‘A what?’
‘A mesmerist. You could mesmerise a man. Yes, you could. Now, to business.’
She opened her bag, took out the little parcel and placed it on the table before her and said, ‘I . . . I’ve written a little book for children and I don’t think that . . . well, one of the big publishers would look at it; but I was . . . well, I was intrigued by your advert – I’m referring to you saying you published odd books – and I suppose my little effort could be . . . well, classed as odd.’
‘Tut! tut! Well, well! So this is something. Let me see.’
She went to undo the brown paper parcel and he said, ‘Leave it! Leave it! Let me do it.’
She watched him unwrap the parcel, turn to the first page, then flick through the rest of the pages with his thumb, before he said, ‘Nice typewriter.’
Again he looked at the manuscript, lifted his head, and said, ‘Well set.’
Her heart was thumping against her ribs as she watched him turn page after page without uttering a word. Twice he smiled, and once he gave a hic of a laugh. Then, when he could have been only halfway through, he stopped and, putting his hand flat on the pages, he said, ‘What made you do it in this way?’
‘Well,’ she considered, ‘I suppose I thought about it like that. Children’s books are set more often than not so formally. I did the accompanying drawings myself.’
‘Oh. Yes, yes, I see. Like the bird feeding its young.’ He stamped his first finger down on the page. ‘And the cat washing its face. I . . . I liked the one of the clothes line.’
She smiled widely at him now as she said, ‘I liked that too. I think that’s my favourite.’
He turned the pages; then, his eyes twinkling, he looked at her before reading:
‘It’s washing day! It’s washing day!
My pi-jams are all soap.
They’ll shrink and shrink, and shrink and shrink,
Oh dear! there is no hope.’
His voice gradually rose until he was almost shouting,
‘It’s washing day! It’s washing day!
The clothes are on the line.
There’s Daddy’s things, and Mummy’s
Things and next to them are mine.
‘Nice, nice. And the drawings, very cute, very cute. And as yet you’ve not sent this out?’
‘No.’
‘No, of course. As you said, publishers . . . publishers. Oh! Publishers. They think they know everything.’ He grinned now as he thumped his chest, saying, ‘That’s me too. I know everything, at least I think so. More than David, but not as much as my wife. Oh, that reminds me: David must see this.’ He rang a bell that seemed to be under the edge of the desk and while they waited for it to be answered he said, ‘David’s got a very keen eye for the oddities, those that are going to work. Some oddities work, you know, and some don’t. Most of my oddities don’t, I must admit. But those that do, oh, those that do, they hit the headlines. I’ve got two best-seller oddities going at the moment, oh yes. Of course, they’re about adults. Nasty adults.’
His face straight now, his lips tight, he nodded towards her before he said, ‘There are a lot of nasty oddities about, you know: hidden ones; grabbing ones; money-minded ones. Aaah! There you are.’ He turned towards what must have been a door hidden from her by more books, through which a man had appeared. He was tall, and tanned, as if he had been lying in the sun; but if that had been so his hair should have been bleached by the sun too, but it was dark, a very dark brown. It was thick and inclined to waves but was brushed back straight from his forehead. He was wearing glasses, but after looking at her for a moment he took them off, wiped them, and put them in his pocket. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Good morning,’ she answered.
‘Come and look at this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Don’t be an idiot, man; you won’t know until you look at it, will you?’ The older man now grinned across at Hannah; but she was looking at the man who was holding her typed pages in their green cardboard cover. She watched him turn two or three pages before he looked up and glanced at her as if he were about to say something; but then he continued to turn the pages, reading a little, or perhaps reading them all, she thought, because some people were very quick readers.
He had got almost to the end when the older man said, ‘Well, what d’you think?’
Hannah watched the man turn the last page, then hand the manuscript back to Mr Gillyman, saying with a wry smile, ‘Well, I think it’s odd enough to please even you.’
