Dale had been raised in Northampton, where his parents still lived, but he had an elderly aunt in South London. Recently, due to failing health, she had given up her large suburban semi and moved into a care home. He was prevailed upon to clear out her belongings so the house could be sold.
His aunt was keen on crime fiction and had accumulated hundreds of books, so he asked me to go down to see if they were worth anything. He had been rather low lately because of more delays with the the new hospital laundry, and I was happy to go, if only to keep him company.
There is no real money to be made from second-hand mass market paperbacks. If she owned a good dictionary, atlas, encyclopaedia, or collectable cookery books Jeremy might get his wallet out, but he would not want ordinary detective stories. Dale knew of an old family Bible, but another relative was keen to take that as an heirloom.
We travelled by train from Victoria Station to a suburb with streets and streets of semi-detached houses. His aunt’s, with a large bow window and Tudor-effect boards on the façade, was one of two hundred in a long avenue. We went in and he showed me several rooms with shelves full of books. I picked a few paperbacks out at random – some crime fiction and a romantic novel. ‘Not really stuff for an antiquarian bookshop; may be more a question of someone taking them off your hands.’
He pointed to an Agatha Christie. ‘She’s still popular.’
‘On TV, certainly. Paperback reprints of her books are common. Trouble is they’re two a penny. Your aunt took good care of them, but rarity is what makes an old book valuable. These paperbacks may have been precious to the old lady, but sentimental value doesn’t convert into cash.’
He pointed out some book club editions of Dickens, attractively bound in leather. ‘What about these?’
‘They’ll fetch something, but you can probably still get the same or very similar editions new, so they’re not hugely sought after. No disrespect to your aunt, but I wonder if they’ve ever been read?’
He was disappointed. Not wanting to be insensitive, in a more kindly tone I said, ‘This place is really homely, well cared for, she must have loved it here.’
‘Yes, it meant so much to her. When I was a kid I used to love coming to visit. She had things hidden away in the cupboards, playing cards, old board games, even a film projector. The garage and garden sheds were packed with stuff. She used to let me explore. Wanted to keep me out of mischief, probably.’
Part of his childhood was going with the sale of the house. No wonder he was sad. I reached out and touched his shoulder sympathetically. Suddenly serious he said, ‘To change the subject dramatically, Ben, there is something…’
Before he finished, I happened to glance down, and noticed on a low shelf a hardback with Loyd Larcher’s name on the spine. ‘What’s this?’ I broke in, bending to pick up the book. It was Not a Jenny More, Not a Jenny Less. A quick glance inside told me it was published in nineteen-sixty-two. No reprints were listed, and I realized that in my hands was an unblemished first edition, complete with dust jacket.
‘We might be on to something here, Dale, this is a first edition. I told you, didn’t I, that Loyd Larcher was the speaker at that dinner Jeremy took me to? He gave me his card, though we’ve not been in contact again.’
‘Oh yes, Loyd Larcher. He was quite famous, wasn’t he?’
‘Your aunt might have been one of his fans. Let’s see if she has any others.’ We searched the bookcases and pulled out more Larcher first editions, together with other books that ought be worth more than a pittance. Among them were a dozen or more biographies, several cookery books and some lavishly illustrated volumes on astrology. They were enough to make it worth asking Jeremy what he thought.
‘I’d better let my aunt know, in case she wants to keep any. I’ll ring her tonight. She doesn’t have much space for her personal stuff.’
‘You don’t want anything yourself ?’
‘I’m getting the hall clock for clearing the house. It’s a good one. Other members of the family have had china, bits of furniture, old family photos. When the house is sold the money will be invested to help pay for her care. She’s not expecting much for the books.’
The next day I showed Jeremy the list of potentially valuable books we had found. ‘Well done, Ben, this is very professional. Have a word with Dale and fix a time for us to go round. Best if it’s out of shop hours. I’ll offer a good price, but don’t build up his expectations. The Loyd Larchers are promising. You seldom see his political novel about the population explosion, So Very Many More, Not So Many Less, for sale. Most of the list, though, are not what you would call rare books… difficult to know what they’d fetch.’
We fixed up an evening for the three of us to go to the house in Jeremy’s van. The passenger seat was just large enough for two. I sat in the middle, unable to move further towards Jeremy because of the handbrake, and trying not to lean too hard on Dale when we cornered. Jeremy talked all the time about how he admired people who did socially valuable jobs in the National Health Service, about how demanding the work must be, and how generally underrated the public sector was. Then he made me cringe with embarrassment by saying, ‘and of course it’s good to know that someone sensible and reliable is looking after Ben.’
