The Barn

By Edmund Romilly

Kelly was an ordinary and honourable man, stuck in a boring job as an office clerk in London, with little that made him stand out in a crowd in terms of either personality, looks or dress, but he did have one talent that set him apart – he was a poet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apex Publishing Limited
• Release date: May 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781908382214

Book preview

Macey

Chapter 1.

Kelly was an honourable man, a good man. He lived in a little flat near Ladbroke Grove. He was about forty years of age, and single. He had a fantastic sense of humour.

To look at he was nothing much: just a little, round man dressed in a shabby, light brown coat. Occasionally he wore a hat. But this piece of clothing sat ill on him, and when others pointed this out he just laughed, because he was not vain. He had nothing to be vain about.

And yet he had something that others didn’t have. He was a poet. He had never actually had anything published, but he wrote every day, and was committed to his craft. He worked as a clerk in an office to earn his living, but in the very early morning he got up and worked on his manuscripts. It was tiring, exacting work, and he didn’t know why he did it.

There was absolutely no point in writing poems that no one would read, but if he tried to stop he couldn’t. In any case, he would only try to stop if he reasoned about what he was doing, for his reason told him that it was futile, but generally he liked to carry on without thinking about it.

His little flat was of course rented, and squalid in the extreme. Every so often he would try to brighten the one dowdy room by putting a vase of flowers on the mantelpiece, but usually he could not be bothered with such things and, because he was by nature very untidy, the place was always in a mess.

Half-eaten meals lay about the floor: if you went into the kitchen you would see a pile of washing up that had been there for several days. The carpets and curtains needed cleaning, and the windows were grimy.

The landing outside his front door was no better, but since that was the concern of the landlord it did not bother him very much. Whenever he went out onto the staircase he did not notice the dirt, but when he was inside his own flat he sometimes did.

One day he was coming home carrying a shopping bag full of food. It was early evening and he had just been to the shops. He had bought himself something nice to eat for his dinner, and was looking forward to watching his favourite television programme afterwards. He hoped that the set, a very old, black and white model, would be working properly.

Suddenly he was accosted by a woman. She was small, old and scrawny, and wore a smart brown tweed suit, whose skirt more than covered her knees. Her stockings were darkly opaque and businesslike, and she carried a severe handbag. Her face, which was small and pointed, was without make-up, except for a little rouge and lipstick. You felt she wore it only as a small and grudging concession to the female convention. She had extraordinarily large, blue eyes.

Are you Mr Kelly? she asked the startled man.

Yes, he answered.

I’m so sorry for just running up to you in the street like this, she spoke quickly, but I wonder whether you’d be interested in doing a job of work for me?

Kelly just looked at her. He had been so startled by the way she had approached him that he could not properly take in what she was saying.

You are Kelly, the poet, aren’t you?

Yes.

Well then, you must enjoy writing, don’t you?

There was a slight note of irony in her voice and he thought he saw a vague smile upon her lips.

Yes, I do. But …

I’m so sorry just to come up to you like this, as I said, but - well, to get down to the point, Mr Kelly, would you like to help me write a book I am very anxious to do?

Again he just looked at her. This time she waited for him to speak.

It’s very kind of you, he began slowly, but - but …

But what? she asked patiently.

Well, I don’t normally write things for other people. I mean, I am not a ghostwriter or anything. I am a poet.

She looked at him. She looked as if she were judging him rather uncharitably.

Kelly was beginning to notice how really small she was - almost dwarf-like.

I know you’re a poet, Mr Kelly, she said carefully. And that’s just the sort of talent I want to employ.

For a moment Kelly was almost offended: he liked to think of himself as an undiscovered genius.

Why?

Because I want to write my autobiography, and I feel that the sort of talents I have are not best suited to that kind of book. By the way, you do know who I am, don’t you?

No.

Disbelief fluttered across her features, but then she smiled again.

By this time Kelly was beginning to study her face, as he was in the habit of doing with every person he met. It was most interesting, in its own particular way. The many lines were suggestive of a sensitivity above the ordinary, and yet there was something in the set of the chin, and in the way the narrow lips curled together, that suggested she was a hard woman, an essentially practical one.

I’m so sorry, my name is Flora Gilbert. Here is my card.

She produced a thick white visiting card from her severe handbag. He took it without glancing at it.

Normally, as you know, I write romantic fiction for popular consumption, and I’ve been doing it for so long that I don’t think I’d be able to trust myself with a more serious work.

