Five Windows

by D. E. Stevenson

  Teddy nodded. “ Yes, but all the same it seems a pity. How would it do to make them into a book? ”

  “ A book? ”

  “ I believe that would be best. If the articles were collected and made into a book people would have time to get interested in the author’s personality. Do you see what I mean, David? ”

  “ Yes,” I said doubtfully. “ I don’t know … perhaps some day …”

  Teddy’s words stuck in my mind and that evening when I had finished supper I decided to have a look at the manuscript which lay on the bottom shelf of the cupboard in my sitting-room. I had not looked at it for months but had kept on adding to it so there was a mass of writings and sketches mixed up in confusion. When I started the job I thought an hour would finish it but it took a great deal longer than that. I sat on the floor beside the cupboard and went on reading, turning over the untidy dog-cared sheets and coming across all sorts of things which I had forgotten. Did I write this? I asked myself in amazement (probably everybody who writes experiences the same feeling when he reads over his own work).

  The manuscript was not just a mass of bits and pieces (as I had thought), it was by no means shapeless. In a way it was a history of the last year, a chronicle of all I had seen and done. The bits and pieces were like beads upon a string, and the string was myself. I saw now what Teddy had meant when she suggested that people might become interested in the author’s personality.

  It was very late when at last I went to bed and I was too excited to sleep. I tossed and turned. One moment I decided that the book was no good at all—who would want to read a hotch potch of my ideas and experiences? The next moment I changed my mind; Teddy had liked that thing about the Pool of London and it was by no means the best. The one about Covent Garden Market was much more amusing … and the one about Kim’s … and the one about the London streets at different hours of the day and the different types of people to be seen.

  The next day I had another look at the pile of manuscript and before I knew what I was doing I had begun to revise it and put it in order. I had decided to go ahead and have a try. It would have to be typed of course (I had no time to do it myself and no typewriter) and typing it would cost a good deal, but I could use the money I was getting from Mr. Coe for looking after the shop. I thought of names for my book—it was an odd sort of book, neither fact nor fiction, so it should have an odd name—but I could think of nothing that satisfied me. Various titles suggested themselves but none would do; they were too whimsy or too stodgy or too long and clumsy.

  Teddy was in on all this of course. She came to supper one evening and helped me to sort out the papers … and suddenly after a long silence she raised her head and said, “ The Inward Eye.”

  It was perfect; the more I thought about it the more I liked it. Wordsworth had said the inward eye was “ the bliss of solitude ” and the book had been exactly that to me. It had filled my solitary hours with pleasure. Undoubtedly it was “ The Inward Eye.”

  Mr. Coe returned from Margate bronzed and cheerful and full of sea air but I did not envy him. I envied nobody who had not written a book. The Inward Eye looked splendid when I had revised it and had it typed. It was bound in soft cardboard folders and the sketches were inserted between the typescript. When I read it over I was very pleased with it and felt sure no publisher would be able to resist it.

  Mr. Coe knew about the book and asked if he might read it. I gave it to him one afternoon and he handed it back to me the next morning.

  “ Here, David,” he said. “ You had better take this. I don’t want it to lie about and get dirty.”

  “ Have you read it? ” I asked in surprise.

  “ It’s a queer sort of book,” he replied. “ It’s not the sort of book I like—that’s the truth, David. I like a story with a good plot.”

  “ Did you—did you read it all through? ”

  “ Yes, every word. I finished it at two o’clock this morning. Don’t know why it was—I just went on reading the damn’ thing—couldn’t put it down—but it’s no good, David. No publisher would look at it.”

  “ Oh! ” I exclaimed, somewhat taken aback.

  “ I’m sure you could write a novel,” said Mr. Coe encouragingly. “ A novel with a plot. You should have a go, David.”

  “ Yes,” I said doubtfully.

  As a matter of fact Mr. Coe’s verdict did not depress me unduly. His taste was for novels—preferably the novels of Dickens—and The Inward Eye was a very different work. If it had kept him out of bed until two o’clock in the morning it could not have bored him. I took comfort from that.

