This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(116)
In the morning, he would send copies of the script to three people, so they could read Heads You Win for the first time. Then he would suffer his annual neurosis, while he waited to hear their opinions. But just like him, they all had their own routines.
The first, Aaron Guinzburg, his American publisher, would leave his office and go home the moment the manuscript landed on his desk, having given clear instructions that he was not to be disturbed until he had turned the last page. He would then call Harry, sometimes forgetting what time it was in England. His view could often be discounted because he was always so enthusiastic.
The second was Ian Chapman, his English publisher, who always waited until the weekend before he read the book, and would call Harry first thing on Monday morning to offer his opinion. As he was a Scotsman who was unable to hide his true feelings, this only made Harry more apprehensive.
The third, and by far the most intuitive of his first readers, was his sister-in-law, Grace, who not only offered her disinterested opinion, but invariably accompanied it with a ten-page written report, and occasionally, forgetting he was not one of her pupils, corrected his grammar.
Harry had never considered Grace to be an obvious William Warwick fan until in an unguarded moment she admitted to a penchant for racy novels. However, her idea of racy was Kingsley Amis, Graham Greene (the ones he described as entertainments) and her favourite, Ian Fleming.
In return for her opinion, Harry would take Grace to lunch at the Garrick, before accompanying her to a matinee, preferably by her favourite racy playwright, Terence Rattigan.
Once the three manuscripts had been despatched by courier, the agonizing wait began. Harry’s three readers had all been warned that Heads You Win was a departure from his usual fare, which only made him more anxious.
He had considered allowing Giles, who had a lot more time on his hands lately, and Sebastian, his most ardent fan, to also be among the first to read his latest manuscript, but decided not to break with his usual routine. He would allow them to read the final draft over Christmas, after his line editor had suggested any changes.
Miss Eileen Warburton, a spinster of this parish, was a woman Harry suspected lived alone in a basement flat and, like Mole, didn’t emerge until spring. During those winter months, she would spend her time toiling away on her authors’ hapless scripts, correcting their mistakes, some of which were so inconsequential no one else would ever have noticed them. While others, howlers, as she liked to describe them, had they gone uncorrected, would have caused a thousand irate letters to end up on the author’s desk, pointing out his stupidity. Miss Warburton never allowed Harry to forget that Geneva was not the capital of Switzerland, and that the Titanic had sunk on April 15th, not 14th.
In a moment of flippant bravado, Harry had once reminded her that in Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, the heroine’s eyes changed from black to brown to blue and back to black again in less than a hundred pages.
‘I never comment on books I haven’t edited,’ she said, without any suggestion of irony.
Emma would be among the last to read the manuscript, when it was in proof form. Everyone else would have to wait until publication day before they could get their hands on a copy.
Harry had planned to spend a relaxing weekend once the book was finished. On Saturday afternoon, he and Giles would drive over to the Memorial Ground and watch Bristol play their old rivals Bath. In the evening, he would take Emma to the Bristol Old Vic to see Patricia Routledge in Come for the Ride, followed by dinner at Harvey’s.
On Sunday, he and Emma had been invited by Giles and Karin to lunch at Barrington Hall. They would later attend evensong, when he would spend most of the sermon wondering which page his three readers were on. As for an unbroken night’s sleep, that would not be back on the agenda until all three had called and given their opinion.
When the phone rang, Harry’s first thought was that it was too early for any of them to have finished the book. He picked it up to hear Giles’s familiar voice on the other end of the line.
‘Sorry to mess you about, Harry, but I won’t be able to join you for rugby on Saturday, and we’ll also have to postpone lunch on Sunday.’ Harry didn’t need to ask why, because an explanation followed immediately. ‘Walter Scheel called earlier. The East Germans have opened the floodgates at last, and their citizens are pouring across the border. I’m calling from Heathrow. Karin and I are about to board a flight to Berlin. We’re hoping to get there before they start knocking the wall down, because she and I plan to be part of the demolition crew.’
‘That’s the most wonderful news,’ said Harry. ‘Karin must be delighted. Tell her I’m envious, because when people ask where were you on the day the wall came down, you’ll be able to tell them. And if you can, bring me back a piece.’
‘I’m going to have to take an extra suitcase,’ said Giles. ‘So many people have made the same request.’
‘Just remember, you’ll be witnessing history, so before you go to bed each night, be sure to write down everything you’ve experienced that day. Otherwise you’ll have forgotten the details by the time you wake up.’
‘I’m not sure we’ll be going to bed,’ said Giles.
‘May I ask why you’re carrying a hammer in your bag, sir?’ asked a vigilant security officer at Heathrow.
‘I’m hoping to break down a wall,’ Giles replied.