When the clock struck eleven, Harry, who might have had one brandy too many, rose unsteadily from his chair. He didn’t need reminding that at six the next morning Natalie would be standing in the hotel lobby, waiting to whisk him off for his first radio interview of the day. He thanked his hostess for a memorable evening, and for his trouble received another bear hug.
‘Now, don’t forget,’ she said, ‘whenever you’re interviewed, think British, act Yiddish. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, or a half-decent meal, just like the Windmill Theatre we never close.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harry.
‘And when you next speak to Emma,’ said Alistair, ‘do remember to send our love, and be sure to chastise her for not accompanying you on this trip.’
Harry decided this wasn’t the moment to tell them about Sebastian and what the doctors described as his hyper-active problem.
The three of them somehow squeezed into the lift, and Harry received one last hug from Phyllis, before Parker opened the front door and he was cast back on to the streets of Manhattan.
‘Oh hell,’ he said after he’d walked a short way down Park Avenue. He turned and ran back to Phyllis’s house, up the steps and banged on the front door. The butler didn’t appear quite as quickly this time.
‘I need to see Mrs Stuart urgently,’ said Harry. ‘I hope she hasn’t gone to bed.’
‘Not that I’m aware of, sir,’ said Parker. ‘Please, follow me.’ He led Harry back down the corridor and into the lift where once again he pressed the button for the third floor.
Phyllis was standing by the mantelpiece puffing away on her cheroot when Harry made his second entrance. It was her turn to look surprised.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘but Emma will never forgive me if I return to England without discovering what’s happened to that lawyer who foolishly underestimated her.’
‘Sefton Jelks,’ said Alistair, looking up from his seat by the fire. ‘The damn man finally resigned as senior partner of Jelks, Myers and Abernathy, albeit somewhat reluctantly.’
‘Shortly afterwards, he disappeared off to Minnesota,’ added Phyllis.
‘And he won’t be returning in the near future,’ said Alistair, ‘as he died some months ago.’
‘My son is a typical lawyer,’ said Phyllis, stubbing out her cheroot. ‘He only ever tells you half the story. Jelks’s first heart attack warranted a small mention in the New York Times, and it was only after the third that he received a short and not very flattering paragraph at the bottom of the obituary page.’
‘Which was more than he deserved,’ said Alistair.
‘I agree,’ said Phyllis. ‘Although it gave me considerable pleasure to discover that only four people attended his funeral.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Alistair.
‘Because I was one of them,’ said Phyllis.
‘You travelled all the way to Minnesota just to attend Sefton Jelks’s funeral?’ said Harry in disbelief.
‘I most certainly did.’
‘But why?’ demanded Alistair.
‘You could never trust Sefton Jelks,’ she explained. ‘I wouldn’t have been truly convinced he was dead until I’d seen his coffin being lowered into the ground, and even then I waited until the gravediggers had filled in the hole.’
‘Please have a seat, Mrs Clifton.’
‘Thank you,’ said Emma as she sat down on a wooden chair and faced the three governors, who were in comfortable seats behind a long table on a raised dais.
‘My name is David Slater,’ said the man in the centre, ‘and I’ll be chairing this afternoon’s meeting. Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Miss Braithwaite and Mr Needham.’
Emma tried to make a rapid assessment of the three invigilators she was facing. The chairman wore a three-piece suit, an old school tie she recognized, and looked as if this wasn’t the only board he chaired. Miss Braithwaite, who sat on his right, was dressed in a pre-war tweed suit and thick woollen stockings. Her hair was done up in a bun, leaving Emma in no doubt that she was a spinster of this parish, and the set of her lips suggested she didn’t smile that often. The gentleman on the chairman’s left was younger than his two colleagues, and reminded Emma that it was not so long ago that Britain had been at war. His bushy moustache suggested the RAF.
‘The board has studied your application with interest, Mrs Clifton,’ began the chairman, ‘and with your permission, we would like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Emma, trying to relax.
‘How long have you been considering adoption, Mrs Clifton?’
