I've always lived in this house, except when I was away at school and university, but now I just occupy the top floor, since Max and Cheri Aubrey moved in. They were thrilled to find it had so many "original features". I remember showing them round and the look on their faces as they entered each room. "Oh, my god," said Mrs Aubrey--a little unnecessarily if you ask me--"is that an Adam fireplace? And look at that ceiling rose! "I remember Mr Aubrey started picking paint off the fireplace and I was tempted to say something, but as usual bit my tongue. "It'll look fine minus the gloss paint," he said. "You wouldn't mind if we did a little restoration?" I shrugged. In fact, the whole process took what seemed like hours and was somewhat intrusive. Mr Aubrey started picking up chairs and inspecting them. "Mackintosh!" he whispered to his wife, and then to me: "Have you any idea what this dining set is worth?" I felt disinclined to discuss the question, but to be polite I told him that my father probably inherited it from the previous owner. It was certain to be of good quality. "You bet!" he said.

Naturally, my memories of family life are now somewhat dim. They mainly concern my mother, who died twenty years ago this week. My father was away a lot of the time--"having little adventures" my mother used to say. Not recognising the euphemism--I have always been a bit literal minded--I imagined him canoeing up a jungle river, or flying over the desert in a biplane, so when mother asked me to pray for him in church each Sunday, this seemed like a natural thing to do. I have only a few hazy recollections of my father's famous friends. In my memory they loom supernaturally large, filling the hallway with booming voices as they arrived or departed, or smiling at me indulgently through a haze of cigarette smoke in the dining room. I remember the clink of glasses, the peals of laughter and my mother clearing up the next morning. Anyway, that was along time ago now. My father died in 1960.

I would never have thought of letting part of the house, but when there was a break-in last year, my solicitor suggested it. One of the would-be burglars had broken his arm while attempting to shin up an insecure drainpipe and though I was inclined to let the matter drop, the police clearly had different ideas. As the injury was sustained on my property, I was taken to court charged with criminal negligence. Considering myself the aggrieved party, I thought the £5,000 damages awarded against me quite unfair but my solicitor said that the law was in the hands of money grabbing ruffians and an appeal would be pointless and costly.

"Where am I going to find that kind of money?" I asked Mr Dolby. This was young Mr Dolby of course.

It was then that he suggested a scheme to make me some money and "realise some of my unrealised assets" as he put it. I have to admit I was surprised to learn that I would earn over three thousand pounds a month from letting the first two floors to Max and Cheri Aubrey. It was more money than I knew what to do with, and I thought I might spend it helping the church with some renovations.

All the trouble started a few days after they had moved in. It was Sunday morning and I was rooting round for a tie to wear to church. I normally forgo the formalities during the week, but I like to dress properly for Mass and this morning I was running a bit late. There was a knock on the door. It was Mrs Aubrey.

"Hi…David?" she said putting the relationship on first name terms.

"Yes, that's right," I said, hanging onto the door, not really knowing where to look. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt that left something to be desired on the modesty front.

"Can I come in? I just thought Sunday morning would be a good time to introduce myself properly." It may have been for her, but Sunday morning is the one time in my schedule that is pretty busy.

"The fact is, " I said," I'm just going to church and I'm a little bit late."

She looked surprised for some reason. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said," but look, this won't take a minute. You see Max and I have been having a bit of a debate."

Reluctantly, I opened the door and she slid in.

I hoped she could take a hint when I looked at my watch, but she seemed in no particular hurry. In fact, she seemed to be giving my living room "the once over" in no uncertain terms. Presently she continued.

"Your name is David Frogmore, right? Would that by any chance be anything to do with Sydney Frogmore, the poet?"

"My father," I said.

She clapped her hands together in delight.

"I knew it! And this was his house?"

"Yes."

"Max owes me a tenner, in that case."

Before I knew it she had picked up a book from a bookshelf by the door and had opened it. This was too much.

"You must excuse me," I said, relieving her of the book. "I really am rather late for church."

"Of course. Would you like me to drive you?"

"No thank you. It's just around the corner."

