Familiar Rooms in Darkness (3 page)

The business of living together had seemed a logical
extension of going out with someone for two years, but Adam was still finding it hard to get used to. Until Megan, girlfriends had always been largely peripheral. Now there were days – days when he had a great deal of reading to do, or was working on a difficult piece – when he would look back longingly on the quiet, connected days of complete solitude which had characterized his bachelor life. Having to consider another person, to take account of them in the evenings, allow their time and troubles to overlap your own, made extended periods of concentration difficult. But one adapted. One always adapted. Most of the time it was more fun to have another person around, someone with whom to share domestic trivia, as well as more momentous events, such as the Harry Day coup.

Megan came in, kicked off her shoes, and was immediately and enthusiastically embraced by Adam.

‘What?' she asked, leaning back in his arms and trying to read his face. ‘Tell me.'

When Adam told her his news, she tried to seem as pleased as he evidently was. Despite her degree in media studies, Megan's grasp of literary matters was tenuous. She rarely opened, let alone read, the review copies of books which Adam occasionally passed on to her, preferring the lighter pleasures of the pretty pastel chick-lit paperbacks which she picked up at W H Smith's or from girlfriends. Although Harry Day's name resonated in her consciousness in the same way as, say, that of Ted Hughes or William Golding – literary giants who had straddled both her own and her parents' generations, but who seemed to have more to do with theirs, really, and
had been a bit of a yawn at GCSE – the momentous importance of Adam's news was somewhat lost on her.

She stood in the kitchen, listening as Adam expanded on the topic of Harry Day, his iconic status, the immense significance of being asked to write the life of someone about whom no one had ever written at length before.

‘Why you?' she asked, picking bits out of the green salad as he took the champagne from the fridge and popped it.

‘I don't honestly know.' He handed Megan a glass. ‘Well, that is – he said he'd read some of my pieces and liked them.'

‘Even so.'

‘He also seems to have some idea that having a young biographer might help. So that he won't just be relegated to the old-literary-fart department.'

‘I don't see what difference it makes. Anyway–' Megan realized that now wasn't perhaps the right moment for a questing analysis of Harry Day's motives. She raised her glass and grinned. ‘Here's to Harry Day, and his life's story. Congratulations.'

‘Thank you,' said Adam. ‘It's going to make a bit of difference on the money front, I can tell you. Let's go through.' He took the bottle and they went through to the living room and settled on the sofa.

‘How much?'

‘I haven't spoken to Giles yet, but we have to be talking six figures.'

‘Adam! That much?' Suddenly Adam's news took on significance.

He nodded, gave a smile of satisfaction and propped
his feet up on the coffee table. It was most pleasant to be reappraising his immense good fortune by discussing it cosily with Megan. ‘I should get a quarter of it up front. Of course, we'll have to find a publisher first, but something tells me that won't be difficult.'

‘I am
so
pleased for you, clever man.' Megan snuggled against him.

‘It's a fantastic opportunity,' said Adam, returning to his theme. ‘If this is a success, I can stop reviewing other people's books and write my own. No more crawling to commissioning editors, chasing money month after month.' He leaned his head back and sighed. ‘I can start doing the kind of work I've always wanted to. It's time that's the problem, see – buying time. When you're a freelance, you're always after the next piece of work, you're never able to devote yourself to anything that takes sustained effort, like a novel, say, or a play. If I can pull this off, then it'll earn me enough to be able to do anything I want.' He stared at the ceiling, his mind drifting. ‘I could write a life of Baudelaire. I'd really, really like to write a life of Baudelaire. Just think of having enough time to go off, do the research, read the books. No more deadlines, no more anxiety…'

‘We could put down a deposit on a house.'

House? What was wrong with the flat? He'd lived here for six years and had no particular wish to move elsewhere. Baron's Court had much of the convenience of Fulham and Chelsea, without being as expensive. Being a freelance journalist was often a solitary occupation, and Adam liked being able to emerge from his isolation and wander the familiar streets. He knew the shopkeepers
and the restaurant owners, and enjoyed the sense of community.

