Work in Progress

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Otterburn had come to live in this cathedral city when he left his wife. He rented a room and kitchen, with a shared bath and lavatory on the next landing. He had never lived alone in his life before and from his window he could look down three floors at the river flowing between its stone banks and think that at least he hadn’t far to go if he decided to do away with himself.

The river ran through the city under four bridges. Upstream was the bishop’s palace, which Otterburn had not yet seen. The city was a great tourist attraction and at every season of the year, though more plentiful in summer, damp crocodiles of children and groups of visitors speaking many different languages could be found in the narrow streets and around the cathedral, whose walls of carved stone were just now free of masons’ scaffolding for the first time in years. It sometimes seemed to Otterburn that every corner one turned gave fresh evidence of the city’s beauty. He soon found also, as others who had come to live here before him had discovered, that the damp air gave him recurring trouble with his sinuses.

One day, coming into the house, he found an envelope addressed to him on the mat behind the door. It surprised him, for no one knew he was here. Yet this was an envelope with his name written on it in someone’s hand. He took it upstairs and opened it in his room. There was a single sheet of rather good dove-grey writing-paper, folded once. On it, written in the same hand, was the message: ‘I shall be in the Ferryboat at seven tonight’. Nothing more. No signature. No date. Otterburn could not decide whether it was a woman’s handwriting or a man’s. He looked at the envelope again. There was no stamp or postmark. It had presumably been delivered by its sender. And seven tonight meant just that.

The Ferryboat was a riverside pub a couple of minutes’ walk away, a smart place with a colourful inn sign and well-kept white paint on the outside. Its rooms were small but cosy and always spotlessly clean. Its brass and mirrors gleamed. On cooler days wood fires burned in the grates. Small dishes of olives and tiny silver onions and potato crisps stood on the bar counter in the lounge. At one end of the counter at lunchtime joints of cold ham and roast beef rested on a white cloth and cuts of these were offered with jacket potatoes and a green salad or as the filling between slices of crusty bread. On warm days then, and sometimes on balmy evenings, the clientele would spill out onto the embankment, to drink at tables on the cobbles and watch perhaps a skiff with a lone rower speed upstream or a white pleasure boat glide by.

The Ferryboat was Otterburn’s local but he had been in only a couple of times. Its food was expensive and its drinks always a few pence dearer than in the other pubs nearby, and Otterburn was being careful with his money. Otterburn’s wife would not want, because her father had money. It was only when he had won a prize in a premium-bond draw that Otterburn had finally decided to break away from his wife. His windfall had been twenty thousand pounds. His idea was to live on it until he sorted himself out; but inflation would cut into its value, and with over three million unemployed the prospects of finding another job were not good. Not that Otterburn relished the thought of working for someone else again, but he would have to earn a living in some way when the money ran out. Unless he did do away with himself. There had been times when that had seemed the only way of freeing himself from Hazel. He had thought also of leaving her, but until his good fortune he had had no money.

Otterburn also had a daughter, but as she was a pupil at a boarding school he saw her only during the holidays. The combined influence of Otterburn’s wife and the school had given the girl a distant manner and sometimes she would treat Otterburn as though she was not quite sure who he was and wondered why he should be there every time she came home. She had certainly always been made aware that it was her grandfather’s money that, directly or indirectly, kept everything going. When Otterburn had finally fallen to wondering why Hazel had married him in the first place, he reached the reluctant conclusion that it satisfied something in her nature to be able to choose a potential failure, confirm him in that role and dominate him because of it. ‘Thee stick by thi family an’ thi job, Malcolm lad,’ Otterburn’s father-in-law had said to him early on, ‘an’ tha’ll never want for owt. Is’ll see to that.’ That the rich little business in importing and exporting specialised foodstuffs that Hazel’s father had created and built up could carry one passenger was the interpretation Otterburn came to put on the situation. ‘Sufferance,’ he had finally said to himself. ‘That’s what I’m living on. Sufferance.’

Otterburn looked again at the note. He thought on reflection that the writing was more probably a woman’s than a man’s. Then again, it had almost a childish look. If that were so, he told himself, it was not because it belonged to a young person but because its backward slope was a disguise.

He heated chicken soup for his lunch, the remains of the can he had opened yesterday. Otterburn had not been able to cook when he came to the house, beyond boil and fry eggs and grill bacon. Now he could scramble eggs and soon he would master the making of omelettes. He was determined, with the help of a basic cookbook, to learn how to feed himself on a simple but balanced diet. At present he fell back more often than he liked on expensive frozen foods, but he intended before long to be knowledgeable in buying the ingredients for casseroles and stews, the buying and preparation of his own fish and in making pancakes and vegetarian dishes which would cut his intake of meat. In the meantime he heated the soup and cut bread and thought about what he might have for his evening meal which would fit in with his visit to the Ferryboat at seven.

But who said he was going to the Ferryboat? Why in heaven should he take the slightest notice of a message from someone who couldn’t sign his or her name?