I used to be Church of England, but now the Orthodox Church suits me better. I moved over to St Athanasius when they got a new vicar at St Swithins. I was unhappy with the vicar wearing casual clothes in the pulpit, and introducing the new-fangled practice of hand-shaking, but when I was reliably informed that he was of the homosexual persuasion, I felt I had no alternative but to move. Not that I would have spotted it myself, but when I thought about it, the clothes were a bit of a giveaway. And of course, I'm at home with the Greek language, which wouldn't suit everybody. There are a few other exiles from Canterbury, and we have a study group every Tuesday night.

The next few weeks were fairly uneventful. There was constant banging and scraping from downstairs but that didn't bother me because I'm partially deaf. Occasionally, when I pulled the curtains aside on the top floor and looked down, I could see Mr and Mrs Aubrey driving off in their caravan-type car, or arriving with tins of paint and so on. I was busy at the time with an article concerning the succession of Eumachos III for the Journal of Byzantine Studies. When I'm working, nothing much disturbs me, and this was particularly absorbing because of the complications arising from the disputed Baghdad embassy document: I had spotted a previously undocumented crux in the translation from Arabic which threw all the theories about the treachery of Nicopheros into doubt. It was when I was returning from posting this essay that Mrs Aubrey waylaid me on the stairs.

"David!" she cried, in the way you might greet some long-lost friend. "You must come in and see what we've been up to."

"Is Mr Aubrey at home?" I asked in a bit of a panic.

"He's just popped out for a bottle of bubbly. You see we're celebrating finishing the decorating. And please, no more "Mrs Aubrey" if you don't mind. You must call me Cheri!" And then, as an afterthought, "You don't mind me calling you David, do you?"

I didn't answer this question, but she prevailed on me and I entered the room. I have to admit, they had done a good job. The room was much lighter and the furniture had been rearranged in a modern fashion with more space in between items. The fireplace really looked very good in its original stone colour, and some of the portraits on the walls seemed brighter than before.

I see you're looking at the pictures. We had them professionally restored. You said it would be all right?"

"That's fine."

"We were wondering who that old gentleman was."

"That's my father's cousin--Herbert Asquith. You may have heard of him."

She looked blank.

"Of course! This house is so full of history! Anyway, what do you think?" she asked indicating the décor with a theatrical flourish. "Of course, we've done nothing to change the original features."

"It's very nice," I said. "You've done a good job." As to the original features I was not entirely sure, although I said nothing. This was certainly not the way I ever remember the room looking, and I'm pretty certain that my parents hadn't changed it much when my father bought it from the Heuffers.

It was certainly a contrast with my top floor rooms, although I had everything I wanted there--my typewriter, a small primus stove, and a wireless for the rare occasions I wanted to listen to some music or a serious talk on The Third Programme. I had to move a lot of books upstairs when the Aubreys moved in, and the effect was rather cluttered, but living on my own, I have never needed much space. I generally get by on snacks, but when I need something more substantial, this area is well provided with foreign restaurants, and I often find myself making the short trip to the Parthenon Café, which is owned by my good friend Mr Constantinou. This area, according to Dolby, is now "coming up" again, but for a time it went down, and was colonised by a variety of foreign restaurateurs, who happily stayed on. There are Greeks, Turks, Indians, and Italians. I'm known at most of these establishments. Mr Constantinou is a member of the St Athanasius congregation, an upright character who has a sense of humour but knows the limits of familiarity, unlike so many people nowadays. He will always greet me as I walk in:

"Ah, Mr Frogmore, and how are you this fine day? I hope you are well. What can I get you?"

He has always been keen on introducing his daughter, Sophia, to our conversations. Sophia is about thirty-five years old, more Hera than Aphrodite, with strong arms and a light moustache. Adonis makes a point of praising the womanly virtues of his unmarried daughter, making little comments like "She know how to cook real good" and "She very strong woman--well built, don't you think?" I enjoy my visits to The Parthenon, which give me the opportunity to polish up my demotic Greek. Constantinou laughs in the nicest possible way at my classical Greek pronunciation, and I normally stick to the basic greetings and well-worn phrases. He genuinely likes to hear me recite a little Homer if there is no one else around. So few people nowadays have even a passing acquaintance with the tongue, even those who are supposedly educated. Washed up on this grey foreign shore, he must have often longed for the wine-dark sea, no matter how capricious the gods of the politicians of that region.

