CHAPTER
TEN
Through the open window
of Rebecca Tonks' bedroom that evening, a mellow sun
could be seen slowly disappearing behind a cluster of beech trees in the
horizontal distance, its deep red glow mingling with their branches and
bestowing upon them a sort of solar halo of such splendour ... as to transform
an otherwise mundane scene into something startlingly supernatural and 'more
deeply interfused', in Wordsworthian
parlance, than even the deep glow of its own mellow setting. To Anthony Keating, the view from Rebecca's
bed, where he lay with his back to the wall, was indeed enchanting, though
insufficiently so, alas, to entirely erase the memory of what had recently
happened to him, or to alter his depressed mood to one of passive,
quasi-blissful receptivity. On the
contrary, there occurred to him, in the sunset of this particular Friday
evening in August, a symbol of his own life - a 'day' which was over and
another 'day' which had yet to begin.
Doubtless the Australian continent would soon be flooded by light from
the very same sun which, at this moment in time, appeared to be on the verge of
extinction.
But what of his own life? What sun would initiate a new 'day' there and
thus grant him a fresh start, one that began where the offices of 'Arts
Monthly' left off? And would it be a
longer or a shorter 'day', one that lasted for weeks or months or even
years? He flinched at the thought of
years. Yet if one could do something one
enjoyed doing, of what use would weeks or months be? As if time was the all-important factor! Perhaps, after all, tomorrow would be better
than yesterday - brighter, fuller, warmer, more encouraging? No more embarrassing interviews with stuffy
atonal composers or last-minute reviews of crazy non-representational artists! And what a crazy non-representational artist
Alan Connolly had been! Not merely
content to indulge in the more traditionally fashionable non-representational
developments, but a paradoxical surrealist, to boot! A nostalgic crank who evidently imagined
himself the natural heir of Ernst Fuchs and only succeeded in proving himself
no better than a second-rate René Magritte!
Really, it was a wonder he had been allowed to exhibit at all, even
given the fact that his work wasn't exclusively confined to Surrealism or, at
any rate, to his own rather interiorized and intellectualized brand of it, but
also embraced a little Abstract Expressionism and Op Art as well. But the latter were hardly better, under the
circumstances of their unorthodox treatment, than the more blatant anachronisms
on display, and only succeeded in disillusioning Keating with the entire
exhibition and inducing him, with Rebecca's prompting, to postpone his review
until the following day, by which time the telephone call from Wilder had
necessitated yet another postponement.
Still, there was something amusing - one might even say gratifying -
about seeing the belated review of Catherine Williams' paintings in the latest
edition of 'Arts Monthly', particularly in light of the fact that few people
outside the immediate college circles from which she hailed would have heard of
her, and scarcely anyone took any interest in her work, which was overly
representational and thus of a conservatism which made even Connolly's art
appear radical, if from a reactionary point of view.
This last-minute replacement by Webb was really quite
diverting! One couldn't even be certain
that Cathy Williams would approve of it.
But, there again, one couldn't be certain that she would care anything
about the magazine anyway, since it wasn't exactly a matter of life-and-death
to most contemporary artists. The only
people who seemed to take it seriously stemmed, as a rule, from the commercial
bourgeoisie; people who only turned to the arts in their spare time, as a
substitute, more often, for the absence of spiritual creativity in their lives,
a sort of surrogate culture, if you will, and even they weren't beyond writing
abusive and sometimes threatening letters whenever opinions or philosophies
contrary to their own appeared in print, which, unfortunately for the magazine,
happened all-too-frequently! Yet, as far
as Keating was concerned, all that was a thing of the past. As also, thank God, was the humiliating
experience with Webb, even though it lingered-on in the memory and slightly
poisoned his feelings. What mattered now
was the new 'day' that had yet to begin, and whether or not Webb would approve
of it didn't matter a jot!
He smiled faintly as the thought of his new freedom suddenly
dawned upon him with the sun's final setting.
The branches of those trees in the distance which, a short while ago,
had been wreathed in a red halo of almost supernatural significance ... were
slowly returning to their customary twilight appearance - devoid of even the
slightest transcendent connotations.
Within a little while they would disappear from view altogether, like
the sun itself, swallowed-up by the impenetrable camouflage of night. And so, too, would the contents of Rebecca's
room, if he didn't switch the light on.
