Bloody Ha!
“…and write another which we should like you to show to us.”
He thought of the time and the effort and the thought and the feelings of inadequacy and the sheer physical labour of the thing which had gone into his manuscript.
“All the very best authors have more rejection slips than books they have written. Just one word of advice. Ah, that looks good, very good,” he said to the waiter who had brought the crême caramel. “And afterwards I assume we shall take some coffee,” he looked at Oscar who nodded miserably, “with some of those excellent cape gooseberries. Where was I?”
“Advice.”
“Ah yes, advice. Write about something you know. I mean it’s all very well tempestuous Greeks, but it stands out a mile you haven’t been within spitting distance of the Acropolis.”
Oscar wondered how anyone could take so long to eat a crême caramel.
“I don’t know anything,” Oscar said, “except the case of the carbolic smoke ball…”
“Write about it. I’m sure it’s very interesting. Remember Proust: ‘It is better to see one place with a hundred eyes than a hundred places with one pair of eyes.’”
Deflated with disappointment, he wanted to get out, to hide in a corner together with his hurt pride.
“You mustn’t get downhearted. Funny business writing. We feel…” (Mr Pritchard and I, thought Oscar) “that is Mr Pritchard and I feel that you have the makings of a writer. I would go so far as to say a very good writer. You mustn’t expect to succeed first time…”
Christ! Drink your ruddy coffee and let me go home.
Outside he shook the dry hand of Mr Bright and thanked him for lunch.
“Oh, just one minute John.” He opened his briefcase and took out the manuscript, giving it to Oscar.
When he had gone Oscar threw it into the gutter in a gesture of childish pique. He rescued it and wiped the mud off with his handkerchief.
“I’ll show you,” he said to the absent Mr Bright. “I will show you.”
He had forgotten who it was who said that it was pointless doing things in order to ‘show’ people because by the time you had they were either dead or had long ceased to care. Showing Mr Bright, however, was the spur which took him through the next months, tied him to his typewriter and finally produced some 70,000 words which he took down as dictation from his head. He amazed himself with the torrent which streamed from his brain and through the keys on to the paper. He noticed nothing, lost contact with his friends, neglected Karen and devoted himself to the floodgates which Mr Bright had opened in his brain. When he had finished he had flu and spent a week in bed doing little but sleep.
He took the manuscript personally to Bright and Pritchard without revealing his identity to the girl in the front office.
“Would you kindly see that Mr Bright gets this.” He hoped she would think he was a post office messenger or private delivery man. He thought himself into a green uniform with peaked cap…
“You did say Mr Bright?”
“Yes. Mr Bright.”
Having rid himself of his burden tied up with string and hope he wanted to get out of the place.
“Mr Bright isn’t here.”
He waved an arm. “Give it to him when he comes back.”
Her eyes widened. “He won’t be back.”
The sack! Good lord.
“He’s dead. Went eight weeks ago. He had asthma, you know. Caught a chill and…” She shrugged her shoulders by way of explanation.
“We all chipped in for a wreath. Shall I give it to Mr Pritchard?”
“Dead!”
“No, silly, not Mr Pritchard isn’t, Mr Bright.”
“He said he’d publish it. Well, more or less said…” In his distress he let the special messenger/private delivery man bit drop.
“I expect Mr Pritchard knows all about it.” She was trying to be helpful. He pulled the carefully wrapped parcel towards him from the counter top on which he had put it. The girl took it firmly and placed it on a shelf behind her.
“I’ll see that Mr Pritchard gets it.”
“Tell him that Mr Bright promised…well not actually promised, but…”
“Don’t worry. Leave it to me. He’ll get in touch. What name was it?”
“John. Oscar John.” Did they never teach grammar at the school she could not long have left?
A light came on her switchboard. She flicked a switch.
“Pritchard and Bright… Yes Mr Burgess, of course Mr Burgess, will you hold?” Another switch. “Oh Mr Pritchard, I have Mr Burgess on the line.” Switch. “Mr Burgess, sorry to keep you waiting. Mr Pritchard will speak to you now.” She made the necessary connection and seemed surprised that he was still there.
“Was that the Mr Burgess?”
“Of course, silly.” She swivelled round and pointed to an entire row of books by Richard Burgess, bearing the Bright and Pritchard colophon, behind her. To him the spines receded. When they came into focus again each one bore the name ‘Oscar John’.
He was in the bath when Pritchard rang him. Sixteen days had passed. Two weeks of misery in which he swung from the depths of depression to the height of acute mania.
He’d forgotten to grab a towel and wrapped himself in the bedspread knowing that Karen would be angry.
“I read your manuscript,” Pritchard said. “I liked it very much. Very much indeed.”
Oscar smiled to himself. “You have a great talent for dialogue and the story moves fast. Very fast. My partner Bright had spoken of you. He’s dead…”
‘…very dead,’ Oscar said silently, wondering whether it was the rainy season in Mexico.
“…so you see our lists are absolutely full.”
He looked at the receiver. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that last bit. It’s not a very good line.”
“I was merely explaining, Mr John, that owing to the reduction in size of our fiction list we are unable to publish your charming novel. Very charming.”
