Now he knew not only that Hester’s family had been as substantial as his uncle’s, but also that Hester herself had held both house and farm together when his father was too bitter and crazed with grief to cope with either. He himself had been an added burden, a sickly fractious child she had nursed through infant gripes and adolescent tantrums until he finally ran off and left her—the only time she might have needed him.
Reading through those records had been like stripping a piece of Band-Aid off his soul. Griefs, shames and longings which he had refused to acknowledge at the time, came gushing out to confuse and overwhelm him; facts turned on their heads, resentments seen as lies. His first thought, like his brother’s, was to hide the evidence. Who wanted all those reproachful, unexpected facts, Hester’s role re-written, his own shown up as meaner and less martyred than he remembered it himself? It had been easy to label Hester as a sour and loveless drudge until he actually read her words, saw how often she had worried about his health and happiness, how many hours she had sat by his bed with cold flannels or hot drinks. There was even a postcard with a Humpty Dumpty doodled on the front, and a verse in her bold black writing on the back:
‘Poor little Matthew sat on the wall,
Poor little Matthew had a great fall.
Out rushed big Hester with two brawny men
And put little Matthew together again.’
He had forgotten that event till now—a bad fall on his head off a high stone wall. Now the whole scene flooded back. The sting of iodine, the smell of disinfectant, Hester’s stern but careful hands patching him up, putting him to bed. When he couldn’t sleep that night, she had sat up with him till morning, sung him the rhyme, then wrote it on a postcard for him and left it on his breakfast tray. He couldn’t have treasured it, since it was back in her possession, but now it seemed ridiculously precious.
The diaries were full of such embarrassments—soulless chores Hester had done without complaining, tendernesses he had forgotten or denied. He sat in his study trying to decide whether to leave them as private record of his vanished childhood, or turn them into profit. In the end, business sense prevailed. When he emerged at midnight, his eyes and mind were clear. No one had any right to bury history. All it needed—like his life—was clever editing. Put together with the letters and the drawings and all the records of the house itself, Hester’s diaries could make a package of such profit and potential, only a fool would turn his back on it.
Lyn was a fool, of course, but he himself as entrepreneur and father of four could not afford to be. Indeed, without his patronage, Lyn might be on the dole by now, or living as some down-and-out eccentric in a Northumbrian wilderness. Whatever the merits of the Hester of the diaries, the widow who survived them had become a strange, embittered woman, who had made her son both cranky and dependent, cut him off from normal social intercourse and could well have blighted all his prospects. It was Matthew who had bailed him out, coaxed him down to London, and encouraged talents already gone to waste. His half-brother had always been artistic, and the firm could use a promising young designer who was more interested in fulfilment than in cash. He had arranged a vocational course in graphics at the sort of commercially orientated art school where Lyn would not be distracted by romantic notions of Fine Art or ars gratia artis and had negotiated a full grant, despite Lyn’s lack of qualifications and the fact that he was well past student age.
Lyn never completed the course. One of Matthew’s designers demanded a higher salary and waved an offer from a rival firm as proof that he should get it. Matthew let him go and offered the job to Lyn who was still a year away from his final diploma. Not only could he pay Lyn less on the grounds of his being technically unqualified, he could also prevent him touting around for other jobs, most of which required that vital piece of paper.
He hadn’t done his brother down. Lyn was lucky to land such a responsible position at all. Matthew had also secured him a house, a future and a wife. The least Lyn could do in return was relinquish his rights to the diaries and help the firm present them as tastefully and as profitably as possible.
Matthew opened his briefcase and drew out one or two of the notebooks which he had brought from his study at home. He still had to decide how best to present this precious cache of diaries, letters, rent books, game books, cookbooks. His first thought had been to centre it on Hernhope, the story of the house itself. But that would omit the record of Hester’s youth at Fernfield, followed by her struggles down in London. Hester’s diaries were so full, so vivid, so intensely personal, she herself should be the star and centre of any publication. It was an added bonus that she had been born in 1900, so her story was that of the century itself. He had even thought of a title—Born With The Century. It was catchy, apt and memorable. No doubt it had been used before, but one of his skills was to cash in on other men’s ideas and turn them to his own advantage. This project couldn’t fail. There was enough material for several books, in fact, though he might well weave it all together to make a compendium of dazzling range and interest. The recipes alone were remarkably original. Jennifer had stumbled on those in a separate chest, the morning after her main discovery. She had then tried them out at Hernhope, working through soups and savouries, pies and puddings, pickles and preserves.
One of Hester’s charms was the quirky way she muddled things together—shopping lists and local superstitions jostling with accounts of national events or international wars; the grim statistics of a local influenza epidemic immediately followed by a recipe for boot varnish. Matthew stopped at that.
‘Mix six ounces of best gum arabic, three ounces of sugar-candy, a good measure of brown sherry and a pint of ink, and set it to boil in a saucepan …’
He smiled. Utterly delightful. ‘When cold, add a quarter of a pint of spirits of wine and shake well. If too thick, dilute with a teaspoonful of claret.’ The boots would be alcoholic!
