Kate Morton - The Distant Hours

A hook of niggling doubt snagged my stomach lining. ‘She asked for me?’

‘By name. Quite assuredly.’

‘You know I’m not a writer.’

‘Yes,’ said Judith. ‘And I explained that to them, but they didn’t mind at all. Evidently they already know who you are and what you do. More to the point, it would appear you’re the only person they’ll tolerate, which reduces our options rather dramatically. Either you write it, or the entire project collapses.’

‘I see.’

‘Look – ’ the busy sound of papers being moved across a desk – ‘I’m convinced you’ll do a good job. You work in publishing, you know your way around sentences. I’ve contacted some of your former clients and they all spoke very highly of you.’

‘Really?’ Oh, frightful vanity, fishing for a compliment! She was right to ignore me.

‘And all of us at Pippin are looking at this as a positive. We’re wondering whether perhaps the sisters have been so specific because they’re ready, finally, to talk about the inspiration behind the book. I don’t need to tell you what a terrific coup that would be, to discover the true history behind the book’s creation!’

She did not. My dad was doing a brilliant job of that already.

‘Well then. What do you say?’

What did I say? Percy Blythe had requested me personally. I was being asked to write about the Mud Man , to speak again with the Sisters Blythe, to visit them in their castle. What else was there to say? ‘I’ll do it.’

‘I was at the opening night of the play, you know,’ said Herbert when I’d finished relaying the conversation.

‘The Mud Man play?’

He nodded as Jess took up her position on his feet. ‘Have I never mentioned it?’

‘No.’ That he hadn’t was not as strange as it might seem. Herbert’s parents were theatre people and much of his childhood had been spent knocking about behind the proscenium arch.

‘I was twelve, or thereabouts,’ he said, ‘and I remember it because it was one of the most astonishing things I’d ever seen. Marvellous in many ways. The castle had been constructed in the centre of the stage, but they’d built it on a disc, raised and inclined, so that the tower pointed towards the audience and we could look right through the attic window into the room where Jane and her brother slept. The moat was on the very rim of the disc and the lights came from behind, so that when the Mud Man finally emerged, when he began his climb up the stones of the castle, long shadows fell into the audience, as if the mud of the story, the damp and the dark and the monster himself, were reaching out to touch one.’

I shivered theatrically and earned a suspicious look from Jess. ‘Sounds the stuff of nightmares. No wonder you remember it so well.’

‘Quite, although there was more to it than that. I remember that night specially because of the kerfuffle in the audience.’

‘Which kerfuffle?’

‘I was watching from the wings, so I was well placed to see it when it happened. A commotion, up in the writer’s box, people standing, a small child crying, someone ailing. A doctor was called and some of the family retired backstage.’

‘The Blythe family?’

‘I suppose it must have been, although I confess to having lost interest once the disturbance was over. The show went on, as it must – I don’t think the incident rated as much as a mention in the papers the following day. But for a young lad like myself it was all a bit of excitement.’

‘Did you ever find out what it was that happened?’ I was thinking of Juniper, the episodes I’d heard so much about.

He shook his head and drained the last of his tea. ‘Just another colourful theatre moment.’ He fumbled a cigarette into his mouth, grinned around it as he drew. ‘But enough about me. How about this summons to the castle for young Edie Burchill? What a lark, eh?’

I beamed, I couldn’t help it, but the expression staled a little as I reflected on the circumstances of my appointment. ‘I don’t feel great about the other writer, the fellow they engaged first.’

Herbert waved his hand and ash sifted to the carpet. ‘Not your fault, Edie love. Percy Blythe wanted you – she’s only human.’

‘Having met her, I’m not so sure of that.’

He laughed and smoked and said, ‘The other fellow will get over it: all’s fair in love, war and publishing.’

I was quite certain the displaced writer bore me no love, but I hoped it wasn’t a case of war either. ‘Judith Waterman says he’s offered to hand over his notes. She’s sending them this afternoon.’

‘Well, then. That’s very decent of him.’

It most definitely was, but something else had occurred to me. ‘I won’t be leaving you in the lurch when I go, will I? You’ll be all right here by yourself?’

‘It will be difficult,’ he said, furrowing his brow with mock perseverance. Still, I suppose I must bear it bravely.’

I pulled a face at him.

He stood up and patted his pockets, feeling for his car keys. ‘I’m only sorry we’ve got the vet’s appointment and I won’t be here when the notes arrive. Mark the best bits, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

He called Jess to heel then leaned over to hold my face in his two hands, so firmly I could feel the tremors that lived inside them as he planted a whiskery kiss on each cheek. ‘Be brilliant , my love.’

The package from Pippin Books arrived by courier that afternoon, just as I was closing up shop. I debated taking the whole lot home, opening it in a steady, professional manner, then thought better of it. Jiggled the key in the lock, fired up the lights again and hurried back to my desk, tearing the parcel open as I went.

Two cassette tapes fell free as I fumbled an enormous stack of papers from inside. There were over a hundred pages, fastened neatly with a pair of bulldog clips. On top was a cover letter from Judith Waterman including a project brief, the crux of which read as follows:

NEW PIPPIN CLASSICS is an exciting new imprint of PIPPIN BOOKS that will bring a selection of our favourite classic texts to new readers and old. Re-jacketed with beautiful matching bindings, assorted decorative endpapers and all-new biographical introductions, the NPC titles promise to be a dynamic publishing presence in coming years. Beginning with Raymond Blythe’s The True History of the Mud Man , NPC titles will be numbered so that readers can enjoy collecting them all.

There was an asterisked handwritten note from Judith at the bottom of the letter:

Edie, what you write is, of course, up to you; however, in our initial briefing discussions we wondered whether, seeing as so much is already known about Raymond Blythe and because he was so reticent about his inspiration, it might be interesting to write the piece with a particular eye to the three daughters, posing and answering the question of what it was like to grow up in the place from which the Mud Man came.

You’ll see in the interview transcripts that our original writer, Adam Gilbert, has included detailed descriptions and impressions of his visits to the castle. You are most welcome to work from these, but you’ll no doubt wish to conduct your own research. In fact, Persephone Blythe was surprisingly amenable on that count, suggesting that you pay them a visit. (And it goes without saying that if she should choose to let slip the origins of the story we’d love for you to write that up for us!)

The budget isn’t huge but there’s sufficient remaining to fund a short stay in the village of Milderhurst.

We have made an arrangement with Mrs Marilyn Bird at the nearby Home Farm Bed and Breakfast. Adam was pleased with the standard and cleanliness of the room, and the tariff includes meals. Mrs Bird has advised of a four-night vacancy beginning October 31st, so when next we speak please let me know whether you’d like us to make a reservation.