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The Warp

David Galbraith

So began my friendship with David, which was to be so passionate, and so brief. And the more I came to know him, the more curious I became. For there was something infinitely strange about him, about his romantic roving utterances, and his equally mysterious brooding silences. In some ways, he was like a child. Once, when he wanted to have breakfast in one place and I wanted to in another, David gave me my way with the worst grace I have ever seen from anyone in the world. And as we sat with our huge cups of tea in the ‘Croft’, David went into a protracted sulk from which he didn’t emerge until lunch time. Only once did his face light up – when our food was placed on the table before us, and then he gave a sort of ecstatic grin which he hastily stifled.

But for all that, I was devoted to David. He was a protagonist. He faced up to life at every point. In whatever company he was, if he wished he could make them enjoy themselves. He could grasp the world and twist it to his will. He could give it us. He could give us the sunset, and he could give us the food, and he could give us the mist and the rain. Whether he could also give it to himself I was less sure. Sometimes in the midst of our happiest evenings, in the midst of some fabulous joke or toy, his face would for a moment sag, and his mask of vitality drop.


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