coloring the past through the prism of his unhappiness. Other thoughts diverted him occasionally, and for periods he read, but this was the theme of his northward journey, the long and studied redefinition of a friendship.
In Penrith some hours later, it was a great relief to step away from this brooding and go along the platform with his bags in search of a taxi. It was over twenty, and he was happy to lose himself in small talk with the driver. Because it was midweek and out of season, Clive was the hotel’s only guest. He had asked for the room he had taken three or four times before, the only one with a table to work at.Despite the cold, he opened the window wide so he could breathe the distinctive winter Lakeland air while he unpacked—peaty water, wet rock, mossy earth. He ate alone in the bar under the gaze of a stuffed fox mounted in a glass case, frozen in a predatory crouch. After a short walk in total darkness round the edges of the hotel car park, he went back indoors, said goodnight to his waitress, and returned to his tiny room. He read for an hour and then lay in darkness, listening to the swollen crashing beck, knowing that his subject was bound to return and that it would be better to indulge it now than take it with him on his walk the next day. It wasn’t the disillusionment that forced itself on him now. There were his memories of the conversation, and then something beyond—what had been said, and then what he would like to have said to Vernon now that he had had hours to reflect. It was remembering, and it was also fantasizing: he imagined a drama in which he gave himself all the best lines, resonant lines of sad reasonableness whose indictments were all the more severe and unanswerable for their compression and emotional restraint.
ii
What actually happened was this: Vernon phoned in the late morning, using words so close to those Clive had spoken the week before that they seemed like conscious quotation, a playful calling in of a debt. Vernon had to talk to him, it was very pressing, the phone wouldn’t do, he had to
see
him, it had to be today.
Clive hesitated. He had intended to catch the afternoon train to Penrith, but he said, “Well, come round and I’ll make supper.”
He rearranged his travel plans, brought up two good burgundies from the cellar, and cooked. Vernon arrived an hour late, and Clive’s first impression was that his friend had lost weight. His face was long and thin and unshaved, his overcoat looked many sizes too large, and when he set down his briefcase to accept a glass of wine his hand was trembling.
He downed the Chambertin Clos de Beze like a lager and said, “What a week, what a terrible week.” He held out his glass for a refill, and Clive, relieved that he had not started with the Richebourg, obliged.
“We were in court three hours this morning and we won. You’d think that would be the end of it. But the whole staff’s against me, almost all of them. The building’s in an uproar. It’s a marvel we got a paper outtonight. There’s a chapel meeting going on now and they’re certain to pass a motion of no confidence in me. Management and the board are standing firm, so that’s fine. It’s a fight to the death.”
Clive gestured toward a chair, and Vernon flopped into it, put his elbows on the kitchen table, covered his face with his hands, and wailed, “These prissy bastards! I’m trying to save their arse-wipe newspaper and their piss-pot jobs. They’d rather lose everything than dangle a single fucking modifier. They don’t live in the real world. They deserve to starve.”
Clive had no idea what Vernon was talking about, but he said nothing. Vernon’s glass was empty again, so Clive filled it and turned away to lift two poussins from the oven. Vernon heaved his briefcase onto his lap. Before opening it, he took a deep, calming breath and another slug of the Chambertin. He sprang the catches, hesitated, and spoke in a lower voice.
“Look,
In Penrith some hours later, it was a great relief to step away from this brooding and go along the platform with his bags in search of a taxi. It was over twenty, and he was happy to lose himself in small talk with the driver. Because it was midweek and out of season, Clive was the hotel’s only guest. He had asked for the room he had taken three or four times before, the only one with a table to work at.Despite the cold, he opened the window wide so he could breathe the distinctive winter Lakeland air while he unpacked—peaty water, wet rock, mossy earth. He ate alone in the bar under the gaze of a stuffed fox mounted in a glass case, frozen in a predatory crouch. After a short walk in total darkness round the edges of the hotel car park, he went back indoors, said goodnight to his waitress, and returned to his tiny room. He read for an hour and then lay in darkness, listening to the swollen crashing beck, knowing that his subject was bound to return and that it would be better to indulge it now than take it with him on his walk the next day. It wasn’t the disillusionment that forced itself on him now. There were his memories of the conversation, and then something beyond—what had been said, and then what he would like to have said to Vernon now that he had had hours to reflect. It was remembering, and it was also fantasizing: he imagined a drama in which he gave himself all the best lines, resonant lines of sad reasonableness whose indictments were all the more severe and unanswerable for their compression and emotional restraint.
ii
What actually happened was this: Vernon phoned in the late morning, using words so close to those Clive had spoken the week before that they seemed like conscious quotation, a playful calling in of a debt. Vernon had to talk to him, it was very pressing, the phone wouldn’t do, he had to
see
him, it had to be today.
Clive hesitated. He had intended to catch the afternoon train to Penrith, but he said, “Well, come round and I’ll make supper.”
He rearranged his travel plans, brought up two good burgundies from the cellar, and cooked. Vernon arrived an hour late, and Clive’s first impression was that his friend had lost weight. His face was long and thin and unshaved, his overcoat looked many sizes too large, and when he set down his briefcase to accept a glass of wine his hand was trembling.
He downed the Chambertin Clos de Beze like a lager and said, “What a week, what a terrible week.” He held out his glass for a refill, and Clive, relieved that he had not started with the Richebourg, obliged.
“We were in court three hours this morning and we won. You’d think that would be the end of it. But the whole staff’s against me, almost all of them. The building’s in an uproar. It’s a marvel we got a paper outtonight. There’s a chapel meeting going on now and they’re certain to pass a motion of no confidence in me. Management and the board are standing firm, so that’s fine. It’s a fight to the death.”
Clive gestured toward a chair, and Vernon flopped into it, put his elbows on the kitchen table, covered his face with his hands, and wailed, “These prissy bastards! I’m trying to save their arse-wipe newspaper and their piss-pot jobs. They’d rather lose everything than dangle a single fucking modifier. They don’t live in the real world. They deserve to starve.”
Clive had no idea what Vernon was talking about, but he said nothing. Vernon’s glass was empty again, so Clive filled it and turned away to lift two poussins from the oven. Vernon heaved his briefcase onto his lap. Before opening it, he took a deep, calming breath and another slug of the Chambertin. He sprang the catches, hesitated, and spoke in a lower voice.
“Look,
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