I got a T-shirt for Gareth and some of the ubiquitous local honey for Declan and Mrs O’Connell – this last was only a fairing, since I knew Declan would be extending his corny palm to be crossed with folding money on my return. I then went in search of a stall I’d noticed the last time we were here. It was a permanent site in the covered market, presided over by a villainous-looking youth who made jewellery. His manner was calculated to keep custom at bay, but I braved it and bought a necklace and earrings of such bizarre and beautiful originality that I knew I’d love them for ever. The young man really should have been more amiable, for his prices were as breathtaking as his wares, but I was in no mood to penny pinch. I felt lucky.
On the drive back we compared our purchases. The girls were much recovered and, now that the holiday was on the home straight, no longer getting on one another’s nerves. The imminent prospect of showing off their tans and embroidering the facts to their associates back home had raised their spirits considerably. They even touched on the sensitive subject of the exam results without falling out. And I myself was not averse to the idea of what George generally referred to as ‘getting back in harness’. Every now and then I recalled my last conversation with Lew, and my heart, avaricious organ that it was, gave a little leap.
Maybe, just maybe, this was going to be it.
As we drove past the rear windows of the annexe Royston stuck his head and shoulders out, waving the telephone receiver in one hand.
‘It’s Lew Mervin from London!’
‘Hang on, I’ll come round.’
Talk about winged feet. I zoomed round the corner of the annexe and in at the open door, noticing in passing that Kostaki was sitting on the divan with his head in his hands.
In the office Royston thrust the telephone into my hand like a relay runner doing a baton change, and slid out of the room.
‘Lew?’
‘Harriet! Are you sitting down?’
‘Why?’
‘You ought to be sitting down when you hear the news I’ve got for you.’
I subsided on to Royston’s swivel chair. ‘Go on.’
‘I just heard from Sonny Beidermeyer in New York.’
Lew was enjoying this entrepreneurial foreplay.
‘And?’
‘You’ve done it, Harriet. You’ve cracked the States. You’ve hit the big one.’
‘Yes?’
‘Aurora Books want to buy up your previous stuff from that other chickenshit place you were with.’ He referred to the New York publishing house who had up to this moment launched a small selection of my books on to a largely indifferent American public. ‘Aurora want to re-launch you over there. They want to collaborate with Era on a three-book contract, the first of which will be Down Our Street.’
‘Gosh! So?’
‘The offer they are making is conditional upon your being able to give them a completed typescript for Down Our Street by the end of September. I told them I was pretty sure that would be no problem.’
‘No problem at all.’
‘And Harriet – they want the two of us, you and me, to go over to New York as soon as possible to talk ideas, and so you can meet the folk on the farm and so forth. Harriet,’ he breathed reverently in case I might have missed the point, ‘this is such a compliment!’
The tension finally got to me. ‘Lew.’
‘Yes, Harriet?’
‘I hate having to ask this but – how much?’
He told me. It wasn’t a six-figure sum. It was a seven-figure sum. Even divided by two it was a stupendous, gobsmacking, drop-dead lump of money.
‘Congratulations, Harriet,’ said Lew, like a midwife presenting a new mother with twins. ‘You did it.’
This was not the moment for modesty, false or otherwise. ‘I did, didn’t I?’ My head swam. ‘So – what happens next?’
‘When do you get back?’
I made a lightning survey of my revised plans. ‘Saturday morning.’
‘Could I book tickets on Concorde for the Sunday? I know it’s a rush, but then we have Monday and Tuesday clear in New York. And they’re paying – Harriet?’
‘Concorde …’
‘There’s a ten thirty flight. Can you manage that? Only I have to ring Sonny back tonight.’
It was going to be a scramble, but I was playing with the big boys now. ‘Tell him no problem!’
‘Terrific. By the by, I told the folks at Era and they are over the moon! I better go – uh-oh, before I do I’ve got someone here who wants a quick word with you. We were about to crack open a bottle in your honour.’
