by Fay Weldon
Be Bold, Be Bold, But Not Too Bold
‘Rise, Sir Jeremy,’ says the King, and Vivvie’s father arises. She feels a pang of pride for him, and of affection for her mother, sitting next to her in Coco Chanel black silk georgette and the dearest pink satin cloche hat, weeping a tear or so of happiness. But Vivvie can see change must come. She must take charge of her own destiny. No-one else will.
But what can she possibly say, and when, and how? Everyone gets angry and indignant if she brings up the subject of money, and tells her to leave it to those who understand financial matters. Her father once even said ‘don’t bother your pretty little head about it’, which was fairly absurd since her head was neither pretty nor little. Her mother said ‘we have family lawyers to look after all these things. They manage your Alpine estate’; but she had failed to give her the name of the lawyers and Vivvie hadn’t liked to follow it up, which was silly of her, she knew. But they expected her to know things without actually telling her, and if she asked for detail saw it as evidence of her folly. She knew she wasn’t half witted but they behaved as if she were. She’s known for some time that when she reached twenty she would come into money but twenty had come and gone and she still had no more money in her purse than before, only now they put Coutts cheques in front of her which she was expected to sign. Early on she’d dared ask the crusty old lawyer who turned up from time to time, and in the presence of her parents, what the mysterious Alpine village consisted of, and been told it was a remote village sited on a lake amongst mountains, complete with an abandoned Benedictine abbey popular with visiting antiquarians, an old church, a town hall, a Gasthaus, a cluster of houses, some meadows and some cows and a goat herd and that was all. She should not make too much of it, but ground rents and tithes had built up while the will was under dispute, and she should consider herself wealthy.
‘What a fuss about nothing,’ Vivvie heard Adela say. ‘It should all have come to me. No such thing in English law for disinheriting unto the third generation. No English judge would have allowed it.’
‘Alas,’ Mr Courtney had replied, ‘he was foreign. As was your grandmother.’
Which, Vivvie thought, put Adela in her place. From the conversation which followed it seemed to Vivvie that the lawyers visited the village once a year but not Sir Jeremy (‘Too much to think about’) or Adela (‘Ugh, Austria. So primitive!’)
Vivvie had asked if the cows had bells and been told yes, to an impatient sigh from both parents – but then she’d read Heidi of the Alps and they hadn’t. The village was called Barscherau, said Mr Courtney, and no, it was not a Swiss village but fortunately in Austria, where inflation had been brought under control, and not over the border in Germany where it was still rampant. Vivvie longed to go and see Barscherau. But who would she go with? Her parents would never let her go un-chaperoned. Or perhaps they just needed her at hand to sign cheques?
Other girls of her age had husbands who looked after matters of finance and the law. What she needed was a husband brave enough to tackle her parents. But who? And how would she find one? Well, as one found anyone, she supposes. One asks around.
The band in the balcony strikes up with a medley from The Pirates of Penzance, rather feebly played, Vivvie thinks. Guests begin to file out. Vivvie’s replacement chair causes an obstruction and has to be moved: she sees her poor mother wince. There seems no end to the humiliations. If she was married there might be fewer of them.
She decides not to go to the office party her mother is to give to celebrate Sir Jeremy’s elevation. She will only be made to wear the dress with the big white bow – Coco Chanel, after all, her mother would insist. And she would have to admire the refurbishment and might blurt out the truth – that she hates it and misses the old musty, fusty, familiar offices her father used to take her to when she was little. Not that she was ever exactly little. No, she isn’t going to attend. A humiliation too far. Anyway.
The Fate Of Nations
As it happens the investiture is held at three in the afternoon on October 22nd 1922 which also turns out to be a turning point in the fate of nations, as well as that of Vivvie. It’s the day the coalition of Liberals and Conservatives finally fails; an event largely brought about by Balfour – a long time friend of Adela’s, as it happens. Lloyd George is removed from office and Bonar Law, a modest Canadian businessman, becomes Prime Minister. Some days seem more conducive to change than others, and so perhaps it’s no coincidence that this is the day Vivvie comes to the conclusion she does: she needs to marry, and to a man who understands money. A man whose boots let in water because he doesn’t have the cash to pay the boot-mender understands money very well.
