The Silent Tide (13 page)

After a week of tense waiting she asked Stephen, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to read that report on Hugh Morton’s book I left you?’

‘Ah, I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you about that,’ Stephen replied with a guilty look, and her hopes fell. But then he said, ‘The author’s coming in next week. I’ll make sure the two of you are introduced.’

‘We’re publishing the book?’ she asked, in surprise and not a little anger. She was used to not being told much, to having to pick up information through opening the post or by correspondence she was asked to type, but she was hurt that he hadn’t mentioned anything about this project.

‘His agent rang accepting our offer this morning, so it certainly looks like it,’ Stephen said with a boyish smile. Then, more seriously, ‘What I’d like from you is a list of notes. A more detailed version of those changes you suggested in the report.’

‘The ones about Diana, you mean?’ He was actually allowing her to work creatively with an author. Suddenly, he was forgiven.

‘Yes. I’m inclined to agree with you. She does lack spirit. I’ll need to speak to him about it.’

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She was pleased that he wanted her notes, but disappointed that he would present her ideas for her. Still, it was a start.

The following Tuesday lunchtime she was absorbed in proofreading when a sonorous voice was heard to ask, ‘Where do I find Mr McKinnon?’ She looked up. A tall young man with dark springy hair stood at the door. He carried an umbrella, but his coat glistened with rain. She knew immediately who he must be.

‘Mr Morton?’ Audrey got there first. She slipped out from behind her desk with one of her sinuous movements, introduced herself and showed him into Stephen’s office. Hugh Morton did not even glance at Isabel as he passed, and though she typed away furiously, she could not but be aware of him. His presence radiated intensity.

She heard Stephen say, ‘A great pleasure to meet you,’ to the newcomer, before Audrey closed the door on them and sat down. Five minutes later, the door opened again and Isabel raised her head, half-expecting Stephen to call her in, but instead he took Morton across to Trudy, who congratulated him, and then to Philip. ‘The man who’ll be responsible for the jacket,’ Stephen explained. Finally, they came to Isabel.

‘And this is Isabel Barber, who has also read your novel.’

Audrey chose this moment to interrupt. ‘Mr McKinnon,’ she said, ‘would you mind signing this letter before you go out? It’s to accompany those urgent contracts.’

Stephen turned away to oblige her. Isabel stood up to take the young man’s outstretched hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ she said, suddenly shy.

He replied eagerly, ‘The pleasure’s mine. So you’ve read it? I’m rather afraid to ask, but what did you honestly think?’ His low voice was husky now, charmingly so, and Isabel felt all his attention upon her.

‘Oh, I admired it very much,’ she replied, feeling her face colour up. ‘I really did.’

‘I’m so relieved,’ he said, and looked it.

Stephen handed Audrey back her letter. ‘We ought to be off, I’m afraid. There’s much to discuss over lunch. I should be back for my four o’clock. If that man from the wholesaler rings again, either of you, tell him we’ll reprint if he confirms his order.’

Hugh Morton said his goodbyes and Isabel watched them go off together. She could still feel the warmth of his hand and hear the timbre of his voice. It was extraordinary how she felt she recognised him from his book. If she’d been skilled enough to have painted a picture of the hero of
Coming Home,
she’d have painted Hugh, straight-backed, his dark hair springing from his forehead, the bookishly pale complexion and long-lashed brown eyes with their intense, slightly amused expression. He’d look perfect in a pilot’s jacket, especially . . .

‘Are you all right?’ Audrey’s voice came from somewhere far off. Isabel glanced up to see that she was putting on her coat. ‘You’re not going down with something again, are you? You do look peculiar.’

‘Perhaps I need some fresh air,’ Isabel sighed. ‘I might take my lunch now, too, if you’ll be here, Trudy?’

‘You run along, dear,’ Trudy said.

On their way out to the street, Audrey said, ‘Well, Hugh Morton’s a dish, isn’t he?’ Seeing Isabel’s embarrassment, she laughed. ‘You didn’t really expect that Stephen would ask you to go with them, did you? You’re blushing. You did!’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Isabel said. Sometimes she hated Audrey for her uncanny ability to see the truth, and to portray it in the worst possible light. ‘Why don’t we buy a sandwich and sit in the park?’