There were some mutterings and shrieking from beyond Lew’s cupped hand, and then:
‘Harriet, you beaut!’
‘Monica …?’
‘Get you! I’ll know who to come to when I need a few bucks, won’t I?’
‘I suppose you will.’ I was a huge silly grin on legs, but even so there was something I wanted to know. ‘What are you doing there?’
‘Neat, huh? Lew was the first person I bumped into when I hit town, so he’s putting me up till I find myself a job.’ There were some more muffled sounds, and then: ‘He says to tell you we’re an item.’
Not many days before I would have been downright incredulous at this. Now it seemed perfectly in keeping with current trends. ‘Well I never,’ I said. ‘That’s great.’
‘You can buy us dinner at Le Gavroche as soon as you get back from the States,’ Monica promised me. ‘Now go to it, girl. I’ll hand you back to the boss.’
‘I’m so pleased for you, Lew,’ I said.
‘We’re very happy. I thought another serious relationship was never going to come my way, but Monica’s changed all that.’
I pictured little Lew tucked up in bed with Monica taking him forcibly in hand.
‘I wish you both all the luck in the world,’ I said, meaning it more than they would ever know. Lew thanked me, and went on to explain how and where we would liaise at Heathrow, and to indicate that if I were able to bring any more of Down Our Street with me that would be even more wonderful.
‘Remember, Harriet,’ he concluded, ‘it’s not just one book that Aurora are buying into here but the whole Harriet Blair package – the popular reads, the literary novels, everything. It’s you they want. They’ve finally cottoned on to what we’ve always known, that you’re an author for all seasons.’
After I’d replaced the receiver I sat for a moment, dazed. An author for all seasons … this was a new title, but one I could very readily learn to live with. I liked the sound of it.
Royston put his head round the door. ‘Cup of tea, Harriet? Or something stronger?’
‘Something stronger, please …’ I got unsteadily to my feet.
‘Oh, dear. Bad news?’
I was sure he must have heard, whether by design or accident, a fair amount of my conversation with Lew, and was simply being nosey. He needn’t have worried. I was stinking rich and I didn’t care who knew.
‘Exactly the opposite. I’ve sold American rights for a huge sum of money.’ I put my hands to my head. ‘A huge sum.’
‘Hey!’ Royston rushed into the living room. ‘Doctor! Crank your face up and look cheerful. Harriet’s hit the big time!’
Kostaki got up like a man with lead in his socks, came over and gave me a kiss. ‘Well done. You deserve it.’
Royston scampered out and called the girls, and then returned to fetch glasses and a bottle from the kitchen. Kostaki just stood there looking miserable.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I realise there’s nothing like someone else’s good news to make a bloke depressed.’
‘It’s not that. I’m pleased for you. I really am.’
‘And I’m pleased for you,’ I said daringly. ‘And Priscilla.’
‘Oh—’ He gave a rueful jerk of the head. ‘That.’
I wasn’t going to let him off so easily. ‘So there is something?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry!
What’s the matter with you?’ I put my arm about his shoulders and beamed bossily at his ear, as the girls arrived in the doorway and Royston returned with drinks.
At intervals during that evening when I could summon sufficient coherence I reminded myself to take note, because this was what happiness felt like. Not contentment with its deep, deep peace, nor the white-knuckle ride of ecstasy, but the bright, untarnished sunshine of happiness. It wasn’t only the money. I had escaped the demeaning shackles of lust, and there was considerable evil pleasure to be had from watching the Count clank his chains at poor Kostaki.
I was fit, filthy rich – and free.
Long after the girls had gone to bed I floated out into the night. It was warm and still. Kostaki joined me. Not realising how benign I felt, he appeared sheepish.
‘About Pru,’ he said. ‘Actually, we’re thinking of getting hitched.’
‘Marvellous!’ I cried. ‘A wedding – you will invite me?’
‘No hard feelings?’ he asked wistfully.
