by Caro Fraser
The tape wound on, reeling in Gifford’s hazy account of conversations, meals, outings, acts of kindness, heated discussions about politics and drugs, none of it startling or revelatory. Adam watched Gifford, whose drifting gaze never touched Adam’s, but now and then fell meditatively upon the tape recorder; he watched the odd twitch which touched his mouth whenever he smiled, the pale fingers twisting as he spoke. The words came out, a prosaic but charming account of adolescent hero worship, marked with self-deprecation and wistful sentiment. Adam listened, asking the odd question, letting the story unfold, and realized as he did so how much this man wanted to talk about Harry – and how little of it had anything to do with whatever it was that lay, dark and still, at the core of Gifford’s memory. Twenty minutes ticked by; forty. There came a pause, a loss of momentum, as though whatever had impelled Gifford to invite Adam here had suddenly wound down, broken. There was just silence. The tape spun.
Adam, when they had begun this conversation, had not expected to be able to ask the question which he asked now.
‘Tell me–’ began Adam, watching as James Gifford wound his fingers together, over and over, ‘–was there ever anything inappropriate in your relationship with Charlie Day’s father?’
Gifford fixed his gaze on the view from the window, as though straining to see something in the far distance. Trying not to let someone see your tears, thought Adam. Gifford shook his head, as though he didn’t trust himself to speak. Still the fingers went on folding, twisting. He suddenly reached down and, fumbling for a second, pressed the ‘stop’ button on Adam’s recorder.
‘Is that the kind of question a biographer asks?’ Gifford’s voice was unsteady, but he let his gaze meet Adam’s.
‘There’s no question I can’t ask. People needn’t always answer.’
For some seconds James Gifford struggled to find words. ‘Harry Day did a great deal for me. He – he read my poems. He pushed me to believe in myself, my ideas. I didn’t have a lot of self-confidence in those days. Not a great deal now…’ Gifford’s laugh was almost soundless. He paused, frowning. ‘He made me see that literature is something incandescent, absolutely transforming, that it can change people for good or ill. He introduced me to writers, ideas, gave me a perspective on the world which no one else had ever done.’ There was a new undercurrent of passion in Gifford’s voice. ‘That is a great deal to give a boy, someone who was essentially quite lonely, far from home…’ Again he fastened his gaze on something far beyond the window. ‘I was impressed, naturally, overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with kindness. I was grateful. One doesn’t wish to offend. At fifteen, one is–’ He stopped. There was a long silence, stretching out over minutes.
In the end Adam said gently, ‘Were you afraid I might ask?’
Gifford, whose eyes were now fixed on the floor, one hand shading them, nodded. Then he looked up at Adam. ‘You will write nothing about this.’ His voice was low, quite firm. ‘You will write nothing, because I’ve said nothing. And if you do, I will deny it. I might even sue you. I won’t let anyone destroy Harry Day’s reputation. He was a great, great man, who instilled in me a love of everything I hold dear today, every aspect of my work and my teaching. Do you understand that?’
Adam had the feeling he didn’t understand a thing. ‘Why did you agree to see me today?’
Gifford said nothing. Adam, watching the bleak, expressionless face, had never felt so close to a stranger in his life.
‘Was it because you wanted someone to know the truth?’
Gifford clasped his fingers together. ‘I haven’t told you anything.’
Adam nodded, reached out and picked up his tape recorder, checked it, put it in his pocket. He did it slowly, giving Gifford a few seconds in which to collect himself.
‘Thank you for your time,’ said Adam, getting up.
Gifford rose and went to the door. He paused, a hand on the doorknob, his self-possession somewhat recovered. ‘Harry wasn’t a bad man, you know.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I think he was a genius. A creative genius. I stood in awe of him then. I still do.’
Adam said nothing. Glancing round the small study before leaving, he noticed for the first time the volumes of Harry’s books lining a section of shelving – poetry, plays, novels. Everything Harry had ever written was probably there.