Yes, what a pleasant room it was really, even more pleasant
with the light bulb shining and the curtains drawn on unacceptable
darkness! The armchair, table, bed,
dressing-table, and wardrobe all seemed to him so reassuring at this moment! It was impossible to imagine them apart from
Rebecca, to conceive of them as belonging to anyone else. Everything in the room appeared to have been
fashioned specifically for her, to bear the hallmarks of her personality, to be
in league with her against the outside world, which even included the rest of
the house. There could be no question of
one's confounding Rebecca's bedroom with anyone else's. It was virtually a work of art - the kind of
art which, in its domesticity, mostly appeals to women.
The creaky sound of the door handle turning startled him from
these smug reflections and brought him the reassuring sight of Rebecca
re-entering a room she had vacated some fifteen minutes ago. He smiled his approval of her return and
moved a little to one side in order to make room for her on the bed.
"I'm sorry my friend kept me so long on the phone,"
she murmured, as she scrambled up beside him and threw an arm round his
neck. "Unfortunately, she's such a
chatterbox that I always have to listen to her for at least ten minutes,
especially when I haven't seen or heard from her for a few days." She was of course referring to Margaret, the
blonde whom Keating had seen in her sunbathing company that first afternoon he
arrived at the Tonks' residence. "Incidentally, my father would like to
see you before you leave for home this evening," she added.
"What-on-earth about?" exclaimed Keating, suddenly
becoming a shade apprehensive, since the prospect of seeing Mr Tonks again gave him what might be described as the
honky-tonks blues.
"He didn't specify, but I suspect it has to do with the
cancellation of that interview you told me to tell him about yesterday."
Keating reluctantly nodded in regretful agreement and
simultaneously permitted a faint sigh to emerge from between his lips. Yes, it would almost certainly be about the interview,
the cancellation of which could hardly be guaranteed to flatter a man who had
put so much time and effort into giving it!
Here was yet another inconvenience for Mr Tonks
to live with, yet another insult to his professional reputation. As if what he had already experienced wasn't
bad enough! And, to cap it all, Keating
had been unable to break the news of Webb's decision to him face-to-face but
had relied upon Rebecca to do so, and to do so, moreover, as late as the day
before, since he had spent the greater part of the Tuesday and Wednesday
evenings deliberating over whether to break any news at all. Only when she had telephoned him at his Croydon flat, late Thursday evening, and asked why she
hadn't heard from him in the meantime, did he permit himself to confess to what
had happened and then request her to inform her father. So it was with some reluctance that he
accepted an invitation to visit her the following day, accepted it under the
understanding that Mr and Mrs Tonks had given her
permission to invite him. For, much as
he wanted to see her again and secretly flattered though he was that her
parents were resigned to his returning, he felt distinctly apprehensive at the
prospect of what Mr Tonks would say to him about the
cancelled interview when he actually arrived.
As it transpired, however, Mr Tonks
hadn't said anything, being otherwise engaged when Keating was admitted into
the house just over an hour ago.
Nevertheless, he evidently had something in mind, and Rebecca's guest
wasn't particularly happy at the prospect of having to hear it. Quite the contrary, he was convinced that
this further blow to the composer's self-esteem wouldn't serve to improve
relations between them. It might even
result in his being prohibited from ever setting foot in Tonkarias
again.
"Don't look so worried, Tony," murmured Rebecca,
lightly stroking his nearest cheek.
"He didn't seem that annoyed when I mentioned it to him."
"He didn't?"
"No, he was simply sorry to learn that you'd been
dismissed from the magazine," she revealed. "Besides, it's my entire fault
anyway. My fault from
the beginning. Had I not lost my
heart to you, none of this would have happened."
"I don't regret anything," Keating hastened to assure
her. "It was worth being dismissed
over you - worth every damn minute of it.
In fact, I'm confident that, if one could reverse time, I'd do exactly
the same thing again - even with a foreknowledge of the outcome." He smiled boldly and, catching hold of her
hand, kissed it tenderly. "Yes, I
would," he repeated, staring affectionately at her.
Rebecca reciprocated his smile.
"You're an incorrigible romantic!" she opined on a note of
gentle reproof. "But I still love
you."
