Edith, page 19
‘It’s too bad there are only three of us, not enough for a rubber of bridge after dinner,’ says Charlotte. ‘I should have invited some people over.’
Edith is glad she didn’t. This is a working weekend.
Dessert is strawberries in syrup, bottled by the couple the previous summer, as Lottie tediously describes.Whenever she tells a story, Edith’s mind invariably wanders. Fortunately, Shaw cuts in and quizzes Edith on spiritualism.
‘It helps me to navigate my life.’
‘Sounds like tomfoolery. And worse. The vulnerable and recently bereaved are exploited.’
‘I’m not the exploitable type.’
‘I’d like to try automatic writing,’ says Charlotte.
‘A parlour game for the susceptible,’ says Shaw.
It occurs to Edith that he’s amusing himself with her, as a cat toys with a mouse. Two can play at that game. She pivots to her cousin. ‘We can try some automatic writing after dinner if you like, Lottie. Would you care to join us, George?’
‘Certainly not. It’s the unconscious mind at work. And of my own unconscious, I am – naturally – unconscious. That’s the way I prefer it.’
‘Do you really speak to the dead, Edith?’ asks Charlotte.
‘The so-called dead. Of course I do.’
‘The messages are part of a repressed personality,’ says Shaw.
‘Then perhaps useful for self-discovery, darling?’
‘If you were drunk would you say it was the real you emerging? How can a trance be any more true? It’s self-delusion. Utter poppycock.’
‘Darling, you’re being dreadfully cranky.’
‘Having now reached the age of Methuselah, I’m entitled to be cranky.’
Edith happens to know she is six months younger than Shaw.
‘But I am a mere man, what do I know of any afterlife?’ he continues. ‘I shall turn in and read over some notes on Joan of Arc’s trial. Good night, ladies. Don’t let me stop you playing with ghosts.Though on your own heads be it.’
fourteen
Shaw’s departure sucks all the energy from the room. Edith and Charlotte have a stab at automatic writing but make no progress. Privately, Edith thinks Shaw has put his evil eye on it. If he’d wanted to commune with the spirit world, they’d have been table-tapping into the wee small hours. ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t work,’ Edith tells her disappointed cousin. They decide on an early night.
The next morning, Edith reworks her play, and over lunch picks Shaw’s brains for theatrical contacts. He tells her on no account should the play be submitted before it’s ready. Redrafting, followed by further redrafting, is essential.
‘Take me, Edith. I’ve been thinking and reading about Joan of Arc since her canonization the year before last. I hope I’ll be able to translate my French peasant girl to the stage, but there are no guarantees. The Maid continues to resists me. Better no play than a shoddy one. Remember that.’
‘The hotter the work the sooner the finish,’ says Edith. ‘Or so our housemaid Philomena insists.’
‘Once, the English might have liked that little gem,’ says Shaw. ‘Not now.We’re in their black books.’
‘But Flurry is loved. Isn’t he, Lottie?’
‘Of course he is, Edith. But GBS does have a point,’ says Charlotte.
Shaw fixes his eyes on Edith, who has a sense of being under a microscope.
‘Was loved,’ he says. ‘But times change. Keep up or be left behind. With theatre, the subject must have relevance, and I don’t see how Flurry Knox fits that requirement.’
‘You’re working on a play about Joan of Arc. How is she relevant?’
‘The Maid is the queerest of fish. We’ve all been quite wrong about her, myself included. I once thought her a half-witted genius, like Admiral Nelson, but now I realize she was gifted with exceptional sanity. She may have been a Roman Catholic. But if you ask me she was the first Protestant martyr.’
‘I don’t see how Protestant martyrs are relevant,’ Edith persists.
‘When the world is upside down, as it is now, martyrs appear sane. And people believe they can help us,’ says Shaw. ‘Really?’
‘If they make us think, and question things, yes. But your Flurry isn’t capable of making anybody think. He’s a wastrel.’
‘My Flurry has a good heart.’
‘Your Flurry is heartless, Edith. But worse than that, he’s something absolutely unforgivable for any character on the stage. Flurry Knox is simply not believable.’