Oh, yes …

Kelly had vaguely heard of her. He occasionally saw articles in the colour supplements about her, and seemed to remember her being interviewed on television. She very much had a certain kind of reputation - which he was not disposed to appreciate. He also remembered something about her having had cancer long ago, and how very creditable it had been for her to have got over it.

Would you be interested at all in helping me?

I, er, no, not really, Mrs Gilbert. I’m a poet, you see. I don’t know very much about prose.

But the prose I should want to write would be of the most truthful kind.

She said this because she had heard that the reason why poets looked down on writers of fiction - as they generally did - was because they did not think that the latter could ever tell the truth.

Kelly just looked at her blankly.

I’d pay you very well, of course, she urged.

Now he was interested. He was so hard up that the slightest hint of money was enough to make him change his mind, no matter how contrary to his basic principles that change of mind might be.

Would you? But - how did you hear of me?

He clutched his shopping bag a little more tightly.

Oh, a mutual friend told me about you, she said airily. Why don’t you come round for a drink one evening soon? My address is on that card. Shall we say Thursday?

It was now Tuesday.

All right then …

Why shouldn’t he go round to her place for a drink? He had nothing to lose by doing that.

I’m so glad you’re interested in the idea, Mr Kelly. Now I have to dash. Shall we say seven-thirty?

All right then …

With that she was off, sweeping up the street as if she were an energetic young woman.

He was left bemused, standing and clutching his shopping bag rather foolishly, as if he were an old man. He continued to look at her until she disappeared. It was only when she did so that he was able to return to his senses, and then he reflected that it was very strange that she should have approached him in the street like that. How did she know who he was? He wished he had asked her that.

He looked at the visiting card, which was still in his hand. ‘Flora Gilbert, Novelist’, it read. And underneath there was an address and telephone number. She lived on the smarter side of Ladbroke Grove. Well, she would have to, of course, he thought to himself, as he went on his way. Flora Gilbert, well, well, well.

He should have recognised her. But he was not as conversant with the literary world as he might have been, and it was not at all surprising that he did not recognise her immediately.

Curiously enough he was more anxious to discover who had told her of his existence than to decide whether he would go to see her on Thursday or not. He racked his brains, but it was only when he was putting on the kettle in his little kitchen that he thought of the only person it could have been.

Some time ago he had been standing on his own in his local pub, when he looked around and saw a handsome young man staring at him from a far corner of the bar. Irritated by what he took to be an intrusion into his private life, he looked away. But a few moments later the young man was at his side, and introducing himself.

Good evening. My name’s Nick d’Arcy.

Hello, replied Kelly gruffly, hoping that by the tone of his voice he would make it clear that he did not want to be disturbed.

But the young man persisted: I couldn’t help noticing your face, he said. You remind me of someone, though I can’t think who at the moment. Do you live around here?

Yes.

Good. So do I. I’m hoping to get to know a few people. I’ve just moved here. Can I buy you a drink?

Kelly looked at him. He seemed nice enough, with open, friendly, fairly normal features; so he said, Yes, please.

Those few words were the beginning of a strange friendship that was to last until Nick became successful in journalism. And it wasn’t because he no longer had any time for the older and less successful man that he didn’t see him any more, but simply because their paths no longer crossed. As if to prove this, Nick always said that he would like to do Kelly a good turn because, as he also said, he worried about him. Indeed, although there was much to worry about, Kelly did not quite see his life that way, for he thought he had solved it by recourse to a certain general indifference that was second nature to him.

But now, Kelly mused as the kettle boiled and he picked it up with a handkerchief so as not to get burnt, this must be the ‘good turn’ that Nick had always promised him. No doubt he had met Flora at some do or other and, hearing that she was in need of a ghostwriter, had thought of his old friend. That must have been how it came about.

Fancy a woman like that not being able to write her own autobiography! He had always suspected that some of the really successful writers couldn’t ply their trade for toffee, but until now he had had to be content with his suspicions, for he had never actually met such great personages.

There was just one small, troubling point. And that was, why him? Flora Gilbert must have any number of ghostwriters to call upon. Why should she trouble herself to approach the friend of a friend - someone whom she had never met before?

He was still wondering about this when he turned on the television to watch his favourite programme. But when, to his joy, the picture appeared in sharp detail, he forgot all about it.

After work the next day he went to visit Nick d’Arcy, to find out whether his suspicions were correct. He had some qualms about visiting him, for he did not know how he would be received, or whether he would even be remembered. But, on discovering that he no longer lived at his old address, he decided to ring up his newspaper, in order to find out where he had moved to.

Who is it who wants him? a shrill voice asked over the phone.

I’m a friend of his.

Hold on one second, please.

With mounting agitation, Kelly waited in the draughty telephone