Unable to sleep, Claud got out of bed and padded barefoot to the table. The pile of paper reproached mutely. With the obstinacy of a procrastinating child it stood between him and progress. He snatched up the heap of paper and tore it across. What he had written would never see print. Just think, he told himself shivering part with cold, part with emotion, what Laura would say were she to set eyes on it. Not for Laura heroes with Alfa Romeos or heroines with, yes he had written it, long legs, wide apart violet eyes, high breasts and tight little bottoms. It’s enough to make any intelligent person puke, let alone Laura. What could I have been thinking of?

Claud prised open the window and scattered the shredded bits of paper into the night. Laura need never know. She would appreciate the woman based on his mother and her mechanical familiars, she might even respect his work. I shall dedicate the novel to Laura, Claud promised himself as he closed the window. He went back to lie on the bed, the bed she had installed in this loft when seeking privacy and escape in adolescence.

Half-regretting his violent act Claud thought, What an awful waste of paper. Then, My God, it’s market day, I must leap up and set up my stall so that I can earn the money to pay for more paper. I owe it to Laura, my muse. Now, now, he muttered, crawling reluctantly out of bed (I was just beginning to get warm again), don’t start calling Laura your muse, that’s a sure way to get kicked in the teeth. Taking care not to make a noise, Claud opened the trap door and, creeping down the ladder, tiptoed to the bathroom.

He was halfway through shaving when the bathroom door snapped open and Mavis, tightly wrapped in her overcoat, came in. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Shaving. It’s my first day with my stall.’

‘What on earth for? None of the stall-holders shave in the morning.’

‘I am shaving. I am different.’

‘What on earth do you want to be different for?’

‘Just get out of here, Mavis, and leave me alone.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘Mavis, if you say that just once more, I’ll cut your throat.’

‘What on—’

‘I will, Mavis.’

Mavis laughed. ‘The kettle’s boiled, I’ve made tea, or d’you prefer coffee?’

‘Tea. What on earth are you doing up at this hour? Shit, it’s catching.’

‘I am going to help you as it’s your first day. I know the market people.’

‘Oh—’

‘I can introduce you, show you the way things get done.’

Claud grunted.

‘You don’t sound very pleased or grateful. I have kept a stall myself from time to time.’

‘What on—’

‘To make a bob or two, dummy.’

‘Aah.’ Claud rinsed his razor. ‘I have my stock ready,’ he said. ‘I’ve priced it, stuck labels on the bits and pieces.’

‘Clever! Pete will come and look it over.’