Wheels Within Wheels (28 page)

The telegram had half-prepared me, yet I was so dazed with joy that I could hardly speak when I heard that Murrays would like to publish my book. There was no talk of royalties or promotion, no ominous reference to ‘excellent editors’; the book, apparently, was acceptable as I had written it. Then I was invited to stay with the Murrays; like many another Murray author, I had found not only a publisher but a whole family of friends.

That afternoon I first met Jane Boulenger, who was to be my editor in an acceptable sense. Authors are notoriously dangerous animals and Jane must be one of the greatest living author-tamers. In eight years of working together she taught me an immense amount about the art and craft of writing and we never had a cross word.

I left Albemarle Street in such a euphoric state that I very nearly stepped under a bus in Piccadilly; a passing Pakistani pulled me back just in time. Yet there was a sense in which my joy was curiously impersonal. Walking through St James’s Park, I thought of all my father’s rejected novels – all the years of work, hope, disappointment, work, hope, disappointment – a cycle of frustration endured without bitterness. And then the importance of the individual – of myself as an individual – dwindling to nothing. It was chance that in my lifetime – perhaps because of my mother’s contribution to the genetic pool – all the strivings of generations of scribbling Murphys were to push their way above ground into print. And so, on that sunny June day by the duck ponds, the acceptance of my first book seemed less a personal triumph than the fulfilment of an obligation to my parents.