February 2010

I do not find old Withnail’s dream;
Of empty bottles and of autumn breaks.

Antique road shows and music halls
Where the lovers dance so smoothly.

City lamps and speakeasies damp
With spilt scotch over a brawl.

‘Don’t leave me like this’, she pleads
as he recalls his first juvenile kiss.

The old man has a cane at sunrise
Why did he venture out this black Friday?

‘I am a liability! My left side is nothing.
I can’t write letters or eat!’

Maybe he always goes in there.
Maybe they ignore him.

London is the worst place to see the best,
And the best place to see the worst.

Jonathan Small is back where he belongs, but where is his William. Sigh.

Eulogy

Where do I begin? Three hundred and sixty five sunsets and three hundred and sixty four sunrises to go. Do we know what will happen to us over the course of minutes, or even hours, let alone months and years. So much can happen in one year, it's all quite mind-boggling. You can be shaken to your very core, or elated above the tallest tower. And yet, time seems to always dwell on the worst things. We can all think of a moment in our lives when we've felt awful, perhaps suicidal, some of us go that far, and yet we seem to feel that most of the time. When somebody is happy, we resent them for it, when somebody is upset, we pity them. When somebody is heartbroken, shattered, broken, empty, lost, loveless, alone, isolated, irrational and forgotten, we do all our best to reconcile their emotions and bring them back to the light. And this light that everyone swears by, the happiness people drive forward with, is one of the strangest things in our very strange and increasingly strange world. You know the type, the cheery friend who always sees the bright side of things. Do they really see it? Or are they just weary and fearful of being the negative one of the group; are we all just embittered cynics?
Cynicism aside, what do years bring us. For me, the past year brought me a story. The greatest story of my life. One that had everything. And one that took time to think about. Where did it go, you may ask. Well, my good friend William had ended his life. Death was to him, like what getting on a bus is to us. I never found love again, only one great friendship. But ultimately I shared this friendship with something that William shared with too. Thankfully I escaped before it destroyed me. So is this goodbye?

Who knows what will happen in the future. My heart may one day skip another beat, and time may cure me. It's not all about heartbreak. But it is all about loss. So if this is goodbye I'd like to thank you, and hope that someday we meet again. May it be soon, may it be at The End.

Goodbye.

Lucien

These are my streets

I live amongst the buildings and the streetlights

I live amongst the sorrows

The sins

The lies

The mortal reasonings

The quiet utterings of 'I love you'

I caused it all

I am that smoke you cling to

I am that woman you kiss

I am this city

I am everything

and yet I am nothing, and you know it.

