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The estate.             That enormous flat. It seems enormous to me, now. But I was very ill there.                                         I must have arrived at about four in the afternoon. Tony was there in the downstairs hall, on the phone. He gave no sign he had seen me. From the conversation I understood someone had told him his Finals result, that he was relieved by it. This must have been in the summer of the year after Wendy, then. When he turned he said to me Upper Two, and I was glad for him, I congratulated him.              We went upstairs to the flat, he now talking of, being almost sure of doing, research as a result of his degree, not the First I thought his mind was worth, but enough in the academic lottery to enable him to go on to a doctorate, eventually, as he wished. And he had told me that for various reasons, illness, magazine work, he had not put in as much work on his Finals as he could have done. Ah.                      We had tea upstairs, waiting for his wife to come in. It was a Friday, I think, just before the weekend. I was in a curious state, Finals had so exhausted me, I did not care what degree I got, only just that I got one at all, it seemed a pity not to have something to show for the three years, though why, I don't know, it's been useless since, really, except for teaching, the extra money of a Lower Two, but I did not know that was what I was going to get, then, at that time, when I went up to stay with Tony and June for a weekend shortly after Finals: our results were announced much later, two months, not two weeks, or however soon Tony's were an-nounced, whenever that summer Friday was that I hitched up to this city. And I was not expecting much, for myself, had failed one paper, I was sure, for after being early at the Halls I had been misdirected: You're on the next floor, they said on the first: No, you're on the next one, they said, there: and on the Third they said Yes, you're here, but you can't bring that briefcase in with you: so I had to go down to the Basement, the queue, and then up again, by which time I was late and also hot, and discomfited, and panic was setting in, almost. Finally to go in and find as I looked up from my allocated seat that directly in my line of vision was Wendy, that every time I looked up during those ten days of Finals I would see her sweet neck, the line of her shoulders, just the beginning of the curve of her left breast, depending, that controlled hair, the style, my favourite: she was lucky, she was always lucky, to have drawn a seat facing a wall, not me, no distractions for her. But I thought I was strong enough to overcome this, ha, to stand that, and I looked at the first paper, on a subject or subjects, yes, History of the Language, never before set, ours was the first year, sitting the paper, in this form, and it was nothing like what we had been led to expect it would be, it was all essay questions of mostly the asinine general kind designed to allow your knowledge full play, but useless, to me, whereas we had expected that there would be a piece of English from any period upon which we were expected to comment and to place in its context: and that upset me more than the sight of Wendy, or perhaps it was the combination of the two things, but I felt I could not go on, could not start, got up, to the alarm or at least the concern of an invigilator, for I believe no one was to leave the room for at least the first half-hour, it was one of the rules, but I went, said I was ill, as I was, a sort of brainstorm, no that's exaggerating, but I was incapable of going on, at that moment, completely, and she must have seen it, for she let me go to the First Aid room, the invigilator, where there was a middleaged woman who asked what the trouble was, and I told her, and said also, as aggressively as I could, in the cir-cumstances, that there was nothing she could do about that condition, was there?          Ironically, I could see the irony of it myself, could still appreciate the irony of it. No, she agreed, but I can give you a sedative, which she did, bitter it tasted, and she went on eating her sandwich, I think she had not expected to be disturbed so soon in her morning, that she had hoped to eat her sandwich in peace before people started flaking out.               After about twenty minutes I went back and tried the paper again, wrote very slowly, perhaps it was the sedative, I don't know, the silence of such places, such occasions. And I must have told someone exactly what it was, for after a while they came and moved me, gave me another seat, behind a pillar, where my eyes could not pick her up. And I answered one question and part of another, out of the three I was supposed to attempt, of that first paper, and knew I must have failed that paper, and remembered being told by the Prof that to fail any one of the nine was automatically to be brought down one class. Remember the subtlety of the rest of that Finals period, the mode we established between us, silently, tacitly, that she would arrive early for papers and I would arrive slightly late, so that we would not meet accidentally in the crush of people waiting for the doors to open, as they did, ten minutes or something before the official start, and those keen ones who thought they could use the extra time would be there, chattering, nervous. Perhaps she too was afraid of me then, or more likely afraid her luck would change, no, how pointless such speculation is. And seeing her, at a road junction just south of Euston Road, crossing, deliberate, long pace, in that same tight turquoise two-piece she had worn here, in this city, making the bed, that time, when I was standing with a friend who knew us both, and he said nothing of noticing her, either, as we tiredly discussed our respective first papers. Making the bed.

