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Authors: L. C. Tyler
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business. A Danish publishing house wished to bring out a translation of All on a Summer’s Day.
‘Can’t think why,’ said Elsie, with her usual tact. ‘I told them it was a crap book. Can’t give it away here. And Danish sales won’t bring in much money. Scarcely worth my time to set the deal up. But they seem to think that that gloomy, brooding sod Fairfax will appeal to the Nordic reader.’
‘I wonder what they will call it in Danish,’ I said. ‘Hr. Fairfax’ Fornemmelse for Datoer, possibly.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘Sorry – just a little private joke,’ I said.
‘Save it for your editor at Gyldendal,’ she continued, after a short but meaningful silence. ‘They’re emailing me a contract. I assume the wonders of electronic communication are still unknown to you? I’ll post you a copy when it arrives.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m coming up to London anyway on Tuesday. I have some things to clear up as Geraldine’s executor.’
I knew it was a mistake to say this the moment the words had left my lips.
‘What are you planning to do exactly?’
‘Boring stuff. I need to look at the accounts of her business, check the flat, that sort of thing.’
‘A chance to look for clues, though.’
‘There will be no clues. This is dull stuff about the will. Dull, Elsie. Really uninteresting.’
‘The flat is in Barnsbury Street, isn’t it? I still have your old address somewhere. I’ll meet you there at eleven on Tuesday.’
‘Elsie …’
But the phone had already been put down at the other end.
Bugger.
Eight
When I moved from Islington to Sussex, it was a form of self-imposed exile. In part, it is true, there were financial considerations that obliged me to move. And there was a straightforward desire to put as many miles as I could between Geraldine and myself. But it was also an act of contrition – a recognition that I had failed to hold together the only marriage I had ever had and that I deserved to live in the outer darkness, only just this side of Worthing.
I had expected, on my first visit to Islington for many years, to see some changes. But the neat terraces of narrow but expensive Georgian houses still shone in the shafting sunshine, each front door painted in authentic heritage hues – Oxford blue, walnut brown, claret, Brunswick green – the quiet, confident colours of money. The rows of railings fronting both sides of the street were a glossy jet black. Autumn was sliding in unobtrusively: not a Findon riot of golds and reds, but the leaves of the carefully spaced cherry trees had on them the merest hint of burnt orange – one of that year’s fashionable colours.
Elsie was waiting for me at the street door, tapping her size 3 foot and raring to go. Today’s unsuitable outfit for the smaller woman proved to be a yellow trouser suit with large red checks, and I hoped that she would not ask me if it made her bottom look big.
‘Nice suit,’ I observed defensively, as she handed me my copy of the Gyldendal contract. ‘New?’
‘You took your sodding time,’ she replied, temporarily shelving the bottom question.
‘I had to come from Sussex. You only had to come from Hampstead.’
‘I’m a woman. I’m not supposed to be on time. You’re a man. You’re meant to be here to let me in. It’s a thing men do.’
‘The age of chivalry has been dead for some time. Since 1485 men have done pretty much as they pleased. Blame Henry VII.’
‘Don’t be a silly tosser, Tressider,’ Elsie observed. And I let her into the flat.
Once through the door, Elsie bustled round like a fat little terrier, almost literally sniffing the air for clues. ‘You take the sitting room, I’ll check the bedroom,’ she said.
‘You take whichever room you like,’ I said. ‘I need to get papers together for probate.’
She snorted at my lack of enthusiasm for what she considered to be the real business in hand, but waddled off to the bedroom, where for
‘Can’t think why,’ said Elsie, with her usual tact. ‘I told them it was a crap book. Can’t give it away here. And Danish sales won’t bring in much money. Scarcely worth my time to set the deal up. But they seem to think that that gloomy, brooding sod Fairfax will appeal to the Nordic reader.’
‘I wonder what they will call it in Danish,’ I said. ‘Hr. Fairfax’ Fornemmelse for Datoer, possibly.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
‘Sorry – just a little private joke,’ I said.
‘Save it for your editor at Gyldendal,’ she continued, after a short but meaningful silence. ‘They’re emailing me a contract. I assume the wonders of electronic communication are still unknown to you? I’ll post you a copy when it arrives.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m coming up to London anyway on Tuesday. I have some things to clear up as Geraldine’s executor.’
I knew it was a mistake to say this the moment the words had left my lips.
‘What are you planning to do exactly?’
‘Boring stuff. I need to look at the accounts of her business, check the flat, that sort of thing.’
‘A chance to look for clues, though.’
‘There will be no clues. This is dull stuff about the will. Dull, Elsie. Really uninteresting.’
‘The flat is in Barnsbury Street, isn’t it? I still have your old address somewhere. I’ll meet you there at eleven on Tuesday.’
‘Elsie …’
But the phone had already been put down at the other end.
Bugger.
Eight
When I moved from Islington to Sussex, it was a form of self-imposed exile. In part, it is true, there were financial considerations that obliged me to move. And there was a straightforward desire to put as many miles as I could between Geraldine and myself. But it was also an act of contrition – a recognition that I had failed to hold together the only marriage I had ever had and that I deserved to live in the outer darkness, only just this side of Worthing.
I had expected, on my first visit to Islington for many years, to see some changes. But the neat terraces of narrow but expensive Georgian houses still shone in the shafting sunshine, each front door painted in authentic heritage hues – Oxford blue, walnut brown, claret, Brunswick green – the quiet, confident colours of money. The rows of railings fronting both sides of the street were a glossy jet black. Autumn was sliding in unobtrusively: not a Findon riot of golds and reds, but the leaves of the carefully spaced cherry trees had on them the merest hint of burnt orange – one of that year’s fashionable colours.
Elsie was waiting for me at the street door, tapping her size 3 foot and raring to go. Today’s unsuitable outfit for the smaller woman proved to be a yellow trouser suit with large red checks, and I hoped that she would not ask me if it made her bottom look big.
‘Nice suit,’ I observed defensively, as she handed me my copy of the Gyldendal contract. ‘New?’
‘You took your sodding time,’ she replied, temporarily shelving the bottom question.
‘I had to come from Sussex. You only had to come from Hampstead.’
‘I’m a woman. I’m not supposed to be on time. You’re a man. You’re meant to be here to let me in. It’s a thing men do.’
‘The age of chivalry has been dead for some time. Since 1485 men have done pretty much as they pleased. Blame Henry VII.’
‘Don’t be a silly tosser, Tressider,’ Elsie observed. And I let her into the flat.
Once through the door, Elsie bustled round like a fat little terrier, almost literally sniffing the air for clues. ‘You take the sitting room, I’ll check the bedroom,’ she said.
‘You take whichever room you like,’ I said. ‘I need to get papers together for probate.’
She snorted at my lack of enthusiasm for what she considered to be the real business in hand, but waddled off to the bedroom, where for
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