The Girl From Barefoot House (44 page)

‘Well, Mam,’ she said loudly, ‘Your daughter’s about to be left on her own again. What are you going to do about it, eh?’

Mam didn’t answer, and Josie’s own heart might well have stopped beating if she had. She switched off the light and closed the door. At the top of the stairs she paused on the plush green carpet and watched the cold December stars blinking down at her through the skylight, the same stars she’d shown Teddy forty years ago.

‘This is making me feel even sadder!’

She went down to the bottom floor, pausing in Maude’s room on the way for another mug of tea. In Dinah’s office she found a manuscript with a yellow sticker, indicating it had been read but Dinah was in two minds as to whether it was any good. She tucked it under her arm to read. A red sticker meant very good, a green one that the work showed promise, and a rare gold one that the novel was a knockout. Black was the death knell for any hopeful author, and their work was returned with a letter of rejection. Dinah was an excellent judge for someone so young. She’d do well with Evelyn King’s literary agency. She knew as much about publishing as Josie, admittedly only on a small scale.

In her own office, Josie sat at her desk and began to read. After a few minutes she gave up, unable to concentrate for thinking about Dinah. Perhaps if she made her daughter a partner, signed half of the company over to her, she might stay. But that would be unfair. She would almost certainly see it as a desperate move on her part but, knowing Dinah, she still wouldn’t stay, and it
would create tension. Best let her go, with smiles and best wishes for a better, more exciting life in London.

Josie glanced at the shelf of Barefoot House publications: seventy-three books so far. There’d been only five the first year, ten in the second. Now they were putting out twenty-five novels a year, all with the same bright red glossy covers, the author’s name in black, the titles embossed in gold.

The Blackout Murders
, their first publication, had put Barefoot House on the map. The paperback had sold more than a hundred thousand copies within three months, but William Friars, the author, lately of Bootle, now living in a smart residence in Calderstones, had turned out to be a pain. A retired schoolteacher, he contested every alteration the copy editor made, complained about the covers always being the same, demanded ever-increasing advances which were only just met by the admittedly huge sales.

His latest offering,
Death By Stealth
, was on her desk. It was the first he’d set post-war, and she didn’t think it very good. The others, written with a terrible war raging in the background, had had a darkness, a compelling atmosphere of fear. His new book seemed pale by comparison. She had tactfully told him that he would be better off sticking to the war years, but he had lost his temper and demanded an advance that made her wince.

‘I have been approached by another publisher,’ he said pettishly, ‘a firm much bigger than yours, who are prepared to meet my demands.’

Josie wasn’t too keen on being blackmailed. ‘I’ll think about it,’ she promised, with a feeling that she would shortly be telling William Friars to get stuffed.

Still, he had contributed to the so far modest success of Barefoot House. Without William Friars, she wouldn’t
have been able to buy this house, centrally situated in the shadow of the Protestant cathedral, a perfect place to live and run a company under the same roof.

She returned to the spacious first-floor lounge, tall Kate’s room. If only Mam could see it, with its pink and cream striped wallpaper and a four-seater settee covered with matching material. The armchairs were pink velvet. Lily had said she should buy Regency furniture, but Josie preferred pine, even if it was out of period. There was a pine bureau, coffee-table, chests, two bookcases, both full. The carpet was a lovely warm brown. She threw herself fill length on the settee. Gosh, she’d never thought she’d end up in such a grand house. Mind you, she thought drily, she’d started off in one exactly the same.

Christmas was very quiet. Esther, fifty, unmarried, and living alone, came to dinner, along with a miserable Jeff, who still lived in hopes of persuading Dinah to stay in Liverpool.

On New Year’s Eve, Lily and Francie held a family party. Lily, at the remarkable age of forty-two, had produced a second son, Alec, now three, the image of his sinisterly handsome father. Simon was five and blond, like all the Kavanagh boys. Gillian was home from university in Norwich, where she was studying politics. She had brought a boyfriend, a spotty youth called Whizz who got more and more drunk as the night progressed. Samantha came with her husband, Michael, and their three-month-old son.

‘Gosh, Lil. You’re starting a dynasty of your own,’ Josie remarked in the kitchen as she helped make more sandwiches when they ran out, Whizz having devoured far more than his share. Except for Lily and Daisy, it was
ages since she’d seen another Kavanagh. Ben and his children had apparently disappeared off the face of the earth.

