‘No, that’s fine. Look, if you and Alison are busy at home, I might hang on here and get some work done and then go straight on to the repertory thing. It’s six-thirty, which is an odd sort of time. Neither one thing nor the other.’

‘If it’s easier for you,’ said Helen.

‘I could give Gumbo a ring and have a quick drink and snack with him if he’s not doing anything. He’s only a block or two from the theatre. He’s left messages and I haven’t got back to him.’

‘He’d like that if he isn’t busy.’

‘I’ll do that then. I won’t be home late. I’ll slip away from the opening as soon as I can. Have we been to any shows there this year? I’ve been trying to think.’

‘We saw that local pantomime in February.’

‘Oh yeah. No wonder we haven’t been back. Prancing horses’ heads and ugly guys in dresses.’

‘Don’t say anything like that when you’re there,’ said Helen. ‘I bet the local thespians are all keen voters.’

‘Utterspan’s bound to be president,’ said Pearly. He wanted to tell her that Sanderson had mentioned his part in the Harlequins’ game against New South Wales, repressed his vanity, but recalled both the comment and the game. It had been a push-over try in the cold mud, and, after the call to Helen, Pearly stood in his office, mouth ajar, remembering. ‘Yes,’ said Pearly. ‘Yes.’ An opposing forward’s fingers clawing his face, the toiling, writhing mass of bodies, the straining for the line and ultimate drive over.

When he answered his mobile, Gumbo said he was repairing the school gang mowers, but had time to talk. He had nothing on for the evening. When did he ever, thought Pearly. Yes, he’d be on for a takeaway at his place before Pearly had to go on to the repertory theatre. He had plenty of Speight’s, but Pearly said he couldn’t stay long. Chinese was what Gumbo liked, preferably sweet-and-sour pork or chicken and fried rice. From his considerable outsourcing experience as a guy living alone, he advised Pearly on the best place to go.