It is four months since my father died, and I am living in an unpleasant room in Swiss Cottage. Relations with Janey began to sour rather earlier than that. She had begun to find my extravagance and my inability to earn any money rather irritating, and I can hardly blame her for that. I, myself, would not live with a prissy, sexless model of Brian Sewell for choice.
I've spent seven years failing to finish my PhD and of late I've been distracted by the collection of jottings I call my Book Against God, wherein I copy out apposite religious and anti-religious quotations and aphorisms, and develop arguments of my own about theology.
Janey used to find my foppish, indolent snobbishness rather attractive but her manner changed shortly after my father had his heart attack. "I've had enough of your lying, Tommy," she said brusquely.
"But did not Althusser and Schopenhauer exult in untruth?" I replied triumphantly.
I returned to Durham alone and found my parents to be both in exceedingly good health. My father was in his study, preparing his sermon, as was his wont of a Tuesday morning. "And how is your heart, pater?" I asked.
"Never better," he breezed. "Now tell me about your PhD before we spend 70 pages debating theology."
My childhood was very happy, so I am not sure how I arrived at this spiritual crisis. Most 30-year-olds have long since grown out of droning on like superannuated students and boring everyone with their existential angst.
"God does not exist," I squealed at pater's pre-Christmas drinks party. "Did not Derrida and Schopenhauer have absolutely no time for Cardinal Newman's second-rate piety?" In truth, I felt bad about my outburst, but I could no longer live the lie for my parents' sake.
Janey, who had joined me for Christmas, took me upstairs, where we made love. It was then that I told my fatal lie. "That was fantastic, darling," I said. The next day, I could no longer live with the lie. "Actually, I didn't come. I have a fear of bringing children into a Godless world."
"You're a pathetic liar and I don't want to see you again," she snapped.
I stayed on with my parents. "Are you still seeking the truth?" pater asked. "Your mother and I are worried about your drinking."
The next time Janey and I met was at my father's funeral. I stood up to make the peroration. "God doesn't exist and pater isn't going to heaven," I crooned, in yet another of the book's failed attempts at a grand set piece.
"You're embarrassing yourself and the readers," Janey piped up.
What will become of me? Will I grow up? Will Janey have me back? Does anyone care? Don't answer that one.
The digested read ... digested
Smug English graduate gets lost in his own arrested development. The same goes for his leading character.