‘I know.’ Lily was starry-eyed. ‘When I think of the way I used to envy you, Jose. You were so beautiful, you still are, and you never went short of boyfriends. Yet look at the way things have turned out! Oh, I know you’ve got a dead successful company, but it’s nothing compared to me.’

For a moment Josie felt tempted to tell her friend that she wouldn’t have had the opportunity to establish such a large dynasty if she hadn’t given up Francie O’Leary on her behalf. She was also tempted to tell her she was getting much too fat, that it was about time she did some exercises so she didn’t look six months pregnant all the time. Francie wasn’t the sort of husband who’d take kindly to a wife who let herself go. She succumbed to neither temptation, contenting herself with a tart, ‘You say the nicest things, Lil.’

‘Why didn’t your Dinah and Jeff come? They were invited.’

‘Jeff preferred to have Dinah to himself. She’s off to London in a few days.’ Dinah hadn’t realised – no one had except Josie – that she was leaving twenty years to the day that Josie had lost her other daughter.

It would soon be 1980, another decade gone. The years seemed to be leaping by. Josie excused herself and went upstairs. She wished Dinah had come to the party, so she’d have had someone there of her own, instead of being surrounded by Lily’s children, husband, grandson, son-in-law and a possible prospective and extremely spotty second son-in-law.

She sat on the bed in Francie’s and Lily’s room and looked at herself in the mirror. For some reason, she
recalled doing the same thing in Aunt Ivy’s bedroom when she was sixteen and about to go to the pictures with Ben. It was the first time she’d realised she was beautiful, because she looked so much like Mam. She hadn’t changed much since then. Apart from looking thirty years older, she thought wryly. She wore her brown hair in much the same style, loose and bouncy on her shoulders. There were a few strands of grey, hardly noticeable. She still took the same size clothes, but it was undoubtedly a middle-aged woman who stared back at her from the mirror across the room, despite the fact she was too far away to see the wrinkles under her eyes.

‘You know, I still fancy you something rotten,’ said a voice, and Francie O’Leary came in. He wore tight jeans, a navy V-necked sweater, no shirt. A thick gold chain nestled in the dark hairs on his chest and there was a gold hoop in his left ear. His hair was combed in a fringe on his forehead to disguise his slightly receding hairline, making him look a touch evil, Josie thought, a bit like Old Nick, but dead dishy all the same.

‘You’re not supposed to say things like that, Francie,’ she said reprovingly.

‘Can’t help it, Jose.’ He sat down beside her. ‘I still miss the bed bit.’

‘Francie!’

He winked. ‘Don’t you?’

‘I wouldn’t say if I did.’ But she did, she did! If the door could have been locked without anyone noticing, if she had been capable of temporarily throwing her conscience to the wind, she would have welcomed half an hour of the bed bit with Francie.

‘Lily’s not exactly appealing these days,’ he said glumly. ‘I keep falling off her belly.’

‘Francie! What a horrible thing to say.’

‘I’m a horrible person. I’ve never pretended to be anything else. Lily knew that when she proposed.’ He sighed. ‘I love the lads. In feet, I’m mad about the lads. But life’s a bit tedious nowadays, Jose. All we talk about is carpets and wallpaper and kids’ shoes. Did you know that little boys wear their shoes out at a rate of knots? Lily’s on about it all the time. I say, “Chuck ’em away, kiddo. Buy more. Money’s no object,” but she goes on about it all the same. Apparently – and this will fascinate you, Jose – since cobblers became shoe repairers, they charge the earth.’ He put his hand on the bed over hers, and said wistfully, ‘You used to make me feel young.’

She snatched her hand away. ‘You made
me
feel young, Francie, only because we had nothing that really mattered to talk about. You and Lily have shared responsibilities. Shoes matter.’

‘I’m not old enough for responsibility, Jose. I’m only forty-eight.’

‘What are you two up to?’ a sharp voice demanded.

Francie groaned and got to his feet when his wife came in. ‘Nothing, Lil,’ he said in a pained voice. ‘I was checking to see if Simon and Alec were asleep, and found Josie sitting on the bed all by herself. We were talking, that’s all.’

‘Well, you can talk downstairs.’