‘Ever since I realized I couldn’t have another child,’ replied Emma, without adding any details. The two men smiled sympathetically, but Miss Braithwaite remained po-faced.
‘You state on your application form,’ continued the chairman, looking down at his papers, ‘that you would prefer to adopt a girl aged around five or six. Is there any particular reason for that?’
‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘My son Sebastian is an only child, and my husband and I felt it would be good for him to be brought up with someone who hasn’t had all the advantages and privileges he has taken for granted since birth.’ She hoped her reply hadn’t sounded too rehearsed, and could have sworn the chairman placed a tick in a box.
‘Can we assume from your answer,’ said the chairman, ‘that there are no financial restrictions that might hinder you bringing up a second child?’
‘None whatsoever, Mr Chairman. My husband and I are comfortably off.’ Emma noticed this elicited another tick.
‘I only have one more question,’ said the chairman. ‘You stated in your application that you would consider a child from any religious background. May I ask if you are affiliated to any particular church?’
‘Like Dr Barnardo,’ said Emma, ‘I am a Christian. My husband was a choral scholar at St Mary Redcliffe.’ Looking directly at the chairman, she added, ‘Before he went on to Bristol Grammar School, where he ended up as the senior chorister. I was educated at Red Maids’ School, before winning a scholarship to Oxford.’
The chairman touched his tie, and Emma felt things couldn’t be going much better, until Miss Braithwaite tapped her pencil on the table. The chairman nodded in her direction.
‘You mentioned your husband, Mrs Clifton. May I enquire why he isn’t with you today?’
‘He’s in the United States on a book tour. He’ll be returning in a couple of weeks’ time.’
‘Is he often away?’
‘No. Very rarely in fact. My husband is a writer by profession, so he’s at home most of the time.’
‘But he must need to visit a library occasionally,’ suggested Miss Braithwaite, with what might have passed as a smile.
‘No, we have our own library,’ said Emma, regretting the words the moment she’d uttered them.
‘And do you work?’ Miss Braithwaite asked, making it sound like a crime.
‘No, although I assist my husband in any way I can. However, I consider being a wife and mother a full-time job.’ Although Harry had recommended this line, he knew only too well that Emma didn’t believe it, and she now believed it even less after meeting Cyrus Feldman.
‘And how long have you been married, Mrs Clifton?’ persisted Miss Braithwaite.
‘Just over three years.’
‘But I see from your application form that your son Sebastian is eight years old.’
‘Yes, he is. Harry and I were engaged in 1939, but he felt it was his duty to sign up even before war had been declared.’
Miss Braithwaite was about to ask another question, when the man on the chairman’s left leant forward and said, ‘So you were married soon after the war ended, Mrs Clifton?’
‘Sadly not,’ said Emma, looking at a man who only had one arm. ‘My husband was badly wounded by a German landmine only days before the war ended, and it was some time before he was fit enough to be discharged from hospital.’
Miss Braithwaite still
appeared unmoved. Emma wondered, could it be possible that . . . she decided to take a risk she knew Harry would not have approved of.
‘But, Mr Needham,’ she said, her eyes not leaving the man with one arm, ‘I consider myself to be among the lucky ones. My heart goes out to those women whose husbands, fiancés and sweethearts did not return to their families, having made the ultimate sacrifice for their country.’
Miss Braithwaite bowed her head, and the chairman said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Clifton. Someone will be in touch with you in the near future.’
5
NATALIE WAS STANDING in the lobby waiting for him at 6 a.m. She looked just as crisp and perky as she had done when she’d left him the day before. Once they were seated in the back of the limousine, she opened the inevitable folder.
‘You begin the day being interviewed by Matt Jacobs on NBC, the highest-rated breakfast show in the country. The good news is that you’ve been given the prime slot, which means you’ll be on some time between seven forty and eight a.m. The not-so-good news is that you’re sharing it with Clark Gable, and Mel Blanc, the voice of Bugs Bunny and Tweetie Pie. Gable’s promoting his latest movie, Homecoming, in which he stars alongside Lana Turner.’
