Three Brothers by Peter Ackroyd

jacket and a pipe, he looked oddly boyish. His clothes were always crumpled. The bottoms of his fawn trousers were spattered with mud, after his bicycle ride to the college from his small terraced house in Trumpington Street. He had a habit of tilting his head to one side, listening with a slight smile to his students’ remarks.
    “It seems to me,” he said in one morning supervision, “that Volpone comes from a city vernacular tradition.” It seemed to Daniel that half of his sentences began with “it seems to me that.” “What is the phrase Jonson employs? ‘Language that men do use.’ That is the vibrant thing. I would like to say that this has the sheer edge of actuality. Felt life. Do you see?”
    Daniel had no idea what he was trying to say, and simply continued reading his essay in which Hamilton took no particular interest. Hamilton seemed more ready to listen to Stanley Askisson, however, who could talk about felt life and the vibrant thing for as long as was necessary. Daniel sensed the favouritism, and resented it.
    So he retreated to the safety and the silence of the university library. He became known to the staff, and was told that there would be summer work in the understaffed accessions department. “You are very familiar with books,” the sub-librarian said. “Not to mention keen on them. We can do with you.”
    Daniel put his name forward, for work in the vacation, and was accepted. He was also allowed to keep his room in college during the summer months. He wrote a short letter tohis father, announcing the good news, and prepared himself joyfully for a summer of toil. Stanley Askisson was going back to his mother’s house in Hartlepool.
    And so the summer passed. He hardly noticed it. After finishing work in the library he drank alone, most evenings, in a small pub close to the college which was used by a local population of shopkeepers, workmen and retired couples. No one from the college or the wider university frequented it. He sat in the back parlour, drinking pints of bitter.
    One evening, late that summer, a stranger walked into the pub and ordered a pint of cider. “Is anyone sitting here?” he asked Daniel, pointing to the bench beside him. Daniel shook his head. “Ta.” He had thick dark hair, swept back and rendered glossy with brilliantine; he seemed to Daniel to have a coarse but pleasing face, with a day or two’s growth of stubble. “Your very good ’ealth,” he said, raising his glass.
    “Thanks.”
    “Don’t mention it. I won’t.” He drank down some cider, and sighed. “That’s sweet. That’s the ticket. What do you do then?”
    “I’m an undergraduate.”
    “Ah. An undergraduate .”
    “What do you do?”
    “This and that. Sometimes this, and sometimes that. Sometimes both together.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You’re queer, aren’t you?”
    Daniel was alarmed and embarrassed. “What makes you think that?”
    “The way you looked at me. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind queers. I like them. What do you study?”
    “English literature.”
    “ Lit erature? Is that a fact? What’s your name?”
    “Daniel.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Dan.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sparkler.”
    “That’s a strange name.”
    “You can call me Spark or Sparkie or Sparkle. I’m quick, you see.” The young man now held up Daniel’s watch. “Never shake hands with a stranger, Dan.”
    “How did you do that?”
    “It’s a gift, isn’t it. Can you keep a secret?” Daniel nodded. “Let’s go to another pub.” When they got outside Sparkler turned the corner and led him into the back yard. “Look,” he said. He plunged his hands into his pockets, and brought out watches and wallets.
    Daniel was astonished. “Are you a thief?”
    “That’s right. A tea-leaf. I came down here because the coppers don’t know me.” He stuffed the objects back into his pockets. “Let’s move.”
    Daniel walked with him in a state of some bewilderment. He