Issue 61, Spring 1975
The room was about thirty feet by twenty. There was a door leading into the room from the hall. There was a French window, and a larger window looking over the landscape, down to the village, across the harbor, out to the bay. There was a fireplace, and in the grate early in the morning before it was cleaned were the remains of last night's fire. On the mantelpiece was an envelope file, out of which some typewritten pages obtruded, as well as a cutting from the Observer (6/9/70) and one from the Times of the previous day. There was a hardbacked exercise book, and paperback editions oi Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut, The French Lieutenant's Woman by John Fowles, The Turn of the Screw by Henry James, The Tremor of Forgery by Patricia High- smith, and Samuel Beckett's trilogy in one volume. There were also a couple of letters, and a bill. On the floor, tucked into the side of the fireplace, was a pile of newspapers. The floor was laid in wooden tiles: it had not been adequately sanded and sealed. Apart from the newspapers, the floor was empty but for two chairs. They were made of a light coloured wood, and folded. Had they been in the garden and not in the room, they would have been taken for garden chairs. The seats and shoulder rests were made of green canvas.
At 8:00 am, when the door into the room from the hall was opened for the first time that day, the chairs were placed on either side of the fireplace. Those sitting in them the previous night must have been facing the fire immediately before they stood up.