Read Pleasure and a Calling for Free Online Page A

athletes have. I lay on his bed, leafing through a rugby programme, several years old, for a match between South Africa and the British Lions. I tried to feel its value to him. I prised open the staples and removed the double-page photograph at the centre – a final school souvenir. The last thing I found, hidden carelessly under the bed, was the chess set. I clicked it open to find a label taped under the lid inscribed with the name of its rightful owner – it belonged to one of the boys from the chess club. I guessed that Marrineau had taken it from the boy in some act of spite or bullying and simply kept it. I vowed to return it.
    And now I opened the wardrobe. Here was the handsome tobacco-coloured rawhide cowboy jacket I’d seen him wear at weekends in the town with his gang and those excitable girls – perhaps Sarah herself had been there – who gathered around the games machines in the café.
    How disappointing that Marrineau proved so lacking in imagination and substance. How little of him there was to cling to. The trick, I saw, was to step away before you felt the heat of a person. In the afternoon sunshine I could see the crowds of players running around and hear their distant shouts. I tried to pick Marrineau out, but he was too far away and much reduced. I put on the jacket, heavy and worn. It was too broad in theshoulders and yet in a way felt right and fitting enough. I stood at the window like the giant statue of Jesus above Rio de Janeiro, arms stretched wide, as if ready for crucifixion, long leather fringes hanging from the sleeves. To be honest, I felt like a king myself. And, of course, I too would rise again.

A UNT L ILLIAN FOUND A private sixth-form college for me, starting in September. In the meantime, undoubtedly out of fear of having me creeping around her house for months, she fixed me up with a summer job at a firm of estate agents, Mower & Mower – two relatives with distant links to the family. It didn’t surprise me to learn that they were located a hundred miles away from Norfolk, or two hundred if you went by train. Old Mr Mower – the other Mr Mower was apparently long dead – picked me up from the station and drove me to my accommodation, a fragrant guesthouse run by a nice Mrs Burton whose bedroom, I discovered (some minutes after unpacking), was home to a vast collection of ceramic farm animals.
    Mr Mower picked me up after breakfast. I was almost entirely ignorant of what estate agents actually did. But, oh my, when I found out – when we arrived at his client’s house and Mr Mower didn’t knock on the door but simply unlocked it and ushered me in …
    ‘The owners just give you their keys?’ I asked.
    ‘Of course,’ said Mr Mower, taking off his trilby in deferenceto being in someone else’s house. ‘If they’re working, or on holiday, or too busy to be around. It happens often. Then you have to make sure you arrive in good time, ahead of the prospective buyer. Make sure everything is ship-shape.’
    We made our way round the house, Mr Mower pointing things out. Upstairs, he opened a door to a large study with an old-fashioned writing desk and swivel chair and bookshelves and two small paintings on the wall. We went to look out of the window.
    ‘What can you tell me about the garden?’ he said.
    ‘The lawn has been mowed?’
    ‘Excellent. What else do you see?’
    ‘Trees? Bushes?’
    ‘Good boy. Which means it’s not overlooked by the neighbours. People like their privacy.’ Mr Mower tapped the side of his nose. ‘When the buyer arrives, that will be one of the first things I shall tell them.’
    When the buyers turned up, a married couple with twin girls whom they left in the car busy plaiting each other’s hair, he gave them the same tour, but added things about the roof guarantee, low crime figures and good local schools. Then he drove me back to the office to meet his staff. Rita, his slow-moving secretary, explained the filing system and how to answer