Cometh the Hour: A Novel (4 page)

He began by reminding the guests of his mother’s formidable achievements, against all the odds. She had progressed from being a waitress in Tilly’s tearoom, to manager of the city’s Grand Hotel—the first woman to hold that position. After she had reluctantly retired at the age of sixty, Maisie had enrolled as a mature student at Bristol University, where she read English, and three years later graduated with honors; something Harry, Emma and Sebastian hadn’t achieved—all for different reasons.

When Maisie rose to reply, the whole room rose with her. She opened her speech like a seasoned pro, not a note, not a tremor. “Mothers always believe their sons are special,” she began, “and I’m no exception. Of course I’m proud of Harry’s many achievements, not only as a writer but, more importantly, as president of English PEN and as a campaigner on behalf of his less fortunate colleagues in other countries. In my opinion, his campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released from a Siberian gulag is a far greater achievement than topping the
New York Times
bestseller list.

“But the cleverest thing Harry has ever done was to marry Emma. Behind every great man…” Laughter and applause suggested that the audience agreed with Maisie. “Emma is a remarkable woman in her own right. The first female chairman of a public company, yet she still somehow manages to be an exemplary wife and mother. And then of course there’s my grandson, Sebastian, who I’m told will be the next governor of the Bank of England. That must be right, because it was Sebastian himself who told me.”

“I’d rather be chairman of Farthings Bank,” Seb whispered to his aunt Grace, who was seated beside him.

“All in good time, dear boy.”

Maisie ended with the words, “This has been the happiest day of my life, and I count myself lucky to have so many friends.”

Harry waited for the applause to subside before he rose again to propose Maisie’s long life and happiness. The assembled guests raised their glasses and continued to cheer as if it was the last night of the Proms.

“I’m sorry to see you on your own again, Seb,” said Grace once the applause had died down and everyone had resumed their seats. Seb didn’t respond. Grace took her nephew’s hand. “Hasn’t the time finally come for you to accept that Samantha is married and has another life?”

“I wish it was that easy,” said Seb.

“I regret not marrying and having children,” Grace confided, “and that’s something I’ve not even told my sister. But I do know that Emma wants so much to be a grandmother.”

“She already is,” whispered Seb. “And like you, that’s something I’ve never told her.”

Grace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. “Sam has a little girl called Jessica,” Seb said. “I only needed to see her once to know she was my daughter.”

“Now I begin to understand,” said Grace. “Is there really no chance you and Samantha can be reconciled?”

“Not while her husband is still alive.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Grace, squeezing her nephew’s hand.

*   *   *

Harry was delighted to see his brother-in-law chatting amiably to Griff Haskins, the Labour Party agent for Bristol Docklands. Perhaps the wily old pro could still persuade Giles to allow his name to go forward, despite Major Fisher’s poisonous intervention. After all, Giles had been able to show that the letter was peppered with half-truths and was clearly an attempt to settle old scores.

“So have you finally made a decision about the by-election?” asked Harry, when Giles broke away from Griff to join him.

“I’ve not been left with a lot of choice,” said Giles. “Two divorces and a dalliance with an East German woman, who may even be a Stasi spy, doesn’t make one the ideal candidate.”

“But the press seem convinced that whoever the Labour candidate is, they’re certain to win by a landslide while this Tory government remains so unpopular.”

“It’s not the press or even the electorate who will select the candidate but a group of men and women who make up the local selection committee, and I can tell you, Harry, there’s nothing more conservative than a Labour Party selection committee.”

“I’m still convinced they’d back you now they know the truth. Why don’t you throw your hat in the ring and let them decide?”

“Because if they asked me how I feel about Karin, they might not like the answer.”

*   *   *

“It was kind of you to include me in such an illustrious occasion, Mrs. Clifton.”

“Don’t be silly, Hakim, your name was one of the first on the guest list. No one could have done more for Sebastian, and after that rather unpleasant experience with Adrian Sloane I shall be forever in your debt, which I know your countrymen don’t take lightly.”

“You have to know who your friends are, when you spend so much time looking over your shoulder, Mrs. Clifton.”

