Chapter Text
On the third floor of a townhouse in Bloomsbury, London, sits an old man, nose almost touching the paper as he writes and writes in the light of a lone electric lamp. The old man’s hand writes with a speed and agility that would not be expected for a person of his age, and with a fervour and a passion that one is usually presumed to have lost by their sixties. He is not supposed to be awake. But it was whilst he was in bed reminiscing about his long stay in Corfu that he was gripped with the need to write, to write everything that had occurred there, and how it had changed his life monumentally.
Now he sits, the third chapter already scrawled out in his tight grip. Rain lashes noisily at the window pane, droplets catching the lights of the cars and streetlights below and dispersing them into a kaleidoscope of red and white and yellow. Against the backdrop of the quiet and inky night sky, they are a reminder that the city still lives and breathes, never sleeping. Even in the early hours, taxis honk their horns, dogs bark, buildings are constructed, people get up and go to work, others return home. An endless cycle.
Writing has become a habit for the old man. Since school, it has been all he’s known. Sometimes it comes easily, sometimes it is more difficult. To-night, it is flowing quicker than water, the pen almost tearing through the page.
Suddenly the phone rings downstairs.
“Not again,” hisses the old man to the dark, apparently unaware of his age as he rises with unexpected agility from his chair. He goes downstairs to the kitchen, picking up the phone. He knows it’ll be his agent.
“Harry?”
“What is it?”
“I wasn’t expecting you to pick up, I was going to leave you a voice mail.”
“Great, well I have picked up so why are you calling me?” Harry sighs, taking a seat at his dining table.
“How are you? How’s Louis?”
“We’re fine thank you,” Harry replies tersely. Trust Ed to poke his nose into their private life. “How’s your mother?” There’s a silence on the other end of the line.
“You’ve never met my mother.” Ed doesn’t seem too sure of himself.
“You’ve never met Louis.”
“Yes I have,” Ed says in his whiny way. “We met at that dinner. Don’t you remember? I bought you matching ties to say thank you for your last book’s success.”
Harry remembers. He and Louis had received two gimmicky ties of Bill and Ben the Flower Pot Men. He would say that Ed was quite immature but Harry himself had quite enjoyed them.
“Hmm, so you did.”
“Right, well anyway, you’ve been made an offer by the Illustrated Cultural Chronicle for an article in their magazine.”
“What kind of article?”
“On the rise of fascism in Italy and it’s effect on the rest of the Mediterranean basin.”
The old man chews his cheek. “I’m not sure, I have other pieces I’m working on.”
“How are you doing on that, by the way? The prequel to Athanasia - will you be finished by March?”
The old man sucks on his teeth. “I hope so, I’ve had another idea though.”
“What is it?”
“I want to write a memoir, about my time in Corfu.”
“That sounds like a good idea, I’ll get on it. Don’t let it distract you from the prequel though, have you come up with a title?”
“Klio? That’s the protagonist’s name.”
“Fine. Good. Now will you take the article or not?”
“Yes. When do they want it for?”
“January 22nd.”
“All right, goodnight Ed.”
“Oh, okay. Goodnight.”
The old man puts the phone down and trudges back upstairs. The frantic energy of before has now died away and his bones creak and ache with every step. Entering the bedroom, he is startled to see his partner sitting up in bed, rubbing tiredly at his wrinkled eyes.
“What are you doing up?” his partner asks.
“I was writing.”
“Who were you on the phone to?”
“Ed.”
“He was calling you at this time of night?”
“He didn’t think I’d actually pick up. Sorry if I woke you.” The man goes to sit back down at his desk.
“Come to bed, love. You can write in the morning.”
Sitting for a minute, the old man weighs his options. Then he stands, turning off the electric lamp and feeling his way to the bed in the dark.
“What were you writing anyway?” asks his partner as the old man gets under the covers, snuggling against him.
“I was writing about our time in Corfu. Our adventures.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Of course.” His partner takes hold of his hand.
“I do too.”
“One day we’ll have to go back.”
“We’re getting old, darling,” laughs his partner.
“Don’t remind me,” groans the old man.
“Maybe for your seventieth.”
“That’d be nice,” the old man yawns.
“Good night.” His partner squeezes his hand.
“Good night.”