The Proprietor's Daughter

by Lewis Orde

  They returned to Kate’s Haven. Once Henry and Joanne were having dinner, Katherine and Saxon left the house. After eating at a local restaurant, they joined the flow of traffic toward the West End.

  “Fancy seeing a film?”

  Katherine shook her head.

  “A play, if we can still get tickets to a good one?”

  Another shake.

  “What do you want?”

  “Bed.”

  “Now there’s a coincidence. That’s what I want, too.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, instead of beating around the bush?”

  “Because you would have accused me of having only one thing on my mind.”

  “Like most men.”

  “You say that with authority. How many men have you known?”

  “In the biblical sense? You’re the second.” She refrained from returning the question; she did not want to know how many women Saxon had slept with.

  The moment they reached the house in Marble Arch, they rushed upstairs, undressed, and fell into bed like two people who had spent the entire day yearning for just this moment. Afterward, as they lay side by side, Katherine asked, “Why were you smiling before?”

  “I’m smiling now.”

  “On the heath, I mean. When Joanne was crying.”

  “I was smiling at a little bit of everything. There’s a certain poignancy to a child’s tears at the passing of summer. And I’m very touched by the honorary title I’ve been given. I like the sound of ‘Uncle John.’ It gives me a sense of belonging.”

  Katherine closed her eyes and hovered on the edge of sleep. She wanted this to be her bed, her bedroom, in her home. Not Saxon’s. More than anything, she wanted to spend the entire night with him. To awaken in the morning and find him next to her. Then her home would truly be Kate’s Haven. But she could never do that. Not while she shared this kind of relationship with him. There would be too much explaining to do, most of all to the children.

  So marry him, you fool! screamed a voice inside her head. Marry him, before another woman does. A woman less deserving than you. Then came another voice. Reasoning, cautioning. Telling her to wait, to take enough time to be really certain. And advising her to enjoy the flowers on the way.

  She allowed herself to drift off to sleep. The next sensation she had was of Saxon kissing her awake, his lips brushing her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, and lastly her mouth. “It’s one o’clock. I’ll take you home.”

  The night was cool. Saxon turned on the heater. As the car’s interior began to warm, he said, “I had lunch with Jeffrey the other day.”

  “He never mentioned it to me.”

  “He’s probably too frightened of you right now to mention anything ever again.”

  “Oh, I see. He couldn’t get me to agree to include some tacky little story in ‘Fightback,’ so now he’s trying to use you to persuade me. I’d expected more of him. And of you.”

  “That story about the Grosvenor Sporting Club and the chicanery with the license plates means a lot to Jeffrey, you know. He’s a man who’s questioning his existence at the moment. He’s even thinking that perhaps he should not have retired and turned the reins over to you.”

  Katherine steeled herself. “I’m very sorry about Jeffrey’s feelings, but I will not use that story, because it does not fit our format.”

  “All right. But remember this, Katherine. Paul Hyde, the producer, is Jeffrey’s friend. If Jeffrey’s really set on having his way, instead of asking you again, he’ll simply lean on Paul.”

  “John, I’ve already told Jeffrey that I will resign if I feel that kind of pressure. I like Jeffrey an awful lot, but I will not tolerate his meddling in what is now my show. As he obviously doesn’t seem to understand the message from me, perhaps you’d be good enough to repeat it to him.”

  “I will,” Saxon said as he drove into the forecourt of Kate’s Haven. “Verbatim.” Katherine kissed him good night, and stood watching the Rolls glide away.

  She entered the house and climbed the stairs, angry at Dillard for pursuing the idea, and more than a little mad at Saxon for allowing himself to be used as a messenger boy. As she reached the landing, she saw a sheet of paper taped to her bedroom door. The message written on it told Katherine that Raymond Barnhill had telephoned at eight that evening; would she please return his call, no matter what time she got home?

  She dialed Barnhill’s number. The telephone was answered almost immediately. “Katherine, is that you?”