I was just starting a mousaka and salad from the foil container and looking over the proofs of my article on Eumachus when I had a visit from Max Aubrey. As soon as he was seated I could see his eyes flitting restlessly around the room. "I won't beat about the bush, "he said. "You know I'm in publishing?"

I didn't.

"The fact is," he continued earnestly," that there is very little about Sidney Frogmore apart from the poems. Almost nobody knows anything about his life for instance. I've checked with Faber and they say the best thing is to ask you."

"And what exactly would you be looking for?"

"Anything--letters--diaries--anything unpublished like lecture notes. There's an insatiable appetite for literary biography nowadays, and your father knew so many people and lived through such an interesting era. There could be a lot of money in it for something interesting."

My main concern was getting on with my meal before it got cold, so I pointed him in the direction of an old trunk in the corner of the room.

"You can have a look in there, if you like. As far as I know that's all his papers." Rather him than me. I hadn't looked in the trunk for over forty years, and as far as I knew it was all mummy dust by now.

Max sat there quietly for an hour or so, sifting through the papers while I finished my meal and continued correcting the proofs of my article.

"Amazing!" he said at last with a sigh. "Truly amazing. You know what you've got here? Look!" He held up a series of letters. "Auden! Dylan Thomas! Noel Coward! HRH Princess Margaret! T.S Eliot! And those are just the ones I've read.

But that's not all--these exercise books contain a complete diary from 1925 to 1960. Surely you must have known?"

Well not really. As far as my mother was concerned, she just didn't want to know, and I suppose I had picked up on the attitude. I shrugged awkwardly. "So you think they might be of interest?"

"You're sitting on a goldmine, not to mention the academic interest. Will you allow me to make you an offer?"

Every six months, I was accustomed to receiving paltry royalty cheques from my father's English and American publishers. They rarely amounted to double figures, so when Dolby informed me that the publishing proposals included £20,000 serial rights for the diary and an advance of £5,000 for the letters in book form, I was pleasantly surprised. "The only thing I would suggest," said Dolby," is that you read all the material carefully before you consent to publication. There are things there that people might find a little--how shall I say--sensational."

The Aubreys invited me round to dinner a few days later. Just a social event they said, but they had someone they would very much like me to meet. I made some feeble excuses, but eventually they had me cornered. This left me in a difficult position as far as clothes were concerned. The last formal meal I had attended was at my Cambridge college in 1958 so I was somewhat out of practice. I did manage to locate my dinner jacket after some searching, only to find that one arm had faded to an unpleasant greenish colour. My solution was a simple one: I still had my academic gown, and that would hide the offending sleeve quite effectively. I found a shirt and tie that would do, and, as the evening was a little chilly --I only have a small paraffin stove on my floor--I decided to wear a cardigan under my suit, a decision which subsequently turned out to be a mistake.

The "person they would very much like me to meet" turned out to be a famous TV producer, but of course I had not heard of him, never having owned a television set. There was a rather embarrassing kissing procedure at the door.

"David," said Cheri," this is Mervyn Briggs, as if you didn't know."

We shook hands.

Mervyn was a little younger than me by the look of him, and sported a blue casual shirt and denim jeans. His hair was done in a flamboyant style half reminiscent of Mme Pompadour. It turned out he had been at my college at Cambridge, only a few years later, and my immediate impression was positive, despite his effeminate appearance.

As we sipped sherry, the conversation turned to Cheri's work as a human rights lawyer. She was currently run off her feet organising appeals for immigrants from the Balkans and beyond. It was an uncharitable thought, but I had to reflect that she was doing quite well out of their misfortune. After decrying the inhumanity of the British government, she asked me what I thought about the current cause celebre of the Kurdish family who had spent the last few weeks going back and forth between England and France on a ferry.

" It's a difficult one," I attempted," but on the whole, I would prefer it if people obeyed the law of the country."

There was a sudden silence and then Max jumped in:

"Even if the law is unjust?"

"Probably."

Silence again. I felt I had to justify myself and quoted Demosthenes:" The reign of justice is nowhere complete, but without law there is chaos."

"Good point," said Mervyn, who seemed at least to know who Demosthenes was. "So, David, may I ask what it is you do for a living?"

