THIRTY-ONE

Monday, February 15th

‘I need,’ Graham told Father Trollope, ‘to be away by the end of the month.’

‘A job to go to?’ the priest asked.

‘I have pressing business at home, and the nearer London I am, the easier it will be to find a job. I’ve nearly worn out my welcome at The Journal.’

This wasn’t strictly true. Three months in, Graham was certain he’d learnt all that he was likely to learn and had become efficient at the work. His post was open-ended. The paper was happy to keep him on. But they weren’t paying him. On the unlikely event that Graham were to be offered a paid job by them, he had no intention of staying in Nottingham a minute longer than he had to. He needed to be somewhere the air was cleaner and the conversation diverting. He needed to be nearer Vivienne, whose latest letter was full of longing for his return from the North. He didn’t want her to lose that feeling, so had written round the London papers again, advertising his availability.

Vivienne hadn’t told him why she’d taken against Hugh Chesterman, and Graham had been too cautious to ask. She still worked with Hugh, after all. Graham didn’t want to give the older man the time and space to insinuate himself back into her affections. Moreover, there would always be other suitors. Vivienne was such a striking woman. She’d mentioned a new man in her latest letter, one Harman Grisewood. Graham could not take a man with a name like that seriously. It was the sort of name a novelist might pick for a minor comic character, a pawn who obeyed the Queen’s every whim.

‘I’m afraid I have to be getting to work.’ Graham stood.

The priest, having given his show of reluctance, got out a ledger and ran his right index finger along a list of dates.

‘The earliest you could possibly complete to my satisfaction and be baptised is February twenty-seventh. I presume you can wait that long? We still have a lot of ground to cover. You will have to make a General Confession beforehand.’

‘It will feel odd,’ Graham said, ‘making my first confession to you, who already know me so well. I can imagine you stopping me and saying “but that’s not what you told me on the bus to Bulwell.”

‘I won’t be hearing your general confession,’ Trollope told him.

‘Then who?’

‘Whoever’s available that day. It’s not an exam or an interrogation, no need to worry. But you ought to think through what you’re going to say.’

‘Should I include every venial sin?’

‘That might take rather too long. It’s a general confession, so it’s fine to talk in general terms, but you should endeavour to be accurate. You shouldn’t leave out anything… significant.’

Graham chose not to consider this final point. Taking his leave, he asked the priest how many other people he was in the process of converting.

‘Not that many at the moment,’ Trollope thought for a moment. ‘Eleven.’

‘Where on earth do you find the time?’

Trollope shrugged. ‘Not all take the crash course that you’re subjecting yourself to.’

Graham was surprised to realise that, for Trollope, he was but one in a long line.

At the Journal, he sought out Derwent, the editor, and told him that he needed to finish before the end of the month.

‘Been offered a paying job, have you? Glad we’ve been of use.’

‘I expect to have something,’ Graham said, with a confidence he didn’t feel. ‘I’m grateful for the experience you’ve allowed me to build up.’

‘You haven’t got in the way too much, from what I hear. Even wrote us a few book reviews. That reminds me, Cecil, my predecessor, said he wanted to meet you. When are you free in the evenings?’

‘Only at weekends, and I plan to be in London the weekend after next.’

‘That leaves the one before or the one after. What day do you leave us?’

‘Saturday the 27^th will be my last full day.’

‘I’ll let him know.’

Graham took this with a pinch of salt. He had long since given up on the notion of meeting Cecil Roberts. He had come to think that Roberts was a myth made up by newspapermen, like the Loch Ness Monster. The provincial journalist who became a best-selling, world renowned author. Such a beast could never convincingly exist.

Thanks for reading Greeneland. The next chapter will appear tomorrow.

If you’re enjoying the novel, please tell your friends about it in whatever way suits you best. Word of mouth is by far the best recommendation.