presses to raise a clattering steel shutter. Itâsrevealed in mechanical jerks, the long nose and shining eyes at the stable door, chafing to be free. A silver Mercedes S500 with cream upholstery â and heâs no longer embarrassed by it. He doesnât even love it â itâs simply a sensual part of what he regards as his overgenerous share of the worldâs goods. If he didnât own it, he tries to tell himself, someone else would. He hasnât driven it in a week, but in the gloom of the dry dustless garage the machine breathes an animal warmth of its own. He opens the door and sits in. He likes driving it wearing his threadbare sports clothes. On the front passenger seat is an old copy of the Journal of Neurosurgery which carries a report of his on a convention in Rome. He tosses his squash racket on top of it. Itâs Theo who disapproves most, saying itâs a doctorâs car, as if this were the final word in condemnation. Daisy, on the other hand, said she thought that Harold Pinter owned something like it, which made it all fine with her. Rosalind encouraged him to buy it. She thinks his life is too guiltily austere, and never buying clothes or good wine or a single painting is a touch pretentious. Still living like a postgraduate student. It was time for him to fill out.
For months he drove it apologetically, rarely at speed, reluctant to overtake, waving on right-turning traffic, punctilious in permitting cheaper cars their road space. He was cured at last by a fishing trip to north-west Scotland with Jay Strauss. Seduced by the open road and Jayâs exultant celebration of âLutheran geniusâ, Henry finally accepted himself as the owner, the master, of his vehicle. In fact, heâs always quietly considered himself a good driver: as in the theatre, firm, precise, defensive to the correct degree. He and Jay fished the streams and lochans around Torridon for brown trout. One wet afternoon, glancing over his shoulder while casting, Henry saw his car a hundred yards away, parked at an angle on a rise of the track, picked out in soft light against a backdrop of birch, flowering heather and thunderous black sky â the realisation of an ad manâs vision â and felt for thefirst time a gentle, swooning joy of possession. It is, of course, possible, permissible, to love an inanimate object. But this moment was the peak of the affair; since then his feelings have settled into mild, occasional pleasure. The car gives him vague satisfaction when heâs driving it; the rest of the time it rarely crosses his mind. As its makers intended and promised, itâs become part of him.
But certain small things still stir him particularly, like the way the car idles without vibration; the rev counter alone confirms the engine is turning. He switches on the radio, which is playing sustained, respectful applause as he eases out of the garage, lets the steel shutter drop behind him, and goes slowly up the mews and turns left, back into Warren Street. His squash club is in Huntley Street in a converted nursesâ home â no distance at all, but heâs driving because he has errands to do afterwards. Shamelessly, he always enjoys the city from inside his car where the air is filtered and hi-fi music confers pathos on the humblest details â a Schubert trio is dignifying the narrow street heâs slipping down now. Heâs heading a couple of blocks south in order to loop eastwards across the Tottenham Court Road. Cleveland Street used to be known for garment sweatshops and prostitutes. Now it has Greek, Turkish and Italian restaurants â the local sort that never get mentioned in the guides â with terraces where people eat out in summer. Thereâs a man who repairs old computers, a fabric shop, a cobblerâs, and further down, a wig emporium, much visited by transvestites. This is the fair embodiment of an inner city byway â diverse,
For months he drove it apologetically, rarely at speed, reluctant to overtake, waving on right-turning traffic, punctilious in permitting cheaper cars their road space. He was cured at last by a fishing trip to north-west Scotland with Jay Strauss. Seduced by the open road and Jayâs exultant celebration of âLutheran geniusâ, Henry finally accepted himself as the owner, the master, of his vehicle. In fact, heâs always quietly considered himself a good driver: as in the theatre, firm, precise, defensive to the correct degree. He and Jay fished the streams and lochans around Torridon for brown trout. One wet afternoon, glancing over his shoulder while casting, Henry saw his car a hundred yards away, parked at an angle on a rise of the track, picked out in soft light against a backdrop of birch, flowering heather and thunderous black sky â the realisation of an ad manâs vision â and felt for thefirst time a gentle, swooning joy of possession. It is, of course, possible, permissible, to love an inanimate object. But this moment was the peak of the affair; since then his feelings have settled into mild, occasional pleasure. The car gives him vague satisfaction when heâs driving it; the rest of the time it rarely crosses his mind. As its makers intended and promised, itâs become part of him.
But certain small things still stir him particularly, like the way the car idles without vibration; the rev counter alone confirms the engine is turning. He switches on the radio, which is playing sustained, respectful applause as he eases out of the garage, lets the steel shutter drop behind him, and goes slowly up the mews and turns left, back into Warren Street. His squash club is in Huntley Street in a converted nursesâ home â no distance at all, but heâs driving because he has errands to do afterwards. Shamelessly, he always enjoys the city from inside his car where the air is filtered and hi-fi music confers pathos on the humblest details â a Schubert trio is dignifying the narrow street heâs slipping down now. Heâs heading a couple of blocks south in order to loop eastwards across the Tottenham Court Road. Cleveland Street used to be known for garment sweatshops and prostitutes. Now it has Greek, Turkish and Italian restaurants â the local sort that never get mentioned in the guides â with terraces where people eat out in summer. Thereâs a man who repairs old computers, a fabric shop, a cobblerâs, and further down, a wig emporium, much visited by transvestites. This is the fair embodiment of an inner city byway â diverse,