twisted a little to one side, eyes open and startled.
Within six weeks, Frank had resigned from his job, sold the London flat and moved what he needed to Suffolk. He had no need to work now, whether or notthe book was successful. But he did not doubt that successful was what it would be and in this he was fully justified.
It took him a much shorter time to write than he had expected. Once he began, the pen took on a life of its own and he watched it race across the paper, telling, inventing, creating detail after detail. Every evening when he read over what had been done that day he was astonished at how convincing it was, how the stark descriptions and bleak conversations conveyed truth. At first he wondered where deep inside him it was coming from, this story he did not know he had to tell, but then he simply accepted it and continued.
It came together with its title, like a child born already named, but he had to choose how to send it out into the world. Deciding took little time.
On the day he finished, he went for a walk along the road that ran beside the shingle beach. It was grey and cold and the waves were white-flecked. He was surprisingly content being alone and scarcely missed Elsa, but he was aware that both men and women living alone can become misanthropic and reclusive and he would need to give thought to his future. Perhaps he would marry again. If he did so, it would be on different terms. He was now wealthy and he was inclined to believe that the book mightalso make him famous. He had the stronger hand now.
He wondered if he would write anything else, if there were other things stored away in the dark cupboard. He felt no urge to investigate. If they were there, they would come to the surface.
From his time in Fleet Street he knew a couple of publishers and one literary agent and, wanting an opinion and someone else to handle the business side of things, he spent the next ten days typing his manuscript and making some small changes and corrections. Then, he packed it, posted it to the agent, and very deliberately put it from his mind.
11
I T WAS Joe Jory who found out about it first. After he had driven Berenice to work every morning in the old van he often had time on his hands. The band had more gigs in the winter and the telling of futures was a dwindling business, but Joe Jory was resourceful and liked ferreting about, so he began to make bits of money here and there from buying and selling. He bought from here and sold to there, went to auctions and flea markets and had a special line in following up the death notices in the local paper. If he read of a person who had died at an advanced age, he tracked down their address and went there, offering to clear. Nine times out of ten there was remaining family or else the house was empty or he got sent smartly away, but then there were the occasional times when he struck lucky. Berenice privately admired hisenterprise while chastising him to his face for profiteering from the dead when they were barely cold. Joe Jory took it all in and carried on, knowing that with Berenice words came cheap.
On this morning he bought a couple of papers and then went into Dusty Dolly’s where he sometimes had breakfast and read his way carefully through the small ads. Dusty Dolly’s was full and smelled of damp coats and frying bacon.
There were a couple of death notices which he ringed in biro, and a few ads for jumble sales, which only rarely yielded him anything worth buying. After he had done the work, he had a second mug of tea and began to look through the rest of the local paper.
He did not recognise the photographs at first but that was not surprising as he had not known any of the family at that age. The first was just the author as a small boy; the second, the author with the rest of his family sitting in a field somewhere round a picnic cloth, a tractor and trailer in the background and hay stooks. Joe Jory looked more closely.
John. Bertha. Colin.
Within six weeks, Frank had resigned from his job, sold the London flat and moved what he needed to Suffolk. He had no need to work now, whether or notthe book was successful. But he did not doubt that successful was what it would be and in this he was fully justified.
It took him a much shorter time to write than he had expected. Once he began, the pen took on a life of its own and he watched it race across the paper, telling, inventing, creating detail after detail. Every evening when he read over what had been done that day he was astonished at how convincing it was, how the stark descriptions and bleak conversations conveyed truth. At first he wondered where deep inside him it was coming from, this story he did not know he had to tell, but then he simply accepted it and continued.
It came together with its title, like a child born already named, but he had to choose how to send it out into the world. Deciding took little time.
On the day he finished, he went for a walk along the road that ran beside the shingle beach. It was grey and cold and the waves were white-flecked. He was surprisingly content being alone and scarcely missed Elsa, but he was aware that both men and women living alone can become misanthropic and reclusive and he would need to give thought to his future. Perhaps he would marry again. If he did so, it would be on different terms. He was now wealthy and he was inclined to believe that the book mightalso make him famous. He had the stronger hand now.
He wondered if he would write anything else, if there were other things stored away in the dark cupboard. He felt no urge to investigate. If they were there, they would come to the surface.
From his time in Fleet Street he knew a couple of publishers and one literary agent and, wanting an opinion and someone else to handle the business side of things, he spent the next ten days typing his manuscript and making some small changes and corrections. Then, he packed it, posted it to the agent, and very deliberately put it from his mind.
11
I T WAS Joe Jory who found out about it first. After he had driven Berenice to work every morning in the old van he often had time on his hands. The band had more gigs in the winter and the telling of futures was a dwindling business, but Joe Jory was resourceful and liked ferreting about, so he began to make bits of money here and there from buying and selling. He bought from here and sold to there, went to auctions and flea markets and had a special line in following up the death notices in the local paper. If he read of a person who had died at an advanced age, he tracked down their address and went there, offering to clear. Nine times out of ten there was remaining family or else the house was empty or he got sent smartly away, but then there were the occasional times when he struck lucky. Berenice privately admired hisenterprise while chastising him to his face for profiteering from the dead when they were barely cold. Joe Jory took it all in and carried on, knowing that with Berenice words came cheap.
On this morning he bought a couple of papers and then went into Dusty Dolly’s where he sometimes had breakfast and read his way carefully through the small ads. Dusty Dolly’s was full and smelled of damp coats and frying bacon.
There were a couple of death notices which he ringed in biro, and a few ads for jumble sales, which only rarely yielded him anything worth buying. After he had done the work, he had a second mug of tea and began to look through the rest of the local paper.
He did not recognise the photographs at first but that was not surprising as he had not known any of the family at that age. The first was just the author as a small boy; the second, the author with the rest of his family sitting in a field somewhere round a picnic cloth, a tractor and trailer in the background and hay stooks. Joe Jory looked more closely.
John. Bertha. Colin.
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