—
In the afternoon, they climb into what Shaw calls his ‘Henry’ – although it’s not a Ford but an AC coupé, he tells Edith. Shaw is in the driver’s seat, his chauffeur beside him, with Edith and Charlotte in the back. Shaw pings on some goggles.
‘How do I look, ladies?’
‘A veritable Beau Brummell,’ says Edith.
He chortles, and lets out the clutch abruptly, causing the motor car to judder.
Edith winces.
‘What is it?’ asks Charlotte, from under her fashionably squashy hat.
‘Nothing,’ says Edith.
‘Perhaps you’re cold. Here, share my rug.’ Charlotte tucks her in, and Edith is obliged to suffer the fussing and patting.
The motor car continues to shake.
‘Day, I think some nuts on the wheels need tightening,’ says Shaw. ‘Something feels not quite right here.’ His foot is pressed on the accelerator, roaring the engine.
‘You need to let off the brake, sir.’
‘Excellent suggestion.’
Shaw releases the brake and the motor car kangaroos along the drive-way.
Edith can’t hide her grimace.
‘Are you in pain, Edith?’ asks Charlotte.
‘A bit of arthritis. In the hip and leg, from riding side-saddle since I was four. All pleasures must be paid for sooner or later.’
‘Poor thing. Have a marron glacé.’ Charlotte produces a box of sweets and unties the ribbon. As soon as Edith has helped herself, Charlotte leans forward to Shaw. ‘Marron glacé, darling? I can stretch around and pop one in your mouth.’
‘Not now, beloved. I’m concentrating.’
‘Easy on the accelerator,’ says Day. ‘You need to take the gate slow, sir.’
Shaw’s speed doesn’t alter. He shoots through the gate, scraping against one of the posts, and bursts onto the laneway.
‘We’re doing twenty miles an hour now,’ Shaw calls over his shoulder. ‘Look at the speedometer!’
‘Both hands on the wheel please, sir,’ says Day.
‘Marvellous, darling. But don’t go any faster, will you?’ cries Charlotte.
Edith peers out at barns and farm gates flashing past. Two ramblers with haversacks tramp across a path between fields.
‘I’m always terrified he’ll take a spill,’ confides Charlotte.‘He’s such a daredevil. But at least a motor car can’t topple onto you, unlike a motorcycle. He has one of those, too. GBS is obsessed with modern gadgets. He makes me feel like Rip Van Winkle’s mother.’
By now they are in the village, passing timber-frame houses. Shaw sounds his horn and waves at everyone they encounter. Some wave back or call out greetings swallowed up by the thunder of the engine. The majority scuttle away, dragging their children and pets with them. Edith spies a general provisions shop, some scattered houses the colour of fondant creams, a couple of church spires and a sprawling, half-timbered inn called the Brocket Arms.
‘The inn was a stopping-off point for pilgrims on their way to St Albans Abbey,’ says Charlotte. ‘It’s said to be haunted by a monk who hanged himself there. Or was he murdered?’
They’re through the village now. Edith tents her forehead with one hand, trying to take another look at the Brocket Arms, fast disappearing into the distance.
Charlotte leans forward and taps Shaw on the shoulder. ‘Darling, did the monk commit suicide or was he done away with?’
‘What’s that?’ Shaw turns his head. Day grabs the wheel.
‘Never mind, we can talk about it later,’ shouts Charlotte. She addresses Edith. ‘There’s not much to Ayot St Lawrence. GBS says the last thing of note to happen here was the Norman invasion. But we like it.We’ve put down roots.’
They continue for five miles along narrow country lanes, as far as the small town of Harpenden, where they park and stretch their legs with a riverside walk. Edith notices how orderly everything is: English towns are so spick and span. She watches a family of swans on the water, only half-listening while Shaw and Charlotte debate whether or not to take tea. He says it supports local business, while she has reservations about the cleanliness of the teashop he’s recommending. Shaw gives way and they return to where motor car and chauffeur are waiting, Day sitting on the running board. At their approach, he pinches off the tip of his cigarette and puts the remainder in his pocket.
‘I’m glad to see he’s not smoking in the motor car,’ says Charlotte. ‘Fred Day knows better. I’ve explained about your weak chest,’ says Shaw.
‘Why don’t you let him drive us home, darling?’
