Verbatim

by Andrew Hill

  And so, for the time being at least, it remains on the shelf.

  * * *

  While Carol remained in contented ignorance, Grant Webster was in turmoil. Though he had calmed down, Grant was still angry but this anger soon turned into puzzlement; he hadn’t shown the novel to anyone apart from Johnson Books and other publishers.

  “How could the Verity woman have stolen it?” he wondered.

  It occurred to him that if Verity wasn’t her real name then it could be someone he knows.

  “What if it is?” passed through his mind, “they couldn’t possibly have copied it.”

  Discovering the identity of Verity Faithful became a priority in Grant’s mind. These days he could simply have googled her but back in 1988 that was not possible. All he could think of doing was to look in libraries and bookshops to find a book by her, if there are any, and ask friends if they knew of such a writer. He even tried the phone book and rang a number of publishers.

  “Is that Berger Publications?” enquired Grant.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me if you’ve published any books by a writer called Verity Faithful?”

  “Just a moment please.”

  To Grant it seemed a very long moment but finally the young female voice returned.

  “I’m sorry, we haven’t and no one here has ever heard of such a person.”

  And so ended the call in the same manner as they had all ended. Grant slowly replaced the receiver as he had done so many times and gave up that particular line of enquiry.

  “Who’s to say she lives in London or even in this country? She could be anywhere in the world or just around the corner. It must be a pseudonym, no one would be christened with that name.”

  * * *

  A few evenings later, Carol, along with a couple of girl friends, went into a pub not far from her home. It’s not a place she would go into often; not being a heavy drinker and in any event the pub was a little too traditional for her taste. Carol preferred the continental style café bars where you can drink coffee or tea at any time. In a traditional English pub it always seemed as though such beverages were made available reluctantly and this pub was no exception.

  At the bar, one of Carol’s friends, Joanna was her name, I think, let’s call her that for all it matters to my story, was served by a six-foot tall, well spoken and unusually polite barman with a middle-class accent, sound familiar? Joanna found him quite good looking but her regular boyfriend was dishy too and Carol’s friend was not in the market for another.

  “Still writing that novel?” enquired Joanna of Carol.

  “I finished it some time ago,” she relayed the story of the quick rejection.

  “Plenty more publishers than Jackson Novels or whatever they’re called.”

  “Johnson Books.”

  Our good looking barman was accustomed to ear wigging the customers’ conversations, from time to time comments had inspired him to think of plots, tag lines and even just words and phrases that might have some value. That was perhaps just an excuse for being nosey. But this conversation was different. As you may have guessed it was the reference to Johnson Books which caught the ear of our barman, along with the comment that the novel Carol had sent them was returned very quickly and, so it would seem, on the very day that his own novel and been received back.

  “How suspicious is that?” the barman thought.

  Following people home is not the sort of thing you should do, but Grant simply had to find out if Carol and Verity were the same person. It was quite early in the evening and Grant didn’t think the three young women would be in there until the bar closed at eleven o’clock when he came off duty. He was right. At just before seven thirty the three collected their things and left the bar and Grant with his wonderings.

  On an impulse Grant asked his manager if he could leave straight away because he wasn’t feeling too well. This didn’t find favour, it was, after all, Friday night. It was made clear to him that unless he was dying on his feet he’d have to remain; reluctantly he did. At least Grant now had a face to remember and if she lived locally, right here in Islington, she’ll come in again or he’ll see her one day in the street. Every day from there on Grant looked out for her. But it led only to frustration. He didn’t see her and the young woman didn’t come back into the pub.

  Once at home he started to read the script of her novel and compared it to his own. He couldn’t believe what he was reading even the typos were the same. Grant was no mathematician but worked out that if the novel was a hundred thousand words long the chances of two people accidently writing the same one must be phenomenal to one against. With around one hundred and seventy-thousand words in the Oxford English Dictionary, the chances to two people choosing the same two words are 170,0002:1 against, so what would be the odds against selecting the same 100,000 words? Even that was disregarding the order in which they’re chosen. A googol of googols to one against would probably not be enough.

  * * *

  Carol had other concerns and no idea that a googol was a very large number consisting of a one followed by a hundred noughts. Her life was not all that comfortable but whose was? Certainly she had a job, certainly it was a job as secure as any could be the late 1980s and although it was not overly well paid it had a reasonable pension scheme so she had no current financial worries. Carol had always been fairly careful about money believing that if you organise your money it will go further unlike her ex-flatmate, Sheila, one of the two women we met briefly in the pub earlier. As for a boyfriend, which I’m sure you’re waiting to hear about, Carol recently split with Roger after being together for about a year, though he was still part of her life because he worked in the same magistrates’ court. Carol’s personal life had never gone well. Many of her friends were either married or involved in a long-term relationship which meant she sat many evenings at home watching television or reading a book and sometimes even trying to write one as I am trying now.

