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he didn't know, and were waiting.

    FIVE

    'What's that we just backed into, Mr Gloom?'
    'Some silly fool standing on the pavement, Mr Despondency.'
    'Must have missed him, he's still standing. Great balls of fire, what's he doing now?'
    'Banging on the car boot as if we hadn't noticed him. Hey up, he's banged it open.'
    'Here, here, what's the game? Get your hands off my car or I'll have the law on you.'
    Too late Eustace realized that he shouldn't have started improvising, because now he couldn't think of a punch line. 'That really happened to me here today in Sheffield, but don't tell anyone, will you?' he said, reverting to his normal voice. It didn't sound much like his in the headphones they'd given him; it was high-pitched and over eager and more regionally accented than he'd thought possible. He could see his face reflected in the studio window beside the patient face of the producer, his hair sticking up above his perspiring forehead, his mouth only a little wider than his broad nose. He made his mouth into an O, his features turning into an exclamation mark, and for the first time the producer laughed. But this wasn't television; Eustace was auditioning for radio. Above all, he had to keep talking.
    He shouldn't have brought Gloom & Despondency on so soon. He should have told the incident with the car as it had happened - him slapping the boot and the driver accusing him of trying to steal from the car - because then he could have led into what had happened at the bank. The teller hadn't been convinced that the signature on the cheque he'd made out to cash was his, and when he'd signed it again for her it had looked even less like the signature on his cheque card. As for the photograph on his union membership card, she'd stared at it as if he must have bought it in a joke shop. So far it had been a pretty average day, but he'd missed his chance to use it now. All he could do was go into another routine, the one he'd meant to save until the end. 'How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,' he said solemnly, and couldn't bear the sound of his amputated voice any longer; he pulled off the headphones and let them dangle from the table. 'One. . . Two. . . Two and a bit on Sundays. . . Four if you count the times when I have a touch of the old trouble. . . Five when you do. . .'
    He could still hear his other voice, squeaking mouselike beside his thigh. He felt parched for a laugh, even a smile from the producer. 'Don't tell anyone, will you?' Eustace said, hoping that this time the man would realize it was his catch phrase, and wondered why the producer was holding up one finger, drawing circles in the air. When the producer sawed it across his throat, Eustace said 'Thank you' and stumbled to his feet, knocking the earphones to the floor, tripped over a cable and wrenched at the door until he realized he was trying to open it the wrong way. He struggled past it in time to hear the producer say, 'You'll agree that wasn't worth the tape, let alone my time.'
    'He needs a proper audience, Anthony,' said his colleague, who'd invited Eustace.
    'What do you want me to do, Steve, drag them in off the street?'
    'No, I'd like you to see him on his own ground. You were the one who said we ought to be giving more local talent a chance.' He turned to Eustace, who stopped mopping his forehead. 'When are you next on at that pub I saw you in?'
    'The One-Armed Soldier? Thursday week.'
    'We've got to go to Manchester that week anyway, Anthony. Come on, trust me. We'll stop off to watch Eustace on the way back, and if you still don't see what l saw in him I'll treat you to dinner.'
    'I'll let you know. By the time these auditions are over I may well be ready to punch the next clown I see on the nose.'
    'Hear that, Eustace? He made a joke, there's still hope for him.' Steve guided Eustace out by one elbow. 'I know you won't let me down.' Steve said.
    He wouldn't, Eustace vowed as the bus climbed out of Sheffield. Yellowish gouges of mines