by Caro Fraser
‘And your father?’
‘My father…’ Although Adam smiled in his customary gentle and deprecating manner, Harry could read the darkness in his eyes. ‘I think my father tried to return to the life he’d led before he married my mother. It was what he knew best. I didn’t really fit in – a small boy, somewhat lost, in need of something he wasn’t sure how to give. I don’t think he was very good with children. That is… I think he was waiting for me to turn into someone he could make sense of – an adult, I suppose. But by the time I did, it was too late. He died when I was in my first year at university. He was in the States at the time. Very sudden.’ Adam frowned, fingers moving back and forth, back and forth on the table’s edge. ‘That was when I found out he’d remarried, about two or three years before. He hadn’t told me. He simply hadn’t told me – or my aunt and uncle. I don’t know why.’
‘So you suddenly found you had a stepmother?’
Adam looked mildly surprised. ‘I never thought of her as that. I suppose she was. She just took the money and ran. I don’t think about her. I don’t think about him much, as a matter of fact.’
The silence stretched over long seconds.
Harry gazed reflectively at Adam, remembering his own choices in life as a young man, wondering what had set Adam on the path which had brought him here today. ‘What made you become a journalist?’ he asked.
‘Something to do with English being my best subject at school, I imagine. I was always passionately fond of literature. I mean, I was happy enough as a boy, but I suppose I was – well, somewhat solitary. Reading has always been a passion. I thought I wanted to teach, had ideas of becoming a fellow, staying at Oxford, but I’d already begun to write the odd review, articles here and there… I sort of slipped into journalism, and I’ve stayed there.’
‘Being a freelance is quite a lonely occupation. Don’t you mind that?’
‘No. No, I enjoy solitude. I like my own thoughts, my own company. I’ve been on the staff of a couple of big dailies, had quite enough of working for large organizations. The way I work now suits me very well. I’ve always wanted to be a writer, and I suppose I thought going freelance would give me more time to work on something of my own. But it hasn’t quite happened that way. I’m too busy. That’s the trouble with journalism. No end to writing.’ Adam laughed. ‘Not that I should complain.’
‘No, indeed. I see your name everywhere.’ Brenda, the middle-aged woman who acted as Harry’s nurse and housekeeper, appeared bearing a large tray, which she set down on the table.
They talked on over lunch. Afterwards, as the afternoon grew cooler, they moved indoors to the morning room to have coffee. It was a room of battered grandeur, reminiscent of a London club, comfortably furnished in a masculine style. It was here that Harry did his writing, working at a large desk which stood in one corner, surrounded by ceiling-high bookcases. They sat in large armchairs, Harry with a tartan rug over his thin legs, feet resting on a leather footstool.
‘I wonder,’ said Harry, stirring his coffee, ‘whether I couldn’t be instrumental in helping you to achieve your ambition of becoming a writer.’ He looked up at Adam and smiled.
Adam returned the smile hesitantly. ‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘I was serious when I said I wanted someone to write my biography, to begin it while I am still alive. Someone of my own choosing. I should like some control over my reputation’s destiny. Is that conceited, do you think?’
Adam paused before replying. ‘I don’t think so – no more so than putting the rest of one’s affairs in order before the end of one’s life.’ He felt a tingle of apprehension.
‘How very well you put it.’
‘Given the way that unauthorized biographers tend to plunder the lives of famous people after their deaths, I should think it would be regarded as quite a prudent action.’
‘Prudent, yes. I feel that.’ Harry glanced at Adam. ‘What d’you say? Think you’re up to the task?’
‘You want me to write it?’ Adam felt a thrill of excitement, then laughed. ‘It’s very flattering, but you don’t really know me very well, to entrust me with something like that.’
‘Think of it as professional rather than personal, Adam. We have talked. I know you well enough to think we could work together for such time as I have left. And thereafter –’ Harry lifted his hand, then let it fall. ‘I feel pretty sure you would finish the job admirably. I’ve read a good deal of your work over the past week or so. I like your style. I think you’re acute, intelligent, reflective. And you seem to have an understanding of my work that is almost scholarly, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘Well, look, if you’re serious –’
‘Never more so. I think you would make an excellent biographer.’
