Written in Blood(3)

‘Really.’ Brian sounded more cheerful. ‘We could give it a try, I suppose. Not as if we have anyone else in mind.’

‘There’s Alan Bennett.’

Brian sniffed. He was rather off Alan Bennett. At the beginning Brian had been very much under the writer’s influence. He had hung around outside the village shop and the Old Dun Cow with a tape recorder, talking to the villagers, hoping to unravel the rich and poignant complexities of their inner lives as he understood was the great man’s way. It had been a dead loss. All they talked about was Neighbours and football and what was in the Sun. Eventually a drunk had called him a nosy piss pot and knocked him down.

Laura said, ‘I thought we were keeping him for an emergency.’

‘Let’s take a vote shall we?’ said Rex. ‘Asking Jennings?’ He put his hand up as did the others, Honoria last of all. ‘Gerald?’

Gerald had turned his still damp trousers back to the fire. He looked over his shoulder at the six raised hands then back to the artificial blue and yellow flames. However he voted it could hardly affect the outcome. Yet he could not let this terrible suggestion pass without some form of protest.

He said, ‘I think it’ll be a waste of time,’ and marvelled at the neutrality of his voice. At the even tone. The regular and unhurried spacing between the words. The words themselves so mild in contrast to the torment raging in his breast.

‘Sorry, Gerald. You’re outnumbered.’ Brian was already pulling on his knitted hat.

‘Even so,’ (he couldn’t just give up) ‘I don’t think there’s a lot of point—’

‘If you won’t write I will,’ said Brian. ‘Care of his publisher, I suppose. In fact I might ring them up—’

‘No, no. I’m secretary. I’ll do it.’ At least that way matters would stay in his own hands. ‘No problem.’ Gerald stood up, wishing only to be rid of them. He saw Laura covertly watching him and managed to stretch his lips in the semblance of a smile.

He did not sleep that night. He sat at his desk for the first hour quite motionless, drowned in recollection. His head felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice. To see the man again. Max. Max. Who had stolen his most priceless possession. To have to speak words of welcome and no doubt be forced to listen to hours of self-aggrandisement in return. Gerald knew he would not be able to bear it.

At three o’clock he started writing. He wrote and wrote and wrote again. By six he was exhausted and the waste basket was overflowing, but he had the letter. One side of one sheet of paper. He was as sure as he could be that the balance was right. It was out of the question that he should beg Max not to come. Even at the time - even at the very moment of that terrible betrayal - Gerald had not begged. Victorious Max might have been but that was one satisfaction he would forever seek in vain.

Now Gerald, gripping his pen hard in his right hand and holding the paper down firmly with his left, started to address the envelope. Necessarily he began with the name. M.a.x. J.e.n.n.i.n.g.s. The pen slipped and twirled in his sweating fingers. It was as if the very letters had the power of conjuration. He could hear the man breathing, smell the fragrance of his cigar smoke, look into the brilliant blue eyes in that bony, sunburnt face. Feel the old spell being cast.

He read the letter again. Surely no one comprehending the emotional turmoil from which such an invitation must inevitably have sprung would accept.

Gerald affixed a first-class stamp, put on his muffler and overcoat and left the house. As he set off for the post box the milkman’s float materialised out of the dark.

‘You’re up early, Mr Hadleigh.’ The man nodded at the white square in Gerald’s hand. ‘Making sure you get your pools off.’

‘That’s right.’

Gerald strode off, his spirits curiously lightened by this mundane encounter. The real world rushed in, familiar and banal. It was the night now that seemed unreal. A hot-house of unhealthy imaginings.

He quickened his pace, filling his lungs with fresh winter air. By the time he was starting back towards the cottage the bitter reflections that had so tormented him just a short while before now began to seem no more than over-heated fantasies. He was projecting his own wretched memories on to someone else. For all he knew Max had practically forgotten about him. And in any case, even if he hadn’t, Gerald could not somehow see him driving nearly thirty miles just to talk to a bunch of amateur scribblers. He was successful now. Each new epic in the Sunday Times Top Ten without fail. No, the more Gerald thought about it, the more insubstantial and unfounded his previous fears now seemed.