‘Theo,’ I said, trying to collect my thoughts. ‘Of course. It’s nice to meet you. And please, there’s no need for such formality. Call me Maurice.’
‘Thank you,’ he replied, sitting down. ‘It’s very generous of you to make the time for me. I really appreciate it.’
He ordered the same as me, a pint of lager, and I made my way across the room, where, as I waited for the drinks to be poured, I had an opportunity to collect my thoughts. It was stupid, I told myself, to feel so unsettled. After all, his was a standard look among boys his age and, if he put me in mind of my dead son, then perhaps that would help to build a connection between us. Maybe, at the right moment, I would even tell him.
‘Cheers,’ I said, as I sat back down and we clinked glasses.
‘I can’t believe I’m sitting having a beer with Maurice Swift,’ he replied, shaking his head and smiling.
‘I’m just surprised that someone as young as you even knows who I am,’ I said. ‘Or that you’d recognize me. I’ve kept a fairly low profile in recent years.’
‘Of course I’d recognize you,’ he replied. ‘I’m a reader. A voracious reader. I always have been.’
‘Very few people are.’
‘Very few people are interested in art,’ he replied, triggering a memory in me, an almost forgotten conversation from many years before. I had said something like that to Erich once, hadn’t I? Or he had said it to me. The past had begun to grow a little muddled with age and it wasn’t always easy to separate the voices across the years.
‘That’s true,’ I told him, drawing the years back. ‘But the lack of an audience should never be a deterrent to the artist.’
‘Books have been my passion since I was a kid. My father’s uncle used to write a little and my dad has always worked in publishing. I suppose it must be in the blood somewhere.’
‘Yes, you mentioned him in your letter,’ I said. ‘Random House, was it? He’s an editor there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Fiction or non-fiction?’
‘Fiction.’
I smiled. Perfect.
‘That’s probably why I wanted to study English at university. I discovered your books when I was only thirteen or fourteen and they made a huge impression on me.’
‘That’s quite young to read my work,’ I said.
‘Well, I grew out of children’s books very early,’ he replied. ‘I was reading Dickens at ten. The orphan books, mostly.’
‘Any particular reason?’ I asked.
‘No, I had a very happy childhood. I just enjoyed books about children on their own in the world. I still do.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘And are you enjoying your course?’
‘Very much,’ he replied enthusiastically. ‘I like exploring the lives of writers. Trying to make connections between their work and what was going on in the world at the time. Sometimes there’s very little but more often than not there’s an enormous amount, whether or not they intend there to be. It’s one of the things that’s always fascinated me about your novels.’
‘How so?’ I asked.
‘Well, you’re not present at all in Two Germans but then, of course, that’s pretty much based on Erich Ackermann and—’
‘Only partly,’ I said, the old wound reopening a little. I hated it when people looked at my debut in such basic terms. I had written it, after all. Every word on every page was mine. ‘I simply took what he told me and—’
‘No, I know that,’ he replied, interrupting me. ‘But it takes a lot of skill to take a person’s story and build something from it. What I mean is that there’s nothing in there that reflects your life at all, only his. There is in The Treehouse, I think, but not in The Tribesman. Or either of the subsequent novels.’
‘I’d agree with that,’ I said, impressed by how perceptive he was. After all, The Treehouse was the only novel I’d published that was essentially mine so it made sense that he could see something of the personal in there.
‘And then, with The Breach and The Broken Ones—’
‘You’re writing a thesis?’ I asked, interrupting him. ‘On me? Is that right?’
‘That’s the plan,’ he said, nodding.
‘I’ve been working on it for a while now. Analysing each of the novels and trying to build connections between them.’
‘I’m flattered,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think I’d be on the curriculum at universities quite yet.’
‘Well, you’re not,’ he said, a little sharply, I thought. ‘It’s an area of private study.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, amused by my own egotism. ‘I don’t suppose anyone of my generation is yet.’
‘One or two,’ he said.
I paused and took a long drink of my beer. ‘Oh yes?’ I asked. ‘Who?’
He named a few people, most of whom weren’t that much older or younger than me. Douglas Sherman, who had beaten me to The Prize on the year that The Tribesman was shortlisted, was mentioned and I felt a slight kick at the pit of my stomach.
‘I know her,’ I said, when he mentioned one novelist I particularly despised for making a terrific career over the last decade or so, writing some really interesting novels. ‘Or I knew her, at least.’
‘Really?’ he said, his eyes opening wide.
‘Yes, we’ve read together many times. On the festival circuit, you know.’ Not true. We had read together only once but for some reason I felt an inexplicable desire to impress the boy.
‘What’s she like?’
‘Oh, she’s awful,’ I said, inventing a story on the spot about how she had been rude to some young volunteers at a festival and left one boy, barely out of short pants, in tears after he brought her red wine instead of white.
‘How disappointing,’ said Theo. ‘I used to really like her work.’
‘Well, you still can,’ I pointed out, uncertain why I felt such a need to denigrate a writer who had never said or done anything unkind to me. ‘Just because she’s not a very nice person doesn’t negate the value of her books.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘But when I hear stories like that they just make me never want to read the person again. You shouldn’t meet your heroes, should you? Not that I’ve met her, but you know what I mean. They’ll always let you down.’
‘I hope I won’t,’ I said. ‘And student life suits you?’
‘It does for now,’ he said, nodding as he drank his beer. ‘I like studying. I like the discussions we have. And I get on pretty well with the others on my course.’
‘Do they all want to be writers?’ I asked.
‘Some do,’ he told me. ‘Some are just filling in a few years until they can figure out what to do with their lives.’
‘And you?’ I asked. ‘I know you said that you don’t want to be a novelist, but I suppose I’m a little sceptical.’
‘I really don’t,’ he said. ‘I never have. I love fiction but I don’t have the sort of brain that could create my own. I mean, I can write pretty well, I think. But only essays and things like that. Non-fiction. I could never write a short story or a novel. I wouldn’t be able to think up a plot, you know? It’s just not a gift that I’ve been given.’
‘Well, there are ways around that, of course,’ I said quietly, looking around as the girl behind the bar dropped a glass and it smashed on the floor, leading to the inevitable jeers and rounds of applause from those seated nearby.
‘I mean, it would be great to be a writer,’ he continued, ignoring my comment, and I was surprised that he hadn’t looked towards the bar too. I always thought it was a Pavlovian response to turn one’s head at a loud noise, but no, he seemed more interested in our conversation than in what was going on around him. ‘But if you’ve got no imagination, then there’s no point even trying, is there? And, quite honestly, I’ve never had much of an imagination.’