Loved And Loss And Lost Loves

I stared at her, and my sight crept into those pooled green eyes. I noticed the pattern of her iris and the shade her eyelashes created. The sun seemed stuck behind the skyscrapers, and as its muted rays sauntered across the windowsill and onto my back, they left me with a certain curious warmth.
'Jonathan,' she said, stirring her coffee and putting the spoon back down, 'it's good to see you again'.
My eyes had travelled south and I found myself analysing her hands, they had changed so much. Her fingernails were painted red and the soft delicateness that they once carried seemed now to be only harsh skin. She paid great attention to the coffee between her hands and managed to mutter something, 'I'm sorry.' I looked away. 'Do you hate me Jonathan?' She said softly but slightly impatiently.
'No,' I replied in a manner which shocked her, 'of course I don't hate you. You had to do what you had to do.' She smiled at this and took a sip from her coffee, but pulled back at once, 'Yowch! This is boiling hot, I'll have to let it cool'.
Steam rose slowly from the porcelain mug where the swampy liquid was waiting, and I followed it closely with my eyes. It swirled to the corner of the room and disappeared without any warning.
'You know I didn't mean to hurt you-' she said.
'Spare me the cliches Sybil, you know full well what you did. Let's just not dwell on that, it's been too long and we have more important matters to discuss,' she seemed shocked by my frankness and pushed her back against the now arched chair.
'It's been too long,' she replied.
Just then I felt myself being dragged out of my body, out of this suit, out of this seat, away from this table and this odd cafe. I could feel myself looking directly into her face, as if it were mine, like I was peering from a mirror, into another world. Her beauty was shocking. I had forgotten just how breathtaking she was. Her face still perfectly symmetrical and her nose slightly crooked but buttoned and straight. Her eyes were the same, knives of black and her hair was wild and lose but kept up in a bun, she always thought it made her look Parisian. Sybil's lips were the only thing different. They seemed thinner now, but the more I studied them the more I recalled their taste and I felt myself being dragged back to Earth.
My body clenched and I could feel something stirring above my nose; I realised I was beginning to cry. Stifling the tears and swallowing I looked away onto the table to the right to where an elderly man was sitting, newspaper in spread out in front of him, fanning his eyesight as he fussed around with the pages.
'Jonathan?' My heart leapt from my chest. 'I'm worried about you.' Her voice seemed to offer no solace and just shuddered and fell into the faint smell of blending and biscuits.
'Thank you,' I replied and sent a smile her way.
'Listen it's getting to 3 and I need to be off,' my heart sank, 'but we definitely need a real catch-up. What are you doing say...' She pulled out a brown leather notepad from her brown leather handbag, and flicked through the pages until she was satisfied. 'Saturday evening? We could get a drink - that is, if you still drink of course,' she joked.
Laughing, I meshed my fingers together and smiled at her, 'yeah I'm free, and yeah I still drink. The Arms, at 8? It's not too hard to get to from the station.'
'I remember exactly where it is, okay Jonathan, I'll see you then.' We both stood up and embraced awkwardly, my hand fitted perfectly around her waist - nothing's changed there. Her slim coal shoes ticked as she headed out, the door shook as it slammed shut and began to tremble in the wind once again. As quaint as an Autumnal leaf I floated back into the seat and felt its hard embrace against my sullied limbs.
I lent across the table to pilfer the biscuit Sybil had left uneaten and that’s when I noticed something strange. The mug had been left perfectly on the saucer, but nestled between the saucer and said corresponding mug there appeared to be a scrap of paper. It was quite far under, which led me to believe she had placed it under the mug when I wasn’t looking, or perhaps slipped it from her hand to its underbelly as she took a gentle sip. Whatever the method, this was trickery.
Naturally, I fished it out and began to scan it over. She couldn’t have written it here, there was far too much there to be done so quickly. Dear Sir/Madame, if you have found this then please look outside the café and chase down the man who was sitting with me and hand him this. If you can’t find him then feel free to read it but I’m not sure if you’ll find what I have to say very interesting - unless you’re the sort of person who enjoys meddling in other people’s lives. On the other side there was a more personal message however, one that I do not wish to remember word for word, but lots of regret and apologising.
The crowds outside were starting to disperse as the clouds gathered and formulated a plan to drench the businessmen and tourists. The trembling door gave me a bit of trouble on my exit, I could not fathom whether to pull it or turn the handle and push, after a brief duel with it and quite a rude interjection from the hulking shop owner, I found my feet firmly on cobblestone once again and as they met grey concrete, grey descended over the street. Then grey drops jumped down between the buildings, then I felt them on my hair and trickling down my face. Then, finally, I felt comfortable again.

