Read Online The Road Between Us by Nigel Farndale - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nigel Farndale
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I know, all the editors on the nationals have agreed to call their boys off in return for …’
‘Don’t think the neighbours were too happy about them being camped out there.’
‘No.’
‘At least they’ve stopped shouting through the letterbox.’
Good, Niall thinks. He seems quite talkative today. ‘That must have been horrible. I’ve told the editors that all requests for interviews have to come through me from now on. Not sure how much good it will do though, to be honest. Your best bet might be to give one interview, and then the others will lose interest. Go for one of the broadsheets. I know the editor of the Guardian pretty well. You might need to pose for some snaps too.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Niall looks at the ceiling as he hears Hannah turn up the volume on the music she has started listening to. Coldplay, if he is not mistaken. ‘I gather it’s not going that well with your therapist,’ he says. ‘Han says you won’t talk to him.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘But you’re looking much better. You’ve gained weight.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Niall hears these thin words as a reproach. On his last few visits he has felt increasingly self-conscious about his own weight.Edward’s attenuated frame seems to be a criticism of him, a confirmation of his moral inferiority.
He looks for a distraction, sensing that his old friend is going to prove hard work today after all. Still chilly and absent. As he looks around the room he realizes, with a stab of guilt, that he probably knows its layout better than its owner does. Though most of the objects are relics from Edward’s years in the diplomatic service, their locations have changed. Niall had helped Frejya rearrange them after they decorated this room together and he put up the new shelf. He tests this now with his thumb to check its rawlplugs are holding. It is fine, easily standing the weight of the African mask and fly switch, the statue of Buddha, the paperknife in the style of a Florentine dagger, the Russian doll and the pair of Spanish candlesticks shaped like entwined serpents.
The lacquered Chinese screen that Edward would have remembered as being against the window is now in the corner, concealing the television. The Turkish scimitar that used to lie on top of the bookcase is now displayed on the wall. Only the old French rifle is in its original place, mounted above the fireplace, its spiked bayonet still pointing at the rocking chair in the corner. Edward’s father had brought it home from the war as a souvenir.
Niall picks up a framed photograph of himself with Edward. They are wearing the same college scarf as they punt together on the Cam. He checks his watch. Almost six. ‘Oh, sod tea; let’s open a bottle of wine. Fancy a glass?’
Edward shrugs.
Niall puts a hand to his stomach as if trying to flatten it as he goes through the doorway. In the kitchen he selects a bottle of red from the rack, and blows dust from its label before pulling its cork, pouring two glasses and swirling one of them around. He sips. Its thickness takes him by surprise, like meat on his tongue.
When he returns to the room he hands a glass to Edward then he points at the old Staunton chessboard with his index finger and cocks his thumb like a pistol. ‘Fancy a game?’
‘Only if you’ve improved.’
Niall laughs, grateful for the change of mood. ‘You know me, I am to chess what Wayne Rooney is … to chess.’ This is better, he thinks. In the past few weeks, the chessboard has proved a useful no man’s land between them. A game that does not require conversation. He sets up the pieces before taking a black pawn in one hand and a white in the other and holding them behind his back. Edward taps his right arm and, seeing he has picked white, makes the first move, developing a knight. Niall moves his queen pawn two spaces. Edward mirrors it.
‘Got some good news,’ Niall says without taking his eyes off the board. ‘I don’t
‘Don’t think the neighbours were too happy about them being camped out there.’
‘No.’
‘At least they’ve stopped shouting through the letterbox.’
Good, Niall thinks. He seems quite talkative today. ‘That must have been horrible. I’ve told the editors that all requests for interviews have to come through me from now on. Not sure how much good it will do though, to be honest. Your best bet might be to give one interview, and then the others will lose interest. Go for one of the broadsheets. I know the editor of the Guardian pretty well. You might need to pose for some snaps too.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Niall looks at the ceiling as he hears Hannah turn up the volume on the music she has started listening to. Coldplay, if he is not mistaken. ‘I gather it’s not going that well with your therapist,’ he says. ‘Han says you won’t talk to him.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘But you’re looking much better. You’ve gained weight.’
‘So you keep saying.’
Niall hears these thin words as a reproach. On his last few visits he has felt increasingly self-conscious about his own weight.Edward’s attenuated frame seems to be a criticism of him, a confirmation of his moral inferiority.
He looks for a distraction, sensing that his old friend is going to prove hard work today after all. Still chilly and absent. As he looks around the room he realizes, with a stab of guilt, that he probably knows its layout better than its owner does. Though most of the objects are relics from Edward’s years in the diplomatic service, their locations have changed. Niall had helped Frejya rearrange them after they decorated this room together and he put up the new shelf. He tests this now with his thumb to check its rawlplugs are holding. It is fine, easily standing the weight of the African mask and fly switch, the statue of Buddha, the paperknife in the style of a Florentine dagger, the Russian doll and the pair of Spanish candlesticks shaped like entwined serpents.
The lacquered Chinese screen that Edward would have remembered as being against the window is now in the corner, concealing the television. The Turkish scimitar that used to lie on top of the bookcase is now displayed on the wall. Only the old French rifle is in its original place, mounted above the fireplace, its spiked bayonet still pointing at the rocking chair in the corner. Edward’s father had brought it home from the war as a souvenir.
Niall picks up a framed photograph of himself with Edward. They are wearing the same college scarf as they punt together on the Cam. He checks his watch. Almost six. ‘Oh, sod tea; let’s open a bottle of wine. Fancy a glass?’
Edward shrugs.
Niall puts a hand to his stomach as if trying to flatten it as he goes through the doorway. In the kitchen he selects a bottle of red from the rack, and blows dust from its label before pulling its cork, pouring two glasses and swirling one of them around. He sips. Its thickness takes him by surprise, like meat on his tongue.
When he returns to the room he hands a glass to Edward then he points at the old Staunton chessboard with his index finger and cocks his thumb like a pistol. ‘Fancy a game?’
‘Only if you’ve improved.’
Niall laughs, grateful for the change of mood. ‘You know me, I am to chess what Wayne Rooney is … to chess.’ This is better, he thinks. In the past few weeks, the chessboard has proved a useful no man’s land between them. A game that does not require conversation. He sets up the pieces before taking a black pawn in one hand and a white in the other and holding them behind his back. Edward taps his right arm and, seeing he has picked white, makes the first move, developing a knight. Niall moves his queen pawn two spaces. Edward mirrors it.
‘Got some good news,’ Niall says without taking his eyes off the board. ‘I don’t
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