Under Cover

by Jeremy Robson

  Iain had offered to throw a party for me, but I hadn’t been able to face that: it would have been too final, and in any case I was still involved with the company, if in a more distant capacity, and the word ‘retirement’ was not something I wanted to hear. Iain and James generously allowed me to continue to use my office, and for some reason – force of habit? Inability to let go? A need to adjust gradually to the idea of no longer going into work every day? – I continued to clock in fairly regularly, even though I’d officially left. Then Carole and I went to our cottage in France, where I had an accident, tripping and landing eye-first on the large iron gates at the end of our path, knocking myself out for some minutes. It was nasty, and Carole rushed me to the nearest hospital, where they stitched the gash under my eye. I was lucky, declared the specialist I went to as soon as we got back to London. Slowly the closed eye opened, and gradually recovered. However, the accident seemed to have knocked some sense into me, for as well as looking as if I’d gone fifteen rounds with Muhammad Ali, I found myself no longer drawn to the office and began to write compulsively, every day. In fact, in the space of some five weeks I wrote seven poems and managed to slip them into my new book, Subject Matters, which was on the point of going to press. One was called ‘Out for the Count’ (the subject pretty obvious!), another ‘Meditations on Giving Up Work’, which starts:

  I walked away from a job today,

  perhaps my last, but who can say,

  and what had I lost as I stepped away?

  And who could say? Some, I know, had been expecting me to start yet another imprint. (Jonathan Lloyd, witty chairman of the literary agency Curtis Brown, wrote: ‘Congratulations. A slight pause and then another imprint?’) And I suppose in some ways, like Fagin in the musical Oliver!, I was ‘reviewing the situation’. I had authors – friends – I felt I was letting down, and there were tempting propositions, but as Carole said, it was time to start enjoying other things. Yet it was a strange feeling, being at home every day with time to a large extent my own. But was it? The office I’d had for those five years looked down over the Thames towards Parliament and Big Ben and I’d become obsessed with that clock. Now I’d finally escaped its gaze. In some ways it felt good… yet here is how my poem ends:

  Each day now is an adventurous one, and

  out of Big Ben’s chilling sight I can smilingly

  claim all time my own. But not quite, I know,

  all too aware of that other ticking clock, even if,

  for the moment, I like to think it’s stopped.

  And, to refer to the opening lines of my poem again, what had I lost…? Well, I would be less than honest if I didn’t record here my growing disenchantment with the publishing world, from which, or so it seems to me, the romance, such as it was, has to a large degree gone, everything now so impersonal. I would put it down to the obvious fact that I’d grown older, if I hadn’t continued to be excited by every book I took on, every new author, seeing each one as a fresh adventure. But more and more in publishing these days it is the tail (the sales and accounts people) that wags the creative dog, with committees conferring on acquisitions, the days of lively reps with strong local contacts more or less over, Amazon demanding ever more wounding discounts and licking up the cream, while once-great booksellers like Waterstones order centrally, in mini-quantities, if at all. There are noble exceptions, of course, like Daunt’s and the revitalised and expanding Foyles, but with fewer and fewer independent booksellers left, and book clubs and many supportive wholesalers gone, it’s an uphill battle.

  It’s perhaps salutary that as I was putting the finishing touches to this book, Iain Dale should have announced that he was leaving Biteback to focus on his broadcasting and writing activities. From the conversations we’d had in recent months, I sensed that he too was growing frustrated and somewhat disillusioned by the state of things, though his achievements at Biteback were considerable. It will be fascinating to see how Andy McNab, who has come in to advise and oversee the company’s future publishing programme, develops the list.

  Looking back, I realise I was spoilt by having been for many years in the privileged position of being my own boss and able to seize tempting offerings; to act independently and decisively; to work with imaginative publicists who would pick up the ball and run with it, and with exceptional editors with whom I’d always confer. As with most small publishers, passion ruled, and for me it was always the authors who, for better or for worse, fired everything. Although it might seem as if authors are now thought of as ‘product’, whose books have to be turned around quickly, often with little or no time to work with them, to refine things, there are, I’m glad to say, energetic young literary agents and new publishers opening their doors. At my final Frankfurt of blessed memory I was delighted to come across the Mosaic Press, a small but distinguished company run by a cultured man called Howard Aster, whose wide tastes and interests are reflected in his list. He and I struck up an immediate rapport and a lasting friendship.

