The Girl From Barefoot House (41 page)

‘She was, and she wasn’t.’ Josie searched for somewhere safe to put the paper. ‘I might need that if it comes to a battle with the twins. And don’t swear, luv. It’s not very nice.’

Next day, she rang Directory Enquiries during her dinner break to get Leonard McGill’s telephone number. She could actually remember his address in Holborn.

‘He’s at lunch,’ she was told. ‘Would you like to leave a message?’

‘Yes, please. It’s about Louisa Chalcott. He’ll probably remember me.’ They’d spoken over the phone often enough. ‘I used to be Josie Flynn. Tell him I’ve got Louisa’s manuscript.’

‘Have you really?’ remarked the disembodied voice.
‘He
will
be pleased. He’ll return your call the minute he gets in. Can I have your number?’

Josie reeled off the number. ‘I’m going back to work, I’m afraid. I won’t be home till four o’clock.’

‘Oh, dear. I shall have a very agitated gentleman on my hands for the next three hours,’ laughed the voice.

The phone was ringing when Josie unlocked the door two minutes after four. The years seemed to fall away when she heard the familiar, cultured tones of Leonard McGill. He courteously asked how she was before mentioning the manuscript, which she could tell he was dying to do. ‘So, madam left it with you, did she? The twins will be thrilled. I’m over the moon. I long to read it, find out what that awful woman got up to.’

‘Actually, she left it
to
me, not just with me. I didn’t realise I had it until yesterday. It was in an envelope which Louisa asked me not to open until nineteen seventy-four.’

There was silence, followed by a strange noise, like water gurgling down a drain, and she realised Leonard McGill was laughing. ‘The twins will be as sick as dogs, and I’m even further over the moon. What a turn-up for the books, eh? Dreadful pair, those two. I’m not sure who was worse – the mother, or her frightful daughters.’

‘Oh, the daughters,’ Josie said promptly. ‘At least Louisa was honest.’

‘I’ll let the press know. Offers of publication are bound to come pouring in. Now,’ he said, and she could imagine him mentally rubbing his hands together with glee, ‘I hesitate to abandon something so precious to the tender mercies of the Royal Mail, and I can scarcely ask you to bring it all the way to London. I think it best if I came personally to collect it as soon as possible. If I
cancel my appointments, I could come tomorrow. Would that suit you?’

‘No,’ Josie said firmly. The manuscript was
hers
, and she wasn’t prepared to let it out of her possession, not yet. ‘I tell you what – the firm where I work has just got one of them new photocopying machines. I’ll do a copy tomorrow and post it straight away.’

He was clearly disappointed, but Josie didn’t care. She rang off. She was holding something very important, with which Louisa had said she could do ‘whatsoever she may please’. Knowing Louisa, she’d had publication in mind, and had obviously wanted Josie to have the benefit of the royalties it would earn, which wouldn’t be much, if her previous royalties were anything to go by, but better than nothing. But a principle was involved and, with the twins hovering on the horizon, it seemed important to hold on to the original until an agreement, or a contract, or whatever it was called, was signed.

She sank into a chair, feeling elated. At last something exciting had happened, and it was all due to Louisa.

In the nine years she had worked for Terence Dunnet, a small, reserved man with skin like parchment, half-moon spectacles and very little hair, they had never had a proper conversation. She felt slightly nervous when she asked if he would mind if she used his new copying machine. ‘It’s quite a few pages, hundreds, but I’ll pay for the ink and paper. And I wouldn’t do it during working hours, naturally.’ She had told Dinah she might be late home, but Dinah said it didn’t matter, she’d be even later.

‘Well …’ He looked from her to the gleaming new machine that stood in the corner of the main office. ‘I
don’t suppose it would hurt. I get a discount the more paper that’s used.’

‘Ta, very much,’ she said gratefully.

It was a slow job, and took much longer than expected. She was still hard at work at six o’clock when Terence Dunnet came out of his own office, ready to lock up and go home.

‘I’ll have to finish tomorrow.’ She wiped her brow. It was a hot day, and continual use of the photocopier had turned the room into an oven. ‘I’m only two-thirds of the way there.’ There was still another exercise book to copy.

‘What is this?’ He looked with interest as a double page of barely legible scribble emerged from the machine and plopped on to the pile already there.

‘It’s a book, written by a friend of mine. I’m doing a copy for her agent,’ Josie felt bound to explain.