He squeezed her boldly against himself and applied his lips to
hers. It was some consolation that they
were together and that she loved him. He
had always wanted to be loved by someone he thought it would be possible to
love in return, someone he respected as an equal. Until then, he had never had that luck. Women there had of course been, but not the
sort of women, alas, with whom he could have fallen in love! Here, at last, was the promise of what
circumstances had hitherto denied him, and he was grateful for it - more grateful
than words could express. For without
love for another person, life was scarcely worth living. What did it profit one if one climbed to the
top of the professional ladder in a prestigious concern like 'Arts Monthly',
only to return home each night to an empty and loveless room? What was the point of achieving one's
professional ambitions if they weren't justified by concern for someone
else? Did one work for the mere sake of
working? No, of course not! Work-for-work's sake was fundamentally as
perverse and self-defeating as art-for-art's sake or power-for-power's sake,
and eventually led to the same barren dead-end.
It was indeed an ironic commentary on his life that, all the while he
had been diligently slaving for Webb, he was
without love, love for another person, and had lost his job primarily
over the very thing that would have given meaning to and justified it - namely,
Rebecca. And now that he was on the
verge of discovering love ... yes, how paradoxical life could be! One of these days he might understand its
convoluted logic. Meanwhile there was
the fascination of Rebecca's lips, the sweet scent of her perfume, the soft
resilience of her skin, the gentle warmth of her body.... He would rather have
a love and no job than a job and no love!
"Anthony!" protested Rebecca playfully, as his desire
for her lips began to expand into a desire for other, more fleshy parts of her
anatomy and resulted in her feeling ashamed of herself for encouraging such a
thing while her parents were indoors. "Not
tonight," she added, by way of reminding him of the situation.
"I'm sorry," he said, blushing slightly. But he had to admit it was only too easy to
forget the situation when one had a beautiful young woman like her in one's
arms! Especially when the lower half of
her dress wasn't exactly in the most modest of positions, and one found oneself
confronted by the greater part of what it ordinarily concealed!
"So when are you going to see my father?" Rebecca
wanted to know, after Keating had considerately and apologetically given-up the
pursuit of further carnal pleasure and duly returned the hem of her tight black
dress to its former, more orthodox position.
Her tone-of-voice was light and gentle, almost playful.
"Not yet," he informed her on a more serious note,
his honky-tonks blues returning to haunt him.
Rebecca smiled up at him from where she lay. "I hope he gives you a good
caning," she teased.
But Keating wasn't in the mood to be amused. His bad conscience over the cancelled
interview just wouldn't leave him alone.
It was obviously something Rebecca wasn't in a position to
experience. And neither could she know
to what extent his growing fondness for her made him desirous of establishing
himself on the best possible terms with her father - a thing which could hardly
be guaranteed by this latest setback!
"Did you say goodbye to the editor today?" she asked,
growing bored with the silence which had fallen between them, like a
psychological wedge, and giving voice to the first seemingly pertinent thought
which entered her restless head.
Keating raised incredulous brows. "I could hardly do that!" he
replied. "Particularly
when you bear in mind the nature of my dealings with him on Tuesday. I was on the verge of throwing my attaché
case at his head, you know. Yes
..." And he mentally congratulated himself for having had enough sense to
restrain the impulse at the last moment.
"In point of fact, I only saw him once, after he'd officially fired
me, and that was on Wednesday afternoon, just as I was returning from lunch and
he was on his way out. We crossed
uncomfortably in the entrance hall."
"How embarrassing!" exclaimed Rebecca, screwing-up
her facial features by way of emphasizing her assessment of the situation.
"More humiliating than embarrassing," Keating averred
with philosophic detachment. "I
guess that was the only occasion when our mutual endeavour to avoid each other
broke down. But I said goodbye to most
of the others," including, he remembered, both Neil Wilder and Martin Osbourne.
Yes, it was a pity, in a way, that he wouldn't be seeing either
of them again, even though he had been invited to continue attending Osbourne's Thursday-evening 'stag parties'. The invitation had come to him, he now felt
obliged to admit, as quite a surprise after what had happened. But he didn't much relish the prospect of
endeavouring to be sociable towards people he was subsequently destined to have
little or nothing to do with and who had, moreover, played a part in his
journalistic downfall. Besides, he
didn't want to be informed, every week, of what was happening at 'Arts
Monthly', as would almost certainly transpire if he continued to visit the
senior sub-editor's flat. Now that he
was no longer one of its correspondents, he wanted a clean break, not an
incentive for nostalgia, regret, or sentimentality, as might result from
further contact with such people as one usually encountered at Osbourne's.
