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I had a lovely flat then, ground floor of a late Georgian third rating, stucco cracked and dirty brown, but easy to live in, central: which was why among other things Tony came up to stay with me, the first time, the flat's proximity to the BM, where he had some research to do, references to check, and had to meet a scholar of some sort in his field, Pilbo, Bilbraw, was it, no, but an expert on Boswell, and an American.         It had two rooms on the ground floor, the flat, connected by large double doors, the back room less wide by about two-and-a-half feet than the front one, and subtly related to it by bowed doors, sweet curves through ninety degrees, one an entrance, the other a cupboard that because of its shape was useful for little more than drinks, which was use enough, for me. The front room I used as a study, workroom, sitting room, reading room, and it also had a spare bed in it: my desk looked out over the square, the steep bank of a reservoir, curiously, forsythia in the spring, the rambling boring interesting conversations it was possible to overhear from odd couples, of men, of women, of women and men, who chose to stop outside, on the pavement, it was a juncture, a convenient place, for that sort of person who wished to have a conversation in the street, and sometimes, when it disturbed me, I would have to move into the other room, to escape them. Tony and I must have discussed the stories, pieces of conversation we both heard in this way, he in this city, I in London, in my flat, with the sweetly bowed corners and the double doors. Mostly I would leave one at least of the big doors open, or sometimes two, according to the light, or my whim, it faced nearly east-west, sun in the bedroom in the mornings, and in my workroom in the evenings, but it was easy enough if I wished to shut the bedroom with its unmade bed, untidiness, off from the workroom, if I chose to leave it untidy, and I often did, nor did I vacuum the carpets often, or polish the yellow lino, sometimes used to feel guilty about it—but this is sentiment, sweetly, what a word to use, me, I was glad enough to leave it when I married, indeed, the few weeks we spent married in it were most uncomfortable, it damaged my back, as well, sleeping in that narrow bed together, lucky enough to get married, and be gone.

