very soon.'
'A right conman, then.' The moment he'd said this, he wished he hadn't. She had her heart set on publication, like everyone else in the circle.
Drawing herself up a little, she said, 'Well, certain of us are up to professional standards. It's in the lap of the gods whether we find a publisher. Edgar Blacker was willing to take us on, or so he was suggesting. If you don't believe me, you can look at the tape.'
There was a pause of several beats before Bob asked, 'What tape?'
'There's a video of the talk he gave us. We asked his permission to film him so that we could show it later and discuss it among ourselves.'
'I wouldn't mind seeing that tape.'
'You can borrow it if you wish. I have it at home.'
'Today?'
'If you like. I'd forgotten you didn't meet Mr Blacker. Wait a minute. I'll phone the refuge and ask someone to come in and take care of the shop.'
While Miss Snow made the call, Bob stood in front of the shelves of secondhand books, most of them dog-eared and fading paperbacks. They didn't interest him. He was basking in his own good fortune. A video of Blacker's appearance in front of the circle. He hadn't dreamed it existed.
'That's fixed.' She was back. 'Nadia will take care of the shop. She's not been here long.' She mouthed the word 'illegal'. 'Speaks good English, though.'
Whilst waiting, she made an instant coffee that smelt of footballers' socks. Bob was grateful when Nadia arrived ten minutes later, a smiling, middle-aged woman dressed, presumably, in things from the shop, because she looked as English as Miss Snow herself.
Out in North Street, the air had never smelt so fresh.
The wide walkways of Chichester give people the chance to move freely at the pace they like, and on the whole that is brisker than in most cities. But Amelia Snow was slower than the average pedestrian, which suited Bob, because they could talk. 'What do you write, apart from minutes of the meetings?' he asked her.
'Oh, I'm doing a book on famous Snows,' she said.
He didn't catch on. 'As in snowstorms?'
'No, no. People who share my name, like Dr John Snow, the founder of anaesthetics, and C. P. Snow, the novelist.'
'Are there enough for a book?'
'More than enough. My problem is who to leave out.'
'How far have you got?'
'I'm working on my third draft. It runs to over a hundred thousand words already'
'Strewth.'
'They have such interesting lives. Edgar Snow, the great sinologist. Marguerite Snow, the silent film star.'
'There's that guy on TV who pops up on election night with the swingometer.'
'Peter Snow. And Jon Snow, the Channel Four News man, of course. But they're not included. I'm restricting this to dead Snows.'
'Do you read bits out at the meetings?'
'Frequently. I get the impression it goes over their heads.'
'Did you show it to Edgar Blacker?'
'I gave him a sample chapter to read. He said some flattering things, but he seems to have praised almost everybody's work.'
'Better than knocking it.'
'I don't agree with that. If you praise everything, it devalues the currency of your opinion.'
'Did he make you an offer?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'To publish the book?'
'Oh. Well, he wanted to acquire it, I'm sure of that.'
'What was his game, do you think?'
'His game?'
'What was he up to, telling everyone their work was great?'
She frowned and looked away. 'I don't know, unless he was one of those people incapable of giving bad news to anyone.'
At the Cross, they turned left into West Street. The stonework of the cathedral glowed in the morning sun.
'I live behind the Army & Navy,' she said, and a surreal picture popped into Bob's head, worthy of a rhyme.
'Is that a fact?' he said, stringing it together. He was a rapid rhymer.
'The department store.'
'Right. Got it.'
I live behind the Army & Navy
Knickers off for Sergeant Davy,
Captain Billy, Corporal Jeff
And Gordon from the RAF.
'Nice and central,' he said without a hint of his thinking. 'Convenient for everything.'
'Yes, it's
'A right conman, then.' The moment he'd said this, he wished he hadn't. She had her heart set on publication, like everyone else in the circle.
Drawing herself up a little, she said, 'Well, certain of us are up to professional standards. It's in the lap of the gods whether we find a publisher. Edgar Blacker was willing to take us on, or so he was suggesting. If you don't believe me, you can look at the tape.'
There was a pause of several beats before Bob asked, 'What tape?'
'There's a video of the talk he gave us. We asked his permission to film him so that we could show it later and discuss it among ourselves.'
'I wouldn't mind seeing that tape.'
'You can borrow it if you wish. I have it at home.'
'Today?'
'If you like. I'd forgotten you didn't meet Mr Blacker. Wait a minute. I'll phone the refuge and ask someone to come in and take care of the shop.'
While Miss Snow made the call, Bob stood in front of the shelves of secondhand books, most of them dog-eared and fading paperbacks. They didn't interest him. He was basking in his own good fortune. A video of Blacker's appearance in front of the circle. He hadn't dreamed it existed.
'That's fixed.' She was back. 'Nadia will take care of the shop. She's not been here long.' She mouthed the word 'illegal'. 'Speaks good English, though.'
Whilst waiting, she made an instant coffee that smelt of footballers' socks. Bob was grateful when Nadia arrived ten minutes later, a smiling, middle-aged woman dressed, presumably, in things from the shop, because she looked as English as Miss Snow herself.
Out in North Street, the air had never smelt so fresh.
The wide walkways of Chichester give people the chance to move freely at the pace they like, and on the whole that is brisker than in most cities. But Amelia Snow was slower than the average pedestrian, which suited Bob, because they could talk. 'What do you write, apart from minutes of the meetings?' he asked her.
'Oh, I'm doing a book on famous Snows,' she said.
He didn't catch on. 'As in snowstorms?'
'No, no. People who share my name, like Dr John Snow, the founder of anaesthetics, and C. P. Snow, the novelist.'
'Are there enough for a book?'
'More than enough. My problem is who to leave out.'
'How far have you got?'
'I'm working on my third draft. It runs to over a hundred thousand words already'
'Strewth.'
'They have such interesting lives. Edgar Snow, the great sinologist. Marguerite Snow, the silent film star.'
'There's that guy on TV who pops up on election night with the swingometer.'
'Peter Snow. And Jon Snow, the Channel Four News man, of course. But they're not included. I'm restricting this to dead Snows.'
'Do you read bits out at the meetings?'
'Frequently. I get the impression it goes over their heads.'
'Did you show it to Edgar Blacker?'
'I gave him a sample chapter to read. He said some flattering things, but he seems to have praised almost everybody's work.'
'Better than knocking it.'
'I don't agree with that. If you praise everything, it devalues the currency of your opinion.'
'Did he make you an offer?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'To publish the book?'
'Oh. Well, he wanted to acquire it, I'm sure of that.'
'What was his game, do you think?'
'His game?'
'What was he up to, telling everyone their work was great?'
She frowned and looked away. 'I don't know, unless he was one of those people incapable of giving bad news to anyone.'
At the Cross, they turned left into West Street. The stonework of the cathedral glowed in the morning sun.
'I live behind the Army & Navy,' she said, and a surreal picture popped into Bob's head, worthy of a rhyme.
'Is that a fact?' he said, stringing it together. He was a rapid rhymer.
'The department store.'
'Right. Got it.'
I live behind the Army & Navy
Knickers off for Sergeant Davy,
Captain Billy, Corporal Jeff
And Gordon from the RAF.
'Nice and central,' he said without a hint of his thinking. 'Convenient for everything.'
'Yes, it's
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