Murder Your Darlings

by Mark McCrum

  All too soon Francis’s attempts at a snooze were more decisively interrupted by a bony jab in the midriff. The wrinkled yellow forefinger belonged to Zoe. She was so sorry to interrupt, had he been asleep, apologies, though with that racket going on, she thought it was unlikely. For a moment Francis thought she was back with some tedious tech query; yesterday she’d got into a complete tizz about how to get files into an order on a memory stick. But no: was it possible that he could have a quick look at her memoir at some point during the next few days? Was this in the remit of what he’d agreed to do? he wondered, as he stared at the fat wad of A4 being held out before him. Teaching for a fortnight, Stephanie had said when she’d recruited him at that literary festival in Dorset where he’d been running a masterclass on ‘creative crime writing’. There had been, in the verbal contract, nothing about editorial services. Could he give twitchy Zoe a frank ‘no way’? And if he made an exception here, how many of the others might descend upon him with their oeuvres-in-progress?

  ‘Thank you, Zoe, that’s great,’ he heard himself say, as he took it from her. ‘I’ll look forward to having a read.’

  He returned to his room, at the back of the villa on the first floor, cursing his pusillanimity. OK, so if it was truly dreadful, he could always comment on a chapter or two. On the other hand, Zoe’s exercise writing was as spiky and perceptive as her conversation. When he’d told the group that keeping a daily journal was a good way to improve your style and powers of observation, she had retorted that she’d kept one since she was nineteen. So maybe he was in for a pleasant surprise.

  The bedrooms were all named after Italian artists. His was Masaccio, the obscurity matching, he thought, the quality of the room, which was smaller than most of the others, with a single bed and an overhead light that, despite the heavy brass chain that held it up, let out only the feeblest glow. It had a tiny en suite, with an ancient enamel hip bath which he found it hard to fit into, even with his knees up; and all too easy to slip in, when he attempted to stand and use the wobbly shower mounted above. The main room had a view of sorts, down over the valley, but it was rather obscured by trees, not at all like the splendid prospect in Gerry and Stephanie’s suite – Tintoretto – at the far end of the villa. Still, fair enough, they lived here, and what was he? Only the visiting tutor.

  He sat down on the bed with Zoe’s stash of manuscript. But it seemed a shame to be reading in the gloom on such a beautiful afternoon, so he decided to leave the task for later and take himself off for a walk. He remembered Diana’s instructions to Roz, and crunched off up the gravelled drive of the villa, through the tall, wrought-iron gates, along past the closed doors of the silent village, and out on to a road lined with tall, deep-green cypresses. Here, to the right, was the village football pitch, a scruffy, weed-strewn compound fifty metres or so below the main road.

  Beyond that, the track dropped down steeply past a couple of more modern houses into the valley. At the bottom, by a tumbledown terracotta-brick barn, surrounded by a slew of rusting old farm machinery, was a bridge over a waterless stream bed, and on the far side a field of dried-up sunflowers, their seed heads black, the withered leaves a purplish grey. He wondered why they hadn’t been cut earlier, when they were fresh and colourful. Would the seeds, perhaps, be harvested later? Or was this just the abandonment and decay of a remote rural place?

  Francis walked on, up the unmade road on the far side of the valley, kicking up white dust as he went; then into olive groves, where crickets hummed noisily in the early afternoon heat and the backs of the grey-green leaves flashed silvery-white in the light breeze. Here he came out on to a stony track which led along the ridge to the ruined church, and a restored but empty house right next to it. Both were locked, though there were children’s toys visible on the kitchen floor through the window of the house.

  Ten minutes later, Civitella came in sight across flat vivid green fields of tobacco. The old town of white, ochre and pinkish brown houses with narrow terracotta tiled roofs rose steeply up an almost conical hill. From the coach ride that had brought most of the party in from the airport on Saturday, Francis knew that a new town lay beyond, down in the valley. But from this side only a scattering of modern houses and a small supermarket spoilt the picturesqueness of the view.