Moreover, he was only too familiar with the various arguments
regularly bandied about, on a variety of subjects, to be greatly thrilled by
the prospect of hearing them all again, albeit with minor variations, to the
glory of the general aura of drunkenness which invariably transformed a
relatively innocuous gathering into an asylum of raging lunatics hell-bent on
one-another's intellectual destruction.
Wasn't it better to be free of all that, free of the oppressive
pretentiousness which invariably descended on the participants before the
alcohol had taken effect? If,
occasionally, a worthwhile discussion emerged from the conflicting
personalities, it was indeed something for which to be sincerely grateful! Under the prevailing circumstances of
progressive inebriation, however, worthwhile discussions were rather the
exception to the rule, materializing, with luck, about once a month, and only
lasting until such time as the sherry or wine or whatever decreed
otherwise. No wonder that people
frequently got bored with it all and either relapsed into their former vices or
graduated to different ones instead! One
could hardly blame them.
Still, there was something agreeable about meeting other people
once a week and indulging one's tongue for better or worse. It had a kind of therapeutic effect, after
all, which it was unwise to underestimate when one had been shut-up in the
prison of oneself for too long. True,
the conversation might not always have appealed to one's higher judgement, the
fruit of private reflection. But on a
physiological level it could certainly provide the basis for a useful catharsis
against the dangers of prolonged repression.
Yes, indeed! And who knew that
better than Michael Haslam and Stuart Harvey? One had to admire the tenacity with which
they depended upon each other for mutual therapy in the face of an indifferent
and largely ailing world! No female could
have served their cause more thoroughly!
"So what are you going to do with yourself next
week?" asked Rebecca, as soon as she realized that Anthony had nothing
further to add to his previous comment.
"At the moment I'm not absolutely sure," he replied
meditatively, "though I've thought of doing some freelance journalism for
a while. Fortunately, my financial
position isn't too precarious at present, so I needn't rush headlong into
another full-time job - assuming I could get one right now. I have also thought of going to
"While he was a schoolmaster and part-time novelist,"
confirmed Rebecca, recalling to mind what she had read about the great writer's
early life teaching at the Davidson High School from 1908-12.
Keating nodded and smiled.
"Yes, and it was the birthplace, moreover, of both Malcolm Muggeridge and
"Who hasn't?"
"Yes, well, it's currently serving as the birthplace of my
novel - one which, as I think I may have told you last week, follows the
vicissitudes of a young man who is unfortunate enough to fall madly in love
with a beautiful lesbian without realizing the situation until it's too
late."
Rebecca laughed aloud.
Frankly, she thought the idea hilarious!
Of all the odd tricks fate could play on one, that
would certainly be among the oddest!
Why, if Tony could conceive of such an implausible plot with a moderate
degree of equanimity, what was there to prevent him from delineating the
converse possibility - that of a young heterosexual woman unlucky enough to
fall madly in love with a homosexual? Or
was it that such a prospect would fail to appeal to his wayward imagination on
account of the probably one-sided, stand-offish nature of its
protagonists? For, with the lesbian
scenario, there was always the possibility that the man, growing impatient with
his predicament, would take her by storm and thereby at least gratify his
carnal desires to some extent, whereas, with the converse situation, a young
heterosexual woman could hardly be expected to initiate sexual relations with
the homosexual victim of her love - least of all in England, where women were
traditionally so reserved, if not prudish, on account, in no small measure, of
its puritanical legacy. On the contrary,
a rather tedious unrequited passion would seem to be the only possible outcome. Thus, in relation to Tony's choice of
subject-matter, there was evidently a method to his madness, albeit a method,
Rebecca felt, that it was perhaps wiser not to inquire into too deeply, since
feminine modesty forbade. Doubtless she
would find out what became of the incompatible couple in due course, when he
had brought the misadventure to its tragic denouement - whether through
anti-climax or otherwise. In the
meantime, however, she was content merely to laugh and shake her head in
feigned disbelief. Croydon's
latest literary foetus could hardly be expected to develop into a
best-seller. With a parent like Anthony
Keating, it was bound to remain on the shelf!
"Aren't you being a little harsh on my genius?" the
budding novelist expostulated, by way of facetiously commenting upon her
response to his literary revelation.