  I was full of hope when I sent off The Inward Eye but the publisher (whom I had chosen to have the felicity of putting it into print) returned the manuscript with regrets; he said it fell between two stools, it was neither a Guide Book nor a series of essays. I had known that before of course so it did not surprise me. Nothing daunted I packed it up and sent it to another publisher forthwith. The second publisher kept the manuscript for weeks and then returned it saying he had enjoyed the book; the articles were well-written and the drawings were amusing but it would cost a lot to produce and he was afraid there was no money in it. The third publisher said it was not the sort of book to start with. My name was unknown to the public. If I wrote a successful novel he would be very pleased to publish The Inward Eye afterwards. The fourth publisher advised me to break it up and send the articles separately to a magazine and he volunteered the information that certain well-known journals in America were interested in articles about London.

  By this time I was sick of the whole thing and had lost all faith in it; only sheer stubborn mulishness kept me from giving up the struggle. I thought about America … but I was determined not to break up my book. America could have it whole or not at all. Was it worth while trying? The manuscript was dirty and crushed; it looked as if it had been read by scores of people and I realised that if I were going to send it to America it would have to be retyped. I had saved up for a new suit, which I badly needed, but I could use the money for The Inward Eye. For several days I swithered and then I took a half-crown out of my pocket and tossed: heads a new suit for myself, tails a new suit for The Inward Eye.

  It was tails!

  The nice crisp manuscript went off to America in February. It was a spring-like day and the shop-windows were full of spring suits, light tweeds and worsteds, I could not help looking at them as I passed. Already I regretted having spent my hard-earned savings on having the book retyped. I pushed the parcel across the post-office counter and made up my mind to think no more about it.

  All this time Teddy had been helpful and encouraging and indeed if it had not been for her I should have given up the struggle long ago. Our friendship had continued on exactly the same lines, it was a most satisfactory friendship.

  One evening, soon after I had sent The Inward Eye to America, Teddy came as usual to have supper with me at the Wooden Spoon. I was there first, sitting at our usual table, when the door opened and she came in. The moment I saw her I knew what had happened—there was no need for her to tell me.

  “ Paul is coming home! ” I exclaimed as I rose to greet her.

  “ Yes,” she said breathlessly. “ Yes—I had a letter this morning—but how on earth did you know? ”

  “ It’s written all over you, Teddy.”

  She sat down. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were shining like stars. “ He’s on his way,” she said. “ He wants me to meet him at Liverpool. I’ve given up my job. Oh, David, I can hardly believe it! ”

  “ You’ll be married at once? ”

  She nodded. “ As soon as possible. Paul says we’ve waited long enough. Oh, David, isn’t it marvellous? ”

  I was glad for Teddy’s sake but desperately sorry for myself.

  “ This isn’t good-bye,” she continued, smiling at me. “ For all we know Paul may be posted to the War Office—or somewhere near London—and—and——”

  “ Yes,” I said. “ Yes
, of course, but——”

  “ You’ll like Paul,” she declared.

  I felt sure I should dislike him intensely. I felt perfectly certain he was not nearly good enough for her.

  “ Dear David,” she said. “ It’s been grand. I’ve been rather miserable sometimes and you’ve been perfect to me.”

  “ So have you,” I mumbled. “ I’ll miss you horribly.”

  “ You’ll miss me, but you’ll soon find other things to do.” She smiled and added, “ But for heaven’s sake don’t pick up a girl at the Market. It’s a bad thing to do.”

  “ It’s a good thing to do,” I told her.

  “ No, no! You might not be so lucky next time. You might find you’d picked a Tartar.”

  “ I’m good at picking girls,” I said, trying to smile.

  “ You’re nothing of the sort. I’ve taught you a little but you’re still a babe in arms. Promise me to be careful.”

  I laughed—not very cheerfully I’m afraid—and refused to promise. “ Why should I promise you anything, Teddy? You’re deserting me basely—and you’re not a bit sorry. All you think about is Paul.”

