Dialogues of the Dead

Charley Perm said, 'Aye,' into his mobile phone for the second rime, switched it off and replaced it in his pocket. 'Interesting,' said Samjohnson. 'What?' 'You answer your mobile without that expression, or at least grimace, of apology with which most civilized men of a certain age usually preface its use, then you have a conversation, or should I say transaction, to which your sole contribution is the word Aye, used once as an exordial interrogative and once as a valedictory affirmative.' 'And that's interesting? You lecturers must lead very quiet lives. Cheers, lad.' Franny Roote, just returned from the bar, placed a pint of bitter in front of Penn and a large Scotch in front of Johnson, then pulled a bottle of Pils out of his duffel-coat pocket, twisted off the top, and drank directly from the bottle. 'Why do you buggers do that?' asked Penn. 'Hygiene,' said Roote. 'You never know where a glass has been.' 'Well, I know where it's not been,' said Penn through the froth on his pint. 'It's not got the shape.' Roote and Johnson exchanged smiles. They'd discussed Penn's self-projection as a hard-nosed northerner and come to the conclusion it was a protective front behind which he could write his historical romances and pursue his poetical researches with minimum interference from the patronizing worlds of either the literary or the academic establishments. 'On the other hand,' Johnson had said, 'it may be he's gone on too long. That's the danger with concealment. In the end we may become what we pretend to be.' Which was the kind of clever-sounding thing university teachers were good at saying, thought Roote. He himself had got the patois off pat and didn't doubt that when the time came to move from the economically challenged freedom of student life to the comfortable confines of an academic job, he would be accepted as a native son. Meanwhile there were worse things to be doing on a Sunday morning than sitting having a drink with this pair of, in their different ways, extremely entertaining and potentially useful men, and worse places to be doing them than in the saloon bar of The Dog and Duck. 'So Charley, did you settle on a satisfactory honorarium with the dreaded Agnew?' asked Johnson. 'Nothing's settled with a journalist till it's down on paper and witnessed by a notary public,' said Penn. 'But it will be. Not that I was helped in my negotiations by the evident willingness of you and Ellie Pascoe to offer freebies.' '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 nattered 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.'