  There’s no dodging the fact that computers and new technology have revolutionised the old, slow, leisurely world of publishing. What with email, Facebook, Kindle, social media and the speed of it all, why, there’s hardly time for a publisher’s lunch (the Garrick Club must be feeling the pinch!). The days of hot-metal typesetting, galley proofs, faint carbon copies of manuscripts on flimsy paper, and lengthy communications and corrections by pigeon post seem such a long way in the past that I sometimes have to remind myself of how things were when I began. How did we ever get a book out, I wonder? Yet we did, and the packed book shelves that cover every inch of the walls of our house testify to that. Perhaps I should read them all again, for books are friends who’ve shared their experiences with you and need revisiting.

  However, there won’t be much time for that now as we enjoy the trips, visit the galleries, see the films we never had time for, travel and, most importantly, enjoy the family growing up around us. I might even take up the long-standing invitation from my brother David, an experienced sailor, to spend a few days sailing with him on the boat he keeps in Brittany. A good deal younger than me, he might even be able to haul me up the gangway!

  Now Carole and I, with our parents gone, find ourselves in the front line, suddenly the Elders. All that said, and even though I realise that I may have spent many years looking in the wrong direction, I still haven’t quite shaken off the guilty feeling that I should be working instead of driving our grandchildren to the various sporting and other activities they are involved in. But is this not a privilege, and a far more human and rewarding scene to contemplate as I sit at my desk trying to polish off poems, scribbling this memoir, recalling the recent launch (at Daunt Books again) of my book of poems Subject Matters, and a rather special reading at the Oxford Festival with Ben Okri? That was by candlelight before a log fire in the eighteenth-century lodgings of the Provost of Worcester, Professor Sir Jonathan Bate (Shakespeare scholar and biographer of Ted Hughes), who co-hosted the event with his delightful wife, the biographer Paula Byrne. Afterwards, we’d had the pleasure of joining them for a welcome glass or two of champagne in their elegant sitting room. With more readings and concerts to come with Maureen Lipman and Jacqui Dankworth, books to acquire for Biteback, poems to write, an invitation to appear in the Henley Festival, a return to Gibraltar, and the prospect of a New and Selected Poems from Smokestack in 2021, it is not such a bad future – in fact, it’s very much like the early days of poetry and jazz. How ironic that as I write this, an article should have appeared in The Times headed ‘Poets beat the drum for a new generation’ and talking about young poets ‘rejuvenating an art form that many had given up for dead’. It was, the article declared, ‘reminiscent of what happened in the 1960s’. I smiled as I read it. Poetry returning to Hampstead or wherever, all over again. Plus ça change…

  * * *

  I had been set on calling this book ‘Mr Fairbanks Is Packing His Bags’, but people said (probably rightly) that it was too obscure, and
that not everybody would have heard of or remember the legendary film star. But there was a story behind that title, and no writer likes to waste material, so here it is, the conclusion rather than the introduction to this saga it was originally intended to be.

  But first, a few words about the debonair film star Douglas Fairbanks Jr, who was as swashbuckling off-screen as he was on, serving with great valour and distinction in the navy during the Second World War. Attached to the commando staff of (Lord) Louis Mountbatten, he’d been highly decorated, made an Honorary Knight Commander of the British Empire and awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. Thus in 1993 when Robson Books published his colourful war memoir, A Hell of a War, and he came to England to promote it with Vera, his glamorous young wife (his third), the Imperial War Museum offered to host a grand reception with all sorts of military top brass there, including the former Chief of Staff Lord Bramall, who had agreed to speak. The next day, there was to be a prestigious Foyles literary lunch at the Dorchester Hotel, hosted by Christina Foyle, with a roster of distinguished guests of honour.