There was a knock on the door. He had assumed that none of his staff was in yet. He and Anne often arrived an hour or so before the rest, not only to set an example of commitment and hard work, but also to take advantage of the lull before the squall of phones and typewriters which began at half-past nine.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Only me, darling. I’ve brought your coffee up.’ He had trained even Anne to knock. Colleagues were all too ready to accuse him of favouritism, even nepotism. That was one of the reasons he was always strict with Lyn.
‘Thanks. Put it down there, would you.’ Matthew moved the notebook. ‘Here, take a look at Hester’s boozy boot varnish. It sounds like something out of the Arabian Nights.’
Anne laughed. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it. Jennifer showed it to me—along with the boots she’d treated with it. They were shining like black glass.’
‘You mean, she actually tried it out? It sounds totally fantastical.’
‘No, it really works. She was quite surprised herself, I think. When she was at Hernhope, she made up most of Hester’s potions—everything from silver cleaner to hair tonic. Oh—and a lot of the herbal medicines as well.’
Matthew poured his coffee. ‘Pity she didn’t try those on herself. Then perhaps she wouldn’t be lying around in bed.’
‘She did. And on Lyn. He had quite a nasty cough which lingered on for weeks, so she treated him with a mixture of—what did she say it was? Sage and coltsfoot, I think—something strange like that. Anyway, it seemed to work. Then he had trouble sleeping, so she tackled that with hops and camomile. She was so impressed, she’s thinking of growing herbs herself now.’
Matthew rose slowly from his chair and walked towards the window. He drew the curtains back, blinked against the glare. ‘Do you realise, Anne, we could use all this.’
‘All what, darling.’
‘Well, Jennifer. All these brews and potions. Modern woman carrying on the old traditions, reviving ancient skills. Don’t you see, we can give the book a whole new contemporary relevance. Not just a vanished way of life, but someth
ing which still has value and importance even today. Perhaps especially today, when people are so worried about ecology and unemployment and the side effects of modern drugs and junk food. Jennifer herself can be the link. Become a second Hester, if you like. They’ve even got the same name. Mrs living Winterton paying homage to the dead one, vouching for her wisdom, finding comfort and fulfilment in the old ways. The answer to machine-age woman’s general lack of purpose. Back to the stock pot and the herb garden.’
‘But women don’t want that, Matthew. We’ve spent the last fifty years trying to escape it. Look at me, for instance. I’ve only just squeezed into your office, after …’
‘You’re not typical. Anyway, there’s bound to be a backlash. There always is. Women’s lib has created a lot of anxiety and turmoil—and not only among males. I can see Jennifer as a sort of spearhead of a passive revolution—women in their nurturing role, fighting back on their own home ground with the weapons of contentment and creativity, finding power in healing, not in strife. Jennifer would be perfect for it. She’s …’
‘But she doesn’t want you to publish, Matthew. Or even if she does, she’d never say so. She always sides with Lyn.’
‘And, so, it seems, do you, Anne. You’re all so blinkered. Publishers have power, you know. Power to change ideas. It may sound grandiose, but some of the greatest upheavals in history came through books. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to jot down some of these selling-points while they’re still fresh in my head.’
He winced as she let the door bang. It annoyed him, really, the way she always stuck up for Lyn. Why did he have such power? He himself had been a slave to it. He could have easily ignored the boy, cut off all contact with him from the day he left Hernhope for his boarding school, as he had done with Hester herself. Lyn was just an infant then and it would have been easy to have blanked him out. Yet, despite the gulf between them—in age, in miles, in education—Matthew had felt still haunted by his half-brother. It was partly his talent, of course. He had always respected talent and Lyn had been precocious, as a child. Matthew had written to him as soon as he could read, and went on writing until the lad was in his twenties. In reply he received short and scrappy letters with drawings on the back, amazing drawings with a charge behind them and a depth and strangeness of vision he could only wonder at.
He had sent money, presents, encouragement, received further drawings in return—each year more skilled and startling, until finally he lured Lyn down to London and the child-stranger turned into a brother and a man. Was that what he had craved for all along, a real flesh-and-blood sibling who could keep his father alive by sharing his genes with him, some last surviving link with Hernhope? Or was it more than that—some recompense to Hester, so that in supporting her son he absolved himself from the guilt of abandoning her? It had never been an easy task. Despite his skills Lyn was too proud, aloof and spiky to make good career material.
Matthew frowned into his coffee. Lyn now had the power to thwart him in one of the most important and ambitious projects he had ever contemplated. He had better go down to Cobham himself this evening and use some really forceful tactics. It wasn’t just a question of Lyn handing over the diaries—though he seemed reluctant enough to agree even to that. He wanted the thing done properly, officially, with a valid legal agreement which would safeguard his own position when he came to draw up a contract with his publishers. It was actually quite simple. All Lyn had to do, in the absence of a Will, was get himself appointed as administrator of Hester’s estate. Then, any arrangement he made concerning his mother’s property (which included all her writings) would be sound and incontestable. It would also give Lyn the right to sell the house, and whatever Anne might say, Hernhope was better sold. It would realise some ready cash (desperately needed by them all) and prevent his brother running off to live in some outlandish fashion in the back of beyond when he, Matthew, required his services in London.