Her heart sank. What did he mean, odd enough? That children wouldn’t understand it? Yes, they would; she was sure they would if it were read to them properly. When sitting in with Janie’s lot she had read bits to them, and they’d liked them and laughed about them; but apparently they could not have held their interest enough for them to mention them to their mother.
The dark-haired man was looking at her, and his head was moving slowly as he said, ‘They’re very nice, and the way you’ve set them down is unusual. There’re one or two similar on the market: Jessie Tyler and Florence Potts.’
She had never heard of Jessie Tyler or of Florence Potts. Perhaps she’d made a mistake in not reading other authors’ writings for children. She had purposely not done this because she didn’t want to copy anyone. Yet here he was saying there were other similar books already on the market.
‘Would it sell in the right quarters, do you think?’ Mr Gillyman was now asking of his assistant; and his assistant looked at Hannah. He looked at her for what seemed an embarrassingly long time before he said, ‘Well, you’ve said it, Gilly, in the right quarters . . . if we could find the right quarters.’
‘Oh, there must be one more sensible publisher besides myself.’
The two men were now looking at each other and laughing, and as she forced herself to smile the younger man said, ‘Leave it here, will you? Just for a time, say a fortnight, and we’ll try it around.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Mr Gillyman was nodding now. He looked down at the folder. ‘Hannah Drayton,’ he read. ‘Is that your real name, or a nom de plume?’
‘Yes, I’m Hannah Drayton, Mrs Hannah Drayton.’
‘Oh.’ Mr Gillyman repeated her words slowly, ‘Mrs Hannah Drayton.’ He paused for a moment, as if the name were familiar. But he clearly did not want to waste time on it now, for he continued: ‘Well, Mrs Drayton, there you have our verdict. By the way, this is my assistant.’ He now thumbed back to the man standing at his side. ‘He’s Mr David Craventon. It will be up to him to put your book on the market. I leave all that to him, I have more important things to do.’ He gave a chuckle as he glanced up at his assistant, but asked her, ‘Where do you hail from?’
‘Acton.’
‘Oh, Acton. That’s not so far away. We’d better have your address.’
‘Seventy-two Beaufort Road.’
‘Got that, David?’
‘Yes, I’ve got that, Gilly.’
The man was smiling at Hannah, and she smiled back at him. ‘Do you know anything about Bloomsbury?’ he asked.
‘No, nothing at all.’
‘Well then, all I can say to you is don’t come round here, or any of the neighbouring areas, by yourself at night in the dark.’
‘She has a husband. Remember?’ David reminded him.
‘Oh, yes, yes; of course.’ Then, quickly, Mr Gillyman bent half-way over the table and looked towards the tall window, half obliterated by books, and he exclaimed, ‘It’s raining! pouring.’
‘Yes; it’s just come on.’
‘That’s English weather for you’ – Mr Gillyman was nodding at Hannah now – ‘and you’ll get drenched.’
‘It’ll only be a shower,’ said David, now looking at Hannah; and she, smiling back at him, sai
d, ‘Yes, and I don’t mind the rain.’
‘I know of two people who reached their deathbeds through being caught in such a shower.’
‘Yes, but on the moors, Gilly . . . on the moors!’
‘Anyway—’ Mr Gillyman now looked up at David Craventon, saying, ‘Well, the moors or Bloomsbury, I’m not going to have anybody on my conscience. Phone upstairs and ask Tishy to bring the coffee forward.’
Hannah noticed the younger man hesitate, then shake his head, and what retort he might have made was again cut off by Mr Gillyman’s saying, ‘Better still, as I don’t want to waste any more time – time’s precious you know—’ he turned towards Hannah and emphasised this statement with a nod, ‘go along with him, and you can sit with my wife until the rain stops. But don’t’ – his finger was wagging again as he watched her rise to her feet – ‘don’t keep sending letters to ask if your masterpiece is going to be published and how much you’re going to get for it, and when and where, ’cos you won’t get any answers. Understand?’
