, the party will be starting soon.'

'I'm worried. It's going to be a difficult audience in Worthing. Average age over sixty. I'll just read out part of it. Let me know what you think.'

'Go ahead,' William said, pursing his lips judiciously, and added wickedly: 'I promise not to laugh.'

Frank began reading:

'I feel really comfortable here in Worthing, talking to retired accountants, doctors and bank managers. You're so different from those vulgar people in Brighton where they think peer pressure means there are too many people standing on the pier. There are so many old people living on the South coast it's called God's Waiting Room. Let's hope we all have a long time to wait.

'My wife became pregnant recently and asked if the Queen's personal obstetrician could deliver her baby. When I told her his fee, she said indignantly 'Why should he charge when Selfridges delivers for nothing?' I said: 'Okay; we'll let him deliver your baby 52; they've no use for cash in Heaven.' She replied: 'In that case I'll have to use my cheque book. Does that expression shoplifting mean that God has already raised Harrods and Harvey Nichols up to Heaven? If there are no shops up there, I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered in High Street Kensington.'

Frank looked around anxiously and said: ''That's just the warm up, you know.'

He started reading again: 'Scientists keep arguing about the shape of the universe. The Welsh think it's shaped like a rugby ball. The Scots think it's shaped like a golf ball. I asked a barman in Glasgow: 'Does God always hole in one when he plays golf? He said: 'No 52; he's just like the rest of us. But he doesn't say: 'Oh Christ!' every time his ball goes into a bunker. 'Personally, I think the universe is shaped like an egg 52; that's a ball with middle-aged spread. If I stand sideways, you'll see what I mean. Talking of the passage of time, when I was a baby taking my milk it seemed to take an eternity transferring from one breast to another. I used to say: 'Only another sixty-five million more years and I'll have that lovely nipple in my mouth again.' When I became adolescent it seemed like a hundred million years before I was able to repeat the experience.

'There is no time like the present. And there's no present like the time. The way medicine is advancing you'll get a gift-wrapped cheque for a hundred years as a Christmas present. And then you'll complain: 'That miserable old so-and-so 52; he gave me five-hundred years last Christmas. But that's human nature, isn't it? 52; we're never satisfied. We'll waste the hundred years on feckless living just as we did the five-hundred and for that matter the five-thousand years that a rich grandfather gave us when he made a killing on the Time Exchange.

But what is time? It is really an illusion foisted on us by our failure to understand the Special Theory of Relativity, which tells us that space and time are bound up with one another. Einstein explained it all but we still have not grasped its full significance. A thousand years from now every baby will be taught relativity at his mother's knee and will learn the secret of his own immortality. Then he won't mind waiting a few million years for his next feed. I am now about to preach Einstein's gospel ...'

William wickedly interrupted: 'Frank, you're supposed to be making us laugh.'

Frank said impatiently ' I haven't reached the punch line. I go on to describe how time expands when we dream ... '

William interrupted scornfully: 'Time kills you stone dead. And that's all there is to say about it.'

'We're getting into deep philosophical water here,' Frank said mildly. 'I just want to continue telling my joke.'

'You can't joke about the fact that time is our arch enemy.'

'I'll be addressing an intelligent audience. Which means I can joke about anything.'

I intervened and said: 'Let him finish his joke, William. Frank's a comedian not a philosopher. Let's hear the end of the joke.'

But we never did 52; Frank shook his head, gave an exaggerated yawn and said: 'I need a drink.'

Christina shot him a warning glance.

William got up from the table and said in a friendly manner: 'Okay, Frank, whisky, gin, brandy? What'll it be? How about the rest of you. Let's get warmed up for the party.'

I said to Hazel: 'Let's go and get dressed.'

Sally went to give some final instructions to the staff. Christina accompanied us upstairs. On the landing, Hazel remarked: 'You're looking worried, Christina.'

'Frank isn't supposed to drink.'

'One drink won't harm him.'

We went to our respective bedrooms.

I remarked to Hazel, as we were changing into our evening clothes: 'Christina's looking very upset. I have never seen such a worried expression on her face before.'

'She is facing the truth.'