Because it showed that someone was interested in him.

After he’d eaten, and drunk two cups of tea, Otterburn lay down on his bed which, with a woven cover over it, doubled as a divan. He had not done anything physically strenuous but he felt tired. He felt tired rather a lot lately. With no routine to shape and control his day, indolence took over. He should, he thought, make some kind of plan for occupying his time. Perhaps he might study in depth the history of the city, embarking on a programme of reading with the aid of the public library. With nothing to distract him, he could become an expert. From the trunk of the subject he could explore the many branches, political and economic, religious and secular. Perhaps he could eventually write some articles himself and publish them under a pseudonym. Or even a book.

Mildly excited by the prospect, Otterburn dozed off.

He woke to find himself wondering what he should wear this evening. He’d been accustomed to sports jackets and jumpers and slacks, and off-the-peg business suits of unmemorable cut and cloth. His shirts were in plain white or pastel shades, or with faint stripes on a white ground. He almost always wore a tie, feeling undressed without one unless he had on a sweater whose neck came up about his throat. He had no style. A lot of men who frequented the Ferryboat had style, even if it was only in the careless way they wore a t-shirt with patched and faded jeans. Otterburn did not want to go to that extreme. It only worked if you felt not the slightest trace of self-consciousness. But there was room for some improvement.

He looked at his watch. It was only the middle of the afternoon. There was still time for him to catch the bank open. Otterburn had stopped using his credit card for fear that when he informed the company of his change of address his wife would trace him. His prize from the premium bond he had kept secret from her. Somehow he had realised immediately the opportunity it gave him, so he had said nothing and deposited the money in an account at a new bank, transferring it yet again when he moved to this city.

Leaving the house, Otterburn walked briskly along the quay and up a sloping alley to emerge into the street. There were several men’s outfitters of quality, some specialising in shirts and knitwear, some in suits of clothes, others in shoes, and a couple of department stores who could equip one from head to foot and from the skin out. He stopped as he passed the windows of one such and thought that he could go in and pay by cheque when he knew what his outlay was. But then, he might this evening find himself called upon to stand drinks, or even a meal, and it would be as well to have spare cash in his pocket. So he walked to the bank, made a withdrawal with three minutes to spare, then retraced his steps.

In the store he selected a two-piece casual suit in blue denim and took it into a cubicle. One thing, he thought as he appraised himself in the glass, was that though he was no longer a lad he still had a lean body that didn’t need forcing into slim-hipped trousers. The cubicle mirrors gave him views of his profile and the back of his head. His first thought was that he needed a haircut, his second that he didn’t. His hair at this stage in its growth waved quite becomingly in the nape of his neck. If left for another couple of weeks it would be long enough for a restyling by a barber who knew more than the short-back-and-sides Otterburn had always favoured, simply from long habit. Perhaps he could brush it forward instead of back and dispense with that neat parting he had fought so long to establish when a boy. From this, Otterburn went on to the question of his spectacles. He didn’t think he needed to indulge in the vanity of contact lenses: the appearance of many men was enhanced by their glasses. What he should try was a more modern type of frame, with larger lenses. But these were longer-term considerations. For the present he felt and looked well in the denim suit. The effect would be complemented when he added a new shirt. He chose one of wide navy-blue and narrow pale-pink stripes, with a scarlet thread running through the pink, then paid for his purchases with cash. The suit he thought quite cheap, though the shirt cost more than he was used to paying. He left with the goods in a large carrier bag with the name of the store printed on it and walked back to his room through the warm and slightly hazy air of the afternoon.

Taking advantage of the quietness of the house, Otterburn went down and ran a hot bath. He lay in it for some time, watching, his thoughts in the same suspended state, his pubic hair and his limp penis floating under the surface of the water. Otterburn rarely indulged in sexual reverie. Though his intimate life with Hazel had consisted of an efficient but matter-of-fact once-a-week Saturday-night coupling, a routine relief usually initiated by her and never referred to out of the bed, it had been enough to keep him from fancying women on the street and from longing for some more intense liaison. He supposed he was undersexed. He thought, on the occasions when it crossed his mind, that he was lucky. It had seemed enough for Hazel and its absence had not preoccupied him since he had left her. Now he wondered if the letter were not drawing him to the beginning of a sexual adventure. The letter... He could still hardly believe it was real and he had opened it and read it again before coming down for his bath. The distant nudging of common sense told him he was being foolish in taking so much trouble to prepare for an assignation made in such a mysterious fashion. But is, it was distant. His mind was as languorous as his body, drifting, floating, waiting for whatever might happen.

Someone was interested in him...

The skin of his fingertips was wrinkled. He had not known that since he had played in his bath as a child. He pulled the plug and stood up, putting a quick steadying hand to the wall as a faint giddiness made his head spin. He had stayed in too long. He took his sponge and squeezed water from the cold tap over himself.

