the other benches in the square were vacant. He was a well-dressed man of around forty wearing one of these overcoats with a velvet collar, slung about his shoulders like a cape. His hair was slicked back from a widow’s peak, pale skin stretched over long cheekbones, displaying the occasional tendril where a deep groove made shaving difficult.
‘This country needs a penis substitute,’ the stranger said. ‘Now there is a young queen on the throne.’
‘I’m sorry?’
The man tapped a finger against the headline of Edward’s paper.
Government Confirms Atomic Deterrent
. The article featured Churchill’s announcement that Britain now possessed the capability to produce an atomic bomb. ‘This bomb. A penis substitute, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, yes. The bomb.’
‘I see I have embarrassed you,’ the man said, more in observation than in repentance.
‘No, sir. I understand what you mean.’
‘Good. The King rotting, not yet a fortnight in the ground. And here we are cheerfully boasting of a giant prick for a nuclear deterrent.’
‘Churchill blames the last government. He said they started the project. And it was too far gone to stop.’
‘I can’t believe the old warmonger found it a hard decision to make. I bet the Americans will be pleased.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Oh. Just that they will have a nuclear ally in the fight for world peace. Now what is your opinion of this… this deterrent?’
Edward eyed up his questioner. ‘Well, if these bombs are truly meant to be just deterrents, then why waste all this money building them? We could just pretend to have them. Mock-ups of atomic bombs. Everywhere.’
‘Yes, yes. What an excellent idea. Cardboard cut-outs on the beaches and along the cliff-tops. All fenced in. “Danger. Keep out. Nuclear Deterrent.” No one would know the difference. I like that.’
The stranger slipped his hand into a coat pocket and brought out a brown paper bag. Rough crusts of bread were cast aggressively across the ground. The response from the pigeons in the square was immediate. Edward turned over from the offending page, leaving his companion to feed the pecking horde at his feet. He noticed the announcement for a new picture starring Gene Kelly. Not Macy’s
An American in Paris
, but
Singin’ in the Rain
. A gloved hand appeared across the newsprint.
‘Aldous.’
Edward shook the offered limb, surprised to feel such a limp grip from such a bold gesture.
Aldous snatched the open notebook off the bench. ‘So what do we have here, young man with no name?’
‘Please, sir… that is private.’
But Aldous continued to scan the page. ‘Writing is not a private matter. We all have some kind of audience in our heads.’ He readon, muttering to himself as he went. ‘So you want to be a novelist then?’
‘It’s supposed to be poetry.’ He tried to grab back his notebook but Aldous held it out of reach.
‘Too much narrative for poetry. Too much like Homer, Virgil and Milton. If you want to tell a damn story, then bloody well write one. Now what is your name and I shall return your property.’
‘Edward. Edward Strathairn.’
‘Well, Edward Strathairn. There is nothing wrong in dabbling with verse. It is a good way to limber up for novel writing. It gets you in the mood.’ Aldous smiled as he handed over the notebook. His teeth were yellowish, like old piano keys. ‘Forgive me. You may now have your revenge.’
‘And how would I do that?’
‘By leaving me.’
The challenge made Edward stay. He pretended to read the newspaper while Aldous tipped out the rest of the crumbs.
‘Are you a writer?’ Edward asked when the silence between them had become awkward.
‘No, I am a reader.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t be disappointed. I only mean that I am an editor. Of the illustrious literary magazine known as
The Londinium
. Circulation one thousand, six hundred and forty-three by last reckoning. My meagre offices are across the square.’ He waved a
‘This country needs a penis substitute,’ the stranger said. ‘Now there is a young queen on the throne.’
‘I’m sorry?’
The man tapped a finger against the headline of Edward’s paper.
Government Confirms Atomic Deterrent
. The article featured Churchill’s announcement that Britain now possessed the capability to produce an atomic bomb. ‘This bomb. A penis substitute, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, yes. The bomb.’
‘I see I have embarrassed you,’ the man said, more in observation than in repentance.
‘No, sir. I understand what you mean.’
‘Good. The King rotting, not yet a fortnight in the ground. And here we are cheerfully boasting of a giant prick for a nuclear deterrent.’
‘Churchill blames the last government. He said they started the project. And it was too far gone to stop.’
‘I can’t believe the old warmonger found it a hard decision to make. I bet the Americans will be pleased.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Oh. Just that they will have a nuclear ally in the fight for world peace. Now what is your opinion of this… this deterrent?’
Edward eyed up his questioner. ‘Well, if these bombs are truly meant to be just deterrents, then why waste all this money building them? We could just pretend to have them. Mock-ups of atomic bombs. Everywhere.’
‘Yes, yes. What an excellent idea. Cardboard cut-outs on the beaches and along the cliff-tops. All fenced in. “Danger. Keep out. Nuclear Deterrent.” No one would know the difference. I like that.’
The stranger slipped his hand into a coat pocket and brought out a brown paper bag. Rough crusts of bread were cast aggressively across the ground. The response from the pigeons in the square was immediate. Edward turned over from the offending page, leaving his companion to feed the pecking horde at his feet. He noticed the announcement for a new picture starring Gene Kelly. Not Macy’s
An American in Paris
, but
Singin’ in the Rain
. A gloved hand appeared across the newsprint.
‘Aldous.’
Edward shook the offered limb, surprised to feel such a limp grip from such a bold gesture.
Aldous snatched the open notebook off the bench. ‘So what do we have here, young man with no name?’
‘Please, sir… that is private.’
But Aldous continued to scan the page. ‘Writing is not a private matter. We all have some kind of audience in our heads.’ He readon, muttering to himself as he went. ‘So you want to be a novelist then?’
‘It’s supposed to be poetry.’ He tried to grab back his notebook but Aldous held it out of reach.
‘Too much narrative for poetry. Too much like Homer, Virgil and Milton. If you want to tell a damn story, then bloody well write one. Now what is your name and I shall return your property.’
‘Edward. Edward Strathairn.’
‘Well, Edward Strathairn. There is nothing wrong in dabbling with verse. It is a good way to limber up for novel writing. It gets you in the mood.’ Aldous smiled as he handed over the notebook. His teeth were yellowish, like old piano keys. ‘Forgive me. You may now have your revenge.’
‘And how would I do that?’
‘By leaving me.’
The challenge made Edward stay. He pretended to read the newspaper while Aldous tipped out the rest of the crumbs.
‘Are you a writer?’ Edward asked when the silence between them had become awkward.
‘No, I am a reader.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t be disappointed. I only mean that I am an editor. Of the illustrious literary magazine known as
The Londinium
. Circulation one thousand, six hundred and forty-three by last reckoning. My meagre offices are across the square.’ He waved a
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