Bella lay across her bed, phone in hand, listening as her agent, Carla, elaborated the career possibilities for the coming year.
‘It’s a six-part dramatization of Northanger Abbey,’ said Carla. ‘Jane Austen. Have you read it?’
‘The only Austen I’ve read is Pride and Prejudice, when I was at school,’ said Bella.
‘Roughly the same, but different plot, and a bit more gothic. They want you for the heroine, Catherine Morland. It’s a lovely big, juicy part.’
‘Lots of hanging round stately homes in period costume. And those bloody carriages. I’ve been there before,’ said Bella. ‘Anyway, in costume dramas the heroine is usually totally bland, utterly unmemorable.’
‘Well, you’d have to read the book.’
‘I really liked the Hard Sell script. I’d rather be a drug-dealer’s moll than simper around in sprigged muslin. Besides, it’s Hollywood.’
‘Well, if you do that, you’d be away for a good six months. They’re talking about starting shooting this autumn. The director’s anxious to get going, so we’d have to tie it up in the next two weeks.’
Bella gave a little moan, agonized by indecision. ‘The Jane Austen thing would be good, though, wouldn’t it? Oh, Carla, I don’t know.’
‘Think about it for a couple of days. No immediate hurry, but I do need to know by the end of the week. Let’s have lunch on Friday, and you can tell me then.’
‘OK,’ said Bella. ‘Let’s do that.’
That night she lay in bed with Adam and talked to him about the film part, and the costume drama.
‘If I take the film, I’ll be in the States for a while. They’ll start shooting this autumn.’
‘Which do you want to do?’
Her gaze, which had been fixed on some remote, speculative point in the corner of the room, travelled to his. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘I wish I could make your mind up for you. I wish I could simply say – forget Hollywood, stay here with me. But that’s an entirely selfish perspective. You’ve got your career to think about. Anyway, when do you have to decide?’
She sighed. ‘Friday.’ There was silence for a moment, then she said, ‘Oh, sod it, I don’t want to think about that any more. Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about the biography. When will it be finished? I’m dying to read it.’
‘I don’t know. I’m hung up on certain aspects.’
‘Such as?’
For a few seconds he thought of telling her everything, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to. By way of evasion, he said, ‘Aspects of his past that Harry didn’t touch on in all the time I spent with him.’
‘His gay days in Soho?’ She sighed. ‘I know I said a while ago that I’d rather you didn’t mention that, but I’ve changed my mind. I mean, it was when he was fairly young, and going a bit AC/DC is hardly scandalous by today’s standards. It’s practically expected.’
‘I don’t think your mother feels that way.’ That was putting it mildly. Just wait till she got wind of what he was really going to tell the world. ‘And most biographers like to keep their subject’s family on board.’
‘Truth must win. Otherwise life is impossible,’ said Bella.
‘Sorry?’
‘One of my lines from Funeral Games. I think it’s so right. You should keep your integrity, write the unvarnished truth.’
He looked at her, and she smiled to show she meant it, she was easy with him writing what he liked. How little she understood, thought Adam. She had no idea of what he’d uncovered, what the unvarnished truth was turning out to be. The biography would be just the beginning. Once it was publ
ished, other people would come forward, silent voices would begin to speak, and Harry Day and his family would suffer for ever. Except that Harry was dead and it couldn’t hurt him. Not the way it could hurt Cecile and Charlie and Bella, along with others. Truth must win. What did any of them really know about truth? He didn’t have a clue himself.
Adam and Compton-King spent a long evening together, mulling over Compton-King’s recollections of times spent with Orton and Halliwell and Harry. At the end of it, Adam told Compton-King about his conversation with Leila, and his meeting with Gifford.
‘He wasn’t just a closet homosexual,’ said Adam, ‘he was a serial seducer of young men. Boys. It’s one thing revealing to the world that Harry was gay, or at any rate bisexual, but the rest?’ Adam shook his head in disbelief. ‘And the thing is, Cecile and Briony must have known. They must have known.’
‘Cecile does have a way of turning a blind eye to things,’ said Compton-King.