There's Something For Everyone

It was outside where things really start to puzzle me, why was William so intense in his letters? And why did he even want to write these letters to me? It didn't seem to make any sense at the time, but I wasn't going to be bogged down by it.
London was particularly gorgeous this afternoon, it was a Sunday afternoon actually. There were no birds in the trees, the sky was a muggy grey fieldish colour that seems to match the cement perfectly. There was, however, a stiff breeze that seemed to rush through the tiny gaps between buildings. Looking up, I took my time to analyse the folds in clouds and the sporadic spaces of sky between them. These were particularly interesting to me, and I noted their size and the patterns they made. I had originally planned to visit my publisher somewhere off in Camden, but I always think it wiser to avoid crowded areas on Sundays. Instead, and I don't know why, I had decided to visit Regent's Park.
See that's the thing about London, there's something for everyone; whether you seek the quiet contemplation of a park, or a winding street you're bound to find it in London. Actually, the more I thought about places I was a fan of, the more I seemed to get lost in thought, and I cast my mind back to an eventful night in Islington.

'What can I do you for?' The woman smiled at us both with cheeky rosy red lips, covering mucky teeth. 'Don't worry Ma'am,' William replied, 'we won't keep you long. We're just wondering if you could give us some directions...' I glanced at William and then back again at this woman of the night.
'Oh, don't listen to my friend here,' placing my hand on his shoulder and turning my face from her I whispered into his ear, 'for God's sake William, try to make the story more plausible'. She got up from her stoop and paced around us, passing her cigarette between her forefingers and cackled.


No, that's not right. How did it go... I can't remember. I'm sure it'll come back to me later. Or maybe it won't? That's the problem with memories, even if you remember it, how can you be perfectly sure it occurred? Well I hope that didn't sound too silly. Let's keep walking.
As I crossed from the station to the park, I thought about everyone we used to talk about, and indeed the fun we used to have with them. This memory was starting to bother me now, I could not remember who the woman was, or even why we had found ourselves talking to her. The oddest thing was that William was pretending we were tourists, or at least strangers to the area. Perhaps he thought he was, I actually remember on numerous occasions how nervous he was when it came to travelling around London. He was never comfortable in London, not from the first day I met him to the day he left us did he once relax.
You know, and I know, that there is nothing more heavenly than reclining in a studded leather armchair, chai in hand, and a dust ridden copy of Waiting for Godot waffling around under your nose. For a good soaking of ambrosia one must achieve an inhuman state of perfection; where the striking pain in one’s heaving limbs becomes like a second nature, because after the exhaustion of suburban subordination a little self-indulgence is the perfect icing on the cake. At once, there is a great flash between my pupils and the cloudy English day pulls itself back a year, once again.

She stopped herself as she neared us and placed both hands on her hips, along the ruffles of her corset. ‘A couple of handsome boys like yourself, lost amongst these parts of town… It’s not safe around here…’ She said, waving her painted nails in front of William’s now nervous smile.
I stepped in front of William and looked her in the eye, ‘we are from around here, ignore my friend - he’s just looking for trouble.’ She sidled past me and clung onto William’s arm, he did not seem to notice her affection and carried on looking around the street.
She tilted her head onto its side and looked melancholically at me, ‘now what’s eating this one?’ She said, chuckling under her breath.
‘I’m not so sure myself, and I’ve known him for a while’ I commented, stepping back onto the steps by the doorway. ‘He just gets like this sometimes, he thinks he’s a poet’, her eyes lit up.
‘A poet! Ooh we’re in the company of a poet.’ At once she pushed herself further onto William’s arm, he finally took notice and flinched with fright. ‘Are you published? Will you write something about me? Oh imagine! Little old me in a poem. A sonnet? A sonnet for Sarah!’ William laughed nervously and his eyes kept darting back to mine, where they were only met with my giggling.
‘Come on leave some for the rest! There’s not enough to go round, have you seen him? He’s all skin and bone.’ I said and proceeded to winch her away from his arm and back to the door. She reluctantly opened it and stepped into the hallway, then turning to us and putting her weight onto one hip, she smiled cheekily.
‘Aren’t you gonna come in?’ I could feel her eyes on me, even though I was looking at William, who by now had really become a quivering mess. ‘Don’t worry William, it’ll be alright.’ I said calmly, he looked at me quickly.
‘What are we doing in this place, Jonathan I want to go home I don’t feel welcome, I feel awful,’ he replied anxiously. I placed both my hands firmly on his shoulders and put my face in front of his.
‘Come on William. You said you needed to meet some of these people. It’ll help your writing.’ I say, slightly patronising him but also encouraging him. He picks up on this sentiment and steps from my grip.
‘Okay. I’ll go in,’ I walk forward, ‘BUT, if there’s any funny business…’ He continues and gestures between the door and the end of the street with his hand, ‘I’m going.’ I nod in agreement to him, and we head into the doorway into the unknown.

