by John Boyne
“But why can’t I say no?” I asked Leavitt, my publisher, thirty-two years old, all braces and Brylcreemed hair, who was insisting that I accept the invitation; he had inherited me two books earlier when Davies, my long-term editor and friend, passed away.
“Well, it would be very rude, for one thing,” he said, speaking to me as if I were an infant who needed chastising for refusing to come downstairs and say hello to the guests, sing a song or two. “The prize is rarely awarded. In fact you would be only the fourth recipient.”
“And the other three are all dead,” I remarked, looking at the names of those writers—two poets and a novelist—who had received it before. “That’s what happens when you start accepting awards like this. There’s nothing left to play for any more. And so you die.”
“You’re not going to die, Tristan.”
“I’m eighty-one,” I pointed out. “I admire your positivity but even you, Leavitt, have to admit that there’s a very real possibility.”
But the pleas went on and I found myself too exhausted to say no—resistance itself might have killed me—so I showed up and sat at a top table, surrounded by bright young things who made charming conversation and told me how much they admired me but how they were trying for a very different effect with their work, although, of course, it was vital for young people to continue to read those who had gone before.
The society furnished me with seven extra tickets for the event, which I thought was a bit inconsiderate as they knew that I had spent my life as a single man and had no family at all, not even a nephew or niece to keep me company and collect my letters after I passed away. I considered sending them back, or distributing them at a nearby university where I offer occasional talks, but in the end I offered them to certain loyal people who had looked after my business interests over the years—agents, publicists and so on, most of whom had long since retired—and they seemed only too happy to give up an evening to spend time celebrating me, a throwback of sorts to when we were all on the cutting edge of things together.
“Who would you like to sit next to you at the dinner?” a secretary asked, calling me up in the middle of the morning; a great disturbance as I write between the hours of eight and two.
“Prince Charles,” I said, without giving it much thought. I had met him once at a garden party and he’d rather impressed me with some off-the-cuff remarks about Orwell and poverty, but that was about as far as our acquaintance went.
“Oh,” said the secretary, sounding a little put out. “I don’t think he’s on the guest list.”
“Well, then, I shall leave that in your capable hands,” I replied, hanging up the phone and then taking it off its cradle for the rest of the day.
In the end a young man was placed to my left—he had recently been named the greatest young writer in the world, or some such thing, on the basis of a short novel and a collection of stories. He had flowing blond locks and reminded me a little of Sylvia Carter in her prime. As he spoke, he waved a cigarette about and blew smoke in my face. I found him almost unbearable.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, reaching under the table for a bag from Foyles of Charing Cross Road. “I bought some of your books earlier. Would you mind signing them?”
“Not at all,” I said. “To whom should I make them out?”
“Why, to me, of course,” he said, grinning, delighted with himself. I was certain that a night devoted to me was simply a ruse designed to ensure his presence at the party.
“And who might you be?” I asked politely.
Books duly signed, bag returned to the safety of the under-table, he winked at me and placed a hand on my forearm.
“I read you at uni,” he confided in such a careful tone that it was rather like he was admitting to an unhealthy interest in young girls of school-going age. “I must admit I hadn’t heard of you until then. But I thought some of your books were bloody good.”
“Thank you. And the others? Not so ‘bloody good’?”
He winced and considered it. “Look, it’s not for me to say,” he said, scattering ash over his prawn cocktail before proceeding to tell me of the various flaws they contained, how it was all very well to place such and such in a certain context, but throw in a complication like this or that and the whole house of cards fell down. “But look, we wouldn’t have the literature of today if the last few generations hadn’t been there to lay down such solid foundations. You deserve high praise for that at least.”
“But I’m still here,” I pointed out, a ghost at my own table.
“But of course you are,” he said, as if he were confirming the fact for me; as if I had asked the question in order to reassure myself because of some ongoing dementia, an uncertainty about my continued existence.
Anyway, the point is that I went along and speeches were made, photographs taken, books signed. There was a telegram from Harold Wilson, who claimed to be an admirer but misspelled my name. (He addressed me as “Mr. Sandler.”) Another from John Lennon.
“You fought in the Great War?” a journalist from The Guardian asked me in a long interview to coincide with the presentation of the prize.
“I didn’t think it was all that great,” I pointed out. “In fact, if memory serves, it was bloody awful.”
“Yes, of course,” said the journalist, laughing uncomfortably. “Only you’ve never written about it, have you?”
“Haven’t I?”
“Not explicitly, at least,” he said, his face taking on an expression of panic, as if he had suddenly realized that he might have forgotten some major work along the way.
“I suppose it depends on one’s definition of explicit,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure I’ve written about it any number of times. On the surface, occasionally. A little buried, at other times. But it’s been there, hasn’t it? Wouldn’t you agree? Or do I delude myself?”
“No, of course not. I only meant—”
“Unless I’ve failed utterly in my work, that is. Perhaps I haven’t made my intentions clear at all. Perhaps my entire writing career has been a busted flush.”