  “Yes. Are you all right?”

  “Not really. May I see you?”

  “Now?”

  “Now. I need to talk to someone.”

  “Come on over.” She hung up, thinking longingly of sleep.

  Barnhill arrived twenty-five minutes later. Katherine sat him down in the breakfast room and poured him a cup of coffee. “What’s the matter?”

  “I got my pink slip from the International Press Agency. They fired me. Happy Bank Holiday, Barnhill, you’ve got two minutes to empty your desk and get the hell off the premises.”

  “That’s terrible. What reason did they give?”

  Barnhill gave a bleak grin. “The best reason of all. I’ve been doing a lousy job for the past few months. I was giving anything but a day’s work for a day’s pay.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Book Two . . . Vietnam, the NCOs. I’ve been spending every moment I can on it. The light at the end of the tunnel’s beckoning brightly to me —”

  “So you neglected your job? Being sacked serves you right.”

  “That’s nice. I drive over here in the middle of the night, and you show as much sympathy as a concentration-camp guard.”

  “Raymond, you called me because you wanted someone to talk to. There was no guarantee that the talk would be sympathetic. What do you intend doing?”

  “The first book — Vietnam, the Officers — is due out in October. I’d hoped to be in the States for that, the ego trip of seeing my own book in shops. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Is money a problem?”

  Barnhill nodded. “I don’t have much put by. That apartment in Dolphin Square costs me an arm and a leg. I inherited it from another IPA guy, who’d been assigned elsewhere. He was assistant bureau chief, making twice what I’m making. The BMW came from him as well.”

  “Could you” — Katherine took a deep breath before sticking her foot in her mouth — “use a loan?”

  “Do you think I came here to sponge off you?”

  “Of course not. I’m just trying to help, that’s all.”

  The fire left Barnhill’s voice. “Thanks, but I’ll make out okay. I’ll get a job with one of the other agencies. Associated Press or UPI.”

  *

  Barnhill began job-hunting the following morning. He applied at agencies, and at the London desks of American newspapers and news magazines. Any interest evaporated the instant he mentioned that he had a novel scheduled for publication in October.

  “Your book hits big,” one bureau chief told him, “and we won’t see your ass for dust anymore.”

  “I’ll make peanuts on it,” Barnhill claimed. “I write for pocket money, that’s all.”

  “Ken Follett, when he worked on Fleet Street for the Evening News, started out writing thrillers to pay for car repairs. One of those thrillers was a yarn called Storm Island. Some editor in the States changed the title to Eye of the Needle. Tell me something . . . you still see Follett punching a clock around here?”

  Barnhill walked away, disappointed. By the end of the week, he was in despair. When he saw Katherine for lunch on Friday, he told her, “I’m beginning to think I’ll never get a paycheck again as long as I live. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Instead of driving yourself into the ground, why not use this free time to finish off the second book?”

  “I’ve tried, but I haven’t been able to write a word. For years I’ve dreamed of being able to write full-time. Now I can, I find that there’s a stre
ak of Protestant work ethic in me that says I’m worthless without a proper job.”

  Katherine understood perfectly. Barnhill did not have enough madness to throw everything away in order to chase a dream. He was being torn apart by the desire to write and the need to have a regular income. Although she had never faced a similar dilemma — the lack of money being a barrier — she could sympathize with him. Dreams should not have a price tag.

  “Despite your lowly opinions of English newspapers, would you consider working on one?”

  “The Eagle? I’m not looking for charity.”

  “I’m not offering you any. It’s just that you impressed Sally Roberts an awful lot during my party last January. She said you were too bright to be working for an agency, and she asked me to persuade you to go to work for the Eagle.”

  “How come you didn’t?”

  “Because I knew you weren’t looking for charity.”

  “Well, damn me,” Barnhill said, and burst out laughing.

  “Would you like me to speak to her?”

  “Hell, no. I’m perfectly capable of speaking to the lady myself.”

