secondary modern and there wasn’t much encouragement. It never occurred to me at the time about needing exams and anyway, my marks were always so bad that the teachers would have thought I’d got a screw loose if I’d asked to stay on.
But I don’t mind, really. Like I said, I may look like something I’m not, but I don’t mind being what I am, if that makes sense. That was something I could never understand about Lenny: He made millions of people laugh and they all adored him, but he didn’t want to be the person he was. He was very . . . what’s the word? . . . Inward-looking. Introspective, that’s it. Much more than Jack—about the act, as well as himself. I mean, Jack would just go on, do his stuff and come off, and that was it. Lenny never thought anything was good enough. He was always jotting things down—how to improve it—and Jack just let him get on with it. If he thought it was a good idea he’d say, “Fine, let’s do it,” but he never really got involved. Lenny always felt he had to test everything, as if—I don’t know—as if he was trying to make sure it was real, somehow. I used to say to him, “Don’t be stupid, I love you because you’re you,” and he’d say, “How can you?” Some of the things he did almost made me think he was behaving that way so I’d get fed up and leave him and then he’d be able to turn round and say, “I knew you didn’t love me really.” But I always thought it must be my fault, so there I was trying to be the perfect girlfriend, and the harder I tried, the worse he got. I gave up in the end. Looking back, I think what it comes down to is, either you’re the type of person who can be happy, or you’re not, and if you’re not, then you can have the whole country roaring with laughter at your jokes and it won’t make a blind bit of difference. So there you are. Hop on the couch, Dr. Alice will see you now.
But that’s how people like comedians to be, isn’t it? Miserable underneath. When Tony Hancock died, that really got to Lenny. “Poor bastard,” he kept saying, “poor bastard.” Then he waved the paper at me and said, “That’s how they want us to die.”
I thought I’d better make up for the afternoon by spending the evening cleaning the horses’ tack in the kitchen. It’s where I do everything—that and the bathroom are the only rooms I use downstairs, unless I’ve got people to stay. I don’t need the others because the kitchen’s so big it’s got a table and a sofa as well as all the normal stuff.
I’d been putting off cleaning the tack for over a week, but actually it was really satisfying. I’d got the radio on and Eustace was snoring away on the rug, and I was just putting the second bridle back together when the front doorbell rang. Eustace leapt to his feet and shot out into the hall, skidding on the runner like he always does. I grabbed his collar before I opened the door—most people’s idea of a warm welcome doesn’t include a pint of dog slobber—so I was bending down and the first thing I saw was a suitcase and next to it, feet and legs. Male. “It’s all right, he doesn’t bite,” I said automatically, as Eustace lunged forward to sniff the shoes. I couldn’t stand straight because that would have meant letting go of him, so I squinted up at the man through my hair and saw—legs—crotch—chest—neck—and then—“Hello, Bunny Alice.”
It was Jack. Standing on my porch under the light, holding a bunch of roses.
Seven
W hat are you doing here?”
“Admiring your tan.” Totally deadpan. A few more lines on his face, perhaps, but he was as handsome as ever. More, if anything. It threw me completely—I couldn’t think what to say.
“Just hang on a sec . . .” Eustace had started making huffy little woofing noises, which is what he does when he’s not sure whether he ought to bark or not, so I bundled him back into the kitchen and shut the door before he could make up his
But I don’t mind, really. Like I said, I may look like something I’m not, but I don’t mind being what I am, if that makes sense. That was something I could never understand about Lenny: He made millions of people laugh and they all adored him, but he didn’t want to be the person he was. He was very . . . what’s the word? . . . Inward-looking. Introspective, that’s it. Much more than Jack—about the act, as well as himself. I mean, Jack would just go on, do his stuff and come off, and that was it. Lenny never thought anything was good enough. He was always jotting things down—how to improve it—and Jack just let him get on with it. If he thought it was a good idea he’d say, “Fine, let’s do it,” but he never really got involved. Lenny always felt he had to test everything, as if—I don’t know—as if he was trying to make sure it was real, somehow. I used to say to him, “Don’t be stupid, I love you because you’re you,” and he’d say, “How can you?” Some of the things he did almost made me think he was behaving that way so I’d get fed up and leave him and then he’d be able to turn round and say, “I knew you didn’t love me really.” But I always thought it must be my fault, so there I was trying to be the perfect girlfriend, and the harder I tried, the worse he got. I gave up in the end. Looking back, I think what it comes down to is, either you’re the type of person who can be happy, or you’re not, and if you’re not, then you can have the whole country roaring with laughter at your jokes and it won’t make a blind bit of difference. So there you are. Hop on the couch, Dr. Alice will see you now.
But that’s how people like comedians to be, isn’t it? Miserable underneath. When Tony Hancock died, that really got to Lenny. “Poor bastard,” he kept saying, “poor bastard.” Then he waved the paper at me and said, “That’s how they want us to die.”
I thought I’d better make up for the afternoon by spending the evening cleaning the horses’ tack in the kitchen. It’s where I do everything—that and the bathroom are the only rooms I use downstairs, unless I’ve got people to stay. I don’t need the others because the kitchen’s so big it’s got a table and a sofa as well as all the normal stuff.
I’d been putting off cleaning the tack for over a week, but actually it was really satisfying. I’d got the radio on and Eustace was snoring away on the rug, and I was just putting the second bridle back together when the front doorbell rang. Eustace leapt to his feet and shot out into the hall, skidding on the runner like he always does. I grabbed his collar before I opened the door—most people’s idea of a warm welcome doesn’t include a pint of dog slobber—so I was bending down and the first thing I saw was a suitcase and next to it, feet and legs. Male. “It’s all right, he doesn’t bite,” I said automatically, as Eustace lunged forward to sniff the shoes. I couldn’t stand straight because that would have meant letting go of him, so I squinted up at the man through my hair and saw—legs—crotch—chest—neck—and then—“Hello, Bunny Alice.”
It was Jack. Standing on my porch under the light, holding a bunch of roses.
Seven
W hat are you doing here?”
“Admiring your tan.” Totally deadpan. A few more lines on his face, perhaps, but he was as handsome as ever. More, if anything. It threw me completely—I couldn’t think what to say.
“Just hang on a sec . . .” Eustace had started making huffy little woofing noises, which is what he does when he’s not sure whether he ought to bark or not, so I bundled him back into the kitchen and shut the door before he could make up his
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