skittish.
‘Hello, Julian. Whatever are you doing?’
‘Have you been to see Daddy?’
‘Yes.’ I reflected that it was just as well Julian was out this evening.
‘Good. I thought you’d quarrelled.’
‘Certainly not!’
‘You don’t come any more.’
‘I do. Only you’re away.’
‘Not now. I’m doing teaching practice in London. What was happening when you left?’
‘Where? At home? Oh – nothing special – ’
‘They were quarrelling so I left the house. Have they calmed down?’
‘Yes, of course – ’
‘Don’t you think they quarrel more than they used to?’
‘No, I – How smart you are, Julian. Quite a dandy.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve come, I was just thinking about you. I wanted to ask you something, I was going to write – ’
‘Julian, what are you doing, with all that paper you’re scattering ?’
‘It’s an exorcism. These are love letters.’
‘Love letters?’
‘From my ex-boy-friend.’
I remembered that Arnold had mentioned rather unenthusiastically a ‘hairy swain’, an art student or something.
‘Have you parted company?’
‘Yes. I’ve torn them into the smallest possible pieces. When I’ve got rid of them all I’ll be free. Here goes the last, I think.’
Taking from her neck the receptacle rather like a nose-bag which had contained the dismembered missives she turned it inside out. A few more white petals flew with the passing wind and were gone.
‘But what were you saying, you were chanting something, a spell or such.’
‘ “Oscar Belling”.’
‘What?’
‘That was his name. Look, I’m using the past tense! It’s all over!’
‘Did you abandon him or did he – ?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it. Bradley, I wanted to ask you something.’
It was quite dark now, a bluish night gauzed over by the yellow street lamps, and reminding me irrelevantly of Rachel’s reddish golden hair adhering to the front of Francis’s shabby blue suit. We walked slowly along the street.
‘Look, Bradley, it’s this. I’ve decided to be a writer.’
My heart sank. ‘That’s fine.’
‘And I want you to help me.’
‘It’s not easy to help someone to be a writer, it may not even be possible.’
‘The thing is, I don’t want to be a writer like Daddy, I want to be a writer like you.’
My heart warmed to the girl. But my answer had to be ironical. ‘My dear Julian, don’t emulate me! I constantly try and hardly ever succeed!’
‘That’s just it. Daddy writes too much, don’t you think? He hardly ever revises. He writes something, then he “gets rid of it” by publishing it, I’ve heard him actually say that, and then he writes something else. He’s always in such a hurry, it’s neurotic. I see no point in being an artist unless you try all the time to be perfect.’
I wondered if these were the views of the late Oscar Belling. ‘It’s a long hard road, Julian, if that’s what you believe.’
‘Well, it’s what you believe, and I admire you for it, I’ve always admired you , Bradley. But the point is this, will you teach me?’
My heart sank again. ‘What do you mean, Julian?’
‘Two things really. I’ve been thinking about it. I know I’m not educated and I know I’m immature. And this teachers’ training place is hopeless. I want you to give me a reading list. All the great books I ought to read, but only the great ones and the hard ones. I don’t want to waste my time with small stuff. I haven’t got much time left now. And I’ll read the books and we could discuss them. You could give me sort of tutorials on them. And then, the second thing, I’d like to write things for you, short stories perhaps, or anything you felt I should write, and you’d criticize what I’d written. You see, I want to be really taken in hand. I think one should pay so much attention to technique, don’t you? Like learning to draw before you paint. Do please say you’ll take me on. It needn’t take much of your time,
‘Hello, Julian. Whatever are you doing?’
‘Have you been to see Daddy?’
‘Yes.’ I reflected that it was just as well Julian was out this evening.
‘Good. I thought you’d quarrelled.’
‘Certainly not!’
‘You don’t come any more.’
‘I do. Only you’re away.’
‘Not now. I’m doing teaching practice in London. What was happening when you left?’
‘Where? At home? Oh – nothing special – ’
‘They were quarrelling so I left the house. Have they calmed down?’
‘Yes, of course – ’
‘Don’t you think they quarrel more than they used to?’
‘No, I – How smart you are, Julian. Quite a dandy.’
‘I’m so glad you’ve come, I was just thinking about you. I wanted to ask you something, I was going to write – ’
‘Julian, what are you doing, with all that paper you’re scattering ?’
‘It’s an exorcism. These are love letters.’
‘Love letters?’
‘From my ex-boy-friend.’
I remembered that Arnold had mentioned rather unenthusiastically a ‘hairy swain’, an art student or something.
‘Have you parted company?’
‘Yes. I’ve torn them into the smallest possible pieces. When I’ve got rid of them all I’ll be free. Here goes the last, I think.’
Taking from her neck the receptacle rather like a nose-bag which had contained the dismembered missives she turned it inside out. A few more white petals flew with the passing wind and were gone.
‘But what were you saying, you were chanting something, a spell or such.’
‘ “Oscar Belling”.’
‘What?’
‘That was his name. Look, I’m using the past tense! It’s all over!’
‘Did you abandon him or did he – ?’
‘I’d rather not talk about it. Bradley, I wanted to ask you something.’
It was quite dark now, a bluish night gauzed over by the yellow street lamps, and reminding me irrelevantly of Rachel’s reddish golden hair adhering to the front of Francis’s shabby blue suit. We walked slowly along the street.
‘Look, Bradley, it’s this. I’ve decided to be a writer.’
My heart sank. ‘That’s fine.’
‘And I want you to help me.’
‘It’s not easy to help someone to be a writer, it may not even be possible.’
‘The thing is, I don’t want to be a writer like Daddy, I want to be a writer like you.’
My heart warmed to the girl. But my answer had to be ironical. ‘My dear Julian, don’t emulate me! I constantly try and hardly ever succeed!’
‘That’s just it. Daddy writes too much, don’t you think? He hardly ever revises. He writes something, then he “gets rid of it” by publishing it, I’ve heard him actually say that, and then he writes something else. He’s always in such a hurry, it’s neurotic. I see no point in being an artist unless you try all the time to be perfect.’
I wondered if these were the views of the late Oscar Belling. ‘It’s a long hard road, Julian, if that’s what you believe.’
‘Well, it’s what you believe, and I admire you for it, I’ve always admired you , Bradley. But the point is this, will you teach me?’
My heart sank again. ‘What do you mean, Julian?’
‘Two things really. I’ve been thinking about it. I know I’m not educated and I know I’m immature. And this teachers’ training place is hopeless. I want you to give me a reading list. All the great books I ought to read, but only the great ones and the hard ones. I don’t want to waste my time with small stuff. I haven’t got much time left now. And I’ll read the books and we could discuss them. You could give me sort of tutorials on them. And then, the second thing, I’d like to write things for you, short stories perhaps, or anything you felt I should write, and you’d criticize what I’d written. You see, I want to be really taken in hand. I think one should pay so much attention to technique, don’t you? Like learning to draw before you paint. Do please say you’ll take me on. It needn’t take much of your time,
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