Jamie was a frequent visitor; now that he was older, he found it easier to ignore the psychological pressures Laurence put on him, and to be openly friendly towards his stepfather. He was eighteen, at last free of his spots, tall and athletic, he was a fine tennis and soccer player, and although less academic than Laurence, he was going to Harvard in September to read history. He was teaching Maud to play tennis on the court at Overview; she still absolutely adored him, would do anything for him, looked for no greater happiness than to spend time with him at the weekends, often sitting on the deck at the front of the house in silence, simply watching him as he read the paper, of dozed in the sun. He was very fond of her too: had been grateful for her uncomplicated love over the years, her refusal to be distressed by Laurence’s behaviour. Often, now, he came to stay at Sutton Place as well, ashamed of his early refusal to move in, and occupied the small suite Robert had planned for him so carefully when he had built the house.
‘I wish we could be married, Jamie,’ Maud had said and he had laughed and said he thought she was going to marry Kyle Brewer.
‘I was, but Daddy says he’s got a girlfriend. Anyway, I think I’d rather marry you. I know you better.’
‘Well, I’d like it too, but I don’t think it’s possible, we’re brother and sister and that’s that.’
‘Well, I shall be very jealous of whoever you do marry,’ she said, ‘very jealous indeed,’ Jamie said he had no intention of marrying for a long time and when he did, Maud could certainly have a hand in choosing the girl.
‘This flu’s a nightmare,’ said Celia to LM.
It was a brilliant May morning; she was standing at her office window, looking at the extraordinary sight of people walking about the streets of London in the sunshine, wearing masks.
‘I just can’t believe it. And the worst thing, according to Dr Perring is that, it mostly affects healthy young adults. What the war didn’t take, the influenza will. I’m wondering if we shouldn’t send the children out of London again. I’m really frightened about it. Oliver says I’m overreacting, but there have already been a lot of deaths.’
‘Well Jay would like that,’ said LM with a sigh, ‘going out of London again, I mean. He’s so bored and miserable, misses the other children dreadfully. He doesn’t look nearly so well, and he’s wearing Dorothy out.’
‘When can he go to school?’
‘Oh, not for another nine months. Even then, only in the mornings. He’s terribly lonely, and he’s being extremely difficult. And the bedwetting is worse than ever. I don’t know what to do with him.’
‘Poor little chap. If I had one that age, I’d suggest they joined up for lessons in the morning or something. But, I don’t.’
‘No.’ LM was silent; they were both thinking of the lost baby girl.
‘Anyway,’ said Celia, with a quick, over-bright smile, ‘I’m sure Jay will settle down soon. He’s been through a big upheaval I know, but children are so adaptable. What does Dorothy think about it?’
‘I think she’s quite worried. He’s started saying he’s going to run away. I suppose I could spend more time with him, but – well, what use is a rather over-aged mother to a four-year-old?’
‘A lot,’ said Celia firmly, ‘but maybe not for fun and games. He’ll be fine once he’s at school, LM. Try not to worry. Anyway, I’ll ask Mama what she thinks about having the children down there, at least for the summer holidays, away from the germs. We can send the nannies. That would cheer Jay up, wouldn’t it?’
‘Short-term, yes,’ said LM.
‘LM, I’ve learned to think short-term. So should you. Anything else is too complicated. I can’t bear to look more than a day ahead at the moment. Everything seems to have got worse rather than better since Oliver came home, I don’t know why—’
‘Is he being very difficult?’
‘Very. He’s like a spoilt, bored child, kicking the furniture. Demanding I play with him – well talk to him – and then, when I do, not wanting to hear anything I say. Oh, I shouldn’t criticise him behind his back. I know he’s had a horrible time. But I could so do with some support, and instead of him being the life-raft I was longing for, he’s—’
‘Making an ever bigger hole in the bottom of the ship?’
‘Bit harsh,’ said Celia laughing, ‘but – well – yes, something like that. Anyway, he’s going to start coming in regularly, two days a week, starting next week. I’m sure that’ll be better.’
