Authors: Fay Weldon
The New Countess (7 page)
‘Oh Redbreast!’ Diana had exclaimed, seeming to take unwarranted offence, and had hit Anthony on the arm and told him not to be so ghastly. He’d got her in an armlock and made her cry. Rosina had then got Anthony in a headlock but he’d hooked her leg and brought her down on the carpet and stood over her with his foot planted in her stomach. She’d wondered what was going to happen next, and no doubt would have happened in some native encampment back home in Western Australia. But this was Fleet Street round the corner from Paternoster Row and nothing happened, at least then.
Anthony just laughed as Rosina squirmed beneath him – she had landed on her hip – and said bluestockings were not his style, being ‘too judgemental’: he only liked silly girls, and then not much, and helped her up. They had all drunk too much, of course. She, Rosina, had become accustomed to the alcohol of the Nyoobgah, fermented gum tree sap and wild honey, which rendered those who drank it friendly, not mad. The episode had all been so sudden, oddly disturbing and upsetting.
At around twelve noon, as Rosina slept in Belgrave Square, the doorbell jangled at No. 3 Fleet Street and Anthony Robin opened the door to William Brown from Longman’s the publishers. Brown had had a brisk walk down the hill from No. 39 Paternoster Row and had the alert and cheerful air of a man who was not afraid of exercise; his knock on the door was convincing and brooked no argument, as befitted a partner in a prestigious publishing business that had brought the works of the greatest and best writers to the attention of the public for two centuries. Even Anthony was slightly awed: for the publisher of
The Modern Idler
, a small imprint which dealt in large part with the stories, poems and essays of the young and untried, a personal visit from a publisher of Longman’s status was full of promise. Someone, something, in the magazine had caught their attention.
It had been at Diana’s insistence that he had taken Rosina and her manuscript round to Longman’s in the shadow of St Paul’s the previous day. Finding Mr William Brown out – what had Diana expected? – they had left the manuscript with a young man at the reception desk and departed. Anthony had assumed it was an improbable mission: he had glanced through the manuscript of
The Sexual Manners and Traditions of Australian Aboriginals
and assumed it was unpublishable – too long, too untidy, badly-typed, written by a woman, and with almost more numbers on the page than words. A publisher such as Longman’s was hardly going to be interested in the louche habits of savages. But Diana had persisted, and he liked Rosina: she was quite the opposite of her brother, a natural socialist with a lively mind – though people had stared slightly as they walked up the hill to St Paul’s. Gentlewomen – and she obviously was one – did not go about the streets wearing neither hat nor gloves; let alone with bare ankles showing, no matter how hot the day.
But here was Mr Brown on Anthony’s turf asking if he could speak to Miss Rosina Hedleigh. Anthony told him she had been staying overnight but had now gone home to her parents in Belgrave Square.
‘The Earl and Countess of Dilberne,’ Anthony added. People might as well know where they stood.
‘Sister to the Motoring Viscount then?’ asked Mr Brown. ‘An interesting family. It obviously has talent. Perhaps he could be induced to write a guide to motoring.’
‘It would hardly be literature,’ said Anthony. He was conscious of still being in his dressing gown, albeit one bought at some expense from Henry Poole, in rather elegant grey and black stripes.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Mr Brown. ‘But today’s readers want nothing more than to read about the motor car which is transforming all our lives. Anyhow, I read Miss Hedleigh’s manuscript overnight. I find it admirably written, and excellently researched.’
‘Indeed,’ said Anthony. ‘So you mean to make her an offer?’
‘I do,’ said Mr Brown, ‘and I thought it would be preferable to do so in person. Readers these days are fascinated by other lands and other customs, especially if they are of an intimate nature. I understand Miss Hedleigh prefers not to be known by her married name. Since she gives this address am I to understand that she is perhaps under your guardianship?’
