of boredom. Remember how we used to dream of buying the upper flat? I'm having the builders in next week. I thought you might help me to decide some things. Don't go, Bradley, tell me about yourself. How many books have you published?»
> ' I'l»
Three.
«Only three? Gosh, I thought you'd be a real author by now.»
«I am a real author.»
«We had a literary chap from England at our Women Writers' Guild, I asked about you but he hadn't heard of you. I did some writing myself, I wrote some short stories. You're not still at the old Tax grind, are you?»
«I've just retired.»
«You aren't sixty-five, are you, Brad? My memory's packed up. How old are you?»
«Fifty-eight. I retired in order to write.»
«I just hate to think how old I am. You should have got out years ago. You've given your life to that old Tax office, haven't you. You ought to have been a wanderer, a real Don Quixote, that would have given you subjects. Birds can't sing in cages. Thank the Lord I'm out of mine. I feel so happy I'm quite crazed. I've never stopped laughing since old Evans died, poor old sod. Did you know he was a Christian Scientist? He shouted for a doctor when he got ill all the same, he got in a real panic. And they were organizing prayers for him and he hid the dope when they came round! There's a lot in Christian Science actually, I think I'm a bit of a Christian Scientist myself. Do you know anything about it?»
«No.»
«Poor old Evans. There was a sort of kindness in him, a sort of gentleness, but he was so mortally dull he nearly killed me. At least you were never dull. Do you know that I'm a rich woman now, really quite rich, proper rich? Oh Bradley, to be able to tell you that, it's good, it's good! I'm going to have a new life, Bradley. I'm going to hear the trumpets blowing in my life.»
«Goodbye.»
«I'm going to be happy and to make other people happy. GO AWAY!»
The last command was, I almost instantly grasped, addressed not to me but to someone behind me who was standing just outside the window, which gave directly onto the pavement. I half turned and saw Francis Marloe standing outside. He was leaning forward to peer in through the glass, his eyebrows raised and a bland submissive smile upon his face. When he could discern us he put his hands together in an attitude of prayer.
«Come upstairs. Quick.»
I followed her up the narrow stair and into the front bedroom. This room had changed. Upon a bright pink carpet everything was black and shiny and modern. Christian flung open the window. Something flew out and landed with a clatter in the road. Coming nearer I saw that it was a stripy sponge bag. Out of it tumbled an electric shaver and a toothbrush. Francis scrambled for them quickly, then stood, consciously pathetic, his little close eyes blinking upward, his small mouth still pursed in a humble smile.
«And your milk chocolate. Look out. No, I won't, I'll give it to Brad. Brad, you still like milk chocolate, don't you. See, I'm giving your milk chocolate to Bradley.» She thrust the packet at me. I laid it on the bed. «I'm not being heartless, it's just that he's been at me the whole time since I got back, he imagines I'll play mother and support him! God, he's a real Welfare State layabout, like what the Americans think all the English are. Look at him now, what a clown! I gave him money, but he wants to move in and hang up his hat. He climbed in the kitchen window when I was out and I came back and found him in bed! Wow! Look who's here now!»
Another figure had appeared down below, Arnold Baffin. He was speaking to Francis.
«Hey, Arnold!» Arnold looked up and waved and moved towards the front door. She ran away down the stairs again with clacking heels and I heard the door open. Laughter.