‘My dear, I’ve been deprived of Mrs Percy’s Battenberg cake, you surely wouldn’t deprive me of the joys of driving, too?’With Day holding the door open, he hands his wife into the backseat.
Day goes around the side of the vehicle to open the other door for Edith.
‘Darling,’ whispers Charlotte, ‘it’s silly to keep a dog and bark yourself.You’ll do Day out of a job. Let him drive.’
Shaw refuses to lower his voice.‘There’s no danger of that. Day can do all sorts of things I can’t, like fiddle with leads and things under the bonnet. No, I believe I’ll drive back. I find it relaxing.’ He produces his goggles and snaps them over his face.
The drive home is uneventful, until Shaw insists on showing Edith how he can reverse into the driveway.
‘Shall I hop out and guide you, sir?’ offers Day.
‘Not necessary,’ says Shaw.
‘Why not let him give you directions, darling?’ cries Charlotte.‘The light’s beginning to fade.’
‘Oh, very well,’ says Shaw.
Both Day and Charlotte vacate the motor car, followed by Edith, who only realizes she ought to when Charlotte pops her eyes at her.
Shaw screeches through the gears searching for reverse.
‘Easy, sir. Don’t forget the clutch.This way, sir. Left. No, left!’ calls Day.
Despite Day’s best efforts, his employer flies back and demolishes a flowerbed.
Everyone is somewhat shaken, apart from Shaw, who hobbles as he walks back indoors.
‘Darling, have you hurt your leg?’ asks Charlotte.
‘Yes. And the worst of it is, it’s my favourite leg.’
—
Over dinner, Shaw talks about his admiration for the Soviets.
Edith weighs in. ‘If you lived in Russia you’d be muzzled like a dog or put up against a wall and shot. Unlike the authorities here, they don’t allow you to be critical of the state,’ she says.
‘You like to see yourself as advanced and freethinking but you don’t have an idea in your head that your grandmamma didn’t have,’ says Shaw.
He’s nettled. Edith twists Martin’s Claddagh over her knuckle, before pushing it back down onto the finger, taking Shaw’s criticism as a triumph – it’s not easy to score a point off him.
Charlotte intervenes. ‘Edith, what was that you were saying in the motor car about your literary agent?’
‘You see how my wife saves me from myself?’ says Shaw.
‘You know him, darling,’ Charlotte tells her husband.‘Mr Pinker. He represented you in the past.’
‘’Course I know him,’ says Shaw. ‘Gets his hands on most of us, sooner or later. Persuasive chap.’
‘He takes ten per cent I can ill afford,’ says Edith.
‘He knows what sells. And I dare say he could pinkerize your play for you, if you gave him a free hand.’
‘I think that would be most unwise.’
‘Pinker knows his business. If I were you, I’d follow his advice.’
Edith shakes her head. ‘My friend Dr Smyth – Dame Ethel Smyth, I should say – believes I ought to part company with him.’
‘Ah yes,’ says Shaw. ‘The stage front woman with the demented hat. A person of forceful opinions. Shared at least a dozen with me in the space of half an hour. Expresses herself well. But she’s a composer.What does she know about literary agents?’
Edith hesitates. He has a point. But the sight of Shaw stroking his goatee beard, mischief blistering from every feature, stiffens her back-bone. ‘I’m inclined to take her advice. I have an appointment with Mr Pinker on Tuesday in London.’
‘Pinker may dig in his heels and refuse to let you go,’ warns Shaw.
‘Oh, I do hope not. It would be an unfortunate end to things. We’ve worked together since the 1890s, when all’s said and done. But I’m not getting any younger and running Drishane isn’t getting any cheaper.’
‘Presumably you’re under contract to the agency?’ says Shaw.
‘Well yes, but Flurry’s Wedding is new work, because it’s for the theatre.’
‘He might argue, with some justification, that it’s adapted from existing work. So you may find you’re still under contract.’
This isn’t what Edith wants to hear. ‘Mr Pinker has dropped hints about retiring and passing on the business to one of his wastrel sons. I don’t see why I should be handed over. I’m not a parcel.’
‘Again, it depends on your contract,’ says Shaw.
A clock chimes. He bolts off to weigh himself.
During his absence, Charlotte confides, ‘She has a flop on you, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Ethel Smyth.’
