The Brightfount Diaries. Brian Aldiss

England.’

      ‘Suppose it’s not much different from pre-war?’ I hazard, not quite knowing what to say.

      ‘Quite different,’ he said. ‘Everything’s changed. People have got an entirely new attitude. You’ll see – I’ll write a book about it some day.’

      He’s certainly right about odd fish.

       June–July

      SUNDAY

      Moving day for me. Surprising what lot of junk I’ve managed to accumulate in three and half years here. It’s been home from home indeed, real home being eighty miles away and too far and expensive to get to every week-end. In afternoon, Uncle drove down with me to new digs, which certainly will be handy for the shop.

      Landlady is one Vera Yell, nothing much to shout about. Think even Mordicant would agree she is definitely of pre-war vintage. Her husband was once Uncle’s auctioneer. House is one of row of six. My room is up two flights of stairs, looks out over feeble gardens, outhouses, tumbledown walls, backs of other houses and cathedral behind them all.

      Room itself is typical bed-sitter; an effort to make it habitable has obviously been made, so don’t grumble. Mrs Yell showed it to me very defensively. ‘I’m afraid the furniture’s not especially new,’ she said.

      ‘As long as it’s comfortable …’ I replied, glancing rather apprehensively at large photo of large girl in gym tunic hanging by the door.

      ‘Oh, that’s my younger sister Grace,’ says Mrs Yell hurriedly. ‘I hope you wasn’t expecting Picassos.’

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘What with them and atom bombs and the Russians, and now these poor plastic children, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

      ‘Oh it could be worse.’

      ‘Yes – and probably will be before it’s better. Anyway, I’ll bring your breakfast up prompt at eight each morning.’

      MONDAY

      Breakfast was prompt: cornflakes and cold sausage. Walked round to Brightfount’s.

      Spent most of morning doing window. Made glorious mêlée of new, second-hand and remainders on theme of ‘Diaries and Diarists’. Am always afraid of getting price tickets wrong since the time we marked a set of Hakluyt £8 8s. instead of £18 18s. Our nice morocco Pepys as centrepiece; it’s been in before, but no matter.

      Cross Street looked very pleasant in the sun.

      Mr B. spent most of day pricing the library he bought from Professor Carter. One volume had been a gift from a famous author and bore the inscription on the fly-leaf: ‘To D. C., A Parting Shot.’ The book was A Bullet in the Ballet. Was this only the mild joke it seemed, or a veiled but straight tip to D. C. to stay away? An associ-ation or a dissociation copy?

      TUESDAY

      Slipped out in morning to buy new pair of white flannels, passed two young men talking so animatedly and with such pleasure that I was attracted to them straight away. As they whisked by me, I only caught three words, uttered by one of them in excited tones: ‘I’ve been reading …’ Pass, friend.

      V. nice flannels. Expensive. Wore them to tennis with Helen in the evening. Had about enough of her. For one thing, her service is putrid.

      WEDNESDAY

      Very busy; generally are on half-day. Gudgeon, our senior assistant, had the day off, so most of serving devolved on me. Still no replacement for Miss Harpe, who left in the spring because she was asthmatic and allergic to dust.

      In the middle of a rush, some thoughtless millionaire came in and bought our morocco Pepys from the window. Very awkward: nothing decent to fill the gap.

      According to Dave, who always ferrets out such tit-bits of information, Mr Brightfount interviewed young girl who starts Saturday; know Mr B.’s choice by now: plump, greasy, prone to sniffing. We’ve got one like that on the staff already – poor old Edith, dumb office wench.

      Irritable. On bike ride, Helen and I caught in heavy rain shower. Violent quarrel under horse-chestnut. That’s over! Returned to digs and was furiously barked at by Mr Yell’s dog in the hall. Retreated to room: ‘Lost myself in a book.’

      Relevant quote from Rasselas: ‘… the incommodities of a single life are, in a great measure, necessary and certain, but those of a conjugal state accidental and avoidable.’ Must see about getting married; am old enough, if not rich enough. Trouble is, there are few suitable girls – only the Dodd girl, whom I don’t know very well, and Colonel Howell’s daughter Julie, who works in London. Shall probably end up bachelor like Gudgeon; a lifetime of Mrs Yell’s breakfasts stretches before me.

      THURSDAY

      Gudgeon bought a portfolio of prints for ten shillings yesterday and sold it to Mr B. for two pounds ten. Said he to me, waving the spoils, ‘There’s a beautiful bit of engraving on these notes, you know.’

      He starts his holiday on Monday.

      Saw Helen in Cross Street. Grrrr!

      FRIDAY

      Pay-day. Packet seemed thinner than ever. ‘Here’s to the next one!’ old Mr Parsons says each week as he tucks his envelope away.

      Arch Rexine loathes to throw a book away; Mr Brightfount pitches them out with heart-warming prodigality. I’ve had several interesting volumes from our ‘chuck-out pile’. Have just found old novel called Store of Gold. Pubd. in the twenties, it is a tale of a future where Big Business has run wild; goodness knows, it may have been credible when it was written. Now, it is alternately funny and fustian. Hero and heroine work in a giant store which stays open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Employees work four hours on, eight off, sleep in gigantic dormitories miles underground. Hero, transferred to Toys, is separated from heroine; book details their struggle to meet in lifts (‘non-stop express to all seventy floors’) and wangle a reunion. It’s comedy-Kafka – or perhaps burlesque-Bennett.

      My favourite character was Menucius Replay, who works in the book department. To Menucius (‘the constant burning giant gas jets had etched an ineradicable pallor in his gaunt face’) is given the soul-destroying task of writing two-hundred-word reviews for the weekly publicity sheet of all ‘failed books’ and books cut in price; that is, remainders.

      We are told one day, ‘the conveyor deposited before Menucius his quota of work for the next two shifts: a two-volume autobiography of an obscure statesman, a biography of Hannibal, Days Afloat, More Days Afloat, three novels with a religious bias, a symposium on modern science and a book of egg recipes. After but a second’s hesitation, Menucius reached out for Hannibal. Life’s desperate struggle for survival had taught him already to tackle the toughest while he was freshest.’

      Dipped into this treasure while dusting and sorting Foreign Lit.

      Mrs Callow, just going into Rexine’s room to take his letters, was slightly nonplussed because a customer asked her for Airs of Old Venice. She looked in Music, couldn’t find it, and told the customer so. Gudgeon, without a word, fished the book out of Foreign Hist.: Heirs of Old Venice.

      Explaining later, Mrs Callow added, ‘I never turned a heir.’

      Which reminds me. Had a hair-cut to-day. Looked at an old Men Only while I waited my turn. One cartoon showed an impressive boss saying to applicant for job: ‘We want reliable men here, self-confident, strong-willed men, capable of saying to their wives, “No dear, I will not ask for a rise”.’

      To tennis club in evening. Played one game singles with ginger, freckled chap from Midland Bank.

      SATURDAY

      Would you believe it!

      The rumoured new girl has arrived! And