A Chance Meeting

A small, shy smile popped onto my face, and I placed my hand in his. 'Jonathan Small,' I replied, 'call me Jonathan, or Mr. Small, or Sir for all I care,' William laughed, instantly I knew he was a keeper. 'Who did you come with?' My eyes darted from his hair to his feet, then back to his face, 'you don't look the sort for pushy academics,' I commented, throwing my voice from the main room so as not to be heard. Yet he was still shaking, and seemed a bit afraid. 'Come on William, don't tell me you're afraid of these people?' He checked himself again, and fumbled around in his pockets. 'I'll be going then shall I?'
'Wait no sorry! Jonathan, Jonathan. I have a favour to ask of you,' he said quickly.
'Ah, a favour from a stranger? Honestly William, we've only just met, what would your mother say?' I added cheekily.
'My mother's dead,' silence. 'Jonathan you're quite easy to scare,' William chuckled and placed his hands on his hips. 'But, the favour is that, well, I don't know how to say this... I'm a big fan of your reviews, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you possibly have a glance at some of the things I have written?'
'Oh, so you know who I am do you? I'm flattered really, but I don't know when I'll have the time... And there's all the legal mumbo-jumbo that goes along with it too; if I was to say they were fantastic then I'd be endorsing you to my publisher-' I stopped at once. 'What's so funny?' I could see William's face buried in his hands and stifled snorts were jutting from between his parted fingers.
'I was asking for an opinion, Jonathan, not a book deal!' He cried enthusiastically, and fell onto the bottom step of the staircase. 'You REALLY are easy to scare,' he continued, and begun to light a cigarette.
I smiled at him once again, and swung myself round onto the step above him. 'Can I borrow your light?' William did not look up at me but laughed again, 'an artist such as yourself? Don't you need one for every day purposes?' He snickered again, and handed me a silvery grey lighter.
'I am not an artist, you should know that, I'm a critic-'
'oh I forget,' he interrupted, 'you're the ones ripping the art to shreds!' And he fell over laughing. Admittedly, it was funny that someone so new to me could analyse my profession so quickly, I suppose this is the problem with these big parties. I fumbled around in my breast pocket and revealed a battered packet of Marlborough Reds, I fished one out and dropped it between my lips, then lit it. 'Those things'll kill ya,' William commented, with another puff of his cigarette.
'Better me than you,' I added. 'So tell me, who did you come here with?'
William stood up, and placed himself against the open door, peering slowly into the ballroom. 'Look at all those people, do you know, I don't know any of them?' He seemed mesmerised in their dances, 'I wonder if anybody noticed that they didn't know me,' he laughed quietly under his breath.
'They're completely ambivalent to newcomers,' I said, 'and you're avoiding the question.'
He paced over to the banister, and turned to me. 'I came alone. It's what I'm most used to, I was born alone, I lived alone, and now I'm here alone. And I can tell you for sure, tomorrow I'll damn well be alone.'
I watched him head out of the corridor, back to the dance floor, and decided it was best to leave him alone.
I wasn't sure what had just happened, or even who William was, but I knew I would see him again sometime soon.

