CHAPTER 3
It was Saturday. Although Donald Vickers wasn’t yet aware of the fact, this was the day when his life began to change radically. Not that the day itself was so ordinary but it didn’t seem to be so special either, if discounting the fact that he was sitting in a bookshop and signing copies of his first published novel, a thing that had never happened to him before. There was a lull in the stream of customers and he picked up the local newspaper, studying again the article he almost knew by heart. They had made a decent job of the interview, although he could have wished for a more flattering photograph. Still, it wasn’t bad for a minor local paper. It wasn’t every day, after all, that a son of the town had a book published. There had been others before him, but their books were specialised, mainly in local history. Though worthy, they tended to be a little dull, for modern tastes at least. His book had the advantage of appealing to a rather larger readership, and was expected to do well, which was all to the good, as he could use the money.
More customers came into the shop, putting on a pleasant smile, which wasn’t simply assumed, he picked up his pen and prepared for another session of small talk and writing greetings on a number of flyleaves. Mainly women, he noticed, a thing he had been warned to expect. Well, that was alright. He had always got along well with women and generally felt comfortable in their presence. The day wore on. Frequent coffee breaks split the day into manageable sections. At last, his time was ended and he prepared to leave. It hadn’t been a bad day at all, he reflected, looking at his personal record of signings. If he did as well in the other bookshops he had agreed to appear in personally, he would be, well. not exactly rich, but he would have the feeling of reasonable success. He had been assured by his publisher that a personal appearance inevitably lifted sales, often quite considerably. People liked to meet an author and count the heads and feel obliged to buy, if only to be able to leave the book lying around casually in their homes, with the author’s signature prominently displayed to such visitors who needed to be impressed.
He picked up his coat and left the shop, expressing his thanks to the manager and staff, before walking home. Evening came and Donald decided on an early night. The day had been long and tiring, the shop had been stuffy and wasn’t so far from his home that he felt any real benefit from the exercise of walking. Tomorrow, he thought, he must go for a long walk in the hills to blow the cobwebs out of his mind after spending months at the typewriter, pounding away almost ceaselessly in an effort to meet the publisher’s deadline. He had several ideas floating and clamouring for expression. They wouldn’t come to fruition unless he got his body back in order.
The doorbell sounded. He sighed, wondering if he should ignore it. No, the curtain was open and the light was on. It was probable that he had been seen through the window, so it may not be wise to pretend he wasn’t at home. Even then, he was tempted, thinking it could hardly be important but commonsense and his natural politeness came to the fore. The door opened to reveal a strikingly beautiful woman of around his own age, he judged, disturbingly slender and petite, with long dark hair framing her face. She smiled at him, showing even, white teeth.
’Mr. Vickers?’ she asked.
’Yes. I’m Donald Vickers.’
’Good. I know it’s a bit late to pay a visit, but I wonder if I might rob you of a few minutes of your time. I appreciate it may not be convenient right now but I can call back at any time that suits you better. I was going to give you a ring but I couldn’t find your name in the book.’
’You wouldn’t. I don’t have a telephone,’ said Donald. ’It disturbs when I’m working. But please come in.’
’You’re sure I’m not interrupting anything?’ she asked, as she was shown into the living room.
’No, not in the slightest. I’m free right now as it happens. Please sit down. Now, what can I do for you?’
’Perhaps I had better start by introducing myself. My name is Marie Webster, and I teach English in the comprehensive school round the corner. It’s a bit of a rough place but it’s work, and I do enjoy it. Now, I read your interview in the newspaper, and it occurred to me that it would be marvellous if you could see your way to giving a talk to some of my English classes about the problems and techniques of writing. It would be such a help to them if they could see that writing isn’t necessarily easy but is something that requires work and planning and a good deal of thought. I know it’s asking a lot but I really would be very grateful.’
’Well,’ said Donald hesitantly. ’It’s not the sort of thing I’ve ever done before. I’m not sure I could match up to your expectations. I have no experience of talking to youngsters. I mean, would they listen to a stranger? From what I’ve seen and heard, they’re not necessarily the most receptive of characters.’
The visitor smiled broadly, and her eyes gleamed directly at him in a way that Donald found vaguely disturbing. ’Don’t worry about that. I’ll be in the classroom to ensure they take the cotton wool out of their ears. I’m small, but I’m tough. They’ll listen, all right. Actually, I think you may be pleasantly surprised at their interest. They’re willing enough on the whole.’
’Well,’ said Donald again. ’I suppose I can’t find anything against the idea in principle. I have nothing else on at the moment, although I expect to be busy with my next book shortly. The first one has made a good start but it won’t make me rich. I’ll have to write another and another after that.’