When Tony came down to work at the BM, or whatever, June did not come down, as I remember, it was term time, for her, he would have the bed in the workroom, I would wake up in those few mornings he was there before going to school, I was teaching then, to remember I was his host, my obligations, would get up, shave those mornings who often chose to shave late, or not at all, and make a formal breakfast, Tony liked his food, a trencherman, as much as I if not more, if that were possible, the plain breakfast we would have, eggs and bacon in one culinary permutation or another, ha! and toast, and coffee simply made by pouring on the boiling water, I was fastidious about this as about so little else, really, so little else of this nature. And he would heave himself from that black divan, and wash as much as he thought appropriate, how can I know how much he washed, and he little late if at all for that breakfast I had prepared for us.          I sentimentalize again, the past is always to be sentimentalized, inevitably, everything about him I see now in the light of what happened later, his slow disintegration, his death. The waves of the past batter at the sea defences of my sandy sanity, need to be safely pictured, still, romanticized, prettified.                                    He used to catch a bus, a 73, at least, I told him that one, I don't know if he took my advice, to go to the BM. Perhaps I was home first in the afternoons, from school, exhausted, it was a very tough school I was at that term, on supply, they had a policy then of putting the worst children in the worst school buildings, and the problems I had to face were insurmountable, for me, I was not able to manage, I was not interested in managing, I chose to teach for the money, ha, though I enjoyed the kids, not the other teachers, no, their attitudes.          Remember meeting him the first time he came to my flat, Tony, I had come home at lunchtime from school, met him in the street, like a stranger, for a moment, both agreed we had just combined to act out an authentic alienation-effect, we thought. That must have been summer. In the evenings we would talk, discuss, drink, go out for a drink, for dinner at least once at an Italian café near the Angel, I would show him Kings Cross, as I knew it, the desperate pubs, and he would be interested in a very academic way, incorruptible, or something. One pub we pulled a neat thing in, it was Tony's idea, I think, after I had told him about the pub, which had barred me, in Chapel Market, because of Jack and I, Jack had had the flat before me, or part of it, then, we were friends, Jack and I had got very drunk in this pub one night, and he had written up Fuck the Pope in their virginal urinal, and I had added, it being about that time, And the Earl of Snowdon, and later still Jack had started blowing up french letters as though they were balloons, and banging them together, he and I, that is, popping them off. And they had not liked this, the publican's wife came out of the Gents mouthing at us just before closing time, calling us all manner of names, Jack and I, and telling us to get out, which we were quite ready to do, as we stood by the jukebox, as it was closing time and we'd had enough, anyway, roughly, but Jack said he'd like to finish his beer first, and there was nothing she could do about it, and as a final gesture when he had finished Jack put down his pint glass just half an inch short of the bar so that it dropped and bounced and smashed, and we made a dignified but expeditious exit. I told Tony about this and that they had since on two occasions refused to serve me, had barred me, in fact, which I thought was hard since Jack had done most of the damage, and it was a good pub, yes, and I was bloody near to making the barmaid, as I remember, that was what was really hard about it. And Tony suggested going into the pub, on this occasion, it must have been the second time he came to the Angel, not the first, now I think of it, because I had worked at another pub, and I was barred from that one, too, or did not go in there, anyway, or something, but he said Let me go in first and order one for you to come in and drink, after a few minutes. And it worked perfectly, I stood outside after he had gone in and counted a hundred, then went in to him and took up my drink, and they were astounded, confounded, the woman and the barmaid, who were both there, it worked well, they muttered amongst themselves, or together, but there was nothing they could do about it, it was so well timed. But they would not serve us with another drink, I remember asking Why not? very aggressively, and them staring back, angrily, and saying You know why! And I think threatening to call a copper. But we left victorious despite, Tony and I, with some dignity, too, as I remember. The beauty of it was that Tony was so polite, gentlemanly and friendly in buying the drinks, had formed a relationship with them, they being very pleased at new custom in an area where it was not common, I think, and they therefore had this friendliness thrown in their faces, so to speak, but could do nothing about it. Ah, the beauty of that!        And then Tony suggested doing the same thing the next evening, only sending two friends in to set up drinks for four, and then both he and I would walk in, and after that they would surely never serve any drinks to anyone unless they saw who it was first, they would be that unsure that they were not going to see the two fat guys walk in again. But we never did it, though someone who could have done it came the next night, because we went out, to the theatre, I believe, instead. But a perfect, gratifying idea, now a little guilt, were we reprehensible?

He was ill when he arrived, I forget now just what, just a cold, or flu, or headaches, or something like that, that first time here, at the Angel, said afterwards there were long periods of the train journey he had no re- collection of, a very bad journey, he seemed to think this was responsible for it, in some way, I wonder can it have been anything to do with what came later? Not likely, but one does wonder, I do wonder, now.

When he went, he left me a copy he had bought of Connolly's essays, inscribed, In lieu of food, or something like that, for staying with me, who did not want anything, had been his guest so often and was only too glad of an opportunity to repay some of his hospitality. On another occasion, it must have been later, when I was not teaching, was trying to earn so little from reviewing, on occasional supply, as little as possible, when he had left I found a ten shilling note in my pocket that must have come from him, I kept very careful note of everything I had, then, I had so little. A kindness, he had little enough himself.                                And when he came the first time I must have been typing the novel, or had I finished it, and given him a copy, was it then with an agent? Perhaps we talked about the next one, an idea I had had, was very enthusiastic about, but was aware that I was not big enough to write it, yet, that the idea was bigger than I was and I would not have the techniques to handle it, would have to grow towards it. I do not remember what he said—no, now I think about it, we discussed that on a building site at the university, he was showing me around. I am still not big enough for that one.

Perhaps it was then that I felt relieved when he was gone, not because I had not enjoyed his company, but it meant I could now be alone again with my grief, for Wendy, as ever, then, ha! I was still badly hit by her betrayal, as I called it, at that time, and could only come to terms with it on my own, I thought, perhaps that was how I preserved it, wished not to have it exposed to people who might tell me a truth about it I had not seen, or which I did not wish to know, for my own sake, for my own reasons, in my grief. A poem came from it, I remember, one line, anyway, a phrase, at least, The welcome guest gone, and an idea that I now had peace in which to be disturbed, to indulge my desperate distress, ha, Wendy.              But no more came.