‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s really not much, you know.’ Playing it down, being falsely modest when all the time he knew it was a great deal, a tremendous thing, a dream come true.
‘Oh but it is, it is,’ she said. Which was of course what he wanted her to say. ‘You’re going to make it, David; I know you are.’
‘I just hope you’re right,’ he said.
*
Mr Martin got to hear about it, as he was bound to do. Miss Webb had not kept the news to herself, and everyone on the paper soon knew about this small success of his as a fiction writer. He was summoned to the editor’s office where Mr Martin tackled him on the subject.
‘What’s this I hear about you writing short stories and selling them to magazines?’
‘Not them,’ Sterne said. ‘So far I’ve only sold one.’
‘Well, that’s the way it starts, isn’t it? First the one, then others. Wouldn’t you say so?’
‘It’s what I’m hoping of course. But I’m not counting on it.’
This was not strictly true. He was convinced now that he had found the way in with one story a flood of them would surely follow where this had led.
‘Oh,’ Martin said, ‘I’m sure it will happen. And I fear we shall soon be losing you. A young man of your literary ability will not be content to linger in these backwoods. You are obviously destined for higher things.’
Sterne detected a note of sarcasm and had the odd impression that the editor was jealous. Could it be that he had once nourished ambitions of a similar nature? Ambitions that had never come to fruition and were never likely to do so now. Was the summit of his career to be nothing more elevated than editorship of an obscure provincial newspaper?
It was obvious that any congratulations which might be forthcoming from the man were likely to be extremely muted, but he refused to let this discourage him. What Martin had suggested with faint mockery, that he might soon be leaving The Post, coincided with what he had in his own mind. It would not, of course, happen immediately; for the present he had to hang on here because there was no other way he could make a living. But eventually he would go. London beckoned, and it was to that Metropolis he must, like Dick Whittington, make his way in search of fame and fortune.
*
He told no one at the office the size of the fee which was being paid for the story; it was hardly large enough to sound impressive. Let them imagine if they would a much higher figure. As perhaps the next one might be.
But the next one was a while in coming. He had to wait nearly six months for it. And then two more came in quick succession, and he began to think he might soon be able to make the move away from The Post that was always in his mind.
Still, a handful of short story sales was hardly a solid enough basis on which to make such a decision. With no more than this flimsy encouragement it would have been folly to take such an important step. He had reluctantly to accept the likelihood of having to remain in his present situation for quite a few more years to come.
He had not, however, foreseen that fate might take a hand in the game. But it was fate, chance, destiny, fortune, call it what you might, that was to make possible what had seemed impossible and open up the way ahead.
He won a prize in a football pool.
Chapter Six – BREAK
It was not one of the really big prizes, which could run into thousands and tens of thousands. It was in fact exactly eight hundred and seventy pounds five shillings and sixpence.
Not a fortune. No, not by any means a fortune. But it was enough perhaps; enough to bring about a most remarkable alteration in his way of life and to set him on the path that was to lead to experiences such as he would never have imagined even in the wildest flights of fancy.
He did not need to spend a moment in reflection; he knew at once that this was his chance and he had to seize it. Not to do so would have been to make the admission that he had no faith in his own ability, his own talent; that he was resigned to nothing better than a slow ascent of the ladder of provincial journalism. He would not, he could not submit himself to that when he had been offered this lifeline to better things.
He announced his decision to the family when they were all at supper in the farmhouse kitchen the next weekend.
‘I am going to London.’
It caused no immediate stir. They did not grasp at once the full import of the statement.
His mother said: ‘That will be nice for you, dear. Will it be for the paper?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving The Post. I’ve handed in my resignation.’
This brought a reaction. They all stared at him. Mr Sterne put down his knife and fork. They made a faint clatter as they hit the plate.
‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But you’re leaving The Post?’
‘Yes.’
‘And going off to London?’
‘Yes.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know. For as long as it takes, I suppose.’
‘What does that mean, for God’s sake?’
George gave a laugh. ‘He means as long as it takes him to make his fortune. It’s the pools win that’s done it. It’s gone to his head.’
He had felt compelled to tell them about that, and they had all said how lucky he was. George and Will had found it difficult to conceal their envy. It was money for nothing, and they had never had anything like it; they had to slave away on the farm for anything the old man could be persuaded to pay them. Which was not a lot. They had to be content with assurances that it would all be theirs when he died. Since he looked the picture of rude health and vitality, the prospect appeared far too distant to give much consolation.
‘Eight hundred pounds isn’t going to last long in London,’ Mr Sterne said. ‘You’ll soon run through that.’
‘Then he’ll come back here begging for help,’ Will said. ‘It’s just plain crazy. Money down the drain.’
‘It’s my money,’ David said. ‘I can do what I like with it.’
‘But Davy,’ his mother said, ‘who’ll look after you?’
He smiled at her reassuringly. ‘I can look after myself. I’m not helpless, you know.’
‘But you’re so young.’