  Arriving eventually at the bottom of the hill, Francis stopped for a glass of water in a little café with a stripy green and yellow awning, then climbed up the steep cobbled lane that wound its way to the top, where, by a tall white church tower, there was an open courtyard with a fine view over the countryside all around, including the fields he had just walked through. There was no one up here but a woman in a flowery skirt, leaning against the low wall taking photographs.

  It was Roz.

  This was one of those awkward moments, where you couldn’t just say: ‘Hi, great to see you, bye.’ Francis felt obliged to chat to his student, and then, in due course, to walk back down with her to the café at the bottom of the hill, where they were the only visitors, apart from a Japanese woman with huge sunglasses and a stylish black hat. They decided to have a coffee together, while Roz sampled a couple of the cakes under the glass counter, taking photos of them with her iPhone and then making notes in a little black Moleskine book she pulled from her bag.

  ‘I have a blog,’ she said, when Francis asked her if this was research for her writing.

  ‘About food?’

  ‘And travel. Please don’t mention it to Gerry and Stephanie. I like to be under the radar. Once people get wind, they start doing things differently. Being super-nice and banging on about their philosophy.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Which isn’t really the point.’

  They strolled on, down the hill, and paid six euros to see Perugino’s famous Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian in the little Civitella museum. After which, of course, they were bound to walk back together.

  They laughed a bit about Italian painting, as Francis confessed how little he knew of the period of art history when the Italians had been pre-eminent. Though he could see that this naked man in a loincloth strung up and surrounded by archers was beautifully painted, he had no real understanding of its context.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Roz. ‘But I have to say I prefer it to those dreary paintings of Gerry’s. Amazing that here he is, surrounded by all this incredible beauty of landscape and light, and all he wants to paint is panels of grey and brown.’

  ‘Exactly what Poppy said.’

  ‘Not to his face?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That woman! She seems dedicated to pissing off as many people as she can. It’s extraordinary.’

  But no, Roz went on, as they walked back down the narrow tarmac road that skirted the fields, she was enjoying herself on the course. After a fashion. Though she hadn’t realized the vibe would be quite so, er, old. Francis chuckled. He neither. He explained how he’d been recruited by Stephanie at the lit fest. This was his first time out here.

  ‘So have you done this sort of thing before?’ Roz asked.

  ‘Oh yes, quite a bit. Arvon courses, and that kind of thing. You have to, these days, to keep going as a writer. Unless you’re very successful with your books.’

  ‘But you enjoy it?’

  ‘It has its moments.’

  ‘Despite the difficulties.’

  ‘Such as?’

  They both said ‘Poppy’ at the same moment, and in the same tentative tone. The synchronicity made them laugh.

  ‘I really oughtn’t to bitch about my students,’ said Francis.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t. Certainly not about a fellow “published writer”.’ Roz cackled. ‘Not to mention interior decorator, horsewoman, cook, musician, pilot …’

  ‘Her relationship with her husband puzzles me,’ Francis said. ‘He seems like such a decent, thoughtful, dare I say distinguished character. And she …’

  ‘Is a pain in the arse, crashing snob, preposterous name-dropper, absurd fantasist.’

  ‘I can’t be seen to
agree with that. Although, I was intrigued that she was a personal friend of Jilly Cooper.’

  ‘She helped, if not came up with, the plot of Riders, or Shaggers, or whatever the silly book’s called.’

  ‘And she knows John Julius Gnaw-witch, whoever he is.’

  ‘A chum who’s so close she doesn’t know how to pronounce his name.’

  ‘Don’t forget Billy Connolly.’

  ‘And Princess Anne.’

  They laughed. ‘I suppose all relationships are a mystery,’ Francis went on. ‘There are archetypes lurking in the background one never knows about. And physical attraction is a very odd thing. What Duncan saw in her originally I have no idea.’

  ‘Her lovely blonde hair,’ said Roz, ‘which must come from the most expensive bottle Harrods can supply. Or perhaps her gym-toned figure, only improved by riding to hounds. Or maybe it was just her money – or her fabulous house. So what about you?’ she asked, as they turned off the main road and up the lane that led back over the hill past the church. ‘Do you have a little lady at home – or perhaps a little man?’

