While England Sleeps Read Online Free

monumentally good news, would have called me instantly.
    “Nigel, that’s wonderful,” I said. “Congratulations.”
    “Yes, well. Now I’ve got something to say to you, Brian, and it isn’t going to be pleasant. I’m sure you’re wondering why I haven’t rung you up when I’ve been in London close to a fortnight. Well, that’s why I wanted you to come by today, to explain to you that I’ve had it with you. You annoy me thoroughly. You’re sniveling and loud and altogether too much of a presence. You parrot my views. You dress embarrassingly. And as for that story you sent me—dreadfully bad. Unspeakably bad. I thought you had potential once, Brian, I really did, but you’ve quite extinguished what little hope I had for you with this”—he held the offending sheets out in front of him, as if they positively reeked—“this loose stool.”
    My mouth opened in instinctive protest. “It’s only a first draft—” I began.
    “A first draft! A first draft!” He gave one of his whooping laughs. “You really are such a big girl’s blouse, Brian, the biggest blouse any girl ever wore. I attack your story, which, by the way, I honestly consider to be shit, and what do you do? Do you defend it, or yourself? No! You try to sneak away from it, you try to disclaim it.”
    “But really, I think you’re right, it does need work—”
    “But that’s just my point! First draft my arse—you thought it was brilliant until this minute! If you really aspire to be a literary man, you must learn to hold your own, and not just gobble like a turkey and agree with what everyone else says just to please them. And you must get out of the habit of changing your views so that they match mine. If you say, ‘I think S. is a good poet,’ and I say, ‘I think he’s shit,’ the next minute you’re kicking dirt back like a cat to cover it up. Which brings me to my final point. Tonight, as you may have heard, Anne Cheney is having a dinner in my honor. I don’t know if you’re invited, but if you are, I should prefer you not attend. And if you do attend, I shall leave.”
    The bluntness of this demand stunned me. “Well, all right, Nigel,” I said. “If that’s how you feel, I think I shall leave right now.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous, you’ve just arrived. Have some tea.”
    I glared at him.
    “Oh, you’re pathetic. Just because I’ve said what I’ve said, you act as if we’re no longer friends. All right, go then, if that’s how you feel.”
    I walked out of the room, upsetting, along the way, a cup of cold tea his mother had somehow neglected to clear away. Nigel took no notice and, getting out of bed, followed me into the hall. “A new piece I’ve written,” he announced, thrusting an envelope into my hand. “It’s about left-handed pianism. It is to be the leadoff for the new volume.”
    “Thank you,” I said. We shook hands grimly, and I departed.
    On the tube ride back I read Nigel’s essay—it seemed brilliant to me, which made me even more miserable—and arrived back at Rupert’s around six. Almost as soon as I’d stepped through the door I had the ghostly sensation that I was not holding something I should have been holding. Of course—it was Rupert’s umbrella! So before going into the sitting room, where Rupert was waiting with tea, I asked the maid if I might use the telephone. Nigel’s mother answered: no, she was sorry, I hadn’t left any umbrella; indeed, as far as she was aware, when I arrived I hadn’t been carrying an umbrella at all. I thanked her and rang off, feeling annoyed at the money I would have to waste replacing not only Rupert’s umbrella but my own. Two in two days was a record, even for me!
    Rupert was in his smoking jacket, pouring tea. He seemed to be in considerably higher spirits. “Hello! Do sit down. I’ve just had a fresh pot brewed. How was Nigel?”
    “Rupert,” I said, “I’m afraid I’ve lost that umbrella you loaned me. Awfully sorry. I’m such