Mr Brown stood hesitating on the step. An admirable figure, Anthony thought, in spite of wanting the upstart Viscount to write him a book on motoring. He was wearing an American-style, single-breasted, cutaway frock-coat in grey tweed, fetchingly tailored to allow an agreeable amount of bleached linen shirt to show, its creaminess smartly punctuated with a narrow red tie with a very small knot. His trousers were of the new loose style. The lot was topped by a shiny light-brown bowler with a curly brim. Anthony’s impulse was to ask him where he had acquired the suit – Savile Row normally provided only the most conservative of suiting – but since he himself, after a hard night’s carousing, was still in his dressing gown and rather the worse for wear, he desisted. But he asked Mr Brown in.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think you can safely infer that.’
To his credit William Brown did not blench at the full sight of Anthony’s
déshabille
and bare feet, nor at the sight of Diana, who, though at least up and dressed, had a broom in her hand and was surrounded by packing cases and furniture. Anthony quickly introduced Diana as his sister, aware that appearances might be misleading.
‘I am glad Miss Hedleigh finds herself amongst literary friends. And so these are the new premises of the
The Modern Idler
,’ Brown said, rifling amongst the confusion of papers on various surfaces with such assurance Anthony could not object. ‘You have taken over from Jerome, I understand.’
‘Not quite,’ said Anthony. ‘The
Modern
is a mere offshoot while the
Idler
itself lies fallow.’
‘I had heard,’ said Brown. ‘Jerome Jerome has left the gentle slopes of humour and taken to religion. It’s rather ill-advised of him, but don’t cite me as saying so. He is writing some play, I believe, about the presence of Jesus amongst us.’
‘The interest now is less in the Christian God and more in the esoteric,’ observed Anthony. ‘We seem to crave a return to the reign of many gods rather than just the one.’
‘Ward Lock is certainly doing tremendously well with Haggard’s
Ayesha
,’ said Brown. ‘We at Longman take that rather badly – we’ve published so many of the Haggard stories from the
Idler
. And the Kipling. Of course he’s in a different league.’
‘I nearly took Rosina round to Ward Lock at Salisbury Square,’ said Anthony, ‘but you were nearer.’
‘Oh Anthony!’ came a little wail of protest from Diana, quickly curbed by a look from her brother.
‘Well,’ said William Brown, ‘if anything else interesting turns up in your post, do remember us at Longman. Minor talents can blossom into major with a little help from a good publisher.’
‘Or indeed a good editor,’ said Anthony, and Mr Brown suggested that they all go down and lunch peacefully at the recently renovated Simpson’s in the Strand and continue this most stimulating conversation. He would pay.
‘Ooh yes!’ said Diana. The last few days of life without servants had been tolerable, except for the way food did not automatically appear at set intervals, but had to be bought and cooked before it could be served – where was the time for an educated woman to think about art, literature and politics, let alone be involved, even if you weren’t your brother’s dogsbody. The socialist principle of doing away with the servant class was all very well for the men who espoused it, but, she agreed with Rosina, women who looked forward to a servant-less world were out of their minds.
Last night everyone had only unmade beds to get into. So no one could be bothered to do so, and had settled down after a night of absinthe drinking – and for Anthony and Rosina some nameless white powder – to sleep in their clothes on armchairs and sofas. Diana hoped Rosina was getting on well with her parents, fearing that after such a night she might be at her contentious worst. But it was wonderful news about the book, though dreadful the way Anthony had told lies – Ward Lock had not yet been even considered let alone approached – and she supposed Anthony might now try and get the work himself to serialize in
The Modern Idler
; she would have to caution Rosina against it. In the meanwhile she was hungry. Lunch at Simpson’s with its rich red beef, starched white tablecloths and attentive waiters sounded very inviting indeed.
And William Brown was most agreeable, thought Diana, if something of a dandy and given to waving his hands about, and was currently re-publishing Oscar Wilde’s response to Henry James’ essay on the
Art of Fiction
. One could possibly marry such a man and not share a bed with him by mutual consent but no doubt there were other ways in which he would be trying. There would be no room in the wardrobes, for one thing.
It took her five minutes to comb her hair, find a fresh blouse – she had found a Chinese laundry round the corner – put on gloves and a hat, and make herself respectable enough – just – for Simpson’s in the Strand. Anthony took longer but looked agreeably artistic when he finally emerged, with almost as much white shirt as Mr Brown on display, the new baggy trousers and some very fetching two-tone shoes in cream and beige with brown ribbon laces.