Back in his room, he pulled on pyjama trousers under his dressing-gown and tucked a scarf round his neck. The squeaking groan of an unoiled pulley drew him to the window. Some men were unloading bales into a warehouse from a barge across the river. Otterburn dragged a chair over and sat down to watch.

 

On his way to the Ferryboat, Otterburn strolled up the alley to the street and bought an evening paper. It would give him a prop with which to occupy his eyes and hands, should he have to wait. How would the approach be made? Would someone simply walk up to him, smile and say, ‘Did you get my letter?’ It was at this point that he wondered if he were about to be faced with some wrongdoing from his past. We could all, he told himself, feel the occasional touch of a nameless anxiety: that was a part of the human condition. Yet, as he cast his mind back over the dull march of his years, he could find no specific act of his that merited guilt. He had lived a blameless life. His trouble was that he could not imagine anyone being interested in him for his own sake.

He had decided that it would be better if he were a few minutes early; he could watch then who came into the pub, and it would save him from feeling that he himself was being observed as he entered. The pub was at the ebb of its evening trade. The after-office drinkers were already gone or about to leave. There were some tourists, who would not linger. The late evening customers had not yet appeared. Otterburn chose the lounge. He bought half a pint of bitter, and as two businessmen left a corner table he went over to it and sat down with his back to the wall. From here he could see the door at the far end of the room as well as that at this end of the bar, through which he had entered. Yes, he must be first, for by no stretch of the imagination could he picture any of those present as the author of the note. That group in anoraks were visitors, come to look at the sights. They in their turn, as they suddenly all laughed, were being given a quick once-over by the landlord who, in check Viyella shirt and yellow tie, his glasses hanging from a cord round his neck, had just come in to join the girl behind the bar. That elderly gent sitting alone, neat grey hair, well-cut navy-blue blazer, reading the Financial Times and drinking from a half-pint pewter tankard, lived in that big bay-windowed house farther along the embankment. And that middle-aged man and the much younger woman were too absorbed in each other even to have noticed him except as someone they needn’t fear. An office romance, if he’d ever seen one. Soon they would go their separate ways, he to make his excuses at home, she to fill in her time somehow till the next snatched hour. The only remote possibility was the thin woman of indeterminate age, in tweeds, sitting at the bar, lighting a fresh cigarette within seconds of stubbing out the last, and ordering another gin and tonic, lemon but no ice. But Otterburn had seen her before too, and if she had wanted to know him she would have hailed him and drawn him into her company with the unself-conscious ease with which she chatted to the barmaid and the landlord and whoever of the regulars stayed long enough at the bar. You could find her counterpart, Otterburn reflected, in pubs and hotel bars all over the country: the woman who gave the impression of having seen it all, who had settled for a secure but boring marriage to a dull but tolerant husband, to whom she would return each mid-evening, ever so slightly tipsy, after a couple of hours steady drinking.

In any gathering Otterburn merged with the background, but he prided himself on missing little. He observed and speculated and remained uninvolved. It occurred to him now that this was probably the ideal make-up of a writer. Except that he couldn’t write. But how did he know that? There he went, dismissing himself before he had even tried. Wasn’t that something else he might explore in his new-found freedom? Of course, while he might be good at noting people’s appearance and mannerisms, his speculations about their character and their private lives could be wildly wrong. But did that matter? His guess was that, while a writer might use real people as starting-points, he very soon found himself casting their personalities into the mould of his own. And there was an obvious snag. Had he himself enough personality, did he care enough, to be able to draw characters who could make a reader care? Yet Otterburn felt excitement stir again at this second new prospect. He could do no more than try. It amused him, gave him even a strange feeling of power, to think of himself going about noting people not simply from a habit of his nature, but as a collector. If he couldn’t think of plots all at once, he could at least keep a written sketchbook and train himself after each outing to record, as objectively as a painter or a photographer, what he had seen and heard.

Otterburn had lifted his newspaper and was looking past it with renewed interest at his fellow drinkers when he saw his wife coming into the room. Intensely startled, he raised the paper higher until his head and shoulders were hidden as Hazel glanced round the room then half-turned to speak to the man who was following her.

There was nowhere for Otterburn to hide. If he got up now, it was unlikely that he could reach the door before she turned again and saw him. But what was she doing here and who was that she was with? From his first startled glance Otterburn couldn’t recall ever having seen him before, though he supposed he could have met him and forgotten. In which case the man might remember him, especially if there was something irregular going on.

Otterburn risked moving his paper slightly to one side. His wife had taken a seat at a table in the middle of the floor and now had her back directly to him, showing him a quarter-profile as she removed her gloves and spoke to her companion, who was ordering drinks at the bar. Hazel was looking particularly smart. She had on her best black suit and a white blouse with a jabot, black nylon tights and high-heeled black patent-leather shoes. Her hair was newly washed and set and she had had that blonde rinse which restored its fading colour. He supposed she was, to some eyes, a handsome woman. It was amazing the improvement brought to her legs by the right shoes and stockings. Her hips and her breasts were ample but still shapely, only hinting yet at the excess another few years might bestow. To his surprise, Otterburn felt his flesh stir; as though he didn’t know all too well the briskness and lack of finesse with which she despatched sexual appetite. Not that he had had any direct experience to compare that with, but he did read, and today’s explicit novels left him in little doubt that there were prolonged delights to which they were both strangers.

