Free The Innocent Moon by Henry Williamson

a column of Light Car Notes, are yer?”
    “Yes. But I can write about anything.”
    Mr. Bloom continued to look at him as though reluctantly. Phillip did not know until later how the Chief’s name had the power to affect many of those connected with his newspapers, most of all B.B. Bloom; and that anyone ‘from the Chief’ made Bloom feel that he was to be spied upon, or at least that reports would go back to the Chief. It was Bloom’s anxiety that provided these thoughts; for it was not Lord Castleton’s nature, or habit, to be underhand; he had been outspoken all his life, and came from a happy home. Meanwhile, Phillip was pulling a sheaf of manuscript papers from an inner or poacher pocket specially made to hold manuscripts.
    “What’ve yer got?” asked Bloom, absently, holding out a stubby hand.
    “This is an essay called ‘A Devon Night’, sir.”
    Bloom glanced at the first page, while the author sat still, resenting the swift and apparently careless way the human jackdaw ran his eye down the pages, lifting one after another in a few seconds before interest ceased and he handed back the loose sheets. “That’s not so bad,” he remarked. “I’ll give yer a try as a general reporter. But yer want to tell ’em something. Would you like to come on the staff at seven guineas a week, or go onspace? The space rates are three guineas a column including tops, and four guineas a column on the article page.”
    “I think I’ll earn more on space.”
    “I hope yer do! Now what d’yer want for the Motor Notes?”
    “I’ll leave that to you.”
    “Will yer do them for two guineas a half column, as a minimum; and if they go over that, four guineas a column pro rata?”
    “That sounds all right to me. If they’re good, you can pay me more.”
    “I like you,” said Bloom simply, “I believe you’ll be all right. Only don’t put in too much about them airy ziffers. Tell ’em something. When do you want to start? We go after stories from Tuesday to Friday, then on Saturday we become a newspaper and take over the Trident ’ s news desk until the paper goes to bed with the last edition round about midnight. Sunday and Monday we have off.”
    “I’d like to start next Tuesday, if that will suit you, Mr. Bloom!”
    The Editor waved a hand at him.
    July 1. Four years ago I was crawling from Mash Valley with a hole in my left buttock as big as a cricket ball, leaving behind my platoon as still as the figures in Keats’ Ode to a Grecian Urn. I remember the feeling of shame and resentment when stared at by new troops going up to that scene of decimation before La Boisselle. Today, who remembers the war? It is as remote at Agincourt. But one day I shall re-create their mortality, for to me those figures are immortal.
   I sit here in the garden room; my work, my self-imposed isolation, my hopes all are vain. To what end, when death ends all things?
                            Ah! Sunflower, weary of Time
                        That countest the steps of the sun,
                        Seeking after that sweet golden clime,
                        Where the traveller’s journey is done.
                        Where the youth pined away with desire
                        And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
                        Arise from their graves and aspire
                        Where my sunflower wishes to go.
           I left my table, with its old copies of The Light Car, and went down to the High Street, hoping to speak to a girl. I saw many foolish youths and fewer silly girls, and saw myself like them a world oftime ago. Then one girl came along, appealing to my empty self—a tigress-type, lissom, voluptuous with low blouse revealing outlines of full breasts. No good—a tall handsome fellow, whom I used to see on the Hill before the war, called Lack, joined