Authors: Kate Morton
‘I was at the opening night of the play, you know,’ said Herbert when I’d finished relaying the conversation.
‘The
Mud Man
play?’
He nodded as Jess took up her position on his feet. ‘Have I never mentioned it?’
‘No.’ That he hadn’t was not as strange as it might seem. Herbert’s parents were theatre people and much of his childhood had been spent knocking about behind the proscenium arch.
‘I was twelve, or thereabouts,’ he said, ‘and I remember it because it was one of the most astonishing things I’d ever seen. Marvellous in many ways. The castle had been constructed in the centre of the stage, but they’d built it on a disc, raised and inclined, so that the tower pointed towards the audience and we could look right through the attic window into the room where Jane and her brother slept. The moat was on the very rim of the disc and the lights came from behind, so that when the Mud Man finally emerged, when he began his climb up the stones of the castle, long shadows fell into the audience, as if the mud of the story, the damp and the dark and the monster himself, were reaching out to touch one.’
I shivered theatrically and earned a suspicious look from Jess. ‘Sounds the stuff of nightmares. No wonder you remember it so well.’
‘Quite, although there was more to it than that. I remember that night specially because of the kerfuffle in the audience.’
‘Which kerfuffle?’
‘I was watching from the wings, so I was well placed to see it when it happened. A commotion, up in the writer’s box, people standing, a small child crying, someone ailing. A doctor was called and some of the family retired backstage.’
‘The Blythe family?’
‘I suppose it must have been, although I confess to having lost interest once the disturbance was over. The show went on, as it must – I don’t think the incident rated as much as a mention in the papers the following day. But for a young lad like myself it was all a bit of excitement.’
‘Did you ever find out what it was that happened?’ I was thinking of Juniper, the episodes I’d heard so much about.
He shook his head and drained the last of his tea. ‘Just another colourful theatre moment.’ He fumbled a cigarette into his mouth, grinned around it as he drew. ‘But enough about me. How about this summons to the castle for young Edie Burchill? What a lark, eh?’
I beamed, I couldn’t help it, but the expression staled a little as I reflected on the circumstances of my appointment. ‘I don’t feel great about the other writer, the fellow they engaged first.’
Herbert waved his hand and ash sifted to the carpet. ‘Not your fault, Edie love. Percy Blythe wanted you – she’s only human.’
‘Having met her, I’m not so sure of that.’
He laughed and smoked and said, ‘The other fellow will get over it: all’s fair in love, war and publishing.’
I was quite certain the displaced writer bore me no love, but I hoped it wasn’t a case of war either. ‘Judith Waterman says he’s offered to hand over his notes. She’s sending them this afternoon.’
‘Well, then. That’s very decent of him.’
It most definitely was, but something else had occurred to me. ‘I won’t be leaving you in the lurch when I go, will I? You’ll be all right here by yourself?’
‘It will be difficult,’ he said, furrowing his brow with mock perseverance. Still, I suppose I must bear it bravely.’
I pulled a face at him.
He stood up and patted his pockets, feeling for his car keys. ‘I’m only sorry we’ve got the vet’s appointment and I won’t be here when the notes arrive. Mark the best bits, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
He called Jess to heel then leaned over to hold my face in his two hands, so firmly I could feel the tremors that lived inside them as he planted a whiskery kiss on each cheek. ‘Be
brilliant
, my love.’
The package from Pippin Books arrived by courier that afternoon, just as I was closing up shop. I debated taking the whole lot home, opening it in a steady, professional manner, then thought better of it. Jiggled the key in the lock, fired up the lights again and hurried back to my desk, tearing the parcel open as I went.
Two cassette tapes fell free as I fumbled an enormous stack of papers from inside. There were over a hundred pages, fastened neatly with a pair of bulldog clips. On top was a cover letter from Judith Waterman including a project brief, the crux of which read as follows:
NEW PIPPIN CLASSICS is an exciting new imprint of PIPPIN BOOKS that will bring a selection of our favourite classic texts to new readers and old. Re-jacketed with beautiful matching bindings, assorted decorative endpapers and all-new biographical introductions, the NPC titles promise to be a dynamic publishing presence in coming years. Beginning with Raymond Blythe’s
The True History of the Mud Man
, NPC titles will be numbered so that readers can enjoy collecting them all.
There was an asterisked handwritten note from Judith at the bottom of the letter:
Edie, what you write is, of course, up to you; however, in our initial briefing discussions we wondered whether, seeing as so much is already known about Raymond Blythe and because he was so reticent about his inspiration, it might be interesting to write the piece with a particular eye to the three daughters, posing and answering the question of what it was like to grow up in the place from which the Mud Man came.
You’ll see in the interview transcripts that our original writer, Adam Gilbert, has included detailed descriptions and impressions of his visits to the castle. You are most welcome to work from these, but you’ll no doubt wish to conduct your own research. In fact, Persephone Blythe was surprisingly amenable on that count, suggesting that you pay them a visit. (And it goes without saying that if she should choose to let slip the origins of the story we’d love for you to write that up for us!)
The budget isn’t huge but there’s sufficient remaining to fund a short stay in the village of Milderhurst.
We have made an arrangement with Mrs Marilyn Bird at the nearby Home Farm Bed and Breakfast. Adam was pleased with the standard and cleanliness of the room, and the tariff includes meals. Mrs Bird has advised of a four-night vacancy beginning October 31st, so when next we speak please let me know whether you’d like us to make a reservation.
I flipped over the letter, ran my hand across Adam Gilbert’s cover sheet, and sank into this most thrilling moment. I believe I may actually have smiled as I turned the page; I certainly bit my lip. Rather too hard, which is how I remember it so well.