‘Exactly. Look at the business of the adoption. Rather than address it, deal with it by telling Bella and Charlie, she pretended it hadn’t happened. And the way she talks about Harry, his affairs with men – she still pretends it was nothing more than a passing phase.’ He thought about what George Meacher had said that day in Soho – Thirty years on, and still keeping up appearances. Only nowadays they call it being in denial… How right he had been. And Meacher himself – he knew more than he’d let on. Adam knew he was going to have to talk to him again. That would probably cost him another lunch. But it would be worth it. No doubt about it this time. He sat reflecting for some moments. ‘It’s Briony’s part in this that I don’t fully understand. Why did she marry him? I know Harry’s connections were useful to her career, but why marry a geriatric poet who was into little boys?’
‘I suspect the answer to that one is rather complex,’ said Compton-King. ‘I can enlighten you in one regard, however. The word is that dear Briony goes like an express train, to coin a phrase. I’ve done a little digging around on your behalf, and a chap at the BBC told me. She sleeps with just about everyone she works with, the younger the better, and keeps it well under wraps. After all, it doesn’t quite fit with her public persona. So she probably married Harry for a variety of reasons, not least of which would be money, a nice house in the country, and a wonderful façade for her clandestine love life. I suspect that she and Harry probably struck a little deal right at the outset.’
‘So both Briony and Cecile turned a blind eye to the things that Harry got up to?’
‘Quite. The difference being that while Cecile was deeply humiliated and pretended they weren’t happening, Briony probably couldn’t have cared less.’
Adam let out a deep sigh. ‘This means talking to Briony again. I have to tell her what I know. See how she reacts.’
‘Good luck,’ said Compton-King.
‘You know, I’ve come a long way in a year. I remember the first time I talked to Harry, saying something along the lines that I thought that too many biographers had a habit these days of delving into the murkiest corners of the lives of their subjects, trying to find something salacious to help sell their book.’
‘I wouldn’t say that that’s what you’ve done, exactly.’
‘Do you know what amazes me?’ said Adam after a short silence. ‘The way nobody blames Harry for any of it. Nobody thinks ill of him. Even people that he patently damaged, like Gifford. I suppose that’s what worries me most about writing the biography. There is so much to an individual, no one is all good or all bad… I have to deal with the ugly side of Harry’s character, tell the world things they never knew before, and still try to convey –’ Adam stopped and sighed.
‘What?’
‘How much he was loved. Which seems, in the circumstances, an odd thing to have to do.’
Adam rang Gandercleugh and told Peter that he wanted to talk to Briony. He half-expected that after their last conversation she might refuse to talk to him, but she came on the line within seconds. Her tone was chilly, none the less.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘I wondered if you could spare some time to talk to me. There’s something we need to discuss.’
Briony hesitated. The last time she had spoken to Adam she had had the unpleasant feeling that things were slipping out of her control. She didn’t like that one little bit. She had devoted some considerable time to thinking of ways to stop Adam, to prevent this biography ever seeing the light of day. But she could see none. She had consulted her lawyer, but he’d pointed out to her that they could take no action until they knew exactly what Adam intended to say. If she were to remain on top of things, it was important for her to know what information Adam possessed at any given moment.
‘Very well. I can spare you a couple of hours tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be there around ten,’ said Adam.
The first thing that struck Adam when he arrived at Gandercleugh was how little of Harry’s presence remained. Briony was in the throes of renovation, the old-fashioned grandeur of the rooms, the rich, deep colours which Harry had loved, being replaced by pastels, pale curtains and fabrics, new, sleek furniture. Peter showed him into the morning room, where he and Harry had often sat. The big desk where Harry had worked and answered correspondence was gone, and the large, deep sofa with its tartan rugs, the battered leather footstool. In their place stood new armchairs upholstered in cream-coloured silk, and a glass-topped table with a bowl of fresh roses in its centre. Straw-coloured curtains flanked the open French windows, lifting slightly in the breeze, instead of the heavy, wine-coloured velvet drapes of Harry’s day.
