Cont'd …

THREE

Never had Graham known anything like it: he was working like a machine. Page followed page and chapter followed chapter just as he had always dreamed. He began to talk in terms of imaginative rhythm and creative flow. The pages piled up in a clean white stack and his knuckles began to ache from all that typing – something he had never experienced before.

Trying to write a book whilst living with Caroline had been a hopeless task. Her slovenliness, her unpredictability, the impossible emotional demands she made on him – it had all been too much. When he thought of her now, the images he saw disgusted him: the kitchen sink full of mackerel bones and potato peelings; the sitting-room floor covered in spillikins and knitting-patterns torn from magazines; that appalling picture of a Shetland pony which she would not take down from the lavatory. And Caroline crying into the pillow after making love. He had been with her for five full years, and nothing he had said or done had succeeded in making her any happier or more stable. It was a wonder he had managed to get any work done at all, in fact: preparing his lectures had been hard enough but trying to write a book had been a nightmare, especially towards the end.

He saw himself sitting at the kitchen table at three in the morning, a biro that Caroline had been chewing in his hand and a smell of burnt toast in the air. The kitchen clock ticked sickly and on the worktop there were six varieties of marmalade and jam, all with their tops off. Caroline would be in the bedroom, stuffing herself with toast and not wiping away the grease and crumbs that gathered round her mouth. On her face, a look of utter misery. She was wearing her glasses because she couldn’t be bothered to put in her contact lenses again. Her eyes tiny through the thick glass. Ready to burst into tears at any second. He had no idea how he had managed to stand it for so long. The poverty in which they lived – the way their misery had made paupers of them, grinding out a wretched existence on each other’s worn-out spirits. Whereas now – now he was rich. He had dried cornflowers and a view of the chestnut tree turning and the assurance of seven good, clean mornings every week. He surveyed his desk: the typewriter, the row of dictionaries, the flowers in their vase. He was entirely happy.

Things became a little less luxurious when term started at the polytechnic. Three mornings a week Graham had to give his first lecture at eleven, and so he had to start waking up at six in order to make sure of his full four hours at the typewriter. Breakfast had to be got over quickly. Before going to bed they would lay out the cups and bowls: they only had cereal for breakfast now, because it was so quick and because Graham was beginning to worry about his weight (he had made no direct mention of this to Margaret).

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