Mr Turner is my favourite Edwardian. He sits in a chair under the window. He doesn't waste a lot of words. And when he laughs he rocks a little. The sky is busy and blue over Richmond. Every few minutes a plane goes by. They seem to enter the window-frame just about head height; each one passes through the ears of E.S. Turner, and on from there to some Spain or America. He isn't bothered. He's nearly ninety. He's thinking of things to say about his life. And when he speaks he speaks in a small way. His voice seems aware of the danger it's in.

LRB 15 October 1998 | PDF Download