Leonard."
Fairman hadn't meant to seem to be referring to their earlier conversation. Now that Headon's voice was more distinct it was apparent that he wasn't local. "How long have you lived here?" Fairman said.
"Long enough."
"You aren't a native, I mean."
"I am now."
If Sandra had been there she would certainly have queried that use of language, but Fairman only said "What kept you here?"
"The same as you." Before Fairman could address this Headon said "I'm retired."
"I understand you were a historian."
"I still am." With some pique Headon added "It's all in here."
He was poking his forehead to demonstrate. In the inert greyish light, which resembled a luminous distillation of the fog beyond the promenade, Fairman could have imagined that the fingertip had sunk into the ridged flesh. He looked away before saying "You ought to write a book."
"Soon we'll have no more use for those."
Sometimes Fairman was afraid this would indeed be an effect of the internet, but not so long as he worked in the archive. "Better not let Don Rothermere hear you saying that," he said.
"He knows. Everybody has to."
Fairman stopped short of demanding to be left out, instead saying "So what can you tell me about Gulshaw?"
"It's shaped by its history."
"We all are, I should think."
"That's the truest word so far," Headon declared and turned his head to him.
It felt like being watched from an unreasonable distance, and Fairman was grateful to be distracted by noises ahead. Around one uphill corner of a junction he heard a series of soft irregular thuds reminiscent of the impacts of the dancers' feet onstage. When he reached the crossing he saw children at hopscotch in a floodlit schoolyard. Apparently in this version of the game they had to hop simultaneously about various sections of the yard. "Is that peculiar to this part of the world?" he said.
"A lot of things are."
Fairman was on the edge of demanding why the man's responses were so absurdly guarded, and then he wondered if they were. Might Headon be crediting him with too much local knowledge? The schoolyard railings and the shadows of the players confused his vision, so that he could have thought the children were hopping higher than they should and adopting grotesque postures too. The patterns of the game seemed increasingly reminiscent of the Gulshaw Players' dance, and weren't the children chanting a rhyme under their breaths? As he strained to make out the jagged whisper, which reminded him less of the song than of the comedian's unknown lingo, Headon said "Don't put them off, will you? Not far to go now."
In fact his house was just across the junction. Like its neighbours, it was so tall and thin that every front window appeared to have been squeezed narrow. A haphazardly paved path wandered between rockeries, unless they were overgrown heaps of rubble, to the front door. When Headon switched on the hall light, it seemed reluctant to respond. Presumably it was designed to conserve energy, but the glow reminded Fairman of old paper and left the reaches of the house in darkness. The hall and the stairs that climbed from it stretched further than he could see, and the grudging light from a room on the left didn't help. In the room faded armchairs faced a black iron fireplace, and dozens of images of Gulshaw hung on the drab brownish walls—presumably old photographs, unless they owed their sepia tinge to the illumination. "It doesn't change much, does it?" he commented as Headon ushered him into the room.
"It does where it counts. You'll be seeing." Headon stayed in the doorway and murmured "Shall I fetch it to you?"
Fairman found the conversation a good deal too ambiguous. "The book, you mean."
"And everything it brings."
More sharply Fairman said "What are you saying that is?
"Knowledge, Leonard. What we're all waiting for," Headon said and turned away, though not with his whole body at once. Fairman heard him pad into the depths of the house, presumably switching
Fairman hadn't meant to seem to be referring to their earlier conversation. Now that Headon's voice was more distinct it was apparent that he wasn't local. "How long have you lived here?" Fairman said.
"Long enough."
"You aren't a native, I mean."
"I am now."
If Sandra had been there she would certainly have queried that use of language, but Fairman only said "What kept you here?"
"The same as you." Before Fairman could address this Headon said "I'm retired."
"I understand you were a historian."
"I still am." With some pique Headon added "It's all in here."
He was poking his forehead to demonstrate. In the inert greyish light, which resembled a luminous distillation of the fog beyond the promenade, Fairman could have imagined that the fingertip had sunk into the ridged flesh. He looked away before saying "You ought to write a book."
"Soon we'll have no more use for those."
Sometimes Fairman was afraid this would indeed be an effect of the internet, but not so long as he worked in the archive. "Better not let Don Rothermere hear you saying that," he said.
"He knows. Everybody has to."
Fairman stopped short of demanding to be left out, instead saying "So what can you tell me about Gulshaw?"
"It's shaped by its history."
"We all are, I should think."
"That's the truest word so far," Headon declared and turned his head to him.
It felt like being watched from an unreasonable distance, and Fairman was grateful to be distracted by noises ahead. Around one uphill corner of a junction he heard a series of soft irregular thuds reminiscent of the impacts of the dancers' feet onstage. When he reached the crossing he saw children at hopscotch in a floodlit schoolyard. Apparently in this version of the game they had to hop simultaneously about various sections of the yard. "Is that peculiar to this part of the world?" he said.
"A lot of things are."
Fairman was on the edge of demanding why the man's responses were so absurdly guarded, and then he wondered if they were. Might Headon be crediting him with too much local knowledge? The schoolyard railings and the shadows of the players confused his vision, so that he could have thought the children were hopping higher than they should and adopting grotesque postures too. The patterns of the game seemed increasingly reminiscent of the Gulshaw Players' dance, and weren't the children chanting a rhyme under their breaths? As he strained to make out the jagged whisper, which reminded him less of the song than of the comedian's unknown lingo, Headon said "Don't put them off, will you? Not far to go now."
In fact his house was just across the junction. Like its neighbours, it was so tall and thin that every front window appeared to have been squeezed narrow. A haphazardly paved path wandered between rockeries, unless they were overgrown heaps of rubble, to the front door. When Headon switched on the hall light, it seemed reluctant to respond. Presumably it was designed to conserve energy, but the glow reminded Fairman of old paper and left the reaches of the house in darkness. The hall and the stairs that climbed from it stretched further than he could see, and the grudging light from a room on the left didn't help. In the room faded armchairs faced a black iron fireplace, and dozens of images of Gulshaw hung on the drab brownish walls—presumably old photographs, unless they owed their sepia tinge to the illumination. "It doesn't change much, does it?" he commented as Headon ushered him into the room.
"It does where it counts. You'll be seeing." Headon stayed in the doorway and murmured "Shall I fetch it to you?"
Fairman found the conversation a good deal too ambiguous. "The book, you mean."
"And everything it brings."
More sharply Fairman said "What are you saying that is?
"Knowledge, Leonard. What we're all waiting for," Headon said and turned away, though not with his whole body at once. Fairman heard him pad into the depths of the house, presumably switching
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