Read Online The Innocent Moon by Henry Williamson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Henry Williamson
Ads: Link
believed, firstly, that I had a gift of writing, and she thought I was spoiling it by carelessness and allowing egoism to kill it. But I joke and play the fool to hide my real feelings, as a man instinctively wants to hide his physical wounds from others. One of her early letters said, ‘I would that I had the power to set you upon the width of the way upon which you will not look.’ And I refused to see this—I narrowed it down to love between us.
So, I must, I suppose, accept the idea that in my twenty-sixth year I have failed to inspire love in the heart of a good woman … because I am not worthy. I am not worthy, because I did not tell her the truth about myself; when she read part of the early chapters of my novel about Donkin, I allowed her to think that the scenes were from my own early life, instead of partly coming from Willie’s.
Chapter 3
SPACE MAN
On the last day of the month, as he was about to leave the front entrance of the office one morning, he recognised Lord Castleton coming up the steps—a broad figure with large red face, dressed in frock coat and silk hat. He returned to open the door for the Chief, as he was called, and received a smile and a courteous word of thanks, together with a keen look as though his Lordship had remembered the small boy on a summer-day trip to Brighton with whom he had spoken on the esplanade, while watching, with others, one of the balloons in a long-distance race passing up Channel.
That afternoon, when he returned from the pavements of Brondesbury, Major Pemberthy strolled over and said, “What do you know about light cars?”
“Not much, sir, but I’ve got a racing motor-cycle.”
“But you have experience of light cars,” went on Major Pemberthy. “I’ve told the Chief you have. He wants a column on light cars in The Weekly Courier. You can do it. I know you can. Go and see the editor in Monks House, and say the Chief sent you. He remembered your eyes, from talking to you at Brighton when you were a boy. Do you remember talking to him?”
“Yes, sir, I do! I wondered if he recognised me this morning, when we met on the steps!”
“Good. He says he isn’t pleased with the present light-car notes. He says there’s a great future for small cars. Go and write about them. Tell Bloom that you come from the Chief.”
Phillip found Monks House in a narrow lane between Fleet Street and the Embankment. There Castleton’s three papers, morning, evening, and Sunday were produced. But—Light Car Notes! Still, he knew a little about two of them! There was the Swift he had hired in 1915 at Oldmarket, and the Humberette from Wetherley on several later occasions. He fixed the image of the Swift in his mind and sent up his card to the Editor upon which he had written in pencil, From the Chief.
Bernard Bloom, the editor, was sitting in a glass-built cage inside The Weekly Courier office, a single room on the third floorof Monks House. He was alone, and in process of laying out some cigars, taken from a jacket pocket, on a blotter. He had a jackdaw look, with black hair and prominent nose; but there the resemblance ended, for he had loose cheeks and altogether a loose look on his face reminding Phillip of a clown whose melancholy reflections came with an innocent sense of fun when Bloom said, in a Lancashire accent, “D’yer smoke cigars?”
“No,” replied Phillip, hoping to give an impression of keeping himself fit for driving in races at Brooklands.
“Well, confidence for confidence, nor do I”—with a droll sideway glance as though to convey to Phillip that he had helped himself from the trade luncheon from which he had just returned. “Sit down, won’t yer?”
Seating himself behind the desk, Bloom picked up a blue pencil. Many typed sheets of paper were scattered on the floor, over-flowing from a large wicker basket beside the editor’s boots.
“So yer’r from the Chief, are yer?” he enquired, doubtfully.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yer to write
So, I must, I suppose, accept the idea that in my twenty-sixth year I have failed to inspire love in the heart of a good woman … because I am not worthy. I am not worthy, because I did not tell her the truth about myself; when she read part of the early chapters of my novel about Donkin, I allowed her to think that the scenes were from my own early life, instead of partly coming from Willie’s.
Chapter 3
SPACE MAN
On the last day of the month, as he was about to leave the front entrance of the office one morning, he recognised Lord Castleton coming up the steps—a broad figure with large red face, dressed in frock coat and silk hat. He returned to open the door for the Chief, as he was called, and received a smile and a courteous word of thanks, together with a keen look as though his Lordship had remembered the small boy on a summer-day trip to Brighton with whom he had spoken on the esplanade, while watching, with others, one of the balloons in a long-distance race passing up Channel.
That afternoon, when he returned from the pavements of Brondesbury, Major Pemberthy strolled over and said, “What do you know about light cars?”
“Not much, sir, but I’ve got a racing motor-cycle.”
“But you have experience of light cars,” went on Major Pemberthy. “I’ve told the Chief you have. He wants a column on light cars in The Weekly Courier. You can do it. I know you can. Go and see the editor in Monks House, and say the Chief sent you. He remembered your eyes, from talking to you at Brighton when you were a boy. Do you remember talking to him?”
“Yes, sir, I do! I wondered if he recognised me this morning, when we met on the steps!”
“Good. He says he isn’t pleased with the present light-car notes. He says there’s a great future for small cars. Go and write about them. Tell Bloom that you come from the Chief.”
Phillip found Monks House in a narrow lane between Fleet Street and the Embankment. There Castleton’s three papers, morning, evening, and Sunday were produced. But—Light Car Notes! Still, he knew a little about two of them! There was the Swift he had hired in 1915 at Oldmarket, and the Humberette from Wetherley on several later occasions. He fixed the image of the Swift in his mind and sent up his card to the Editor upon which he had written in pencil, From the Chief.
Bernard Bloom, the editor, was sitting in a glass-built cage inside The Weekly Courier office, a single room on the third floorof Monks House. He was alone, and in process of laying out some cigars, taken from a jacket pocket, on a blotter. He had a jackdaw look, with black hair and prominent nose; but there the resemblance ended, for he had loose cheeks and altogether a loose look on his face reminding Phillip of a clown whose melancholy reflections came with an innocent sense of fun when Bloom said, in a Lancashire accent, “D’yer smoke cigars?”
“No,” replied Phillip, hoping to give an impression of keeping himself fit for driving in races at Brooklands.
“Well, confidence for confidence, nor do I”—with a droll sideway glance as though to convey to Phillip that he had helped himself from the trade luncheon from which he had just returned. “Sit down, won’t yer?”
Seating himself behind the desk, Bloom picked up a blue pencil. Many typed sheets of paper were scattered on the floor, over-flowing from a large wicker basket beside the editor’s boots.
“So yer’r from the Chief, are yer?” he enquired, doubtfully.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yer to write
Similar Books
