Their Finest Hour and a Half by Lissa Evans Page A

rounded the corner opposite the restaurant, spotted Ambrose in the window and gave a little wave with the two remaining fingers on his left hand. His right was toting a large, stained canvas bag, the cloth straining over some ill-defined mass. He negotiated the curb (always difficult for someone of his bulk), gave the broom-carrying waiter a covert and obviously admiring glance, and squeezed himself through the door.
    â€˜I have to be back at two fifteen,’ said Ambrose. ‘I’ve already ordered.’
    â€˜Veal?’
    â€˜Off. Cutlets Milanese and semolina pudding.’
    Sammy sighed, and leaned the bag against the table leg. One of the cloth sides drooped down, revealing a bloodied row of teeth and a lidless jelly eye.
    â€˜Sorry,’ said Sammy, hitching up the side again. ‘Half a sheep’s head for Cerberus. I had to walk all the way to Beak Shtreet for it, but he simply can’t live on potato peelings and bread shcraps, whatever this government may say. Sophie says she’ll boil it up and make him some brawn, lucky fellow. Is this for me?’ He took a sip of his favourite, loathsomely sweet dessert wine, then belched delicately, holding one finger in front of his mouth to stem the noise. ‘I beg your pardon. How’s the filming?’
    â€˜Slapdash. Amateurish. You realize that half of these shorts are played during the intermission and the other half when the only people in the cinema are the cleaners. Did you know that I’m co-starring with Cecy Clyde-Cameron?’
    â€˜No, really? Dear Cecy – how is she?’
    â€˜Fat.’
    â€˜She used to be shtunning. Didn’t she marry poor old George Garamonde?’
    â€˜Did she?’
    â€˜I’m sure she did. And I think I heard that she had twins. Some years ago now, of course.’
    â€˜Looks as if she’s still carrying them.’
    Sammy tittered and looked around for service. Only two other tables were occupied and there were no waiters in sight. Sammy turned back and clasped his hands across his stomach. ‘Lovely fresh sunny day,’ he said. ‘Shpring-like. Dogwood flowering in the shquare.’
    Ambrose felt a twinge of irritation. It was a familiar accompaniment to his meetings with Sammy, a sort of indigestion of the soul provoked by the various imperfections embodied by his agent: Sammy’s blancmange physique, for a start, that personified the flabbiness of his negotiating skills. Then there was the ridiculous name and speech defect. If you were trying to conceal the fact that your family were naturalized German Jews, then choosing the surname ‘Smith’ when you had never quite lost your accent and, moreover, lisped affectedly on every ‘s’ preceding a consonant, might be perceived as a bad idea. The single statement – ‘My name is Sammy Shmith’ – would be enough to make the average Local Defence Volunteer reach for his wooden rifle. Then there was the fact that he was an obvious bum-boy, capable of uttering the phrase, ‘I’ve simply never shpotted the right girl’, while simultaneously eyeing up the nearest pair of fly buttons. Add to all this the fact that he had failed to find Ambrose a decent leading role for nearly six years, and it seemed astonishing that they were still associates – and yet, as a breed, agents were so short-sighted, so inflexible in their outlook, so lazy, so astoundingly and relentlessly unimaginative, that Ambrose had never found another who entirely suited his needs. He regarded these weekly lunches, therefore, as a way for him to keep a close watch on Sammy, to ensure that every thespian avenue was being explored for a role of suitable worth and proportions – and if, occasionally, the conversation strayed into reminiscence or gossip or topical comment, he was careful always to steer it back towards more important areas.
    â€˜Ooh,’ said Sammy, veering off-topic immediately,