‘I do rather,’ said Max. ‘I’d’ve thought your readers will be wanting to get back to the plot long before then.’
‘Ah, now.’ Rex looked shy and somewhat disconcerted. ‘That is something I have a problem with, plot. Plot, characters, dialogue and descriptions of the natural world. Apart from that, I’m fine.’
Max sipped at his drink, seeming to turn this over, then said, ‘Have you thought about writing non-fiction, Rex? Perhaps a textbook, as you obviously have such specialised knowledge.’
But then the doorbell rang. It was Laura. And no sooner had she taken off her coat than Honoria and Amy arrived.
Laura was more than a little surprised to find herself at Plover’s Rest for, since Honoria’s visit, she had changed her mind about the meeting a thousand times. Veering from knowing she could not bear to see Gerald to knowing she could not bear not to see Gerald; from being sure one minute that she knew exactly how she felt (hated him,
hated him
) to being sure the very next that there was no way she could possibly know how she felt till their next meeting. The relief when she realised that he was not actually in the room was so tremendous that she was overcome by dizziness and almost fell. This sensation was re-triggered the moment she sat down, when the door was opened again. But it was only Brian, closely followed by Sue, red-faced and puffing from the effort of trying to catch him up.
Brian gave a curt nod in the direction of the guest’s armchair. Sue smiled shyly and shook hands, concealing her surprise, for Max was nothing at all as she had expected. Sue had been picturing a big bluff tweedy man perhaps smoking a pipe. Max Jennings wore tweeds, true, but they were closely woven, beautifully cut and the colour of driftwood and he was smoking slender brown cigars. His heavy linen shirt was the extremely pale shade of green that used to be called eau-de-nil. It was impossible to guess how old he was for, although he had snow-white hair springing back in deep waves from his forehead, his clear, lightly tanned skin was quite unlined. And Sue had never seen such eyes. Brilliant azure. The blue of Moroccan skies. Matisse blue. He was slightly built and not very tall.
Brian, having taken a seat within easy reach of the banquet, flung one baggily trousered leg over its fellow and stared contemptuously around. What a pathetic lot. Dressed up to the nines as if for royalty. Amy wore frills, Rex his dusty pinstriped funeral gear, Honoria a halfway decent Daks skirt and heather-mixture cardigan. Laura had excelled herself in a narrow black dress and Chinese brocade jacket. As for Sue, well . . .
A rainbow-patterned full-length caftan over a badly bobbled limegreen mohair jersey. Hair half plaited, half not (she had panicked on hearing the front door slam) and too much highly coloured make-up. Brian, once he had caught his wife’s eye, rolled back his own, registered disbelief and shook his head. Then, satisfied that his state of absolute unimpressedness had been observed by one and all he reached out and helped himself to a sandwich.
‘Don’t you think,’ called Honoria, as loudly as if he were still in his own kitchen next door, ‘that it might be courteous to wait until all of us are present? Or, at the very least, until you are asked.’
‘Folks uz wait till they’re arst,’ replied Brian, thinking to speak broadest Yorkshire, ‘get nowt.’ Then, having shown his independence and provoked the desired response, he crammed the sandwich into his mouth and said, ‘Where’s Gerald?’
A question no sooner asked than answered. Footsteps were heard running quickly down the stairs and, a moment later, their host came into the room. He went straight across to Max Jennings’ corner, holding out his hand and apologising profusely for not being present when Max arrived. He then introduced himself. Twice.
Rex felt gravely let down. One of the ways he had killed time that afternoon was by writing and re-writing this meeting of Gerald and Max in his mind. He had imagined all sorts of permutations. Some quite tame, some funny, others wildly unreasonable. What he had not considered for a moment was that Gerald would simply pretend that they had never met before.
Now Max was getting up, taking the outstretched hand and gracefully turning the apologies aside. Looked as if the play was going to be over before it had even started. Rex’s disappointment deepened when it struck him that perhaps Max genuinely did not remember the incident in the past that had caused Gerald such distress. How humiliating. Comforting too, of course. In a way. He indicated the spare place beside him on the sofa and Gerald sat down. Rex smelt brandy and recalled the missing decanter.
