Dialogues of the Dead

“Strictly speaking, it can be viewed as part of my work,” said Johnson. “And of course Ellie is still in that happy state of feeling so flattered to be treated as a real writer, she’d probably pay for the privilege. I believe we’re being landed with fifty possibles. You’re content with the preliminary sorting, I hope? I’m not well enough acquainted with Mr. Dee and his amiable assistant to comment on their judgment, but I get the impression the task was thrust upon them, not because they were qualified but because they were there.”

“I’ve known Dick Dee since he were a lad, and he’s probably forgotten more about the use of language than most of you buggers in English Departments ever learnt,” retorted Penn.

“Which I take it means you’re definitely not inclined to read any of the submissions he’s rejected,” laughed Johnson.

“Can’t say I’m looking forward to reading them he hasn’t,” said Penn. “You pick the best of crap, it’s still crap, isn’t it?”

“Careful,” murmured Johnson. “Never speak ill of a man whose drink you are drinking.”

“Eh?” Penn’s gaze turned on Roote. “You’ve not entered a story, have you?”

Franny Roote sucked on his bottle again, smiled his secretive smile, and said, “I refuse to comment on the grounds I may be disqualifying myself.”

“Sorry?”

“Well, suppose I had entered and suppose I won, then it came out I had been seen buying prominent members of the judging panel a drink, how would that look?”

“I don’t think they’d hold the front page on the Sun. Or even the London Review of Books.”

“Nonetheless.” Roote turned his gaze on Johnson. “And what makes you think I may have entered anyway?”

“Just that I recall seeing the page from the Gazette announcing the competition lying around your flat when I had coffee there a couple of weeks back,” said Johnson. “It’s an occupational hazard of literary research, as Charley and I well know, and you yourself must be finding out, that your eyes are irresistibly drawn to anything with print on it.”

“Aye, like the sign on that pump over there which says Best Bitter,” said Penn, setting down his empty glass with a significant crash.

Johnson tossed back the rest of his Scotch, picked up the pint-pot, and headed to the bar.

“So you’ve got literary ambitions, have you, Franny?” said Penn.

“Perhaps. And if I had, what advice would you offer?”

“Only advice I ever offer young hopefuls,” said Penn. “Unless you can pass for under sixteen and an infant prodigy, forget it. Go off and be a politician, fail miserably or at least turn into a grotesque, then write your book. That way, publishers will fall over themselves to buy you and newspapers to review you and chat shows to interview you. The alternative, unless you’re bloody lucky, is a long haul up a steep hill with nowt much to see when you get up there.”

“What’s this? Philosophy?” said Johnson, returning with the drinks.

“Just advising young Fran here that the shortest way to literary fame is to become notorious for something else first,” said Penn. “I need a slash.”

He rose and headed to the Gents.

“Sorry about that,” said Johnson.

“Sorry that I’ve achieved a happy anonymity?” said Roote with a smile. “That was always my hope. Mind you, I was tempted to draw myself up and say not to know me argues yourself unknown, but he might have taken that the wrong way.”

“Not unknown. Half-known, which is probably worse. Neither owt nor nowt, as Charley would say, suffering equally from the gross familiarity of complete strangers when your name is recognized and their blank look of incomprehension when it isn’t. So you prepare yourself to meet either by pretending that neither matters.”

Roote sucked at his new bottle and said, “We are still talking about Charley Penn, aren’t we? Not some minor poet whose name I forget?”

“What a sharp little mouse it is,” said Johnson with a grin. “Like the man said, misery still delights to trace its semblance in another’s face.”

“You saying that the placid waters of academia are a rougher sea than real life?” said Roote.

“My God, yes. The indignities Charley may have to suffer are on the whole accidental whereas the ivory towers are crowded at every level with bastards plotting to pour boiling oil on those below. Often it’s just a little splash. Like wondering at High Table if I’ve ever thought of doing any creative writing myself. But sometimes it’s a whole barrelful. That shit Albacore at Cambridge, the one who paid me back for helping him with his Romantics book by ripping off my idea for Beddoes’ bicentennial biography, well, I heard on Friday that he’s brought forward his target publication date by six months to pre-empt me.”

“It’s a hard life,” said Roote. “You ought to take up gardening.”

“What? Oh yeah, sorry. Me with my worries and you’ve got all that winter pruning. Seriously, it’s working out OK, is it?”