room, however, acquired an atmosphere of romance from the large round porthole that looked out over the river.
‘This is the spare room. I have the occasional visitor.’
The room opposite, which overlooked the reach, was somewhat larger and altogether more pleasant. It was likewise dominated by a porthole, and contained a trestle table and an adjustable office
chair. The table surface was almost entirely obscured by scraps of paper, and in the middle of the mess was a sturdy old black Remington typewriter. There was also a chrome filing cabinet, a
multi-storey paper tray and a pin-board covered from border to border with scribbled notes, receipts, letters, snapshots – Indian temples, beaches at sunset – and ticket stubs.
‘This is my office. And this . . .’ Henry reached over to a drawer in the desk and pulled out a large pile of A4 papers, ‘is my book. This is what I do every day. I’m
near the end now.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Everything,’ said Henry, and put the manuscript back into the drawer.
He led me up the staircase to the upper level, which was smaller than the lower one, and contained only two bedrooms, Henry’s on one side and mine on the other, as well as a tiny
loo-cum-shower-room. There was also an entrance to the sun deck, where I could see the nubby towel on the back of the lounger moving in the breeze.
Henry’s room was full of intriguing objects: jade Buddhas, Japanese watercolours, a ceremonial sword and an ink and pen set – ‘For calligraphy,’ he explained. There was a
silk screen, which served no obvious purpose. His bed had a painted headboard which showed a snake consuming its own tail, and was covered with a large green embroidered coverlet, the sheen of
which suggested silk.
My room overlooked the river through a square window. The bed was a single, with an iron bedstead and a continental quilt with a plain white cover. There was a pillow with a matching coverlet.
There were two folded towels on the bed and a purple beanbag on the floor. The floor itself was laid with battered cork tiles. There was a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a tiny pine desk
with a sloping lid that looked as if it had been salvaged from a schoolroom. A matching chair stood in front of it. Adjacent to the desk was a sink with an unframed mirror over it. The room had
little in the way of decoration, but it was full of light, and somehow profoundly friendly. I liked it, and thanked Henry for it. He told me I was welcome.
We fetched up what there was of my luggage. Henry finished the cigarette he was smoking, apologised to me, and said that he knew it appeared terribly inhospitable, but he had set himself a very
strict work schedule and needed to stick to it, despite my arrival. He promised to make up for it later in the evening. He asked if I could amuse myself for a couple of hours while settling in and
allow him to complete his work for that day. Then he left, without waiting for an answer, tugging on his beard with one hand and blithely scratching his buttocks through the material of his robe
with the other.
I started to put my possessions into the drawers and the wardrobe. After a minute or so, I could hear the clatter of his typing from the office downstairs. The typing was as repetitive and
irritating as the birdsong that I could hear outside my window. I wanted to feel happy, but I felt afraid – not of Henry, but of boredom, and nothingness, and the slow, dead tug of water
against a vessel that could never be launched.
I lay down on the bed and drifted into sleep.
Five
W hen I woke, there were rich, unfamiliar smells permeating the air. They were spicy and exotic. This made me feel nervous. I had been brought up on
plain food. My mother rarely stretched herself imaginatively beyond spaghetti bolognese and my father, after her death, had never offered me anything other than toast-related snacks, precooked
pies, chops and plain boiled veg.
Outside, the first
‘This is the spare room. I have the occasional visitor.’
The room opposite, which overlooked the reach, was somewhat larger and altogether more pleasant. It was likewise dominated by a porthole, and contained a trestle table and an adjustable office
chair. The table surface was almost entirely obscured by scraps of paper, and in the middle of the mess was a sturdy old black Remington typewriter. There was also a chrome filing cabinet, a
multi-storey paper tray and a pin-board covered from border to border with scribbled notes, receipts, letters, snapshots – Indian temples, beaches at sunset – and ticket stubs.
‘This is my office. And this . . .’ Henry reached over to a drawer in the desk and pulled out a large pile of A4 papers, ‘is my book. This is what I do every day. I’m
near the end now.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Everything,’ said Henry, and put the manuscript back into the drawer.
He led me up the staircase to the upper level, which was smaller than the lower one, and contained only two bedrooms, Henry’s on one side and mine on the other, as well as a tiny
loo-cum-shower-room. There was also an entrance to the sun deck, where I could see the nubby towel on the back of the lounger moving in the breeze.
Henry’s room was full of intriguing objects: jade Buddhas, Japanese watercolours, a ceremonial sword and an ink and pen set – ‘For calligraphy,’ he explained. There was a
silk screen, which served no obvious purpose. His bed had a painted headboard which showed a snake consuming its own tail, and was covered with a large green embroidered coverlet, the sheen of
which suggested silk.
My room overlooked the river through a square window. The bed was a single, with an iron bedstead and a continental quilt with a plain white cover. There was a pillow with a matching coverlet.
There were two folded towels on the bed and a purple beanbag on the floor. The floor itself was laid with battered cork tiles. There was a small wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a tiny pine desk
with a sloping lid that looked as if it had been salvaged from a schoolroom. A matching chair stood in front of it. Adjacent to the desk was a sink with an unframed mirror over it. The room had
little in the way of decoration, but it was full of light, and somehow profoundly friendly. I liked it, and thanked Henry for it. He told me I was welcome.
We fetched up what there was of my luggage. Henry finished the cigarette he was smoking, apologised to me, and said that he knew it appeared terribly inhospitable, but he had set himself a very
strict work schedule and needed to stick to it, despite my arrival. He promised to make up for it later in the evening. He asked if I could amuse myself for a couple of hours while settling in and
allow him to complete his work for that day. Then he left, without waiting for an answer, tugging on his beard with one hand and blithely scratching his buttocks through the material of his robe
with the other.
I started to put my possessions into the drawers and the wardrobe. After a minute or so, I could hear the clatter of his typing from the office downstairs. The typing was as repetitive and
irritating as the birdsong that I could hear outside my window. I wanted to feel happy, but I felt afraid – not of Henry, but of boredom, and nothingness, and the slow, dead tug of water
against a vessel that could never be launched.
I lay down on the bed and drifted into sleep.
Five
W hen I woke, there were rich, unfamiliar smells permeating the air. They were spicy and exotic. This made me feel nervous. I had been brought up on
plain food. My mother rarely stretched herself imaginatively beyond spaghetti bolognese and my father, after her death, had never offered me anything other than toast-related snacks, precooked
pies, chops and plain boiled veg.
Outside, the first
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