"Retired now," I said," but I used to be a lecturer in Byzantine Studies."

Promisingly, Mervyn explained how he had researched the life of Justinian for his radio programme. His knowledge was sound, if a little sketchy, and we chatted briefly on the subject of iconoclasm while Cheri discovered a suitable arrangement for the candles on the table. "Anyway," Mervyn concluded, "it's a fascinating field of study."

"Yes.

It was. Until they closed the department. There was a shake up in the faculty structure and we ended up under Leisure and Tourism. There wasn't much hope for us after that."

Mervyn laughed heartily, but Cheri and Max didn't see the humour. Cheri had been staring at my gown.

"David, are you all right? Wouldn't you like to take that gown off? You must be hot."

It is true I was perspiring profusely.

"No!" I said, pulling the garment down over my green arm. I improvised. "I have a touch of malaria every now and then. If anything, I feel rather chilly."

"Would you like me to turn up the central heating?" asked Cheri.

""No! Thank you."

"Malaria! You must have travelled, then?" said Mervyn.

"A little." I hate lying but it seemed necessary. In fact, I had not been outside London in forty years.

This got the conversation round to villas in "Chianti country" and Mervyn and the Aubreys were delighted to find that they were virtually next-door neighbours in Tuscany.

After a dinner of--I must say--extraordinarily small portions arranged artistically on large plates, Mervyn broached a new subject.

"David, you must know that the forthcoming publication of your father's diaries have caused something of a stir."

"But they're not published yet," objected mildly. "How can they have caused a stir?"

Mervyn seemed a little taken aback. "Well, Max here has intimated to me something of their contents."

"Really? I'm still in the process of approving the contents for publication. Some of the details would be of little interest to the general reader."

"That's not what I heard," Cheri interjected, and then gave a little jump as though someone had kicked her under the table. Not to be defeated she continued: "Well, Max was saying that he thought you father might have…"

"… is that something burning? " Max interrupted.

"Don't be ridiculous, darling!"

" No, really," he said. "You must have left a burner on?"

Max and Cheri both left the room muttering, to investigate the mysterious smell.

"Charming couple," said Mervyn with a little glitter in his eye.

"Yes."

"There's something I would like to talk to you about, "said Mervyn. " I think it's about time we had a major retrospective on your father."

"A television programme?"

"That's right--one of the Riverbank series of arts documentaries. I would very much like to include an interview with you, if that would be possible."

"That's very kind of you," I replied," but I have to tell you that I know virtually nothing about my father."

Mervyn seemed stumped for a minute and then said: "Well, that might be interesting in itself, if you see what I mean."

I didn't really.

. "What I will do, "said Mervyn," is send you a provisional script for your approval. I'm sure you will find that our treatment is serious and respectful."

I received the script in the post a few days later. It began as follows: "Sidney Frogmore, poet, critic and doyen of the London literary scene in the middle years of the twentieth century, died forty years ago. Although Frogmore's work has been neglected for many years, the discovery of recent documents has rekindled interest in this hitherto mysterious figure. In this programme, we will reassess the significance of his contribution to 20th century letters and explore the nature of his controversial and troubled personal life. We will also include an exclusive interview with his only surviving relative, his son David Frogmore, who still lives quietly in the house that was for so many years the focus of London's literary set."

All well and good, but the phrase "controversial and troubled personal life" set some alarm bells ringing, and I applied myself to the editing of the diaries with renewed vigour. The guidelines I set myself were as follows: I would be tolerant towards anecdotal material which reflected either positively or negatively on my father, as long as it did not breach the bounds of good taste; in this category I included such incidents as the night spent in a New York jailhouse after a drunken spree with W.H.Auden; also in this category might be included the Dylan Thomas pawn shop incident or what went on between Christopher Isherwood and a minor royal (now deceased). Certain passages in the diary were written in a thinly disguised code, and it was to these that I paid particular attention. It soon became clear that my mother's "little adventures" amounted to a sustained campaign of promiscuity worthy of the pages of Petronius. Every two or three pages, some sexual conquest was described in lurid and particular detail and I concluded that this material would clearly be of no interest to a serious academic study. I also felt that it was a slur on the memory of my mother, and it was for these reasons that I intended to omit it from the projected Diary of Sidney Frogmore 1925-1960. Distasteful though it may have been, I carefully transferred all the excised material to a separate document, henceforth known as "The Appendix".