Five In The Afternoon, November 23rd 1922. 3 Fleet Street
The door stands open. Sherwyn finds Sir Jeremy admiring himself in the mirror, proof that Sir Jeremy does not stand on ceremony and treats his employees as partners. One could be buried alive, Sherwyn thinks, beneath the weight of so much hypocrisy. But everything, not just the hypocrisy of the rich and famous, now irritates Sherwyn. The lumbering daughter thinking she can buy him, Mungo with his private means saying flippant, self interested things. And Sherwyn has had to go without lunch – Rita having failed to make him sandwiches and his credit at Rules being unreliable. The state of his shoes; everything, the excessive luxury of the office, the vulgarity of the lighting caryatids – most of all the way his manuscript sits on Sir Jeremy’s shelf because Sir Jeremy can’t be bothered to read it.
Sherwyn is aware that he needs all the indignation he can muster to be able to resign in style. He is doing his best, while still seeing himself as a likeable fellow, and of an easy and amiable turn of mind. He is torn between a scowl and a sneer and goes for a curl of the lip, which comes easily enough, and always looks good beneath his moustache.
This is how the meeting was to go, not quite as Sherwyn was to report it that night to the lovely, lascivious Rita, with whom he temporarily shares the most bohemian of artistic lodgings, and to whom he currently owes three weeks’ rent.
‘Do sit down, my dear boy,’ Sir Jeremy said over his shoulder but in jovial enough tones. Sherwyn sat. Sir Jeremy continued to admire himself. ‘A glass of sherry?’ Sherwyn nodded but Sir Jeremy chose to assume it was a shake of the head. Sherwyn, defeated before he began, gave up the sneer.
‘No? Very wise. Drink not, fail not. Tomorrow I will be fifty-seven. For a man of my age I put up a good show, don’t you think? Every day and in every way I am getting better and better. We need a list in the Behaviourist Sciences, don’t you agree? I notice a growing interest. Pity George Stanley got hold of the Coué book. Should have come straight to us. Did terribly well and still is. Self-Mastery through Conscious Autosuggestion. Read it?’
‘I haven’t had the time, sir. I am quite busy. I work late.’
‘Do I spot self pity on the orlop deck, Sexton? It won’t do. Just read the book! Look at me. Good head of hair, slim waist, well set up and recognised by the King himself for services to literature. Every day in every way I am getting better and better.’
‘But how could such a thing be possible, sir?’ asked Sherwyn.
‘Don’t mock me, boy,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘I’m practising the art of autosuggestion. I recommend it. I grant you the slim waist is a bit of a challenge but one does one’s best. I am glad you dropped by. Shut the door. I read your thriller. What was it? The Uncertain Gentleman. The title will have to change, for a start. But I liked it. Not exactly great literature, not exactly paving the way for the new socialist world order, not the new Coué, but for a piece of entertainment, not at all bad.’
Rage and resentment faded in Sherwyn’s heart: a great gratitude took its place. He tried to prevent a smile: it did not do to show enthusiasm, let alone gratitude. He spoke casually and languidly.
‘So you can see your way to recommending the work, sir?’
‘More than that, old chap. I mean to publish it.’
‘But we don’t publish fiction.’
/>
‘We do now.’
‘I see, sir.’
It transpired that Sir Jeremy was diversifying in the New Year into what he called ‘intelligent commercial fiction’. He wanted The Uncertain Gentleman – provisional title, of course – to be the lead novel in his new list. He had taken his time getting back to Sherwyn until various boring details could be settled. He was sorry for the delay which had been of his co-directors’ doing, not of his. The new list was to be announced with great fanfare in the spring. Sir Jeremy could see an encouraging future in fiction so long as it was designed to sell to the discerning and discriminating reader: pulp fiction was a thing of the past and not to be confused with what Ripple & Co, one of the great literary, intellectual and political publishers, was doing.
‘I should certainly hope not, sir.’
‘Quite at ease with the long words, aren’t you, boy. Quite the Old Pauline. Do please translate “abecadarian” for me.’
