The gramophone roared as we pranced about the living room, three sheets to the wind. It was just the three of us, as it would so often be in those years. I believe now that those hatchling steps into adulthood, right on the cusp of that first Michaelmas term, were among the happiest days of my life. I would never feel as young as I did in those halcyon days of my eighteenth year. Some part of me knew it, and on occasion in the weeks to follow, I’d stop, look around, and say silent thanks for all that lay about me.   

Alcohol had been flowing since we returned from the luncheon. Jarves, Maz, and Portnoy, who were all in their second year, had returned to their digs, on the understanding that they would rejoin us with company. We had almost cleared the flat of its stock, and felt the absence in our plenty. I stuck to wine, for it was all that my tongue could handle. It was a good wine, from the south of France. I was drunk. Quite possibly for the first time in my life, I was truly drunk. I’d taken to wine early, around fourteen, when port was routinely smuggled into the dorms at Charterhouse. My friend Monty had a knack for sourcing it, yet I never had enough to get tight. The warmth of two glasses always sufficed. I have ascribed many reasons as to my avoidance until that day; perhaps it was a fear that I would lose control, and do something foolish, or inflict some humiliation among myself. Humiliation, it seems, was my defining fear. Though, like most things, the cause was most likely something familial. 

My first sight of the drink came from my father, who took a single glass with dinner, and was only ever tight at the new year. When he died, and I was sent to live with various aunts and uncles, I came to know the puritan mind. I was naturally curious about that liquid seduction, kept hidden in cases of glass; however, their reprimands, and warnings of that brutish beast, Bacchus, had been stored deep within, and emerged each time I refused a third cup. Yet today, I did not flinch in the face of the eros. Instead, I disrobed and flung myself into its waters. 

I drank, and danced, and drank some more. Richard was erratic, and switched between various interpretations of swing, and a delicate waltz, with Francis an unwitting partner. He, though an impotent toff with little grace and the twin habits for boasting and lying, seemed just a boy to me. And there sat his charm. He was selfish, obnoxious, and chaotic, yet also endearing and quite funny. Richard, too, was beautiful, his golden hair and hazel eyes spoke to a distant sense of the divine within me, that only emerged around that which was beautiful. He was not bound to the frantic insecurities and moral prejudices that defined the twitching cadaver of his social class; the upper aping the middle. Francis remained a mystery. I knew virtually nothing of his background, save that he was also an Etonian; from which I had deduced that he too came from money; though if it was old or new, I would never know. Though, the manner in which Richard discussed new wealth told me that Francis’ was as old as time itself.

And so, this day cemented itself in my habits, as the blueprint for those Camfordian years; when I slept under the stars and woke to the rising sun. When I acted on impulse and made my formative mistakes. Shortly after six, the others arrived. 

“Evening gents,” chipped Jarves, as he took a seat. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Please do,” Richard replied. “Say, where is the company you promised?” 

“Getting ready, apparently.” 

“How long will that be?”

“Well,” Jarves pondered. “If my sister is anything to go by, it could be hours.”

“Eleanor’s been talking about you all day, Bellers,” Portnoy added. “Methinks she has unfinished business.” 

“Enough about her. I’ll see to it when they arrive.”

“Women are coming here?”, I asked.

Maz took great amusement in the question. “Yes, you silly old bugger,” he quipped. “The real world is nothing like school, you know. They do exist, and they go places. In this instance, they are some wonderful ladies, of good means, who we know from the London season, and their destination is here.”

“In the meantime,” Richard interrupted. “I suggest we play a game or two.” 

“Such as?”, asked Jarves in a nervous tone.” 

“Comprehension,” Richard uttered, with a gravity.

“Oh god, Bellers!”, Maz exclaimed in disgust. “It’s too early for that.” 

 “Comprehension.” 

“I feel like I’m back at Eton,” Portnoy scoffed. “Drinking that ghastly Special Tea.”

 “It helped us to study.” 

“No, it didn’t. We always forgot everything by the morning.”  