Now everyone was present there was a general flutter of anticipation followed, quite quickly, by a rather unnatural stillness. The meeting (Laura and Gerald excepted) gazed at Max Jennings with a constrained vitality that plainly declared a desire for action. He returned a hesitating smile. Sue wondered if he was waiting for some sort of formal introduction, which was surely only proper, but no one seemed moved to give one and eventually he began to speak. His voice was low and musical, with an accent that she could not quite place.
‘If I start by saying “unaccustomed as I am” I can assure you it’s no more than the truth. I’ve simply never done this sort of thing before. I haven’t prepared anything, I’m afraid. Just come along to see what you wanted. And how, if at all, I can help.’
For a moment there was silence. People looked around uncertainly. It was as if years of rejected invitations had left them unsure they were hearing right. That they were, in fact, sitting in their usual gathering place but this time with the real McCoy - a living, breathing professional writer who had actually offered to help if he could. The sheer novelty of the situation seemed to be about to prove too much for them.
Then Brian uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and, with an expression of great solemnity, cleared his throat—
‘I am in the process of writing,’ declared Honoria, ‘the history of my family, which is to say the history of England. The Lyddiard blood has, without the slightest taint of bastardy . . .’
Brian, irritated almost beyond endurance at being pipped at the post, sat back but in a pouncy, gathered manner as if to warn all present that he would not be cheated a second time. Consumed with resentment, he tried to stop his ears against Honoria’s droning recitation. If he had been even halfway actively true to his principles he should, long since, have thrust two fingers right up her high bridged, bonily Roman, aristocratic hooter. The fact that he had never been able to bring himself to do this he blamed on his emasculating parents and their ghastly, toadying enthusiasm for society’s upper crust.
Brian had bitter memories of being forced to take his cap off in the village high street every time a member of the fox-and-hounds squirearchy trotted by. He had been cruelly mocked by his peers for these archaic genuflections and had complained in anguish to his parents, only to be told that such little courtesies were the cement that held society together. There would always be a man on horse-back and one on foot, his father had explained. It was the natural order of things.
Brian stamped on this sorry drift and tuned back into the present just in time to hear, ‘. . . in every battle or even the meanest confrontation the Lyddiards always hunted in full steel.’
Honoria then made the mistake of pausing, both for breath and in order to evoke an admiring response. Max immediately obliged. ‘It sounds a most worthwhile endeavour. Now,’ he smiled encouragingly around the room, ‘what about the rest of you? Um. Amy, isn’t it?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Amy, flustered at being unexpectedly called on, fumbled in her pocket and produced a little square of paper. No need to open it, for she had her first question off by heart. Keenly aware of how very slender her acquaintance was with the world of New York socialites on the razzle, Parisian models on the catwalk and Italian princelings on the make, she said, ‘We’re always being told, Mr Jennings—’
‘Max, please.’
‘Max. That we should only write about what we know. Isn’t that a bit limiting?’
‘I don’t think it’s meant to be taken in the narrow, literal sense. One can know things - quite wild, fantastic things - to be true in the imagination.’
‘You mean like science fiction?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Also, whenever I’m writing a scene I keep thinking of other ways that might be better. And I never know whether to stop and start again or carry on.’
‘I’m afraid that’s par for the course. Writers spend their lives haunted by discarded alternatives.’
How tactful he was, Laura thought, glancing briefly at Max’s engaged, intelligent profile before turning her attention back to Gerald. Plainly something was wrong there. Very wrong indeed. His body, balanced on the very edge of the sofa, was curved in the shape of a half hoop and taut as a drawn bow. His face was impassive, but Laura sensed, from the knotted cords in his neck, that it was kept thus only by the most tremendous effort. She realised as well that although, like the rest of them, his head was turned in Max’s direction his eyes were fixed at a point on the wall beyond Max’s shoulder. One of his shoes, Veldschoen, conker-bright with a pattern of punched holes in the toe cap and gingery laces, tapped urgently on the carpet.
