A Ladder to the Sky(6)

‘Why so?’ I asked.

‘Because everyone else stayed at home and found a local to marry. And they’ve all done exactly what was expected of them. They’re farmers, coalminers, teachers. None of them has ever travelled, they haven’t even left Yorkshire. But I always wanted more. I wanted to see the world and to meet interesting people. My father said I had ideas above my station but I don’t believe in such things. I want to be—’

He stopped and looked down at his drink, shaking his head.

‘Finish that thought,’ I said, leaning forward. Had I been braver, I might have taken his hand. ‘You want to be what?’

‘I want to be a success,’ he replied, and perhaps I should have heard the deep intent in his tone and been frightened by it. ‘It’s all that matters to me. I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed.’

‘But of course,’ I told him, sitting back again. ‘A young man will always want to conquer the world. It’s the Alexandrian impulse.’

‘Some people think ambition is wrong,’ he said. ‘My father says dreaming of better things only sets you up for disappointment. But your work has made you happy, hasn’t it?’

‘It has,’ I agreed. ‘Immensely so.’

‘And did you never …’ He paused for a moment, an expression on his face that suggested he was uncertain how personal he could get. ‘Did you never marry?’

I took a sip from my glass and decided there was no reason to be disingenuous. If we were to have a friendship, then it was important that I should be honest with him from the start.

‘Of course, you realize that I’m homosexual,’ I said, looking him in the eye, and to his credit he didn’t look away.

‘I thought as much,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t certain. It’s not a theme that you explore in any of your books. And you’ve never addressed it publicly.’

‘I don’t care to talk about my private life to the press or in a room full of strangers,’ I said. ‘And as you know, I don’t write about love. It’s a subject that I’ve avoided scrupulously throughout my career.’

‘No, you’ve always written about loneliness.’

‘Exactly. But you mustn’t think that my writing is in any way autobiographical. Just because one is homosexual does not mean that one is lonely.’ He said nothing and I sensed an awkwardness in the air that discomfited me. ‘I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable to hear me speak of this.’

‘Not in the least,’ he said. ‘It’s 1988, after all. I don’t care about things like that. My best friend in Harrogate, Henry Rowe, was gay. I wrote one of my earliest stories about him, in fact. These labels mean nothing to me.’

‘I see,’ I said, uncertain what he meant by this. Was he suggesting that he did not discriminate between his friends on the basis of their sexuality or that he himself was prepared to have intimate relations with people of either gender? ‘And was your friend in love with you, do you think? It’s possible, of course. You are very beautiful.’

He blushed a little but ignored the question. ‘Did you ever try?’ he asked me. ‘With a girl, I mean? Actually, I shouldn’t have asked, should I? It’s none of my business.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘And no, I never did. It wasn’t something that would have worked at all. Perhaps you feel the same way about boys?’

He shrugged, and I knew that I was pushing too hard; I should pull back if I was not to frighten him away. ‘It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to, if I’m honest,’ he said. ‘I want to live a life that’s open to anything. The only thing I know for sure in that regard is that I want to be a father someday.’

‘Really?’ I asked, surprised by this revelation. ‘That’s a curious desire in one so young.’

‘It’s something I’ve always wanted,’ he told me. ‘I think I’d be a good father. And speaking of my stories,’ he added then, sounding a little embarrassed to be bringing the subject up, but it was inevitable that we’d have to discuss them at some point. I’d read two or three more since our arrival in Copenhagen and, to my disappointment, had felt the same way towards them as I had towards ‘The Mirror’. Well written, certainly, but dull. ‘They’re amateur, I know, but—’

‘No,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘“Amateur” would be the wrong word. But they are clearly the work of someone who has yet to discover his voice. If you were to read some of the stories that I wrote at your age, you’d wonder why I ever bothered trying for a literary career.’ I paused, demanding honesty of myself. Already there was a degree of deceit in our relationship but on this subject, on the subject of writing, I felt honour bound to be truthful. ‘The fact is, you have skill, Maurice.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I can tell that you think about every word before committing it to the page and I’m impressed by your use of language. But it’s the stories themselves, you see. The subject matter. Therein lies the problem.’

‘You mean they’re boring?’

‘That would be too harsh,’ I replied. ‘But at times, they feel like stories I’ve read before. As if I can picture the books on your shelves. The ghosts of the writers you admire seem to slip into the cracks between the scenes. It takes a great deal of talent to write as well as you do but, ultimately, if your story is not engaging, if the reader doesn’t feel that it’s entirely yours, then it simply won’t work.’