'What's that?' I enquired absently. Hazel had just removed her dress and I was admiring her legs.

'The truth that Frank is quite mad.'

'He just likes pushing out the boundaries of conventional humour.'

'He's beginning to believe his own fantasies. That's the first sign of madness.'

'Not at all. He has always made jokes about popular science. The old people who live in Worthing will love it.'

'I'm not so sure. And he is drinking too much. I would hate to be in Christina's shoes.'

Earlier in the day, the tiny face of Christina's baby had genuinely seemed to resemble my own, and although I knew it was most unlikely that I could be the father, I felt a twinge of conscience. That single act of coitus in the water seemed more reprehensible than any other of my past misdeeds. I went over to where Hazel was sitting on the bed, and wrapped my arms round her as a form of silent apology. She misjudged my intentions and exclaimed: 'Hello, Big Boy, do I still turn you on?'

We kissed and then made love, my half-made cravat drooping over her mocking face. Soon her expression changed and she made her unintelligible noises.

Afterwards, as we resumed dressing, she commented with a smile

'There must be something in the Eastbourne air. We should come here more often.'

My guilty feeling had resulted in as satisfying and spontaneous act of lovemaking as we had ever enjoyed.

*

William ordered the white-coated waiters to serve champagne as soon as we came down. We were already a little drunk by the time the new guests arrived. When Frank was introduced to Joe McNulty, he pointed to his crimson cummerbund and asked: 'Why does a famous conservative drape himself in the red flag?'

He replied good-humouredly: 'My free-enterprise stomach needs communist discipline.'

'He has a blue one as well,' his wife, Anna, remarked, inconsequentially.

They moved towards another group of guests.

Frank regarded them with a slightly mystified expression as they made their way to a bar set up in the hall. Hazel, wearing a pink, clinging gown, whose price she had resolutely refused to tell me, drifted into the living room. As I followed her, I noticed a portrait above the fireplace of Sally's brother, the Royal Air Force navigator, and realised that had he lived he would now be head of the Willoughby organization and William would certainly not be. enjoying his present success.

I went to join Christina, who was standing alone, toying with a glass of champagne, and asked her if all was quiet on the baby front. Ignoring my question, she said anxiously: 'Please keep an eye on Frank. He's in one of his moods.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Try to stop him from getting into an argument. I ask because you have always been a trusted friend.'

I whispered: 'That swim we had together was one of the most momentous events in my life.'

Christina glanced round the room and then replied softly: 'It was only what our friendship deserved.'

William invited us to meet Joe McNulty and his wife, Anna. He led us into the dining-room, where McNulty, his wife and other guests were helping themselves from a table spread with tiny rolls, canapes and other tidbits.. A woman journalist with short gold hair streaked with grey remarked laconically: 'They say caviar comes from the virgin sturgeon.'

Joe McNulty replied: 'Not to beluga the point, they say Lenin stands up in his tomb in Moscow and salutes every time one passes through Red Square.'

'You should blush for that pun,' the lady journalist replied, dipping a biscuit into the caviar.

William said: 'May I introduce: Christina, Countess Atoli, and Alan Green, managing director of Mermaid Electronics.

Christina looked embarrassed at being introduced in this fashion. Anna McNulty spoke to her in Italian:

'How nice to meet a countess.'

'I do not use the title any more.'

'When did you come to England?'

'Just after the war.'

'Ah, what a confused state Italy was in. Il Duce led your country a devil's dance.'

'I do not regard Italy as my country any more. I spent much of my youth in England. It is here that I belong.'

Frank appeared and hovered uncertainly beside them. Christina said: 'This is Frank Hawkins, my boy friend.'

Anna McNulty remarked with a smile, as they shook hands,' Yes, I have heard you on the radio. You were very funny.'

'Thank you.'

Frank took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, drank it in one fierce gulp and declared: 'Those bastards at the Beeb did their best to ruin my career.'

'What happened?' Anna McNulty enquired, politely.

Frank's screwed up his face and launched into a fierce denunciation of the producer who had killed off his show, adding that the board of the BBC from the Chairman downwards consisted of antiquated, bigoted nincompoops who lacked intellectual rigour, were dominated by ratings considerations and had no conception of what modern life was all about.