  Which Barnhill did. That same afternoon, he met with Sally at her office in the Eagle building. She introduced him to Lawrie Stimkin, and at four-thirty, Barnhill left the building with both a proper job and the opportunity to be in New York when his first book was published. Sally had given him a temporary assignment as the Eagle’s New York correspondent, reporting human-interest and offbeat stories on the upcoming American election under the title “Glimpses of America.” When the two-month assignment was over, a decision would be made on Barnhill’s future with the Eagle.

  Barnhill spent Friday night and Saturday morning clearing out his apartment and packing. At noon on Saturday, he drove his white BMW around to Kate’s Haven, where it would remain while he was away. Katherine then drove him to Heathrow Airport, to catch his afternoon TWA flight to Kennedy.

  “When you get back home,” he told her, “open the trunk of the BMW. There’s something there for you.”

  “That wasn’t necessary, Raymond.”

  “Sorry to disagree, but it was.”

  She parked the silver Porsche at terminal three, and accompanied Barnhill inside. When the flight was called, she walked with him to passport control.

  “Don’t forget to write, Raymond.”

  “That’s what I’m getting paid the big money for.”

  “Idiot. I meant letters.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. They held tightly to each other for a couple of seconds, then Barnhill stepped back, his face flushed.

  “Good-bye. I’ll start writing the first letter even before the plane takes off.” He passed through the barrier, turned to wave, and was then lost from sight. Feeling flat, Katherine returned to the parking lot.

  When she arrived home, she opened the trunk of the BMW. Inside, a little the worse for being cooped up for half the day, was the most enormous bunch of flowers she had ever seen. Gladioli, chrysanthemums, daffodils, a blazing sunburst of color, topped off with a card that read, quite simply, “Thanks, friend.” Katherine gave the display to Edna, asking her to put it in water.

  When John Saxon arrived that evening to take Katherine to dinner and the theater, he spotted the flowers in a cut-glass vase in the drawing room. “Who sent you those?”

  “A secret admirer.”

  “The same secret admirer who hands out slot machines?”

  “Don’t be jealous, John.”

  “I’m not. I might have felt a twinge if he’d sent you red roses, but that rather ostentatious offering . . .? No, I’m not jealous at all.”

  In that moment, Katherine realized just how much she was going to miss Raymond Barnhill.

  *

  She heard from Raymond Barnhill midway through the following week. He telephoned her to say he had taken a short lease on a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan, on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street.

  “You can’t miss it. We’ve got a supermarket on the ground floor, so the first ten floors are flooded with cockroaches.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s okay. I’m on the fifteenth floor, too far for them to climb.”

  “Why don’t they take the lift?”

  “The elevator? They don’t know about it yet. And lower your voice, will you? They might be bugging the phones.”

  Katherine’s face creased into a huge smile.

  Barnhill’s first glimpse of election-mad America appeared the next week in the Eagle. It concerned a congressional candidate parachuting into Yankee Stadium during a televised Saturday afternoon baseball game. The candidate, trailing far behind in the polls, hoped to bring himself to the attention of the fifty thousand fans in the stadium and the millions watching on television. Badly misjudging the wind, he finished up in the Harlem River, where a police boat had to rescue him. Perversely, his rating in the polls increased. Which only went to prove, Barnhill pointed out, that Americans love a gallant loser.

  The story was so successful that “Glimpses of America” was changed from weekly to twice-weekly. Barnhill had no trouble making the schedule, he wrote in a letter to Katherine; there was more than enough good copy around. Also, he had plenty of time left over to put the finishing touches to the second book.

  All through September, Barnhill’s letters and telephone calls continued to be upbeat. Trade reviews of Vietnam, the Officers were promising. Knight and Robbins, Barnhill’s publishers, continually expressed optimism. Then, in October, optimism gave way to brutal reality. Vietnam, the Officers was placed on the shelves of bookshops, and stayed on the shelves. Writing to Katherine, Barnhill tried to rationalize the flop. Vietnam had not been a popular war with the American public. Americans still had to come to grips with the divisiveness of Vietnam. He gave twenty reasons, but all Katherine could see was the disappointment that flowed through each word of each sentence. She telephoned immediately to tell him that the book would probably do a lot better when it came out in paperback.

