Storyboard (6 page)

Advertising hadn’t helped Sophia at all, Deborah thought. It wasn’t that Deborah disapproved of
advertising
as such. Goodness, no! They had moved on, her generation of progressives, from the old bogey-man idea of big business. They weren’t against capitalism because it was
sinister
in any way, but only because it was
inefficient
; it was, both Deborah and Simon agreed, the first duty of a true radical in the nineteen-sixties to make capitalism
work
—management could be a vocation if it were open only to merit, and not (as unfortunately it still was very largely) to those who knew the right
people
and had been to the right school and the right university. No, advertising was only a tool, and could be made to work for perfectly proper ends; in the 1959 Election both parties had used the techniques of mass communication, and Labour, with rather less money but more talent, had done it better. But for Sophia advertising wasn’t a good idea. What the Principal of St. Mary’s had called “the widening ripple of neurosis” associated with any theatrical production (she had used the phrase in denying Deborah permission to play Solveig during an examination term) was associated also with the creation of advertisements. There was, as far as
Deborah could understand, much too much emotion involved, much too much pride, and matters too often came to nothing; such a continual application and
relaxation
of tension could hardly be good for one already under an emotional strain. And along with that there was the attitude of so many people in Sophia’s world to—well, to the whole business of sex—which was not the mature and understanding attitude of progressive
people
, but something much more superficial, more
narcissistic
really in many cases. You couldn’t
play
about
with the emotions in that way, and not damage the psyche. A truly adult relationship, responsibly undertaken, was one thing. Casual sex was quite another.

In any case, Deborah knew Sophia. She knew that Sophia’s inclinations were quite different, that she was if anything
too
serious about her affairs, that her idea of a relationship was really rather sloppy, and immature in a
different
way. Whenever Sophia was attracted to a man, she began to build him up in her mind, and to endow him with all sorts of qualities that perhaps he ought to have but usually didn’t. Many people did this, Deborah would admit; she herself and Simon were
constantly
being surprised when someone whom they liked and thought intelligent would turn out to go to church and vote Conservative. But Sophia, for whatever
defensive
reasons, went too far. An adult woman accepted men for what they were. It was the only way.

If one were worried about Sophia, it was only because one loved her. One worried also about how far one should go in trying to help her. Perhaps it was an impertinence to help people unless they asked for help. Deborah
remembered
with horror Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and Lady Tennyson, always foisting suitable young women on to that unhappy Edward Lear—not that Sophia was
in
that
case. And yet, if people didn’t ask for help, but one knew they needed it…. Deborah decided that she could in any case treat the whole matter on an
ad
hoc
basis as a problem in hospitality; no more than that. She and Simon had a friend—Ralph Gavell, a young research graduate, who was doing a piece of work on party politics in local government. He had come over to supper several times during the past year, and was due again. Usually when people came to the cottage for a meal, they were married or engaged couples, members of the younger set in the Company’s management, or friends Deborah had made through her work with the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. Ralph was a single man; Deborah never knew whom to invite with him, and usually didn’t invite anybody. Since Sophia was coming this week-end, and since they were both intelligent people, and so bound to have something in common, and as an academic he was obviously far more one of the right sort than the people she knew in London, it was only sensible to invite him on the Saturday. They would be four for supper. It was a problem in hospitality solved. No need to think of it as anything more.

*

Keith met Sophia in the hall, as she was collecting her suitcase from the porter. It was almost five-thirty on Friday afternoon. “Hullo! Just off?” he said.

“A bit early, I’m afraid. I’ve got a train to catch. I’m week-ending.”

“You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Oh, yes I do. Really I do.”

“I thought I’d come up and see you soon. See Hugh anyway. I was wondering when you’d have something you wanted to talk about. Nothing formal. Just a sort of——”

“Any time, I should think. Hugh’s got some ideas. I must get on, or I’ll miss my train.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” A pause. Sophia picked up her case, and was about to move away. “Ideas?”