‘And Mel Blanc?’ said Harry, trying not to laugh.
‘He’s celebrating a decade with Warner Brothers. Now, taking into account sponsors’ breaks, I estimate you’ll be on air for four to five minutes, which you must think of as 240 to 300 seconds. I cannot stress enough,’ continued Natalie, ‘how important this show is for launching our whole campaign. You won’t be doing anything bigger in the next three weeks. This could not only get you on to the bestseller list but, if it goes well, every major show across the country will want to book you.’
Harry could feel his heartbeat rising by the second.
‘All you have to do is find any excuse to mention Nothing Ventured,’ she added as the limousine drew up outside the NBC studios at the Rockefeller Center.
Harry couldn’t believe the sight that greeted him when he stepped out on to the pavement. The narrow entrance that led to the front of the building had been fenced off and was crammed on both sides with screaming fans. As Harry made his way through the crowds of expectant onlookers, he didn’t need to be told that 90 per cent of them had come to see Clark Gable, 9 per cent Mel Blanc, and possibly 1 per cent . . .
‘Who’s he?’ someone shouted as Harry hurried past.
Perhaps not even 1 per cent.
Once he was safely inside the building, a floor walker escorted him to the green room and briefed him on timings.
‘Mr Gable will be on at seven forty. Mel Blanc will follow him at seven fifty, and we’re hoping to get you on by seven fifty-five in the run-up to the news.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harry as he took a seat and tried to compose himself.
Mel Blanc bounced into the green room at 7.30, and looked at Harry as if he was expecting to be asked for an autograph. Mr Gable, accompanied by his entourage, followed a few moments later. Harry was surprised to see the screen idol dressed in a dinner jacket and carrying a glass of whisky. Gable explained to Mel Blanc that it wasn’t an early morning drink, because he hadn’t been to bed. Laughter followed him as he was whisked away, and Harry was left alone with Mel.
‘Listen carefully to Gable,’ said Mel as he sat down next to Harry. ‘The minute the red light goes on, no one, including the studio audience, will realize he’s had anything to drink but orange juice, and by the time he comes off, everyone will want to see his new movie.’
Mel turned out to be right. Gable was the ultimate professional, and the title of his new film got a mention at least every thirty seconds. And although Harry had read somewhere that he and Miss Turner couldn’t stand each other, Gable was so gracious about his co-star that even the most cynical listener would have been convinced they were bosom pals. Only Natalie didn’t look pleased, because Gable overran his slot by forty-two seconds.
During the ad break, Mel was escorted up to the studio. Harry learnt a great deal from Mel’s performance, during which Sylvester, Tweety Pie and Bugs Bunny were all given an outing. But the thing that most impressed him was that when Matt Jacobs asked what was clearly the final question, Mel just went on talking, and stole another thirty-seven seconds of his precious time.
During the next ad break, it was Harry’s turn to be led up to the guillotine, where he knew his head was about to be removed. He sat down opposite his host and smiled nervously. Jacobs was studying the inside flap of a copy of Nothing Ventured that looked as if it had never been opened before. He glanced up and returned Harry’s smile.
‘When the red light goes on, you’ll be on the air,’ was all he said before turning to the first page. Harry checked the second hand of the studio clock: four minutes to eight. He listened to an advertisement for Nescafé, as Jacobs scribbled down a couple of notes on a pad in front of him. The ad ended with a familiar jingle, and the red light went on. Harry’s mind went blank, and he wished he was at home having lunch with Emma, even facing a thousand Germans at Clemenceau ridge, rather than 11 million Americans enjoying their breakfast.
‘Good morning,’ said Jacobs into his microphone, ‘and what a morning it’s been. First Gable, then Mel, and we end this hour of the breakfast show with a special guest from Great Britain, Harry’ – he quickly checked the book’s cover – ‘Clifton. Now, before we talk about your new book, Harry, can I confirm that the last time you set foot in America you were arrested for murder?’
