Storyboard by John Bowen

that one of them was sometimes kinder to him than the other. Of course Sylvia loved him; of course she did; why else did she worry so much about him? But it wasn’t fair, the way he played up to his father. It wasn’t fair, the way Keith encouraged him. Since Keith was home so seldom—a mornings’ father, a week-ends’ father—it was, Sylvia supposed, only natural in a way that Stephen should make up to him, should bid constantly for his attention, should flirt with him, as if to say in his childish way, “Look what fun we can have together. Stay home with me, and love me, and we shall have fun always.” It was only natural,but it was irritating for Sylvia. She herself would never dream of doing such a thing.
    *
    Ralph was not quite the country mouse. He’d never intended to stay in Leicestershire all his life, he would tell you, and if a fellowship at Oxford and Cambridge were impossible and he didn’t yet want to do a year in the United States, then London would be better than Stoke-on -Trent, Reading or even Manchester. Only he hadn’t ever needed to live in London before; one couldn’t count the three weeks he’d spent at the Y.M.C.A. off Tottenham Court Road, when, at the end of one Long Vacation , he’d done a little work at the British Museum. So now he would have to find somewhere to live. Some room somewhere. It wouldn’t be easy for him to hunt for London digs from Oxford, and he wasn’t sure how to go about it; his Oxford digs had been inherited from a colleague, and were extremely comfortable, with good cooked breakfasts and lunch on Sundays if he wanted it. One would have to come down for the day, he supposed, and spend it looking at the little cards outside newsagents ’ shops, and ringing people up. How did one refuse if one didn’t care for the room? One would already be in it (the woman, no doubt, standing by the door to block a quick departure), and perhaps one should say, “May I let you know?” but what if she were to reply, “Why can’t you tell me now?” when really one had seen the room and there would be no reason why one couldn’t tell her, except cowardice. Would The Radical know of somewhere? Gloomily Ralph read the small advertisements on its back pages. A Socialist Guest House in Perranporth. A lady in Hampstead who wished to make a home for coloured students. A room and food in return for help with thechildren and instruction in Spanish. A large room in a Regency House overlooking the park, with a Study Circle that met on Fridays. Musical interests. Vegetarian interests. Cultural interests. Photographic interests . Theatre and Ballet. A gentleman with own car seeking another gentleman with whom to share a holiday in Andorra. Perhaps, Ralph thought, some local paper would tell him more about ordinary rooms at ordinary rents where he wouldn’t be expected to read proofs or do weaving in the evenings.
    He wasn’t going to be paid enough for him to be able to afford a flat, even an unfurnished one, and anyway he hadn’t any furniture. He didn’t want anywhere squalid, and he didn’t want to be bothered. He didn’t want to have to move again soon; he had too many books for that. It was all so difficult. When Deborah told him that Sophia might know of somewhere, he took it as an excuse to put the problem out of his mind for a while. And when later on Deborah asked him whether he would like to visit the Agency and talk to Hugh, he was ready enough to do that much, since it was obviously so much less embarrassing than being shown a series of rooms by a series of women, all of whom (as he imagined them) would be either squalid or genteel or both.
    Ralph looked at Hugh, and decided that he would be harmless and uninterfering. Hugh looked at Ralph, and decided that he was an ordinary young man, who would prefer books to hi-fi equipment, and would not be likely to take to popping in during the evenings. Ralph rather liked the idea of getting his own breakfast in the morning, and