“No, Mr. Sadler, of course not. I think you misunderstood me. It’s clear that the Great War plays a significant part in your—”
At eighty-one, one has to find one’s fun where one can.
I stayed in a hotel in London on the night of the dinner, having left the city some fifteen years earlier and retired, as they say, to the country. Despite numerous requests from old friends to linger in the bars of London with them until the small hours and put my health and life expectancy at peril, I said my goodbyes at a respectable hour and made my way back to the West End, looking forward to a decent night’s sleep and the early train home. And so it was with some surprise that I heard one of the porters calling out to me as I passed the reception desk.
“Sadler,” I said, waving my key in the air, assuming he took me for some octogenarian interloper. “Eleven-o-seven.”
“Of course, sir,” he said, coming over and halting me before I could get into one of the lifts. “Only I’m supposed to tell you that there’s a lady waiting to see you. She’s been in the residents’ bar for about an hour now.”
“A lady?” I said, frowning. “At this time of night? There’s not some mistake?”
“No, sir. She asked for you by name. Said that you knew her.”
“Well, who is she?” I asked impatiently. The last thing I wanted was to be hounded by another journalist or a reader at this late hour. “Is she carrying a bundle of books under her arm?”
“I didn’t see any, sir, no.”
I looked around, considering it. “Look, do me a favour, will you?” I said. “Go in and tell her that I’ve gone to bed for the night. Apologies and all that. Ask her to contact my agent—he’ll know what to do with her. Hold on, I have his card here somewhere.”
I rooted in my pocket and took out a handful of business cards, staring at them with a sense of exhaustion. So many names, so many faces to remember. None of wh
ich I was ever any good at.
“Sir, I don’t think she’s a fan. Might she be a relative perhaps? She’s rather elderly, if I may say so.”
“You may if she is,” I told him. “But no, there’s no chance that she’s a relative. Did she leave a note for me at all?”
“No, sir. She said to tell you that she’d come all the way from Norwich to see you. She said you’d know what that meant.”
I stared at him. He was rather beautiful and, of course, the fires never go out.
“Mr. Sadler? Mr. Sadler, are you all right?”
I made my way into the darkened lounge nervously, loosening my tie a little, and searched the room. It was surprisingly busy for that time of night but there was no mistaking her. She was the only lady of advanced years in the room, for one thing. But I think I would have known her anywhere. Despite the passing of so many years, she had never been far from my thoughts. She was reading a book, not one I recognized, and looked up, though not in my direction, when (I suppose) she sensed me watching her, and I thought that a shadow of sorts crossed her face. She lifted her wine glass and brought it to her lips but seemed to think better of it and returned it to the table. I remained motionless in the centre of the floor for rather a long time; only when she turned and offered me a slight inclination of the head did I come forward and take the seat opposite her. She had chosen well; a slight alcove, away from others. Flattering lighting. Good for both of us.
“I read about your award in the newspaper,” she told me without any preamble as I sat down. “And I happened to be in London for my grandson’s wedding, which was yesterday. I don’t know why exactly but I thought I would call on you. It was a last-minute decision. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m glad you did,” I replied, which seemed to be the polite thing to say, although I was uncertain exactly how I felt to see her again.
“You remember me, then?” she asked with a half-smile.
“Yes, I remember you.”
“I knew you would.”
“The wedding,” I said, struggling to find a safe topic while I composed my thoughts. “Was it enjoyable?”
“As much as these things ever are,” she said with a shrug, nodding at the waiter when he offered to refill her glass; I ordered a small whisky, then changed my mind and increased the measure. “All we ever do is eat and drink together, Tristan,” she said. “Curious, isn’t it? Anyway, yes, it was fine, I suppose, although I don’t care for the girl much. She’s a floozy; there, I’ve said it. She’ll run Henry a rare dance, I can see it now.”
“Henry is your grandson?”
“Yes. My eldest girl’s youngest boy. I have eight grandchildren, if you can believe it. And six great-grandchildren.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I suppose you’re wondering why I came?”
“I haven’t really had time to wonder,” I said, thanking the waiter as he left my drink. “You’ve taken me a bit by surprise, Marian. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not at the top of my game.”
“Well, you’re as old as the hills,” she said lightly. “Although I’m even older, so there we are. The fact that we’re both even compos mentis is a triumph of good food and healthy living, I expect.”
I smiled and took a slow dram of my whisky. She hadn’t changed really. There was still the quick absurdity of her speech, the urgent wit and literacy of her.
“I suppose I should congratulate you,” she said after a moment.
“Congratulate me?”
“On your award. I’m told it’s quite prestigious.”
“Yes, I’m told the same thing,” I replied. “Although it’s rather ugly, if I’m honest. I wonder that they couldn’t have commissioned something beautiful.”
“Where is it, then? Up in your room?”