“You’re not going to publish…it was Mr Bright’s suggestion…”
“I’m sure my colleague made no promises, Mr John…”
“A sort of implicit promise…”
“I rather think that you read too much into his words. We never promise to publish anything we have not read, certainly not the work of a new author. May I suggest you try elsewhere. You obviously have considerable talent but our lists, you see, for the moment…returning your manuscript to you, and thank you for letting us read it.”
The bedspread was soaking and there was a damp circle on the bed. All that bloody work. That bloody, bloody work. The typing alone was more arduous than anything he had ever done. The story he knew to be good. It had come from his head all of a piece: he had received it loud and clear.
Karen, when she came home, tried to comfort him but he was inconsolable. He would not relinquish his hurt pride. It was no consolation that James Joyce’s Dubliners had been rejected by twenty-two publishers, Orwell’s Animal Farm by three, Thomas Wolfe, Samuel Butler, Thomas Burke, John Braine… the list was endless. He drowned his sorrows nightly at the Rising Sun and passed each day in a state of blissful anaesthesia.
When Bright and Pritchard returned the manuscript he would have put it up in the attic had it not been for Karen, whose faith in him was touching. She undid the parcel, removed the rejection slip on which Pritchard had written an encouraging personal note, rewrapped and readdressed it and sent it to the next publisher on the list which she had compiled. Oscar neither remonstrated with her nor encouraged her. In the next months the routine became established. The parcel was posted, involving some considerable expense, a card was received acknowledging its receipt. Sometimes it pointed out that it would have the publisher’s careful attention, and sometimes that although every reasonable care would be taken while the manuscript was in their possession, the publisher would not be responsible for its loss or damage by fire or otherwise.
Oscar hated the postman who brou
ght it back. Sometimes a letter was enclosed, polite or encouraging: ‘We have now had our reports on your manuscript but I am sorry to say that these have not given us sufficient confidence to make you an offer of publication, and we must therefore return it to you with many thanks for having given us the opportunity of reading it.’ ‘We have now had time to read and consider your manuscript and come to the conclusion that it is not suitable for our list.’ ‘We are returning your manuscript as our reader does not think it suitable. It is probably suitable for some other publishing house and we hope you will have success in placing it elsewhere.’ Sometimes it was merely a printed rejection slip.
The manuscript was getting increasingly tattered. He wondered how long it would survive. He was gradually creeping up to the record set by James Joyce. Even Karen was becoming downhearted and suggested he start another book. He refused to do so and took to coaching pupils for their O and A levels. He wrote an embittered short story about the difficulties of the struggling author and sent it to a magazine. One publisher wrote a lengthy report pointing out that the novel was written on two levels; the lighthearted contrasting with sober observations of social problems. Under the circumstances they felt that the author should alter the book to pure comedy in which case they would be happy to consider it again.
He sat brooding over this pinprick of light which offered little relief to the blackness of his mood.
“Why don’t you try?” Karen said. “Alter it.”
“There are no guarantees if I do. ‘Happy to consider it again.’ By which time of course their ‘list’ will be full. And there’s another thing. I don’t want to alter it. It may stink, it may be nobody’s cup of tea, but I know, Karen, I know that the shape is right. If I bugger it up according to everyone’s whim it will be no damn good at all. It stands as it is or nothing. Sling it up in the attic, dust my wig and I’ll go back to bloody law.”
“Give it one more try, just one,” Karen said, “for me.”
“For you? You’ve been an angel. One more, then the attic. Promise?”
“I promise.”
On 13 November he received a carefully worded acknowledgement. ‘We have safely received the typescript of your novel and will give it a careful reading. We hope however that you will not be too disappointed if we have to decide that we cannot make you an offer for its publication, as our lists are so full for many months to come that we have to be extremely selective in adding to them…’
“That’s that,” he said to Karen. “They’ve turned it down before they’ve even read it.”
Weeks went by. The postman and the winter came and went. Occupied with himself he did not notice Karen becoming tired, losing weight. At first they spoke of the book. Later carefully avoided the subject. Oscar refused to ring them up. He could not stand the rejection and humiliation that would ensue.
On his birthday, among the cards, came a contract for his novel. He screamed. “What is it?” Karen came running.
“A contract! A bloody contract.”
“For what?” It hadn’t yet sunk in.
“The book, they’re going to publish it!”
“I knew they would. I knew it!”
“More than I did. Look there’s a letter.” With trembling hands he picked it up.
Dear Sir,
We are attracted to your book because we think that its very unpretentiousness brings out its qualities of kindness, feeling and humour. We cannot of course guarantee success for any book but we should be glad to make you an offer for publication. We have pleasure therefore in enclosing memoranda of agreement in duplicate. If the terms proposed are acceptable to you, will you please sign and return one copy. The other is for your own reference.
It has been very pleasant to read and it is now very pleasant to make an offer for this most charming tale.
“They said their lists were full.”
“To cushion the blow.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
“Believe this then. I’m pregnant.”