  She looked at me in alarm. “ David, you aren’t—aren’t being silly? ”

  “ No,” I said, smiling at her. “ At least if you mean what I think you mean. I don’t want to marry you, Teddy … but I don’t want anybody else to marry you. I’m just a dog in the manger.”

  “ Nice dog,” she said, smiling in return. “ Some day you’ll meet the right girl and then you’ll understand. She’ll be a very lucky girl and I believe I feel a tiny bit jealous of her.”

  “ Then you know how I’m feeling, Teddy.”

  She nodded and her eyes met mine; they were honest eyes and full of friendship.

  It was dreary when Teddy had gone. I missed her even more than I had expected.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The thirteenth of May began like other days with the buzzing of the alarm clock. I opened my eyes and saw the morning sunshine streaming in through the open window and heard the noise of the market. The first thing I thought of was that I could have boiled egg for breakfast—perhaps two boiled eggs—because yesterday a box of eggs had come from Haines. It was a pleasant thought and I rose and put on the water to boil the eggs and to make tea. I felt cheerful as I dressed. There was sunshine to brighten the present moment—sunshine and boiled eggs—and in the near future was the prospect of my holiday. This year I was having the first fortnight in June. This year I was going to Haines.

  Nobody who has not worked in an office, day in and day out, can possibly imagine the delight of freedom—fourteen whole days to do exactly as he likes—and looking forward to this heavenly state of freedom is almost as good as the reality. The bad part is when the slave returns to his chains and knows that he will have to wear them for eleven and a half months. But this morning I was not worrying about the end of my holiday, I was thinking of the beginning of it. I imagined myself at Euston, walking up the long wooden platform, I saw myself getting into the train.

  It was so clear in my mind that to all intents and purposes I was actually sitting in the third-class compartment and the train had begun to glide out of the station when the door-bell rang. It tinkled twice which was a signal from Mr. Coe and meant that the postman had left a letter for me and I was to come downstairs and get it. I was still half dazed, but I ran down and got the letter and ran up again.

  The post-mark was New York and as I came up the stairs I looked at it vaguely and wondered who on earth could be writing to me from New York. Then I remembered The Inward Eye.

  I was so used to having the manuscript returned to me with thanks that for a moment or two I was puzzled. This was a letter, not a bulky package of manuscript! I was furious with the American publisher—it really was the limit! I had spent pounds upon having the thing typed and the man had not even the decency to return it. I tore the letter open in a rage.

  It was a long letter and was written in friendly terms. The writer began by saying he had read The Inward Eye with interest and enjoyment; he liked it because it was original, he had never read anything quite like it before. The drawings were fascinating, so simple and fresh and unsophisticated, they struck the correct note every time. It was not often that an author was able to illustrate his own work. The sketch of the Big Business Man on his way to the City was a little masterpiece. The writer commented on various incidents in the book: this one was full of pathos, that one had sly humour. He declared that there was “ a rich pattern ” in The Inward Eye. He complimented me upon my fresh outlook.

  I read all this—and more—with a feeling of unreality; I was looking for a “ but.” Other publishers had said they liked my book and invariably had ended their letters with a large “ but ” … “ but unfortunately your name is unknown ”; “ but it would be expensive to reproduce the sketches ”; “ but it falls between two stools.” I looked for the “ but ” in Mr. Basil Barnes’s letter and looked in vain. There was no “ but.” Mr. Barnes seemed anxious to publish my book. I could not believe my eyes. It was not until I unfolded the enclosure that I believed my eyes. The enclosure was a contract with a space at the bottom for the author’s signature. When I saw that my eyes nearly fell out and my heart began to hammer like a pneumatic drill.

  It was so unexpected. It was so amazing. I had never been so excited in my life. I capered about and laughed aloud like a madman … then, beset with doubts, I stopped and sat down and read the letter again.