‘Has she had anything published before?’

‘Yes, but only poetry.’

‘
Only
poetry!’ He smiled his dry-as-dust smile. ‘My wife is something of an amateur poet, Mrs Coltrane. She would be annoyed to hear it referred to that way. What is your friend’s name? If she’s been published, Muriel may have heard of her.’

‘Louisa Chalcott.’ Josie herself did her best not to be annoyed. ‘And I said “only” poetry, because this is something different, that’s all. I wasn’t being offensive.’

Terence Dunnet’s glasses nearly dropped off his nose. ‘This surely cannot be the manuscript that was mentioned in the
Sunday Times
? Louisa Chalcott is one of Muriel’s favourite writers, and she gave me the article to read.’

Josie nodded, and explained she’d been Louisa’s
secretary, and had only known she held the missing manuscript on Sunday.

‘How remarkable.’ He looked dazed. ‘How absolutely remarkable. And it’s actually in
my
office! Muriel will be knocked for six when I tell her.’ He put his briefcase on the floor, removed his jacket and rolled up his snow-white sleeves. ‘It is obviously important that this reaches Miss Chalcott’s agent with all possible speed. The last post goes from Whitechapel at eight o’clock. You look exhausted, Mrs Coltrane. Make us both a cup of tea while I finish this off. You know where the large envelopes are kept. Why not get one ready?
I
will make sure the post is caught. And forget about paying for the paper and the ink – a copy of the book when it’s published would suffice.’ He smiled again. ‘Signed by you, of course.’

The twins consulted a solicitor, but according to Leonard McGill had been advised they hadn’t a leg to stand on. ‘I sent them a copy of Louisa’s note,’ he told Josie on the phone, ‘and they tried to claim it was a forgery. I said if that was the case, the entire book must be a forgery because the writing is identical. By the way, I’ve had another offer – two and a half thousand pounds. The publishing trade are vying with each other for Louisa’s last work. Sex and art.’ He chuckled. ‘A highly volatile combination.’

Josie gulped. She’d had no idea you got paid for books before they were published – half on signing the contract, the rest when it was published. This was the third offer, five hundred pounds more than the last. ‘Will you accept?’

‘Will
you
accept, Josie?’ Leonard said smoothly. ‘It’s
entirely up to you. As your agent, I would recommend against it. It’s early days yet.’

‘It makes me feel uncomfortable,’ she confessed. ‘After all, it’s not as if I wrote it.’

‘Would you feel uncomfortable had Louisa left you a valuable antique that was up for auction?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Well, this is no different, my dear.’

By the end of August, the bidding had reached twelve thousand five hundred pounds, and Leonard McGill phoned.

‘It’s a new company, Hamilton & Ferrers. I know nothing about Ferrers, but Roger Hamilton is a well-known entrepreneur. He’s been in oil, plastics, mining, owns a racehorse or two. The company have already published half a dozen works that haven’t exactly set the world alight. He hopes to create a stir with
My Carnal Life
. I have tentatively accepted on your behalf.’

‘Do you think the title’s okay? It’s the way Louisa described it more than once.’

‘It’s perfect, Josie. Oh, Roger Hamilton would like to meet you. I thought if I brought him to Liverpool one day soon, we could sign the contract over dinner and you can hand over the original manuscript at the same time.’

‘Can I come?’ Dinah demanded.

‘You’d feel out of place, luv, with a crowd of old people.’

‘You’re only forty, Mum. And who’s to say this Roger chap mightn’t be young? Anyroad, I’d quite enjoy it. And you need someone on your side.’

‘It’s not a battle,’ Josie argued. ‘There won’t be sides.
If there were, Leonard McGill should be on mine. He’s me agent.’

‘He’s also a man. It’ll be two men against one woman if I don’t come with you.’

‘As I said, it’s not a battle … Oh, all right. I’d like to have you with me. I’ll ask Leonard to book a table for four.’

She felt touched that Dinah seemed protective all of a sudden, and bought them a new outfit each for the occasion. They actually ventured into George Henry Lee’s, where the prices were normally way beyond her reach. It meant being temporarily overdrawn at the bank.

‘Gosh, this brings back memories.’ She searched through a rack of elegant suits, possibly a bit warm for early September.

‘Memories of what?’