‘I’ve never written a full-length book before.’
Harry spread his hands. ‘You’re a journalist. My life just happens to be a longer story than most that you write. I would give you full access to my papers, my diaries, such as they are, my correspondence. And, of course, you would have the fullest cooperation of my friends and family. Without that, I don’t think any biographer would get very far. If you accept the commission, it would be understood among my circle that there should be no contact or cooperation, after my death, with anyone else attempting to write about me. Only you.’
Ring-fencing, thought Adam. He wants to protect his territory. Why me?
‘You look doubtful,’ said Harry.
‘No,’ said Adam with a start. ‘Not at all. I was thinking. I’m just… astonished. And –’ Grateful? Yes, bloody grateful. The biography of Harry Day would have to be worth a six-figure advance from a publisher. Apart from that, it would add a new dimension to his career. Being a freelance was fine, but it could be a shaky existence. The money this would bring in would be invaluable, to say nothing of establishing his reputation for future similar projects. If he could bring this off… Yes, he believed he could. A rush of excitement shook him. A life like Harry’s was a gift. The man had done so much, known so many people. It was bound to sell well. ‘–and grateful,’ finished Adam. ‘That you should ask me.’
‘It’ll write itself,’ said Harry. ‘All I have to do is tell you what happened.’
Adam nodded. What could be simpler? It wasn’t as though he was going to have to trawl around, picking up a cold trail, researching. Harry was still alive and kicking, and what greater help could a biographer have than that of his subject? Yet he had to ask the question. ‘Why me? Why not one of your old friends, someone like Francis Cleverley, for instance?’
‘Because… because I don’t want this book to be written for all the old bores who knew me, knew those times. I want it to come from someone with a different perspective, someone who might find it all genuinely intriguing.’
‘When do we start?’
‘As soon as possible. I don’t have a great deal of time left. Better make the most of me while you’ve got me.’
At that moment the door opened and a girl came in. Even dressed in combat trousers, boots and a sweatshirt, she was ethereally pretty. Adam recognized her instantly as Harry’s daughter, Bella Day, a twenty-something actress who had made a name for herself in a recent British gangster film, which had enjoyed unexpected success in the UK and the States. Adam, schooled from an early age in old-fashioned courtesies, rose from his chair. Bella gave him an amused glance, and crossed the room to her father.
‘I’m off now, Daddy. I’ve got a hectic weekend ahead.’
Harry stroked her hand and gestured in Adam’s direction. ‘Bella, I’d like you to meet Adam Downing. He’s a journalist, and he’s going to be working on my biography. Adam, this is my daughter Bella.’
‘Really?’ She shook Adam’s hand and surveyed him with mild curiosity. Adam couldn’t tell from her expression whether she approved of the notion or not.
‘So in due course he’ll want to spend some time talking to you and Charlie about your blighted existence wit
h me.’
Bella smiled at her father. ‘Blighted’s the word.’ Her attention had switched entirely away from Adam. ‘Are you going to be all right till Briony gets back?’
‘Of course. Brenda sees to everything. Briony will be back the day after tomorrow.’
‘Right.’ Bella slipped on her denim jacket, pulling her curling blonde hair free from the collar. ‘I’ll be off. I’ll ring you next week.’ She bent and kissed the top of his head.
She didn’t glance at Adam or say goodbye.
When she had gone, Adam sat down. ‘She is quite amazingly beautiful,’ he said, unable to help himself.
Harry smiled, evidently pleased. ‘Isn’t she? I feel she’s going to be a tremendous success as an actress. I hope so, at any rate. I should like to be around to see it, but there…’ He rearranged the rug across his spindly knees. ‘Now, what were we discussing?’
And they began once more to talk about Harry and his life.
