by Peter Rimmer
Penny, on the other hand, was fully aware of not only Byron’s background with her father but his power in the business of publishing books.
Byron rather enjoyed the game, having found out the girl wished to be a writer. He knew her price from the start and just bided his time, waiting for the inevitable call for help. When her first book did the round of publishers, unbeknown to Penny, the close-knit world of London publishing had been forewarned not to touch the book: somehow, the rights belonged to the Langton publishing empire and no one wanted to upset the reviewer in the Daily Garnet. No one in the industry said anything but everyone knew.
Slowly and casually over the next few years, Byron had made himself known to Penny Bains while he bided his time.
The fifth novel, Heath said, would sell a hundred thousand copies in hardback if she had a publisher.
“Can’t you find me one, Heath?”
“I’ve tried. One could almost think it a conspiracy. No one will even look at your books. In your job at the Green Dolphin, have you ever met a man called Byron Langton? Fact is, he’s my boss.”
“Once or twice a month. He always makes a point of talking to me.”
“There’s your answer. The bastard likes young girls. If you ask him nicely to look at your new book and accept his invitation to his flat, you’ll be a well-paid author within twelve months.”
“You mean sleep with him!”
“No. Become his mistress.”
“The man’s revolting.” She was about to tell Heath Byron’s relationship to her father but she stopped. “Are people really that disgusting?”
“Oh, yes. Keep him on a string until you sign the contract and dump him when the book’s published.”
“I think I’ll be sick.”
“Probably. There’s a price to pay for everything, the good and the bad. The world is full of influence, not talent. Most successful people have been a whore at some stage in their lives and that includes all democratic politicians. The press, the so-called freedom of speech press, have the world in their power. There has never been a democratic politician who reached the halls of power without them. At the moment, Byron supports the Conservatives. If they try to interfere with his business or if he thinks they may lose the election, he’ll switch his chain of newspapers. I’m as much a whore as any of them. Byron Langton bought me a long time ago and made me comfortable and I’ve found I like being comfortable. That was my price. Yours is more transient. Close your eyes and think of England.”
“You want me to sell myself?”
“If you want to publish, Penny Bains. Many years ago the women found him rather exciting. The more important thing is the books are well worth publishing. If they weren’t, I’d tell you to throw them on the fire and look for a husband.”
The row occurred six weeks later when Byron Langton paid one of his rare visits to his East Horsley estate. The excuse was Gregory’s final sojourn at home before he set off on his gap year. His girls, Penelope and Morag, were also at home and though Byron’s only interest in horses was betting on the Derby, he walked to the stables with his daughters to inspect the new ponies he had given them for Christmas. Penelope was fifteen and Morag nearly seventeen and if there was any way to soften up Fiona, it was through their children. The boy, so far as Byron was concerned, was a drip and the girls were going to end up looking like their horses. Byron had the wild hope that when they were older, he would find them more acceptable.
“I want to publish a book recommended strongly by Heathcliff Mortimer,” he said to his wife that evening over supper in the dining room. The girls, together with his son, had all gone into town to see a film, and the cook had left a cold buffet on the sideboard. Byron found talking business to his wife a pleasure as the publishing house she ran was highly profitable, a combination of good book choice and good reviews in Byron’s now wide-ranging string of newspapers that took in Canada, Australia and many of the provincial cities outside of London, the home of the Daily Garnet: the one hand fed the other hand and most of the profit landed up with Byron.
Fiona took the manuscript from her husband and looked at the name of the author.
“Don’t be silly, Byron. Heath’s been foisting this girl onto me for years. She’s the daughter of a white missionary still stuck in Africa and totally unmarketable.”
“I want you to read it.”
“Byron, you’re disgusting. The girl’s not twenty-five.”
“If you are suggesting what I suspect, then you’re disgusting. It’s a family matter. The girl is the daughter of Hilary Bains who was unofficially adopted by my parents during the war. His father was my father’s tail gunner who came home dead on a flight back from Germany. Hilary’s mother was killed in an air raid. Will calls Hilary his adopted brother, though I never went quite that far.”