“Emma,” she insisted. “And tell me, Hakim, what exactly do you see when you look over your shoulder?”

“An unholy trinity that I suspect has plans to rise from the dead and once again try to take control of Farthings—and possibly even Barrington’s.”

“But Mellor and Knowles are no longer on the board of Barrington’s, and Sloane has forfeited whatever reputation he had in the City.”

“True, but that hasn’t stopped them forming a new company.”

“Mellor Travel?”

“Which I don’t imagine will be recommending that their customers book a holiday on the Barrington line.”

“We’ll survive,” said Emma.

“And I presume you know that Lady Virginia Fenwick is considering selling her shares in Barrington’s? My spies tell me she’s a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”

“Is she indeed? Well, I wouldn’t want those shares to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You needn’t worry about that, Emma. I’ve already instructed Sebastian to pick them up the moment they come on the market. Be assured that if anyone even thinks about attacking you again, Hakim Bishara and his caravan of camels will be at your disposal.”

*   *   *

“It’s Deakins, isn’t it?” said Maisie, as a thin, middle-aged man with prematurely gray hair came up to her to pay his respects. He was dressed in the suit he must have graduated in.

“I’m flattered that you remember me, Mrs. Clifton.”

“How could I ever forget? After all, Harry never stopped reminding me, ‘Deakins is in my class but, frankly, he’s in a different class.’”

“And I was proved right, Mother,” said Harry as he joined them. “Because Deakins is now Regius Professor of Greek at Oxford. And like myself, he mysteriously disappeared during the war. But while I ended up in jail, he was at a place called Bletchley Park. Not that he ever reveals what went on behind those moss-covered walls.”

“And I doubt he ever will,” said Maisie, looking more closely at Deakins.

“‘Did you ever see the picture of “We Three”?’” said Giles, appearing by Deakins’s side.

“Which play?” demanded Harry.

“Twelfth Night,”
said Giles.

“Not bad, but which character says the words and to whom?”

“The Fool, to Sir Andrew Aguecheek.”

“And who else?”

“Sir Toby Belch.”

“Impressive,” said Deakins, smiling at his old friend, “but for an alpha, which act and which scene?”

Giles fell silent.

“Act two, scene three,” said Harry. “But did you spot the one-word mistake?”

“Did you
never
see,” said Maisie.

This silenced the three of them, until Emma came across and said, “Stop showing off and circulate. This isn’t an old boys’ reunion.”

“She always was a bossy little thing,” said Giles as the old school chums split up and began to mingle with the other guests.

“When a woman shows some leadership,” said Maisie, “she’s immediately branded as bossy, but when a man does exactly the same thing, he’s described as decisive, and a born leader.”

“’Twas ever thus,” said Emma. “Perhaps we should do something about it.”

“You already have, my dear.”

*   *   *

After the last guest had departed, Harry and Emma accompanied Maisie back to her cottage.

“Thank you for the second happiest day of my life,” said Maisie.

“In your speech, mother,” Harry reminded her, “you said it was the happiest day of your life.”

“No, not even close,” replied Maisie. “That will always be reserved for the day I discovered you were still alive.”

5

H
ARRY ALWAYS ENJOYED
visiting his New York publisher, but he wondered if anything would have changed now that Aaron Guinzburg had taken over from his father as chairman.

He took the lift to the seventh floor, and when the doors slid open, he found Kirsty, Harold’s long-suffering former secretary, waiting for him. At least that hadn’t changed. Kirsty led him briskly down the corridor to the chairman’s office. A gentle tap on the door before she opened it, to allow Harry to enter another world.

Aaron, like his father before him, considered it must have been a clerical error by the Almighty that he had not been born on the other side of the Atlantic. He wore a double-breasted, pin-striped suit, probably tailored in Savile Row, a white shirt with a starched collar and a Yale tie. Harry could have been forgiven for thinking Aaron’s father had been cloned. The publisher jumped up from behind his desk to greet his favorite author.