  As of, eight minutes past eight o’clock in the evening Carol was looking at herself in the mirror and contemplating her future.

  And the decision was made.

  “I shall apply to do a law degree.”

  But what of Dead Letter Perfect? It had been to a lot of publishers but there are many more out there and given the months of toil taken to write the thing it would be a waste not to continue the quest for another company to promote her work. So a resolution was made to send it out to as many publishers as she could all at the same time rather than wait for a rejection letter from each one before sending it out again.

  Our would-be lawyer drew up a list of some twenty publishers and started to print out twenty copies, which seemed to take an age. Carol didn’t normally stay up late but it was gone midnight by the time the printing had finished and Carol was in bed.

  * * *

  At that precise time Grant was just unlocking his front door after arriving home from his bar tending. Like Carol, Grant had already sent his novel to many publishers. Most of them had not responded but a few days later there was a surprise awaiting him on the doormat, a letter from an outfit called Hawking Publications, it read:

  “Dear Mr Webster, Please contact my secretary to make an appointment so we can discuss your novel Dead Letter Perfect further.”

  This naturally excited our budding author who found himself, four days later, in the outer office waiting to be seen by one, Jonathan Spencer, chief editor of Hawking Publications. Carol, at the same time, was knocking on the door of courtroom number 3 to let in the magistrate.

  “All rise!”

  Grant had a long conversation about the novel, its genesis, his past and how he sees his future with Jonathan Spencer. Jonathan very much liked the novel but thought it betrayed Grant’s lack of experience and made a number of suggestions for Grant to take on board. But to Jonathan, Grant’s mind seemed to be wonderi
ng.

  “Did you get that?” enquired Jonathan.

  “Oh yes,” came Grant’s reply.

  “It’s just that you seemed as though you were miles away for a moment.”

  “Oh, I almost was,” explained Grant, “I’ve never been in a situation like this before and frankly I was starting to doubt myself as a writer. So, you see, I can’t quite believe I’m here talking to you.”

  Jonathan accepted this explanation but it wasn’t the real reason for Grant’s wondering mind. He was more concerned whether the Verity woman is still trying to get the novel published in her name. What if she succeeds? That would create an even bigger rumpus if two publishers published the same novel by two different people. The interview closed and Grant had a lot to think about especially as he didn’t really agree with some of the suggestions but thought it far better to go along with them.

  “If only I could prove I wrote it, that woman must have plagiarised it somehow, there’s no other explanation,” thought Grant as he left the office.

  A natural thing for Grant to think because he knows he wrote it from his own head, every blessed syllable of the thing. But unknown to Grant, Carol could say the same thing and when she eventually finds out the manuscript on her shelf isn’t the one she sent to Johnson Books she almost certainly will.

  On arriving home, Grant began to work on changing his novel to bring it into line with Jonathan’s suggestions making sure that he kept a copy of his original manuscript; it was too important. There were two broad areas of change. But I won’t go into them, they were for Grant to grapple with and can’t really advance my story. Grant, full of vigour and enthusiasm beavered away while Carol was reluctantly parting with her money for postage and return postage to twenty publishers, which was not cheap.

  Eager though Grant was, his mind couldn’t stop going back to Verity’s copy of ‘his’ manuscript. His failure to understand how it was copied was beginning to take a toll on the young man’s mental stability.

  “But copy it she did. I have done nothing wrong.”

  “I have done nothing wrong,” became his mantra. “She copied me. I don’t know how but she copied me.”

  Grant’s puzzlement was understandable and was beginning to prey deeply on his fragile mind. Why do I say ‘fragile’ mind? I am reminded of an incident in his childhood. While walking along a countryside river bank with his younger sister, Dorothy, a small puppy that had strayed from its owner stood in front of them.

  “And what’s your name?” said Dorothy as she approached it.

  She picked up the little animal and stroked it. Grant grabbed it from her, ran off to the river bank and threw it in.

  “Swim or die,” he shouted.

  Dorothy was upset and started to cry. Grant stepped into the river and dragged the dog out just as its owner came along.

  “I saw the dog…” said Grant, “fall into the river and struggle.” The owner thanked him while Dorothy knew different but said nothing. This sort of behaviour was not uncommon and did not go unnoticed by Dorothy.

  Grant was considered to be a very intelligent child but often seemed not to be quite in the same world as other people.

  These and similar incidents were all a long time ago and Grant seemed to everyone to grow out of them. Now, nearly fifteen years later, an adult Dorothy was visiting her older brother in London for the weekend.

  “What do you do,” she enquired, “when you’re not working in the bar?”

  “Not a great deal,” he replied saying nothing about the novel which he had carefully hidden away so he wouldn’t have to explain.

  “I remember,” said Dorothy, “when you wanted to be a novelist.”