‘Of shopping in the Kings Road when money was no object. You should have seen the things I used to buy, Dinah! You know me camel coat with the fur collar? I bought that in the Kings Road. It’s older than you are, and still in good condition.’

‘I suppose Laura had lovely clothes, too,’ Dinah said.

It was a long time since she’d mentioned Laura, and Josie was upset by the bitterness in her voice. She touched the slim, white arm. ‘You didn’t exactly go short, luv. I always made sure you were as well dressed as Lily’s Samantha.’

For once, Dinah didn’t shrug her away. ‘Are you going to buy one of these?’

‘No, I’d prefer something not so heavy.’

She settled on a violet shot silk suit with a straight skirt and boxy jacket, with a black lace blouse to go underneath. Dinah refused to be talked out of a brief green linen frock that barely covered her behind.

‘You’ll have to wear tights,’ her mother advised as she gritted her teeth and wrote the cheque, ‘else your thighs will get stuck to the seats if they’re leather.’

The dinner was arranged for five days later. That afternoon they went together to the hairdresser’s. Dinah was still on holiday from school, and Terence Dunnet willingly gave Josie the time off. He had been dining out on the story of a famous lost manuscript being photocopied in his office, and she had kept him abreast of the various bids. He had offered to read the contract before it was signed. ‘As an accountant, I often read through agreements, contracts, that sort of thing. I can check if you’re getting a good deal.’

‘I’m signing it at dinner, but I trust Leonard McGill – that’s the agent – completely. He’s entitled to ten per cent, I know that much.’

‘Well, if you need help or advice, I’m at your service.’

‘Ta.’ She was pleased that they had become friends. They’d started to call each other Terence and Josie. His wife, Muriel, had been to see her, wanting to know all about Louisa Chalcott.

‘Do I look all right?’ she anxiously asked Dinah that night when she was ready to go.

‘Gorgeous, Mum. That suit makes your eyes look a lovely dark blue. I wish mine were darker. What colour did me dad have?’

‘Brown – still does, I expect. You’ve got lovely colour eyes, Dinah, there’s a touch of lilac in them.’ She looked sophisticated, and at the same time very young and fresh, in the green dress. Her fair, rather fine hair, tucked behind a green band, was shoulder length and turned up at the ends. She wore lipstick for the first time, a light coral, and her normally pale cheeks were slightly flushed.
She was obviously excited at the thought of the evening ahead.

Relations with Dinah had improved enormously over the last few weeks. It was as if, since the discovery of Louisa’s book, she was seeing her mother in a new light, with an interesting past, not just someone who nagged her to get up or wanted to know what time she’d be home. Had she been a different sort of girl, Josie would have told her about Louisa – and all sorts of other things – before, but Dinah had never seemed interested in talking to her mother.

Leonard McGill had booked a table at The George in Lime Street, expensive and discreet. Josie had never set foot in the place before. Dinah insisted they be five minutes late. ‘You don’t want to look too anxious.’

‘I want to look polite, that’s all.’

‘Let them be waiting for us, not us for them.’

The restaurant was barely half-full. Two men were sitting at a corner table, set slightly apart from the others. Waiters hovered attentively, and there was the subdued clink of dishes, the mouth-watering smell of food. One of the men stood, waved and came towards them.

‘Josie! We meet at last. Leonard McGill, how do you do?’ He shook hands effusively. ‘And this must be Dinah!’ He turned back to Josie. ‘Why, you were scarcely any older than this when we first spoke on the phone all those years ago. How lovely to see you both. Let me introduce you to Roger.’

Roger Hamilton was equally effusive. Both men were remarkably similar in appearance – early fifties, silver-haired, wearing dark suits and dark ties. Roger Hamilton’s clothes were clearly more expensive than those of a mere literary agent, and his face redder, his chin jowly. Josie wondered if the large green stone in his tie clip was
a real emerald. She was immediately struck with the feeling that she’d seen him before, and also that she didn’t like him much. Behind the smiling eyes she sensed a hardness. This man could be very cruel and ruthless, she suspected, but perhaps that went for all entrepreneurs.

Throughout the meal she felt she was being slightly patronised by both men. ‘I suppose this will be your first and only venture into the world of literature,’ Roger Hamilton remarked over the main course, delectable roast beef and melt-in-the-mouth vegetables.

‘It’s not her first.’ Dinah spoke up. ‘My father used to be a famous television writer, and she used to do his typing. What was it he wrote, Mum?’