‘It might,’ said LM, ‘on the other hand it might be worse. To begin with, at any rate.’
‘Yes, that’s what Sebastian said. Funnily enough.’
‘Did he? That’s a very astute observation. For an outsider.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Celia quickly. ‘It’s fairly obvious really, isn’t it?’ She started rustling through some papers on her desk. ‘I mean, goodness, LM, you should see all those letters and diaries that have come in for New Lives for Old. One of the most interesting things is how angry and upset so many of these women are now, with the men coming back, and assuming they’ll just step aside. It’s an outrage.’
‘I don’t suppose the men see it quite like that,’ said LM.
The men didn’t of course: it was a new conflict facing the nation. The country fit for heroes, promised by Lloyd George, was actually seething with repressed rage, and social and sexual injustice. Women were expected to vacate the positions they had occupied so successfully during the war, and return meekly to their homes and their husbands. The fact that those aged over twenty-nine had at last been given the vote did not go all the way towards placating them. And men, who returned from the front severely disabled, found themselves being given pensions which were at best modest, and at worst an outrage.
There was a degree of racial tension and hostility, largely directed at the West Indian troops recruited during the war; the demobilisation programme was ill-planned; the Ministry of Reconstruction, set up to oversee a return to peace in all its complexity, was disbanded early in the summer of 1919 when the need for it was at its peak. Rocketing prices, the direct result of ending government controls, combined with an absence of any real rise in wages, led to serious industrial unrest; including, perhaps most seriously, in the police force in Liverpool. This led to looting, violence and at least one death. Added to that mixture was the hugely increased strength of the Labour movement, which had grown so strongly during the war, and made England socially a rather unstable place.
In Line Street, Sylvia Miller was struggling against ill health, and trying to manage on her widow’s pension, with one son back from the war embittered and unemployed, and another employed but seriously disabled, was just one among millions who had sacrificed almost everything and now were asking themselves what it had all been for.
Oliver and Sebastian sat facing one another on the leather sofas in Celia’s office: the sofas which, despite Oliver’s remonstrances, she had put in place expressly for the purpose of entertaining authors in her first week at Lyttons so long ago. She had moved to another office since then, something rather grander, next door to Oliver’s in fact; but the sofas were the same, their gleaming glossy surface turned rather dull and dark, scuffed and scratched in places, but still infinitely comfortable and making the office pleasingly club-like. They were part of Lyttons’ history now, those sofas. This was where Celia sat far into the night, reading manuscripts, where she and LM had slept occasionally during the war, where she encouraged her staff to sit when she had news for them, good or bad, where authors and agents discussed terms, publication, or editing decisions, where manuscripts were sometimes piled so high that they towered over the sofa backs.
They were part of Celia’s personal history, too: Jago had sat on one of those sofas the first and last time she had met him, the night he had come to her for help. Here too, she had comforted LM on the few occasions she had seen her weaken, here LM had done the same for her; here she herself had shed tears of loneliness and fear during the long years of Oliver�
�s absence. Here she and Sebastian had sat on that magical day when he came in with Meridian, and in his beautiful, musical voice, quite literally, she often thought now, bewitched her; and this was where she had been when the call came through from her mother, telling her that Oliver was alive and safe.
She looked at the pair of them now, at Oliver and Sebastian. Oliver, leafing through the promotional plans for Meridian, was frail, thin, strangely colourless, palpably weary; Sebastian, strong, vivid was pushing his hands occasionally through his hair in the impatient way he had, glancing up at her with his extraordinary eyes from time to time, smiling at her encouragingly. She struggled hard, so hard, not to compare them: Neither them nor her feelings for them. Oliver whom she loved so very much; Sebastian who was – was just unsettling her, disturbing her equilibrium.
‘It’s a wonderful piece of work,’ said Oliver, smiling gently at him,
‘truly wonderful. We are very lucky to have it.’
‘Thank your wife,’ said Sebastian, ‘she fought off all comers. Although,’ he added, ‘I looked at the publishing houses of London and thought that of all of them, I would feel most at home with yours.’