“We’re playing comprehension.” 

“What’s Comprehension?”, I asked. 

“It’s a game from Eton, very simple. One recites a passage to the group, and the others compete to see who can name the text first. You must empty your glass before you answer, first to finish gets the floor. If you get it wrong, you must empty another glass.” 

The others seemed resigned to play.

“Jolly good,” said Richard. “I’ll begin.” 

He poured five glasses of gin, before reclining back with a sly smile. “Gentlemen, on your marks.” 

Reluctantly we all picked up what he had poured. I gave the glass a smell and shuddered.

“Are we ready?”, he asked. “Very well, here we go.”

He steadied himself, and contemplated for a moment. “I, who prays to no god bar Bacchus. I, who walks no sands but Thracian, who wakes upon the shore, shakes off the night before and glistens once again.”

The group looked confused, whereas I just stared at the floor, a temperature rising within. 

“I don’t know,” said Jarves. “But it’s jolly pretty. Who is Bacchus?”

“Dionysus,” Francis replied. “The god of wine.”

“Rather!”

Richard scanned the room and its faces, his lips perched on a word. “Anyone?”, he asked, and was met with silence. “Why, it’s our very own Robin!”, he exclaimed. “I found it in his room earlier. Isn’t he clever?”

“Is that so, Robin?”, Maz asked. “D’you fancy yourself a writer?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Well I think that was marvellous,” Maz continued.

“Right,” said Richard, drawing all eyes back to him. “Everyone drink. I’ll give another.”

Richard readied the bottle as we all took a stiff drink and grimaced. Richard refilled the glasses. 

“Virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese, consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with feeding his own stomach.” 

Jarves, Maz and I drank. Maz finished first, as I spluttered out the burn in my throat. 

“Much Ado About Nothing!”, Maz proclaimed with confidence. Richard smirked.  

“Drink, Maz.” 

“Shit.” 

Richard turned to me. “Robin?” 

“All’s Well that Ends Well.” 

“Bravo!”, he cried. “Very well done. Okay, Fitzy, now you go.” 

I thought for a moment. “My theme is memory, that winged host that soared about me one grey morning of wartime. These memories, which are my life; for we possess nothing certainly except the past, were always with me.” 

Everyone drank, except for Francis.  

“The Idiot?”, Jarves winced. 

“Drink.” 

“All’s Well That Ends Well?”, Portnoy asked, knowing he was wrong, and what his recompense would be.” 

“Drink.” 

I turned to Richard. “Samuel Whiskers?”, he asked.

“Drink.” 

I then turned to the last bastion of silence in the room. “Francis?” 

“Brideshead.” 

“Well done.” 

Richard grew elated. “Jolly good, old boy! Very wicked, isn’t he? How wickedly smart!” 

Another set of glasses were poured. Though before Francis could speak, the doorbell rang.  

“They’re early,” Maz observed.

Richard rose and strode to the door. “Gentlemen, I believe our company has arrived.” 

On that evening, when I was just eighteen-years old; the fairer sex was an enigma. I was lumped into a school for boys, and boys were all that I knew. At no point in my formative years had I felt love, or lust. In fact, I had rarely even seen a woman my age. I was wholly naïve, afraid, and pristinely virginal. And now, in this flat were four women. I knew not what to say, nor where to look; what I was to do with my hands, or feet was a bleak mystery. I was introduced but said little. Music played as Francis and I took the back seat, and observed the others in their competition. Like deer rutting, they postured for battle of words, seeing who could emasculate the others fastest, and with the most brutality; the spoils of war were to be a night of company. 

Eleanor was introduced to me as Eleanor Andress. Though I knew her by name long before I’d seen her porcelain face. Andress was but a publishing company with a family conjoined to the hip. It was the largest publisher of fiction in the country. She carried herself like an heiress, and her presence drew the most fierce of competition, and yet Richard emerged early like the champion jockey, the bookies’ favourite. The air seemed to part around her, dispersing all in her way. Every atom and molecule scrambled to move. She was a law unto herself.  