‘I’m awfully sorry,’ Audrey said, icily polite, ‘I’m having lunch with a friend.’ And she swept off.

Isabel watched her smart, elegant figure hurry away, and hated her.

Late in the afternoon, after everyone else had gone, she hovered in the doorway of Stephen’s office, watching him sort through the papers in one of his overflowing wire trays, an anxious frown on his face.

‘I’m off in a moment,’ she said, startling him. ‘How did your meeting go at lunchtime – with Mr Morton? Did he mind about making the changes?’

‘The changes?’ The anxiety turned to puzzlement, then his expression cleared. ‘Oh, you mean to his book. No, not
per se
,’ he said. ‘That is, we didn’t discuss them in detail. He took the notes away with him, and said he’ll give me his opinion.’

‘Did you tell him it was I who’d written them?’

‘Yes. I don’t think he expected . . . Good Lord, well, he said . . .’ He stopped and ran his fingers through his hair.

‘Did I put something badly?’ She was horrified at the idea of offending Hugh Morton. ‘Please tell me.’

‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s just it’s important to take matters a step at a time. Isabel, come in and sit down a moment.’

He faced her across the desk, his face serious, but not unsympathetic. ‘You must have observed by now that a writer’s relationship with an editor is one of trust. A publisher is privileged to work with the creative genius and has to earn that trust. It’s important at this early stage that he knows that I, his publisher, care for his work in every way.’

‘You mean, he expects any comments to come through you. Even though they’re my work. I see.’ Her voice was colourless.

‘It’s not about you. I’m very pleased with your work, it’s just one mustn’t expect too much of people, and often men don’t like . . .’ He stopped.

‘Men don’t like to be told what to do by a woman. Is that what you were going to say?’

‘Not at all,’ Stephen said mildly. ‘You know I don’t think like that.’

‘But a lot of men do,’ she said sadly.

‘Isabel, you are still very young and, I have to remind you, very new to all this. Trust me, please.’

Her shoulders sagged. ‘I expect you’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I want to do well, though.’

‘You are doing well, as you put it,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘But please try not to take yourself so seriously.’

She stared at him in amazement. How could she not be serious? She so wanted to succeed.

‘Confound it, those figures must be somewhere,’ he muttered, returning to his search.

She spotted a piece of paper on the floor by his desk and stood up to fetch it. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’ she asked, handing it to him.

‘Ah yes, thank you,’ he said, reaching for the telephone. Realising that he’d already forgotten her, she quietly left the room.

Not long after this dispiriting conversation, she was opening Stephen’s morning post and found a letter from Hugh Morton. She read with growing delight. In it he thanked Stephen for lunch and went on to say that he’d done as requested and thought long and hard about the suggestions in the notes that Stephen had given him.

Although I wasn’t convinced at first,
Morton had written,
I am now of the opinion that they have considerable merit. Since the female psyche is to me, as to most men, something of a mystery, deep, unfathomably so, and mercurial, having a guess at it is like casting a stone into a deep well. I find Miss Barber’s notes illuminate the darkness and am most grateful to her for them. I wonder, therefore, if she might find it acceptable to meet me at a mutually convenient date in order to discuss the matter further. Three or four weeks away should do the trick. I will by then have drafted some revisions for you both to consider.

She took the letter in for Stephen in some excitement and watched him read it.

‘I take it that you would be happy to meet Morton?’ Stephen said, smiling up at her.

‘I’m sure I can spare the time,’ she said airily, and smiled back.

This time, when Hugh Morton visited the office, it was to collect Isabel. She’d suggested they repair to a teashop nearby and he said he knew one she might like. The complexities of either trying to use Stephen’s office when he was out, or having all her colleagues listening to their conversation, were too embarrassing to be borne. She felt Audrey’s disapproving glare boring into her back as they went out, and knew that this time, she had really stepped beyond the pale. She was so happy she didn’t care.

Hugh walked faster than she did, as if he was late, and she had to hurry to keep up. She noticed how people couldn’t help glancing at them, he purposeful, briefcase under his arm, his coat-tails flying, she a step behind, his humble attendant.