“Then it’s nepotism.”
“I don’t think you will say that when you read the book.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve read a manuscript?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I intended to flip. It’s the story of a young girl growing up divorced from her culture and coming back to her roots. It’s funny and sad and it gives a shocking exposé of what has become of Western society.” Byron went back to eating his cold chicken. “Fiona, will you please read this book?”
“I’ll send it out to readers.”
“That’s good enough.”
“Is it really that good?” asked Fiona, her interest roused by her husband’s reaction.
“Send it to a reader. Read it yourself. Whatever. You’ll publish it, Fiona.”
“And you will make a lot of money.”
“That’s the idea isn’t it?”
Five weeks earlier, when Heathcliff Mortimer had written up his African report and taken it to Byron Langton, he brought up the subject of Penny Bains.
“You realise she’s the daughter of Hilary Bains?”
“Yes, though I couldn’t imagine the Reverend Hilary Bains getting it up, let alone siring a daughter. Anyway, what is Penny Bains to you?”
“I taught her English. She came to me with an introduction from Will.”
“Young Will, the do-gooder. I still don’t see the connection.”
“I want you to publish her book without seducing her. Damn it, Byron, for all intents and purposes you are her uncle. I’ve checked the publishing market. You let out years ago you didn’t want them to publish her books.”
“You know something, Heath, you’ve given me a way round a dilemma. Now, is this report going to make me money? Do I give my major and his sergeant a contribution to their political campaign?”
“The answer’s ‘yes’ on both counts… She’s a nice girl.”
“That’s why I’m going to help her publish her book. And Heath, don’t look at me like that. I’ve told you for years that everyone has their price. I like young girls and she wants to publish her work. It’s a perfect match. Better still, now you tell me I’m her uncle, Fiona will think I’m doing it out of kindness to a sibling. She’ll know the truth but have a story to salvage her pride. That’s Fiona’s price. Her pride. Her family name. Provided I don’t embarrass my wife, she will bring up the children and provide the social background I require. A man who works hard is entitled to play every now and again. Anyway, what else does a man of my age do for fun? Once the sex urge goes a man might as well shoot himself. Is the book any good?”
“It’s going to sell a lot of copies.”
“This gets better as it goes along. I have always fancied making real money out of a mistress. By the way, Heath, if you like your comfort, don’t tell her I knew her father. I certainly won’t. But surely she must know.”
“The world is bloody sick.”
“No. It’s a lot of fun.”
Penny Bains had thought about it for another week and then she took the manuscript with her to work, ready to sell her soul to the devil. For two nights the man she was after did not appear and when he did, there was no willingness on
his behalf to start their usual conversation.
For three weeks Byron kept her on the hook, smiling to himself at the girl’s frustration, marvelling at the compulsion to give birth to a book. When he was sure the girl would not renege on her side of the bargain, he arrived at the Green Dolphin earlier than usual, before the tables filled up with people wanting to eat. Johnny was due to join him in half an hour’s time.
“You want a drink, Penny?” asked Byron, turning on his charm. The body had changed, but the charm had never gone away. “I won’t tell Johnny you are drinking on duty and neither will anyone else. Look at your tables. There’s nobody there… George,” he said, turning to the barman. “Give young Penny a gin and tonic. Now, come and sit down and tell me how you’ve been doing.”
Penny climbed up onto the bar stool and accepted her drink. She was flustered. By the end of her drink she was no further forward with her plan. A second drink was put in front of her on the bar and still no customers were sitting at her tables. There were two other waitresses and both of them were working hard at their tables and the first double gin was going to her head. Johnny Pike joined them at the bar and she found herself sitting in between the two. Still there were no customers sitting at her tables and the others were almost full.