‘I’m nearly twenty-one. I’ll manage.’
‘I suppose,’ his father said, ‘you’re reckoning on making a living with that writing of yours. Is that it?’
‘I’m going to try. I may get a job on a newspaper.’
Arthur Martin had promised to give him a favourable reference. He had become quite affable now that he knew Sterne was leaving.
‘We shall miss you. But it’s probably for the best. You have talent and I’m sure you’ll make the grade. And of course I shall always be happy to consider any little pieces of yours that you feel might fit into our columns.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Sterne said. ‘I’ll remember that.’
Miss Webb gave him a parting kiss and wished him the best of luck. ‘I remember the day you came here, David. Seems like yesterday.’
‘It was three years ago.’
‘As long as that! How time flies! Well, don’t forget us.’
He promised not to.
He thought of paying a call on Phyllis Chambers to say goodbye. And then he thought better of it. They had split up long ago and he had no desire to go to that awful house and maybe see those awful parents again. Better to leave well alone.
*
There were tears running down his mother’s cheeks when he was leaving. She hugged him as though reluctant to let him go.
‘You will take care of yourself, won’t you?’
He said he would.
‘And don’t forget to write.’
He might have told her that writing was the main object of the exercise, but he knew what she meant: letters home.
He promised not to forget.
His father took him to the railway station at Bury in the car. Th
e farmer had come to accept with resignation this venture which he still regarded as extremely rash and almost bound to end in disillusion if not complete disaster. He offered his work-roughened hand in farewell and David clasped it.
‘Goodbye, Dad.’
‘Goodbye, Davy. And remember, whatever happens, we’re backing you.’
He watched from the carriage window as the train pulled out. He watched until the figure of his father dwindled and finally disappeared from view. Then he took his seat and sat there, listening to the clatter of the wheels on the rails as the train gathered speed and feeling excitement bubbling up inside him. He had made the break; he was going to a new life; heading into the unknown. There was a trace of apprehension mixed in with the excitement and the delight. He was on his own now, with no one to help him. He had to do it all for himself.
He listened to the drumming of the wheels and thought of that great city coming nearer and nearer. London; the very name had magic in it. It was a city of dreams. He hoped and had to believe that it was the city where his own dreams would come true.
When he stepped out of the carriage into the echoing smoky cavern that was Liverpool Street Station he thought: ‘This is it. This is where it all begins. This is the gateway.’
There were crowds of people leaving the train; they came bursting out of it like a torrent of water suddenly released by the opening of the floodgates. Luggage in hand, he went along with the stream. There were porters pushing barrows loaded with trunks and suitcases, and there was a rank of taxicabs to the left. But he used neither taxi nor porter; they were luxuries reserved for people with more money than he had to spare.
*
He found temporary accommodation at a YMCA hostel. The room was small, little more than a cubicle. He knew that he could not work in such a place and he regarded it simply as a base from which he could carry out a search for more suitable quarters.
It took him a week to find what he was looking for. He saw the advertisement in an evening paper: ‘Furnished flat to let. One bed. Bath. Reasonable rent. Suit single gentleman or young couple.’
The address was in the Islington area, and there was an Underground station within easy walking distance. He could not have asked for any more convenient situation. The advertisement did not state that it would suit a writer, but he felt that it might well do so.
He arrived in the afternoon. He discovered that the house was in the middle of a terrace and faced on to a rather unimpressive street with a row of dingy-looking trees planted along one side. All the houses had tiny front gardens, which were enclosed by low brick walls and wrought-iron gates. Most of the gardens consisted of nothing more than a patch of rough grass passing as a lawn and a short paved path leading up to the front door. It was the kind of neighbourhood where the residents tended to keep themselves to themselves and had no inclination to pry into one another’s business. Lower middle class English to the core.
And yet the woman who came to the door of Number 23 in answer to his ringing of the bell spoke with a foreign accent.
‘I have come,’ Sterne said, ‘about the advertisement of a furnished flat.’
‘Ah yes.’ The woman gave him a quick appraising look and seemed to come to the conclusion that there was nothing about his appearance to give her any doubts regarding him. ‘You wish to see the flat?’
He saw that she was rather large and plump and middle-aged, and the best that could be said for her features was that they were homely. She was blonde and there was a mole on the left side of her upper lip. She was wearing a long black dress which looked as if she might have made it herself; it was like a sack with sleeves.
‘If it would not be too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all,’ she said. ‘Please to come inside.’
She held the door open for him and he walked past her into the narrow entrance hall. She closed the door, taking some of the light from the hall, which with dark brown paint on the walls tended to be somewhat gloomy.
‘It is upstairs,’ she said. ‘And now I should tell you that my name is Petra Lakos. Mrs Lakos.’
‘I am David Sterne.’
‘Good,’ she said, as though giving her approval of the name. ‘Now we will go up the stairs and you will look at the flat.’