He drained his glass slowly, then nodded noncommittally. ‘I'd better get the commission first.'

‘So, what happens? When do you start?' asked Megan.

‘I'm going to speak to Giles over the weekend. As I said, I don't think finding a publisher will be a problem, since the project has the blessing of Harry himself. Then,' Adam shrugged, ‘it's a question of spending time with Harry, talking to him and his family and friends, going through papers, letting the thing take shape. Harry seems to have fairly clear ideas about how the book should develop.'

‘Then I don't understand why he isn't busy writing his autobiography.'

‘He's very ill. In fact, he's dying.' Adam's voice was reflective. ‘From what I can gather, he hasn't got much more than a year left. A task like that would be too much for him. This way, he's allowed a certain amount of input. He also knows the thing will get finished after he dies.'

‘Sounds a bit controlling to me, as though he's just going to tell you what to write. Don't you mind that?'

Adam was not prepared to acknowledge that he was too grateful for this rare opportunity to start cavilling about lack of artistic freedom. ‘I'm sure it won't be anything like that. I'm lucky to have his help.' Adam drained his glass and rose from the sofa. ‘I'm going to start supper.'

Megan stayed where she was, sipping her drink, thinking happily about what a difference the money would
make. They might even be able to think about getting married.

Giles Hamblin, Adam's agent, was delighted when he heard Adam's news. It was generally known that Harry Day was on his last legs, and Giles knew of several people who had tentative ideas about a biography, ready to cash in as soon as the old boy kicked it. Adam was going to pre-empt them all. When the word got out that family and friends were talking to no one but Adam, the others would just fade into the woodwork.

He set about putting together a deal with a leading publisher, carefully keeping Adam's rights to serialization, and by the end of the month, when he signed the contract, Adam received fifty thousand pounds, a quarter of his advance, the largest sum he had ever put into his bank account. The sense of freedom and elation it gave him to bank the cheque was very pleasant. Not that he was going to live off that alone. No, he would continue with his reviews and arts features, depending on how much time the biography permitted.

Adam spent much of the next two months in Harry's company. On a number of occasions he spent several successive days at Gandercleugh, sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms, spending long days in the morning room with Harry, breaking for lunch or for Harry's medication and rest. He made many, many tapes of their conversations, going back through Harry's childhood, his time spent in National Service, his career as a young poet, his post-war theatrical successes, his heady years as a celebrity
playwright in the swinging sixties, his first marriage, the birth of his children, the divorce, his spiritual journey to India, the novels, the drugs, the spell in prison, his second marriage, his return to poetry, the reflective later years… It was all beautifully chronicled, embellished with wonderful anecdotes and reminiscences. All Adam had to do was fashion it into a third-person narrative.

Briony was not always there – her work took her up to London for long spells – but when she was she would occasionally join them, her chair next to Harry's, his hand clasped in one of her own, and help out with accounts of events since their marriage. She was the fondest, tenderest, most devoted of wives, it seemed to Adam. But at times when he sought to draw her out on her own, when Harry was resting, she would generally make some excuse to keep the conversation short. Adam got the impression that, although she was more than happy to help out where Harry was concerned, she didn't care to reveal too much about herself. For all the warmth and ease of her manner, there was, when they were alone together, a distinct reserve.

The rest of the time Adam spent in London, working his way through a long list of people drawn up by Harry, who had all known him at different times in his life and had an engaging range of recollections and stories. The material was abundant. Adam had no time to go off at any tangent of his own, even if he'd wanted to.

In early December Harry became briefly too unwell to continue with the collaboration, and Adam took the opportunity to try to pull the material together, going through the various interviews which he had transcribed
from tape to computer. Megan was away for a few days, and he welcomed the uninterrupted solitude as a chance to get a proper overview of the material he had gathered so far.