In his contemplation of his wife’s back, Otterburn had, he suddenly realised, let the paper down until his face was completely visible. And at that moment the man Hazel was with turned with the drinks and looked directly at him. His stare hardened. Otterburn lifted the paper again. After a moment’s consternation, he felt himself grinning broadly. Of course the man didn’t know him. Otterburn had just been given warning that he was not to ogle his own wife! How rich! Whether or not Hazel and her companion were any more than just good friends, the man was obviously jealous and possessive. What a joke, Otterburn thought, if he were to stare at Hazel until the man felt forced to do something about it. How their faces would fall when Otterburn then went over and let Hazel see him. A pity it wasn’t worth it. But it wasn’t. Once Hazel knew where he was, she would give him no peace.

She was looking over her shoulder as she picked up her handbag. Her companion nodded to a sign on the wall. She got up and crossed the room without looking at anyone and went out through the door nearest to Otterburn. Otterburn knew where the Ladies was. He gave her a moment to find it herself, then stood up and emptied his glass. The man was staring again. Surprised at his own boldness, Otterburn grinned at him and winked before walking out through the same door.

There was a huge pale American Ford parked on the cobbles outside. For some reason it reminded Otterburn of an enormous double bed. He knew instinctively that it belonged to Hazel’s companion. Ownership of such an opulent and extravagant car, parked where no one was supposed to park, fitted exactly that arrogant stare and that black moustache, so thick and neatly trimmed it looked like something glued to the fellow’s upper lip. So, Otterburn asked himself, was Hazel having an affair, and if so was it one which had started since he left her, or had it been going on before? Further, did it help or hinder him in his new way of life? More to the immediate point was that Hazel’s appearance had ruined his own assignation. And what could he do now except wait for them to leave? And by that time might it not be too late?

Otterburn strolled aimlessly along the embankment, tapping the rolled newspaper against his leg. He felt now like someone who has turned up to a party on the wrong night: to a party, in fact, that was already over. ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go.’ He turned up off the riverside and into the town. A few minutes’ aimless walking found him outside the painted window of a pizza parlour. He looked at the menu. He was peckish. He went in. He’d always maintained that he didn’t care for pizzas, but now he wanted something simple and cheap which would satisfy his sudden appetite, if not delight his palate. He ordered at random from the ten or more variations on the menu and asked for a half-pint of lager. The place was busy. There were even some families with quite young children. People were coming and going all the time and the waitresses in their green aprons and matching caps hurried between kitchen and tables without a moment to catch their breath. A young woman came in, stood looking round for a moment, saw that she hadn’t much choice, then sat down at the next table. She took a small square of handkerchief from her shoulder bag and polished her glasses before reading the menu. Otterburn read his paper. His pizza came. It was enormous. He picked up his knife and fork, hardly knowing where to make the first incision. He cut a piece. The topping was still sizzling and he gasped, reaching for his lager, as it scorched his mouth. The outer door opened and shut again. A group crowded in.

‘D’you mind?’ a voice asked.

Otterburn looked up. The girl from the next table had half-pulled out the chair opposite him. He didn’t understand at first but with a mouthful of pizza he couldn’t yet swallow he made noises and waved his knife about. She sat down.

‘If I sit here, they can all sit together,’ the girl explained. Otterburn looked past her. Five young people had taken possession of the table she had left. He swallowed.

‘Very thoughtful of you.’

‘It’s so very busy tonight.’

‘Is that exceptional?’

‘Well, no. They seem to do well most nights.’

‘You’ve been in before, then?’

‘Yes. It’s simple and convenient, and not expensive.’

‘Quite. That’s what I thought.’

‘What is that you’ve got, if you don’t mind my asking?’

Otterburn turned the menu round. ‘Er... it’s a number eleven.’

‘It looks good’.

‘I’m not an expert on pizzas,’ Otterburn said, ‘but there’s plenty of it and it’s very hot.’ He swallowed another mouthful. ‘And quite tasty too.’

‘Mmm.’

A waitress came and put a plate of spaghetti bolognese in front of the girl, then sprinkled grated cheese over it with careless haste. The girl put her fork vertically into the spaghetti, twirled it and lifted some to her mouth. Her light brown hair fell softly across each cheek as she bent her head slightly forward.

‘You’ve done that before,’ Otterburn said.

‘Yes. I lived in Italy for a while. The only reason I eat this after what I got used to there is because it’s cheap.’

‘It’s not a country I know,’ Otterburn said. ‘I’ve been to Spain, but not Italy.’

‘Do you live here?’ the girl asked.

‘Yes. Do you?’

‘I do just now, yes.’