‘We’re friends,’ says Edith. ‘Just good friends.’
‘A huge flop. Plain as the nose on your face. Why would you take advice from someone with a flop on you?’
From outside comes the hiss of sudden rain. Edith avoids answering by talking about the weather.
After she turns in for the night, she finds herself unable to sleep.The dawn chorus is limbering up before she nods off.
—
On the morning of her departure, Shaw pays her the compliment of inviting her to see his writing hut in a leafy nook at the bottom of the garden. It’s a revolving cabin built on a turntable, an innovation he is ridiculously proud of.
‘I just set my shoulder to the side and give it a push every now and again, and around we spin.We follow the sun, my hut and me. It reduces the need for artificial lighting, and keeps the place warm. Sunshine helps us to stay hale, hearty and happy. What you see before you, Edith, is a simple but effective health measure.’ He points to the shed’s furniture: a wicker chair, table with flap and narrow bed. ‘In case I need to take a catnap.’
‘So this is where those successful plays are dreamed into being,’ says Edith.
‘Some are more successful than others. Everyone has their disappointments.’ He hesitates. ‘I know I’ve picked your play to pieces from start to finish. I hope it hasn’t been hurtful.’
‘I’m not easily hurt and I make it a policy never to bear grudges.’
‘I have an urge to improve people. Charlotte says I should have been a missionary.’
‘Perhaps if you weren’t an artist you’d have been a reformer. Is there anything you miss about Ireland, George?’
‘I miss everything about it. But I can’t live there. I’m amazed you stick the place.’
‘It’s home.’
fifteen
Stations flit past on the Piccadilly line of the London Underground. Edith reads the stops, each one bringing her closer to the moment when she must pin her courage to the sticking-place. Mr Pinker suggested taking her to lunch but she declined, although it would be easier to deliver the coup de grace in a public place. After more than twenty-five years of doing business together, she must give him the opportunity to say his piece without the worry of waiters overhearing. The escalator at Covent Garden raises her towards street level, past advertisements for Mecca cigarettes, pocket-sized moustache combs and ready-to-wear frocks apparently suitable for all occasions, according to Debenham & Peabody. Clustered outside the Underground entrance are flower-sellers. Normally she would linger over their cheerful parade, but she bypasses them, steering towards Trafalgar Square. The National Portrait Gallery is an old friend on the right, while St Paul’s dome rises ahead, effortless as birdsong.
She pushes on for the Strand along pavements fretful with people, trying to ignore the throbbing in her leg, and arrives at Arundel Street. A flight of granite steps leads up to number nine, Talbot House. The swinging doors rotate, and a slight woman in a neat-fitting jacket and skirt emerges. She has a face that would fit into a teacup. For a heartbeat, Edith imagines it’s Martin. Every time they entered this building together, they pinched one another because they were successful authors. But when they draw level, she sees the woman is decades younger, and her eyes are not as fine as Martin’s.
In a marble hall, Edith is faced with the option of lift or staircase. Her leg makes the decision for her.‘Third floor,’ she tells the lift operator, and exits onto a corridor where typewriters clatter from behind closed doors. This building is an ants’ nest of industry. She reaches an opaque door.
James Brand Pinker
Literary and Dramatic Agent
Since when was he a dramatic agent?
Two women are working inside, one at her typewriter and the other attempting to put some order on a leaning tower of manuscripts. ‘Ulysses’ and ‘James Joyce’ are printed on the top manuscript. Boney sent her an extract the previous year, published in some magazine or other. For Edith, it read as if scratched out by a semi-literate working man. She saw, she sipped, she shuddered. ‘Tasteless, puzzling and anarchic. “Ulysses” deserves to sink without a trace,’ was her verdict. Boney, on the other hand, lauded Joyce as a genius and window-breaker.‘He lets in the fresh air,’ she told Edith.
Both secretaries have cropped hair and trailing strings of pearls.They address her respectfully as Miss Somerville, recognizing her before Edith introduces herself, which is gratifying.The older of the two invites her to take a seat while she alerts Mr Pinker to her arrival. He’s on a transatlantic call, but she’s certain he’ll be with her as soon as possible. A blue-and- white tea service sits on a lacquered side table, and the second secretary offers her refreshment, which she declines. Edith does, however, consent to flick through a magazine.