‘Good,’ said Oliver, ‘I’m glad. We must be doing something right. Well, what can I add to this discussion? The publishing schedule looks fine, and—’
‘No need to add anything,’ said Sebastian, ‘except your approval of the book, of course. I’m so delighted you’re happy with it.’
Oliver looked at him, and Celia, intercepting that look, saw just for a moment a faint glimpse of the pre-war Oliver, the one she had done battle with so many times, brilliant yes, innovative certainly, but quietly arrogant, intent on holding his own position. He would not like to be told he might have nothing to add.
‘Oh, I have a few suggestions,’ he said now. ‘I wonder if you’re quite happy with the jacket illustration? It’s very adult. And—’
‘I’m ecstatically happy with it,’ said Sebastian, ‘and besides, I do agree with you, it is very adult but that’s because the book is for rather adult children.’
‘I think that might be a mistake,’ said Oliver, ‘I personally think this will appeal to a huge range of children, but remember it will be mostly adults buying it. They may feel it looks a little alienating for a children’s book.’
‘Oliver, I don’t agree,’ said Celia, ‘there’s nothing alienating about the jacket, it’s beautiful. Magical. Anyone would be drawn to it—’
‘I understand everything you’re saying,’ said Oliver, ‘that both of you are saying, indeed. But I also know that there is a danger in making assumptions about such things. I have a long experience in books and—’
‘I do know that,’ said Celia, ‘of course. And so do I. But this book is unique, it’s like no other, it breaks entirely new ground. And I certainly don’t want some infantile illustration on the jacket—’
‘I’m not proposing an infantile illustration,’ said Oliver coldly,
‘Naturally. But I would like to see some alternatives. Something less abstract.’
‘I really doubt that I should like that as much,’ said Sebastian, ‘but we can certainly try, I suppose.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘I think we should. And of course we won’t proceed without your approval. Mind you,’ he smiled at Sebastian, then glanced at Celia, the smile fading, ‘we don’t usually allow our authors to make such decisions. You are very much in the minority.’
‘Well, that’s good to know,’ said Sebastian. ‘It’s certainly one of the things I would have looked for in my publisher. To allow a writer no say in the design of his jacket illustration seems to me like allowing a parent no say in the name of his child. Heavens, look at the time. I must go. Thank you for your time, Mr Lytton. I appreciate your making the effort to see me. I know you’ve had a rotten time. But it’s good to know you must be feeling a little better.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘I am. And nothing is proving better medicine that becoming involved in the company again. I have greatly enjoyed this afternoon. Goodbye, Mr Brooke. Thank you for letting us publish your book.’
‘Thank your wife,’ said Sebastian, ‘as I said. She has been the architect of the whole thing. And is a most marvellous editor, too.’
‘Have you experience of other editors?’ asked Oliver, mildly. ‘I understood this was your first work.’
‘It is. But I have a great friend who is a writer. She has told me horror stories about editors.’
‘I see. Well, there are no such stories about Celia. As far as I know. Are there, Celia?’
‘No,’ said Celia. ‘no, I don’t think so.’
She wondered why suddenly she felt so chilled; chilled and depressed. ‘So you’ll brief that girl to do some alternative jackets, will you?’ said Oliver when Sebastian had gone. ‘Less abstract, I think. They can still be very beautiful, in keeping with the book.’
‘Oliver, I really don’t think it’s a good idea. Everyone loves that jacket, it’s so sophisticated and original.’
‘Precisely. And this is a children’s book. Shall I talk to her – what’s she called – or will you?’
‘Oh – I will,’ said Celia hastily. ‘Gill is her name. Gill Thomas, she’s exceedingly talented.’
‘James Sharpe will be back with us shortly,’ said Oliver, ‘he’s had a lucky war. Unlike Richard, poor devil.’
Richard Douglas had been killed at Passchendaele; Celia who had loved him dearly, despite many stormy editorial meetings and clashes of will and opinion, had been horribly distressed by the news.
