having things done properly. Matron says he’s always complaining, so they take little notice of him, having other things to do. Then there’s that girl he had in his house, Myra, he calls her, she comes and wants to see him, but they won’t let her in. Quite right, too, she’s only after what she can get. Silly old man, he thinks she’s in love with him, he wants to marry her, can you believe it! Of course it’s old age, he’s gaga! Isn’t that what they call it?” she said, suddenly laughing.
“I think I’ll go to bed, Elizabeth, if you don’t mind. Have you done with the newspaper?”
“I never read them, they’re left here for Father. Anyway, you can’t read in bed. Electricity is rationed. It’s the same everywhere today. Well, how are you? You never write, so I’ve not the slightest idea of how you are or what you’re doing. But you never did care about your family, did you? Father thinks you’re ashamed of us. Anyway, I’ll show you to your room.”
If only he had bought a candle. Or the dark lantern Father had given him.
*
To make a fresh start, Phillip had made over to a trust all proceeds of the farm sale—nearly twelve thousand pounds—together with the copyrights of his books. The royalties from the books were small, under one hundred pounds a year. His publisher had told him that his public had gone, owing to his views on the war and also because he had ‘burned up’ his children upon the farm, that is, had made them work so hard that the eldest boy had run away. Then he had taken the second boy, aged sixteen, away from school to replace his brother. These things, the publisher declared, were generally known, and had lost him his reading public. Therefore, he was sorry to say, he had decided not toaccept Phillip’s autobiography, with regret for what he could only describe as the misuse of a splendid talent.
Phillip had four hundred pounds, his motorcar and his typewriter . He would start again. All income from the trust, paid to Lucy, was not enough to pay boarding school fees for Peter, Roz, David and Jonny. Another six hundred a year was required. He had hopes from The New Horizon. Now, lying in bed, he wondered if he could look after his father as well as write and edit the magazine . It would mean keeping regular hours, and a strict schedule. His thoughts returned to Laura. Perhaps the three of them, in his father’s cottage? No, it wouldn’t work. Also, he mustn’t get involved with her. Lost girl with lost man would mean—disaster. Two stars, each needing a satellite to reflect its light, leaving lonely orbits to conjoin. Explosion. Darkness. No, he mustn’t involve Laura. That lost girl blazing with her own chaos, must not conjoin in orbit with a lost old man. He must start his novel at once. He thought of ‘Buster’, living near him on Exmoor. He would have a friend. Now to think about the first novel of his series.
General Mihailovitch’s last words, before being shot in front of one of his daughters—a Communist; the father a Fascist, grey-bearded, manacle’d. I and all my works were caught in the gale of the world. The hail of bullets cutting bone and flesh. O fortunatus tu, mon general! If only I had died of my wounds on the Somme. Morbid thoughts no good. Breathe in slowly; as slowly respire; twenty times.
‘Be still, and know that I am God.’
*
A few miles away, in Bournemouth, Richard was lying in bed, groaning to himself as he thought that he was going to die, that his daughter intended that he should die, now that he had signed the new will in her favour. Why didn’t she come? Where was the nurse? He had rung the bell once, and again after waiting five minutes exactly, by his watch. He had said to himself, five minutes, in order to make himself ring again. He was afraid of the nurse. She had complained that he was fussy, just because he had asked for his roll of lavatory paper to be returned. He wouldn’t have to ring for her if only she would let
“I think I’ll go to bed, Elizabeth, if you don’t mind. Have you done with the newspaper?”
“I never read them, they’re left here for Father. Anyway, you can’t read in bed. Electricity is rationed. It’s the same everywhere today. Well, how are you? You never write, so I’ve not the slightest idea of how you are or what you’re doing. But you never did care about your family, did you? Father thinks you’re ashamed of us. Anyway, I’ll show you to your room.”
If only he had bought a candle. Or the dark lantern Father had given him.
*
To make a fresh start, Phillip had made over to a trust all proceeds of the farm sale—nearly twelve thousand pounds—together with the copyrights of his books. The royalties from the books were small, under one hundred pounds a year. His publisher had told him that his public had gone, owing to his views on the war and also because he had ‘burned up’ his children upon the farm, that is, had made them work so hard that the eldest boy had run away. Then he had taken the second boy, aged sixteen, away from school to replace his brother. These things, the publisher declared, were generally known, and had lost him his reading public. Therefore, he was sorry to say, he had decided not toaccept Phillip’s autobiography, with regret for what he could only describe as the misuse of a splendid talent.
Phillip had four hundred pounds, his motorcar and his typewriter . He would start again. All income from the trust, paid to Lucy, was not enough to pay boarding school fees for Peter, Roz, David and Jonny. Another six hundred a year was required. He had hopes from The New Horizon. Now, lying in bed, he wondered if he could look after his father as well as write and edit the magazine . It would mean keeping regular hours, and a strict schedule. His thoughts returned to Laura. Perhaps the three of them, in his father’s cottage? No, it wouldn’t work. Also, he mustn’t get involved with her. Lost girl with lost man would mean—disaster. Two stars, each needing a satellite to reflect its light, leaving lonely orbits to conjoin. Explosion. Darkness. No, he mustn’t involve Laura. That lost girl blazing with her own chaos, must not conjoin in orbit with a lost old man. He must start his novel at once. He thought of ‘Buster’, living near him on Exmoor. He would have a friend. Now to think about the first novel of his series.
General Mihailovitch’s last words, before being shot in front of one of his daughters—a Communist; the father a Fascist, grey-bearded, manacle’d. I and all my works were caught in the gale of the world. The hail of bullets cutting bone and flesh. O fortunatus tu, mon general! If only I had died of my wounds on the Somme. Morbid thoughts no good. Breathe in slowly; as slowly respire; twenty times.
‘Be still, and know that I am God.’
*
A few miles away, in Bournemouth, Richard was lying in bed, groaning to himself as he thought that he was going to die, that his daughter intended that he should die, now that he had signed the new will in her favour. Why didn’t she come? Where was the nurse? He had rung the bell once, and again after waiting five minutes exactly, by his watch. He had said to himself, five minutes, in order to make himself ring again. He was afraid of the nurse. She had complained that he was fussy, just because he had asked for his roll of lavatory paper to be returned. He wouldn’t have to ring for her if only she would let
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