  Despite Barnhill’s personal disappointment, his “Glimpses of America” became more and more popular, a perfect blend of the human and the zany, the tasteful and the crass, that makes America what it is. At the end of October, Sally Roberts contacted him to ask if he would be interested in staying on in New York for the Eagle once the election was over. He agreed. When he telephoned Katherine with the news, she asked if that was what he wanted.

  “At the moment, it’s comfortable,” he answered. “I’m ready to turn in Vietnam, the NCOs. There’ll probably be revisions to do. Then, with just ‘Glimpses of America’ to write, I’ll be able to get on with the third book. And maybe I’ll find time to get to a basketball or hockey game and know I won’t get caught in the middle of a skinhead riot.”

  “Just be careful how you walk the streets. What about your car? Do you want me to hang onto it for you?” She hoped he would say yes, because that would mean he intended to return.

  “Would you do me a favor and sell it, Katherine? I could use the money.”

  She masked her disappointment with a brittle laugh. “It seems to me as though you can always use the money.”

  “Those with it should not make fun of those without.”

  “All right. Send me authorization to sell the car.”

  Four days later, on the first Tuesday in November — Election Day in the United States — Katherine received by airmail a notarized statement from Barnhill empowering her to sell his BMW. She drove it around to half a dozen used-car dealers, and when she eventually sold it to the highest bidder, she felt quite proud of herself for having negotiated so cleverly. And a little sad. For it was the white BMW, driven by Barnhill, that had rescued her and Sid Hall from the Brixton riot two years earlier.

  First thing the following morning, Katherine wired the money to Barnhill in New York. That very evening, she learned that had she waited, she could have delivered the money in person.

  “I’m going to New York next wee
k,” John Saxon told her over dinner. “Closing a deal we’ve been putting together. Would you like to join me?”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Saxon Holdings recently formed an American company to buy up desirable properties. Saxon-America, to give it the full and rather unimaginative title. We’re ready to complete our first purchase, an office block on West Forty-second Street.”

  “How near is it to Ninth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street?”

  “Not far. What interests you about that intersection?”

  Katherine avoided answering. “How long is the trip for?”

  “Five days. Leave here on Monday on Concorde, and fly back on Friday night.”

  “There’s a Thursday somewhere in the middle of that. ‘Fightback’ day.”

  “Katherine, you haven’t had a proper break since you took over the show. You must have some canned stories.”

  “Of course, there are enough stories on hold to put together a dozen shows.” The trip was so appealing, but Katherine was a jealous professional, not altogether happy to leave her work in someone else’s hands. “I don’t know, John.”

  “Are you worried about the presentation of the show? Surely you have enough faith in Derek and Heather? And if they meet any difficulties, they can always fall back on Jeffrey. He’s not exactly inexperienced.”

  The Concorde. New York. The opportunity to see Raymond Barnhill. “I’ll speak to Paul Hyde about it.”

  Expecting opposition, Katherine met with the producer. To her surprise, Hyde raised no objections. “We’ve got enough to get by for one week,” he told her. “It’ll give your assistants a chance to shine as well.”

  “Just as long as they don’t shine too brightly, and take away my job.”

  Hyde’s smile declared that such a possibility was out of the question. “While you’re in New York, would you like some American television exposure? I won’t have any difficulty in getting you on a talk show over there.”

  “What would I talk about?”

  “It doesn’t matter, just as long as you do it with an English accent. American viewers are ravenous for anything English. ‘Monty Python’ and ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ are two shows that spring to mind. And Benny Hill . . . for heaven’s sake, you can’t turn on a television set anywhere in America without seeing Benny Hill leering at large bosoms and dropping his double entendres all over the place.”