Joe McNulty intervened, suavely: 'I can understand your being miffed, Frank. But I must say I have always found them a fairly reasonable lot. They have a duty not to offend their audiences.'

'All I did was to hint that people's beliefs should not be dismissed out of hand merely because they seem a little odd to our scientifically-dominated minds.'

'That's okay, Frank, as long as you appreciate that the BBC has to take a wider view.'

'My job is to give people a humorous perspective on some of the deeper mysteries of life.'

. 'The BBC can't be seen to be pandering to superstition.'

'Superstition!'

I couldn't think of what to say to head off the impending crisis. McNulty's sceptical expression indicated a complete absence of sympathy for Frank's point of view.

I intervened lamely: 'Let's forget about Auntie Beeb and enjoy the party.'

The three-piece band in the conservatory had just struck up with 'Let's Twist Again Like We Did Last Summer. I hoped the loud music would stop the argument from developing further.

'Nothing can, or should, be excluded when it comes to telling jokes,' Frank said, with an angry expression. 'I am entitled to treat those two impostors, science and religion, just the same. And I'm surprised at you, McNulty, sticking up for the BBC, which ought to have as its motto: Blandness conquers all.'

McNulty shrugged and said: 'If you can't behave yourself when you're on the air, you have to take the consequences.'

'Meaning?' Frank demanded.

'What I said 52; take it on the chin without whimpering.'

Frank's face went red.

'You're not in the fucking studio now, insulting politicians who try hard to serve the public.'

As Joe McNulty turned his back, Frank put his hand on his shoulder and attempted to turn him round. He had half-succeeded, when McNulty threw a right-hand hook which caught the side of Frank's face. I grabbed Frank by both arms and simultaneously William restrained McNulty and pulled him away. Both men glowered at each other. A full-scale brawl had been narrowly avoided.

Anna McNulty tried to calm things down, saying: 'That's enough, children. You've both shown admirable spirit. No more fighting, Let's get on with the party.'

McNulty grunted: 'Sorry, William. I was provoked.'

Frank stalked out of the room, clasping his injured face. I ran after him and tried to console him. But he shook his head and went up to his room. I went in search of Christina and told her what had happened. She immediately ran upstairs after him.

The party continued until three in the morning. Frank and Christina did not appear again.

* * *

I came down to breakfast the following morning with a slight hangover. William and Christina were sitting at the dining-room table in close conversation. I helped myself to orange juice from the sideboard and sat opposite them.

William leaned towards me and said in a confidential tone: 'I think I have persuaded Christina that Frank needs to see a new psychiatrist. I have recommended a top man.'

I replied: 'It was McNulty who threw the first punch.'

'He was provoked,' William insisted, with a severe expression.

Christina looked as though she was about to cry.

40

Aan Green told Andrew that later that week he and his wife had driven along the coast from their home in Brighton to watch Frank Hawkins perform in the Worthing theatre. He came on stage wearing a sober blue suit, looking more like a lay preacher than a comedian, and started talking about Job, the unfortunate character in the Bible who suffers every piece of ill fortune it is possible to imagine. There was silence, as the audience waited expectantly for some jokes. He went on earnestly: 'Job is a virtuous man who suffers a totally undeserved run of bad luck, which causes him to lose everything, including his family and all his possessions. This is, of course, entirely consistent with the view that God deliberately created an unstable, totally unpredictable world. Those of you of a scientific bent know that Heisenberg's uncertainty principle confirms that Uncertainty is embedded in the very sub-atomic structure from which the universe is made. That is why we are constantly at the mercy of events such as earthquakes, cyclones and volcanic eruptions. Einstein was very reluctant to accept the concept of quantum uncertainty. He said, famously: 'God does not play dice.' But all the available evidence points to the fact that he does.

'You came here expecting to laugh and I'm not going to disappoint you. We all laugh when a man slips on a banana skin. We laugh out of relief that it has happened to someone else and not ourselves..'

He performed a pratfall, landed on his behind, raised himself into a ridiculous position with his back arched, grinned fatuously at the audience and said 'There you are! A practical demonstration of the unexpected.'

There was a slight ripple of laughter.