“Testimonials. He’ll tell you all about it. He says all we’ve got to do is the same thing in bigger spaces. He’s got something worked out in press, but nothing in telly. Still, it’s enough to talk about. ‘Bye, Keith. Must fly.”

Somebody held open the swing doors. She had gone. Keith hesitated in the hall. He wondered whether he ought to be carrying her suitcase, at least until she could find a taxi. Testimonials! It didn’t sound very exciting. But she must have reached the corner by now, and he could hardly go running after her. Office hours were over. Would Hugh already have left? The lift ran a shuttle service down from the floors above. The Agency was going home. The hall was full of people, all going the same way. Most of the secretaries carried suitcases. They spent the week in hostels, or Working Girls’ Clubs, or tiny flats in S.W. 1, 3 or 5 or 7, and at the week-end they went home to their parents. One of them—a girl in Marketing—was married to a Welsh Rugby
International
. “Going up,” he said to the liftman, and moved back upwards, against the stream.

In his office, a message from P.A. was waiting for him, asking him to call in. “Won’t keep you,” P.A. said. “Expect you want to get home. I know I do. What’s Hugh going to show us, do you know?”

“Sophia Last said something about testimonials. I haven’t seen Hugh yet. I thought——”

“Testimonials!”

“Of course it’s not very original, but I thought——”

“It’s bloody unoriginal.”

“Hoppness being what they are, I thought——”

“Bloody stupid. Shouldn’t have done it. Needs new thinking.”

“Yes, P.A.”

“Too late now. I’m going home. But remind me in the morning to have a word with Christian, will you? Needs new thinking on a thing like this.”

“You want to change the Creative Group, P.A.?”

“Haven’t said so, have I? You just remind me to talk to Christian on Monday. I’m off now. Good night.”

“Good night, P.A.”

“You work too bloody hard, Keith,” P.A. said. “Kill yourself if you’re not careful. Ulcers. Thrombosis. Not worth it. Wouldn’t suit me at all.”

“No, it’s——”

“Still, I suppose it suits you, or you wouldn’t do it, eh? Lord knows you’re a free agent.”

*

Ralph Cavell had a round brown face, and spoke with a slight Leicestershire accent; his “u” sounds were made more with the lips than the tongue, and he said “
reemove
” instead of “remove”. He wore a sports jacket of blue-green tweed, and his fingers were what is called “blunt”. What I’ve been missing all this time and never known it, Sophia thought, is intelligent conversation about things that really matter. Ralph said, “Could I have some more
ratatouille
? It’s very good. It really is. I wouldn’t ask, only I know there is some.”

They spoke of Ralph’s work on local politics, and Deborah’s experiences with the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. Simon told them mournfully how the Company’s
co-ownership
scheme was breaking down because the men sold their shares as fast as they got them. Ralph was very funny about an old clergyman who had the next desk to him in Bodley, one of these real Oxford
eccentries
with his pockets full of bits of bread and kippers. He said, “I thought maybe the old chap kept them for the swans or something, or even horses, but he eats them himself, all green with mould and mixed up with bits of fluff from the lining of his pockets. He sits there, you know, behind a kind of barricade of books, munching away with his mouth open. I don’t know what he’s
working
on; I don’t think anybody does; the books haven’t been moved for fifty years. Something theological, I think.”

Deborah said, “Theological! Isn’t that typical?”

Simon said, “Well, you have to admire them, these old scholars. I mean, they go on year after year,
dedicated
and all that. I know it hasn’t much relevance to the sort of problems we’re facing nowadays, but—”

“Well,
I
don’t admire them much,” Ralph said. “Not when you think of all the money tied up in keeping an old—well, someone like that, living on a fellowship, never doing any work that matters. I mean, we just can’t afford that kind of thing today. There are plenty of
people
who could be doing really useful work—not just scientists; there’s a lot of useful work you can do
academically
without being a scientist—being kept out of universities just because there’s no room for them.
People
like Phil Latters, a really first-class sociologist—Mathematics First, been doing some good statistical stuff, and he’s got to go down because he couldn’t get a fellowship and can’t live on his grant. I tell you, it makes you see the dreaming spires in a very different light sometimes. Old Phil took a job in an advertising agency. The waste of it!”