“It would appear that we’re out of gin, old boy,” Richard called to Francis as he took a seat on the couch and lit a smoke. “Gin and tea for everyone!” 

“Gin and tea?”, Eleanor asked between giggles. 

“What else would such esteemed guests of mine drink? It is the absolute finest of English beverages.” 

“Wine, Robin?”, Francis asked in a hushed tone. 

“Yes please, Francis,” I smiled. 

Five minutes later, he returned. In his absence, I hadn’t said as much as a word. To fill the time, I pretended to examine the books that had been left by the previous tenants. Francis returned and served tea and gin to the others, before discretely laying a bountiful glass of red beside me. The discretion of the affair was gone as soon as I raised the glass to my lips. 

“No tea for you, Fitzy?”, Richard enquired. 

“Afraid not. It doesn’t go down too well.” 

“Perfectly foolish,” he snapped, before turning to Eleanor. “Robin’s a writer, you know.” 

“Oh, is he?”, asked Eleanor, as if I were in another room. “He any good?” 

“I daren’t say yes or no. I’m hardly one to judge, I find novels far too boring and mature. Now, if he were an adventurer, or a matador, I’d take more of an interest. His poetry is quite pretty.” 

“Indeed. Mother and father are obsessed with finding the next great writer. I’ve had to shut out all thoughts of writers for the sake of variety.” 

“I hope no offence is taken, Fitzy.” 

“Oh, none. D-Don’t worry about it.” 

An hour or so passed and our guests grew more comfortable. Francis and I had paired off and were discussing some matter that I can no longer recall. Richard held Eleanor close; like he was going to war and asking her to wait for him. She investigated him, without attachment of the heart, rather with a more guttural yearning. It seemed that their departure into another room was imminent. 

My face had gone numb from the drink, and I still hadn’t said much. The four pairs had taken to light whispers into ears and giggled responses. One such whisper was the final straw for Richard, he led Eleanor by the hand, out into the hall. My gaze followed them as they took a sharp right into Francis’s room. 

“Francis, I think they’ve gone into your room.” 

He seemed neutral on the matter. “Yes, I suppose they have.” 

Before I could respond, Maz stood to address me. 

“Mind if I use your phone, squire?” 

“Of course.” 

“Cheers.” 

He darted out of the room for the kitchen, as an uneasy silence descended. A few of the girls looked Francis and I up and down. Satisfied, they turned back to their dates. Footsteps entered as Maz returned to the room, bouncing. 

“Just spoke to Crowe and his lot, they’re heading to a club in town and asked if we’d fancy it.” 

There were murmurings of excitement as a consensus of ‘yes’ quickly formed. Maz turned to us. “Well,” he paused, awkwardly. “I shall hope to see you chaps around, do let Bellers know that we appreciate his hospitality.” 

I nodded. 

Francis set about tidying up after they’d left in giggles and cries. I recall stories from school, some of the lads in my year, including my oldest friend Monty, would sneak out and supposedly liaise with the girls from a nearby grammar school. I never went, nor was I invited. How I envied Monty, and his smooth, suave ways.  Quickly, and without warning, I desired solitude, as I so often suddenly did. I slipped outside, trotted down the stairs, out the door, and rested my back on the building’s wall, gazing up at a dark and clouded sky. The fresh autumn air was like a drug, and within moments the odours of the evening had passed. 

I drifted from quiet street to noisy street, and to quiet street again; eventually stumbling upon a picturesque fountain of an enchanted look. There were cherubs etched into the stone, and the rhythmic splatters of water was a hypnosis. Once more I was away, in some meadow or by some stream. I sat on its rim and cared not that my neck and back were damp. The clouds seemed to dissipate, and before long the cosmos came into view, as if just for me. I caressed my breast pocket and found the cigarette that Richard had put there the day before. A young couple strolled past, from whom I borrowed a lighter, and smoked my first cigarette. That was the first in a long and winding gallery of cigarettes, that would one day conspire in unison to kill me.