That evening Adam put a bottle of champagne in the fridge with which to celebrate when he told Megan the news. Then he began to prepare supper. Fridays had turned into a kind of ritual now. Either they went out with friends to a wine bar and then a restaurant, or else Adam cooked, he and Megan ate, then they talked or watched television for a while, went to bed, made love. The rest of the weekend they spent together, mostly – seeing friends, going out, idling in bed with the papers… He had slipped into this couple business without really noticing at first. So much of the relationship had happened that way. It was restful, easy, like Megan herself. They had been living together for four months now, having met two years ago at a media event which Adam had been covering, sponsored by a car magazine. Megan worked for the PR company which had set up the event. He had seen her across the room and liked her instantly. She reminded him of some kind of woodland creature – a squirrel, or chipmunk, one of those anthropomorphic female Disney animals. She had soft, dark hair falling to her shoulders, big, bright eyes, and a small, sensual body. She drove a snappy VW, she was trendy, vivacious, and possessed the kind of up-to-date, superficial understanding of books, plays, people, films and events which passed for intelligence. At thirty-one, she was older than she looked, something which she worried about more than she would ever have admitted to Adam.
The business of living together had seemed a logical extension of going out with someone for two years, but Adam was still finding it hard to get used to. Until Megan, girlfriends had always been largely peripheral. Now there were days – days when he had a great deal of reading to do, or was working on a difficult piece – when he would look back longingly on the quiet, connected days of complete solitude which had characterized his bachelor life. Having to consider another person, to take account of them in the evenings, allow their time and troubles to overlap your own, made extended periods of concentration difficult. But one adapted. One always adapted. Most of the time it was more fun to have another person around, someone with whom to share domestic trivia, as well as more momentous events, such as the Harry Day coup.
Megan came in, kicked off her shoes, and was immediately and enthusiastically embraced by Adam.
‘What?’ she asked, leaning back in his arms and trying to read his face. ‘Tell me.’
When Adam told her his news, she tried to seem as pleased as he evidently was. Despite her degree in media studies, Megan’s grasp of literary matters was tenuous. She rarely opened, let alone read, the review copies of books which Adam occasionally passed on to her, preferring the lighter pleasures of the pretty pastel chick-lit paperbacks which she picked up at W H Smith’s or from girlfriends. Although Harry Day’s name resonated in her consciousness in the same way as, say, that of Ted Hughes or William Golding – literary giants who had straddled both her own and her parents’ generations, but who seemed to have more to do with theirs, really, and had been a bit of a yawn at GCSE – the momentous importance of Adam’s news was somewhat lost on her.
She stood in the kitchen, listening as Adam expanded on the topic of Harry Day, his iconic status, the immense significance of being asked to write the life of someone about whom no one had ever written at length before.
‘Why you?’ she asked, picking bits out of the green salad as he took the champagne from the fridge and popped it.
‘I don’t honestly know.’ He handed Megan a glass. ‘Well, that is – he said he’d read some of my pieces and liked them.’
‘Even so.’
‘He also seems to have some idea that having a young biographer might help. So that he won’t just be relegated to the old-literary-fart department.’
‘I don’t see what difference it makes. Anyway–’ Megan realized that now wasn’t perhaps the right moment for a questing analysis of Harry Day’s motives. She raised her glass and grinned. ‘Here’s to Harry Day, and his life’s story. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ said Adam. ‘It’s going to make a bit of difference on the money front, I can tell you. Let’s go through.’ He took the bottle and they went through to the living room and settled on the sofa.
‘How much?’
‘I haven’t spoken to Giles yet, but we have to be talking six figures.’
‘Adam! That much?’ Suddenly Adam’s news took on significance.
He nodded, gave a smile of satisfaction and propped his feet up on the coffee table. It was most pleasant to be reappraising his immense good fortune by discussing it cosily with Megan. ‘I should get a quarter of it up front. Of course, we’ll have to find a publisher first, but something tells me that won’t be difficult.’
‘I am so pleased for you, clever man.’ Megan snuggled against him.
