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“That evening we sat in the courtyard of the hotel once more, watching the sun sink below the western isles. I told Alexi what had happened that day. I fancied I could glimpse the grey stone wall of Lismore House on its island hilltop, the red light of the setting sun glinting from the windows, and from there the wasted frame of Jonathan Blake gazing out across the sea, on nothing, his boy waiting for him to die. But it was my fantasy, simply the image on my mind, like the image burned on to your eyes when you have stared too long at the sun, the passing footprint of a creature long gone.”
― P.B. North, Leaving Pimlico

“wished I had known my father for what he was and my ignorance of the life he had lived filled me with pain. As I drove out of London I tried to recall my memories of him and found I could not remember a single conversation between us which had meant anything. I could visualise him, a small figure, always well-dressed, standing on the touchline at school matches or on the boundary of the cricket field and being pleased at what I had achieved.  I remember him buying me a pint of beer when I was eighteen and smoking a cigarette with him. But what he thought and what he felt he never stated, and nor did I. He died too early for me to know him and I became a man too late for him to be my friend. I felt now I was on a journey to discover a person I thought I already knew and in the process might learn something about myself.      The road north flashed by, my mind filled with the”
― P.B. North, Leaving Pimlico