Josie was shocked to see the naked suspicion in Lily’s eyes. Did she actually think there might be something going on? If so, it would serve her right, pay her back for the awful thing she’d said earlier, which Josie had found deeply wounding. It was a long time since she and Lily had had a row, but New Year’s Eve wasn’t exactly a good time to start one. She said coldly, ‘I think I’ll go home. Dinah might be there, and I’d like to see in the New Year with me family.’

She waved frantically at Dinah’s Mini as it turned the corner of Huskisson Street on its way to London. Dinah gave one last wave and the car disappeared. Josie returned to the house, ready to sink into a decline, to be met by a grim-faced Esther emerging from Reception.

‘I’ve just had William Friars on the phone. He refused to wait and speak to you. He’s transferring to another publisher, Havers Hill. He said would you kindly send them
Death by Stealth
. He only has a carbon copy.’

‘Does that mean they haven’t read it?’

‘I assume not. Actually …’ Esther grinned ‘… he didn’t say “kindly”, he said “tell her” to send the original.’

‘I shall do no such thing,’ Josie said indignantly. ‘Send it back to Friars, Esther. Tell him to send his lousy book to his new publisher himself.’ She chuckled. ‘They’ll do their nut when they read it. It’s not a patch on the others. Oh, it’ll sell well – he’s acquired a loyal following, who will be sadly disappointed. I bet it gets a mauling from the critics.’

Esther returned to Reception when the phone began to ring. ‘It’s for you, Josie.’ She looked impressed. ‘New York.’

‘I’ll take it in my office.’ Her heart missed a beat. New York! She picked up the receiver. ‘Josie Coltrane.’

‘Hi, Josie,’ said a friendly American voice. ‘Val Morrissey, Brewster & Cronin, publishers. Read one of your books last week on the plane back from good old Blighty,
Miss Middleton’s Papers
, a really creepy tale of good and evil in Victorian England. I wondered if we could do a deal?’

She had actually thought it might be Jack. ‘What sort of deal, Mr Morrissey?’

‘Call me Val. Brewster & Cronin are a bit like
Barefoot House – small output, nothing but crime fiction. I wondered, if we took some of yours, would you take some of ours? I’ve checked – none of your books are published in the States. The same goes for us the other way round. We don’t seem to be able to break into the UK market.’

‘We’ve tried to sell in the States, but no luck,’ Josie confessed. ‘Except for
My Carnal Life
.’

‘Those big companies, they’ve got no imagination,’ Val Morrissey said disgustedly. ‘It’s us little ones who are the innovators.’

Josie agreed wholeheartedly. ‘I love American thrillers. Ed McBain is my favourite.’

‘Mine’s the little lady who wrote
Miss Middleton’s Papers
, Julia Hedington. Great book, Josie! We’d like to take it. Can’t offer much initially, I’m afraid – five hundred dollars. We’ll only be dipping our toe in the water with a couple of thousand copies to begin with, see how the market takes it. If that’s agreeable, I’ll have a contract in the post by tomorrow.’

‘I’ll have to ring Julia first.’

Julia Hedington screamed with joy when told an offer had been made for the American rights of her first novel. She was a widow, with five school-aged children, who had been writing the book for years, scribbling away in a notebook whenever she had a rare, spare minute.

‘It’s only five hundred dollars, Julia,’ Josie said, alarmed when the screaming became hysterical. ‘And Barefoot House takes ten per cent of that.’

‘I don’t care if it’s only five dollars. I don’t care if you take a hundred per cent. My book’s going to be published in
America
. Oh, Josie, I can hardly believe my luck.’

She called Val Morrissey back. ‘The author’s delirious. So, if you’d let me have that contract?’

‘It’ll be on its way tomorrow.’ They rang off, promising to send each other a selection of books.

Josie went into the next office, where Richard White was typing away on the latest model electric typewriter which had cost a bomb. Dinah’s desk was piled high with manuscripts that had arrived that morning – Barefoot House received about fifty a week and, on average, accepted one every two weeks.

‘I’ve just done a deal with an American publishing company,’ she said.

‘Goodo.’ Richard didn’t look up. A calm, bespectacled young man, hard-working and conscientious, she’d rather hoped he and Dinah would hit it off.

‘We need more staff.’

‘I know. We definitely need someone in place of Dinah.’

‘I should have advertised.’ She’d kept putting it off. ‘Do you know anyone?’

Richard shook his head and continued typing. How on earth could he concentrate on two things at the same time? She concluded he must have two brains.