Meeting

The party was now in full swing, couples glided across the laminate floor arm in arm, entwined with gowns and tuxedos, humming to the band high on the stage. I looked across the floor and could not pick up anyone's eye, and quickly glanced back to the barman, shook my glass at him and mumbled 'another straight please', he glared at me, and raising his hand he ruffled his thinning hair backwards out of his eyes. I turned back to the dancefloor and checked once again for somebody I even remotely knew.
Roughly fifty feet from me was an old friend of mine, he stood nonchalantly with his elbow resting on a nearby end table, clutching drunkenly onto his drink with his other arm, and his legs wobbling around madly. This man was not too old; although you wouldn't think so, and not too short; although you wouldn't think so. I'd always say he was in his mid fifties, or sixties, but with people of his calibre it is possible he could even be younger than me. Quite stocky around the belly, his face was also rosy and pig-cheeked. He seemed to be entertaining the few women around him, all of which seemed more interesting in his interesting choice of attire rather than his so-called jokes. His suit was ragged and unbuttoned, and his hair fell straight over his face. Sharply I necked down my fresh drink, and flushed myself from the bar stool. Now it was my turn to horde the cows, and weaving in an out of dancers I scarcely avoided awkward conversation. There were some who wished to dance with me, and some who wished to kill me; I thought it best to keep my head down.
Suddenly there roared a blast, like a steamtrain crashing into halt, from in front of me. 'JONATHAN, you sunnuvabitch, what in God's name are you doing here!' He lurched towards me flailing his arms out, initiating an awkward embrace, I reluctantly complied and the pungent scent of cheap smokes and gin festered in his cotton.
'Ronald I-' I started to say before he quickly interjected with 'oh call me Ron, we've known each other for long enough - now tell me Jo-' he stopped mid-sentence with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. I shuffled in my shoes, and tilted my head towards his. He was still for some time now, although it was possibly only a few moments, it seemed like hours. His drunkenness had captured the whole room. Slowly, Ronald's mouth closed neatly under his bushy white moustache. His eyes thinned and down came his eyebrows. At once I knew what the matter was. I chuckled, and whispered 'Jonathan, sir.' With an explosion of relief he screamed 'NATHAN!!' At the top of his voice. 'Jonathan! I knew it! I knew it! Hah, you must forgive me child, these sort of func-' and he had trailed off again. Having been in this situation many times I employed my usual technique, laughing for no particular reason, usually I laugh for a couple of seconds, and he seems to carry on for the rest of the night. Needless to say, this particular evening was no anomaly.
Skulking away, back into the gaggle of guests, something caught my eye on the far wall. A metal door with a bar across the middle had slammed shut, wondering what it was, I pushed past the dancers and through the door, onto a strange corridor. At one end there was an empty black room, I could see into it because the door had been kicked down it seemed, and at the other end was a small staircase with a boy leaning against it.
I lent back on the door, shutting it, and minding my feet I employed a slight stroll to meet this mysterious person. 'Well well, what're we doing out here all alone?' I jokingly mutter, I am unsure if this is actually rude or not. He flinches and hurries up the stairs with a cigarette and tosses it to the ground, stamping on it furiously. 'I'm s-so s-s-sorry! I didn't know you couldn't smoke out here! I'm sorry I'm sorry! I tried to get out of the front, I t-t-tried! But the man - he was a big man, and he had no hair - he - he told me that if I went out once, I would not be able to come back in! And I would not want that, no, not in the slightest! It's an excellent p-party, really, t-top notch!' He kept ramming his foot onto the cigarette, even though it was already completely out. As he noticed his foot doing this, he began to slow it down, and ever so mechanically, still with his leg suspended above the floor, ready to pounce on any flames, he turned his body towards me. 'You're not the host, a-are you?'
My eyes climbed the stairs and I saw him, standing then looking terrified. I chuckled and smiled at him, 'no of course not. I just came out here for some time to myself. You needn't be so,' I looked his expression of horror up and down, 'ghastly.' He began to laugh awkwardly, 'and also, do you really think this party is that good?' His laughter had picked up, and soon he was against the back wall clutching his stomach with comedy. 'You can come down you know,' I suggested. At once he went to place his raised leg down on the stair but slipped, and came tumbling down into a heap. I had wisely moved out of the way. He scuffled to his feet and hurriedly brushed dirt and dust from his clothes.
Now, clean again, he extended his right arm with an open palm. 'My name's William,' he smiled.

