He wanted to know how her book sales were going and, primed by Vivien, she was able to give exact figures. “Very well,” was his conclusion at the fairly phenomenal sales. Finally, just when she thought the interview was about to end he asked her why she had never married. “You are,” he said tantalisingly, “what would have once have been described as ‘on the shelf!’”
Fortunately, Liz’s sense of humour came to the forefront. She thought for a moment, not wanting to talk about her failed marriage to Steve which he obviously didn’t know about, so replied firmly. “Mr King, whenever I let men into my life they either spoil things themselves,” – thinking Philip – “become possessive,” – thinking Alex – “or are seeking fame by associating with someone relatively well known” – thinking Steve – she concluded modestly.
“Thank you, Elizabeth O’Malley, enjoy the rest of your American tour and I hope you will come back again soon.” The lights changed and the applause was warm. Liz rose thankfully from her seat glad the “ordeal” was over.
Liz had not enjoyed the experience and although Vivien assured her she had equipped herself well she made a mental note not to be interviewed on the Larry King Show again. She and Vivien had a light meal and turned in early, as there was a literary breakfast the next morning. “It could only happen in America,” she thought.
As it happened it went particularly well. Whether it was because everyone was very wide awake at eight in the morning or whether she was on particularly good form she had no idea, but it seemed somehow easier and more relaxed.
Towards the end of the two hours, a red-haired woman rose to ask a question and the microphone was handed to her. “May I ask Miss O’Malley if you were encouraged to write when you were at school?” Liz laughed. “I don’t know what prompted your question – but to be honest the answer must be no. I think I was forever ‘scribbling’ and my English literature teacher felt I should be putting my writing to better use. May I ask what prompted the question?” She was wondering if perhaps this was the mother of an aspiring young writer. Young writers she was hoping to meet when she lectured at Flagstaff.
The woman stood again. “Do you remember a dormitory in a boarding school in England where a young Irish girl came on an exchange visit for one term?” Liz inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Do you remember seven girls night after night asking the eighth girl, the Irish girl, to continue the story from the previous night?” Liz was startled. She couldn’t see the features of the woman as clearly as she would like – but there was something about her. “Were we at school together?” Liz asked. By now the audience was turning to look at the redhead. “Do you remember Judy Greenhalgh?” “Judy!” Liz momentarily forgot herself. “Judy!” Everyone laughed and Liz gathered her scattered thoughts.
“You will have to forgive me, ladies and gentlemen. Judy and I share some happy memories. Judy, please stay behind afterwards.” The event was at an end. There was laughter and applause as Judy wended her way through the tables to Liz, and there was more laughter and light hand-clapping as the two women hugged. Liz quickly explained she had a book signing now and Judy insisted on being first in the queue and then waited patiently as another hour passed by, as on request she wrote personal messages as well as her signature.
Finally, the last book was signed. Vivien started the clear up leaving Liz and Judy to properly catch up. They hugged and laughed, both talking at once in their excitement. Judy hadn’t changed much – still as slim as ever with her freckles now discreetly covered. She invited Liz back for lunch and Vivien nodded when she looked her way. “Give me your address,” she asked Judy, “and I will come and collect you around four o’clock if that is alright,” she continued, looking at Liz.
It was, and saying goodbye to Vivien who was still in the throes of packing up and sorting out various papers, the old friends drove off to Judy’s home in the neighbourhood of Scottsdale. Judy was now married to Gregory Raventos and Liz learned they had two daughters and she adored living in America. They chatted non-stop for the forty minute drive. Greg apparently worked from home so Liz would have the opportunity to meet him too, Judy informed her friend happily.
Judy was full of questions about Liz’s life in India and Liz was equally curious about Judy’s life in the States. “Where did you meet Greg?” she asked curiously. It transpired that they both had worked for the same bank in Hong Kong, “And then,” Judy continued. “When he was transferred back here he asked me to marry him and live in the States. All my family flew out for the wedding – gosh that seems a long time ago,” she sighed.
“You are happy though?” Liz queried, slightly worried about the sigh.
“Oh yes, Greg is a dear, it’s just where do all the years go! The children were like babies only yesterday and now Sarah is four and Jenny is six.”
Greg charmed Liz. He was a big, outgoing American, adored by his wife and apparently delighted that she had brought Liz home with her. Judy chatted as she busied herself in the kitchen making a pot of coffee and producing some home-made soup accompanied by some lovely crusty bread. Apart from the study, the whole of the downstairs was open plan with the kitchen in the middle providing real focus. It was so very different from the villa which, at their request, she tried her best to describe to them.
At Greg’s insistence, she even drew a floor plan of the downstairs and she described the gardens which led on to the beach. She mentioned her horses and Ashok’s home in the grounds. “Are you married?” Judy asked suddenly.
“No, but I sort of have two adopted sons, so I feel very lucky.” They both noticed a certain sadness as she spoke and felt the subject was not up for discussion. After she had left Greg and Judy talked about it for a while and concluded Liz had had to deal with some sort of tragedy in her life.