  The day before the launch – a Sunday, as I recall – we had arranged for Douglas to be interviewed at his hotel by the Daily Mail. He had agreed to the interview on one condition: there were to be no questions about the Duchess of Argyll or the ‘headless man’. The Duchess, you may recall, had been involved in a scandalous front-page divorce case during which Polaroid photos were produced showing her dressed only in her signature three-strand pearl necklace and purportedly performing fellatio on a man whose head could not be seen and who could not, therefore, be properly identified – the so-called headless man. That man was widely thought to have been the dashing Fairbanks himself, though he had always denied it.

  The interview took place, and all went well. There were no questions on that hot subject, and what’s more the very charming Mr and Mrs Fairbanks seemed to like the interviewer. We had a few drinks and went on our way, mightily relieved. Then, very early the next morning, the day of the launch, I received a phone call at home from Mrs Fairbanks, whose opening salvo was, ‘Mr Fairbanks is packing his bags.’ Taken aback, I naturally asked why. ‘Look at the Daily Mail and you will see why,’ she responded indignantly.

  Douglas Fairbanks and his wife join the family on the steps of the Imperial War Museum – Carole and Deborah on the left, Manuela on the right, me in the middle. I’m glad I persuaded him to stay.

  Well, the journalist might not have asked the questions, but that had not stopped the paper from leading into the interview in true Fleet Street style with explicit details of the case, the supposed involvement of Douglas Fairbanks etc. This was a very big deal for a small publisher, and there was a lot at stake, so I fought valiantly to convince Mr and Mrs Fairbanks that it was not our doing and that I was every bit as distressed as they were, but that given the dignitaries who were planning to attend the launch that night, and the Foyles lunch next day, the publicity fallout would be terrible if they failed to turn up. Surely, I argued, the newspaper was best ignored and treated with the contempt it deserved.

  Fortunately, they relented, medals were polished, and everything went ahead (I use the word advisedly) as if nothing had happened. I even have a signed book with the warm inscription, ‘Thanks for a great visit, Douglas’.

  As you can imagine, I did not ask Mr Fairbanks whether he was, indeed, the headless man, so I’ll never know for sure. That same discretion had wisely intervened when I refrained from informing the young Prince Charles that my great-uncle Jack had had the privilege of circumcising him. Some parts just have to be kept private.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Over the years people have been urging, ‘You really ought to write those stories down’ to which I’d evasively reply, ‘One day, perhaps.’ As a publisher, I knew all too well how often this is flatteringly said to would-be writers by well-meaning friends, and how rarely those offerings see the light of published day, or indeed deserve to. But several rather special people were particularly encouraging, so as the balance of my life began to change – the publishing starting to take second place to the poetry, which had somehow revived after decades of silence – I began, in spare moments, to doodle. The letters weren’t joined up at first, but as I began to think of themes and people who had been important to me in various areas of my life, the letters became words, the words became sentences, and – almost by their own volition – chapters began to form and grow… and grow.

  The film-maker, author and publisher David Cohen was among the first to urge me to put pen to paper. He even rashly promised to publish my putative book under his own niche imprint. The seeds were sown. Then, most importantly, the literary agent Vivienne Schuster, with whom I’d enjoyed dealing over the years at Curtis Brown, took up the theme. It’s not by chance that the dynamic and caring Vivienne had a cluster of classy, bestselling authors on her list, so when she said, ‘Stop talking and start writing,’ I began to take it seriously. Her constant encouragement, advice and friendship made me believe in the book and go on.

  But, even then, I couldn’t have done it without the help of Elizabeth Davies, who, as Liz Rose, was Robson Book’s marvellous first editor – in at the start of it all. For some years Liz had been directing the Hungerford Literary Festival, and a couple of years ago, having invited me to read there, she too encouraged the idea of a memoir, my reflex response being, ‘If I write it, will you edit it?’ ‘It’s a deal,’ she said, and over the following eighteen or so months Liz patiently read and commented on the chapters as I wrote them, correcting my many typos, pointing to repetitions and inconsistencies, adding my constant insertions and suggesting trims and areas where I could expand. My daughter Manuela was also heroic in this respect, selflessly and meticulously helping me over the last hurdles when Liz was temporarily unavailable.