It wasn’t mere self-interest. Lyn would gain as well, all along the line. Not only would he raise a tidy sum from the sale of the property and be free of its expenses and demands, he would also be paid a royalty on the published book. He might even offer an extra and immediate sum in cash, to tide his brother over until the house was sold and Hester’s diaries published.
Matthew jabbed his pen against the blotter. Perhaps it wouldn’t be that simple. Lyn could still refuse—had always been strangely proof against what he saw as bribes. Well—he shrugged—if reasonable persuasion didn’t work, he would have to resort to threats. His brother must be forced to see his own advantage. Meanwhile, he would lock Lyn away with the notebooks and get down to a little planning on the book itself.
He took a piece of paper and jotted some figures on it—royalties, percentages, production budget, printing costs. There were endless decisions to be made, not just the financial ones, but the whole style and format of the book, the way he should present it, the type of market he was aiming for, its length, scope, size and content, the ratio of text to illustration, the whole production schedule. The actual marketing of the book would not be in his hands. Packaging firms like his had no sales or publicity departments of their own, but sold their books to big-name publishers who, with their greater financial resources and professional sales forces, were then responsible for promotion and distribution.
He had to choose his publisher, woo him with an attractive presentation. He already had a favourite one in mind. Hartley Davies were the obvious choice for this style and type of book and he had worked with them successfully before. They were a bright young firm in Bedford Square, large and well-established enough to support the book to the tune of some forty thousand copies, yet with unstuffy and flexible directors who would allow him his own head.
An American publisher was even more important, since a sale to the States would allow him to print a far greater number of copies and so improve his costings. In fact, a book like this could sell right across the world. He must put feelers out in every direction, bring in as many foreign contracts as he could, negotiate translation rights, a major Book Club deal, a television series, serialisation in one of the quality papers. Even with his publisher’s help and backing, it would take months of planning and hard work, and he hadn’t even secured his basic material.
He sat drumming his fingers on the desk. Better not wait till the evening to talk Lyn round. He’d clear his desk this morning, work through lunch, and be down in Cobham by early afternoon.
There was a tap on the door. It was James Spencer Allenby looking too relaxed in green and navy chequered golfing trews.
‘What are you up to, Matthew? I’ve just been on the blower to Old Cognet and he says you’ve found our answer to The Country Diary.’
Matthew smiled. He had deliberately made one or two important phonecalls late last night. It wasn’t too early to start a few rumours circulating, build up excitement and speculation. He had no intention of handing the thing to Hartley Davies on a plate. He wanted competition, rival bids to push the price up, maybe a cliff-hanging auction with all the top publishers outgunning each other, before he finally clinched the deal of his career.
‘Come and sit down, Jim,’ he said. ‘Yes, I have got something to show you. Have you any interest at all in boot varnish?’
Chapter Eight
Matthew lowered his aching body on to the narrow iron bedstead spread with its two white towels, each stamped ‘City of Westminster’. He still had his pin-striped suit on, even his shoes. Undressing came later, with shower, steam-baths, hot-rooms, cold plunge, and finally the body-scrub. First, he had to think.
Other men used clubs or libraries to do their thinking. Matthew preferred the old-fashioned gloom and splendour of the Porchester Baths, one of the last remaining Turkish Baths in London. The building was impressive, the location sufficiently out of the way to prevent him rubbing shoulders with other publishers. Indeed, the baths were relatively empty in the summer, when heat and humidity were high enough outside without doubl
ing them in steam rooms. Matthew ignored the weather. He had been a regular client at Porchester Hall through almost thirty summers. He was respected there, known by name, assured of a gratifying combination of privacy and service.
All the heat and bustle of the baths themselves were sited conveniently downstairs. Here, on the ground floor, were only rows of little cubicles, each with its individual bed and chair, each curtained off by dark and heavy curtains, turning it into a monastic cell or sanctuary. Matthew always requested the far bed in the corner, the furthest removed from the muffled sounds of dressing or undressing, or the chatter of other clients. One of the attractions of the place was that it reminded him of his boarding school. There, too, he had had a cell with the same hard and narrow bed, the same confining curtains to prevent intimacy between boys. School had been a safe and solid place where emotions were cropped as short as hair and the outside world labelled strictly out of bounds. There could be no more abrupt unsettling changes—marriage, death, birth, bankruptcy. Unvarying rules and time-tabling kept life mercifully predictable. He didn’t even need to mourn his parents because no one else had parents—at least not until the holidays—and most of those he spent at school as well. Ashdown Park was echoing and empty in vacations, but there was still a timetable, things you could depend on—hot roasts on Sundays, cold cuts Mondays, study in the mornings, a walk with Matron in the afternoons. Matron had aluminium fingers and a chalk-on-blackboard voice. Grey skin, grey hair, and the same stiff-white apron that Hester wore for baking.
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