‘It’s a fantastic opportunity,’ said Adam, returning to his theme. ‘If this is a success, I can stop reviewing other people’s books and write my own. No more crawling to commissioning editors, chasing money month after month.’ He leaned his head back and sighed. ‘I can start doing the kind of work I’ve always wanted to. It’s time that’s the problem, see – buying time. When you’re a freelance, you’re always after the next piece of work, you’re never able to devote yourself to anything that takes sustained effort, like a novel, say, or a play. If I can pull this off, then it’ll earn me enough to be able to do anything I want.’ He stared at the ceiling, his mind drifting. ‘I could write a life of Baudelaire. I’d really, really like to write a life of Baudelaire. Just think of having enough time to go off, do the research, read the books. No more deadlines, no more anxiety…’
‘We could put down a deposit on a house.’
House? What was wrong with the flat? He’d lived here for six years and had no particular wish to move elsewhere. Baron’s Court had much of the convenience of Fulham and Chelsea, without being as expensive. Being a freelance journalist was often a solitary occupation, and Adam liked being able to emerge from his isolation and wander the familiar streets. He knew the shopkeepers and the restaurant owners, and enjoyed the sense of community.
He drained his glass slowly, then nodded noncommittally. ‘I’d better get the commission first.’
‘So, what happens? When do you start?’ asked Megan.
‘I’m going to speak to Giles over the weekend. As I said, I don’t think finding a publisher will be a problem, since the project has the blessing of Harry himself. Then,’ Adam shrugged, ‘it’s a question of spending time with Harry, talking to him and his family and friends, going through papers, letting the thing take shape. Harry seems to have fairly clear ideas about how the book should develop.’
‘Then I don’t understand why he isn’t busy writing his autobiography.’
‘He’s very ill. In fact, he’s dying.’ Adam’s voice was reflective. ‘From what I can gather, he hasn’t got much more than a year left. A task like that would be too much for him. This way, he’s allowed a certain amount of input. He also knows the thing will get finished after he dies.’
‘Sounds a bit controlling to me, as though he’s just going to tell you what to write. Don’t
you mind that?’
Adam was not prepared to acknowledge that he was too grateful for this rare opportunity to start cavilling about lack of artistic freedom. ‘I’m sure it won’t be anything like that. I’m lucky to have his help.’ Adam drained his glass and rose from the sofa. ‘I’m going to start supper.’
Megan stayed where she was, sipping her drink, thinking happily about what a difference the money would make. They might even be able to think about getting married.
Giles Hamblin, Adam’s agent, was delighted when he heard Adam’s news. It was generally known that Harry Day was on his last legs, and Giles knew of several people who had tentative ideas about a biography, ready to cash in as soon as the old boy kicked it. Adam was going to pre-empt them all. When the word got out that family and friends were talking to no one but Adam, the others would just fade into the woodwork.
He set about putting together a deal with a leading publisher, carefully keeping Adam’s rights to serialization, and by the end of the month, when he signed the contract, Adam received fifty thousand pounds, a quarter of his advance, the largest sum he had ever put into his bank account. The sense of freedom and elation it gave him to bank the cheque was very pleasant. Not that he was going to live off that alone. No, he would continue with his reviews and arts features, depending on how much time the biography permitted.
Adam spent much of the next two months in Harry’s company. On a number of occasions he spent several successive days at Gandercleugh, sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms, spending long days in the morning room with Harry, breaking for lunch or for Harry’s medication and rest. He made many, many tapes of their conversations, going back through Harry’s childhood, his time spent in National Service, his career as a young poet, his post-war theatrical successes, his heady years as a celebrity playwright in the swinging sixties, his first marriage, the birth of his children, the divorce, his spiritual journey to India, the novels, the drugs, the spell in prison, his second marriage, his return to poetry, the reflective later years… It was all beautifully chronicled, embellished with wonderful anecdotes and reminiscences. All Adam had to do was fashion it into a third-person narrative.
