by John Purcell
An hour later Helen was seated beside the six hopeful shortlisters in the front row of the theatre. They had sat through three long speeches. The first by last year’s winner, Rebecca Smith, who demanded that the wall between genre and literature be torn down; then the chair of judges – Jacqueline Roberts, they said her name was – who spoke of the quality of the three-hundred-plus entrants and the need for more ethnic diversity in publishing; and finally the MC, Spike, a comedian with a very foul mouth, who encouraged the audience to forgo reading male writers for a year to great applause. After the speeches, one by one, excerpts from the six shortlisted novels were read. The works of talented university students, they seemed to Helen.
The night had already been exhausting when Helen heard herself being introduced. Now came the flutters in her stomach. She had always hated speaking in public, and as she aged this had not changed. But she found now, even though she hated it no less, that she could do it more easily. She thought this had something to do with not caring as much about anything contemporary.
Helen listened to the speaker, someone she finally recognised and had long respected, the novelist Jeanette Winterson, who was outlining Helen’s writing life. Helen heard how she had spent at least three years on each novel, apart from a prolific couple of years in her forties when she was writing a book a year – though Winterson reminded the audience that these were interconnected novellas now published together in a single volume.
And then Helen was remembered as a fierce fighter in the women’s movement who championed the lives of ordinary women in her fiction. Much of the speech covered the first twenty years of Helen’s career, the young woman’s experience. But Helen was most proud of her writing about the experience of age. Her last five novels were the books she wanted to encourage readers to explore, but Winterson didn’t mention any of those by name.
Helen rose to applause and made her way onto the stage, where she was greeted with a hug from Winterson and led to the podium. Taking a deep breath and looking long and hard into the dark void before her, Helen arranged her notes.
‘Thank you, Jeanette, for your well-chosen lies. I appreciated all of them.’
Helen paused and looked at her notes. She held them up.
‘I have written a speech. These are my notes. I agonised over every word of it, trying, I realise now, to overcome my unease with the idea of a gender-specific award. Listening to the speeches given tonight I realise I’ve been mistaken. This evening isn’t what I imagined it was to be.’
There was an expectant silence. Helen was deliberating with herself. Should she speak out, or should she accept the honorary award and leave quietly? Everything was in the balance. She felt very tired. And old. So old. Nothing she had heard that evening had quelled her rising pessimism concerning contemporary society. And she felt she had no right to speak, not having been an active member in literary circles for many years now.
‘I shouldn’t speak, but you have invited me into this forum. I suspect because many of you haven’t read my work – or if you have, haven’t understood it. Which is an awful thing to say.’
Helen stared down at the faces she could see in the first few rows. All eyes were on her.
‘You’ve given me this chance to speak and speak I must. Thank you very much for presenting me with your lifetime achievement award. To have one’s works honoured in this way is a privilege few experience, though I suspect I’m being honoured for the work of my younger self who wrote primarily about the road to womanhood, not womanhood itself.
‘And as I glance at the nervous faces of the six shortlisted authors seated before me, I well appreciate why – this is a young woman’s award.
‘I note that not one of my last five novels, each of which would have been eligible and submitted, has ever been longlisted for the award. These weren’t terrible novels; each was critically acclaimed and sold moderately well. Their only distinguishing common feature is the age of the writer and the age of their female protagonists. Much has been said about the gender of writers tonight, but little, if anything, has been said about their age.
‘I’ll leave this point, as it smacks of bitterness and only confuses the meaning of what I wish to say, which is, if I were to have won an award such as this, an award that excludes participation by men, I would not have accepted it.’
Helen let these words sink in.
‘Perhaps this is why I’ve never been considered? Perhaps.’
She looked away to the side of the stage where she had hoped to find a friendly face. But saw no one there.
‘I’ve been a feminist all my life and I completely understand the need to address inequality in life as well as in the literary world. But I would rather emulate writers like Anita Brookner, A.S. Byatt, Hilary Mantel and Iris Murdoch, each of whom won the Booker having eclipsed a field of male peers, than win an award from which men are excluded.’
Helen stopped speaking. The audience had been completely silent throughout. She knew this was because her words were not pleasing them.
‘But we must learn to appreciate just how little good writing is being written. By men or by women.
‘If you think that writers like Doris Lessing or Muriel Spark will be discovered more often because of awards like this, you’re mistaken. Awards must be given out every year but truly great writing is rare – rarer than any of us like to admit. And much of it has been written by writers facing great adversity, not the well-meant encouragement of peers.
‘Men have had their run of this world since time began and yet when we look, considering the free ride they’ve had, few male writers are of the highest rank. Few writers of either sex have left their mark on humanity. We can’t force excellence, we can’t encourage it. The greatest art does not arrive with a cheerleading squad. It isn’t decided by committee.
‘Great writing is rare. With so little time on this planet, shouldn’t we spend at least some of that time getting acquainted with the writers most often acknowledged as exceptional?
‘If I have circled round and round the bright flame of George Eliot and been burnt too often, or if I have failed in my attempt to appreciate the unexpressed elements of the mind of Virginia Woolf, or if I have found too much pleasure in the guiding hand of Jane Austen, I have done so in an effort to fathom the depths of their genius.