Under other circumstances she knew she would have been afraid to answer, or she would have felt indignant, or some such emotion, but now she answered him in much the same manner as he was speaking to her: ‘I understand perfectly, sir, and I won’t put in an appearance for a full fortnight. But I promise you, you’ll see me then.’
The great mass of books could not mute the high laughter of both men, and David Craventon said enigmatically, ‘And on your own ground too . . . how about that!’ before adding, ‘Come along, Mrs Drayton.’
For a moment she hesitated; then she nodded to the man who was now tapping each side of his mouth with the side of his forefinger, before following the assistant who, she thought, seemed to have a great deal of liberty, if she was to judge by the way he had spoken to his boss.
When they reached the pile of books opposite the window the narrow walkable space of floor turned sharply right and through a set of standing bookcases towards another door. David opened this door, then stood aside to allow her to pass into what she imagined could be described as a palace, after the room she had just left. It was a red-carpeted hallway, with large paintings hanging on the walls; leading the way again, he took her up a red-carpeted flight of stairs, the while calling out, ‘Mrs Gillyman!’
‘Yes? Yes, David?’ A woman appeared at the top of the stairs, and when David Craventon brought Hannah face to face with her he said, ‘This is a client, Mrs Gillyman. It’s raining heavily outside and Mr Gillyman thought you might like to bring the coffee forward.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Mrs Gillyman turned and led the way over a broad landing and into a beautifully appointed room, which Hannah recognised immediately was furnished with antiques. She knew a little about such furniture, because her father had indulged himself in buying an expensive magazine given over to antiques, so that he could confidently talk about such pieces. The carpet here was rose-coloured, the walls grey, and the hangings and upholstery all in a dull gold material.
‘Do sit down, Miss . . . ’
‘It’s Mrs.’ The young man was smiling now as he added, ‘Well, Mrs Drayton, do you like your coffee black or white?’
‘White, please.’
Mrs Gillyman excused herself and as Hannah watched her leave through a door some distance up the room she thought, She’s nice; but so much younger than him.
‘Do you notice anything?’
‘What . . . ? I’m sorry.’ She had been looking round the room.
‘I said, do you notice anything?’
‘Only that . . . well, it’s a very beautiful room, so very beautiful.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? All this floor is beautiful. But look around you: that table there; and that bookcase against the wall, what’s in it? Miniatures and beautiful glass; not a book or a magazine in sight.’
She smiled. ‘Well, it’s understandable, isn’t it? That place downstairs is like a—’ She hesitated, and when he put in, ‘Like a what?’ she shook her head, saying, ‘I nearly said dump.’
‘Well, that’s the right word for it, dump. And that isn’t his only dump, I can tell you.’
Tentatively now she asked, ‘What . . . what kind of books does he publish?’
‘Oh, you’d be surprised. Not the kind of books that the majority of people read. I’d say they’re similar to those that were published a hundred or so years ago. You see, he’s a lover of such books, and so he’s mainly a collector. You’ve seen proof of it downstairs. And so those he enjoys publishing are of a similar type: odd subjects, odd people with odd pursuits, odd travellers; in fact, a documentary was made out of one of his travel discoveries.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, really. But Mrs Gillyman’ – his head jerked back towards the door – ‘she put her foot down many years ago as regards books in this part of the house.’
‘She . . . she seems nice.’
He bent towards her now as he said softly, ‘And, you’re thinking, so different from her husband downstairs.’
‘No, I wasn’t. I found him interesting, amusing. You couldn’t feel dull where he is, could you?’
‘No, certainly not; you couldn’t feel dull where Gilly is.’
He straightened up when the quiet voice came from a distant room, calling, ‘David! David! just a moment.’
‘Excuse me.’
