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Moab is my WashpotIt was even more marked, this grounded solidity now, I noticed, as he defiantly attempted not to look unhappy. ‘How long have you got to wait before the dinner’s-ready bell goes in your oven?’ I asked. ‘Oh, about forty minutes. Why?.’ ‘Let’s go for a walk then. All this typing is no good for my back.’ ‘Okay.’ He waited while I squared the typed sheets, switched off the typewriter, threw on its silvery dust cover and perched a scribbled note next to it: ‘Leave alone or die bloodily.’ This was the era when military greatcoats were the innest thing to wear. I had a WW2 American Air Force coat that was the envy of the world, Matthew an RAF equivalent: he had also, perhaps on account of his older brother, managed to get one of the old school scarves, striped in knitted wool like a Roy of the Rovers football scarf, unlike the scratchy new college-style black and red that I wore. With his wrapped warmly about his neck he looked so divine and vulnerable I wanted to scream. It was a cold night and just beginning to snow. ...» |
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