  I’m especially grateful to Chris Beetles for generously offering his wonderful Ryder Street gallery for the launch of this book.

  I’m also indebted to Andy Croft, valiant publisher of the poetry imprint Smokestack Books, who liked my new poems enough to offer to publish them. The appearance of Blues in the Park in 2014, my first collection for many years, was a real tonic, as was the publication of its successor Subject Matters in 2017. It allowed me to return to the subject of poetry in this book without feeling the imposter I would otherwise have felt myself to be… and been. Then there was Maureen Lipman, our bestselling author over a number of books and years and a true friend, who not only volunteered to read with me from my new books at various festivals but asked continually about the progress of this one, even allowing me to steal some of her stories. And those festivals came about through another wonderwoman, Sally Dunsmore, who directs the Blenheim and Oxford Literary Festivals and also directed the Gibraltar Festival at that stage. It was Sally also who reignited the poetry and jazz concerts, though in a different format from the original Michael Garrick days.

  My warm thanks to Sandra Parsons, literary editor of the Daily Mail, for the continuing and valued friendship and the many excellent deals we have done together; to her predecessor Jane Mays, with whom I dealt and was friendly with over many years; and to both Susie Dowdall, the Mail’s books editor, and Sally Morris, deputy literary editor, always extremely friendly and supportive.

  Through all this, my wife, Carole, kept a watching but encouraging brief, reading and making valuable suggestions as the book grew, but never being censorious – not even when she read the early chapters covering the years before we met! In many ways, apart from those chapters, this is her story too, so I was relieved that her response was genuinely positive and glad that I was able to rekindle memories of many kinds for us both.

  I’m also grateful to my daughter Deborah for filling in details of our Russian trip, and for recalling some of the ‘twin’ adventures she shared with her sister and other stories, and for her constant support; to Anthony Harkavy for his legal read of the manuscript, which became more than that as he brought a number of other things to my attention;
to Maureen and Michael Joseph for their continued interest and encouragement; to Anne Hooper, Jeff Powell and Pete Brown for sharing their memories of the Regent Street Polytechnic; to Jeannette Kupferman for providing details of the Haberdashers’ School review in which she appeared with her friend Pamela (Fiona) Walker; to Jeremy Morris for lending me his valued copies of Skylark, the Haberdashers’ magazine and for his continuing friendship; to Keren Abse and Sacha Mitchell for their ready permission to quote letters I received from their respective fathers; to my cousins David Robson and Roger Seaton for details of my paternal great-grandparents and of our great-uncle Kurt (Zelma) Rosenberg, as well as to Margi and Leo Abelis for providing access to the Rosenberg family archives; to Michael Freedland for the excellent books and camaraderie over the years; to Marilyn Warnick, who apart from giving me the story about Robert Vaughan, bought a number of our titles for the Mail on Sunday over many convivial lunches; to Edward Gold for his vital role in getting the first readings going, and beyond; to Geoffrey Munn, whose masterly history Wartski: The First Hundred and Fifty Years provided valuable background information on my mother’s side of the family (the Wartskis and the Snowmans), as did the Camden History Review (No. 31). I was also able to draw on the recollections of my mother, Charlotte, and grandmother Harriet, which I managed to record. Caroline Bloom generously gave me the two Wimbledon programmes to which I refer, and which were left to her by her mother, my much missed cousin Barbara. The memories of Wolfgang Foges by former Aldus Books stalwarts Bruce Robertson, David Lambert, Ross Macdonald, Douglas Hill and Felix Gluck, and in particular David Lambert’s detailed account of the Aldus history, provided a valuable backdrop to my own personal experiences, for which I am most grateful. Another Aldus colleague, Joanna Jellinek, provided me with mementoes of her brother-in-law Felix Gluck, and was able to confirm various details, and Felix’s son Dr Tim Gluck kindly provided the photo of his father that appears in the book. I was also glad to have been able to include Michael Bywater’s brilliant evocation of Alan Coren as editor of Punch and am grateful to Bernard Kops for permission to quote from his poem ‘Shalom Bomb’.