“What a birthday! My God, I should have noticed. Sit down. Lie down. Put your feet up, don’t move! I’ll call the doctor. I’ve been so selfish. I’ll put the kettle on…boiling water…! What are you crying for?”
“I’m laughing; at you!”
She slid into his arms. “This is such a happy day.”
“The most.”
“What shall we call it?”
“We decided that. Death at the Old Bailey.”
“I meant the baby!”
“What baby?” He looked vaguely round the room. “The baby, of course…er…haven’t a clue. The baby; mean sod that I am. Two presents. Do you think I’ll live to see it published?”
“Why? Is anything the matter?”
“No. Next year seems such a long time. Suppose I were run over.”
“I wonder whose baby will be born first,” Karen said.
“They are both ‘ours’. If it wasn’t for you I’d have packed that novel business in months ago.”
The book and Rosy were born on the same day. It was quite the most epoch-making day in Oscar’s life. While Rosy entered the world, however, with gusto, the book sneaked in with a whimper.
He had stayed with Karen, well, part of the time at any rate. Masked and gowned (the renowned surgeon), he went into the labour ward to find Karen moaning with pain and men in rubber aprons and wellington boots like fishmongers peering into her nether regions. She held his hand which she squeezed until it was white, then, relinquished her hold, smiled. He failed to see that there was anything to smile about. “Can’t you give her something?” he asked the men.
“I don’t want anything, darling,” Karen said. “I’m enjoying every minute.”
He looked at her incredulously as she let out a yell. A nurse appeared with a trolley of horrid chromed instruments. There was a sudden rush of water on the bed. Some of it dripped on to the floor. They didn’t seem to care. “Put this over your nose and mouth, dear,” the nurse said, “as soon as you feel a contraction coming, then breathe deeply. If Daddy could come this side and rub her back, it helps sometimes.”
Daddy!
“Two fingers,” one of the fishmongers said, paddling on the wet floor.
Another pain and he saw Karen as he never had before, writhing and grimacing in her agony. Each time she came out of it she smiled. They put trumpets on her belly and listened. There was talk of an ‘episiotomy’. He’d thought it was going to be like A Farewell to Arms with Jennifer Jones all neat in bed and smiling bravely, no paddling there nor trolley of medieval instruments of torture and everything soaking wet.
Somewhere a woman screamed. “My God, help me, help me, can’t anyone do anything to help me?”
He began to feel sick. The room receded. He found himself on the floor.
“Don’t worry,” the nurse said, “we lose lots of our fathers like that. I think you’d better go out for a bit. Your wife is going to be quite a while.”
“Do you mind, Karen? I can’t stand much more.”
She shook her head and applied the mask to her face. Probably better off without him.
He discovered he was trembling as he took off his mask and gown in the ante-room. Another father was just tying his mask.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Oscar said.
“It’s my third,” the man said cheerfully. “Great fun!”
“Masochist,” Oscar said under his breath.
He walked out into blinding sunlight and thought of poor Karen sweating with the effort of producing their child. ‘In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children!’ damned right. He looked about him; small children, mothers with prams. They all looked quite happy about it. Extraordinary.
He walked past Smith’s then stopped. Something he needed? Paperclips? Copy paper? The Book! He retraced his steps and looked in the window. A reduction on portable typewriters, a new line in notepaper, the latest good food guide, two bestsellers prominently displayed. Cheek! They might have put it in the
window. He went inside. Children’s books, children’s annuals, biographies and books of general interest, new fiction! He circled the stand, feeling his heart-rate increase. He circled it in the other direction. Not a sign. Somebody wasn’t doing his job. He looked round for an assistant. There were two women in blue overalls at the pay desk. He approached them. “I’m looking for a book, a new book, out today in actual fact. I wondered…”
“You want Mr Spencer,” one of the ladies said, taking tenpence from a child for a balloon.
She scanned the shop with her eyes.
“Where’s Mr Spencer?” she asked her colleague.
“Gone to coffee.”
“Won’t be long,” the first woman said.
He returned to the new fiction stand, feeling weak inside. Perhaps he wouldn’t wait for Mr Spencer. Just go outside and find another bookshop. His courage had left him.
“Mr Spencer!” a blue woman called. “Gentleman looking for a book.”
He stopped in his tracks.
“Can I help you, sir?” He was aged all of nineteen and spotty.
“I hope so, I mean I think so, I don’t know… I mean I’m looking for a book…”
“What kind of book?” Mr Spencer said, picking up the latest work of a well-known writer. “Is it for someone in hospital? If so this is very popular…”
“No. Not in hospital. It’s a new book, published today: Death at the Old Bailey.”
He shook his head. “We certainly haven’t got it in stock. Do you know the author and publisher, then I could look it up for you?”
“Oscar John.” He felt ridiculous saying his own name.
“Never heard of him. Who is the publisher?”
“Benthorpe.”
The young man flicked through his list of new titles.
“It doesn’t appear to be here, but then this is last month’s. I could probably get it for you. If you’d like to leave your name?” That was the last thing Oscar wanted to do.
“No, no. It doesn’t matter. I’m just enquiring. Thanks very much anyway.”
On the news-stand outside he asked for the newspaper.
The Life Situation Page 4