“Looks like you don’t need Penny tonight, Johnny,” Byron said when Penny was halfway through the second double gin. “We were thinking of going out to dinner. Monday’s always a slow night at the Green Dolphin. We were going back to Penny’s place to let her change and then coming back into the West End. You won’t miss her for one evening. The major and his sergeant will be joining us for dinner and as Penny was brought up in Africa, I thought she would be interested.”
“When is the military coup?” asked Johnny Pike.
“Oh, they won’t tell me that, will they? Penny, do you have something nice to wear?”
“Yes, I think so,” she croaked, the constriction in her throat barely allowing her to speak.
“We have a mutual friend, Penny, Heathcliff Mortimer. He calls himself your literary mentor. Maybe on the way we could pick up this manuscript he’s been talking about.”
In the room next to the one Penny had lived in for the last three years was a mostly out of work stage director. In the one next to him was a mostly out of work actor. They had shared the top floor or the semi-detached building for most of this time, the stage director coming to London for his pot of gold, seven weeks after Penny had moved off the couch in Heathcliff Mortimer’s lounge. There was one common bathroom the size of a cupboard and cooking was done in the rooms on two-plate cookers in alcoves that had once been cupboards. Through the fire escape was a small landing overlooking the back garden and hops grew right up the back of the house to flower in profusion. The landing with all its greenery was just big enough for three chairs with the actor able to put his long legs out in between the chairs. When the sun was out in the summer they spent their spare time talking and drinking cups of tea. They were to be some of the happiest hours of Penny’s life, even when she looked back from a much older age. They were young and thirsty for knowledge, with time to talk and dream. All of her first five books were dreamed about on the landing and the help she found in the two young men was as important to her work as the technical learning she got from Heathcliff Mortimer. Most of her money went to feeding the boys when they were out of work, which was most of the time, which was why she had never moved into a flat of her own. The books that had not been sent out to Mongu by the bishop were found by the boys who were able to fill in the gaps of her reading. They all agreed that when she was famous, she would write a play with a plum part for the actor to be directed by the director and then they would go onto films. Throughout the years at the top of the house, both boys had kept out of her bed as they knew a relationship would shatter their peace. To the boys she had explained her publishing predicament and its solution.
“Just watch he doesn’t renege,” said the director.
“Get it in writing first,” said the actor. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”
“So you don’t find it disgusting?”
“Everyone lies and cheats these days. No one gives a damn. People only know the difference between right and wrong if what they do succeeds. Make the old fart wear a condom and have a good shower afterwards. The path to glory is littered with shit. Penny, you’ve tried every other way. Go for it but don’t tell your children.” The actor stretched out his long legs, the length of the small landing.
“If the end justifies the means, go for it,” said the director. “In your Africa the liberation movements killed people who got in the way. Look at South Africa. Don’t tell me the terrorist means don’t justify the end. How else are they going to get rid of apartheid? The capitalist monopolies have the publishing industry by the throat, the whole damn media for that matter. Get published. Use their sordid system. When you’re famous, you can tell them to go to hell. Then you will have a free voice without any clutter. If the freedom fighters in South Africa have to bomb the odd civilian target to rid themselves of a bunch of fascists, what’s a friendly fuck in bed? Just make sure you turn out the light. Use your imagination. You’re a writer. Use the bastard and get what you want.”
The evening with the major and his sergeant went smoothly in a class of restaurant Penny never knew existed. The menu she was shown showed no prices and Byron Langton was the perfect host. The manuscript of Is This Really Civilisation? was locked in the boot of Byron’s car and Penny was wearing the only dress she possessed, a summer frock that showed off her figure better than she had intended. Byron had waited patiently downstairs while she changed. It had taken half an hour by which time, unbeknown to Penny, Byron had finished a number of pages of her book. At first, the major thought the white flesh was there for him but changed his mind when Byron held her hand on top of the dinner table. Throughout the meal, Penny played the dumb female to avoid joining the conversation on behalf of the starving millions strewn across Africa. Penny knew instinctively there was evil sitting at the table.
