Free The Right Man by Nigel Planer

Japanese Noh play. Some hot-water pipes cracked into life. The house
was readjusting to my presence, to the opening and closing of doors. If there
were such a thing as an aural microscope it would reveal myriad undersounds in
ordinary silence, as those who live alone must know. Maybe that’s why Liz used
to keep the television on all day while I was at work.
    One
handy thing about old Planter, despite his professionalism, was his complete
lack of application when it came to matters financial, contractual or
administrative. The escritoire, when I opened it, was bulging with disorganized
correspondence, receipts, scraps and scribblings. There was an unpaid-in
cheque from Granada TV, which should have gone through us. Naughty. But it was
only for a guest appearance on a kids’ show, about £140, so I let it pass. Undealt-with
fan mail and charity requests. Quite a few angry letters from Reg Simpson, the
designer on the last series, whom Jeremy had had fired. Luckily no letters from
other agents, but mixed in with the whole bundle were hundreds of paying-in
slips from Mullin and Ketts, dating back to the previous tax year. Obviously
Jeremy’s bookkeeper had not been for a while, or maybe taken one look at this
mess and resigned. The payslips showed all sorts of different monies received:
voiceovers, occasional overseas and video sales, one or two little repeat fees,
a radio chat show. No very large sums but an adequate cash flow ticking over. I
thought Jeremy was earning a lot more than this; I’d check with Tania on
Monday. In the past I would have been aware of all these, minor transactions,
would have recognized every ‘fee and commission. But that was before the agency
grew and I had learned to delegate; also, of course, before the arrival of
Grace. Nowadays it was impossible to check every single item, there just wasn’t
the time, and to be honest, I couldn’t see the point in it any longer.
    I
copied out some of El Planter’s figures and addresses into my spiral-bound
notebook and reinstated the confusion in the escritoire as I had found it. I
watered the plants and left.
     
    Dear Guy,
    I know it will most likely be you, Tony’s not really up to it, is
he? I’m writing this just to help you deal with all the paperwork and
everything when I’ve gone. You’ll find my will and all the information,
solicitor’s addresses, etc. in my middle drawer. All my notes and everything
are in the brown filing cabinet — key is on the smaller of the two rings in
bottom right. Classes and text books, etc. I have put in the big cardboard box.
You can throw them away, or hang on to them, it’s up to you. They might be
useful for Grace one day if she ever shows an interest, although all will be
probably out of date by then. Tools and components you can have, Guy, if you
need them. You know where they are. Look after your mother for me. I’ve done my
best. I know it’s not often been enough. You make sure she doesn’t want for
anything. I didn’t get round to renewing the junction boxes in the kitchen.
Make sure they’re properly earthed with fire-proof cable. There’s some 5ml in
the utility room cupboard. I wouldn’t want her to start a fire inadvertently.
     
    And
that was it. The sum total of wisdom passed from father to son. A whole generation’s
worth of progress: ‘There’s some 5ml cable in the utility room cupboard.’ I
refolded my dad’s last letter and put it in my jacket pocket. Not much of a
symbolic chalice, but it was all there was.
    I like
the flannelled sound of distant traffic you get in the back rooms of the
terraced streets of suburban London. It is more calming to me than the quiet of
the countryside. The muffled roar of a jumbo jet grew out of it and petered
away again as it descended over Kew on its way to Heathrow. I could hear my
watch ticking again.
    I
remembered the day when I had been taken by my father with my younger brother,
Tony, to visit a friend of Dad’s in Brighton — it was some