‘Of course not.’ Now there was a definite shadow of disappointment. ‘So what’s up?’
He heaved a tragic sigh. ‘It’s that old fart at the château. Honestly, Harriet, I wish I’d never been halfway civil to him. He’s completely obsessed. He says he’s going to give me a surprise.’
‘The secret passage …’
Kostaki nodded grimly.
‘You’d have thought a tunnel stuffed with cadavers would have been enough to dampen anyone’s ardour.’
‘Come on, Harriet. You’ve met him. It would take half a dozen panzer divisions in full battle order to make him think twice.’
‘Why don’t you simply move out?’
‘I plan to. But I gave this number to the RPs, and Crispin’s calling first thing tomorrow morning. I simply must be here to prepare the ground about Pru. You’ve seen for yourself what a stuffed shirt he is. If I just bugger off it won’t look good. And where his wife’s sister’s concerned he’ll expect to see evidence of honourable intent, solvency, reliability. Blood on the sheets, I shouldn’t wonder. Christ, they’re coming over in a few days’ time! They’re not going to be too impressed if that fat old goat’s still prancing about the place treating me like some kind of superannuated rent boy! What’s the matter?’
I was paralytic with laughter. I was enjoying this every bit as much as Kostaki had enjoyed my discomfiture at the hands of Era’s Great Man, all those years ago at the Fartenwald Buchfest. Revenge was sweet. But Kostaki was rather sweet, too. And in spite of the alcohol I was razor-sharp.
‘What he needs,’ I said, ‘is a fright.’
‘What would you suggest?’ said Kostaki. ‘That hairless skin of his is like vinyl flooring.’
‘If he turns up, I think you should prepare to accommodate him.’
‘What?’
‘I only said prepare. Don’t worry,’ I soothed. ‘I have a cunning plan. Come round to the verandah. I’ll make us some coffee and have a quick word with the girls.’
The little bats were darting and swooping like airborne minnows when I rejoined Kostaki and explained what I had in mind. His jaw dropped.
‘You’re joking, I hope.’
‘Do you see me laughing?’
‘To be frank, yes.’
‘That’s a smile of quiet confidence.’
‘I can’t do it. It’s undignified.’
‘And fighting off the château-bottled shirt-lifter isn’t?’
‘Point taken,’ said Kostaki. ‘If he shows tonight, I’ll do it.’
After he’d gone, with only the most chaste of valedictions passing between us, I went for a swim. Intermittently the cannons popped. The girls had switched their music off. The only other sound now, apart from the silken ripple of my breast-stroke, was the distant barking of a dog in the woods. A tiny speck of light moved here and there in the melon field – Rindin perfecting his scourge of those feathered banditti bold enough to conduct raids in the small hours.
When I’d showered and dried I got into bed, but left the door and curtains wide open. I knew what I was waiting for. On cue at about one thirty there was a heavy splash as Obelix took the waters. I watched her quite tenderly as she sculled back and forth with that matronly motion, her large jowly head lifted high above the surface. Not wanting to disturb her I tiptoed out on to the verandah and pulled up a chair at the far end, facing the annexe. There was nothing to do now but wait for the fun to begin.
Only five minutes or so later I heard a kind of muted commotion in the living room of the annexe where Kostaki slept on the divan. This was followed by an urgent whispered exchange between two voices, one low and tense, the other a swift, excitable patter, rising to an occasional shrill squeak. The Count was paying court. I absolutely hugged myself in pleasurable anticipation.
Like a watched pot, it took rather longer than I thought, and the silence during the intervening minutes was profound and impenetrable. What on earth were they doing? Had Kostaki changed his mind and bottled out? Were they talking things through? Drinking coffee? Or were they actually – doing it?
Unable to contain my curiosity I had risen from my chair and was about to creep closer when the shit hit the fan. A wail like an air-raid siren went up, followed by a babble of confused French in which it was possible to distinguish le bon Dieu being frequently and urgently invoked.