Vivien arrived promptly at four and as they drove off Liz turned to wave to her old friend. Greg was holding a copy of the book she had signed for them and he raised his arm in a sort of salute. Judy had shed tears when she had read what Liz had written in the book: To a dear school friend, who has reminded me of happy and fun days. Do keep in touch and visit me in India. Much love, Liz O’Malley.
She felt rather sad as the car turned the corner and they were hidden from view, she wondered if she would ever see them again, she thought perhaps not. She was wrong…
chapter 37
The company plane flew them up to Flagstaff. Liz was feeling a bit emotional and a little despondent. Lecturing literature students at Flagstaff University would be challenging – they were apparently doing a course that had them studying writers in different genres and covering a vast period in history and their relevance to present-day writers. Liz had been asked to talk about contemporary literature and where she fitted in. She imagined they might be a tough group – but she hoped they would gain something from what she was proposing to talk about.
She planned to start her talk by telling them of her “Three D Guide”. “I know from your tutors that most of you here today hope to become writers, even great writers, but the word rejection will be a keyword for most, if not all, of you at some time in your writing careers. So my first piece of advice to you is. Don’t be Despondent, Disappointed or Desolate. Instead, remember the ‘C guide’. Be Courageous, Committed and Confident.”
The plane flew smoothly onwards, an occasional drop in air-pressure causing the plane to rise or drop slightly. Liz’s eyes were closed and Vivien noticed how tired she looked and determined that, after Flagstaff, there must be a short break before the final reception in New York and before she flew back to India or England.
Liz didn’t open her eyes until she felt flaps go down and noticed the change in the engine noise. Vivien proposed another few days’ break. Liz beamed. “But VB we only had a break in Sedona and the ranch recently.” “I know, I know,” Vivien responded, “but constantly being on the move is tiring me and I don’t have to lecture, be interviewed or attend literar
y events.” “True,” Liz said happily. “What shall we do, where do you propose we stay?”
Vivien smiled, she had an idea she wanted to check out, something really special. She knew she would enjoy it too even though she had done it once before.
While Liz unpacked yet again and arranged to have a few things pressed, Vivien talked with the front desk and made all the enquiries she needed to. Armed with a telephone number she made a phone call and “the plan” was put in place. She couldn’t wait to tell Liz.
That evening Liz ordered room service and for once did not invite Vivien to join her. She wanted to go back in her mind to the meeting with Judy and realised she felt a pang of envy for her friend’s obvious happiness in her marriage and with her children and her life in general.
Liz felt a sense of aloneness that she never experienced at home and felt slightly sorry for herself. She’d had enough of America, from its cheery “have a nice day”, to the large meals that seemed forever presented to her. She longed for Goa – she longed for home.
The students were such fun, it quite lifted her spirits. Many of them planned journalistic careers, a number were not quite sure which direction they wanted to go in but were enjoying the course, but there was a small group, easily identified by their questions, who were novice writers. She gave them her three Ds and three Cs, and talked about her early disappointments and frustrations. How sometimes when a manuscript was returned for the third or fourth time, she would put it in a drawer and try and forget about it for a while.
“But,” she continued. “If you have written it, you have put your thoughts and energies into it. Don’t leave it lying in a drawer, a dusty manuscript found after your demise seventy years on is not going to do you any good, though it might make millionaires out of your descendants!” This made them laugh and broke the ice. Questions spewed forth about researching ideas and developing a personal style.
Liz continued by saying that even if they did not become full-time writers but had a longing to write, then they should find a part of every day when they wrote, if only an hour. “If you really want to succeed, you will.” She concluded by adding how she wished them all the success they deserved, whether they became professional writers, or hobbyists, or told stories to the children they might have one day. There was a groan and laughter to which she responded. “I know that must seem a lifetime away! But anyway, I would like to thank you for having me here and I look forward to meeting as many of you as possible.”
After the inevitable book signing Liz returned with Vivien to the hotel, to have a rest before showering and changing to have dinner with the Principal and staff, at which thankfully, she remembered, she did not have to speak. It was, Vivien assured her, a purely social affair and she, Vivien, would not be accompanying her. A car would collect Liz and bring her back to the hotel at the end of the evening.
It turned out to be a relaxed and informal affair. Principal Betty Enfield and her husband Derek were gracious and charming and she met so many friendly people, most of whom assured her they had read several of her books. It was all quite good for Liz’s flagging ego – flagging only because the end was in sight and she could hardly believe how well it had gone, and how much she wanted it to be over.
From time to time during the evening her mind went to Vivien, wondering what particular excitement was planned for the next afternoon. Vivien had suggested she have a lie in, breakfast in bed and then be ready, casually dressed at noon.
Finally, back at the hotel, Liz had another shower, then she picked up the TV remote control and climbed into bed to catch up on the news or even watch a movie. In the end, she did neither, watching only a few minutes of local news before the remote slipped from her fingers on to the floor and she was asleep.