I also took it upon myself to read my father's collected poems. Had tried to read them when younger, but I had always lost patience with some obscurity of meaning. Now some of his ideas, and hints of his weaknesses and fears came into focus more clearly. The following verses from "His Future" suggest something of the spiritual malaise, rather impressively realised in perfect amphibrachs:

"The critics contend with immaculate reason
Why this line or that suggests boredom or frisson;
The critical guillotine slices off segments
And leaves all he wrote in anatomised fragments.

The hissing of gas fires he fondly remembered
In grey London rooms in the depths of November
When words were a labour and love was a siren
Stretched out on a bed as a lovely companion.

The meaning will scatter his words are evolving,
As remnants of summer November's dissolving,
And chattering starlings will roost on the ledges
Confusing the music, confounding the edges…"

The following poem, "To David" was something of an eye-opener, as I realised the dedication must be to myself. Again, my father shows himself to have an impressive command of prosody:

" When you are all the splendid things
I could not be
And time rewards you
With the fullness of success

Never be tempted to justify
The faults in me
The things that I do
In my darkness and distress."

But it was not a matter of justification or condemnation--merely a matter of common human decency that I was grappling with.

I could tell by the tone of their letter summoning me to a meeting, that Max's publishing firm was not entirely happy with my revision of the diaries. Dolby was very helpful, explaining to the ashen faced publishers that I had every right to release whatever material I should think fit, and that I was perfectly entitled to withhold any personal references which might cause offence to the general public or distress to the surviving relatives. Drawing an interesting analogy, Max suggested that the revised diaries were like a wonderful house with many of the original features removed, to which I countered that the process was exactly the opposite, removing layers of obscuring moral grime to reveal the original structure. Frankly, it was hard for me to understand why "the appendix" was of so much interest to them and I said so. They replied that in the circumstances, they considered the diary incomplete and would have to rethink their original offer to publish.

On the way home, Dolby and I stopped off at the Parthenon for something to eat.

"On balance," said Dolby," I think that went rather well."

"You think so?"

"Certainly. The fact is that your "appendix" allows you to hold them to ransom. You could name your price, and they would have to up their original offer."

I had not thought of it this way, but as I had no intention of publishing the appendix, it didn't seem to matter.

"You don't think you're being a little Victorian in this matter?" Dolby suggested. "After all, it's all well in the past now, and I'm sure you've encountered worse in Aristophanes. There's also Samuel Pepys' diary to consider--not without a little smut, I believe, but a literary classic nevertheless."

"Judge for yourself, "I said," and produced the only copy of the appendix from my inside pocket. Constantinou came over. "What can I do for you gentlemen? You look like you just seen bad accident."

"So, who's "Bushy"?" Dolby enquired. "Date - January 1931."

The patron slipped off for a couple of coffees.

"I have an idea it's Veronica Foxxe, but I could be wrong."

"And he did that to her?"

"Twice, I think you'll find."

"Lucky old Bushy!" chuckled Dolby. "You would never have thought it--from the fiction, that is."

"And how about "The Weasel"?" He flicked over some pages.

"Haven't worked that out yet."

"Mr Constaninopouos," said Dolby," would you care to join us for a moment."

Adonis obliged; "What can I do you for?"

"We're just trying to make sense of this book," said Dolby. "Look at this" and he quoted "Mr Froggy goes a wooing--Jan 30th, 1931--lunch at Marigolds, followed by l'apres midi d'un Frog chez Miss Weasel."

"Sounds like children's story," Adonis replied, "with little animals."

"All right--let me continue: " Ratty arrived for tea in playful mood ergo had to push the boat out twice. What fun for little Froggy! Some piggy-back games later before Old Spoilsport came home."

Adonis scratched his head and then a look of illumination came over his face. "Ah, I see! This is dirty book, yes?"

"Well, not exactly," I stammered, anxious that Adonis would discover the awful truth.

"This Froggy, is bit of dirty old dog," he chuckled. "I like him! Sex is good thing for man. But wife, she want to tie him down."

This unfettered Mediterranean view gave me pause for thought.

