thirty-shilling-a-year card, then walked through the business and shopping part of town, gazing into windows with the indiscriminate curiosity of a sailor ashore after a long voyage. A pair of brass-rimmed binoculars in a junkshop window caught his eye. They looked as if they had seen service with Montgomery in Africa, or maybe with Rommel. Their black leather was worn, and showed brown scuff marks between the brass-framed lenses. The strap was worn also, but looked still trustworthy. Sydney was tempted. The price was less than that for a bottle of gin. But did he need binoculars? Not really.
The car was waiting when he arrived at the garage at 3:30, the time they had told him to arrive, and Sydney as usual had the feeling the car had been ready long before. He felt in a good mood as he drove home. Tonight after dinner, he would polish another few pages of The Planners for typing up, then watch a suspense play at 9:10 on television.
“Letter for you in the living room,” Alicia said when he came in. “From Alex, I think.”
Sydney left the groceries in the kitchen for Alicia to unpack, and went to get his letter. It was in one of Alex’s little buff envelopes. There was a letter from Barlock in it besides Alex’s letter. The Barlock letter was a rejection of The Whip Strikes , which had been sent back to Alex.
Dear Mr Polk-Faraday,
I have read THE WHIP STRIKES with interest—more at the beginning than at the end, alas, because I am afraid it declines to what we already have too much of—crime, plain crime unrelieved by any hero-sleuth with whom the audience can identify . . .
Sydney muttered a curse at Barlock, then read Alex’s letter. Alex’s reactions were violently derogatory of Mr. Barlock’s brain and other things, and he went on:
. . . Too much crime? The TV men are turning out miles of film of good-looking heroes dabbling at catching crooks with one hand and fondling their girls with the other. We hardly see any crooks any more. I suggest we tell Barlock to boil his balls and I send this off to Plummer at Granada. Unless I get a ring from you tomorrow (Thursday) I’ll do this in late Thursday post.
Alex
“Well?” Alicia said from the doorway.
“It’s another rejection.” He tossed the two letters down on the telephone table. “The hell with them all,” he said quietly.
“Well, it’s only one person. Barlock, isn’t it? What did he say?”
“Stuff that doesn’t make any sense.” Sydney was talking calmly, but he twisted up the brown envelope until it was a tight, stiff length like a twig.
“Can I see it?”
“If you want to.” Sydney left the room, went upstairs, but near his study door he found he couldn’t go in to his typewriter, didn’t want to see his table or his chair. He turned around in the hallway, wishing he were anywhere but where he was. He wandered downstairs again and out into the garden, caught a snail—a hobneydod, Rutledge the handyman called it—on the lettuce and hurled it far across the road. He wandered about in slow strides, not doing anything constructive, though he noticed half a dozen things he might have done, pull a weed, put the hoe back in the toolhouse before the next rain, straighten a tomato stake. He paused and looked straight at Mrs. Lilybanks’ house with an air of defiance, but he didn’t see her outside or in. He’d had the feeling she was looking at him.
At dinner, Alicia said, “I read that rejection. Maybe he’s right and it is old hat. I sometimes think Alex has a cramping effect on you. On your imagination.”
“It’s I who think up the plots, dear,” Sydney replied, on guard against a coming dig from her. “But he knows how to write a television play once he’s got the plot.”
“But the fact the synopsis is going to him may be cramping you. I think you should go more on your own imagination. You act afraid of it.”
He felt as if she were poking at a raw wound deep within him. She wanted him to try something on his
The car was waiting when he arrived at the garage at 3:30, the time they had told him to arrive, and Sydney as usual had the feeling the car had been ready long before. He felt in a good mood as he drove home. Tonight after dinner, he would polish another few pages of The Planners for typing up, then watch a suspense play at 9:10 on television.
“Letter for you in the living room,” Alicia said when he came in. “From Alex, I think.”
Sydney left the groceries in the kitchen for Alicia to unpack, and went to get his letter. It was in one of Alex’s little buff envelopes. There was a letter from Barlock in it besides Alex’s letter. The Barlock letter was a rejection of The Whip Strikes , which had been sent back to Alex.
Dear Mr Polk-Faraday,
I have read THE WHIP STRIKES with interest—more at the beginning than at the end, alas, because I am afraid it declines to what we already have too much of—crime, plain crime unrelieved by any hero-sleuth with whom the audience can identify . . .
Sydney muttered a curse at Barlock, then read Alex’s letter. Alex’s reactions were violently derogatory of Mr. Barlock’s brain and other things, and he went on:
. . . Too much crime? The TV men are turning out miles of film of good-looking heroes dabbling at catching crooks with one hand and fondling their girls with the other. We hardly see any crooks any more. I suggest we tell Barlock to boil his balls and I send this off to Plummer at Granada. Unless I get a ring from you tomorrow (Thursday) I’ll do this in late Thursday post.
Alex
“Well?” Alicia said from the doorway.
“It’s another rejection.” He tossed the two letters down on the telephone table. “The hell with them all,” he said quietly.
“Well, it’s only one person. Barlock, isn’t it? What did he say?”
“Stuff that doesn’t make any sense.” Sydney was talking calmly, but he twisted up the brown envelope until it was a tight, stiff length like a twig.
“Can I see it?”
“If you want to.” Sydney left the room, went upstairs, but near his study door he found he couldn’t go in to his typewriter, didn’t want to see his table or his chair. He turned around in the hallway, wishing he were anywhere but where he was. He wandered downstairs again and out into the garden, caught a snail—a hobneydod, Rutledge the handyman called it—on the lettuce and hurled it far across the road. He wandered about in slow strides, not doing anything constructive, though he noticed half a dozen things he might have done, pull a weed, put the hoe back in the toolhouse before the next rain, straighten a tomato stake. He paused and looked straight at Mrs. Lilybanks’ house with an air of defiance, but he didn’t see her outside or in. He’d had the feeling she was looking at him.
At dinner, Alicia said, “I read that rejection. Maybe he’s right and it is old hat. I sometimes think Alex has a cramping effect on you. On your imagination.”
“It’s I who think up the plots, dear,” Sydney replied, on guard against a coming dig from her. “But he knows how to write a television play once he’s got the plot.”
“But the fact the synopsis is going to him may be cramping you. I think you should go more on your own imagination. You act afraid of it.”
He felt as if she were poking at a raw wound deep within him. She wanted him to try something on his
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