If Frank had ended his performance there, his audience might have granted him a grudging, if slightly puzzled, tolerance. They were expecting more jokes. Unfortunately, looking pathetic and bemused, he went into a listless travesty of his tennis-playing routine, without the clowning and cavorting that usually made it so funny. A sound came from the audience like the buzzing of a beehive overtaken by some natural disaster. Frank dropped his tennis racquet and ran off the stage. And that more or less ended his career as a comedian.

* * *

'What happened to him after that?'

Alan Green looked at his watch and said: 'I can only give you another hour 52; I have more packing to do. Frank's abject failure in the Worthing theatre depressed him so much that he started drinking heavily again. William Berry urged Christina to consult his psychiatrist friend in Harley Street. So she accompanied Frank to see Dr. Graham Greenwich-Smith, who prescribed some new tranquilizers.

'Frank appeared to improve for a while. Another theatrical agent took him on his books. Shortly afterwards he wrote an entirely new script for BBC radio, the action of which takes place in a beehive and makes fun of the English class system. The bees were given accents appropriate to their social status. Christina's enthusiastic praise of the script helped him to recover his equilibrium. But then he got into trouble again with the BBC because he insisted that the queen bee in his play should sound exactly like Queen Elizabeth the Second. Since the part included a swear word, the BBC refused permission. Frank quarrelled furiously with the producer over the issue and the project was abandoned.

More visits to Doctor Greenwich-Smith followed.

The doctor tried ECT 52; Electric Shock Treatment. In those days it was very unpleasant 52; it has been much refined since then and is now much less trying. Frank suffered the ordeal bravely. His memory was slightly impaired for a few weeks, but he soon recovered and started on a new stage script, which helped him on the road to recovery.

Shortly afterwards he tried to resume his career as a stand-up comedian in a night club. But he was booed off stage and arrived home in a pitiful condition.

'Dr Greenwich-Smith then recommended something called pre-frontal lobotomy. He told Frank and Christina: 'We have progressed a great deal since the early procedures. The operation I should like to perform is an new development pioneered by Swedish doctors 52; it is called Anterior Capsulotomy.'

He drew a picture of the brain on a sheet of paper and said with an encouraging smile: 'It entails making bilateral lesions in the anterior limb of the internal capsule, thus disconnecting the limbic system from the frontal lobes. It is a very straightforward operation and has had very good results in lifting the spirits of patients with severe depression. I strongly recommend it. Think about it for a day or two, and let me know how you and your husb 52; your boy friend feel 52; about it.'

Christina enquired, anxiously: 'What if the operation doesn't work?'

He answered: 'The worst that can happen is that he will continue to be depressed.'

They discussed the situation a few days later and Frank agreed to have the operation.

I visited Frank in the private nursing home the night before the operation took place. He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette as I came in. His face was sallow and lined, his eyes watery, like an old man's.

I said cheerfully: 'Hi there, old buddy. How's it going?'

'It's hellish.'

'You'll be fine after this op.'

'I hope so. The Beeb has let me down again, but a film company has expressed interest in an outline I sent them recently.'

'Sounds hopeful. I imagine writing is less exhausting than performing on stage.'

'I like performing, but if I can earn a living writing comedy, that's fine.'

'How's Frances?'

'She's fine. And Christina is a different person now she has a baby.'

'Good.'

Suddenly he asked: 'What is it like to be a Jew?'

Taken by surprise, I replied: 'I suppose I'm just like everyone else.'

'Do you believe in God?'

'Religion doesn't have much bearing on the modern world.'

He muttered. 'When you're about to undergo an operation you begin to think it does. It's a big leap in the dark.'

I said: 'Oh, come off it, Frank. Don't exaggerate. The mortality rate is practically nil. So what's worrying you?'

'The mere fact that William Berry keeps urging me to have it depresses me. Incidentally, do you remember how we used to make fun of him? He's turned the tables on me now.'

'Don't blame William. You don't have to have the op if you don't want to.'

'It requires faith to have an operation. My favourite poet, William Blake, admired the ancient Israelites for their faith in God. It seemed to run through them like lettering runs through sticks of Brighton rock. That's why I asked you what does it feel like being a Jew.'