She led the way and he followed. They came to a landing and she opened a door which gave access to a fair-sized room rather sparely furnished with a table, chairs and a sideboard, all of which looked like pieces picked up in a sale; much-used but adequate for their purpose. On one side was a sofa with a scattering of cushions.
‘Our previous tenant,’ Mrs Lakos said, ‘was a student. Such a nice boy. He completed his studies and left. Are you a student, Mr Sterne?’
‘No,’ he said. And then after a moment’s hesitation: ‘I’m a writer.’
It seemed to impress her, which made him feel rather guilty, though it was after all the truth.
‘A writer! Oh, how splendid! I am sure you will find this flat to suit you very well. It is a quiet area and you will not be disturbed. And my husband, he is also, as you might say, a literary man.’
‘He is?’
‘Oh yes. He sells books, you know. Old books.’
‘I see.’
So if he took the flat he would have for a landlord a dealer in secondhand books. He wondered whether this would be a good thing or a bad, and came to the conclusion that it made no difference either way.
And the flat appeared suitable. It was certainly not luxurious, but he was not looking for luxury; low rental was the prime consideration, and the figure that Mrs Lakos mentioned seemed very reasonable; it would not cut too deeply into his limited capital, and of course he would be hoping to earn something from his writing to augment it. If that failed, all failed. But he must not think of failure. He had to succeed.
The bedroom was not large, but it accommodated a double-bed, a dressing-table and a wardrobe without too much cramping. The bath was small, but it needed to be in order to fit into the bathroom. There was a kitchenette with a sink and a gas cooker. All in all it would suit him very well.
‘You like it?’ Mrs Lakos asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘I shall have to consult my husband of course. But I am sure he will approve. He should be home soon. If you would like to wait?’
Sterne said he would.
Mrs Lakos offered to make tea, and they drank it together in the ground-floor sitting-room, which was larger and a good deal more cluttered than the one above. She produced a fruit cake too, and cut a generous slice for the prospective tenant. He was still eating it when Mr Lakos walked in.
Mrs Lakos made the introduction. ‘Mr Sterne, my dear. A writer. Wishes to take the flat. What do you think of that?’
Lakos did not say what he thought of it. He gave Sterne a close inspection, peering at him through his silver-rimmed glasses as if at a piece of merchandise of doubtful quality which he had been invited to buy. Then he said abruptly:
‘What do you write?’
‘Short stories, newspaper articles, that kind of thing.’
‘And you sell them?’
‘Some of them. I’m hoping eventually to write a novel.’
‘Ah! It is a hope that rather a lot of people have, I believe. And you wish to rent the flat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well,’ Lakos said. ‘Very well.’
It was as simple as that. No references demanded; no formalities of any kind. A brief inspection of the applicant was apparently enough for the Lakoses. They liked the look of him, and that was that.
He returned to the YMCA hostel to fetch his luggage and moved into Number 23, Rosetta Avenue.
Chapter Seven – HOBBY
It was not from that time forward a tale of ever-increasing success. Far from it. Sales came by fits and starts. He wrote industriously, producing an impressive volume of work, but only a disappointingly small proportion of it ever got into print. He was certainly not makin
g a living from the old L.C. Smith, and he had to draw regularly from his capital to see him through.
Yet he did not lose heart. He could go on like this for a long time yet; for he lived frugally and had no heavy expenses. Gradually the gap between income and expenditure must surely narrow until eventually the former came to exceed the latter. This at least was what he told himself.
The Lakoses were constantly encouraging. They rejoiced in his successes and commiserated with him on his failures. It sometimes seemed to him that they were as eager for him to succeed as he was himself, and he was quite sure that it was not because of any fear that he might default on the rent of the flat if his earnings did not come up to scratch. He was convinced that their concern for his welfare was motivated by nothing else but a regard for him as a person. They liked him and he liked them in return, though he could not deny the fact that they were an odd couple.
There was a certain mystery about them too, which intrigued him. He had fantasies about them and toyed with the idea of weaving a story around the pair. But this never came to anything.
He did soon learn one thing about Petra. Indeed, it would have been difficult to make a secret of it, and she made no attempt to do so. She was a medium. She held séances in the sitting-room on the ground floor, and occasionally he would be invited to join in – just to make up the number. He was perfectly willing to oblige, regarding it as the kind of experience which might be used as material in some future work of fiction. Grist to the mill in fact.
It was all rather eerie. The heavy curtains would be drawn if the séance was taking place during the day, so that everything took place in partial darkness, a gloom in which the various participants could be only dimly seen. There would usually be half a dozen or so, and they would sit round a circular table and link hands. There would be a curious scent in the room, which was produced by Mrs Lakos burning what might have been a kind of joss-stick before the proceedings began. It was rather like incense, and he was not sure whether this was supposed to serve as an aid to the supernatural or whether it was designed merely to counteract the none too pleasant odour given off by the bodies and clothing of some of the people in the room. These were chiefly middle-aged women, though now and then there would be a man who wished to make contact with someone in what Mrs Lakos called ‘the other world’.
A Wind on the Heath Page 4