I stayed by that fountain and drifted around my head for a while, I’m not sure how long. I was happy there; alone, and yet among fantastical company. Eventually, I was snapped out, like the latter half of a baptism, by the noise of a party. The distant hum of festivities had been ceaseless since I arrived. So much so that they made up a general ambience and were indistinguishable from one another. Yet this one called to me, as if it were a siren, cooing me further out to sea. 

It came from a darkened alley by the adjacent street. I wandered towards it like a shark to blood; knowing instinctively that for some reason, my fate lay in this direction. I was not wrong. Of all the parties, in all the flats, in all the streets of Camford. I felt drawn to this specific hum. It was as if I were chasing destiny itself. As it happens, I was to have numerous destinies. A dozen cars with a dozen drivers; all waiting to drive me some place I could never reach by foot. It would transpire that two of these cars were just around the corner. 

I walked into the alley, keeping to the shadows as my eyes and ears worked in unison to locate the sound. I spotted it though a first-floor window. There, I saw a man of his mid or late thirties, forty at the eldest. He was speaking to an older gentleman, who I recognised from magazines as Eleanor’s father, Donald. Through the shadows I made it so that I could no longer see them but could hear them perfectly. 

“I think you’re perfectly mistaken, Mr. Balloch. The best is yet to come. These young writers; they’re hungry, ravenous even.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Mr. Andress. I’m afraid I don’t share your faith in the new lot. They seem far more intrigued by music and women than by words.” 

“Perhaps they are. And yet, I’d gladly read a book about such things.” 

The younger man chuckled. “Well, Donald, you’re the magnate. I suppose what you say goes. Or rather who goes.” 

A woman’s voice entered the fray. Her voice was like a velvet blanket for the ears, and I was entranced. 

“Come along now, Donald darling. I believe the young professor has heard quite enough.” 

“Nonsense, Mrs. Andress. I find your husband just as charming as you. It’s a simple matter of disagreement.” 

“Indeed, it is. Mr. Balloch believes that there are no good writers left, they’ve all died, gone to shit, were shit to begin with, or have died and been replaced by shit. Was that what you said, Bill?

“I said words to that effect.”

“Whereas I believe he is somewhere in this city.” 

“Perhaps winter days will bring something new,” said she. 

I felt a shiver in my spine, as that ghost named epiphany shot down it and barked at my legs to run. Just as my desire to escape the flat descended in a hurry, the desire to return came just as fast. Still hugging the shadows, I retreated towards the orange glow of streetlights. And as I left the shadow, some unknown force coerced me into turning back. When I did, that voice had a face. Her lips that spoke had eyes that met with mine. She was mesmerising and I could not look away; nor would she, and we were locked in place for several pulsing moments. She smiled, with a subtle twitch, as I remained still. I stumbled on some obstacle and glanced down. And when my gaze returned, she was gone. 

Hurriedly, I jetted through Camford. The parties were winding to an end and crowds emerged from houses and flats, as each street became harder to traverse than the one that came before. I burst through the street-level door as the clock struck twelve. Feet descended the steps as I ascended, and within moments I crossed paths with Eleanor. Through excitement and fear, I could not speak and instead gave her a firm and chivalric nod. She giggled at my attempt to be suave and bade me a good night. 

“I’m sure I shall see you again, Robin.” 

I entered the flat to find Richard, wearing only a finely made robe, laying across the armchair, listening to the radio, with Francis at his feet, finally allowing himself the night off. “Ah, Fitzy. I’d assumed you’d gone the club with the others.” 

“Oh, no. I was just taking a stroll.” 

Richard chuckled. “Writers. What a ridiculous sort.” 

I got to my desk and readied the typewriter. It was then, in that moment, with the day’s alcohol wearing off and my head beginning to throb, that I took the first steps of what was to be my career as a writer. That woman’s voice had lingered in my head, harbinger of winter days. And from there it emerged; those six words that would dominate me for the rest of my life, and drive me to near madness.  All is Well in Winter Days.