The shutters went back with a sound like a football rattle. Another wail went up from the far side of the annexe, heading west. I flew along the verandah and up the path past the bedroom doors. I just heard the girls’ sleepy voices complaining bitterly about the din. Obelix hurtled from the pool and rushed past me, cannonading off my legs like a wet sheepskin rug.
There he went, Count Guy de Pellegale, scampering up the hill like an inflated Wee Willie Winkie, with his robe gathered about his knees and Obelix galumphing in his wake. As I watched him go, one of the cannons went off with a louder than usual report, and the Count squealed and leapt in the air before disappearing amongst the trees. A faint smell of cordite tickled my nostrils.
I told the girls it was nothing, only the Count and his dog having an altercation. They were sleepy enough to accept it. With the utmost self-satisfaction I went back to the verandah and sat down.
Lights had gone on in the annexe, and I heard Royston and Kostaki talking. Then all but one of the lights were switched off again, and Kostaki emerged in his short, black kimono. Seeing him thus attired my vital organs gave a very slight nostalgic lurch.
‘Well?’ I asked.
He stood looking down at me. The kimono was not that firmly tied.
‘Harriet,’ he said, ‘you’re a wonder.’
‘I know.’
‘It was so marvellously apt. It caught him off balance, literally. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Please …’ I made a feathery gesture of dismissal. ‘Glad to be of service.’
‘And me. Can I be – of service?’
He put his hands on the arms of my chair and leaned forward. The kimono fell open. His breath smelled of wine. His voice took on that unique timbre, an erotic frequency which seemed to thrust deep into the eardrum.
‘Harriet … how about it? For old times’ sake.’
I put my face very close to his. ‘Old times …?’ I breathed. I rose so we were standing chest to chest and I could feel all too clearly his sentimental attachment.
‘Old times?’ I repeated. ‘I’m afraid not, doctor. Time for you to settle down with a good woman.’ I pushed the chair back with my foot and sidestepped him. ‘And as you know,’ I added, going to the French window, ‘I was never that.’
I slipped inside, closed the window, turned the key and blew him a kiss. My last impression of him standing there on the verandah was of a man left holding an unwanted present.
Chapter Seventeen
The following day, Friday, I woke at six with a buzz of excitement. I knew that this shiny, perfect happiness would in the nature of things become tarnished, and that toda
y – the last of the holiday – was the one to savour.
I let Teazel in and left the verandah door standing open. Duvets of mist lay over the fields and dew-covered spiders’webs festooned the verandah pillars like glass rosaries. The cat’s fur as he pressed against my legs was cool and slightly damp. I pulled on a track suit, made tea, and went up to the atelier to write the final episode of Down Our Street.
Mattie Piper, thankfully, had turned the corner and become a halfway decent human being. Looking back I slightly regretted having made her such a madam to begin with, but that could be altered in the second draft. The important thing now was to end triumphantly. A certain nobility was to emerge in all three of my protagonists. Satisfaction had to be given, and seen to be given, on every side.
The spanking episode had represented a nadir of behaviour for those concerned. This final chapter was to have a different feel altogether: grey, gritty, elegiac – but with the faint traces of a new dawn on the rain-smudged horizon. A pit disaster had struck Marsdyke. Seth Barlow, having refused an early chance of escape in order to stay below ground with his men, was trapped with over a hundred others. The wives and families of the endangered miners were gathered at the pithead, silent and watchful in the freezing downpour. Mattie, as Seth’s wife, was their natural leader.
She felt the other women looking at her, I wrote, asking something of her which she felt unqualified to give. But she knew she must try. She had to do something, say something – not to allay their fears, but to give them strength. Had she been religious she might have led them in prayer. Had she been gifted in oratory she might have found fine words to lift their hearts. Had she been political she might have stirred them to action. As it was, she recalled with sudden clarity the words of her uncle, now grown so old and infirm that he could not leave the house to be with her at this vigil.
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