A Fall from Grace Read Online Free

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    â€œGossip?”
    Desmond leaned forward, in confiding mode.
    â€œTo the effect that I’m gay. Don’t you believe it. I’m not gay at all. Just not particularly heterosexual.”
    He looked round triumphantly, as if that explained everything.
    â€œI see,” said Felicity.
    â€œIn places like this they say that about anyone who hasn’t been married,” Desmond went on. “And I sometimes have male friends from the profession staying with me, and some of those are .”
    â€œBut you’re not?”
    â€œOh dear no! Just not all that in terested, as I say.”
    He grinned at them both. Charlie had the sense of having old jokes and old obfuscations tried out on him, as a newcomer. He noticed that as the man sent his grinaround the table, the questing glance went too.
    â€œAre you waiting for someone?” Charlie asked him. Desmond nodded.
    â€œOh, just for Chris. I want to ask his advice. It’s rather a shock, and I don’t quite know . . .”
    â€œWhat’s rather a shock?”
    Desmond settled, hunched over the table.
    â€œWell, I’ve just had the offer of a job. A stage job. It’s years since that happened. And the poor old stock portfolio has been down a bit these last few months, and so—well, I’m tempted. It’s not as if I’m in need, but still . . .”
    â€œSo what’s the problem?”
    â€œIt’s in Sheffield. Too far to drive to rehearsals and performances. Much too far for me. Even Halifax is an adventure. I shouldn’t be allowed on the road. And then, it’s such a strange thing to offer me. I mean, Ibsen. I’ve hardly ever done anything really serious, let alone something so—you know. Intellectually challenging—that’s really what I mean. And there’s already talk of a transfer to London.”
    So there it was. The Great Norwegian, intimidating as usual, his British reputation for unrelieved doom and gloom sending shivers down Desmond Pinkhurst’s spine for fear he should spoil things by letting cheerfulness break in. Charlie, who was very much a get-up-and-do-it sort of person, played down the Ibsen side and concentrated on the joy and stimulus of working again, of performing before an audience. Desmond remained congenitally uncertain.
    â€œI don’t know, really I don’t . . . There is pathos inthe character, and some humor. It’s Old Ekdal in The Wild Duck. It’s not often been done in recent years because there’s a fairly large cast—lots of small parts. They prefer the later plays with a tiny cast. It’s all money these days, isn’t it?”
    â€œBut the money would come in handy, I suppose?” Charlie asked.
    â€œOh, it would. But learning the part, and the nerves—I’m a bag of nerves, particularly with stage roles. I was always a film and television man.” He thought. “I once had a small part in Coronation Street. One of Rita Fairclough’s boyfriends. But of course that’s a quite different matter from Ibsen. Ibsen! The very thought makes me shiver! I really don’t know . . . Oh, there he is.”
    And there Chris was. He was buying himself a pint of bitter and swapping greetings with Sid the landlord, but already positioned by his right arm was a stout elderly lady, her eyes on his face, waiting for any sign of an end to the conversation, when she would wade in to get reassurance about a twinge or an ache or a tic. The expression on her face spoke of something close to adoration. And behind the two of them, now, was Desmond, who had got across the expanse of the saloon bar in a surprisingly nippy manner, glass in hand, and was now waiting his turn. Charlie looked at Felicity.
    â€œI don’t know how Chris does it,” he said. “Advice to an old dear on cutting down on the chocolates, and to an old thespian on whether or not to take a part in