‘Every flash of brilliance in these current years is but a flash. Almost an accident rather than consistent effort. A jazz flourish rather than a symphony. And we honour these flashes. There is no growth to greatness, just bursts of inspiration that fall into place and are never built upon.’
Helen paused.
‘I’m getting carried away, because as soon as I say such things I think of Toni Morrison, Marilynne Robinson, Penelope Fitzgerald, Julian Barnes, Alice Munro, Margaret Atwood and still others. But then, of the thousands of published literary authors, these are still but a handful.’
Helen reddened. She was becoming confused. She tried to gather herself.
‘And yet, which of these will be remembered two hundred years from now?’
She paused. She almost stopped. She glanced offstage again, thinking of escape.
Then, ‘What I’m trying to say is that literature is a vocation, a life’s work with no end and no hope of satisfaction or reward. A novel is just the by-product of the novelist’s desire to understand. Understand what? Everything. Or at the very least, one thing.’
Helen felt herself wading into deep and murky waters. She wanted to return to her original point. For a moment she stared out at the audience without saying a word. She wanted Malcolm by her side.
‘My husband, Malcolm Taylor, is a great writer. I think one of the finest our age has produced. He was exciting as a young writer, but he is extraordinary now. He has worked hard at it. He has never ceased seeking out the finest thinking of humankind. And even though I know what he thinks of awards, when I heard he was longlisted for this year’s Man Booker Prize, I was overwhelmed with love and pride. If ever ther
e was a writer who deserved honours in his own lifetime, it is he.’
She knew she was becoming incoherent.
‘I stand here in a quandary. I was to be accompanied by my husband, but in the end he decided not to join me. He said he felt unwelcome at such an event. Of course he’d left this decision to the last minute, an hour before we were to depart, and we had quarrelled. But in the cab on my way here I tried to understand what would make my husband who has supported me in everything I have ever done – good and bad – fail to support me in receiving this honour.
‘But it was on reading my speech before coming on stage tonight, and reading in it my own ambivalence concerning the gender-specific award, that it struck me that he was right not to come. And further, that I was wrong to come. For any event that makes a man like my husband feel unwelcome is, at some very deep level, mistaken. So if you don’t mind, I think I will forgo the honour and make my way home to my husband.’
Shaking with the onrush of adrenaline, Helen walked unsteadily from the stage and, avoiding those attempting to speak to her, out of the first exit she could find. On the street she hailed a cab and, climbing in, gave her address then pushed herself into the corner of the seat and stared out of the window.
Chapter 13
The Lodger
Malcolm was sitting in the kitchen reading the newspaper when Helen emerged from the flat below carrying a mop and bucket.
‘I was thinking of making something to eat,’ he said, not looking up.
Helen glanced at Malcolm but didn’t comment. She put the bucket down to close the door and the mop handle slid along the edge of the bench and collided with the wall.
He looked up briefly.
They hadn’t made up after their fight the previous evening, before she left for the Women Writers’ Guild Awards. And she wasn’t in any mood to make up now. She felt foolish for saying the things she had said in her speech and couldn’t help but blame Malcolm. His last-minute refusal to attend had rattled her. As a result she had acted the fool, slept poorly and had woken angry.
She carried the bucket into the tiny utility room and poured the water down the large sink. She rinsed the mop and wrung it out, before taking the towels out of the washing machine and putting them in the dryer.
When she returned to the kitchen, Malcolm hadn’t moved.
He said, ‘Can I make you a sandwich?’
‘I’ve bought some things for lunch. Amy will be here at one,’ she replied in icy tones, clearing away the tin of coffee Malcolm had left out and washing and then drying his teaspoon. ‘You’ll have to wait until she arrives.’
She looked around but couldn’t see the coffee mug he’d used. He’d probably left it upstairs or in the living room.
Malcolm didn’t say anything further. He had forgotten the young editor was coming today as his mind had been on other things. The oven clock showed it was almost one. He folded the paper twice and laid it on the table.
Then, having watched his wife wipe clean the clean benches, he said, ‘You’re in the paper.’
‘What?’ She hadn’t been expecting anything more from Malcolm and turned to him. He was holding out the paper. He had folded it so the article he was referring to was prominent.
‘It would appear you upset a great many people with your speech. You’re as much a pariah as I am now.’
She took the paper and quickly scanned the article.
‘There’s barely a word about me.’
‘Apparently most of the talk was on social media.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter then, does it.’
‘I wonder if you’ll make the ten o’clock news.’
Helen turned from him with impatience. She had hoped he might never hear about what she had done. She sincerely wished she could unsay it all. If only she had read the speech she had prepared, she thought – and then coloured at the memory of the stumbling, rambling nonsense she had shared publicly.
A small vase containing the bouquet of wildflowers caught her eye. She’d bought them for the flat. To escape further comment, she carried them downstairs.
