lychees ('They grow on trees in China, Floyd!') I became competitive. 'What about split peas?' I said, leading him down the aisles. 'Scallops? Indian pudding? Dreft? Clorox? What do you pay for dog biscuits? Look, be reasonable. What you gain on mangoes, you lose on maple syrup!'
We left empty-handed. Driving back, I noticed that Floyd had become even gloomier. Perhaps he realized that it was going to be a long summer. I certainly did.
'Anything wrong, Floyd?'
He groaned. He put his head in his hands. 'Aunt Freddy, I think I've got culture shock.'
isn't that something you get at the other end? I mean, when the phones don't work in Nigeria or you find ants in the marmalade or the grass hut leaks?'
'Our huts never leak.'
'Of course not,' I said. l And look, this is only a palagi talking, but I have the unmistakable feeling that you would be much happier among your own family, Floyd/
We both knew which family. Mercifully, he was gone the next
YARD SALE
day, leaving nothing behind but the faint aroma of coconut oil in the hammock. He never asked where I got the price of the Hyannis-Apia airfare. He accepted it with a sort of extortionate Third Worlder's wink, saying, That's very Samoan of you, Aunt Freddy.' But I'll get it back. Fortunately, there are ways of raising money at short notice around here.
Algebra
Ronald had threatened to move out before, but I always begged him not to. He knew he had power over me. He was one of those people who treats flattery as if it is mockery, and regards insult as a form of endearment. You couldn't talk to him. He refused to be praised, and if I called him 'Fanny' he only laughed. I suppose he knew that basically he was worthless, which led him to a kind of desperate boasting about his faults - he even boasted about his impotence. What Ronnie liked best was to get drunk on the cheap wine he called 'Parafino' and sprawl on the chaise and dig little hornets out of his nose and say what scum most people were. I knew he was bad for me and that I would have another breakdown if things went on like this much longer.
'God's been awful good to me,' he said once in the American accent he affected when he was drunk.
'That's blasphemy,' I said. 'You don't mean that. You'll go to Hell.'
'Wrong!' he shrieked. 'If you do mean it you'll go to Hell.'
When I met him he had just joined Howletts, the publisher. Quite early on, he began to sneer at the parties he sometimes took me to by boasting that he could go to one every day of the week. I thought he had a responsible position but afterwards, when I got to know the others, particularly Philippa and Roger, I came to realize that he was a rather insignificant person in the firm. I think this is why he seemed so embarrassed to have me along and took me so seldom. He implied that I wasn't attractive or intelligent enough for his publishing friends, and he would not let me near the real writers.
'This is Michael Insole, a friend,' he'd say, never letting on that we were living together in my flat. That sort of thing left me feeling incredibly depressed.
Then everything changed. I have not really analyzed it until now. It certainly wasn't an idea - nothing as solemn or calculated as that. It was more an impulse, a frenzy you might say, or a leap in
ALGEBRA
the dark. At one of the parties I was talking to Sir Charles Moon-man, the novelist and critic. 'And what do you do?' he asked me. At another time I might have said, 'I live with Ronald Brill,' but I was feeling so fed up with Ronnie I said, 'Basically, I'm a writer.'
'Do I know your work?' asked Sir Charles.
'No,' I said. It was the truth. I worked then, as I do now, at the Arcade Off-License near the Clapham South tube station, but living with Ronnie had made me want to go into writing.
Sir Charles found my prompt reply very funny, and then an odd thing happened. He relaxed and began to talk and talk. He was hugely old and had the downright manner and good health of a country doctor. He
We left empty-handed. Driving back, I noticed that Floyd had become even gloomier. Perhaps he realized that it was going to be a long summer. I certainly did.
'Anything wrong, Floyd?'
He groaned. He put his head in his hands. 'Aunt Freddy, I think I've got culture shock.'
isn't that something you get at the other end? I mean, when the phones don't work in Nigeria or you find ants in the marmalade or the grass hut leaks?'
'Our huts never leak.'
'Of course not,' I said. l And look, this is only a palagi talking, but I have the unmistakable feeling that you would be much happier among your own family, Floyd/
We both knew which family. Mercifully, he was gone the next
YARD SALE
day, leaving nothing behind but the faint aroma of coconut oil in the hammock. He never asked where I got the price of the Hyannis-Apia airfare. He accepted it with a sort of extortionate Third Worlder's wink, saying, That's very Samoan of you, Aunt Freddy.' But I'll get it back. Fortunately, there are ways of raising money at short notice around here.
Algebra
Ronald had threatened to move out before, but I always begged him not to. He knew he had power over me. He was one of those people who treats flattery as if it is mockery, and regards insult as a form of endearment. You couldn't talk to him. He refused to be praised, and if I called him 'Fanny' he only laughed. I suppose he knew that basically he was worthless, which led him to a kind of desperate boasting about his faults - he even boasted about his impotence. What Ronnie liked best was to get drunk on the cheap wine he called 'Parafino' and sprawl on the chaise and dig little hornets out of his nose and say what scum most people were. I knew he was bad for me and that I would have another breakdown if things went on like this much longer.
'God's been awful good to me,' he said once in the American accent he affected when he was drunk.
'That's blasphemy,' I said. 'You don't mean that. You'll go to Hell.'
'Wrong!' he shrieked. 'If you do mean it you'll go to Hell.'
When I met him he had just joined Howletts, the publisher. Quite early on, he began to sneer at the parties he sometimes took me to by boasting that he could go to one every day of the week. I thought he had a responsible position but afterwards, when I got to know the others, particularly Philippa and Roger, I came to realize that he was a rather insignificant person in the firm. I think this is why he seemed so embarrassed to have me along and took me so seldom. He implied that I wasn't attractive or intelligent enough for his publishing friends, and he would not let me near the real writers.
'This is Michael Insole, a friend,' he'd say, never letting on that we were living together in my flat. That sort of thing left me feeling incredibly depressed.
Then everything changed. I have not really analyzed it until now. It certainly wasn't an idea - nothing as solemn or calculated as that. It was more an impulse, a frenzy you might say, or a leap in
ALGEBRA
the dark. At one of the parties I was talking to Sir Charles Moon-man, the novelist and critic. 'And what do you do?' he asked me. At another time I might have said, 'I live with Ronald Brill,' but I was feeling so fed up with Ronnie I said, 'Basically, I'm a writer.'
'Do I know your work?' asked Sir Charles.
'No,' I said. It was the truth. I worked then, as I do now, at the Arcade Off-License near the Clapham South tube station, but living with Ronnie had made me want to go into writing.
Sir Charles found my prompt reply very funny, and then an odd thing happened. He relaxed and began to talk and talk. He was hugely old and had the downright manner and good health of a country doctor. He
Similar Books
