Jammy Dodger by Kevin Smith Page B

a nearby window looking down into the street. ‘See that Beemer?’ the older man was saying. ‘The Troubles paid for that. Overtime. I wouldn’t be driving that if there was peace.’
    â€˜I hear you,’ his companion said. ‘I’m thinking of – ’
    â€˜Artie?’
    A well-dressed woman in her mid-thirties with bobbed hair and expensive glasses was standing beside me.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜I’m Sinead, Monty’s producer.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you.’
    â€˜Monty’ll be with you in a minute, he’s just finishing in make-up.’
    â€˜Right … Make-up? For radio?’
    â€˜He likes to look his best. Old school.’ She shot me a smile that melted instantly into a look of engrained suffering. ‘Are you set? Do you have everything you need?’
    I assured her I had.
    â€˜Good, see you in Studio Three. Remember, just be yourself.’ Sound advice.
    I tried to decipher my notes. We were creeping towards show time and I was experiencing a flicker of nerves. Did I actually have anything to say? I’d rehearsed a few phrases but …
    â€˜Arthur, is it? Monty Monteith. Big Arts.’
    Tall, with hair the colour of Guinness foam and attired (I kid you not) in a dinner suit, the great man extended a languorous hand.
    â€˜Call me Artie,’ I said.
    â€˜Good man Artie.’ He squeezed my knuckles until they cracked audibly.
    He sat down, eased back and spread his knees wide. His face was huge, untroubled by self-doubt, ice-blue eyes accentuated by the burnt orange of his pancake make-up.
    â€˜Let me have it Artie.’
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜What are we looking at here?’
    â€˜I’m not sure …’
    â€˜What’s the bottom line?
    â€˜I’m sorry Monty, in what sense?’
    â€˜The book, it’s poetry right?’
    â€˜Oh. Yes. Yes, it’s a book of poems.’
    â€˜So what’s your opinion? What do you think?’
    I took a deep breath.
    â€˜Well, I thought I’d start by saying something about the overall theme being – ’
    â€˜Wait, what’s the title?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The title of the book.’
    â€˜It’s called Postcards From Here. ’
    â€˜Right. And it’s by?’
    â€˜Dylan Delaney?’ Was he serious? Surely he knew that much?
    He nodded and paddled his hands in a circular motion, inviting me to go on.
    â€˜The overall theme being, I suppose – to reverse a famous line of Philip Larkin’s – that something, like nothing, happens anywhere. That place – by which I mean wherever you happen to be at any one time – is in a sense less important than what happens in the head.’
    Monteith suddenly looked very sleepy. I continued.
    â€˜And then I thought I’d say something about this being an ingenious, if at times ingenuous, debut. Some might even say jejune – ’ I didn’t really know what this word meant, but I was betting Monteith didn’t either. ‘… and that I believe this to be a very convincing statement of intent, the emergence of a significant new voice and …’
    Monteith’s lids were closed. Was he asleep?
    â€˜I’m just resting my eyes. Please go on.’
    â€˜â€¦Â And something like, you know, if Delaney can sustain this quality into the future then we’ll have, um, a real contender on our hands.’
    â€˜What about the verses themselves?’
    â€˜Individual poems, you mean? I’ve a few in mind I thought I’d single out for comment, depending on how much time we have.’ (I had to be careful here. Delaney’s book contained a couple of eye-poppingly explicit pieces – specifically, Down in Cherryvalley and Fundamental Love – that I’d really rather we didn’t discuss.)
    â€˜Plenty of time.’
    â€˜Well generally, they range from short romantic lyrics such as The