“No, I left it with my agent. It was rather heavy. They’ll send it along, I dare say.”
“Your photograph was on the front page of The Times,” she said. “I was reading about you when I took the train up on Monday. And you were a clue in the crossword. You’ve done well for yourself.”
“I’ve been fortunate,” I agreed. “I’ve been permitted to live the life I wanted. To a certain degree, anyway.”
“I remember that day, just before we parted, you told me that you’d been dabbling in writing for a little bit but that you planned to start taking it more seriously when you got back to London. Well, you certainly did that, didn’t you? There’s quite an impressive number of books to your name. I’ve never read any of them, I have to admit. Is that rude?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I wouldn’t expect you to have. You didn’t like novels, as I recall.”
“Actually, I came around to them in the end. Just not yours. I saw them in bookshops all the time, of course. And I use the library and they’re great fans of yours there. But I never read one myself. Do you ever think of me, Tristan?”
“Most days,” I admitted without hesitation.
“And my brother?” she asked, apparently unsurprised by my admission.
“Most days,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
She looked away now and had some more wine, closing her eyes for a moment as the grape entered her bloodstream.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she said a moment later, looking across at me and smiling, a rather demented sort of smile. “I wanted to see you but now I don’t know why. I must seem mad. I haven’t come to attack you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Tell me about your life, Marian,” I said, interested in what she might have to say. The last image I had of her was her sitting on the platform at Thorpe as a group of people stared at this distressed, weeping woman, and then her charging towards the glass of my window seat as the train pulled out of the station. I had gasped, thinking she meant to throw herself under the wheels, but no, she had simply wanted to attack me, that was all. If she had got her hands on me, she might have killed me. And I might have let her.
“My goodness,” she said. “You don’t want to know about my life, Tristan. It would seem terribly boring compared to yours.”
“Mine is a lot more humdrum than people might imagine,” I told her. “Please. I’d like to know.”
“Well, the potted version, perhaps. Let’s see. I’m a teacher. Or I was, anyway. I’m retired now, obviously. But I trained as a teacher shortly after my marriage broke up and remained in the same school for, goodness me, it must be over thirty years.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Very much. Small children, Tristan. The only ones I could handle. Stand one on top of the other and if you’re still taller than them, you’re safe. That was always my rule. Four- and five-year-olds. I loved them. They were a great delight to me. Some of them were just wonderful.” Her face broke into a radiant smile.
“Do you still miss it?” I asked her.
“Oh, every day. It must be so wonderful to have a career like yours where no one ever tells you that you have to give it up. Novelists only seem to get better as they grow older, don’t they?”
“Some of them,” I said.
“Have you?”
“I don’t think so. I think I might have reached my peak around middle age and I’ve been stuck, paddling the same water, ever since. I’m sorry to hear that your marriage ended badly.”
“Yes, well, it was inevitable that it would. I never should have married him, that’s the truth of it. I must have been mad.”
“And yet you had children together?”
“Three. Alice is a vet, she has three children of her own and is doing very well for herself. Helen is a psychologist and she has five, if you can believe it. I don’t know how she manages it. They’ll both be retiring soon, of course, which makes me feel as old as the hills. And then there’s my son.”
“The youngest?”
“Yes. Well, he’s in his early fifties now, so he’s not exactly young.”
I continued to look at her, not saying a
word, wondering what she might tell me about him.
“What?” she asked after a moment.
“Well, does he have a name?”
“Of course he has a name,” she said, looking away, and I realized suddenly what it was and felt ashamed for asking. I reached for my drink, my safety ground.
“My son has struggled with life, if I’m honest,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know why exactly. He had the same upbringing as his sisters, almost exactly, but where they’ve excelled he has found himself disappointed at every turn.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, well. I do what I can for him, of course. But it’s never enough. I’m not sure what will happen after I’m gone. His sisters find him terribly difficult.”
“And his father?”
“Oh, Leonard is long gone. He died in the 1950s. Married someone else, emigrated to Australia and was killed in a house fire.”
I stared at her, the name coming back to my mind without any problem. “Leonard?” I asked. “Not Leonard Legg?”
“Why, yes,” she said, frowning as she looked at me. “How would you …? Oh yes, of course. I’d completely forgotten. You met him that day, didn’t you?”
“He punched me in the face.”
“He thought that we were involved in a romantic liaison.”
“You married him?” I asked, appalled.
“Yes, Tristan, I married him. But as I told you, the marriage ended within a decade. We made each other miserable. You look surprised.”
“I am rather,” I said. “Look, I didn’t know him, of course. Only I remember all the things you said that day. How you were set against him. He’d let you down so badly, I mean.”
“We were married quite soon after that,” she said. “I don’t want to say it was the worst decision of my life, because I have three children from the marriage, but it certainly showed very poor judgement on my part. I went back to him the next day, you see. After you left. I needed someone and he was there. I can’t explain it. I know it must seem … stupid.”