"After all, it isn't very often that the reading public get an
opportunity to sympathize with one or other of the victims of such an anomalous
relationship. Most of the relationships
they read about, in this sex-obsessed society, are frightfully predictable - so
predictable, in fact, that one wonders why they even bother to read about them
in the first place! But at least the
novel I'm currently writing has the charm of novelty, which is no small
distinction these days. It may not be
the type of literature to appeal to someone like Malcolm Muggeridge,
what with his rather strait-laced heterosexuality, but I'm quite confident that
Havelock Ellis would have derived some profit from it, which would probably
have supplemented his knowledge on the varieties of sexual relationship, and
perhaps even induced him to further
expand his Psychological
Studies."
"Really, you're quite incorrigible!" Rebecca hastened
to remind him, playfully slapping his backside.
"You'll end-up writing like the Marquis de Sade,
if you're not careful."
"To the extent that he was one of the best writers of his
time, I shouldn't be at all ashamed or disappointed," Keating blandly
asseverated. "He liberated
literature from more mental shackles than the rest of his generation put
together.... Which is only to be expected, I suppose, from a
man who spent most of his adult life in prison and duly felt obliged to seek
compensation in mental freedom.
Had he been less physically constrained, it's doubtful that we would
care anything much about his writings these days. Our interest in his books - assuming he'd
have written anything radical in freedom - would be either negligible or, more
probably, non-existent. Even D.H.
Lawrence seems rather tame by comparison.
One can read Lady
Chatterley's Lover without a single blush.
Try doing that where the Marquis' most notorious works are
concerned! You'll soon spot the
difference."
"It's not a difference I'd particularly care to
spot," admitted Rebecca, smiling coyly.
"My literary tastes are really quite prim. Nothing stronger than Pride and Prejudice."
"That's strong enough," Keating assured her,
grimacing at the mere thought of its title.
"Though you might as well settle for
"Don't exaggerate so!" Rebecca light-heartedly chided
him. "Great literature needn't
always be tragic. It sometimes ends
happily. What about Camus' A Happy Death?"
Keating knit his brows in pensive consideration a moment, as he
sought in his memory for what he could recall about the novel in question. "I'm not absolutely convinced of its
greatness," he at length confessed, mindful of the novel's radical
brevity, a consequence, he had always believed, of Camus'
generally dilettantish commitment to literature in view of his various
practical commitments elsewhere, including politics and journalism. "Besides, the fact of the leading
character's death doesn't make for a genuinely happy ending anyway. In fact it's really quite depressing that a
young man should be whisked away from life just when he was beginning to enjoy
it. But if I was wrong to say that all
great literature ends tragically, I don't think you can deny that a happy
ending tends to be the exception to the rule.
We expect the tragic, and in nine bloody cases out of ten we damn-well
get it!" He paused a moment, as
though for dramatic effect, before continuing:
"Occasionally, however, a work of value ends happily, as in the
case, for example, of Hermann Hesse's Narziss and Goldmund. For the
most part, however, Madame Bovary is the rule. And it's the rule I'm attempting to stick to
where my own novel is concerned, even if, under the prevailing decadence of
contemporary society, it will never attain to true literary greatness. If I cannot achieve a tragic consummation
with the sword, I may have to settle for the dagger. Or maybe even the metaphorical
penknife," he added wistfully.
"I fear you'll lacerate my heart with your tongue if
you're not careful," protested Rebecca, while gently stroking the back of
his head with the hand that, a moment before, had served her better use
elsewhere. "You'll shatter all my
illusions about great literature."
"I'm sorry," rejoined Keating, responding to her
fingers with a deftly placed kiss on her brow.
"You must think me a frightful egotist."
"More delightful than frightful,
actually."
"I'm sincerely relieved to hear it," he admitted and,
taking her nape in his right hand, lovingly applied his lips to hers in a
renewed spate of kissing.
The minutes passed quickly as they lay together on the bed, arm
in arm and lip on lip. It was almost
blissful for Keating to lie there like that - basking complacently in Rebecca's
bodily warmth. But not
quite. For at the back of his
mind the consciousness of his impending meeting with her father refused to
disappear, refused to budge, and he was aware, too, that he would have to see
him fairly soon, before it grew too late.
Rebecca's bright-red alarm clock was already indicating
"Yes, I suppose you'd better go," she agreed, after
he had disengaged himself from her body and reminded her of his obligations to
her father.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" he asked nervously,
putting on his zipper jacket.
"I can't see why not," she replied. "After all, I'd like to hear about what
dad has to say to you."
