mounted.
“A dead loss,” was the way he’d summed up the Timberley session; but Helen, in her heart, hadn’t agreed with him. She’d found the account of this desperate old couple unbearably moving, and could scarcely endure the way Martin was telling it as a funny story, expecting her to laugh.
And, to her shame, laugh she had. How could she do otherwise, when they were sitting so cosily together, enjoying their drinks, and exchanging idle chatter about the day’s doings? How could she bring herself to wreck the happy intimacy of the moment with what could only look like a holier-than-thou attitude towards the anecdote with which he was regaling her?
And so she had laughed: had felt ashamed of laughing, and then, almost immediately, had felt glad, because laughing together had always been one of the wonderful things between them, and there had been, somehow, less of it of late. This was an opportunity not to be missed.
*
There weren’t that many errors in the Timberley script, now that she came to look at it by daylight, and this morning, when she was no longer tired, it was easy to correct them. Only one page had so many alterations as to need re-typing, and this she did, making sure to crumple up the faulty copy and toss it in the waste-paper basket. More than once, when she’d failed to do this, Martin had managed to mix up her fair copies with the discarded ones, and there’d been hell to pay.
She’d emptied the waste-paper basket only yesterday, and now it was nearly full again. So Martin had been working on something after all, albeit not to his own satisfaction. She leaned down,curious to see what it could be that he’d brought himself to discard. Usually, Martin hung on to unsatisfactory drafts like a squirrel, hating to see anything he’d worked on actually disappear, despite the extra clutter than this habit engendered in and around his desk.
At the sight of the pin-men, Helen felt her whole heart dissolving in love and tenderness. Poor darling, what a frightful evening he must have had! Writers’ Block, that’s what it was. She’d read somewhere that all great writers suffer from this at times, and so why not Martin? Maybe it was even a sign of greatness, that now and again you have to suffer and wrestle in this way with the birth-pangs of inspiration?
Five whole pages of them! When she came to the tripod-like penises, she almost laughed aloud, all her anxieties melting into amusement as she scanned the absurd little figures scampering across the page. They were sweet, it was a shame, really, to throw them away. It would have been fun to keep them, to laugh over them together at some later date, when this temporary Writers’ Block was a thing of the past. But Martin kept too much as it was, she mustn’t encourage him; and so, steeling herself, she stuffed the little creatures back into the waste-paper basket, and carried them, with the rest of the rubbish, down the three flights of stairs to the dustbins.
It was still early, but already a thin streak of sunshine had found its way between the buildings opposite and slanted across the stretch of paving-stones that led to the dustbins. She stood in it for a moment, balancing in its bright narrowness as if on a narrow bridge, and drank in the feeling of winter coming to its end. There was time, this morning, for these odd moments of rare and precious idleness, and she would have sung as she retraced her steps up the stairs if it hadn’t been for the risk of waking the not-yet-up people in the other flats. And Martin too, of course. This was another thing about happiness; you have to be watching it all the time, to make sure it’s not upsetting anyone.
CHAPTER X
E VEN THE BUS was on time this morning, which is the sort of thing which happens when you are in no hurry and are feeling at peace with the world: mysteriously, the world responds in kind.
The bus was less crowded than usual, too, and by going up to the top deck Helen found a seat
“A dead loss,” was the way he’d summed up the Timberley session; but Helen, in her heart, hadn’t agreed with him. She’d found the account of this desperate old couple unbearably moving, and could scarcely endure the way Martin was telling it as a funny story, expecting her to laugh.
And, to her shame, laugh she had. How could she do otherwise, when they were sitting so cosily together, enjoying their drinks, and exchanging idle chatter about the day’s doings? How could she bring herself to wreck the happy intimacy of the moment with what could only look like a holier-than-thou attitude towards the anecdote with which he was regaling her?
And so she had laughed: had felt ashamed of laughing, and then, almost immediately, had felt glad, because laughing together had always been one of the wonderful things between them, and there had been, somehow, less of it of late. This was an opportunity not to be missed.
*
There weren’t that many errors in the Timberley script, now that she came to look at it by daylight, and this morning, when she was no longer tired, it was easy to correct them. Only one page had so many alterations as to need re-typing, and this she did, making sure to crumple up the faulty copy and toss it in the waste-paper basket. More than once, when she’d failed to do this, Martin had managed to mix up her fair copies with the discarded ones, and there’d been hell to pay.
She’d emptied the waste-paper basket only yesterday, and now it was nearly full again. So Martin had been working on something after all, albeit not to his own satisfaction. She leaned down,curious to see what it could be that he’d brought himself to discard. Usually, Martin hung on to unsatisfactory drafts like a squirrel, hating to see anything he’d worked on actually disappear, despite the extra clutter than this habit engendered in and around his desk.
At the sight of the pin-men, Helen felt her whole heart dissolving in love and tenderness. Poor darling, what a frightful evening he must have had! Writers’ Block, that’s what it was. She’d read somewhere that all great writers suffer from this at times, and so why not Martin? Maybe it was even a sign of greatness, that now and again you have to suffer and wrestle in this way with the birth-pangs of inspiration?
Five whole pages of them! When she came to the tripod-like penises, she almost laughed aloud, all her anxieties melting into amusement as she scanned the absurd little figures scampering across the page. They were sweet, it was a shame, really, to throw them away. It would have been fun to keep them, to laugh over them together at some later date, when this temporary Writers’ Block was a thing of the past. But Martin kept too much as it was, she mustn’t encourage him; and so, steeling herself, she stuffed the little creatures back into the waste-paper basket, and carried them, with the rest of the rubbish, down the three flights of stairs to the dustbins.
It was still early, but already a thin streak of sunshine had found its way between the buildings opposite and slanted across the stretch of paving-stones that led to the dustbins. She stood in it for a moment, balancing in its bright narrowness as if on a narrow bridge, and drank in the feeling of winter coming to its end. There was time, this morning, for these odd moments of rare and precious idleness, and she would have sung as she retraced her steps up the stairs if it hadn’t been for the risk of waking the not-yet-up people in the other flats. And Martin too, of course. This was another thing about happiness; you have to be watching it all the time, to make sure it’s not upsetting anyone.
CHAPTER X
E VEN THE BUS was on time this morning, which is the sort of thing which happens when you are in no hurry and are feeling at peace with the world: mysteriously, the world responds in kind.
The bus was less crowded than usual, too, and by going up to the top deck Helen found a seat
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