  She noticed an immediate change in Grant, for the first time since childhood she saw that face again; the one that tried to drown the puppy. Dorothy left London that Sunday evening to return to her home in Hull with much more on her mind than she’d bargained for.

  * * *

  Days became weeks, weeks became months. Carol heard nothing from the ‘twenty’, Grant was finding revisions much harder than he thought while, “she did copy it, she did copy it,” imposed itself upon his mind.

  A letter arrived for Carol. Suspecting it was from one of the twenty publishers she opened it with little hope they’d be interested but Carol had an encouraging thought; they hadn’t returned her manuscript. In her hand was just a letter and no more, what she read came as a complete surprise. A company calling itself ‘Fielding Novels’ were interested in meeting her. Carol was soon phoning them to make an appointment. She knew little about them, acquiring their name from a directory of publishers.

  Carol was able to take what the civil service calls a flexi-day off work or in this case a flexi-afternoon and, reasonably spruced up, made her way to Fielding Novels’ offices in Hendon.

  Fielding Novels was the brainchild of one, Alan Fielding, who had been an executive with another publisher before moving out on his own. Two of his readers have given Carol’s novel a ‘good read’ and when that happens Alan will always read it himself and make his own decision. There was no doubt in his mind this book, though far from perfect, was worth following up.

  Hendon is not the easiest of places to get to from Islington where Carol lived but after a frustrating tube ride up the Northern Line or the Misery Line as so many were calling it back then, she was finally confronted by a dark blue door hidden between two shops; one a grocer and the other a newsagent. There were three floors, Carol observed. A surprisingly small bell announcing ‘Fielding Novels’ confirmed she had found the correct address. A few moments after pushing the button a faint female voice came though an inadequate speaker almost drowned by the traffic noise.

  “Yes?”

  Carol introduced herself.

  “Come up, second floor.”

  A faint buzzing sound indicated she could push the door open and Carol found herself in a short narrow hallway and confronted by stairs which were shabby and unkempt, it was easy to see this building had seen better times. There was no hiding Carol’s disappointment. Had she trekked all this way to meet some two-bit outfit? She opened the second floor door marked with the name of the company she had come to see.

  With dampened eagerness and a degree of trepidation, Carol approached the receptionist too nervous to notice the contrast between the two sides of the door she had come through; the outside an uncared for and musty smelling semi-relic and inside a sleek, modern looking office suite that would do any small company proud.

  “I’m Verity Faithful,” she announced on reaching the desk. “I have an appointment at two o’clock with Alan Fielding.”

  The young receptionist looked her name up on the list and picked up the internal phone to inform whoever was at the other end that Verity Faithful had turned up. She put down the phone and gave instructions to Carol on where to go.

  It wasn’t hard to find. The second floor had been knocked into one with next door but this went unnoticed by Carol who was getting more nervous by the second. Alan was at the door waiting for her.

  He spoke: “You must be Verity.”

  After the usual pleasantries Carol found herself sitting in Alan’s office.

  “This is a fascinating novel, where did you get the idea?”

  A hesitant Carol was not prepared for this question, “Where do ideas come from?” she said, “it just occurred to me one day.”

  They talked for a while about her life and her ambitions. This was Alan’s usual tactic with new authors to try and get them to relax a little.

  He turned his attention to Dead Letter Perfect and although he was being complementary it was clear that he would not publish the novel as it stood and started to make suggestions on the way it could be improved. He’d obviously read the novel carefully and attentively as he knew more about it than Carol herself seemed to, a point that didn’t go unnoticed by Alan
. Make of that what you will. Carol wasn’t about to disagree with his suggestions, like Grant, she doesn’t want to blow her chances of it being published.

  The interview didn’t take long and Carol was soon agreeing the proposed changes believing that Fielding knew more about these things than she, which was probably true. On her journey home Carol began to formulate ideas for bringing the changes into effect. She had left her initial disappointment behind and had never been so excited in her life.

  * * *

  But what of Grant? Unlike Carol he knew, or at least thought he knew, that she had stolen his work and he was desperate to prove it.

  He picked up his phone and dialled a number.

  “Hello, Johnson Books,” it was not the voice of Phil Johnson but that of his secretary. Grant knew just how reluctant Miss Lincoln would be to put him through and had prepared something to say designed to persuade her to give him Verity’s address, but Alice was not to be impressed.

  “Mr Webster, I couldn’t possibly tell you her address, I would lose my job.”

  “I’d be very discreet, I’d make up some reason for having found it out.”

  “I’m sorry Mr Webster, phone back later when Mr Johnson is in.”

  And with that down went the phone. Mr Johnson was, as you may have surmised, in all the time and Alice went straight into his office to relay the conversation she’d had.

  “If he rings again transfer him to me.”

  Alice didn’t have to wait long before the burbling sound of the phone was heard once more followed by Grant’s voice. Miss Lincoln put the call through.

  “Phil Johnson here.”