Dale leaned comfortingly towards me and said, ‘We look after each other. It’s a good arrangement.’
When we reached the house we took in empty cardboard boxes and put them on the floor of the lounge. Jeremy checked through the copies of Loyd’s novels. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think she has them all, every one. Splendid… every one a first edition in top condition. Not signed though.’ He sniffed the pages of one of them, something he occasionally did to books in the shop. ‘First editions of this one,’ he continued, ‘Not a Benny More, Not a Benny Less, are very hard to come by. It’s about benzedrine addiction in the nineteen-fifties. Most of the print run was lost in a fire at the distributor’s warehouse. Only a few dozen survived. Reprints have sold well though, plenty of them around.’
‘Do Loyd Larcher’s books smell nice, Jeremy?’ I asked.
‘Oh, a book of that age doesn’t have much smell. You would pick me up on that, wouldn’t you? Now Dale will think I spend half my time sniffing books. Very occasionally, say if an old book has been rebound, you can smell the solvents from the adhesive, but not enough to give a glue sniffer a kick. Die-hard book lovers enjoy the fresh smell of a new book, it’s part of the obsession, I wouldn’t call it substance abuse.’
Dale said, ‘I probably shouldn’t ask, but would the Larchers be worth more if he could be persuaded to sign them now?’
‘As a general rule a signed copy is worth a bit more, but it’s something done mostly to help sales when a book comes out. Marketing people get up to all kinds of tricks. I don’t know about getting him to sign them now, they’ve been out of print for so long. Worth letting him know this set has turned up though. I’ll mention they are unsigned and see what he says. He might even know of a potential buyer.’
Having put Loyd’s first editions into a box, he picked up a book on astrology and flicked over the pages. ‘Ah! Someone I know will definitely be interested in this! Pack all this lot up, boys, and let me have fifteen minutes to see what’s left on the shelves, in case you’ve missed anything.’
Dale put the kettle on for tea while I filled the boxes. Jeremy joined us in the kitchen, empty-handed and said, ‘You did a thorough job, you two. I’ll give you the number of a dealer who shifts a lot of old paperbacks. Tell him how many there are, and if he has space he’ll make an offer. If not they will have to go to a house clearance firm. Unless you want to try selling them yourself on the internet, but I fear that would be a lot of effort for not much return.’ On the way back to Fulrose Court we picked up a meal at a Chinese take-away, and Jeremy bought a bottle of good wine. By the time we had eaten we were ready to turn in.
The next day he was in a trance-like state. He must have been up half the night examining the new acquisitions. He looked as though he had slept in his clothes: his shirt was crumpled, and his tie thrown back over his left shoulder. Using the excuse that he wanted to tackle the accounts, he retired to the office once we had opened up. I checked on him after about an hour, and saw him asleep at his desk. His head, sinking down, had come to rest on top of a Loyd Larcher first edition. One of his shoe laces had come undone and straggled over the floor. I was tempted to sneak up and tie it to a leg of the desk, but chickened out, afraid he would fall and hurt himself when he stood up.
He was back to normal the next day, and rang Loyd to tell him about our discovery. The timing was bad though: a new omnibus edition of his novels was due out soon and he was, understandably, too occupied with that to be much interested in our hoard. I stood by the office door hoping that my presence would remind Jeremy to ask about the work he had mentioned at the Booksellers’ Guild dinner, but Loyd must have remembered it himself without being prompted, for Jeremy said, ‘Yes, he is,’ and waved me over to take the phone.
Loyd explained that some time ago he had agreed to judge a short story competition. He needed help as he was about to go on a lecture tour in the US to promote his omnibus edition, and would not have time to do all the work himself. He wanted me to weed out the stories that exceeded the permitted length, were in very poor English, or were religious or political tracts masquerading as stories. A few days ago the organizers had told him that several hundred entries had come in, and many more were expected before the closing date. He thought four or five days’ work would be enough for me to go through and throw out the rubbish.
I had never undertaken anything like this before, but the job sounded interesting, the money would be welcome, and it would be something to add to my CV. I said, ‘I’m certainly interested. What was the competition called again?’
‘The Effingham and Meadowgoose International Short Story Competition.’
‘Effingham and what?’
‘Meadowgoose. Strange name, I know, but it is quite well known in some circles. I’m sure Jeremy will
Jeremy remembered seeing some leaflets about the competition years ago, in the local library. He thought lending Loyd a hand was a good opportunity for me, and offered to watch the shop for a few extra hours to free a little of my time for the work.
