Loitering With Intent (20 page)

Anyway, Leslie’s book got two reviews which Dottie brought round to display to me. They were rather feeble, but better than nothing.

Nothing is what happened to
Warrender Chase
for the first two weeks after it was published. I was saddened by this silence, but not very deeply, for I had half forgotten the book, so much did I prize my new work.

I went over to Solly one Thursday afternoon. He had promised to lend me some money to pay my rent, for I was waiting to be paid for some reviews and articles. In fact I also owed money to a dentist whose receptionist was beginning to lose patience; I had refused to answer the telephone all day, convinced as I was that the persistent calls were from her. The house-boy was quite offended when I told him on the switchboard to say I was out to everybody. He said he didn’t like telling lies. I told him that Not at Home wasn’t a lie. He agreed, technically, but he sounded sulky.

Solly was sitting among his usual mess of newspapers and journals. I said, ‘I don’t like having to borrow. But I’ll pay you back soon.’

‘You should worry,’ said Solly. He was smiling in the midst of the papers spread out on his desk and on the chair. There were several weeklies. I saw the
Evening Standard,
too, and then I saw my photograph. Reviews of
Warrender Chase
had appeared all over the place, all quite favourable, all very large. Solly said he had advance information from the Sunday papers that the same thing was going to happen there. The
Evening Standard
picture had the caption, ‘Fleur Talbot in the book-lined study of her town house’. It was all a long time ago.

I recall that Theo Clairmont was one of the Sunday reviewers. He said it was undoubtedly an important book, but the author would probably never be able to write another. The prophecy didn’t come to pass, for
All Souls’ Day
gave as much pleasure as
Warrender Chase,
and after that,
The English Rose
and others, some more, some less.

Another thing I recall, that day when I went over to Solly to borrow the money for my rent: on my return there was Mr Alexander at the door to greet me with a great welcome and a copy of the
Evening Standard
in his hand. He asked me in to have a drink with his wife. I said, another time. The house-boy was also very agitated, not knowing what to do with the phone messages and yet mesmerized by my picture in the paper. He was not quite convinced that I wasn’t involved in some wrong-doing.

And I remember Leslie paid me a visit that evening. He congratulated me on my piece of luck. He said, ‘Of course, a popular success …’ and didn’t finish the sentence. He said, ‘Well, I’ll always be your friend,’ as if I were out on bail.

The telephone messages had been mounting up. I had a bunch of them from the house-boy, and yet another bunch by nine o’clock that night. I took them to bed with me, feeling somewhat bewildered. I looked them over one by one. Some of the people I was to ring back were Miss Maisie Young, Mrs Beryl Tims, Miss Cynthia Somerville of the Triad Press, Mr Gray Mauser, the features editor of
Good Housekeeping,
the literary editor of the
Evening News,
Mr Tim Sutcliffe of the Third Programme, B.B.C., Mr Revisson Doe; and there were many others including Dottie.

I rang Dottie back. She accused me of having plotted and planned it all. ‘You knew what you were doing,’ she said. I agreed I had been loitering with intent and said I was leaving for Paris in the morning.

In fact, I took refuge with Edwina in Hallam Street for a few weeks till the fuss died down. I had work to do. Success is a subject like any other subject, and I knew too little about it, just then, to be able to discuss it and answer questions about it. In those weeks the Triad sold the American rights, the paperback rights, the film rights, and most of the foreign rights of
Warrender Chase.
Good-bye, my poverty. Good-bye, my youth.

It was a long time ago. I’ve been writing ever since with great care. I always hope the readers of my novels are of good quality. I wouldn’t like to think of anyone cheap reading my books.

Edwina died at the age of ninety-eight. Her manservant Rudder had married Miss Fisher and they inherited her fortune.

Maisie Young opened a vegetarian restaurant which has flourished under the management of Beryl Tims.

Father Egbert Delaney was arrested in the park for exposing himself and then sent to a rehabilitation centre. Dottie, who is my chief informant on all these people, lost track of him after that.

Sir Eric Findlay died on good terms with his family, having lived long enough to earn the reputation of an eccentric rather than a nut.

The Baronne Clotilde du Loiret also died some time in the sixties, in California, where she had joined a highly-organized religious sect. According to Dottie she died in the arms of her spiritual leader, an oriental mystic.

I have no idea whatsoever what happened to Mrs Wilks.

But it is Solly Mendelssohn I mourn for. Solly, clumping and limping over Hampstead Heath with his large night-pale face. Oh Solly, my friend, my friend.

Dottie has been divorced and married so many times I forget what her name is now. I live in Paris; and Dottie’s present husband who is a journalist brought her to Paris a few years ago. She has problems with her children. She has the ugliest grandchild I have ever seen but she loves it. Dottie, under stress, stands under my window late at night singing
‘Auld Lang Syne’,
a ditty that the French fail to relish at one twenty-five in the morning.

The other day when I had looked in on Dottie, in her little flat, and had a row with her on the subject of my wriggling out of real life, unlike herself, I came out into the court-yard exasperated as usual. Some small boys were playing football, and the ball came flying straight towards me. I kicked it with a chance grace, which, if I had studied the affair and tried hard, I never could have done. Away into the air it went, and landed in the small boy’s waiting hands. The boy grinned. And so, having entered the fullness of my years, from there by the grace of God I go on my way rejoicing.