Her neffie estate manager's job. I needed a manager of my own, not more labors. I told him well done and, knackered as I was, went for Toffee and started out to Ramparts Comer, home of our village's resident writer. He'd sent Ben Cox. Billiam—his idea of a Christian name, nobody else's—lives in solitude interleaved with orgies. Our village is a puritanical old dump, yet everybody's thrilled whenever the strobes get going over Billiam Cutting's old barn. Villagers go about saying it never ought to be allowed and that, but are inwardly desperate to see those sinfully fleshpotty activities. He's Real Life. Women go out of their way to bump into him, even if it only means helping him to stagger home from the Treble Tile. Then they oh-so-casually let drop: Billiam said to me today . . . and set everybody wondering. The farm—farm is a laugh—was somnolent when I plodded in. He's long since let his gates rot. Two of his three sheds have tumbled-in roofs. Windows gape. Birds saunter in and out through (repeat: through) walls.