I called Loyd back, and he said he would bring the entries to the shop in a week’s time. So that, if he happened to ask whether I had read anything of his, I could honestly say yes, I began Not a Kilkenny More, Not a Kilkenny Less, his novel about an Irish migrant who made a fortune in the US and named a suburb of Pittsburgh after his home town.
A week later a taxi pulled up outside the bookshop. Loyd, followed by the driver carrying three boxes of entries for the Effingham and Meadowgoose International Short Story Competition, strode into the bookshop. Jeremy, wearing a double-breasted suit, a shirt with the collar button undone and a little check scarf around his neck, fluttered around his old acquaintance. He proudly held up one of the first editions, Not a Larceny More, Not a Larceny Less.
‘Ah yes,’ Loyd said, ‘the second of my two crime novels. That copy has survived the years well, better than I have.’
‘You look in excellent health, everyone says so. You wouldn’t care to sign it, I suppose?’ Jeremy’s public school accent was more noticeable than usual, his vowels somehow sounding rounded and staccato at the same time.
‘Be glad to. Since you have the complete set, I may as well do them all. Give me a bit of book signing practice for when the omnibus edition comes out.’
‘Gosh, that would be stupendous… I really shouldn’t put you to so much trouble.’ He passed Loyd the one he held in his hand; I supplied a pen. ‘Such a virtuoso demonstration of how crime narrative can be used to reveal the intrinsic nature of the major characters,’ Jeremy warbled as he watched Loyd sign.
The author’s pink face glowed with satisfaction at this blatant flattery, and not to be outdone he responded in similarly ringing tones: ‘You know I always wish I had made time to develop a little business acumen. You’ve achieved that rare ambience here that can be found only in a good bookshop. One has the sense of being in a treasure house where time simply melts away.’
Jeremy nodded to me and I brought the stack of first editions and put them down beside Loyd. He signed and handed each one to me after doing so. They continued to preen one another with cringemaking compliments. Then they remembered old times for nearly half an hour, until Loyd suddenly glanced at his watch and said, ‘Good heavens, going to be late for a luncheon engagement. The competition! So good of you, Ben, to agree to help. If you could have a bit of a shuffle through the entries and sort out, say, eight to a dozen that are not too bad. I’ll take it from there when I return from across the pond. All strictly between us, of course. One thing, no clever mummy stories please, can’t abide them. Here’s twenty per cent of your fee as confirmation of our arrangement, if that’s acceptable?’
‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ I said, surprised to be paid money in advance. He handed me a cheque and headed for the door, leaving Jeremy extremely pleased with himself, and me alarmed at not knowing more about what was wanted of me. ‘Why has he given me an advance?’
‘He’s wily. Accepting a payment means you have entered into a legally binding contract. If you changed your mind, it would be difficult for you to back out. Keep the cheque in your pocket if you’re having doubts.’
‘No, not doubts about taking the job on. What did he mean by “clever mummy” stories.’
‘Really don’t know. Something to do with Egyptian mummies coming back to life and terrorizing archaeologists, perhaps? No… he can’t have meant that.’
The answer to my question became clear when I read the first few stories. Most were about, and probably written by, mothers with young children. One began This was the first time Jemima had come home from school with green hair, had anxious mummy and teacher discussing how Jemima was being led astray by the class minx, and ended with clever mummy inviting her daughter’s errant school friend for a break in the family’s holiday cottage in the Cotswolds, thereby bringing out the little tyke’s better side. Oh what a clever mummy she was!
That evening I stayed behind at the flat, working on the competition entries while Dale went to the Give and Take. When he returned alone, I said cheekily, ‘No luck tonight then?’
‘Come on, how often have you seen me pick someone up in the Give and Take? Once, that’s all. The way you talk you would think I was anybody’s.’
This was a good reply, and he watched me struggle to think of a follow up that would not be another unfair dig. After a pause I said, ‘No one at the Give and Take could rival those guys in your computer game, could they?’
He sat down beside me on the sofa and asked, ‘How are you getting on with the competition?’
‘Started on it.’
‘Maybe I should put something in for it. I write stuff for the hospital newsletter.’
‘You’ve missed the closing date for this year. Anyway, what would you call it? Hospital Laundry Blues?’
‘I’ve written about much more than the hospital laundry. Finding the time would be my problem.’
‘I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be doing. Maybe Loyd Larcher should have asked you to help him.’
‘How many stories do you have to go through?’
‘Three boxes.’
‘You don’t know how many, do you? Suppose you aim to do ten a day, a hundred would take you ten days. If there are a thousand, you will need a hundred days. You ought to count them and draw up a timetable.’