‘A beginner, sir. A dilettante. It describes my detective.’
‘Um. Never overestimate the intelligence of the reader, boy. Modern publishing’s first rule.’
‘I’ll remember that, sir.’
A publishing house, Sir Jeremy went on to say, must have its own character and nature, which must be recognisable and distinctive. Clever but not too clever. The Uncertain Gentleman seemed to fit the bill. These days a reader was as likely to trust a publishing house as a writer. Be as guided by a logo as title or author. He could see a future in jackets in a distinctive colour – pale blue, for example. Readers looking for intelligent but plot based fiction would look for the pale blue rather than the author’s name. He’d discussed it with Mungo and Mungo thought it was a good idea.
‘I might call the new list Not for Numbskulls. How does that strike you as a slogan, Sexton? You used to work with Mungo in public policy advertising.’
Sherwyn did not reply at once. His world was shifting and changing and resettling around him in a landscape that glittered with a thousand facets of fame and fortune, champagne and beautiful girls. A published writer! By Ripple & Co. Even though in a pale blue cover more significant than his name.
‘Speak your thoughts without fear or favour, Pauline.’
The important thing, Sherwyn knew, was not to show gratitude. It was the emotion demanded by publishers as they sought to control writers; it made acceptance itself seem so great a prize that writers seldom asked for better terms. Publishers operated an unspoken cartel. Writers must not get above themselves. The initial opening gambit ‘not exactly great literature’ had been deliberate on Sir Jeremy’s part, designed to ensure that Sherwyn did not get ideas above his station. ‘Clever, but not too clever’ likewise. And the notion of the colour of the cover being more important than the author’s name was the same. Well, Sherwyn would respond coolly.
‘Not for Numbskulls? Far too negative, sir, if I may say so. Ripple & Co must surely appeal directly to the positive aspirations in every reader. You might call it Forward-looking Fiction or something like that?’
Sir Jeremy raised his eyebrows in evident disparagement and doubt, but said nothing. Sherwyn decided that a lie was his best option.
‘Actually I had thought of sending my manuscript to Duckworth’s – they have a well-established fiction list – I showed the manuscript to you merely for an opinion in the hope of a recommendation. But there being a delay I sent a copy off anyway, and they’ve come back to me most favourably, though of course nothing’s signed yet.’
‘Um,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘Thank you for confiding in me.’ And then, ‘I wouldn’t think it wise for a writer of your capabilities to associate with Duckworth. They have such a fondness for seamy romances, bestselling or not; codswallop; cheap paper, cheap minds. All that madness of tender caresses. No, no, stay with Ripple, we are a serious house. Things are hard in the publishing business but we will make it worth your while.’
That was better. ‘A writer of your capabilities. A serious house.’ No-one had uttered the word genius but they might as well have. And Sir Jeremy had taken out his very expensive Waterman pen and his Coutts cheque book and was actually writing out a cheque, but for how much Sherwyn could not see. The stub and the date had already been filled in, but not yet the amount. Sir Jeremy put the cheque on the desk but kept it folded. Nor did he push it over towards Sherwyn. It lay there in front of them, a bargaining tool for an undisclosed amount.
‘A word of warning, Sexton,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘Steer clear of the markets. Keep your money under the marital mattress for the time being.’ It must be a considerable amount if he was talking about investments. ‘There’s trouble brewing. Instability is inherent in the classism of the capitalist model. What’s happening in Russia will be a financial upheaval, no doubt about it, but in a proper socialist economy stability will prevail. It must in the end. The Soviets deal in the reality of trade, of actual production, not figures on paper.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, Sir Jeremy,’ said Sherwyn.
‘Of course,’ said Sir Jeremy. ‘I may be wrong about you and Duckworth’s. It may be the very house for a man of your talents. I’ll need to discuss it with my co-directors.’
His hand reached out as if to take back the cheque.
Sherwyn saw his new glittering landscape fading, the phantasmagoria dying: he was to be thrust back into his old world of disappointment, rejection, leaky shoes. Since there seemed nothing to be lost but everything to be gained he played his remaining card.