Edith is glad she didn’t. This is a working weekend.
Dessert is strawberries in syrup, bottled by the couple the previous summer, as Lottie tediously describes.Whenever she tells a story, Edith’s mind invariably wanders. Fortunately, Shaw cuts in and quizzes Edith on spiritualism.
‘It helps me to navigate my life.’
‘Sounds like tomfoolery. And worse. The vulnerable and recently bereaved are exploited.’
‘I’m not the exploitable type.’
‘I’d like to try automatic writing,’ says Charlotte.
‘A parlour game for the susceptible,’ says Shaw.
It occurs to Edith that he’s amusing himself with her, as a cat toys with a mouse. Two can play at that game. She pivots to her cousin. ‘We can try some automatic writing after dinner if you like, Lottie. Would you care to join us, George?’
‘Certainly not. It’s the unconscious mind at work. And of my own unconscious, I am – naturally – unconscious. That’s the way I prefer it.’
‘Do you really speak to the dead, Edith?’ asks Charlotte.
‘The so-called dead. Of course I do.’
‘The messages are part of a repressed personality,’ says Shaw.
‘Then perhaps useful for self-discovery, darling?’
‘If you were drunk would you say it was the real you emerging? How can a trance be any more true? It’s self-delusion. Utter poppycock.’
‘Darling, you’re being dreadfully cranky.’
‘Having now reached the age of Methuselah, I’m entitled to be cranky.’
Edith happens to know she is six months younger than Shaw.
‘But I am a mere man, what do I know of any afterlife?’ he continues. ‘I shall turn in and read over some notes on Joan of Arc’s trial. Good night, ladies. Don’t let me stop you playing with ghosts.Though on your own heads be it.’
fourteen
Shaw’s departure sucks all the energy from the room. Edith and Charlotte have a stab at automatic writing but make no progress. Privately, Edith thinks Shaw has put his evil eye on it. If he’d wanted to commune with the spirit world, they’d have been table-tapping into the wee small hours. ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t work,’ Edith tells her disappointed cousin. They decide on an early night.
The next morning, Edith reworks her play, and over lunch picks Shaw’s brains for theatrical contacts. He tells her on no account should the play be submitted before it’s ready. Redrafting, followed by further redrafting, is essential.
‘Take me, Edith. I’ve been thinking and reading about Joan of Arc since her canonization the year before last. I hope I’ll be able to translate my French peasant girl to the stage, but there are no guarantees. The Maid continues to resists me. Better no play than a shoddy one. Remember that.’
‘The hotter the work the sooner the finish,’ says Edith. ‘Or so our housemaid Philomena insists.’
‘Once, the English might have liked that little gem,’ says Shaw. ‘Not now.We’re in their black books.’
‘But Flurry is loved. Isn’t he, Lottie?’
‘Of course he is, Edith. But GBS does have a point,’ says Charlotte.
Shaw fixes his eyes on Edith, who has a sense of being under a microscope.
‘Was loved,’ he says. ‘But times change. Keep up or be left behind. With theatre, the subject must have relevance, and I don’t see how Flurry Knox fits that requirement.’
‘You’re working on a play about Joan of Arc. How is she relevant?’
‘The Maid is the queerest of fish. We’ve all been quite wrong about her, myself included. I once thought her a half-witted genius, like Admiral Nelson, but now I realize she was gifted with exceptional sanity. She may have been a Roman Catholic. But if you ask me she was the first Protestant martyr.’
‘I don’t see how Protestant martyrs are relevant,’ Edith persists.
‘When the world is upside down, as it is now, martyrs appear sane. And people believe they can help us,’ says Shaw. ‘Really?’
‘If they make us think, and question things, yes. But your Flurry isn’t capable of making anybody think. He’s a wastrel.’
‘My Flurry has a good heart.’
‘Your Flurry is heartless, Edith. But worse than that, he’s something absolutely unforgivable for any character on the stage. Flurry Knox is simply not believable.’
—
In the afternoon, they climb into what Shaw calls his ‘Henry’ – although it’s not a Ford but an AC coupé, he tells Edith. Shaw is in the driver’s seat, his chauffeur beside him, with Edith and Charlotte in the back. Shaw pings on some goggles.