Downstairs, in front of the door to Howard Tonks'
study, Keating hesitated, suddenly becoming apprehensive as to what lay
beyond. On the immediately discernible
level, it was apparent someone was playing the piano in a honky-tonks
manner. But it wasn't that level which
particularly worried him, even though he didn't much like the idea of
barging-in on the player and interrupting his performance, no matter how
disagreeable the music. He felt sure
that whatever happened between himself and Mr Tonks, after he crossed the threshold, would be
disagreeable.
"Go on!" Rebecca urged him from the stairs to his
rear. "He won't bite you!"
This dramatic last-moment reassurance sufficed to goad
Keating's fingers into turning the doorknob as, with reluctant resignation to
his fate, he pushed open the study door and walked straight in. His heart beat wildly as he closed it behind
him again. When he turned around,
however, the man at the piano wasn't Mr Tonks but
someone he hadn't seen before! And the
room was otherwise empty! His heart
almost came to a standstill. He couldn't
believe his eyes.
Catching sight of him standing where he was, the stranger
immediately ceased playing and stared intently at him a moment. It was evident to Keating, by the look in the
grey eyes now confronting him, that his entrance had
come as rather a surprise. Perhaps he
had come to the wrong room? But just as
he was about to apologize and take his leave of it again, the grey-eyed man
politely asked him what he wanted. He
explained.
"Ah, so you're Mr Keating!" the man enthused, raising
himself from the piano stool and holding out a friendly hand. "Delighted to meet you!
My name's Roy Hart, a friend of Howard's."
Keating nervously advanced towards the outstretched hand and
allowed it to shake his own. He was still somewhat apprehensive about what
lay in store for him.
"Take a seat," Hart advised, drawing attention, with
a well-directed nod of his head, to the nearest armchair. "Howard went to the kitchen to make
some, ah, coffee, so he'll be back any minute."
"Oh, right!" responded Keating, hardly knowing
whether to be thankful or resentful for this perfectly straightforward
information. The two men sat down
simultaneously on their respective supports.
"I hear you recently conducted an interview here?"
Hart commented, following a short pause.
"Yes," admitted Keating, feeling slightly
hot-under-the-collar all of a sudden. He
didn't want to dwell on that subject now.
"An aborted one, alas," he added.
"So I hear," Hart sympathized. "Not one of your lucky
weeks, eh?"
"Indeed not!"
It was evident to Keating that Mr Tonks wasn't
the only person who had something to say about the affair.
"Were you at 'Arts Monthly' long?" asked Hart,
clearly aware of more things than the young man had suspected.
"Only a couple of years, I'm afraid," confessed
Keating, turning red.
"Ah, so you probably wouldn't know anything about the
interview they did with me a few years back," conjectured the pianist,
changing tack. "One of the worst
interviews I've, ah, ever given."
Keating was fairly nonplussed.
"Really?" he said.
"Quite dreadful!" Hart insisted. "I swore that would be the last one I
ever gave. But I succumbed, a couple of
months later, to a German magazine, and since then it's been the same old
story. I should imagine I've appeared in
just about every, ah, serious arts or music publication in the Western world -
with the possible exception of a few in
"I'm very sorry to hear that," declared Keating,
though, in reality, he was personally somewhat relieved that the older man had
switched to talking about himself rather than asking embarrassing
questions. Any number of autobiographical
confessions would have been preferable to them!
Such confessions, however, weren't to continue. For at that moment the door was thrown open
and in walked Howard Tonks, carrying a tray with two
mugs of steaming coffee on it.
"We've a visitor," Hart informed him, drawing
attention to the occupied armchair.
"Ah, so we have!" exclaimed Mr Tonks,
before carefully depositing the tray on the small coffee table in front of
him. "I'm delighted to see you
again," he added, and he extended a hand for his rather startled visitor
to shake. "But I was sincerely
sorry to hear you've lost your job. It
must have come as quite a shock to you."
"Not as bad as I thought it would be," admitted
Keating, blushing anew.
Meanwhile, Roy Hart had helped himself to his coffee and
returned to the piano stool, from whence a gentle cultured sipping could now be
heard.
"By the way, would you like some coffee, Anthony?"
asked Mr Tonks.
"Had I known you were here, I'd have made another one."
"No, I'm fine thanks," Keating assured him, reminding
himself of the time. It had already gone
"Well, since you're here, I suppose I'd better bring you
up-to-date about the interview," said the composer, who picked up his
coffee, walked a couple of yards in the direction of his mini-portraits of Ives
and Varèse, and sat down in the remaining empty
armchair. "From what my daughter
told me last night," he continued, putting his coffee to one side,
"it would appear that the interview was annulled because of your
dismissal."