‘As it happens, sir, I have news too. Talking of matrimonial mattresses, I am all too aware that mine is currently non-existent. But I am much encouraged by your reaction to my manuscript and think now is the moment to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. Emboldened, indeed. I have come to know Vivien well in the last few months – and she, me. We have been working together on A Short History of the Georgians. To know is to admire, and to admire is to love. I admire her for her intelligence, her competence, her integrity.’
The fingers, which had seemed likely to snatch back the cheque, were stilled. Touch and go.
‘That’s very interesting, young man,’ said Sir Jeremy, after a well-controlled blink or two. ‘My daughter’s hand in marriage. Very brave new world. Indeed, quite a turn-up for the books, as the bookmakers say. Hard to Adam and Eve it. You know we’re shortly publishing a guide book to Cockney rhyming slang? No? Even East Enders now carry literary significance. In the new world we strive for, all men will be equal; Earl and barrowboy, Old Etonian and Pauline, humble worker and capitalist boss.’
‘And here’s the Joe’s lamb to the slaughter wanting to get cash and carried to the office boy, I should bloody cocoa,’ said Sherwyn, smiling his most charming smile, temporising, thinking fast, arranging this new set of cards in his hand, working out in what order to play them. ‘Which translated means the boss’s daughter wants to marry the office boy. Why beat about the bush?’
‘Really?’ asked Sir Jeremy, increasing the pressure of his fingers on the folded cheque so it edged further towards him, and away from Sherwyn. ‘You seem to do a lot of beating at our Monday morning meetings, should you deign to turn up. But perhaps you’ve been burning the midnights finishing your manuscript? One would hope so. But I’m only teasing you, dear boy. You’re such a serious fellow in a world of fools. And Vivvie’s actually willing, is she? So far she’s frightened most suitors off. She finds it so difficult to smile, poor girl.’
‘It was she who approached me,’ said Sherwyn. There seemed little point in presenting the matter as other than it was. There are moments when it suits a born gambler – as Sherwyn was – to show his cards.
It is the right answer. Management’s hand pushes the cheque a fraction further towards Sherwyn, but he resists the urge to snatch. He is not to be seen to be easily bought. Nor indeed, as a great writer, should he be swayed by anything as vulgar as money. The rich were truly bastards. He smiled on.
‘Are you marrying the girl for her money?’ asked Sir Je
remy and Sherwyn was taken aback, not for the first time in his life, or the last, at how swiftly delicate negotiations could degenerate into brutal confrontation. ‘Because if you are you will find certain legal hindrances in your way.’
‘I am sure it is not in my nature to marry for money,’ Sherwyn said carefully, ‘any more than it is Vivvie’s to marry where there is likely to be none. And if I’m as good a writer as you say, earning enough for both of us should not be a difficulty. I would be happy to sign a prenuptial contract, of course. It would be the honourable thing to do.’
‘And no more foolish talk about Duckworth’s?’
‘No,’ says Sherwyn, simply. Lead title in a new fiction list at Ripple & Co was not to be sneered at. What he lost in literary credibility and pale blue covers would be made up for by healthy royalty cheques. But still Sir Jeremy did not push the cheque over.
‘My daughter has inherited many things from me. Good teeth, a strong jaw and a height and scale which makes romance with ordinary men difficult. She also has, I do believe, inherited my gift for picking unlikely winners. If she has picked you that is good enough for me. And you’re a competent enough writer and will look good on the back flap of the jacket. I have been talking to Mungo and he agrees with me that the way forward is to present the writer, like the publisher, as a marketable commodity, a personality. As to Vivvie, I will discuss the matter with Lady Adela. You actually love my daughter?’
‘I do, sir,’ said Sherwyn. What else could a chap say without being seen a thorough cad?
‘Good,’ said Sir Jeremy, taking back the cheque, crossing out what was written, altering figures and words, changing the amount on the stub, ‘because I need to be able to tell my wife that.’ Sir Jeremy slowly pushed the cheque over, mangled but legible, uncrossed. Five hundred guineas had been struck out and a thousand guineas substituted and initialled. £525 had become £1,050. A great deal of money. The thing to do was seem to be unimpressed.