“That’s one for you, Sophia.”

“Sophia’s sensible enough to know it’s true; don’t tell me she’s not. I’m sorry if I’ve been tactless, but I get a bit worked up when I think——”

“Waste is right. You couldn’t get more worked up about advertising than I do myself sometimes. Still, it’s a living. After all, I can’t
teach.
”

“No, of course not.”

“I do often think about teaching, but——”

“Teaching’s a dead end in this country.”

“Worse in the States,” Deborah said. “Simon and I get
The
Reporter,
you know, so we keep in touch with the way things are going over there. I gather there’s a real shortage of teachers. A terrible shortage! No wonder there’s all this trouble with juvenile delinquency.
Millions
for H-bombs, and nothing for teachers. It’s so short-sighted.”

Everyone agreed that it was short-sighted not to pay teachers more money, and that as things were there was no future in teaching. Deborah said that, as a matter of fact, she’d been thinking of helping out at the local school on Supply, but really it was so emotionally
exhausting
, and Sophia said that just the same you couldn’t deny it was something worth doing and she did often think of throwing up everything and doing it, and Simon said that teaching always seemed a vocation to him and perhaps simply raising the salary wouldn’t be enough to create a sense of vocation where one didn’t already exist, and Ralph said that speaking strictly as a materialist he thought there was at least a statistical correspondence between vocation and status which, as everybody knew, had become more or less dependent on salary since 1945. I can feel myself blossoming, Sophia thought; I really can. She was like a piece of the Punjab, arid for years without knowing it, to which a five-year plan had suddenly brought irrigation.

“I do like coming to you,” she said when Ralph had gone, and she and Deborah were stacking the dishes
before going to bed. “It’s like a week-end in a different world.”

“Well, darling, it’s your world really, isn’t it? You oughtn’t to cut yourself off, you know. You really oughtn’t.”

“Oh, I know. I could go to lectures, and join the Howard League and the Institute of Contemporary Art, and——”

“You could keep in touch with people.”

“What people?”

“People you know. You don’t have to live in an
advertising
world. Surely your time’s your own, away from the office?”

“London’s so big.”

“Darling, that’s not an answer.”

“I know. Dear Debbie, don’t go off at me. It’s all too difficult, and I get tired, and—but I have enjoyed this evening. I always do when I come to you, but somehow this was even better than it usually is. I suppose I needed the break more.”

Deborah said casually, “You could keep in touch with Ralph if you wanted to. He’d be grateful, I expect. I don’t think he knows many people in London.”

“Ralph?”

“You heard how bitter he was about the old fogies. He’s broke, poor dear, and doesn’t think he can finish his research.”

“But that’s——”

“Yes, isn’t it? He’s had to take a job. Rather a nice job, as a matter of fact, on
The
Radical,
so it won’t be too bad for him. At least he’ll be with congenial people. They say he’ll have some time to himself, and his sources are all printed, so he can work at the British Museum instead of Bodley.”

“How awful! Poor Ralph!” Sophia scraped the bones of pork chops and congealed rice and
ratatouille
off the top plate into the alkathene trash can. Ridiculously she found herself blushing. She kept her back to Deborah as she said, “Has he got anywhere to stay, do you know?”

“He’s bound to find somewhere. South Kensington or Earls Court. One of those scruffy little rooms with a Parsee in the bathroom. It can’t be difficult.”

“Hugh’s got a spare room he’s been thinking of
renting
. I could talk to him. It would be better than Parsees.”

“Hugh?”

“My Group Head.”

“Oh, Sophia!
Advertising
people. He’d hate it.”

“No, really! Hugh’s awfully nice. Not a bit like—I mean, he’s got three miniature dachshunds. Long-haired. I don’t suppose Ralph would see much of him anyway, because he’s rather shy. I’ll talk to him when I get back if you really think Ralph——”