"The fact is," concluded Dolby, sensing a weakening on my part, "that the appendix is dreadful stuff and could never be published in the body of the text. This sort of activity may have caused your mother grief, but, frankly, it will hardly cause a ripple in the lurid pond of modern sexual consciousness. My advice to you is to sink it in the footnotes"

As the day of the interview approached, I began to feel a little self-conscious about my appearance. Surveying myself in the bathroom mirror, I decided on a few points for improvement. Almost everyone I met nowadays seemed to dress in a manner appropriate for the beach but this was not my style. I had to admit that my sports jacket, one I had inherited from my father's wardrobe, was a little the worse for wear. However, it was a garment I felt at home in and I determined to find another similar, but where to go? The label said "Castelles-Saville Row" and this seemed the logical place to start. I was relieved to find that the assistants were of a different breed from the sulky plebeians so often encountered in shops nowadays.

"And how may I help sir?" was his promising opening gambit.

"I'd like a sports jacket, please, exactly like this one."

"Exactly, sir?"

"Well, a new one, of course," I quipped.

"May I ask, sir, if this is for theatrical purposes?"

I supposed it was, after a fashion.

A tape measure was promptly produced and the assistant efficiently ascertained my latest dimensions. He had to consult a book of fabrics, and eventually said: "That would be Cairngorm Tweed, D pattern. I'll see if we have some in."

"Unfortunately," he said on his return, "this is a tweed not much requested nowadays, but I can arrange to have some flown down at no extra cost. If sir would care to return next week, we can arrange a fitting."

When I returned the following week, my jacket was ready pending fine adjustments. I was presented with a bill for £520, which seemed a little steep, but then I suppose things have gone up a bit in the last forty years.

"Is there anything wrong, sir," asked the assistant, no doubt detecting a slight disappointment on my face.

"The patches," I said. "I really need some patches on the elbows."

It was an obvious omission, but the assistant seemed surprised.

"Patches for sir. Naturally."

He was able to make the amendment on the spot at no extra charge.

When the day of the interview with Mervyn Briggs arrived, Cheri and Max were very keen to offer their flat for filming. Mervyn and some of his acolytes arrived and started rearranging the furniture as Cheri prevailed on me to borrow one of Max's shirts. "There's nothing wrong with what you're wearing," she said, looking rather doubtfully at my new sports jacket, cardigan and bow tie, "but trust me, this will show up better on TV."

She called over to Mervyn:" Don't you think by the fireplace would look rather splendid? On the Chesterfield?"

But Mervyn was looking unhappy and asked me whether it would be possible to look upstairs at my quarters.

As soon as I opened the door, I could feel him bristling with excitement.

"Good lord! This is perfect!" he cried.

We ended up doing the interview with me at my desk with the typewriter in full view of the primus stove. I offered to clear some of the foil food containers, but he wouldn't have it. He also asked me to "lose the shirt" and put my sports jacket, bow tie and snowflake cardigan back on, which was something of a relief. As a final touch, he wanted to do something with my hair: "It's not right, he said "--what the make-up people have done. You will forgive me for observing that you are a little thin on top. I would suggest taking a bit of hair from the side and combing it over the crown--we call it a "comb-over" and I assure you it will look more authentic."

By the time the interview started I was feeling thoroughly relaxed in my own environment, even with the cameras and the lights. After the programme has been transmitted, Mervyn sent me a copy of the script and the relevant passage reads as follows:

MERVYN: David Frogmore--sitting here in this splendid house, which witnessed the birth of the arts and crafts movement, hosted parties for the Bloomsbury set, and later in the century saw such visitors as Dylan Thomas, and W.H. Auden--you must have some vivid memories of your father's social and artistic circle.

DAVID: My mother mainly kept me away from the guests. They had a tendency to be rowdy and unconventional. Most of the time, of course, I was away at school, but what does come back to me is hardly of literary interest.

MERVYN: For example?

DAVID: There was the time that Dylan Thomas stole someone's trousers--I believe it was the composer Benjamin Britten. I clearly remember Britten walking around the house in his shirt and socks. Eventually he challenged the poet, who was heard to reply, "You'll never get inside my trousers, Benji." My mother eventually had to put a stop to it. You see, they were often quite childish. You might have imagined they had better things to do. Once, for example, at Christmas time--it must have been just after The War--I remember a whole chain of poets dancing round the house and chanting something about T.S.Eliot, stopping every now and then to kick a leg out.