‘What’s your job?’

‘Oh, I’m sort of in-between things.’

‘I suppose a lot of people are like that just now.’

‘Yes. What do you do?’ Otterburn hesitated. The girl said, ‘I’m sorry, if you don’t want to tell me. But you did ask me.’

‘I’m a writer, actually,’ Otterburn said.

‘Oh? That must be interesting. Would I have heard of you? Do you write under your own name or a pseudonym?’

‘You won’t have heard of me,’ Otterburn said. ‘My name’s Otterburn. Malcolm Otterburn.’

The girl was frowning politely. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t. And it’s quite an unusual name, isn’t it? I mean, not one you’d forget.’

‘Think nothing of it,’ Otterburn said.

‘I can see now why you hesitated to tell me, though,’ the girl said. ‘It must be terribly embarrassing to say you’re a writer and people have never heard of you.’

‘It happens all the time,’ Otterburn said. ‘But you haven’t told me your name.’

Now it was her turn to appear reluctant. ‘Promise me you won’t laugh.’

‘Why on earth should I laugh?’

‘Because this is where I always get embarrassed.’

‘You mean, you’re somebody famous whom I ought to have known?’

‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s just my name.’

‘Well...?’

‘It’s Dawn,’ the girl said. ‘Dawn Winterbottom.’ Otterburn grinned. ‘You did promise,’ the girl said.

‘No, no,’ Otterburn said. His smile broadened. He could not suppress a chuckle. The girl’s colour was up as she looked at her plate. Otterburn found himself reaching over to touch her hand.

‘Please. Don’t be offended. I’d probably have found nothing funny in it if you hadn’t so obviously expected me to. Please,’ he said again, when she didn’t respond. ‘Finish your spaghetti before it goes cold, and don’t mind me.’

The girl took some more spaghetti onto her fork. ‘I’ve thought of changing it,’ she said. ‘But after all it is my own name and I think people should make the best of their own names. They’re part of them, after all. Aren’t they?’

‘Of course they are,’ said Otterburn, who saw little logic in what she was saying.

‘And after all it’s the quality of the personality behind the name that counts, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose it is.’

‘And there’s nothing wrong with your personality,’ Otterburn went on. He was enjoying himself. ‘You’re good-natured enough to do a kindness for strangers, like letting those people have your table, and unself-conscious and natural enough to sit with another stranger – a man, what’s more – and make pleasant conversation without fear of being misunderstood. I’d say all those are qualities very much in your favour.’

‘You seem rather specially nice yourself,’ Dawn said.

‘Oh, there’s nothing special about me.’

‘Oh, but there is. Writers are special. They must be or there’d be more of them about.’

‘There are more than enough already,’ Otterburn said. He was sure that must be true.

‘Yes, the competition must be frightening. Tell me, do you actually manage to earn a living from it?’

‘Well…’ Otterburn looked a touch bashful. ‘I wish I could say I did. But the fact is, I have a private income.’

‘Lucky for you. I’m sure that must take a lot of the worry out of it. It means, I suppose, that you can write what you want to write and not just to make money.’

‘You’re really very perceptive,’ Otterburn said.

‘And what are you working on just now?’ the girl asked. ‘If it’s not too personal a question.’

Otterburn emptied his mouth, took a drink of his lager, and said, ‘I’m writing a story about a man who comes to live on his own in this city. One day he finds a letter pushed through the door with his name on it, which is strange because nobody knows he’s there.’

‘What does the letter say?’

‘It says, “I shall be in the Ferryboat at seven tonight’.”

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all. No signature, no address, no postmark.’

‘Is it from a man or woman?’

‘He can’t tell. The handwriting may be disguised.’

‘And what does he do? I mean, does he just tear it up and ignore it, or does he take it seriously?’

‘He can’t help being intrigued by it.’

‘No, I expect not.’

‘Someone’s interested in him, you see.’

‘It sounds like something out of a spy story.’

‘Yes, it does. But he’s just an ordinary sort of chap, who certainly doesn’t know any official secrets.’

‘But he must have a secret of some kind. Perhaps a guilty one from his past.’

Otterburn looked at her with admiration. ‘You know, you really are clever. But I’m afraid that’s not the answer. He’s led a rather dull and totally respectable life.’

‘Hmm. So is it a man or a woman who’s written the letter?’

‘You asked me that before. I don’t know.’

‘Well, does he go to the... where is it?’

‘The Ferryboat. Yes.’

‘And what happens?’

‘I don’t know,’ Otterburn said again.

The girl frowned. ‘But you must know. You’re writing the story.’

‘But I don’t know how it ends,’ Otterburn said. ‘Not yet.’

‘You mean, you’ve made up this, this intriguing situation, but you haven’t worked the rest of it out?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve set yourself a problem, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, it’s happened before,’ Otterburn said airily. ‘It’ll work itself out if I hang on and be patient.’ He was sure he’d read this in an interview with a writer, somewhere. It sounded to him to have the ring of truth.