  Suddenly I remembered the office! I seized my hat and ran all the way but in spite of this I was very late indeed. Mr. Penman looked up from his desk when I came in and said Mr. Heatley had been asking for me and I was to go straight to his room when I arrived.

  “ You’re for the high jump, my child,” murmured Ullenwood. “ He’s in a rare old wax.”

  Unpunctuality was one of Mr. Heatley’s bugbears. It was a major crime. I knew he would be furious with me and he was.

  “ Look here, Kirke! ” he exclaimed when I went in. “ Do you realise you’re half an hour late? I suppose your alarm didn’t go off or you lost your collar-stud or you were delayed on the way by a street accident? I know all those excuses and I’m sick of them. You’ll have to think of something fresh.”

  This was not very fair because I was scarcely ever late for work; but when your boss speaks to you in this tone of voice it is better to remain silent. Mr. Heatley continued. He had a fine command of invective and he slated me uphill and down dale. He asked me what I thought I was being paid for, and how I thought an office could be run efficiently if all the clerks turned up half an hour late. Then suddenly he stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked at me.

  “ You’re ill, Kirke! ” he exclaimed. “ Sit down.”

  I was glad to sit down for, what with one thing and another, I felt a bit giddy.

  “ What’s the matter with you? ” he asked.

  “ Nothing, sir.”

  “ Look here, you haven’t been starving yourself again, have you? ”

  “ No, sir. I’m all right.”

  “ You look uncommonly queer. What have you been doing with yourself? ”

  “ I got a letter this morning,” I said. “ That’s what—delayed me.”

  “ Bad news? ”

  I had not intended to tell Mr. Heatley about the letter but he had been very good to me in his odd brusque fashion and I felt I wanted his advice.

  “ No, not bad news,” I said, and I took the envelope out of my pocket and handed it to him.

  “ What this! ” he said irritably. “ What’s all this about? Am I supposed to read it? ” but he unfolded the letter and read it without waiting for a reply. When he had read it once he turned to the beginning and read it again more carefully. Then he unfolded the contract.

  All this time there was silence. Mr. Heatley’s room seemed very quiet. His room was at the back and had double windows, so the noise of London which never ceases night or day was only a far-off mu
rmur like the sound of the wind in the pine-woods at Haines. I sat and waited. It seemed to me that Mr. Heatley took a long time to read those pages.

  Presently he looked at me over the top of his spectacles and said, “ So you’ve written a book? ”

  “ Yes, sir.”

  “ H’m,” he said. “ Lots of people write books—fewer get them published. What’s the matter with English publishers? ”

  “ I tried four. They didn’t want it.”

  “ This chap seems keen on it.”

  “ He doesn’t seem very business-like,” I said doubtfully.

  “ There are different ways of doing business,” replied Mr. Heatley. “ I expect this man sits back comfortably in his chair and chats into a dictaphone. That’s the American way and as a matter of fact it works. I gather this book of yours is an unusual sort of book, with pictures.”

  My opinion of Mr. Heatley had been high but it went higher that morning. He asked searching questions and listened with patience to all I said in reply. I had heard of people being “ turned inside out ” and that expression describes what Mr. Heatley did to me. When he had finished with me he knew as much as I did and the odd thing was he had helped me to see the matter more clearly. I asked him if he would witness my signature to the contract.

  “ No,” he replied, looking at me and smiling. “ Certainly not. You’re consulting me professionally, I suppose.”

  “ Yes.”

  “ My advice is that you go to a literary agent before you put your name to that paper.”

  “ I thought you——”

  “ I know nothing whatever about it,” he declared. “ The only thing I know about publishing is that I know nothing.”

  “ I suppose I could find out——”

  “ Wait,” said Mr. Heatley. “ There’s Tom Randall. You’ll be all right with him. I’ll get him on the phone.”

  “ Tom Randall! ” I said stupidly.

  “ He’s a literary agent,” explained Mr. Heatley, taking up the receiver, and without more ado he made the appointment. “ He can see you now,” said Mr. Heatley. “ Off you go—here, take the letter with you! ”