'I'm not an ancient Israelite 52; I'm a modern one. Anyway, the doctor wouldn't recommend this operation if he didn't believe it was going to succeed. If you're searching for religious faith, why not ask Christina.'

He said, gloomily: 'I think she's lost it, too.' Looking at his watch, he added: 'She should be here soon.'

Christina hadn't arrived, when I left him to catch my train for Brighton. I was uncomfortable about the reply I had been forced to give Frank. I wished I could have told him that I was a believer.

* * *

I called in to see Frank a few days after the operation. His head was still bandaged. He grinned feebly when he saw me and said: 'The joke's on me, Alan. I let them take my brain out to see if they could find God but they didn't find Him there.'

I said encouragingly: 'You'll be as right as rain when you've had some rest.'

At the time I was very engrossed in some new developments which were taking place in my industry. We needed extra capital to survive in what was becoming an ever more fast-moving and competitive business. I was too busy with accountants and finance managers to enjoy much of a social life. I didn't see Christina or Frank after that for several months. I was on the eight-twenty-one train from Brighton to London, having breakfast in the restaurant car, when I heard someone say: 'Another poor devil jumped from Beachy Head yesterday.' I paid no attention, thinking that it was just another of those tragedies that one continually reads about in the newspapers. My secretary told me when I arrived at my office, that a lady called Christina Atoli had telephoned. I returned the call and Christina told me that Frank Hawkins had committed suicide. I said: 'I'm on my way to see you.'

'Thank you 52; you have always been a wonderful friend,' she responded.

As I got into a taxi, I thought how much nicer it would have been if I had been her lover.

A maid showed me into the living-room. Christina was sitting on a yellow cane settee with a Daily Telegraph in her hand. The headline said: "Famous Comedian Jumps from the Devil's Chimney"-- The Devil's Chimney was part of Beachy Head, a favourite spot for suicides. It's no longer there 52; it collapsed recently as the result of erosion.

Christina stood up and cried silently in my arms.

Later, as we drank coffee, she said angrily: 'They refer to him as "famous." But they never really gave him a chance to develop his talents.'

'What was he doing on Beachy Head.'

'We had been to visit William in Eastbourne.'

After the operation, Frank found writing new scripts very difficult. He told Christina: that 'the fizz has gone from the bottle,' and he no longer wanted to live. Nothing was funny any more. God had given him a talent for comedy and the surgeon had removed it.

In between bouts of crying, Christina said that she bitterly regretted having allowed Frank to have the operation. I pointed out that I had also thought it would help. I told her we shouldn't blame the doctors, because they are often faced with very difficult choices.

They had gone down to Eastbourne because Frank insisted that he wanted to thank William in person for paying for the operation. Christina tried to talk him out of it. But he insisted, adding that he had had a very special joke he wanted to tell him. Christina telephoned Sally to say they were coming and they set off on a car journey to Eastbourne. On the way Christina kept asking Frank about the joke. But he refused to answer and just stared intently ahead through the windscreen.

Sally welcomed them, assured Frank that he would soon be back to his old self and invited them to stay for dinner. Frank was unable to stop his head from shaking. He asked if he could sit at the end of the garden and look at the sea. Sally showed him the way out through the conservatory.

William came in shortly afterwards and went upstairs to change. Christina walked to the end of the garden, where Frank was peacefully contemplating the dark grey sea. There remained a few faint streaks of crimson reflected from the dying sun. As they walked back to the house, she asked him again about the joke and he answered: 'What joke?' He appeared to have completely forgotten about it.

Sally served trout with almonds, accompanied by spaghetti in deference to Christina's taste for pasta.. William brought out a wine which he assured them, as he removed the cork, "is perfect for old trouts like us." Everyone laughed except Frank, who kept twisting his napkin endlessly in his hands.

The dinner was an ordeal. Christina, recognising from his behaviour that Frank was seriously ill, announced that she intended to make an appointment with the doctor as soon as they returned to London.

Suddenly Frank said to William: 'Have you ever slept with Christina?'

William slowly shook his head and replied, gravely: 'I don't think my wife would have approved.'