‘How do I look, ladies?’
‘A veritable Beau Brummell,’ says Edith.
He chortles, and lets out the clutch abruptly, causing the motor car to judder.
Edith winces.
‘What is it?’ asks Charlotte, from under her fashionably squashy hat.
‘Nothing,’ says Edith.
‘Perhaps you’re cold. Here, share my rug.’ Charlotte tucks her in, and Edith is obliged to suffer the fussing and patting.
The motor car continues to shake.
‘Day, I think some nuts on the wheels need tightening,’ says Shaw. ‘Something feels not quite right here.’ His foot is pressed on the accelerator, roaring the engine.
‘You need to let off the brake, sir.’
‘Excellent suggestion.’
Shaw releases the brake and the motor car kangaroos along the drive-way.
Edith can’t hide her grimace.
‘Are you in pain, Edith?’ asks Charlotte.
‘A bit of arthritis. In the hip and leg, from riding side-saddle since I was four. All pleasures must be paid for sooner or later.’
‘Poor thing. Have a marron glacé.’ Charlotte produces a box of sweets and unties the ribbon. As soon as Edith has helped herself, Charlotte leans forward to Shaw. ‘Marron glacé, darling? I can stretch around and pop one in your mouth.’
‘Not now, beloved. I’m concentrating.’
‘Easy on the accelerator,’ says Day. ‘You need to take the gate slow, sir.’
Shaw’s speed doesn’t alter. He shoots through the gate, scraping against one of the posts, and bursts onto the laneway.
‘We’re doing twenty miles an hour now,’ Shaw calls over his shoulder. ‘Look at the speedometer!’
‘Both hands on the wheel please, sir,’ says Day.
‘Marvellous, darling. But don’t go any faster, will you?’ cries Charlotte.
Edith peers out at barns and farm gates flashing past. Two ramblers with haversacks tramp across a path between fields.
‘I’m always terrified he’ll take a spill,’ confides Charlotte.‘He’s such a daredevil. But at least a motor car can’t topple onto you, unlike a motorcycle. He has one of those, too. GBS is obsessed with modern gadgets. He makes me feel like Rip Van Winkle’s mother.’
By now they are in the village, passing timber-frame houses. Shaw sounds his horn and waves at everyone they encounter. Some wave back or call out greetings swallowed up by the thunder of the engine. The majority scuttle away, dragging their children and pets with them. Edith spies a general provisions shop, some scattered houses the colour of fondant creams, a couple of church spires and a sprawling, half-timbered inn called the Brocket Arms.
‘The inn was a stopping-off point for pilgrims on their way to St Albans Abbey,’ says Charlotte. ‘It’s said to be haunted by a monk who hanged himself there. Or was he murdered?’
They’re through the village now. Edith tents her forehead with one hand, trying to take another look at the Brocket Arms, fast disappearing into the distance.
Charlotte leans forward and taps Shaw on the shoulder. ‘Darling, did the monk commit suicide or was he done away with?’
‘What’s that?’ Shaw turns his head. Day grabs the wheel.
‘Never mind, we can talk about it later,’ shouts Charlotte. She addresses Edith. ‘There’s not much to Ayot St Lawrence. GBS says the last thing of note to happen here was the Norman invasion. But we like it.We’ve put down roots.’
They continue for five miles along narrow country lanes, as far as the small town of Harpenden, where they park and stretch their legs with a riverside walk. Edith notices how orderly everything is: English towns are so spick and span. She watches a family of swans on the water, only half-listening while Shaw and Charlotte debate whether or not to take tea. He says it supports local business, while she has reservations about the cleanliness of the teashop he’s recommending. Shaw gives way and they return to where motor car and chauffeur are waiting, Day sitting on the running board. At their approach, he pinches off the tip of his cigarette and puts the remainder in his pocket.
‘I’m glad to see he’s not smoking in the motor car,’ says Charlotte. ‘Fred Day knows better. I’ve explained about your weak chest,’ says Shaw.
‘Why don’t you let him drive us home, darling?’
‘My dear, I’ve been deprived of Mrs Percy’s Battenberg cake, you surely wouldn’t deprive me of the joys of driving, too?’With Day holding the door open, he hands his wife into the backseat.