As he went out of the room she looked about her again. At the far end there were two glass doors which obviously led on to a balcony, and she could see through them that the rain had stopped. Then her attention was brought to a door not more than three feet away. It was in the same wall as the door through which Mrs Gillyman had gone, and, when she saw it move, just the slightest, she thought: Someone is trying to come in.
Then someone did come in. The door, which must have been just ajar, opened further, and through the aperture an extra-large tortoiseshell cat with a magnificent tail and wearing a studded collar sidled in. It came straight towards her and jumped on her knee, and she smiled as she stroked it, saying, ‘You’re not shy, are you? Aren’t you beautiful!’ and when it purred and turned on its back and she scratched its tummy she couldn’t help but giggle. She liked cats. There had always been a cat at home, but Humphrey didn’t care for them or for animals of any kind, except in their rightful places, as he put it.
Then her attention was lifted from the cat as she heard a low voice say, ‘Is it any good?’ and another answer, ‘I don’t know. It’s certainly an oddity as children’s books go.’
The first voice came back now, saying, ‘Well, as you and I know, children’s books don’t go, do they? Why did he send her up here?’
‘Don’t ask me. Don’t ask me, Natasha. It’s generally the lonely ones, or the literary down-and-outs, and then it’s an extra cup downstairs.’
‘Well, to my mind she doesn’t look either lonely or down-and-out.’
‘No; I agree with you there, and yet . . . ’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. There was something. I just glanced through the book. It isn’t the usual kids’ stuff. Look, we’ll talk about it after; I’ll bring it up.’
She had the inclination to push the cat from her knee and get up and leave. Yet he’d been so kind and nice. But kindness could hurt, didn’t she know that already? Humphrey’s kindness hurt her. Oh yes. Oh yes.
‘Well, Jericho, what are you doing in here?’
The cat now gently and slowly turned its head, looked up at its mistress and gave a gentle mew, as if to say, I was just entertaining the visitor.
When the woman lifted the cat from Hannah’s knee it purred loudly and practically wound itself round its mistress’ neck.
Hannah tried to forget all she had overheard and said, ‘It’s a beautiful animal.’
‘She’s a beautiful nuisance.’
; ‘Why do you call her Jericho?’
‘Well, just because from a tiny kitten she could climb any wall, get over any obstacle and even open doors. She can reach up to handles and turn them but she knows when they just require a small push. That one’ – she pointed to the door through which the cat had come – ‘must have been left ajar.’
As if a thought had struck her, she cast a quick glance at the assistant who was now pouring out the coffee, then gave a slight shake of her head as she added, ‘She’s a brat of a cat.’
During the short conversation that followed, which was about the weather and why they were having April showers in August and where she intended to go for her holidays, Hannah had refused a second cup of coffee. Now, getting to her feet, she thanked her hostess for being so kind, and said that she was sorry, too, that she’d put her to this trouble, to which Mrs Gillyman replied, ‘Nonsense. Nonsense. It was a pleasure to meet you. So often the clients who brave downstairs’ – she thumbed towards the floor with a laugh – ‘are bearded, or grey at least. Isn’t that so, David?’ she said.
‘Not quite. Not quite. I don’t agree entirely with you. We had a man in his forties two days ago.’
There was laughter between them, to which Hannah added a smile; then she was going down the stairs again.
Mr Gillyman was not in the cluttered book room, and so David led her straight away to the front entrance.
His handshake was firm, his palm cool. Hannah looked up into his face. He was rather good-looking: his eyes were dark like his hair, and he seemed to have a kind nature, but she was no fool. After her secretarial training she had had at least four interviews, and on each occasion she had known whether or not the position was forthcoming. Today, she had the feeling that success definitely was not forthcoming. And so, looking straight into the dark eyes that were staring into hers, she said, ‘Please don’t be too kind. I know what you think about it. The only thing I ask is, in a fortnight’s time, would you mind please returning it safely to me. I’ve got a rough but this is the only finished copy and . . . ’
The Thursday Friend Page 3