Four hours later I’d read it all and I was no longer sitting in a quiet office in London. I was of course, but also I was not. I was many miles away inside a dark and knotty castle in Kent, with three sisters, their larger-than-life Daddy, and a manuscript that was yet to become a book that was yet to become a classic.
I laid down the transcripts, pushed back from my desk and stretched. Then I stood and stretched some more. A kink had tied itself at the base of my spine – I’m told reading with one’s feet crossed atop the desk can do that – and I struggled to dislodge it. Time and a little space allowed certain thoughts to rise from the ocean floor of my mind, and two things in particular floated to the surface. First up, I was awestruck by Adam Gilbert’s workmanship. The notes had clearly been transcribed verbatim from taped interviews and prepared on an old-fashioned typewriter, with impeccable handwritten annotations where necessary, and a level of detail so that they read more like play scripts than interviews (complete with bracketed stage directions if any of his subjects so much as scratched); which is probably why the other thought struck me so strongly: there had been a notable omission. I knelt on my chair and leafed again through the stack to con- firm, checking both sides of the paper. There was nothing from Juniper Blythe.
I drummed my fingers slowly on the stack of notes: there were perfectly good reasons why Adam Gilbert might have passed her over. There was more than enough material without additional comment, she hadn’t even been alive when the
Mud Man
was first published, she was Juniper . . . Nonetheless, it niggled. And when things niggle, the perfectionist in me starts to fret. And I don’t much like to fret. There were three Sisters Blythe. Their story, therefore, should not – could not – be written without Juniper’s voice.
Adam Gilbert’s contact details were typed at the bottom of his cover sheet and I deliberated for around ten seconds – just long enough to wonder whether nine thirty was too late to ring somebody whose home address was Old Mill Cottage, Tenterden – before reaching for the phone and dialling his number.
A woman picked up and said: ‘Hello. Mrs Button speaking.’
Something about the slow, melodic tone of her voice reminded me of those wartime movies with the rows of phone operators working the switchboard. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘My name’s Edie Burchill, but I’m afraid I might have called the wrong number. I was looking for Adam Gilbert.’
‘This is Mr Gilbert’s residence. This is his nurse speaking, Mrs Button.’
Nurse. Oh dear. He was an invalid. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you this late. Perhaps I ought to call back another time.’
‘Not at all. Mr Gilbert is still in his study; I see the light beneath the door. Quite against doctor’s orders, but so long as he keeps off his bad leg there’s not much I can do. He’s rather stubborn. Just a minute and I’ll transfer your call.’
There was a heavy plastic clunk as she laid down the receiver, and the steady sound of footsteps retreating. A knock on a distant door, a murmured exchange, then a few seconds later, Adam Gilbert picked up.
There was a pause after I introduced myself and my purpose, in which I apologized some more for the awkward way in which we’d entered each other’s orbit. ‘I didn’t even know about the Pippin Books edition until today. I’ve no idea at all why Percy Blythe would put her foot down like that.’
Still he didn’t speak.
‘I’m really very, very sorry. I can’t explain it; I’ve only met her once before and then only briefly. I certainly never meant for this to happen.’ I was jabbering, I could hear it, so with great force of will I stopped.
Finally he spoke, in a world-weary sort of voice. ‘All right then, Edie Burchill. I forgive you for stealing my job. One condition, though. If you find out anything to do with the
Mud Man
’s origins you tell me first.’
My dad would not be pleased. ‘Of course.’
‘Right then. What can I do for you?’
I explained that I’d just read through his transcript, I complimented him on the thoroughness of his notes, and then I said, ‘There’s one little thing I’m wondering, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The third sister, Juniper. There’s nothing here from her.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, there’s not.’
I waited, and when nothing followed I said, ‘You didn’t speak with her?’
‘No.’
Again I waited. Again nothing followed. Apparently this was not going to be easy. At the other end of the line he cleared his throat and said, ‘I proposed to interview Juniper Blythe but she wasn’t available.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, she was available in a bodily sense – I don’t think she leaves the castle much – but the older sisters wouldn’t permit me to speak with her.’
Comprehension dawned. ‘Oh.’
‘She’s not well, so I expect that’s all it was, but . . .’
‘But what?’
A break in conversation during which I could almost see him grabbing for the words to explain himself. Finally, a brambly sigh. ‘I got the feeling they were trying to protect her in some way.’
‘Protect her from what? From whom? From
you
?’
‘No, not from me!’
‘Then what?’
‘I don’t know. It was just a feeling. As if they were worried about what she might say. How it might reflect.’
‘On them? On their father?’
‘Maybe. Or else on her.’
I remembered then the strange feeling I’d got when I was at Milderhurst, the glance that had passed between Saffy and Percy when Juniper shouted at me in the yellow parlour; Saffy’s concern when she discovered that Juniper had wandered off, that she’d been talking to me in the passage. That she might have said something she shouldn’t. ‘But why?’ I said, more to myself than to him, thinking about Mum’s lost letter, the trouble hinted at between its lines. ‘What could Juniper possibly have to hide?’
‘Well,’ said Adam, lowering his voice a little, ‘I must admit to having done a bit of digging. The more adamant they were about keeping her out of it, the more interested I got.’
‘And? What did you find?’ I was glad he couldn’t see me. There was no dignity in the way I was practically swallowing the telephone receiver in my eagerness.
‘An incident in 1935; I guess you could call it a scandal.’ He let the final word hang between us with a sort of mysterious satisfaction, and I could just picture him: leaning back against his bentwood desk chair, smoking jacket drawn taut against his belly, warm pipe clamped between his teeth.