A horrible feeling of dread now launched itself into Keating's
soul. It seemed as though his worst
fears were about to be realized.
"Yes, I imagine so," he confirmed.
"Well, you might be interested to learn that I received a
letter from Mr Webb this morning, informing me that it will now be published in
the October edition of his magazine and that he, personally, is going to edit
it."
"You what?"
"Here's the letter," declared Mr Tonks,
extracting from his trouser pocket a crumpled piece of paper which he uncrumpled and handed across to the stunned occupant of the
other armchair. "Read it for
yourself."
Nervously Keating did so.
It categorically stated that the publication of the interview was going
ahead as planned. There was no mention
of him, nor any reference, not altogether surprisingly, to his dismissal. "I can't understand it," he gasped,
re-reading the letter and becoming more incredulous with every line. "The editor made it perfectly clear to
me on Tuesday that he had no intention of publishing the thing. How could he have changed his mind?"
"How indeed?" Mr Tonks rejoined.
"I can only conclude that he lied to you in order to make your
dismissal more painful. Lied to you in order to pay you back for having previously deceived
him."
"The dirty rotten bastard!" erupted Keating, unable
to restrain the impulse to resurrect his former hard-feelings.
"You needn't feel too badly about it," Mr Tonks assured him, smiling sympathetically. "For, believe it or not, I've taken your
side in the matter and refused Mr Webb permission to press ahead with his
intentions. I phoned him this afternoon
and personally invalidated the interview, threatening
him with legal action should he proceed."
"You what?"
"He did what I suggested he ought to do, under the
circumstances of Rebecca's, ah, fondness for you," interposed Roy Hart,
momentarily desisting from his coffee.
"From what I gather, she takes you quite seriously. So it would seem that the pair of you are
destined to spend a lot more time in each-other's, ah, company. Now, under those circumstances, it would have
been quite unfair of her family to treat you badly. And to submit to Webb's intentions would have
been to do just that! Besides, it was
this very same man who interviewed me, and the impression he created at the
time was, ah, anything but favourable!
As I intimated to you earlier, I was less than satisfied with the
result."
"Webb interviewed you?" exclaimed Keating, his eyes
opening like wild flowers under pressure of this latest and most astonishing of
the pianist's revelations.
"He did indeed!" Hart confirmed. "And did so, moreover, in a manner which
I found highly insulting. But when I
eventually read the published material, I was even more insulted. His editing took so many, ah, liberties with
what I'd actually said, that the interview was barely
recognizable to me. It was virtually a
caricature, a grotesquely sordid travesty of the original, for which I ought to
have sued him. Unfortunately, due to my
involvement in a series of, ah, foreign concerts, I didn't get round to reading
the interview until my return to
"A reminder which might have gone unheeded, had it not
also been for Rebecca's influence on me," Mr Tonks
confessed. "She, too, had a desire
to thwart Webb, albeit one motivated by rather different reasons from those
elicited by my good friend here."
Keating was even more nonplussed than before. "You mean, she
knew about Webb's letter as well?" he gasped.
"She did indeed!" Mr Tonks
revealed. "For I
showed it to her first thing this morning, before I phoned his office."
"And she wasn't very keen on the way he'd said one thing
to you on Tuesday and written an entirely different thing to Howard on
Wednesday," declared Hart, drawing Keating's attention to the date on the
letter. "Had she not phoned you
when she did, yesterday evening, it's highly likely that Webb would have got
away with his, ah, cruel intentions and made a bigger fool out of you than
anyone else has probably ever done."
"Instead of which, he has been made to look a pretty big
fool by us," averred Mr Tonks smilingly. "But I must say, Anthony, you certainly
left that confession to my daughter rather late! Had she not immediately told me about it,
yesterday evening, I would almost certainly have given Webb the go-ahead
today. As it happens, I've prepared, in
addition to my telephone conversation of this afternoon, a signed letter
absolutely forbidding publication of the interview.... Or perhaps one should
say potential caricature?" he added, deferring to Hart.
Keating was bluntly amazed.
He hadn't expected anything of the kind, and it was as much as he could
do to prevent himself from bursting into tears of gratitude. No wonder Rebecca had teased him about his
pessimism with regard to the impending meeting with her father! How amusing it must have seemed to her, to
see him making a mountain out of a molehill, a tragedy out of a comedy! Wasn't that typical of him anyway? Hadn't he always instinctively feared the
worst? Well, for once, his pessimistic
preconceptions were unjustified. He had
been his own worst dupe!
