I know. But then again …”
“Mmm.”
With the phone wedged between his shoulder and the side of his head, he was trying to ease a shirt out of its cellophane wrapper without making a din. Was it boredom or sadism that made the shirt-service people do up every single button?
“… about half a mile away and found this rock, sort of used it as a table …”
Vernon was halfway into his trousers when the call-waiting sounded again. “Absolutely,” he said. “A rock table. Anyone in their right mind would use one. But Clive, I’m late for work. Gotta run. How about a drink tomorrow?”
“Oh. Oh, all right. Fine. Drop by after work.”
iii
Vernon extricated himself from the back of the tiny car his paper allowed him and paused on the pavement outside Judge House to straighten his rumpled suit. As he hurried across the black and ginger marble vestibule, he saw Dibben waiting by the lift. Frank had become deputy foreign editor on his twenty-eighth birthday. Four years and three editors later, he was still there and rumored to be restless. They called him Cassius for his lean and hungry look, but this was unfair: his eyes were dark, his face long and pale, his stubble heavy, giving him the appearance of a police cell interrogator, but his manner was courteous, though a little withdrawn, and he had an attractive, wry intelligence. Vernon had always detested him in an absentminded way but had come round to Frank in the early days of the Garmony turmoil. The evening after the chapel passed its no-confidence vote in the editor, the evening after Vernon’s compact with Clive, the young man stalked Vernon’s hunched figure down the street at dusk and finally approached, touched his shoulder, and suggested a drink. There was something persuasive in Dibben’s tone.
They stepped into a side-street pub unknown to Vernon, a place of torn red plush and dim smoky air,and took a booth right at the back, behind a giant jukebox. Over gin and tonics Frank confessed to his editor his quiet outrage at the way things had turned out. Last night’s vote had been manipulated by the usual chapel suspects, whose beefs and feuds stretched back years, and he, Frank, had stayed away from the meeting pleading pressure of work. There were others, he said, who felt the same way, who wanted the
Judge
to broaden its appeal and get lively and do something bold like stitching up Garmony, but the dead hand of the grammarians was on every lever of patronage and promotion. The old guard would rather see the paper die than let it reach out to an under-thirties readership. They had fought off the bigger typeface, the lifestyle section, the complementary health supplement, the gossip column, the virtual bingo, and the agony uncle, as well as snappy coverage of the royal family and pop music. Now they were turning on the one editor who could save the
Judge
. Among the younger staff there was support for Vernon, but it didn’t have a voice. No one wanted to stand up first and be shot down.
Feeling suddenly light on his feet, Vernon went to the bar for another round. Clearly it was time he started listening to his junior staff, time he brought them on. Back at the table, Frank lit a cigarette and politely turned in his chair to blow his smoke out of the booth. He accepted the drink and continued. Of course, he hadn’t seen the pictures, but he knew it mustbe right to run them. He wanted to give Vernon his support, and more than that. He wanted to be of use, which was why it wouldn’t be right for him to be openly identified as the editor’s ally. He excused himself and went to the food counter to order sausage and mash, and Vernon imagined a bed-sit or studio flat and no one there, no girl waiting for the deputy foreign editor to come home.
When Frank sat down again, he said in a rush, “I could keep you in touch. I could let you know what they’re saying. I could find out where your real support is. But I’d have to look uninvolved, neutral.
“Mmm.”
With the phone wedged between his shoulder and the side of his head, he was trying to ease a shirt out of its cellophane wrapper without making a din. Was it boredom or sadism that made the shirt-service people do up every single button?
“… about half a mile away and found this rock, sort of used it as a table …”
Vernon was halfway into his trousers when the call-waiting sounded again. “Absolutely,” he said. “A rock table. Anyone in their right mind would use one. But Clive, I’m late for work. Gotta run. How about a drink tomorrow?”
“Oh. Oh, all right. Fine. Drop by after work.”
iii
Vernon extricated himself from the back of the tiny car his paper allowed him and paused on the pavement outside Judge House to straighten his rumpled suit. As he hurried across the black and ginger marble vestibule, he saw Dibben waiting by the lift. Frank had become deputy foreign editor on his twenty-eighth birthday. Four years and three editors later, he was still there and rumored to be restless. They called him Cassius for his lean and hungry look, but this was unfair: his eyes were dark, his face long and pale, his stubble heavy, giving him the appearance of a police cell interrogator, but his manner was courteous, though a little withdrawn, and he had an attractive, wry intelligence. Vernon had always detested him in an absentminded way but had come round to Frank in the early days of the Garmony turmoil. The evening after the chapel passed its no-confidence vote in the editor, the evening after Vernon’s compact with Clive, the young man stalked Vernon’s hunched figure down the street at dusk and finally approached, touched his shoulder, and suggested a drink. There was something persuasive in Dibben’s tone.
They stepped into a side-street pub unknown to Vernon, a place of torn red plush and dim smoky air,and took a booth right at the back, behind a giant jukebox. Over gin and tonics Frank confessed to his editor his quiet outrage at the way things had turned out. Last night’s vote had been manipulated by the usual chapel suspects, whose beefs and feuds stretched back years, and he, Frank, had stayed away from the meeting pleading pressure of work. There were others, he said, who felt the same way, who wanted the
Judge
to broaden its appeal and get lively and do something bold like stitching up Garmony, but the dead hand of the grammarians was on every lever of patronage and promotion. The old guard would rather see the paper die than let it reach out to an under-thirties readership. They had fought off the bigger typeface, the lifestyle section, the complementary health supplement, the gossip column, the virtual bingo, and the agony uncle, as well as snappy coverage of the royal family and pop music. Now they were turning on the one editor who could save the
Judge
. Among the younger staff there was support for Vernon, but it didn’t have a voice. No one wanted to stand up first and be shot down.
Feeling suddenly light on his feet, Vernon went to the bar for another round. Clearly it was time he started listening to his junior staff, time he brought them on. Back at the table, Frank lit a cigarette and politely turned in his chair to blow his smoke out of the booth. He accepted the drink and continued. Of course, he hadn’t seen the pictures, but he knew it mustbe right to run them. He wanted to give Vernon his support, and more than that. He wanted to be of use, which was why it wouldn’t be right for him to be openly identified as the editor’s ally. He excused himself and went to the food counter to order sausage and mash, and Vernon imagined a bed-sit or studio flat and no one there, no girl waiting for the deputy foreign editor to come home.
When Frank sat down again, he said in a rush, “I could keep you in touch. I could let you know what they’re saying. I could find out where your real support is. But I’d have to look uninvolved, neutral.
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