A letter from Robert Leiper

(Above): Pheasant that took refuge on one of the outhouse roofs.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday - for three days I was at home alone (only the dog for company). I had been looking forward to this period of peace between Christmas and New Year, intending to catch up with so many things before I began work again. I imagined I would finish a big project, do some freelance writing, get to the end of a book (a biography) I have been reading since November.

In reality I hardly got anything done. I would get up at 9, sit around until lunchtime, fall asleep (despite having huge amounts of sleep over the past week I always seem to be tired). Then on Wedneday snow began falling, so that effectively the house was snowed-in (not entirely cut off - just unwise to take the car out as I would have to go through a mile of uncleared snow until reaching a main road). Instead of enhancing my solitude it had the reverse effect, and I began to remember all the things I urgently needed to do in the town. Also, I had given no real thought as to meals, and had to subsist on remnants of party food (half bottles of flat champagne, almost-stale pastries, milk that was five days old). There was plenty of Christmas cake, mince pies, packets of crisps, but I wanted steak, fresh bread, even some chips.

Friday the snow finally began to clear as rain fell, eventually creating a watery slush. The postman got through, bringing a long letter from Robert Leiper, which I put on one side to read later. I managed to take the dog to the end of the lane, getting my feet soaked in the process. At midday a group of local farmers appeared in the fields around the house and began shooting pheasants. They were dressed in waxed jackets and flat caps, accompanied by an assortment of dogs. They positioned themselves round the edge of each field, then three or four of them methodically walked through, shooting as they moved. Pheasants are not supposed to be intelligent birds, but some of them knew enough about what was happening to take refuge in our garden. One of them even perched up on an outhouse, parading defiantly in full view of the guns. When my parents were alive the farmers would ask permission to walk through the lower half of the garden while shooting, but they never ask now (perhaps they realise I would say no).

Having wasted most of the day in idleness (loafing around, watching bad television, day-dreaming about leaving my job) late in the afternoon I finally got round to reading Robert Leiper's letter. It was written on yellow exercise paper and carried the address of a farm in northern California. He talked about the cabin he was staying in, overlooking valley slopes covered in vineyards. He described the simplicity of his life compared to the complexity of living in New York. He gave an update on the progress he is making on his book (ostensibly the main reason he moved to California). On the surface the letter described someone getting his life together after the disastrous experience with "CW", focussing on the important goals he wants to achieve, simplifying his surroundings so that distractions were at a minimum.

And yet...

The whole letter, to my mind, conveyed a sense of longing and emptiness, as if the flight to California hadn't achieved the desired effect of "getting over" CW. CW was the overt subject of two paragraphs, and the subvert topic of the entire letter. He even mentioned coming over to England in the Summer (obviously with the intention of going to Sussex and provoking a meeting with CW - which can only have one consequence!).

Robert Leiper is one of those individuals who are too sensitive for their own good. How many put-downs will he need to endure before he finally realises the relationship can't be revived? Also, CW on her own ground, and surrounded by her intimidating family, is going to be much more formidable than the innocent art critic adrift in New York.

Like the pheasant parading on the rooftop, Robert Leiper in England is going to be an exotic creature asking to be shot down (metaphorically speaking).