After a few minutes, Briony came in from the garden through the French windows. She was dressed as if for a celebrity interview in a smart blue linen dress, her hair tied back with a matching scarf, a cardigan thrown over her shoulders. Her jewellery and shoes were perfectly accessorized. Her manner was poised, guarded.
‘You’ve made a few changes,’ he said, glancing round.
‘I’ve had every room redone. I simply couldn’t bear the gloom.’ She went over to a cushioned window seat and sat down, tucking her legs up neatly beneath her, and Adam sat in an armchair opposite. ‘Let’s dispense with pleasantries, Adam. Just say what you’ve come to say.’
‘Last time we met,’ said Adam, ‘I told you that I’d found out about Harry’s homosexuality–’
‘Which was a minor incident, relegated to the past. I can’t see why you’re intent on making so much of it,’ interrupted Briony.
‘Well, that’s where I have to disagree. I’ve found out a number of things, and they all point to the probability that Harry was actively gay throughout his entire life, and that he had a particular penchant for seducing young men, a lot of them underage.’ Briony’s gaze didn’t flinch. Her lovely face was mask-like. ‘I know, for instance, that he seduced a schoolfriend of Charlie’s who used to come here in the school holidays. He was only fifteen. I’ve spoken to him. There was a teenager who came to stay at Harry’s house in India, whom Harry made his lover, and subsequently kicked out, even though the boy was ill, in need of hospital treatment. Harry just discarded him. As he apparently did many others.’
Briony’s expression was cool, unmoved. ‘If any of that were remotely true, which I don’t accept for one second, I can’t see what comment you expect me to make on events which occurred long before I married Harry.’
‘The point is, I think it was still going on while you were married to Harry. And that you knew about it.’
She stood up, drawing her thin cardigan around her. At that moment Peter opened the door on cue, about to ask if they were ready for coffee. ‘Not right now, Peter!’ flashed Briony, and Peter retreated.
Briony paced across the pale, new carpet. ‘I can assure you there was nothing like that in Harry’s life. If you think I’m going to give you some version of our marriage other than the one you already know, then I’m not.’
‘Was it just for convenience, for the kudos, that you marri
ed Harry?’ Before she could answer, he added, ‘It’s why Cecile did.’ Was that true? At this very moment, it didn’t matter.
She’s going to burst a blood vessel, thought Adam. Briony’s eyes blazed, but her face remained impassive. She had her arms folded, and he could see the slim fingers pressing down hard on the flesh of either arm.
‘Was it that way for you and Harry? A domestic camouflage, so that you could both do exactly as you pleased and still live respectably in the public eye?’
She can’t kick me out, thought Adam. She needs to know what I’m going to do with the things I’m telling her.
It was enough pressure. ‘Everybody is entitled to a private life,’ she said, her voice even and cold. ‘I made it my business to know nothing about what he did while I was away. He respected my privacy, too.’
She’s as good as confirmed it, thought Adam. He wondered how many affairs she’d had during her marriage. If Compton-King’s information was reliable, the figure probably ran to dozens.
‘I know nothing about underage boys,’ she added.
‘I do. I have facts and witnesses.’ Not true, but it would do.
Her steeliness broke. ‘You’re not going to publish this, are you?’ Her eyes were beseeching, disbelieving. ‘What good would it do anyone? A life, a reputation thrown away! Why would you do that? Just to sell a book? You were Harry’s friend. He confided in you, trusted you–’
‘No, he didn’t. He trusted no one. Except perhaps you.’
She switched her tack to one of outrage. ‘You self-righteous bastard! You want to destroy someone who was a far greater person than you ever will be, just to sell your rotten book and have your moment of triumph and fame!’ She sat down on the window seat again, breathing rapidly. ‘As far as this conversation goes, I haven’t told you a thing. I don’t care what Cecile may have told you about her marriage. But if you write one word that doesn’t accord with what Harry and I told you about us, then I’ll sue you.’