She was hungry and since it was Friday chose a lemon sole after her mushroom soup, while Anthony and William had the roast beef after oysters on crushed ice. The beef was spit-roasted by the waiters in front of a roaring open fire. Diana hoped the waiters got paid more for the heat, the fumes, the burns and the flying cinders entailed but didn’t suppose so. The honour of working at Simpson’s would be considered reward enough. The beef looked so moist and tender she rather regretted her virtuous and simple sole.
‘Miss Hedleigh will have to be prepared for a lot of public attention when we publish,’ said William. ‘I hope she is prepared for that. When a man enquires into society’s sexual practices it is one thing – Havelock Ellis has got into trouble with the law over
Sexual Inversion
but still has some friends – it may be different for a woman.’
‘I think she is sufficiently brave,’ said Anthony. ‘She presents the truth, after all. By the way, Diana here tells me she has already written a great deal about the life of the rural peasant in this country.’
‘Oh Anthony,’ said Diana. ‘Don’t mention that. Mostly about their wages: only a little about how they avoid pregnancy.’
She thought William’s eyes lit up. So did Anthony’s. She should not have spoken. Rosina had taken that section out before she had let Anthony see it. It was too near to home and her family – and she still cared about them – would not like it. They could just about put up with the courtship customs of Australian aboriginals – and the mating habits of horse and hound were of great interest to them, as was the fecundity of the birds they loved to rear the better to shoot – but the less they knew about those of their employees the better. Mr Brown said he would call on Miss Rosina at Belgrave Square in the afternoon – or was it Lady Rosina? – to talk about it.
Diana said Rosina abhorred titles and preferred to be called Miss. Titles were nonsensical. She and Anthony would be ‘Honourables’ but their father, although a Lord, was only a baron. So only the older brother got to inherit and end up a Lord. But she had annoyed Anthony again. He said sharply that such matters were hardly of interest to Mr Brown, and when Mr Brown said on the contrary, a titled author could be guaranteed to sell, Anthony looked positively sulky.
Mr Brown left promptly at three and Diana lingered on with Anthony in the bar while he had a glass of brandy. A corner was reserved for chess players, and one of them, unusually, was a girl, and a young and pretty girl at that; at any rate she attracted Anthony’s attention. She was very much Anthony’s ‘type’– fair, bright blue-eyed, animated, rounded to the point of fatness but with a little waist: she was the kind one of her male fellow-students at Cambridge had graphically described as ‘round-heeled’ – that was to say ‘one push and she falls flat on her back.’ Many students resented the presence of women around them, and would take pleasure in shocking young girls – ‘if they want to be men, let them live like men’ – and made no effort to moderate their language, rather the contrary. The trouble with being educated with men was that you grew up knowing only too well what they were like – why would one want to marry one if there was any way of managing not to?
The girl finished her game – she lost – and came over to Anthony, whom it seemed she already knew. Anthony introduced her.
‘Eve Braintree, on the Woman’s Page of the
Daily Mirror
; we published a story of hers last Christmas. It was very well received.’
‘That’s a year back,’ she said, and her voice was light and sweet. ‘I’m promoted to the motoring column. I write under Evelyn Braintree.’
Anthony expressed surprise.
‘I can write about motors,’ she said, ‘as well as any man. They are not so difficult to understand. Bits go round which link with other bits which make the wheels turn, that’s all. Fletcher Robinson promoted me just before he died.’
‘A tragedy,’ said Anthony. ‘He was only thirty-seven. Completely sudden. Struck down in his prime. I spoke to him just before he died: he was convinced the Egyptian “Unlucky Mummy” was responsible for his illness. She certainly looks a malevolent creature, only just containable by all the pillars and stones of the British Museum.’
‘Fletcher put me onto that story,’ Evelyn said, ‘but then he said it wasn’t safe, and took me off the Woman’s Page and put me on Motoring. He wrote it up himself and now he’s dead.’
‘Perhaps you’d write for us on the subject?’ he suggested. She said she’d think about it, but would need danger money. He said his proprietors didn’t have any danger money, so she shrugged. Perhaps
Longman’s Review
would take it. They liked other-worldly stuff and were well funded. So what had he been talking to William Brown about?