Over the years the two of them had become close friends and, once Harry had sat down in the ancient leather armchair on the other side of the publisher’s large desk, he spent a few moments taking in the familiar surroundings. The oak-paneled walls were still covered in sepia photographs—Hemingway, Faulkner, Buchan, Fitzgerald, Greene and more recently Saul Bellow. Harry couldn’t help wondering if he would ever join them. He’d already outsold most of the authors on the wall, but the Guinzburgs didn’t measure success by sales alone.

“Congratulations, Harry.” The same warm, sincere voice. “Number one again. William Warwick becomes more popular with every book, and having read Babakov’s revelations that Khrushchev had a hand in killing Stalin, I can’t wait to publish
Uncle Joe
. I’m confident that book is also heading for the top spot, albeit on the nonfiction list.”

“It’s a truly amazing work,” replied Harry. “I only wish I’d written it.”

“I suspect you did write a great deal of it,” said Aaron, “because I detect your hand on almost every page.” He looked questioningly at Harry.

“Every word is Anatoly’s. I am nothing more than his faithful scribe.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it, that’s fine by me. However, your most ardent fans just might notice your style and phraseology creeping in from time to time.”

“Then we’ll both have to stick to the same hymn sheet, won’t we?”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” said Harry firmly.

Aaron nodded. “I’ve drawn up a contract for
Uncle Joe
which will require Mrs. Babakova’s signature as her husband’s representative. I’m willing to offer her a one-hundred-thousand-dollar advance on signing, against a ten percent royalty.”

“How many copies do you think you’ll sell?”

“A million, possibly more.”

“Then I want the royalty to rise to twelve and a half percent after the first hundred thousand sales, and fifteen percent once you’ve sold a quarter of a million.”

“I’ve never given such good terms for a first book,” protested Aaron.

“This isn’t a first book, it’s a last book, a one-off, a one and only book.”

“I accept your terms,” said Aaron, “but on one condition.” Harry waited. “When the book is published, you’ll do an author tour, because the public will be fascinated to know how you managed to smuggle the manuscript out of the Soviet Union.”

Harry nodded, and the two men stood up and shook hands. Something else Aaron had in common with his father: a handshake was quite enough to show that the deal had been closed. In a Guinzburg contract, there were no get-out clauses.

“And while you’re over here, I need to finalize a new three-book contract for the William Warwick series.”

“On the same terms as Babakov,” said Harry.

“Why, will he be writing those as well?”

Both men laughed, before shaking hands a second time.

“Who’s publishing
Uncle Joe
in England?” asked Aaron, as he sat back down.

“Billy Collins. We closed the deal last week.”

“Same terms?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know? Mind you, when I get home he’s certain to ask me the same question.”

“And he’ll get the same reply, no doubt. Now, Harry, your timing couldn’t be better, because I need to speak to you on another subject in the strictest confidence.”

Harry leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve always wanted Viking to merge with an appropriate paperback house, so I don’t have to make separate deals the whole time. Several other companies have already gone down that road, as I’m sure you know.”

“But if I remember correctly, your father was always against the idea. He feared it would stifle his independence.”

“And he still feels that way. But he’s no longer chairman, and I’ve decided it’s time to move up a gear. I’ve recently been offered an attractive deal by Rex Mulberry of Mulberry House.”

“‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new.’”

“Remind me.”

“Tennyson,
Morte d’Arthur
.”

“So, are you prepared to yield to new?”

“Although I don’t know Rex Mulberry, I’ll happily back your judgment,” said Harry.

“Good. Then I’ll have both contracts drawn up immediately. If you can get Mrs. Babakova to sign hers, I’ll have yours ready by the time you get back from Pittsburgh.”

“She’ll probably resist taking an advance payment, or even royalties, so I’ll just have to remind her that the last thing Anatoly said before they dragged him off was ‘Make sure Yelena doesn’t have to spend the rest of her life in a different kind of prison.’”

“That should do the trick.”

“Possibly. But I know she still considers it nothing less than her duty to suffer the same deprivation her husband is experiencing.”

“Then you must explain to her that we can’t publish the book if she doesn’t sign the contract.”