  ‘Neither, I’m afraid. Not at the moment, anyway.’

  It was an evasive response, but Francis didn’t particularly want to have to explain his personal life, or kick-start the inevitable sequence of questions that would end up with him talking about Kate, his wife of many years before, who had drowned in a freak accident in Egypt. Nor did he want to justify a life where he was single but not celibate, with random moments of intimacy that he liked to keep in their own box, away from his established circle of friends. He was in no hurry to start receiving those invitations that read ‘Francis and …’ Francis and someone he might soon tire of, Francis and someone he would then have to pretend he liked more than he did. He had been down that road, too many times for comfort. Meanwhile, his married friends, particularly the women, were so keen for him to ‘find someone’, now that he was in his late forties. As if partnership with an appropriate other was the answer to all human woes. Weirdly, often, the more appalling their own relationship was, the more they wanted him to be settled. Sometimes they could even put a self-righteously moral spin on his singleness. ‘You do lead a rather selfish life,’ one of them had told him the other day; and he, thin-skinned as he knew he was, had felt hurt. But was it selfish to want to be on your own? There were plenty of extremely selfish people within the monogamous arrangements that society generally approved of; they were just fortunate enough to have saintly partners.

  ‘How about you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m single,’ she replied. ‘More or less. It gets harder, I think, as you get older. You get fussier, certainly as a woman. But then again, I’m not bothered about kids. Whatever my mother likes to think.’

  ‘No. Much overrated,’ Francis agreed. ‘But that’s one thing you’re not allowed to say these days. That kids tie you down, quite often they destroy your relationship.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Partly. It’s what I’ve observed with my friends. It often strikes me that the ones with the best relationships are the ones who’ve not had children.’

  ‘I guess with your own children it’s different,’ Roz said.

  ‘It must be.’

  They walked on in silence for a bit, both lost in their own thoughts.

  ‘No,’ Roz continued eventually. ‘I never met the right chap, as my father would say. So here I am, at forty-two, looking for love on a residential course full of geriatrics.’

  ‘Is Tony geriatric?’

  She laughed. Was she blushing? ‘No,’ she said. ‘But he must be well past fifty. And so not my type, Francis! Actually, I think he’s probably gay.’

  They were back in time for the pre-prandial drinks in the little side dining room, where the Gaggia now sat silent, and open bottles of wine stood alongside bowls of crisps and nuts and olives on the marble tabletop. The guests had mostly dressed for dinner, nothing too extravagant, but smart-casual plus. In this pool of elderly faces Roz stood out, comparatively youthful in her black and red striped top and tight, A-line black skirt. But even she seemed middle-aged in comparison to Sasha, who was doing yoga poses in the middle of the courtyard, now in a sleeveless black catsuit, though her favourite fuchsia scarf was still draped around her neck.

  ‘Poor child,’ said Liam, as they stood watching.

  ‘I’m not sure “child” is the right word,’ said Zoe crisply. ‘She’s a grown-up woman. Why exactly is she poor anyway?’

  ‘Stuck with us lot of geriatrics.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Roz.

  ‘I can’t think what she’s doing here,’ said Poppy. ‘Really.’

  ‘She’s learning her craft, like the rest of us,’ said Tony. ‘I rather admire her. Most girls her age would want to be on a Club 18-30 holiday or whatever.’

  ‘Do they still exist?’ said Zoe.

  ‘This is the trouble with the Internet,’ said Diana. ‘You never know quite what you’re getting, do you? I ordered a little armchair the other day. Brown leather. It looked wonderful online, but such inferior quality when it arrived, I had to send it back. A waste of everyone’s time.’

  ‘She can hardly go home now,’ said Poppy.

  ‘I don’t think she wants to,’ said Tony. ‘She’s probably taking notes and will put us all in a brilliant novel.’

