may
not understand this, but the thing is, Giles made the big time too soon. What's
he now, thirty-three, thirty-four? My day, you were lucky if you'd made it to
the Nationals at all by that age. So now Giles is looking around and he's thinking,
where on earth do I go from here? What's there left to do? Sort of premature
mid-life crisis, everything comes younger these days. And of course he can see
all the editors getting alarmingly younger too. One day his copy's being
handled by some chap who only shaves twice a week. Or worse still," Winstone
got unsteadily to his feet and reached for his raincoat, "not shaving at
all, if you see what I mean."
"Women." Berry said.
Winstone scowled. "So he's
looking for a new adventure, But he thinks—fatal this—he thinks he's looking
for his soul."
"In Wales?"
"Insanity." Winstone
paused in the doorway, took a last look around the almost deserted bar. His
face was pale, his jowls like tallow dripping down a candle. "The boy was right.
I talk too much nonsense. So now nobody believes my stories anymore."
"Winstone, Giles was
smashed."
The old journalist smiled
wistfully and walked out into the street, where the night was warm but rain was
falling. "You know, old boy," he said after a moment, turning and looking
around him in apparent confusion. "I must say I feel rather odd."
"It's gonna pass, Winstone,
believe me, it's gonna pass, You just got to find a new . . . Hey—"
Winstone gripped the lamp-post which
Giles had hugged in his drunken excitement. "Do you know what, old
boy?" he said conversationally. "I'm think I'm having another
stroke."
Winstone Thorpe quietly slid
down to his knees on the wet pavement, as if offering a final prayer to the old
gods of what used to be Fleet Street.
"Shit," Berry
breathed. He stared down at Winstone in horror. The old man smiled.
Berry dashed back and stuck his
head round the pub door. "Somebody call an ambulance! Listen, I'm not
kidding. It's ole Winstone!"
He rushed back to the old man.
"Hey, come on, let's get you back inside, OK?"
But, as he bent down, Winstone
toppled—almost nonchalantly, it seemed—on to his face. As if his prayer had
been answered.
Chapter VIII
"Dead?" Giles said. "But that's wonderful."
Claire passed him his coffee.
"Oh, Giles, let's not get—"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it's
the beer. Bit pissed. But it is rather wonderful, isn't it? Not for the old
boy, of course, but we've all got to go sometime and, bloody hell, he couldn't
have chosen a better time for us, could he?"
"You can't say that yet,"
Claire said. 'They might not even let you do it."
She'd been waiting up for him
with the news, that mischievous little tilt to her small mouth; she knew something
he didn't. It was as near as Claire ever came to expressing excitement.
Giles had both hands around his
coffee cup, squeezing it.
"Let them try and stop me," he
said. "Just let the bastards try. Did it say on the news what his majority
was?"
"I don't think so. They
may have. It was still dawning on me, the significance of it, you know."
"Right then." Giles
sprang to his feet. "Let's find out."
"Will you get anybody?
It's nearly one o'clock."
"No problem." He was
already stabbing out the night desk number on the cordless phone. Standing, for
luck, under the framed blow-up of Claire's first photograph of the cottage, the
one taken from between the two sycamores at the entrance to the lane. They'd
taken down a Michael Renwick screenprint to make space for it on the crowded buttermilk
wall above the rebuilt fireplace.
"Peter, that you? Oh,
sorry, look is Peter there? It's Giles Freeman. Yes, I'll wait."
There were blow-ups of five of
Claire's photographs on the walls. None of the award-winning Belfast stuff,
nothing heavy. Just the atmosphere pics: the old woman
not understand this, but the thing is, Giles made the big time too soon. What's
he now, thirty-three, thirty-four? My day, you were lucky if you'd made it to
the Nationals at all by that age. So now Giles is looking around and he's thinking,
where on earth do I go from here? What's there left to do? Sort of premature
mid-life crisis, everything comes younger these days. And of course he can see
all the editors getting alarmingly younger too. One day his copy's being
handled by some chap who only shaves twice a week. Or worse still," Winstone
got unsteadily to his feet and reached for his raincoat, "not shaving at
all, if you see what I mean."
"Women." Berry said.
Winstone scowled. "So he's
looking for a new adventure, But he thinks—fatal this—he thinks he's looking
for his soul."
"In Wales?"
"Insanity." Winstone
paused in the doorway, took a last look around the almost deserted bar. His
face was pale, his jowls like tallow dripping down a candle. "The boy was right.
I talk too much nonsense. So now nobody believes my stories anymore."
"Winstone, Giles was
smashed."
The old journalist smiled
wistfully and walked out into the street, where the night was warm but rain was
falling. "You know, old boy," he said after a moment, turning and looking
around him in apparent confusion. "I must say I feel rather odd."
"It's gonna pass, Winstone,
believe me, it's gonna pass, You just got to find a new . . . Hey—"
Winstone gripped the lamp-post which
Giles had hugged in his drunken excitement. "Do you know what, old
boy?" he said conversationally. "I'm think I'm having another
stroke."
Winstone Thorpe quietly slid
down to his knees on the wet pavement, as if offering a final prayer to the old
gods of what used to be Fleet Street.
"Shit," Berry
breathed. He stared down at Winstone in horror. The old man smiled.
Berry dashed back and stuck his
head round the pub door. "Somebody call an ambulance! Listen, I'm not
kidding. It's ole Winstone!"
He rushed back to the old man.
"Hey, come on, let's get you back inside, OK?"
But, as he bent down, Winstone
toppled—almost nonchalantly, it seemed—on to his face. As if his prayer had
been answered.
Chapter VIII
"Dead?" Giles said. "But that's wonderful."
Claire passed him his coffee.
"Oh, Giles, let's not get—"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, it's
the beer. Bit pissed. But it is rather wonderful, isn't it? Not for the old
boy, of course, but we've all got to go sometime and, bloody hell, he couldn't
have chosen a better time for us, could he?"
"You can't say that yet,"
Claire said. 'They might not even let you do it."
She'd been waiting up for him
with the news, that mischievous little tilt to her small mouth; she knew something
he didn't. It was as near as Claire ever came to expressing excitement.
Giles had both hands around his
coffee cup, squeezing it.
"Let them try and stop me," he
said. "Just let the bastards try. Did it say on the news what his majority
was?"
"I don't think so. They
may have. It was still dawning on me, the significance of it, you know."
"Right then." Giles
sprang to his feet. "Let's find out."
"Will you get anybody?
It's nearly one o'clock."
"No problem." He was
already stabbing out the night desk number on the cordless phone. Standing, for
luck, under the framed blow-up of Claire's first photograph of the cottage, the
one taken from between the two sycamores at the entrance to the lane. They'd
taken down a Michael Renwick screenprint to make space for it on the crowded buttermilk
wall above the rebuilt fireplace.
"Peter, that you? Oh,
sorry, look is Peter there? It's Giles Freeman. Yes, I'll wait."
There were blow-ups of five of
Claire's photographs on the walls. None of the award-winning Belfast stuff,
nothing heavy. Just the atmosphere pics: the old woman
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