Day goes around the side of the vehicle to open the other door for Edith.
‘Darling,’ whispers Charlotte, ‘it’s silly to keep a dog and bark yourself.You’ll do Day out of a job. Let him drive.’
Shaw refuses to lower his voice.‘There’s no danger of that. Day can do all sorts of things I can’t, like fiddle with leads and things under the bonnet. No, I believe I’ll drive back. I find it relaxing.’ He produces his goggles and snaps them over his face.
The drive home is uneventful, until Shaw insists on showing Edith how he can reverse into the driveway.
‘Shall I hop out and guide you, sir?’ offers Day.
‘Not necessary,’ says Shaw.
‘Why not let him give you directions, darling?’ cries Charlotte.‘The light’s beginning to fade.’
‘Oh, very well,’ says Shaw.
Both Day and Charlotte vacate the motor car, followed by Edith, who only realizes she ought to when Charlotte pops her eyes at her.
Shaw screeches through the gears searching for reverse.
‘Easy, sir. Don’t forget the clutch.This way, sir. Left. No, left!’ calls Day.
Despite Day’s best efforts, his employer flies back and demolishes a flowerbed.
Everyone is somewhat shaken, apart from Shaw, who hobbles as he walks back indoors.
‘Darling, have you hurt your leg?’ asks Charlotte.
‘Yes. And the worst of it is, it’s my favourite leg.’
—
Over dinner, Shaw talks about his admiration for the Soviets.
Edith weighs in. ‘If you lived in Russia you’d be muzzled like a dog or put up against a wall and shot. Unlike the authorities here, they don’t allow you to be critical of the state,’ she says.
‘You like to see yourself as advanced and freethinking but you don’t have an idea in your head that your grandmamma didn’t have,’ says Shaw.
He’s nettled. Edith twists Martin’s Claddagh over her knuckle, before pushing it back down onto the finger, taking Shaw’s criticism as a triumph – it’s not easy to score a point off him.
Charlotte intervenes. ‘Edith, what was that you were saying in the motor car about your literary agent?’
‘You see how my wife saves me from myself?’ says Shaw.
‘You know him, darling,’ Charlotte tells her husband.‘Mr Pinker. He represented you in the past.’
‘’Course I know him,’ says Shaw. ‘Gets his hands on most of us, sooner or later. Persuasive chap.’
‘He takes ten per cent I can ill afford,’ says Edith.
‘He knows what sells. And I dare say he could pinkerize your play for you, if you gave him a free hand.’
‘I think that would be most unwise.’
‘Pinker knows his business. If I were you, I’d follow his advice.’
Edith shakes her head. ‘My friend Dr Smyth – Dame Ethel Smyth, I should say – believes I ought to part company with him.’
‘Ah yes,’ says Shaw. ‘The stage front woman with the demented hat. A person of forceful opinions. Shared at least a dozen with me in the space of half an hour. Expresses herself well. But she’s a composer.What does she know about literary agents?’
Edith hesitates. He has a point. But the sight of Shaw stroking his goatee beard, mischief blistering from every feature, stiffens her back-bone. ‘I’m inclined to take her advice. I have an appointment with Mr Pinker on Tuesday in London.’
‘Pinker may dig in his heels and refuse to let you go,’ warns Shaw.
‘Oh, I do hope not. It would be an unfortunate end to things. We’ve worked together since the 1890s, when all’s said and done. But I’m not getting any younger and running Drishane isn’t getting any cheaper.’
‘Presumably you’re under contract to the agency?’ says Shaw.
‘Well yes, but Flurry’s Wedding is new work, because it’s for the theatre.’
‘He might argue, with some justification, that it’s adapted from existing work. So you may find you’re still under contract.’
This isn’t what Edith wants to hear. ‘Mr Pinker has dropped hints about retiring and passing on the business to one of his wastrel sons. I don’t see why I should be handed over. I’m not a parcel.’
‘Again, it depends on your contract,’ says Shaw.
A clock chimes. He bolts off to weigh himself.
During his absence, Charlotte confides, ‘She has a flop on you, you know.’
‘Who?’
‘Ethel Smyth.’
‘We’re friends,’ says Edith. ‘Just good friends.’
‘A huge flop. Plain as the nose on your face. Why would you take advice from someone with a flop on you?’
From outside comes the hiss of sudden rain. Edith avoids answering by talking about the weather.
After she turns in for the night, she finds herself unable to sleep.The dawn chorus is limbering up before she nods off.
—
On the morning of her departure, Shaw pays her the compliment of inviting her to see his writing hut in a leafy nook at the bottom of the garden. It’s a revolving cabin built on a turntable, an innovation he is ridiculously proud of.
‘I just set my shoulder to the side and give it a push every now and again, and around we spin.We follow the sun, my hut and me. It reduces the need for artificial lighting, and keeps the place warm. Sunshine helps us to stay hale, hearty and happy. What you see before you, Edith, is a simple but effective health measure.’ He points to the shed’s furniture: a wicker chair, table with flap and narrow bed. ‘In case I need to take a catnap.’
‘So this is where those successful plays are dreamed into being,’ says Edith.
‘Some are more successful than others. Everyone has their disappointments.’ He hesitates. ‘I know I’ve picked your play to pieces from start to finish. I hope it hasn’t been hurtful.’
‘I’m not easily hurt and I make it a policy never to bear grudges.’
‘I have an urge to improve people. Charlotte says I should have been a missionary.’
‘Perhaps if you weren’t an artist you’d have been a reformer. Is there anything you miss about Ireland, George?’
‘I miss everything about it. But I can’t live there. I’m amazed you stick the place.’
‘It’s home.’
fifteen
Stations flit past on the Piccadilly line of the London Underground. Edith reads the stops, each one bringing her closer to the moment when she must pin her courage to the sticking-place. Mr Pinker suggested taking her to lunch but she declined, although it would be easier to deliver the coup de grace in a public place. After more than twenty-five years of doing business together, she must give him the opportunity to say his piece without the worry of waiters overhearing. The escalator at Covent Garden raises her towards street level, past advertisements for Mecca cigarettes, pocket-sized moustache combs and ready-to-wear frocks apparently suitable for all occasions, according to Debenham & Peabody. Clustered outside the Underground entrance are flower-sellers. Normally she would linger over their cheerful parade, but she bypasses them, steering towards Trafalgar Square. The National Portrait Gallery is an old friend on the right, while St Paul’s dome rises ahead, effortless as birdsong.
She pushes on for the Strand along pavements fretful with people, trying to ignore the throbbing in her leg, and arrives at Arundel Street. A flight of granite steps leads up to number nine, Talbot House. The swinging doors rotate, and a slight woman in a neat-fitting jacket and skirt emerges. She has a face that would fit into a teacup. For a heartbeat, Edith imagines it’s Martin. Every time they entered this building together, they pinched one another because they were successful authors. But when they draw level, she sees the woman is decades younger, and her eyes are not as fine as Martin’s.
In a marble hall, Edith is faced with the option of lift or staircase. Her leg makes the decision for her.‘Third floor,’ she tells the lift operator, and exits onto a corridor where typewriters clatter from behind closed doors. This building is an ants’ nest of industry. She reaches an opaque door.
James Brand Pinker
Literary and Dramatic Agent
Since when was he a dramatic agent?
Two women are working inside, one at her typewriter and the other attempting to put some order on a leaning tower of manuscripts. ‘Ulysses’ and ‘James Joyce’ are printed on the top manuscript. Boney sent her an extract the previous year, published in some magazine or other. For Edith, it read as if scratched out by a semi-literate working man. She saw, she sipped, she shuddered. ‘Tasteless, puzzling and anarchic. “Ulysses” deserves to sink without a trace,’ was her verdict. Boney, on the other hand, lauded Joyce as a genius and window-breaker.‘He lets in the fresh air,’ she told Edith.
Both secretaries have cropped hair and trailing strings of pearls.They address her respectfully as Miss Somerville, recognizing her before Edith introduces herself, which is gratifying.The older of the two invites her to take a seat while she alerts Mr Pinker to her arrival. He’s on a transatlantic call, but she’s certain he’ll be with her as soon as possible. A blue-and- white tea service sits on a lacquered side table, and the second secretary offers her refreshment, which she declines. Edith does, however, consent to flick through a magazine.
