Death in the Opening Chapter Read Free

host, genially, ‘cows stuck on beaches seem grist to the Guardian mill. Ecologically sound. Presumably we are all on the side of the cow? Does George Monbiot have a view on cows? Or Simon Jenkins?’
    â€˜I don’t think you could run an anti-cow piece in the Guardian ,’ said Monica.
    â€˜Unless,’ said her husband, ‘they’d been cloned or genetically modified in some way. I mean, if the cow stuck on the beach could be shown to be some sort of by-product of international corporate greed.’
    â€˜Not cow in the accepted sense,’ said Sir Branwell.
    â€˜Quite,’ said Bognor. ‘If the cow was not really a cow, but some sort of counterfeit cow in cow’s clothing, then you’d expect the Guardian to be against it.’
    â€˜You two are being silly,’ said Lady Fludd. ‘This sort of conversation may be acceptable in the junior common room at Apocrypha, but it won’t do here.’
    The two Apocrypha men exchanged sheepish glances and acted as if chastened. Sometimes Bognor felt as if he had never really grown up. This sense was most acute when he was with people he had known in the days of his youth. At work, among those who, like him, passed themselves off as adults and generally behaved in a fashion associated with the grown-up, he too became mildly self-important and serious. He didn’t do jokes, or facetiousness of any kind. He managed to become, frankly, a bit of a bore. This was what seemed to be required among the seriously grown up.
    â€˜What about a cricket match?’ said Monica, suddenly and unexpectedly. ‘You could have authors against publishers.’
    â€˜Writers don’t play cricket,’ said Bognor, swiftly, ‘and publishers don’t play games outside the office. At least, that’s what I’m told.’
    â€˜Festivals,’ said Sir Branwell, ‘are about people droning on. Some drone more effectively than others, but droning is what everyone feels comfortable with. We don’t want innovation. Heaven forfend. Droning is what audiences expect and what authors give them. We do one big drone. Jolly effective and nobody has to do anything tiresome and original.’
    â€˜Like think,’ said his wife, crunching toast as if it were yesterday’s numbers.
    â€˜I always think,’ said Lady Fludd, ‘that cricket is a bit like an author’s drone. Interminable tedium during which the audience sleeps or talks among themselves, punctuated by sudden moments of unanticipated excitement when the speaker’s trousers fall down or he insults them or something.’
    â€˜Not much unanticipated excitement in any authorial drone I’ve ever slept through, eh, Simon,’ said Sir Branwell, ‘and as patron of my own lit fest, I’ve slept through a good few in my time.’
    â€˜Quite,’ said Bognor, not wishing, characteristically, to give offence and sitting on the first one available. Fence, that was. He had an uncomfortable habit of wordplay and double entendre, which had got him into trouble when not intended. Nevertheless, Bognor enjoyed weekends, especially in other people’s houses. Weekends were good anyway, because on the whole – with reservations and disturbingly less as he grew older and the world round him became more pointlessly frenetic – weekends were times when he was undisturbed by what was laughably described as ‘work’. He had never really got the hang of this work thing which so captivated his successful contemporaries. His apparent insouciance regarding the occupation seemed to annoy them, but he couldn’t really see the point of what other people described as work, and seemed on the whole to be a disagreeable activity whose only point seemed to be to generate sufficient funds to enjoy oneself when not working. During his lifetime, the amount of time most people needed to spend on ‘work’ in order to be able to enjoy