Some small flying creature brushed against his face and he waved his hand to deter it from landing on him. Suddenly, he felt lonely and helpless: a writer who could not see to write any more, standing in the graveyard where ‘Great Expectations’ had begun, with no expectations, great or otherwise, left to him anymore. ‘What would you do, Boz?’ he murmured aloud. ‘You never gave up. How can I imitate The Inimitable?’
There was a rustling of dry grass which he wasn’t sure could be attributed to the wind. ‘Is someone there?’ he asked. ‘Is that you, Jennifer?’ He knew it could not be her, for he would have heard the car return, but wanted to give the impression that he was not alone.
‘My apologies, sir,’ came an animated voice. ‘It was not my intention to disturb you. I come here sometimes to relive my past, but there is rarely anyone else present.’
Arthur turned to face the direction the voice came from. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, affecting an air of bonhomie. ‘It’s a free country.’
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