MERVYN: So quite a lighthearted atmosphere then. How does this square with the famous melancholy flavour of your father's poetry? I quote from his poem "Half Moon Street Blues":

"I hate to see
The London fog come down
This London fog
It done gone got me down
My piano needs tuning
Just like this sad old town"

To what extent did the pianos need tuning in your father's life?

DAVID: There's no doubt there was a degree of unhappiness caused by irregular behaviour.

MERVYN: Which I believe is hinted at in the forthcoming diaries, in particular, with reference to "the appendix" which you are so far withholding from publication?

DAVID: There are things there that no one would ever want to read.

MARVYN: Really? Tell me more.

DAVID: I would rather not. Things that are quite shameful and depressing can be of no interest to an intelligent reading public….

This is only the beginning of the interview. Luckily, after this, Mervyn and I went on to discuss more uplifting matters like my father's mastery of the more advanced verse-forms, and some of this was used in the programme.

The Aubreys invited me round to view the programme on their large colour television set. Cheri nodded off halfway through. She apologised in advance for her state of lassitude, explaining that she had had to deal with an abnormally large workload of appeals. Max, though, remained alert throughout. When the programme finished he said:

"You're sure you won't consider publishing the appendix? We might be prepared to up our offer."

"I don't think so," I replied, slightly hesitant. "Believe me, it really is rubbish--quite childish and incomprehensible. Dolby thinks so and I trust his judgement."

"Perhaps you could let us be the judge of that."

As I was leaving, he called up the stairs: "You're playing a clever game, David. I take my hat off to you."

I had no idea what he meant.

Shortly afterwards, however, Dolby informed me that the phone hadn't stopped ringing since the interview. We looked at all the offers and decided eventually on a major American publisher who was offering $250,000 for the lot. They were so keen that they didn't even want to see the appendix in advance; apparently their main object was to stop anyone else getting it. When I considered what I could do with that amount of money, there really was no choice. We came to an agreement that the appendix would be printed but effectively hidden as footnotes among an overwhelming volume of longer scholarly annotations.

After that, relations between the Aubreys and myself became somewhat frosty. I could tell that Max felt cheated of his discovery in some way, but as Dolby pointed out, publishing is a cutthroat world and he had no special claim on my father's writing. Although they had a two-year lease, they moved out before a year was up when Mrs Aubrey moved to Geneva to work for the United Nations. My current tenant is a contemporary musician with the unlikely name of Snoopy Dog. Apparently he is quite famous but I wouldn't know about that. Mr and Mrs Dog are religious in their own way, practising vegetarianism and yoga. Just last week, I showed them some of my collection of orthodox icons, which they pronounced "cool". I assume that implies good.

With some of the money, I commissioned a pair of memorial windows in St Athanasius'. One depicts my father in a saintly and studious pose at the feet of St Jerome, and the other St Eustasia, with my mother's features, undergoing her famous tribulations. I had enough left over to fund a fellowship in Byzantine Studies at my old college, and to effect a few improvements on the top floor.

Sophia has taken to coming round twice a week to tidy up and keep the refrigerator stocked. Sometimes she clucks around a little disapprovingly at my bachelor lifestyle, but often she will just sit quietly and busy herself with some small domestic task while I am typing or lost in my books. People are beginning to talk at St Athanasius, and Adonis is doing nothing to quell the rumours. I, of all people, am conscious of the positive influence a good woman can have on a man's life, and I am seriously considering making this arrangement permanent, despite my advanced years, in which case I will have to think about reoccupying the rest of the house.

§ § §

Born in Nottingham, England, 1950, Andrew studied at Birmingham University . He has taught English in Birmingham for twenty-six years, where he currently lives with his wife and three children.

He also has a serious sideline in music, credits including original music for several TV documentaries, as well as the scores for the groundbreaking musicals Love and Spare Parts and Utopia and Beyond.

He is a founder member of the seventies jazz/rock outfit Slender Loris, and has spent the last few months making their music available through mp3.comand constructing a Slender Loris website.



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This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal.