‘All right, my dear?’
‘Y … yes—well—maybe a bit … nervous about my speech. I still wish Lyn was …’
‘Lyn’s better off at home. He’d only distract you, anyway. Don’t worry, you’ll do absolutely fine.’ Matthew took her arm. He was relieved that Lyn had refused to attend the conference. That way, he could sell his brother’s elegant design-work without risking the problems of his presence. Lyn was still moody and unpredictable, apparently furious with himself that he had ever agreed to support the book at all.
‘Right, up we go, my dear. Mustn’t keep them waiting. Only two-and-a-half minutes to kick-off.’
The smaller conference room had also been transformed. A huge retouched and tinted photograph of Hester Winterton stared down from the main wall, flanked by smaller portraits of the actors in her drama and stirring pictures of peace and war, disaster and romance. Lyn’s own exquisite hand-lettered map of Northumberland had been mounted on a screen, showing Hernhope with its crown of hills, Fernfield with its river. More flowers now graced the tables, and bowls of fragrant pot-pourri outscented the cigar smoke. Every representative had his special Hester Winterton presentation pack including samples and illustrations of all the spin-off merchandise (country cookbooks and facsimile greetings cards, herb pillows and pomanders, floral scents and soaps), together with photographs and family trees, a copy of Lyn’s map, and a fully illustrated calendar of the Shepherd’s Year.
The dummy itself was mainly blank beneath its attractive cover, but a few sample spreads gave a foretaste of its range and splendour. It was a big book, a weighty book, enlivened with charming drawings and old-world photographs, and combining diary, history, and farm and kitchen management with wildlife, folklore and a wealth of town and country detail. It would be a prize, a triumph, a collector’s item, the perfect gift for a wedding or a birthday, the one bright star in Winterton and Allenby’s firmament.
Matthew took his seat between Sir Basil and Jim Allenby. His own men and the Hartley Davies team were drawn up on one side of the table facing the reps on the opposite side, as if they were poised for battle. It was a battle. The reps could make or break a book. However much time and trouble a publisher might lavish on a project, if the salesmen didn’t back it, it was doomed.
The Hartley Davies chairman rose slowly to his feet. The hum of conversation stuttered into silence as forty pairs of eyes fixed on the wavering point of his cigar.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I think I can safely say without any fear of contradiction, that we have reached the high point of this conference. We now present a venture which can only be the envy of every other publisher in England.’ A pause, as growing expectation rippled round the room. ‘We have, as you know, worked with Winterton and Allenby before, so we are well aware of the exacting standards and meticulous attention to detail they lavish on every book they produce. This time, Matthew Winterton’s own family provides the background to the most important and exciting project he has ever launched’—longer pause before a clarion call—‘Born With The Century—the story of a house, an age, and a most amazing woman.’
Matthew rose. Every eye had shifted to him now. Long, lean frame, narrow shoulders, everything sculpted to its sternest outlines. Pale, pinched face he liked to regard as sensitive, though some had called it cadaverous. Thin lips, sharp nose, no spare flesh to bulge or compromise. Well-defined eyebrows darker than the hair. Eyes of a daunting brown which could stare you into silence. Hands as restless as his brother’s, but better trained.
‘Good afternoon.’ The slightest curving of the lips—broad smiles were Jennifer’s department. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I neither like nor trust superlatives. In fact, as my colleagues know, I very rarely use them, but this is a book which deserves all the superlatives already heaped upon it and which is perfectly suited to the mood of the country at this moment. We have all seen the strong current interest in nostalgia, the fascination with ‘‘Upstairs, Downstairs’’, the continuing curiosity and compassion aroused by both world wars. Born With The Century satisfies all those interests. It also contains some of the most delightful nature paintings ever done by an amateur. Hartley Davies have already proved the popularity and profitability of back-to-nature books. This book is set against the background of one of the most remote and beautiful of England’s landscapes, but it is more than just a nature book. It tells the story of a country woman’s courage in a world twice torn by war. It does not neglect the seamier side of life. Hester Winterton’s family was ruined by the First World War, so she was forced to come to London to take a humble job, moving from gracious living in a country mansion to the pains and perils of a servant’s life in the below-stairs quarters of a large hotel. After the drama of these tough but fascinating years, we return to Northumberland again—this time to a remote hill-farm in the Cheviots, my own father’s home, in fact, where Hester came as housekeeper and nanny. We follow the toils and triumphs of the farming year, a way of life still almost medieval in its simplicity and peace. War and unemployment hardly touch these hardy hill farmers, yet we, the readers, are not denied the political and military dramas of the ’thirties and ’forties. Letters to Hester from her former friends in London, reports from her cousin who was fighting with the Eighth Army, cuttings from the Newcastle newspapers on riots and rationing, bombs and blackshirts—all these are preserved in this truly amazing record of our century.’
Matthew took a sip of water. It gave him a chance to assess the mood of the conference. No one was doodling, fidgeting or slumped; all eyes were still turned towards him, faces rapt. He carried on.
‘This book is fundamentally different from any I have been involved in, not only on account of its scale and quality, but because it is a personal book, a family one, built on my own name. I did, of course, have many worries on that score. My brother, Lyn, Hester’s own son and the exceptionally gifted designer of the project was, in fact, extremely reluctant to publish the material at all. I shared his doubts. But the more I studied it and came to realise just how unique and valuable it was, the more I felt we had a duty to the public. Some of these records have a genuine historical importance or add to our understanding of country life or social customs. It seemed wrong and small-minded to keep them to ourselves. Events have proved me right. An enormous interest and excitement has already been aroused by this book. Those who have seen the original documents and diaries share my own feeling that we are making not only publishing history, but history itself. The book was a triumph at Frankfurt where we attracted an enormous amount of interest from foreign publishers and opened negotiations with five of them. Cindy Scott will tell you more about her extensive publicity plans and impressive advertising schedule in just a moment, but before that, I would like to present a brief videotape based on the material of the book itself, to show you something of its charm and range.’
Lights down. Bitter-sweet music to create the mood. Hester Winterton’s sad, solemn face staring from the screen, then fading into the Northumbrian hills. Matthew felt memory and longing tug a moment at his soul, as the grey-browed farmhouse loomed out of the mist, trembled into focus and seemed almost to accuse him. Ridiculous. No one could live in a wilderness like that, let alone make money or reputation. He was lucky to have escaped it. These images had been carefully selected to work on the sentiments of the sales reps—not his own. He glanced around. The watching faces revealed not just the bored obedience of men paying back their lunch, but genuine interest and emotion. The film had been skilfully directed. Photographs of Hester and her family were fused with live footage of public and political highlights of the period. The scene swept from seething London life to lonely curlews calling on the hills. Kings, coffins, babies, bullets, lambs—all the things which aroused shock, outrage, tenderness or pride—clustered round the central figure of Hester, as if she herself had set life and death in motion.
Matthew kept his eyes on the audience rather than the screen. The film had touched them, moved them, taken them
beyond the level of mere sales and statistics and shown them a life they could personally respond to. He let the silence linger for a while as the last image faded on the screen, and the music, sadder now, sobbed slowly to its close. This was the moment to punch home the media schedule, to switch from soft sentiments to hard sell. The one had been fostered only to effect the other.
The publicity girl from Hartley Davies was already on her feet, an over-painted blonde with a geometric haircut and a loud clinching voice she used like a hammer in an auction room.
‘Hi there! I’m Cindy Scott, Publicity. Nice to see you all, and I can certainly promise you some really ritzy spending on this book. We’re pushing it harder than all our other spring books put together—with big press coverage, including full-page ads in all the Sunday colour supplements, plus features in two nationals and several women’s magazines. Radio 4 have already been wooing us about the possibility of a half-hour programme based on the book, and we’re also angling for some television time—an interview on BBC’s ‘‘In Town’’, perhaps, or one of the classier chat-shows. We’ve also planned …’
Matthew was smiling as he listened, relishing the details. He glanced across at Jennifer. She was staring down at the table, face flushed, chewing on a pencil. A tendril of her hair had slipped from the hairpins and was trailing down her collar. She looked vulnerable, bewildered, and totally out of place, as if she had strayed in from another century. He tried to catch her eye, to reassure her, but she was communing only with the table-top. The boom and clang of Cindy’s voice seemed hardly to affect her, even when it spoke her name.
‘And then of course there’s Jennifer—who will be the vital link in this campaign, the living breathing Mrs Winterton, almost an advertisement for the book herself. Jennifer has been modelling her life and larder on her mother-in-law’s and has made some very exciting discoveries already. I’ll leave her to tell you about them in just a moment. Let me add that we intend to exploit this angle, to cash in on current fads and crazes. The whole natural foods, natural-living thing, for instance, is getting really strong right across all age groups. It used to be a middle-class minority interest. Not any more. It’s a universal passion—anti-drugs, anti-doctors, back-to-nature, back-to-the land. You can’t open a paper nowadays without some mention of bran or honey or wholemeal bread, or alternative medicine or throw-away-your-junk-foods. Well, Hester Winterton is our perfect prophet, the guru of this whole country movement. She lived like that all her life, more or less, grew her own vegetables, baked her own bread, cured her own bacon; managed without all our modern aids. Even when she lived in London, she still made her own cosmetics out of homely things like lemon juice and oatmeal, and dosed the other servants with her home-made herbal mixtures. In the ’thirties, when she was back again in Northumberland, she kept her own house-cow and made cheese and butter—both by hand. Jennifer hasn’t got room for a cow yet,’ (laughter) ‘but she’s working on it. She’s carrying on all the old traditions. She must be one of the few girls in England who actually makes her own cheese, single-handed, using Hester’s own equipment, and milk from a local farm. You’ve sampled the cheese already—and her home-made bread. In fact, most of the delicious dishes we’ve just enjoyed at lunch were adapted by Jennifer from Hester’s recipes. She’s tested them all and brought them up to date. She’s also proved that Hester’s herbal medicines are not only effective but a lot less dangerous than our modern drugs. This is the message of the book. It’s not just empty nostalgia. Nostalgia alone has been worked to death. We’re offering a dramatic slice of history, but tied firmly to the present, Hester’s life made even more exciting and important by Jennifer’s involvement in it.’
Matthew made a quick check along the line of reps. He could see they were still intrigued. But it was essential now that Jennifer should raise her head and make some contact with them. The whole conference was discussing her, centred on her, yet she was still slumped in her seat, eyes cast down. Cindy was sitting on the table now, one long leg crossed high above the other. At least the reps had something to distract them.
‘Jennifer will, of course, help to launch the book. She’s a winner, as I see it. It’s not every girl who’s turned a tiny workman’s cottage into a full-scale farmhouse and a cabbage patch into a pharmacy. That’s news itself. We’re going to send her out to sell this book for us, and I don’t think she can fail.’
Fail. Cindy banged the word down so vehemently it seemed to shatter on the table. Matthew shrank away from its broken fragments. What if Jennifer did fail? Could she really bear the burden of this whole campaign; or had he been foolish to ignore Jim’s warnings? Even now, when everyone was waiting for her to get up and introduce herself, she was still just a bowed fair head without a face. Cindy had to act as puppet master, pull her by her strings. As she trembled up, another strand of hair tumbled from her top-knot. She tried to fix it, lost a shower of hairpins, glanced desperately at Matthew.
‘Er … good afternoon.’ Her cheeks were so flushed, the words came out pale and sickly in comparison.
‘Louder’, he mouthed.
‘G … Good afternoon.’ Her voice tailed off again. ‘I … er … don’t quite know what to say.’
Christ—she ought to know. He had been coaching her for weeks. He tried to prompt her, cue her in, but she was still dithering there without a tongue. Perhaps he should get up and speak again, himself. There was still time to change the media plans. Jennifer wasn’t a hundred per cent essential. They could phase her out, present the book another way, work on a new publicity angle. Yet they couldn’t save this conference. If Jennifer dried up now, or proved herself an impossible figurehead for so vital and prestigious a campaign, then all their preparatory work, all that expense and trouble on the lunch, would be so much mockery. The reps would return to their regions at best confused, at worst contemptuous.
The room was so tautly silent that noises from the street outside were trespassing in and taking over—the nervous stops and starts of London traffic, the scream of an electric drill. Up till now, there hadn’t been a world outside, only the sob and smile of Hester’s century. Jennifer shifted from one foot to the other. Matthew was willing her to speak, reciting her words over and over again in his own head, as if he could somehow squeeze them out of his brain into hers. Ah—he tensed. At least she had opened her mouth and was saying something.
He held his breath. It was not the speech he had written for her. She was venturing out on some new tack of her own. And wasn’t she slurring her words a bit, swaying very slightly on her feet? Good Christ! The girl was tipsy. Why on earth hadn’t he realised before? He remembered, now, watching her at lunch. She had eaten almost nothing, but had been clutching on to her wine glass as a prop. Brendan Holdsworth must have filled it once too often. That would explain the flush, the sway, the fluster, the lapse of memory. Supposing she went further—belched, hiccoughed, disgraced herself and him? He hardly dared to listen as she stuttered on.
‘Actually, I … never knew my mother-in-law. She always sounded … frightening. I mean, when people talked about her, she seemed … well … almost like a … witch.’
Matthew shut his eyes. Words like ‘witch’ were utterly forbidden. She must have found them in the wine. What was Jennifer saying? She could ruin everything by being too outspoken, departing from her brief, the deftly crafted paean he had so carefully prepared for her. Hester was to be presented as a dignified and towering figure—aloof, perhaps, but never eccentric.
‘To tell the truth, the only time I saw her, she was … dead.’ (Matthew winced). ‘So I thought I’d be … doubly frightened. The undertaker couldn’t come till the next day. My husband was naturally … distraught, so I did … everything myself. I’d never touched a corpse before. When my own mother died they took the body away, and I was so upset, I was useless anyway. But with Hester, I felt …’
Matthew’s hands were normally cool and dry, but now he could feel traitorous sweat slinking across his palms. You di
dn’t bring death to sales conferences—or at least, only boastful death on battlefields or tragic epitaphs softened by stirring text or skilful photographs—not these sordid and tasteless references to corpses. The reps had only just finished their lunch and hardly wished to be transported to a sick room with a dead and stinking body upsetting their digestions.
‘I was scared, in fact, but when I plucked up courage and went to close her eyes, she was … sort of … watching me. Oh, I know this sounds quite crazy. I don’t even have the words to explain it properly, but it was as if she hadn’t died—well—not completely.’
Matthew cleared his throat in warning. If Jennifer went any further with this ghost-and-spirit lark, this airy-fairy supernatural rubbish, they would label her as cracked, dismiss her out of hand. She must be stopped immediately. The trouble was, she had her back to him now. He had told her a hundred times to face the reps when she was speaking to them, and that bit she had remembered, while forgetting all the rest. He coughed again, tried to warn her off, but she was in the middle of her story and seemed determined to continue, talking louder, with fewer ‘ums’ and pauses.
‘The next day, various neighbours called, including a very old woman who used to work as a midwife and often helped at deaths, as well. She told me, in the old days, the room where a person had died was always draped in white, and sometimes a sprig of yew was tucked in the folds of the shroud before the coffin was nailed down. She said yew was a symbol of immortality, you see, and the white meant resurrection and prepared you for the after-life.’
Matthew’s nails were digging into his palms. Shrouds and coffins were hardly selling-points. Jennifer had been instructed to laud the living Hester, not a body in a winding sheet. Yet there she was, still loitering by the death-bed.
‘Actually, I don’t believe in … heaven and things myself, but I did feel then that perhaps some people—special people or wise ones or just very strong and determined characters like Hester—could perhaps live on down … here, in some … strange way we can’t yet understand. Anyway, I draped everything in white. I found some beautiful white damask in the linen chest which I used for the shroud itself. I wanted everything to be … right. I had to go miles to find a yew tree. All the trees around the house seemed to be spruce or fir or pine. I broke a bit off and laid it between her hands. That way, I knew I could … preserve her. Oh, I know it sounds … peculiar, but …’
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