‘Well, I wish you luck with it,’ the girl said. She ate the last scraps of spaghetti, put down her fork and spoon and wiped her mouth with her paper napkin. Otterburn pushed aside the remaining third of his pizza. ‘You’ve not made much of that.’

‘It’s very filling. Are you having a sweet, or just coffee?’

‘What about you?’

‘Just coffee, I think. I’d like to buy you a sweet, though, if you could enjoy one.’

‘No, thanks,’ the girl said. ‘I’ll accept a coffee, though.’

Otterburn signalled a waitress. To his surprise, one noticed him and came immediately.

‘Well,’ Dawn said, ‘this is very pleasant.’

‘I’m glad you think so. Tell the truth, I was feeling, well, a bit down, before you joined me.’

‘Because your story’s not going well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you married?’

‘I was,’ Otterburn said. ‘Still am, actually,’ he admitted, ‘but separated. What about you?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Not had the time, with all that travelling?’

‘I suppose so.’

She reached down and brought up her shoulder bag.

‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you a cigarette,’ Otterburn said, ‘but I don’t use them.’

‘Me neither.’ She took the small handkerchief and touched it to her nose. ‘There’s only one thing wrong with this town. The damp air gives me the perpetual sniffs.’

‘There’s always a snag to everything.’

‘Yes.’ She put the bag down again. ‘You must live alone, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like the man in the story.’

‘Yes. What about you?’

‘With an aunt. When I’m here.’

‘It’s good to have a base. Somewhere you can call home. Will you be off on your travels again soon?’

‘It depends. You never seem to get anywhere; always moving about. You see a lot, but you don’t get anywhere.’

‘And with jobs so hard to come by just now.’

‘Yes. My timing hasn’t been so good, coming back to England in the middle of a recession.’

‘You’re young enough to see it through.’

‘I’m perhaps older than you think.’

‘I wasn’t asking,’ Otterburn said.

The coffee came. Otterburn, drinking through the froth, found scalding liquid underneath.

‘Damnation! I’m either burning my mouth or scalding it tonight.’

‘Do you feel better, though?’

‘In what way?’

‘You said you were down before.’

‘Oh, I feel much better now.’

He did. He had never met anybody like Dawn Winterbottom before. Here they were, total strangers, chatting as easily as if they’d known each other for years. He was wondering how he might prolong this evening – could he venture to offer to buy her a drink? – when she said: ‘I’ve just remembered. There is a pub called the Ferryboat, down by the river, isn’t there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you always use real places in your work?’

‘It depends.’

‘But couldn’t that lead to complications?’

‘Not until someone reads it. Maybe I’ll give it a fictitious name before then.’

‘You said he went to the pub but you didn’t know what happened when he got there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm. I never knew writers worked like that. I thought they had it all planned before they started.’

‘Well, now you know different.’ An idea came to him. ‘Look, if you don’t mind my asking, what are you going to do now?’

‘You mean when I leave here?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose I was going home. I was supposed to meet someone, but it fell through at the last minute.’

‘Well, what I was wondering,’ Otterburn said, ‘was if you’d like to join me for a drink at the Ferryboat. It’s just a stroll from here. Perhaps you could help me to see what happens.’

‘In the story, you mean?’

‘Yes. Being there with somebody else might just spark it off.’

She smiled. ‘I must say, I’ve never been picked up with such an unusual come-on.’

‘Oh, please,’ Otterburn said. ‘Please, you mis-understand me.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve defended my honour in tougher places than this.’

‘You’re making it difficult for me,’ Otterburn said. ‘And it’s all been so pleasant and natural, so far.’

‘I was joking.’

‘On the other hand,’ Otterburn said, ‘there are some strange men at large, and if you’d rather not.’

She looked at him. ‘I think I’d like to.’

‘You’ll come?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

Their bills were already on the table. As the girl reached again for her bag, Otterburn picked up both of them.

‘Let me get this.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

‘Of course you can. It’s not a fortune, and it’s my pleasure.’

 

Outside, as they strolled towards the pub, she slightly ahead of him on the narrow pavement, Otterburn could not bring her face to mind. It was, he thought, one of those faces which seem to change with the light, one whose features would fix themselves only after another meeting. While her clothes were neat and clean, like her hair and hands, she didn’t dress for effect either. She was a tall girl and her heels were not high. Over her jumper and skirt she wore a lemon-coloured light-weight raincoat which she had not taken off during the meal. And what an awkward business it was, Otterburn reflected, simply walking along pavements like this with anybody one didn’t know well. The naturalness and ease of the café had gone, leaving him self-conscious, casting about for something to say. She was silent too, now. He took her elbow and turned her as she would have passed the mouth of the alley which led to the river.

‘Down here.’

The American car had gone. Otterburn hoped it meant that his wife was no longer inside. He went up on his toes and looked in through the small-paned window. He couldn’t see her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking to see how full it is.’