When they entered the smart teashop on Oxford Street it was to find it dark and half-empty, the electricity supply having cut out. A waitress in a black dress and white apron pounced on the new customers gratefully. There was a table free in the window, which Hugh commanded at once. Isabel caught their reflection in a glass panel as they made their way towards it. Her chestnut-red hair and coral lipstick, and his crimson scarf were the only touches of brightness in the place, and when they sat down, the gloom conveyed a thrilling intimacy.

The waitress assured them of the possibility of a pot of tea, and they chose from a selection of cakes on the trolley. When she had gone away, Hugh studied Isabel with amusement. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, leaning towards her. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you look . . . well, like Red Riding Hood meeting the wolf!’

It was hard to convey how overwhelmed she felt. Here she was, alone with a young writer whose work she admired and whom she was expected to impress, yet she wasn’t sure what to say. Still, his comment roused her. She drew herself up.

‘I’m sure I do not,’ she said hotly.

He laughed. ‘I’m certainly not in the habit of eating women, don’t worry.’ Suddenly he was serious. ‘Thank you for meeting me. I wanted to tell you face-to-face, you see. It was very useful, what you said about my novel. Thank you for taking the trouble. To tell you the truth, I didn’t like it at all at first, anyone’s interference in my work. But then I thought a good deal about your comments and realised perhaps there was something in what you said.’

‘I’m glad if that’s the case.’ Despite his condescension she felt a massive sense of relief.

‘It is.’ He reached down for his briefcase. ‘I have the script here and I’ve started work. I should like you to take a look now, if you will. Tell me if you think I’ve grasped the right end of the stick.’

By the time the waitress returned with a laden tray, the two of them were poring over a pile of typed paper and deep in discussion. They carried on talking whilst the woman laid out cups and plates around them, sniffing loudly.

Isabel hardly noticed. She had completely forgotten her shyness, and was engaging in ways in which Diana might develop as a character on the page. ‘You could use the way she dresses,’ she told the author. ‘She might be dowdy at the beginning, when he meets her, but become more stylish. I do mean stylish, not blowsy.’

‘No, she’s not that kind of woman at all. I like what you said about the way she speaks,’ he went on, turning a page. ‘Here, do you think this would work?’

She examined the alterations, which were handwritten, but not at all difficult to read.

‘Mmm, I like that,’ she said.

‘Should I pour your tea before it gets cold?’ the waitress broke in.

As they ate and drank, they continued to talk, and Isabel wondered how she could ever have been nervous of Hugh. He was older than she was, thirty, perhaps, and had already seen so much of life – and death, too, she imagined, thinking about the wartime episodes in his novel – but this hadn’t thickened his writer’s sensibilities. He was intensely defensive of his work, but she respected that. It showed how committed he was. She, for her part, felt she intuitively understood the way that he was working, the paths along which his mind travelled. All she had to do was ask questions, drop the smallest of hints and he picked these up. It was like walking along a balancing bar, being careful never to let him think an idea wasn’t his own. ‘How clever you are,’ was how she merely had to flatter him and he’d brighten. She loved the way his emotions played on his sensitive face.

Eventually she plucked up the courage to ask the question she’d longed to. ‘Is the story based on events that happened to you?’

He drew a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket and when he offered it she felt it natural to take one, though she didn’t usually like to smoke.

‘To me or to people I know, yes,’ he replied. Their hands touched thrillingly as he lit the cigarette for her. ‘Schoolfriends, people I grew up with. We’d all grown up having similar experiences and with similar expectations. And then the war came.’ He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Now we ask ourselves what it was all for. We can’t get ourselves going again as a country, can we? We’re stuck in the past, hankering after shabby glories. This government, they think they’re reforming everything, but underneath there are the same old rules, and the same men are still in control.’

‘Goodness me, you’re a radical?’ she asked, blinking at the smoke. She’d met several writers of Stephen’s acquaintance who had strong left-wing views and thought some of them bitter, angry people, though perhaps they had things to be bitter and angry about. Berec’s friend Gregor was like that, always rambling on about social justice. Poor Karin, his wife, on the other hand, hated politics of any sort. ‘Trouble,’ she’d say, drawing a finger across her throat.