He Looked At Me

'This will be my last letter, it's not to you, it's to anybody. But I have a thrilling secret to share. If you look deep inside yourself, behind those built up walls against society, religion and love, you will find what makes us human; our souls. And whether your soul is God given, built in, or even just a concept, you are like everyone else. And it is our souls that keep us chained to this barren earth and torments us so. And woman, hah, if ever there was proof of an omnimalevolent God, here is one! She, is not of man, she is not of a plain existence. Anatomically incorrect as well, even their hands repulse me, and their sick scent. Beautiful eyes? Beautiful hair? No, it is all false. A trick if you will, something to latch you in, no, I have never loved a woman. And I'm sure if I had known her to this day I would have resented my own shallow born mother. I pity that she was of their kind and suffered from their disease.
Is there anything else? Aye, there is. There was a man I once met, he was the instigator. A fine man, I can scarcely remember how he looked but I knew who held my future in his hands. He did not know of me - and I was overjoyed - and yet, he said I knew him. But I could not place him, I did not know anyone outside your circle, and this man did not know you either. I asked if I knew him from school, he did not know what I meant. He asked me of my line of work, and as soon as I mentioned I was a writer he started to laugh. That's when I knew.
This was he, the man that I had met only once before, in the raging shadows. I attempted to murder him where he stood, but to no avail. I had past a point of no humane return. And I shut my eyes.'

~

'It was there where I saw people I had never dreamt before. Their figures were mismatched, and they twisted and flickered in all directions. But it was not as simple as this, there were thousands at first; and looking at one others spawned cancerously from shades. I had barely time to think this through, and I was faced with millions. Without any warning or yell, the darkened velvet curtain covered the stage, and deafening screams filled the place. I fell to my knees and bellowed 'You! Curtain! Blockade! Rise, show me the players!' And so it did.'

At Once You See The Light

'I spent my years at Rugby under the careful supervision of the older boys and the schoolmasters. They taught me well I suppose, but there was something missing, something I could not begin to comprehend. As you might have guessed, we were very much force-fed the literary greats from the word go. And as much as I admire Keats, Blake and Wordsworth, there is only so much someone can stand. I needed something new and fresh, and that is where I developed this longing for London. Do you remember my earliest letters to you? I had read about you somewhere and sent you sycophantic letters by the boatload. I imagine you didn't look at them though.'

The words end there, it appears as if William had wanted to continue (below there is a scribbled out sentence and a piece has been torn from the bottom) but lacked the will. Or perhaps something had triggered in his thought, and seized his writing hand. Who knows. But what I do know, is that I have been indoors for too long. I need to go outside. Carefully, I folded the letter once again, and tucked it under a weight inside the box. Then, locking the box, I slid it under my bed again.

~

Standing by the window, it was clear to me that the city had not died with him. I wondered just why it was so bright, these sort of Sundays always are though. But it's not a welcoming brightness; no, there is something powerful about a Sunday, they permiate your very self and shudder your bones. Is it boredom? Or is it something deeper, do these days force us to recall our childhoods, and the lazy Sundays we suffered then. No matter what it is, you are expected to feel grief, loss or regret.

It is days like these where we remember the happiest times, the laughter, the tears, the cigarettes and alcohol.
All these play heavy on the heartstrings; I think it's time to go for a walk.