Looking at him, loving him, Laura became aware from the familiar churning of her stomach that nothing had changed. Faithless he might be, but she was still in his thrall, as she had been from that first moment. She would just have to accept the blonde. End up probably like the baron’s wife in Balzac’s
Cousine Bette
, dying in her bed of love starvation while he tumbled the maid downstairs. Dragging her attention away she saw that Max was, momentarily, watching her. Then knew that this quick bright observance had led him to understand her feelings exactly. Annoyed and resentful she stared hard at him in return, letting her displeasure show.
Amy was asking her final question: what were the most important attributes for an author to have?
‘A wayfaring mind. Nothing should be beneath our attention. And stamina. You have to hang on in there.’
‘But you were successful straight off,’ said Brian, rudely emphasising the personal pronoun.
‘I was fortunate. Even then, in a way, one is always back to square one. Each new book is started from scratch. And of course success can antagonise. Critics come gunning for you. My historical novels come in for quite a bit of flack.’
‘I was wondering . . .’ Although Sue had taken a deep, calming breath her voice still quaked. ‘Have you had any experience at all with children’s books?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I paint, you see . . . pictures.’
Pictures eh? How amazing. Brian’s thoughts were ruefully plain as he made equalising eye contact with their guest. What can you do with them? He said, ‘I suggested she start with a few short stories or poems but she wouldn’t have it.’
‘How wise. They’re almost impossible to sell.’ He smiled encouragingly at Sue. ‘What are the paintings about?’
‘A dragon called Hector.’
‘And does he eat people?’
‘Only thin ones. He’s on a diet.’
‘I love it!’ Max gave a splendid and apparently quite spontaneous laugh and Sue’s confidence was persuaded into a brief florescence. Not that the play group did not regularly fall about when she described Hector’s adventures but, as Brian said when she had first told him, what do a bunch of kids know?
She looked across at her husband tapping his chin with his index finger, thin lips moving slightly - a sign that he was polishing up some pithy, controversial dialogue. But as he leaned forward Honoria lumbered into the vertical.
‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hungry. And I’m sure Mr Jennings must be too.’
There was a swell of apologetic murmuring. Amy took a plate and napkin to their guest. Gerald came to life, murmuring ‘coffee, coffee’, and almost ran into the kitchen, followed closely by Rex.
Honoria, having quickly constructed for herself a tottering tower of assorted goodies, returned to her seat, saying loudly as she passed Brian, ‘Your mouth’s open.’
Brian, furious at having been once more cheated of his
moment d’estime
and convinced he heard the words ‘common little man’ floating back over Honoria’s shoulder, snapped his jaws together. The circle broke up. Laura went to help with the coffee and found Gerald and Rex deep in animated conversation. They were patently disturbed when the door opened and Gerald frowned so forcefully that she immediately withdrew.
In the drawing room people had changed seats. Amy and Sue had moved closer to Max, who was nibbling on a cream-cheese wheel, to pose problems they had been too shy to ask about publicly. Laura glanced over what was left of the food. There was nothing she really fancied. In any case she was still experiencing a faint queasiness - a sensation she knew from experience would be with her until she was well away from Plover’s Cottage. She cut a fragile slice of Sue’s carrot cake and turned away quickly from the sight of Rex’s de Montargis pralines. They looked like the varnished brains of tiny mammals and she could not possibly envisage putting one into her mouth.
Brian, far from defeated and biding his time, sat, a well-filled plate on either knee, listening to the oh-so-predictable questions. Did Max work regular hours? (Nine till five.) Did he rewrite much? (Everything. All the time.) Did he start with plot or characters? (Indivisible. The characters are the plot.) Did he do much research? (As little as possible. Preferred an educated guess. Often wrong.)
At this point Gerald and Rex appeared with two cafetières and jugs of milk which they put on the sideboard already laid with cups and saucers. Honoria cried ‘At last,’ as if the pair were a couple of tardy waiters.
Amy left Max Jennings’ side at this point to fetch him some coffee and Brian seized his chance. Slipping into her place, he began to describe his thrice-weekly drama sessions.
‘. . . building rather than writing a play, which I regard frankly as a totally passé word. Not to say elitist.’