He would have to risk it. He went in first, then held the door so that she could pass him. The pub’s evening was in full swing. All the seats looked taken. The girl followed Otterburn to the bar.

‘What will you have?’

‘What are you having?’

‘I don’t know. A Scotch, perhaps.’

‘I’d like that. On the rocks, please.’ She turned and looked round the room as Otterburn ordered. ‘Is this your local?’

‘It’s the nearest.’

‘You live here, by the river?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that where the man in the story lives?’

‘Er, yes, it is.’

‘How many of these people do you know?’

‘Just one or two I’d pass the time of day with.’

‘Which one would you choose as the writer of the letter?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it a man or a woman?’ she asked him, for the third time.

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s really got to be a woman, hasn’t it? Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ Otterburn said. ‘Yes, I suppose it has.’

‘Unless you’re building up to some kind of homosexual situation.’

‘Oh, no,’ Otterburn said. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘It might be worth thinking about, though, mightn’t it?’

‘Hmm,’ Otterburn said. He thought about it now as his glance flickered round the room. Could the author of the note still be here, patiently waiting for him but unable to make a move now because he was with someone else?

‘Your character’s not gay, then? The one who gets the letter.’

‘No.’

‘You could always make him gay.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Perhaps he’s got latent homosexual tendencies that he’s never known about, or kept firmly suppressed.’

‘Ye-es…’

‘And the writer of the letter recognises that.’

Otterburn felt uneasy and offended.

‘I don’t think I’d like that.’

‘Do you find it distasteful? I thought writers were men of the world.’

‘It’s just that I know very little about all that.’

‘Did you imagine it as some woman who secretly fancies him?’

‘I’ve told you, I haven’t thought it through yet.’

‘I’m only trying to help you, like you said.’

‘Of course, but –’

‘If it’s a woman, why doesn’t she simply make it in her way to bump into him and get to know him?’

‘Perhaps she’s shy and repressed.’

‘She’s going to be awfully disappointed if she arouses his interest with mysterious letters and then he doesn’t take to her.’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t intend to reveal herself.’

‘Then why make an assignation?’

‘I don’t know. He’s only had the one letter. Perhaps she’ll tell him more in a later one.’

‘It’s not much of a story, is it?’

‘Well, not so far.’

‘If you did it the way I suggested, you could make it really strong. You could bring in homosexual jealousy and revenge. Perhaps suicide, or even murder.’

‘You’ve got a very lurid mind.’

‘Do you think so?’

There was a glint in her eye. It occurred to Otterburn to wonder if she was pulling his leg.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s not the kind of story I write.’

‘Not so far, perhaps. But perhaps you should widen your scope. Perhaps that’s why you’re not better known.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ Otterburn said. ‘Let’s have another drink.’

‘Thank you.’ She gave him her glass.

When he turned with the refills she waved to him from a table.

‘If you don’t know any homosexuals,’ she said as he sat down, ‘I could introduce you to some.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes. There are one or two in the company at the theatre, to begin with, and some others who live here. They’re not all madly camp,’ she went on, as Otterburn frowned.

‘Some of them you might never guess at, unless you were that way inclined yourself.’

It would mean, Otterburn thought, that he could see her again. He had never met anyone like her. He couldn’t read her. She seemed in control of every situation. He had seemed in charge for a time, in the pizza place; but not now.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll try anything once.’

She smiled. ‘Be careful. I only suggested you meet them.’

Otterburn blushed. ‘How long are you staying in town?’

‘Until I get bored. Or the money runs out.’

‘What do you do when you’ve got a job?’

‘I’ve done all kinds of things. I was teaching English as a foreign language in Italy. But I was foolish enough to have an affair with the man who owned the school and when his wife found out he ran back to her bosom and I had to move on.’

Otterburn, flabbergasted by her candour, looked at her with renewed interest and said nothing.

‘Then I’ve been a waitress and a barmaid. I’ve lugged a guitar about and sung at folk clubs and done seasonal work at holiday camps. I worked for six months as a secretary in Australia. I did a stint at a summer camp for children in America; your keep and some spending money and a chance to see
a bit of the country.’ She shrugged. ‘Now I’m here for a while. Till something turns up.’

‘You don’t sound the type to bring a man his pipe and slippers in an evening.’

‘Is that the kind of woman you like?’

‘I suppose I’ve always been used to knowing where I am.’

‘You left your wife, though. Or did she leave you?’

‘Oh, I left.’

‘Were you in a rut?’

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I was.’

‘But with your work, and your private means, you could go anywhere you like.’

‘I suppose I could.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘I suppose you think of writers like yourself: restless, always on the move.’

‘Perhaps I do.’

‘They’re not all like that. Haven’t you heard of the country cottage, with roses round the door?’

‘I’d love to read something you’ve written. Could you lend me something?’

‘I left everything behind when I moved out. It was rather sudden and I wanted to travel light.’

‘Perhaps I’ll look in the public library.’

‘I doubt if you’ll find anything. My early books are out of print and I’ve mostly published in magazines since.’