Helen had already spent the morning cleaning the flat. She now crossed the room quickly and placed the vase on the coffee table. Daniel, Geraldine and the boys were to have been Helen’s first guests. She’d had the walls repainted, the floors polished and the bathroom redone with them in mind. She’d even had the tiny kitchenette fitted out with everything a young family might need.
But instead of her family Helen had prepared the flat for a comparative stranger, Amy.
She stood for a moment and looked around. The room was sparsely decorated and very white, but Helen liked it all the more for its simplicity. Everything looked clean and tidy.
She tried to imagine Daniel’s boys in the room, perhaps on the sofa watching TV, but found she couldn’t. All she knew of them, really, was what she could divine via Daniel’s Facebook page. She couldn’t even manage to conjure up the sound of their laughter.
She’d already removed all of the framed photos of Daniel, Geraldine and the boys in preparation for Amy’s visit. And the toys she had brought down from the attic had been carried back up. She’d left the bottom shelf of the bookcase as it was. It was filled with picture books she’d ordered online. Amy would have to excuse this one reminder of the flat’s intended purpose, she thought.
She noticed it had just turned one o’clock. She popped her head into the bathroom one last time, checking everything was as it should be. Clean white towels. A selection of creams and soaps. Then the bed. The white embroidered duvet covering was one of Helen’s favourites. She had bought a few more pillows as well. It looked luxurious. Then the living area. The bouquet of wildflowers on the coffee table by the sofa gave the area a homely air.
On the bed was the reason for Amy’s visit. The three manuscripts, all newly printed and tied with string.
Version one.
Version two.
Version three.
Helen viewed them with suspicion.
Left alone with Amy, the manuscripts would do all the talking.
But what would they tell her?
Helen felt exposed. She had brought this crisis upon herself. She had reneged on the deal. And she was beset by fears.
She did not want to lose her house.
She did not want to lose her reputation.
She did not want to lose the respect of her husband.
The madness of it all was that she was relying on Amy to discover a way out for her. Amy who was young enough to be her granddaughter. Amy who had not read her work before. Amy who judged the success or failure of a novel by the number of copies sold.
And yet the thought of Amy’s arrival had paradoxically lifted her spirits slightly. Helen had been so alone in her trouble. Malcolm had given her no solace. The writing of versions two and three had been done in complete isolation. No agent, no editor, no husband. No one but herself. She felt lost and was a stranger to her own art. She yearned for a voice other than her own, for a companion in her crisis.
And Amy had come and she had seemed so capable, so matter of fact, so practical. Her youth, which had surprised Malcolm, excited Helen. Her abundant energy and pragmatism would help cut a path out of the woods Helen found herself in.
Helen took one last look around and then climbed the internal stairs to the house. As she reached the top, the doorbell rang.
*
Helen opened the door to find Amy standing there with her back turned, waving at a very expensive looking sports car that roared up the narrow street. It tooted twice before turning left at the nearest corner and driving noisily out of view.
It was a warm day and the sun was shining brightly. Helen shaded her eyes as Amy spun around and exclaimed, with a look of surprise on her face, ‘Oh!’
Helen said, ‘You’re on time.’ And wondered at Amy’s surprise. After all, she had pressed the doorbell.
‘I’m sorry. I’m not normally punctual, but Liam was in the army and do
es everything by the book. We’ve been swimming at Hampstead Heath. It was lovely, but he knew I had to be here so he hustled me on.’
‘Was that who . . . ?’
‘Yes, that was him. The car’s new. He’s obsessed with driving it. Any chance. He’s like my personal chauffeur at the moment.’
Helen wavered a moment. Amy was wearing little blue shorts, barely shorts at all, and a white singlet. Her bikini was showing and her feet were shod in flat sparkling sandals. And what was worse, her hair, which looked wet, was in messy pigtails. She wore no makeup and looked younger and more stunning today than she had the last time. To avoid Malcolm’s raised eyebrows, Helen took Amy down the outdoor steps to the street door of the flat.
As they went down Amy said, ‘I was at the event last night.’
Helen busied herself with opening the door and entered without comment.
Amy followed her in, dropped her bag on the floor and said, ‘This is nice.’
Amy saw that the rectangular room was divided into two distinct areas. The furthest end was the bedroom, with a queen-sized bed, bedside tables and a built-in wardrobe. And beyond the bed, through an open door, Amy could see a small bathroom. And nearest her, bathed in the natural light of the two large windows, was the living room, with a sofa, a reading chair, a coffee table and bookcase.
Looking down at the small backpack, Helen said, ‘Is that all you’ve brought?’
‘I’ll only be here a couple of days. As I said, I’m a fast worker. I do this sort of thing all the time.’
Helen didn’t know what to say in reply to this, so said nothing. Instead she opened the folding doors that hid the compact kitchenette.
Amy nodded, and added, ‘I’ll buy new clothes if I need them.’
Helen closed it up again.
‘Lovely flowers, Helen,’ said Amy, bending down to smell them. She lifted her gaze to Helen and smiling, added, ‘Thank you.’
Helen smiled warmly in return. The first sign of warmth Amy had won.
‘There’s a laundrette on the high street. And restaurants and a takeaway. And a Waitrose.’