‘Yes. Er – Oliver, about James Sharpe. I know he was Lyttons’ art director, but now—’
‘Darling, if you will forgive me, I think I might go home now,’ said Oliver, ‘I feel dreadfully tired. But it has been the most marvellous tonic, coming in today. And I like Sebastian Brooke very much. Nice chap. Hugely talented, obviously. I look forward to working with him. Tell me, Celia, how much exactly did you have to offer to secure the book?’
‘Well – quite a lot. I did try to talk to you about it, but you were still feeling very frail.’
‘I presume though, you discussed it with LM?’
‘No,’ said Celia, ‘actually, no, I didn’t. I didn’t get a chance. I had to make a fast decision. Paul Davis was saying that he had half London after it, and clearly that was true; several people have told me how lucky we are to have it.’
‘I wouldn’t trust Paul Davis if he told me night followed day,’ said Oliver, ‘dreadful fellow. I’m surprised Brooke is with him.’
‘In that instance, Oliver, I had to trust him. I felt I had to anyway.’
‘So—’
Celia took a deep breath and said, ‘Well—’ then salvation arrived in the form of Janet Gould.
‘Daniels is asking if you want him to wait here, with the car, Mr Lytton, or if there’s anything else he can do, either for you or Lady Celia.’
‘Oh, no. No I want him to take me home.’ said Oliver, ‘tell him I’ll be along imediately. Celia, we can continue this discussion at home. Unless you want to come with me now.’
‘No I can’t possibly come with you now,’ said Celia, not sure if she was amused or outraged at this suggestion, ‘it’s only half past four. I have an incredible amount to do yet. I’ll see you at dinner. Now be sure to have a rest, won’t you? You do look exhausted.’
‘Yes, yes. I will. Thank you, Mrs Gould.’ He smiled at her; his frail, weary smile. It was beginning to irritate Celia, that smile.
‘How are you Mr Lytton? It’s good to have you back in the office.’
‘Thank you. I’m feeling much stronger now, every day. And I shall be in at least twice a week, from now on. I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.’
After he had gone, Celia sat staring out of the window, trying to analyse where her sense of cold and depression had come from. It wasn’t from Oliver interfering in the jacket design; it wasn’t the thought of James Sharpe coming
back; it wasn’t even the thought of having to tell Oliver what she had paid by way of an advance for Meridian. Suddenly she knew. It was Sebastian’s casual reference to his great friend who had horror stories to tell about editors. A female friend. Well, it was quite absurd of her to feel that. Of course he would have a female friend. He would have a hundred probably. Ridiculous of her to even think that he might not. She knew so little about him. Whether or not he was married, even, had ever been married. He was a complete mystery to her. Well, that was all right. Perfectly all right. He was one of her authors, nothing more. His friends, male or female, were of no importance whatsoever. She decided to cheer herself up by going to see her dressmaker.
For the upper classes at least, England was returning to her former self; the seals on the cellar doors of Buckingham Palace had been broken on Armistice night and the court had been revived with all its pre-war splendour. The great London houses, including the Beckenhams’ in Clarges Street, had been reopened, and the dust sheets shaken off, cellars re-stocked, domestic staff re-employed.
Celia needed day dresses, evening dresses, coats, shoes, and, above all, hats; the first Derby, followed by the first Ascot since the war were only a few weeks away and she had nothing to wear, absolutely nothing at all. She was going to both with her parents and her sister Caroline – Oliver having a marked aversion to horses in general and race meetings, however glamorous, in particular. She was looking forward to it enormously, desperate for some fun. She and her father were also going to one of the first post-war royal garden parties; Lord Beckenham particularly enjoyed those, and would wander round happily, teacup in hand, studying not only the young female guests, but the female palace servants, who were often rather pretty. Lady Beckenham had also been asked to give a dinner party for a court ball towards the end of June. And then there would be Giles’s first Fourth of June at Eton. That would be the best fun; the twins and Barty would come to that, she must get them something really very special to wear.
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