At noon the following day, after a deliciously lazy morning, she went down to the lobby. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck. She wore light cream trousers and a cream silk blouse with a Hermes scarf tied loosely at her neck. She carried a lightweight jacket and shoulder bag with the things she would never be without: a small pad and ballpoint for notetaking; her diary which she carried in case she needed to consult it regarding an engagement; her tiny travel address book, for wherever she was in the world she would send postcards to the boys, her sister, a favourite cousin and staff at the villa; lipstick, a clean handkerchief (she hated tissues) and a small tube of moisturiser as she found all the air-conditioning in the States very skin-drying. Finally, a small hairbrush in case she needed to tidy up if she got too blown about.
Vivien looked her up and down as she returned to the lobby from outside. “Right Liz, perfectly dressed as always – the car awaits!”
If Liz felt anything it was that she hoped the drive would not be too long. Twenty minutes later they arrived at an airfield. It was not the one they had arrived at two days before, but a smaller one and the only thing Liz could see was a helicopter. She was mystified. “Right,” said Vivien, thoroughly enjoying keeping Liz in suspense despite her earlier entreaties. “We are going to fly to and over the Grand Canyon. The copter will fly us around the rim then go down a bit so we can have a really good look around. I’ve done this trip before,” she continued, “and it is FANTASTIC.”
Liz was overwhelmed with excitement. She knew some people walked right down and even stayed overnight at the base, but this sounded much better and certainly, feeling the way she was at the moment, agreeably less tiring!
The pilot came over to meet the two women and give them a briefing. He went through various safety procedures with them and then they were climbing in. The blades were rotating, the roar blocked out by the headphones they were wearing. Liz sat next to the pilot with Vivien behind. Although when the helicopter took off, Liz’s stomach gave a leap, she soon adjusted to the angle the helicopter was flying at and settled back to enjoy the flight. It was about twenty minutes before Liz got her first sight of the Canyon from the sky. First they flew around the huge perimeter, then their pilot made a series of swoops so that they were able to see the depth and colour of the rocks, even seeing the small figures of people walking up or down the path to the base.
Liz clapped her hands in delight. “It’s wonderful,” she said into her microphone. The pilot turned and gave her a thumbs up. A little while later she noticed him speaking into his mouthpiece. The helicopter banked quite steeply. Liz took off her headphones to hear the pilot saying, “Mayday, Mayday,” then repeating and repeating. The helicopter seemed to be falling, falling like a stone, and that was Liz’s last conscious thought.
*
The telephone rang at the school. She hated having to do this but Liz’s sister knew that it was what Liz would want. She still hadn’t grasped the awfulness. Her telephone ringing at three a.m. had shattered her sleep – it was a telephone call from New York, Liz’s publishers. She had been dragged into awful reality by the sympathetic voice at the other end. “Yours was the ‘next of kin’ number she gave us. It is very grave news I’m afraid.” She heard something about someone being “dead” and she heard someone screaming – it took a few seconds for her to realise it was her.
The scream woke her, and she asked “the voice” to repeat everything slowly. There had been a helicopter crash over the Grand Canyon. The pilot was dead as was Vivien Brown. “But my sister, Liz?”
“She is alive but critically hurt. The rescue was tricky because of the difficult terrain – it took quite a long time to reach her.”
“Where is she?” Kathy demanded. The kind voice gave her the name of a hospital in Phoenix. “I shall come as soon as I can get a flight.”
By early morning Kathy had her flight arranged, packed a small case and then, just as she was about to leave the flat, thought of Jack and Jamie. She telephoned the school and eventually was put through to someone who at last said he would locate Jack. “It was,” he questioned, “concerning a family member?”
“Absolutely,” Kathy lied. Ja
ck, who was just finishing breakfast, was summoned out of the dining room. His language master, looking very serious, told him a close family member had been in an accident. “Your aunt is on the telephone.” Jack was mystified, as far as he knew he had no aunt. Then he knew without a shadow of a doubt it must be Liz’s sister. He had never met her but Liz often mentioned her. Jack followed the master to his study. “Jack Broderick,” he said, picking up the phone.
“Oh, Jack you don’t know me. It’s Kathy here, Liz’s sister.” With a sinking feeling, he knew he had been right. It was Liz. “What’s happened to Liz?” he asked without preamble.
“There has been a bad accident, I’m flying to Phoenix this morning. I’ll call you from there. I promise I will keep you informed all the time – Liz would want that.”
“Thank you,” Jack replied putting the telephone down and wondering what to do. He must tell Jamie of course, but there was one other person he must tell. He must tell his father.
He found Jamie and together they sat on a bench outside. They had been told they could miss the first lesson of the morning. “We have to tell Dad you know,” Jamie said.
“I know,” Jack answered, knowing that he, as the eldest son, would have to make the call.
“Let’s do it straight away, he’ll know what to do. He’ll have to give us the money – we have to go, Jack, we have to.”
Jack nodded. Getting his mobile out of his pocket he pressed the code for Philip’s private number at the embassy. Philip, sitting at his desk looking at the day’s mail his secretary had left for him, sighed when his mobile rang but, seeing Jack’s number on the screen, smiled as he answered. “Are you having time out for good behaviour?” he asked good-naturedly.
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