This suggestion was so obviously sensible I felt stupid for not having thought of it. Do people like Dale understand how irritating they are when they come up with good ideas like that? Did the National Health Service run courses on how to be cleverer than everybody else? How utterly different he was from Toby, whose answer to a problem would most likely be taking some pills or snorting some coke.
Dale said he had arranged to spend the coming weekend with an old friend on the other side of London. Toby too was away visiting family. This left me with Sunday free to work on the stories, and I did as Dale suggested and counted them. There were more than eight hundred. Skimming through half a dozen quickly gave me a headache and took nearly half an hour. One of them was about a christening, two were about weddings, two about experiences in hospitals, and the last was a long address to the congregation at the funeral of ‘Charlie’ who in the last sentence was revealed to be a pet dog. I had a strong feeling I had read something very like it years ago.
A quicker way had to be found. Would it be fair to read only the first few sentences, and drop any without a strong beginning? Doing that all day and most of the evening got me about half way through the stack of entries. About one out of ten were good enough to be read more thoroughly.
I was thinking of going down to the Give and Take for the last hour before closing when Dale returned. He brought with him a newspaper that carried an exposé of Loyd Larcher. Under the headline ‘AUTHOR ROCKED BY SEX AND MONEY SCANDALS’, the article claimed that Loyd had hired a male ‘model’ to pose for erotic photographs, plied him with alcohol and made ‘improper suggestions’. The veteran author was also said to have misled the publisher of his first novel into believing he was an Oxford don, to have got one of his books onto the best-seller list by inflating sales figures through a scam with a now defunct book club, and to have accepted a large advance from a politician’s widow for her husband’s biography, which he never intended to write and of which she saw only a few fragments before her own demise. The paper’s picture of the male ‘model’, a smiling young man in a lounge suit with salon-styled hair, must have been decades old. None of the scandals was recent.
At the bookshop the next day Jeremy read the expos é and commented, ‘Seeing all this old muck about Loyd in print again makes me despair of the press. He may have got up to a few tricks in his time, but this is totally misleading. I happen to know he was relying on the politician’s widow for material for that biography. When she died the decision to abandon it was taken by the publisher, not Loyd, who had put in a lot of time for little recompense. None of this is new. Ignore it, that’s my advice. How are you getting on with the competition?’
I told him that there was not enough time to read through all the entries. He at once suggested ringing Loyd in the US to ask his advice. He found, searching on the internet, that Loyd was due to speak at the University of Buffalo, rang their number and handed me the phone. While I was waiting to be put through, Jeremy thought it very funny to say that he did not understand why buffaloes needed a university, as he thought hunters had wiped them all out years ago.
Luckily Loyd was on the premises. He cheerfully dismissed my worries about the number of competition entries. ‘Good heavens Ben, you mustn’t try to read them all, you’ll drive yourself mad, you silly boy. Have a shuffle through and find me about a dozen or twenty that aren’t too bad, that’s all I asked you to do. Throw out any that are too long, any claptrap about elves and goblins or child magicians, and then ditch all the clever mummy stories. Shuffle through the others to find me some that are written in good English, preferably a bit of variety, original fantasy, people coping with life’s crises, I don’t mind the odd love story, or some humour, whatever. Am I making sense?’
‘Yes, of course, I’ve rejected quite a few “clever mummy” stories already. On a different subject, I’m not sure whether you know, but some awful stuff about you has appeared in the newspapers over here. Jeremy says it’s all old gossip.’
‘I knew some ancient scandals were about to get a fresh airing. You’re too young to remember, but years ago some murky rumours about me were reported in the press. My publisher is responsible for reviving them. He has someone who specializes in feeding juicy titbits to journalists. The omnibus edition is due out in a couple of weeks, and with me over here out of reach they’re giving the press hacks a lot of bullshit to get publicity.
‘They’ve provided me with a statement, denying everything as stale old gossip based on malice and misunderstandings. Sad fact, but scandal has become the best way to sell books these days. A dear friend of mine came off far worse. His publisher forced him to go into politics to keep his name in front of the public. Modern publishers have absolutely no scruples about what they force us to do. Well, must go. Have to sing for my supper while I’m over here, you know.’
Over the next few weeks I continued to work on the competition as conscientiously as the time allowed. Dale offered to read through some of them, and I gave him one with gay characters, an amusing story about two men trying too hard to impress each other. He read that and liked it, and then showed me an article of his in an old hospital newsletter about the treasurer of the staff holiday club stealing the funds, as if the Effingham and Meadowgoose material was not too much to cope with already. ‘If I changed the setting and the names, would it stand a chance as a competition entry?’ he asked.
‘You’re not trying to get me to sneak it onto my shortlist, are you?’‘No. I was thinking of, perhaps, putting it in for next year.’