This Life

'For me, it all began a year ago, when I first arrived here. I remember that day all too fondly, it was the start of Autumn I recall, and the leaves around St Pancras were quite golden. I had only ever been to London once before, and it was not best encouraged by the schoolmasters. In fact, I had never been to London properly, I was born there you see. I'm not sure if I ever told you that, but my mother was a Londoner born and bred. Sadly, I never got to knew her. You see, she was born somewhere in East London, New Cross I think, and was destined to live a terrible life. She barely got anywhere at school, and made many enemies whilst failing. Her parents, my grandparents, were apparently even worse. They were your typical working class husband and wife, he - a street sweeper, she - a house wife charged with looking after three terrible children, my mother being the youngest of the girls. Having no skills or qualifications she fell to the street, and that was where my father ran into her. From her letters to him it was clear they were very madly in love, sadly they were not meant to be, he, like me, was educated at Rugby School and could never be seen with her. This particular letter meant the most to me.'
Hidden inside of this long stretch of paper was another smaller, ruffled up note, as I unwravelled it my heart raced at the thought of reading a possibly great love story.

'Alfred,
I understand that you've not been able to stop teaching for a month now, but this really takes the biscuit! I'm here, in this little shack you have so kindly rented for me, in an unknown part of town, in a lot of bloody pain! I've rewritten this letter a lot of times now, and every time they say the same thing, so I thought it'd best to just be honest. There's not a day that goes by I don't think about us getting married in some far off church, and our first house in the countryside, and children, and a family dog, and whathaveyou. But sadly Alfy, the truth is completely the opposite. As a sort of continuation from your last visit, I am now 'with child'. If you ever want to see him or her, or even me, then you know where to find us. Lots of love, Lizzie.'

'My aunt said that after my mother sent that letter, my father visited her twice every week, if not more. All the while my mother had to pretend that my father was actually just her doctor, and not the child's father. The child in question was me. Finally I was born, and as passionately as I had been conceived, my birth was met with joy and happiness. Everyone told everyone the truth, and much merriment was had. After this, my father went back to lecturing at Oxford and my mother went to work in a factory. They never saw each other again. Nothing was ever said as to why, but aunt Denise hinted at some sort of infidelity on my mother's part. Sad really, isn't it? Anyway, as I got older my mother started to lose more. My grandparents passed away, her sister too, and Denise moved across to Ireland with her husband. My mother was left all alone in that great city. So, I see where you're coming from when you're melancholy. Money troubles started to get to her too, and she was forced to sell the house my father had bought her and move out of London, at long last. It was well overdue.'
'Her travels brought her to the West Country where she met a man she cared for dearly, and he cared for her. They married, and I was proclaimed as his son to avoid any confusion. Thankfully there was no confusion to be suffered by a three year old. Then, suddenly, without any warning, my mother's husband thought it best for them to move back to London, as this where he saw that they would live their lives together. On the journey back, and in quite a shocking move, my mother decided to stop in Rugby and find out whether the school knew where my father was now. Sure enough, Alfred was still hovering about in his loft in Oxford, researching and writing. Did he care about me? Did he worry about me? It was strange to think that he had a hand in creating me, and then just left me to my own devices. He truly was a God. Back in London things took a turn for the worst. My mother contracted an awful case of tuberculosis, which prompted her husband to head back to his home to fetch some things so he could spend all his time in London. My mother had been in correspondance with my father since she went to Rugby, and had told him everything, where they lived, their full names, everything he needed to know. Whilst in Somerset, my mother's husband was trampled by horses, or died in a barn fire. Something on his farm, I don't remember the actual gory details.'
'Well, my mother had sent one final letter to my father, telling him to come to London at once. He did, as this was the first time she had said she had wanted him to do anything. However, by the time my father arrived my mother had sadly passed on. In my mother's will she had given full responsibilty of me over to him, so he took me back to Oxford, he kept me well, he looked after me, I daresay he loved me. I can even recall him telling me tales of my mother, and how he would cry in the night as I read him my goodnight story. He had chosen for me to take on both his and my mother's surnames, such is why I am William Alfred Baker Jones. I was born sans the Baker however.'