All this I must have told to Tony, must have engaged his sympathy, when we first met, he in the first flush, the relief of knowing about his future, ha! Ironic, that seems now, as if he could have known about the wasting and the pain and the yellowing and the weakness and the waste, waste! Or even could have suspected, forecast it in himself. I can.                         That evening I do not remember at all well, we must have eaten, June must have cooked us a meal, we certainly talked, probably about Finals, about the papers, about what we were going to do. It must have been an evening of a certain amount of euphoria for him, for Tony, and for June. But I do remember that I felt tired, very, and hot, and that I felt as though a cold, a temperature at least was imminent, that I was becoming ill, in their flat, in their flat, which was more painful, embarrassing, than the being ill, really, to me, and I feel sure I went off to bed early, said I felt ill, that I would be okay in the morning, not to cause them any inconvenience, but they must have seen I was going to be ill, for in the middle of the night I half woke, and the landlady was in the room, saying yes, we must move him, and I had known for some time, half-known and not cared, that the bedsheets were soaking with the sweat caused by my temperature, by my fever, if that's what it was, and who could have told her if not Tony or June, the landlady, who turned out to be a trained nurse, retired, that I was ill? So they must have noticed, it must have been noticeable, during the evening. I think they changed the sheets, gave me another pair of pyjamas, probably they were Tony's, we were of similar build, once a waiter mistook us for brothers, though he was dark and I am not, Tony, they could not I think have been anyone else's since there was no other man in the house, the pyjamas, to my knowledge, which was not extensive, in this case, in any case. I slept well for the rest of the night. Perhaps unknown to myself I called out, groaned, or otherwise brought Tony's attention to me, that they should come and look at me, that they should send for the landlady and that I should be provided with clean bedsheets and pyjamas. Or perhaps it was solicitude for their guest, on their part, because I had obviously looked ill earlier. I do not know. How little I really know of them, of him. Perhaps they had a doctor to me on Saturday morning, the next day, yes, I remember they did, I was counting my pulse rate, knew what it was normally, then,            do not know, now, no. It was only a cold, a fever, two-day flu, a chill, whatever. That was all. I stayed in bed all day on the Saturday, could not really talk to Tony, did not want to. Still had a temperature, was still cold, shivering if I let the bedclothes ride down away from me. The landlady brought me up some books, one I read, an American thriller, yes, I read it, could not put it down, curious, when there was all Tony's library in the next room, all the treasures of Eng. Lit., ha!                          June was out for Saturday, perhaps all day, certainly for lunch, for lunch Tony came in and said he was cooking fish fingers, he said they tasted okay if they were fried, a curious thing to remember, all memories are curious, for that matter, the mind as a            think of an image                              Two days I was ill, I must have thought of Wendy a lot, then I was full of her, at that time, for a long time afterwards, my mind registering pain stimuli at those elements of that house which related to her, the black gamesome dog, the woman, even the china into which the luncheon meat had fallen, the garden sloping towards the tiny valley, as it were.                               Did they avoid the subject, did we discuss it without embarrassment? What point?                                    In that bedroom where I was ill I could see nothing outside from the bed, when lying, though the windows were large, nothing but the sky. I do remember watching the clouds, the only too predictable patterns of clouds, from that bed. But no trees showed, at that level, to break the clouds' monotony. It must have been at the front of the house, overlooking the road, rather than at the back, overlooking the valley. Not must have been, for that fits in, but I remember it was in fact the front, facing the front. When I sat up, first when I could, then if I chose, then there was a waving branch or two to be seen, I think, but there was a dressing table with three mirrors on it directly opposite the foot of the bed so that whenever I sat up to look I saw myself, not a thing I like to do, usually, or even when I am ill, so I convince myself, on this occasion too I forced myself as little as possible, as little as possible.

On the Sunday Tony brought me his thesis or dissertation, a piece on biography, on Boswell, as I remember, part of his Finals, a piece of original work which had to be submitted as well as exam papers, a good scheme, he told me, I agreed, and at this university they could also submit a collection of poems they had written, or a novel, or a short story, or anything else related in that direct way to what Eng. Lit. was about: which we could not do at London, this was quite unrelated, to them. Tony's dissertation I read, do not remember the subject-matter, but was surprised by some of the spelling errors, and the grammatical errors, but these were negligible really, he did not have that sort of carefulness, that kind of talent. What matter? I was surprised by it then, but it did not matter, does not matter.

I was well again, up, by the Sunday evening, well enough to go out, that is, for they wanted to go out, Tony and June, had arranged to go out to visit some friends, in the suburbs of this city, as I remember, or even in a village outside, yes, a fashionable new house it was, in a Contemporary sort of way, with a through lounge, so called, a picture window at the back, at the front as well? The back window had a picture of a hill going away, a segment of hill which was higher to the left than to the right. If there was a front picture window, it pictured only the houses opposite. And a parquet floor, a feeling of not being lived in: it was a new house, but even so: they told me the couple who owned it, he a rich factory owner, or son of one, and she a mere, ha, machine minder, operative, or some situation like that, that sounds wrong, I misremember, and they were always breaking up, a peculiar marriage, to me peculiar, anyway, and I think so to Tony and June, as well, by the way they talked to me of it, thought it worth my attention, that it was a matter of some remark.          Where we had coffee, perhaps drinks, I am not sure, but there were a lot of June's friends there, she went to an art school, friends from before she met Tony, before they were married: one of them was very funny, his conversation a stream of puns, wit, hilarious occasions, anecdotes. A- gainst whom Tony gently held his own, his own position, that is, of the scholarly wit, not competing with this natural comedian, if there is such a thing, but holding his own. And I laughing till I cried, the tears real, until I was embarrassed at the state to which I had been reduced. I did not contribute anything but my laughter, as I remember, and it was obvious from the other eight or ten there listening that they expected him to dominate like this, that he could be relied on to perform brilliantly, and strangers were not expected to contribute, far less to interrupt him. And besides, I was still not well, had not completely recovered from the fever, or cold, or flu.

One other thing, June I remember on this visit was angry with me, in silence, but I felt it, at one point for not helping prepare a meal, tea, or supper, or at least to lay the table. But when could that have been? Which day? Was it before I was ill? Yes, or June would not have expected much of me, though it was not much to expect, in any case, no, from me.                  I cannot place this, though, it will not fall into place. But it was certainly on that visit, that June was angry at my laziness, weariness, as we all three came in tired, Tony and I sat and talked, she had to prepare a meal on her own, for us.