  ‘Doubtless,’ muttered Liam, wandering out to join her. After a little natter, during which Sasha threw back her head and laughed loudly, he was to be seen attempting an awkward pose himself.

  ‘I do hope,’ said Poppy, ‘he doesn’t think he’s in with a chance.’

  Francis turned to Duncan, who was standing next to him, watching quietly. ‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked.

  ‘Not bad,’ the ambassador replied. ‘I enjoyed this morning, though I do appreciate I must be your worst pupil.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Francis.

  ‘I’m not exactly loose, creatively. Comes of years and years of writing measured diplomatic dispatches, I’m afraid.’

  Francis asked, tentatively, about his ambassadorial postings. Sierra Leone and then Bulgaria, Duncan confirmed, as an actual Head of Mission. ‘Not the most illustrious destinations, but both very interesting in their way. Of course we were directly involved in Sierra Leone, as I’m sure you know.’

  Rather than expose his ignorance, Francis decided he would declare a relevant interest: his natural father, who had come from Botswana. Was that so? Duncan said, fixing him with a look of close study, as if his skin colour had suddenly acquired an extra interest. Botswana was a remarkable country, he went on. One of Africa’s success stories. ‘Whether that has anything to do with the fact that the tribal boundaries coincide almost exactly with the colonial ones is a moot point.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Francis replied. He’d never visited the country, even though his father still lived there, and he’d spent nine months after college teaching in a school in Swaziland, which was only a few hundred miles away.

  ‘Not Waterford?’ said Duncan.

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘A famous institution. The Mandela children were educated there, I believe.’

  ‘They were.’

  One of the Italian cooks came in and nodded at Stephanie, who promptly pinged her glass.

  ‘Aperitivos over!’ she cried. ‘Dinner is served.’

  Everyone gulped down their drinks and made their way out of the French doors into the courtyard beyond. The walls of the villa were now glowing ochre-yellow in the gloaming, alongside the warm pink stucco of the barn-like dining room, where patches had peeled off like huge jigsaw pieces to reveal dull grey stone beneath. The two big flat metal crosses up by the eaves were ‘earthquake crosses’ Stephanie had told Francis, who hadn’t even realized they were in the zone. ‘On the edge of it,’ she’d replied, crossing her fingers. ‘Luckily we’ve only had a couple of tremors in twenty-five years.’ She caught his look. ‘Even in 2016. That was the bigger of
the two.’

  Inside, a long table was laid, glass and cutlery glinting. A log fire spat and crackled in a cast-iron stove at the far end. There was a discreet musical chairs-style jostling for places, as people tactfully positioned themselves next to those they would be happy talking to for four long courses. Keeping an eye on Poppy – whom he really did not want to be trapped with – Francis wondered how oblivious she was to her own unpopularity. He was so busy avoiding her that before he knew it there was only one place left for him, between Mel from the art group and Diana. Not that he minded getting to know dwarfish Mel a bit better. But it was Diana who was ready and waiting for him, her beady blue eyes fixed on his. Her thick white hair seemed almost blonde – in this light anyway. He offered her a glass of wine, which she eagerly accepted.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ she asked, as she took a hefty sip and sat back. ‘So far?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  She gave him a very candid look, up and down, as if appraising him at the start of a job interview. ‘I think you’re doing pretty well.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Better than some of the tutors we’ve had.’

  ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘Though maybe not quite so good as one or two of our stars. You probably won’t like me saying this,’ she went on, ‘but I’m not a huge fan of what you do.’

  What did she mean?

  ‘Crime writing,’ she explained. ‘Nothing personal, you seem like a very nice fellow, but it always seems to me that there’s enough nastiness in life as it is, without the need to make it up as well. I have to say, it does puzzle me. Whenever you switch on the TV, there seems to be yet another programme about a psychopath or a serial killer. I just wonder why everyone’s so interested. In real life, these people are thankfully few and far between. If we can’t hang them, as we should, I’d prefer them to be locked up and nothing more to be said. But there we all are, glamorizing them at some level. I’d rather watch a nice nature programme.’