Sally said angrily: 'That is a terrible thing to say, Frank Hawkins. I think you should apologise.'

He replied: 'I didn't accuse him of anything. I just asked him a question, which he hasn't answered.'

Christina, extremely embarrassed, said: 'I'm sorry, William and Hazel. Please forgive him. He is still suffering from the effects of the operation.'

Frank interjected: 'That's obvious. And it should also be obvious that I can no longer be held responsible for my actions. Doctor Graham Greenwich-Smith has taken charge of my brain. If I commit any indiscretions, he is the culprit and any complaints should be addressed to him.'

Christina stood up and announced that she and Frank were leaving. But he ignored her, started eating hungrily and kept pouring himself out more wine, smiling as though nothing had happened.

When everything appeared to have returned to normal, Frank suddenly said: 'Frances is entitled to know who her father is when she grows up.'

What gave you this extraordinary idea that she isn't yours?' Sally enquired.

Frank replied: 'Only my darling Contessa knows the truth. I won't force it from her.'

William growled: 'You've lost all sense of decency and decorum, Frank. Try to behave yourself.'

Frank said mildly. 'Whatever happens nothing can alter the fact that my balls don't function properly and it is extremely doubtful if Frances is my child. I gave Christina permission to become pregnant by any man she chose. Perhaps I shouldn't have asked you that question, William, because I promised Christina that I would never ask who got her pregnant. But the operation has changed everything 52; it has turned me into a different person. I no longer feel bound by that promise. It's one thing to be deprived of one's balls, it's quite another to be deprived of one's brain. Surgery has turned me into someone without a sense of humour. My jokes were never that good, but they added a little to the gaiety of nations. I was put on this earth for a purpose 52; to show that the world may be chaotic but it is not meaningless.

'The only consolation I can find is that I am Einstein's self-appointed apostle. In a thousand years, when it has finally sunk in that we are all spiders clinging to the multi-dimensional web of Space-time, we shall all know that we are immortal and indestructible. Until then everyone will continue to say I am mad. To actually know that one is mad is delightful, because it allows one to be sane whenever one feels like it 52; a privilege denied to those who are mad but don't know they are mad. However, unfortunately I'm in the unenviable situation of having been sentenced to madness by a mad doctor who thinks he's God.'

Frank pushed his plate away from him, stood up and announced that he was going for a walk. As he reached the door of the dining-room, he turned round and said: 'I have one last joke for you, William. A man went to Heaven and demanded to know the whereabouts of his sense of humour. The angels told him they had put it in a special grotto, adding: It's very small 52; you would need a magnifying glass to see it.' He asked why. And they answered in chorus: 'Because brevity is the soul of wit.' Take note of that, William, next time you make one of your rambling after-dinner speeches.'

* * *

Frank's suicide note read:

My darling Christina, I had a precognitive dream in which I flew off the top of a cliff, having learned how to fly through time. My recent operation taught me an important lesson; namely that when one awakens from an anaesthetic it is impossible to tell whether an hour has passed or seven billion years 52; just enough time for me to evolve from an amoeba into your favourite comedian. From this I deduce that our separation will last no longer than the twinkling of an eye.

I am proud to have been a comedian. One day laughter will be considered as essential as food and water and will be supplied by a public utility.

I await your arrival in a place where there is no need for clocks and watches .

Your devoted Frank

* * *

Andrew said grimly when Alan Green had finished: 'Thanks for putting me in the picture. It's a shame my grandmother had to suffer so much.

Green said with a quizzical look. 'At least she was never bored. And she had a daughter and a grandson. I admire comedians. They're like sailors battling against a storm.'

Andrew did not reply. He stroked his chin, discovering in the process that he hadn't shaved that morning.

'So, Andrew,' Green continued, 'I'm off to California tomorrow and I'll leave you with the thought that William Berry, when he mentioned the paranormal, might simply have been thinking about what makes people laugh, because as Frank Hawkins once remarked, that's the biggest mystery of all.

'Ha ha,' Andrew responded derisively, thinking that Alan Green was making fun of him.. Nevertheless, on the way home he decided that this quotation from his grandmother's lover would be a suitably upbeat note on which to end William Berry's biography.