It was a laborious task. When he had finished, he knew he should have been pleased with what had been accomplished so far, but instead he felt an odd sense of dissatisfaction. Something about the biography thus far wasn't quite right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He thought about it for some time, going on one of his habitual long walks around the local streets and parks. The truth was, nothing so far gave any new insights into Harry Day. Apart from Harry's own recollections of his childhood, Adam was aware that everything, every fact, every anecdote, every name and every face, had featured somewhere previously. Much had been written about Harry during his lifetime. This biography, apart from re-hashing that, should cast new and fascinating light on its subject. It didn't. So far, he wasn't telling anyone anything that hadn't been told before.

He decided to speak to Giles about it. They met for a drink at a riverside pub near Giles's office in Hammersmith. Giles was some twenty-five years older than Adam, and an ex-journalist. As Adam's agent, he had naturally been ecstatic at Adam's good fortune in securing the chance to write Harry Day's biography, particularly since he would be creaming off a healthy ten per cent, but he had always had certain reservations about Adam's sense of independence in the matter. It seemed to Giles that Adam was too enthusiastically admiring of Harry, too prepared to take the old man's word as gospel, to try to
delve deeper and find those little hidden pockets of dirt which made a person's life interesting. He listened to Adam's misgivings, and said as much.

‘Well, where is there to go?' Adam spread his hands. ‘I've only got what Harry's told me. None of his friends and acquaintances have come up with any dark secrets or interesting aspects of his past. They all think Harry's a wonderful guy. Fine, he's had some run-ins with the odd theatre director or critic, but nothing electrifying. Above all, nothing new.'

‘What about his family?'

‘Apart from Briony, his wife, I haven't got round to them yet. I've been too busy making the most of what time Harry has left. Besides,' Adam lifted his beer and took a sip, ‘I should think they'd be the last people to start dishing the dirt. If there is any, that is.'

‘What about his first wife, Cecile Patterson? You might unearth something interesting there.'

‘I doubt it,' sighed Adam. ‘According to Harry, they're the best of friends. She even gets on with Briony. All is sweetness and light. Maybe it's the truth. Maybe I just have to accept that he's a genial old man of letters who, apart from being busted for drugs and once landing one on the literary editor of the
New Statesman
at a drinks party, led an average life. Christ, what am I saying? Everything he's done, everything he's ever been, should be interesting enough. But somehow it's not.'

‘Because everyone knows it all.'

‘Quite.'

‘How is he, by the way?'

‘Harry? Improving slightly. I rang Briony yesterday. If
he's better next week, I'll go back to Gandercleugh and pick up where we left off. But it's just a matter of weeks now, I suspect.'

‘Well,' said Giles thoughtfully, ‘maybe the real problem is the fact that Harry's still around. It's something of a constraint, you know. Not just on the people who know him, but on you. You naturally feel reluctant to go to work properly.'

‘Properly?'

‘As you said, what you've got so far is superficiality. It's a life, but it's the life he wants you and the world to know about.'

‘But what if there isn't anything else? What if what you see is what you get? Anyway, I'm not deliberately aiming to unearth anything discreditable. That's not what I mean. I just–' He broke off, uncertain, exasperated.

‘Adam, you're a journalist, a would-be biographer. It's your job to dig deep, to investigate, use your instincts, follow up hunches. You're writing about someone who's lived on the planet for over seventy years. You want this biography to be more than a lengthy publisher's blurb. You have to go to work.'

‘Giles, what d'you think I've been doing for the past two months?' He sighed. ‘Perhaps it's me, the way I'm approaching it. Maybe I should make it more literary – what d'you think? Go more extensively into his work, and the way it reflects his life. I mean, I do that to a certain extent, but perhaps I should make it more academic–'

‘Adam, don't be such a bloody Cambridge graduate. Be more forensic. We're talking about a human being
here, warts and all.' Giles finished his beer. ‘Just give it time. Harry's too substantial a presence right now. He's dominating what you do. Wait until he's a ghost. That's my advice.'