‘You need a really good shake-up and a change of direction.’

‘That’s what I had in mind when I left my wife and came here.’

‘It’s a start, anyway.’

The whisky was going down very quickly. Otterburn thought he perhaps should have stuck to beer.

‘Could you enjoy another?’

‘Yes, I could,’ Dawn said. She opened her bag. ‘But let me get them.’

‘No, no,’ Otterburn said. ‘I’ll go.’

‘You can go,’ the girl said, ‘but I’ll pay.’ She put a pound note on the table.

Otterburn hesitated, then picked up the note. ‘Same again?’

‘Unless you’d like something different.’

‘I hardly like to mention it,’ Otterburn said, ‘but the prices they charge here, this won’t cover it.’

The girl laughed out loud as she put some coins on the table. Otterburn took to the bar the image of her laughing. Now he knew what her face was like.

‘How do I get in touch with you?’ he asked when he came back. ‘If I want to take you up on your offer.’

‘Are you on the phone?’

‘No. Well, there is a communal phone, but it depends on someone answering it and I might not get the message.’

‘I’ll give you my number,’ Dawn said. She wrote on a slip of paper.

They left after another round of drinks, which Otterburn bought.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.’

‘Oh, these things often take a little time,’ Otterburn said. ‘Perhaps I’ll try thinking along the lines you suggested.’

‘Just whereabouts do you live?’

‘Along here.’

They strolled along the embankment. It was a fine night. The river slid by. Lights were reflected in its smooth broad surface. Here they were, Otterburn thought, walking by the river in one of the oldest cities in Europe. He felt elated, buoyed up by the beauty, the mystery, the boundless possibilities of it all.

‘That’s me, up there.’ He pointed as they paused before the house. ‘Third floor front.’

‘Yes,’ Dawn said. ‘Well, you won’t get your feet wet there.’

‘Hmm?’

‘The river comes up and floods these houses practically every year.’

‘Perhaps I shan’t be here long, anyway.’

‘You’re not settled, then?’

‘Oh, no. Sort of in transit, really.’

She asked him the time. ‘I’d offer to come up with you,’ she said then, ‘but I really must go.’

‘My dear young woman!’ Otterburn said.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I hope you don’t say such things to every strange man you meet.’

‘There you go again, thinking you’re no different from anybody else.’

‘You flatter me.’ Otterburn said.

‘I must be off, anyway. Thank you for a very pleasant evening.’

‘Thank you,’ Otterburn said. ‘But won’t you let me see you home?’

‘No. I can get a bus just across the bridge. Goodnight.’

She was moving away from him, quite rapidly. He called after her. ‘Goodnight.’

He let himself into the house and went straight to bed. He thought that he would lie awake for some time, but only a few minutes after he had started to retrace the evening from the moment she walked into the restaurant, he fell asleep.

He slept quite late. An idea had formed in his mind and he lay on his back, the house still around him apart from the hum of a vacuum cleaner somewhere below, and considered the sheer audacity of it. In a while he got up, breakfasted on cereal, toast and coffee, washed himself and dressed. He looked for coins, found the paper with the girl’s number on it and went down to the wall telephone on the ground floor. He dialled. A woman’s voice answered.

‘Could I speak to Miss Winterbottom, please?’

‘Just a minute. I’ll get her.’

‘Hullo?’

‘Dawn? It’s Malcolm Otterburn.’

‘Oh, hullo.’

‘I was thinking...’

‘Yes?’

‘What you were saying about broadening my scope.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I was wondering how far ten thousand pounds would take us.’

‘You were what?’

‘We could get quite a long way on that, I should think. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Pretty well all the way round.’ She laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Oh, quite.’

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I was just going out. I’ll see you in the Ferryboat at seven.’

‘Will you think about it?’

‘Oh, yes. And I hope you will too.’

‘I’ve done that.’

‘All right. But I’m late for an appointment so I must rush. I’ll see you in the Ferryboat at seven.’
She hung up.

Otterburn saw the envelope on the mat behind the front door as he turned from the telephone. He picked it up. It had his name on it. He slit it open and took out the single folded sheet of paper. ‘I saw you,’ the note said, in the same hand, ‘but you didn’t see me. I like your new outfit.’ He folded it and pushed it into his trousers pocket. Checking that he had his keys, he left the house and walked along the embankment and up into the town. In a branch of W. H. Smith he bought a pad of feint ruled A4 paper and some cartridges for his fountain pen.

Back in his room, he pulled the table over to the window and sat down with the pad of paper before him. He got the ink flowing in the nib of his pen, looked out at the river for a few moments, then rested his cheek on his left hand and began to write:

 

‘Otterburn had come to live in this cathedral city when he left his wife. He rented a room and kitchen, with a shared bath and lavatory on the next landing. He had never lived alone in his life before and from his window he could look down three floors at the river flowing between its stone banks and think that at least he hadn’t far to go if he decided to do away with himself.