‘Yes, but it was all a misunderstanding,’ spluttered Harry.
‘That’s what they all say,’ said Jacobs with a disconcerting laugh. ‘But what my eleven million listeners will want to know is, while you’re here, will you be getting together with some of your old convict buddies?’
‘No, that’s not the reason I’m in America,’ began Harry. ‘I’ve written a—’
‘So Harry, tell me about your second impression of America.’
‘It’s a great country,’ said Harry. ‘New Yorkers have made me feel so welcome, and—’
‘Even the cab drivers?’
‘Even the cab drivers,’ repeated Harry, ‘and this morning I got to meet Clark Gable.’
‘Is Gable big in England?’ asked Matt.
‘Oh yes, he’s very popular, as is Miss Turner. In fact I can’t wait to see their new film.’
‘We call them movies over here, Harry, but what the hell.’ Jacobs paused, glanced up at the second hand on the clock, and said, ‘Harry, it’s been great having you on the show, and good luck with your new book. After a few words from our sponsors, we’ll return at the top of the hour with the eight o’clock news. But from me, Matt Jacobs, it’s goodbye, and have a great day.’
The red light went off.
Jacobs stood up, shook hands with Harry and said, ‘Sorry we didn’t get more time to talk about your book. Loved the cover.’
Emma sipped her morning coffee before opening the letter.
Dear Mrs Clifton,
Thank you for attending the board meeting last week. I am pleased to inform you that we would like to take your application to the next stage.
Emma wanted to ring Harry immediately but knew it was the middle of the night in America, and she wasn’t even sure which city he was in.
We have several suitable candidates for you and your husband to consider, a number of whom are residing in our homes at Taunton, Exeter and Bridgwater. I will be happy to send information on each child, if you would be kind enough to let me know which home you’d prefer to visit first.
Yours sincerely,
Mr David Slater
One call to Mitchell confirmed that Jessica Smith was still at Dr Barnardo’s in Bridgwater, but was hoping to be amongst those going to Australia. Emma checked her watch. She would have to wait until noon before Harry could be expected to ring and she could tell him the news. She then turned her attention to a second letter which had a ten-cent stamp on it. She didn’t need to check the postm
ark to know who had sent it.
By the time Harry arrived in Chicago, Nothing Ventured had come in at number 33 on the New York Times bestseller list, and Natalie was no longer placing a hand on his leg.
‘No need to panic,’ she reassured him. ‘The second week is always the most important. But we’ve got a lot of work to do if we’re going to make it into the top fifteen by next Sunday.’
Denver, Dallas and San Francisco took them almost to the end of the second week, by which time Harry was convinced that Natalie was among those who hadn’t read the book. Some of the prime-time shows dropped Harry at the last minute, and he started to spend more and more of his time in smaller and smaller book stores signing fewer and fewer copies. One or two proprietors even refused to let him do that because, as Natalie explained, they couldn’t return signed copies to the publisher as they were considered damaged goods.
By the time they touched down in Los Angeles, Nothing Ventured had crept up to number 28 on the bestseller list and, with only a week to go, Natalie couldn’t mask her disappointment. She began to hint that the book just wasn’t moving out of the shops fast enough. That became even more apparent the following morning when Harry came down to breakfast and found someone called Justin sitting opposite him.
‘Natalie’s flown back to New York overnight,’ Justin explained. ‘Had to meet up with another author.’ He didn’t need to add, someone who’s more likely to make it into the top fifteen of the bestseller list. Harry couldn’t blame her.
During his final week, Harry zigzagged across the country, appearing on shows in Seattle, San Diego, Raleigh, Miami and finally Washington. He began to relax without Natalie by his side constantly reminding him about the bestseller list, and even managed to mention Nothing Ventured more than once during some of the longer interviews, even if it was only on local shows.
When he flew back into New York on the final day of the tour, Justin checked him into an airport motel, handed him an economy-class ticket for London, and wished him luck.
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