’Of course. I understand that. I’m afraid I can’t make any payment. The school funds won’t run to that but maybe some of my pupils will buy your book afterwards, those of them who can read. At any rate, I can offer you a coffee in the staffroom and do you like cream cakes?’
’Er, yes.’
’Good. You’re guaranteed at least one. Two, if I can keep my colleagues’ thieving hands off them.’
Donald chuckled. ’I look forward to it. How can a writer turn down the opportunity of a captive audience, especially if there’s a chance of making extra sales? When would you like me to visit? Would this coming week be suitable? I can do it later if you wish, but I do have to get working quite soon.’
’Next week would be fine. How about Wednesday afternoon?’
’That’s alright,’ said Donald. ’What time?’
’Can you come at one o’ clock? That’s during the lunch break, and we’ll have time to see where you will be talking, and get settled before the pupils come in.’
’Yes. Yes, I can do that.’
The woman rose from the chair and held out her hand, taking Donald’s in a firm pressure and looking up at him with wide and clear eyes that sent his senses swimming slightly.
’I’m so glad to have met you, Mr. Vickers. Thank you very much for your time and patience. I do appreciate it and look forward to Wednesday. Goodnight. Thank you again.’
Donald saw her to the door and closed it after her, wondering quite how he had been so easily persuaded to do something he felt was not really in his nature to do. He spread his hands in wonderment. Maybe it was the eyes or the smile. Or even the attractive, contralto voice. Whatever it was, she certainly had a presence. I’ll bet few people say no to her, he thought. Wednesday. Only four days away. Come off it, Vickers, he chided himself. She’s just a teacher trying to do something for her pupils. Just the same, she’s a damn attractive one. If Helen of Troy managed to launch a thousand ships, this one should be good for a very large fleet indeed. He toyed briefly with the idea of rating feminine beauty by a scale of “millihelens”. Taking a notepad, he jotted the thought down for possible future use, considering that if a rating of five hundred “millihelens” represented beauty of exactly half of that of Helen of Troy, then one “millihelen” would be enough to launch a single rowing boat.
Wednesday arrived at the usual time, neither earlier nor later. Donald walked to the school, as it was really too close to warrant getting the car out. On asking directions, he was accompanied to the staffroom by a pupil who was so pleasantly spoken he began to relax, thinking that if they were all as polite as this, the job should be easy. The pupil knocked on the door. It opened. Marie Webster stood there in person.
’Oh, hello, Mr. Vickers,’ she said, with a welcoming smile. ’Please come in. Thank you Debbie, that was very kind of you to show Mr. Vickers the way here.’
She led the way in to a second room, empty of people, but containing a water boiler and packs of tea and coffee on a side table near to a small refrigerator. She busied herself with cups and sugar.
’Coffee first?’ she asked.
’Um... Yes please.’
A cup was placed in front of him. Marie reached into the fridge for milk, then uttered a word that an amused Donald had not expected to hear from a teacher of English. She turned to him with a look of exasperation on her face.
’I’m sorry, Mr. Vickers. I promised you a cream cake, but some greedy pig of a teacher has been here already and there isn’t a single one left. Honestly, the staff are worse than the kids.’
’That’s all right,’ said Donald. ’It doesn’t matter. Just coffee will be fine.’
’It’s not the point, Mr. Vickers. I don’t like making promises I can’t keep.’ She sighed. ’I’m afraid there isn’t time to send out for more. Afternoon school starts in twenty minutes and I have to show you the classroom first.’
’Don’t worry about it. At least I won’t get fat. I’ve been sitting around too much lately for the state of my waistline as it is.’
Coffee over, Marie took Donald up two flights of stairs to the classroom where he was to give his talk, commenting on the way that it would be difficult to gain weight in this building where there were so many stairs. There were. Thirty three of them to the top floor and he counted them with his usual compulsiveness for detail.
At first, the sight of so many pairs of young eyes staring at him in readiness was something that Donald found unnerving but his anxiety disappeared as he began to explain his work, showing off his rough notebooks, with countless ideas, crossings out and rewritings. One book proved to have a special interest for the pupils. It contained a long list of phrases and sentences that Donald had heard people using around him and which he employed in order to give realism to his dialogues. He tested out his idea of a “millihelen” rating for beauty and was amused to find it aroused so much interest, though clearly there were going to be one or two fights in the very near future. No fewer than three groups of pupils were paraded in front of him and by the end of the afternoon, he felt exhausted. Back in the staffroom again, taking another, even more welcome coffee, he explained the feeling.
’I never quite believed that a teacher’s work was as easy as it is often made out to be but I honestly never imagined it could be so tiring. How on earth do you cope all day and every day?’
’For that matter, Mr. Vickers, how on earth do you manage to sit at a typewriter all day and put down the flow of ideas?’ she countered.