From the restaurant they went to a nightclub where two girls even younger than Penny were introduced to the Africans and with the free flowing of the drink, Penny understood Byron Langton was prepared to partly bankroll the major’s bid for the presidency of his country. For Penny to realise the spoils of Africa were carved up in Western nightclubs made her determined, by whatever means, to get herself published so she could write the real books about Africa, the ones that would expose the cruelty and corruption, the total indifference to the plight of the African people.
At the end of the evening, the major and the sergeant were sent off with the whores in a taxi and Byron Langton drove her straight back to her home. Politely he got out of his car and saw her to the front door which she opened with her key.
“We’ll do this again when I’ve finished with your book,” said Byron.
“You mean you’ve already read some of it?”
“Yes. Next Wednesday, your night off, I’ll collect you here at eight o’clock. Before then, go and buy yourself some evening clothes and have them call me at the bank for payment.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to look nice. Surely, Penny, by now we understand each other. If we don’t, then we’re both wasting our time. For what it’s worth, going out with a much older man who has seen a great deal of this wicked world may give you storylines for your books. Put it down to research. Eight on Wednesday and I’m never late. I hate people who are late. Wastes both people’s time. You didn’t like my guests tonight?”
“They are a pair of thugs.”
On the day Penny Bains received her contract and cheque for ten thousand pounds in advance royalty, she also received a phone call from Byron Langton. She had been working day shifts ever since Byron had asked to see her book.
“Remember, you owe me dinner tonight, Penny Bains. I will pick you up at eight o’clock to celebrate. Congratulations.”
All the restaurants they had been to so far were small and out of the way, with food and service beyond anything in the famous hotels. They were run by the owners who all seemed to count her escort as a personal friend. This evening’s restaurant, where she had never been taken before, was in Knightsbridge, close to Buckingham Court. At her place at the table for two was a single, perfect blue-white orchid which Byron pinned to her dress. There was no scent to the flower. The cocktail was poured into a glass filled with crushed ice and drunk through a straw. Deliberately, she had never asked Byron the name of the cocktails and never once had he shown off by giving them a name. The five-course meal she guessed had been ordered in advance. Each course found a different wine which was taken away with the empty plates, along with most of the bottles’ contents: Penny assumed the kitchen staff drank the rest. They finished a perfect meal and Byron called for his usual cigar and brandy, a coffee liqueur for Penny.
“Are you ready to pay the price?” asked Byron softly, the two violet eyes watching her intently.
“Yes,” she whispered, “if that’s what you want.”
“I never go to a lot of trouble for nothing. You know my flat is a couple of streets down?”
“I know you have a flat in Buckingham Court.”
“Was it a good trade? My wife tells me she has ordered a twenty thousand print run. Not bad for hardback. My literary critic at the Daily Garnet has read an advance copy. He guarantees me a good column of praise. I think you are going to be famous. Did you know I made Shelley Lane famous? You’ll be all right. Writers last much longer than singers.”
“Did you seduce her?”
“Actually, it was the other way round. Worse, she fell in love. She ended up with Will for a while when they were both on the skids. Dumped him for his best friend. Had a baby by the friend who was killed in Rhodesia. There is no accounting for women. People really. Why do they all do it, I ask myself? The gentlemen from Africa you rightly called thugs are presently executing their president by firing squad, unable to see the inevitable picture of their own backs to the same wall. Young, beautiful girls are prized by men beyond treasure, yet everyone knows the ravages of age. We all know and we all fall into the same traps, making life’s journey rather pointless, don’t you think? What is it all about? Most of what we want is pointless when achieved. I go on making money without a personal purpose for that money. Like a lion who kills the entire herd of buffalo, eats one and leaves the rest to rot. Maybe the creation of wealth is different as others benefit, like the vultures, we destroy as much as we build. There was great wealth in Europe so we fought two wars to knock it down and force ourselves to start all over again. What a strange animal is man, never satisfied, always envious and rarely happy.” Byron looked into his glass. “Good food and good wine. I talk too much. Shall we go when I finish my brandy?”