"I don't suppose you saw Mr Webb this afternoon, by any
chance?" Hart nonchalantly inquired of him, returning his half-empty mug
of coffee to its resting-place beside the piano.
"No, unfortunately not!" cried Keating, whose face
suddenly became illuminated by a radiant smile at the thought of Webb's
deceitfulness being invalidated by the telephone call from Howard Tonks. To be sure,
it was remarkably therapeutic, incredibly cheering! How gratifying it would have been to see the
bastard's face when the news had first invaded his mind and shattered his
deceitful strategy to pieces! How
dumbfounded he must have looked! And,
having no means by which he could hope to change the composer's mind, not being
in a position whereby he could see his correspondent again and offer to
reinstate him, how frustrated he must have felt! Now Keating knew this, he was almost sorry he
hadn't done the unspeakable and said goodbye to his former boss, before leaving
the firm earlier that day. The look on
his face could only have been pathetic!
"Incidentally, what do you intend doing with yourself, now
you're free?" asked Mr Tonks, breaking the
silence which had fortuitously fallen between them.
"That's something about which I'm not absolutely certain
at present," confessed Keating, his feelings rapidly changing course and
descending to a less-exultant level.
"I've got a novel which I intend to complete during the next few
months. But after that ...?" He shrugged his shoulders in perplexity.
"Do you think you could write a biography?" Mr Tonks suggested.
"A biography?" echoed Keating. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, my good friend here is of the
opinion that it's about time someone made a serious attempt at writing my
biography," declared Mr Tonks, nodding in Hart's
smiling direction. "Now if,
Anthony, you think you might be able to manage the job and, no less
importantly, feel that you'd be able to tolerate a fair amount of my company in
the process," he continued, ignoring Hart's ironic burst of laughter at
this remark, "then I can see no earthly reason why you shouldn't undertake
it. Since you're a pretty intelligent
young man with some experience of professional writing, I can't see why you
shouldn't make an attempt at it, especially if you haven't got any specific
plans for the future. The fact that, thanks
to the interview, you already know quite a lot about me should facilitate
further inquiry. And if you intend to
continue visiting Rebecca, then it would be to your advantage to also make what
use you can of her to acquire additional information on me. Thus by being an intimate of the family,
you're in the best possible position to undertake the task. So what do you say?"
Keating was too bewildered by this unexpected offer to know
quite how to respond. The possibility of
writing a biography of Howard Tonks had no more
crossed his mind than had an autobiography of himself. It was almost unbelievable. And yet he was being asked, and by no less a
man than the composer in person, not only to believe it but to actually get on
and damn-well do it! Had Rebecca known
about this, too?
"Well?" pressed Mr Tonks
engagingly.
"Okay, I'll have a go at it," agreed Keating,
breaking into a smile of acquiescent relief.
"Excellent!" the composer enthused. "My family and I will provide you with
whatever help you may require. Even if
you're obliged to do some freelance journalism whilst working on the project,
there's every chance that, providing you do it well, you won't have to work as
a drudge-ridden correspondent or journalist ever again, least of all for a
clown like Nicholas Webb! As yet, no biography
of me has appeared, but when one finally does, you can be pretty confident that
it will sell hundreds-of-thousands of copies the world over. So don't waste this unique opportunity to
make a name for yourself! Given the
necessary determination, you must surely succeed."
"And if you succeed with a biography on Howard, you might
well feel inclined to tackle one on, ah, me," Hart remarked
humorously. "Even
though I'm slightly less famous than my, ah, eminent friend here."
"But none the less controversial!" opined Mr Tonks, and he picked up and commenced drinking his
neglected mug of coffee.
"Oh well, I think I'd better be taking my leave of you
now," concluded Keating as he consulted his watch, and, getting up from
his armchair - the very same armchair he had sat in during the course of that
first afternoon at Tonkarias - he thanked and
shook hands with each of these great men in turn. It was indeed a long way to Croydon but, in the joyful mood he was in, he could have
walked there. Or even
spent the night on Hampstead Heath.
Provided he got home before Rebecca telephoned him the following
morning, what matter? The whole night
was ahead of him and tomorrow, after all, was a new day ... in every sense. He had nothing to fear!