He grinned. ’Yes, I see what you mean. Just the same, I think your job is the harder of the two. I can at least take a break whenever I feel like it. By the way, the name is Donald. When you keep calling me Mr. Vickers I feel as though you’re talking to someone else.’
’Then Donald it is. I’m Marie.’
’Pronounced in an unusual way, I hear.’
’Yes, my great grandmother was French and it’s been a tradition in the family for the girls to have French names, pronounced in a French way.’
’A charming idea,’ commented Donald. ’I like it. Forgive the curiosity but I heard your pupils refer to you variously as Miss and Mrs. Which would it be?’
’It’s a very common confusion with children. If confusion it is. They normally say Miss when attracting my attention and say Mrs. when using my last name with it.’ She hesitated. ’It’s actually Miss. I’m not married and that is Miss, not MS, which must be one of the uglier sounds in the language.’
’That depends,’ said Donald. ’If it means manuscript, especially one that’s complete, then it’s a lovely sound.’
’One question the pupils didn’t ask but which I’ve been wondering myself. The language you use is very plain, complex enough in its own way, yet readily understandable. It seems easy but that’s deceptive. You do express highly complicated ideas with apparently simple words. I was wondering where you take that influence from.’
’That’s easy,’ said Donald. ’I thought you might have picked it up, when I mentioned my favourite author.’
’Chaucer?’
’Chaucer, and that’s my influence, but only to a certain degree. You see and now I’m going to get enthusiastic, you can’t really understand Chaucer without going deep into his roots. Linguistic roots, that is. Of course, he used Middle English but that didn’t come from nowhere. Middle English came mainly from Old English, not from Latin as so many people seem to believe. I’m sorry, I don’t have to convince a professional. It’s just that I’ve had this argument so often with half educated and bone headed people I tend to get rather hot round the collar when I think of it. Anyway, I’ve taught myself Old English in order to get a feeling for the roots of the language and that’s how, I believe, I manage to get the apparent simplicity of text I personally find so desirable.’
’That’s quite a task,’ said Marie, impressed. ’I did a short course in Old English myself at university, and I know how difficult it is.’
’Yes, well, I’m not pretending a perfect knowledge, or anything near it, but enough for my own purposes. It’s a fascinating language, and it is capable of enormous sensitivity, far more than is generally recognised. Of course, you need to stop thinking in a modern way, but then you would know about that yourself.’
’I see you are an enthusiast,’ said Marie. ’But you said you were starting work again shortly. Is it another novel?’
’Yes, amongst other things. I have other work on hand on a more or less regular basis, book reviews, literary articles and so on, which provide the daily bread but the novel is the one I really want to get down to. Just as soon as the body allows, that is.’
Seeing her look of puzzlement, he explained. ’I’ve spent a long time just sitting over the last one and things have got to a point where I’d really rather stand than use a chair. I need more exercise, starting this weekend, and as soon as sitting feels like luxury, I’ll put my notes in order and begin writing again.’
Marie laughed. ’I would never have thought of that as an occupational hazard. It should have been obvious, I suppose. Tell me, what do you do for exercise?’
’Walk. I like to get out on the hills. It’s crazy, of course but I usually take the car to get out of town, then start walking as soon as I’m on a hilly stretch. I find it helps, especially when I’m stuck for expression. Often, I work out the next stage in my plots while walking, although I’m sure that any passer by must think I’m mad to be talking to myself. That’s where I’m going next. On the hills, that is.’
’I’ve just had an idea, Mr... Donald. You know, I’m really annoyed about the lack of cream cakes today and I would like to make it up. Would you like a bit of company on your next walk then come back to my house for tea? If you prefer to be on your own, of course, you must say so, but come for tea anyway. Now there, I can promise a cream cake which won’t be stolen.’
Donald smiled with pleasure, thinking immediately that time spent with such a lovely woman would not be wasted. ’I think that’s a splendid idea, just so long as you don’t object to a man who tends to burst into bouts of furious muttering whenever he gets a bit of inspiration, although I assure you it’s harmless. At least, I think it is. You have to allow for personal bias in that statement. You’re probably safe enough with me. Tea afterwards sounds very acceptable. Thank you. I accept.’
’Good. I’m glad. Look, I’ll give you my address, and you can pick me up on Saturday? Sunday?’
’Sunday may be better for me,’ said Donald. ’I have another session of book signing on Saturday.’
’Very well, Sunday it is. Come at twelve o’clock, if that suits.’
’Twelve is fine.’
’Right. Do you know The Crescent, just behind the High Street?’
’I think so. Isn’t that the one way street beside the chemist’s?’
’That’s right. I live at number four. I look forward to seeing you then, Donald. Perhaps we can talk more about literature.’
She held out her hand. He took it briefly in his own, enjoying the soft warmth and gentle pressure, then left the school in deep thought.