I'll Never Be Young Again (41 page)

‘Your mother told me she had no idea what the speech was to be about. He had not even spoken of it to her.’

‘I wonder if I could keep this?’ I said.

‘I think your mother meant his papers to be untouched, Richard.’

I laid the sheet back upon the desk.

‘I had never realized,’ said Grey, ‘that this library was such a peaceful room. I can understand your father was able to work here. No sound, no disturbance, and then in summer the long windows open on to the lawn.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

Then we went out, and I shut the door behind me. We stood in the hall, warming our hands before the fire.

‘What do you suppose you will do, Richard?’ asked Grey.

‘I’ve made no plans,’ I said; ‘I’m not going back to Paris.’

‘There will be no need for you to worry about money, of course,’ he said.

‘That’s being premature, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘No, I don’t think so. I think you will find your father has left you everything.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’

‘He showed me his will once, Richard, about a year ago. I don’t believe he altered it since.’

‘A year ago?’

‘Yes.’

A year ago I had written to him for help and he had sent me a cheque for five hundred pounds, but no letter. ‘Did my father ever speak to you about me?’ I said.

‘No, Richard.’

‘Never? Not after I went away, not last year, never, at any time?’

‘No, Richard.’

I went on warming my hands at the fire. ‘I don’t want money,’ I said; ‘if what you say is true, Mother can have all that, to keep up the place. I think, after all, she is right to wish it so, as if he were still here.’

‘You must get something definite to do,’ said Grey, ‘you must come and live in London. Have you given up all thought of writing?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, that’s over.’

‘Have you ever thought of going into the City?’ said Grey.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

‘I could give you a letter of introduction to Sir Malcolm Fordryd. You’ve heard of him, I suppose?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘He’s a big banker. If you started with him, in his firm, it might be the beginning of something, Richard. Bit of a grind at first, perhaps. Office hours, you know, steady work.The regular routine of many men. I believe it would be the thing for you.’

‘It’s very kind of you,’ I said. ‘I shall have to think about it.’

‘You could find a comfortable flat in town,’ said Grey, ‘you would go about, you would meet interesting people.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You’re no longer a boy, you know; you’ll have to make something of your life.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘If you would like it, I would suggest you let me put you up for my club.You’ll need a good club if you live in town,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ I said.

After a while the dressing gong was sounded.

‘You had better go up and have your bath,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I paused on the corridor, hesitating a moment before I went to my room in the West wing.Then I walked slowly in the opposite direction, and I stood outside my father’s room. Softly I turned the handle. The room was in darkness. I felt my way across, and switched on the light above the bed. He lay there, his face unchanged, the same as he had always been. Only now his eyes were closed. They did not stare up at me as I had feared.

I wondered whether he was really there, sleeping and untroubled, or whether he had gone away. I wondered why he should have given me his body, and kept from me his mind. I wished that he could have left some message for me, some word to show me he had understood. Something for me alone. Not his money. Instead I must be content with four words written on a scrap of paper to a group of young men he had never known, a strange farewell. I would leave him here, in his home, in his own atmosphere, created for himself; I would leave him with my mother, with the house and the hushed garden, quiet, in this sleep I could not understand. I would not disturb him, nor meddle with the papers on his desk. All that I would take with me would be the memory of a scribbled message - faint words - that he had not left for me. ‘. . . the courage to endure. . . .’ So I turned away, and put his calm dead face from my mind, and I went along the dark passage to my room to dress.

11

I
like living in London. There is a peace about it that I have never found in any other place. My flat looks down upon a little square, and there is a garden in the middle of this, a lawn and trees. The sound of the traffic does not come to me up here.

My flat is very comfortable, and I have a man to look after me. He sees to my things. He keeps me in order. We have long conversations about people and places. Ernest Grey found him for me.

Grey has been a great friend to me. He found me the flat too, and he gave me an introduction to Sir Malcolm Fordryd, the banker. I think I ought to do quite well in time. As Grey said, the work at first seemed a little tedious and long. I like it now, though. The regular hours suit me, and it is interesting, too. Apparently Fordryd told Grey he was very pleased with me, and I showed promise of doing things. I find this distinctly encouraging.

Grey put me up for his club. I dine there most evenings. Fellows there have been extraordinarily kind. I go out often, I know many people. Sometimes I remember what Jake said about me being successful one day. I suppose it will come true. It’s all very different, of course, from what I dreamed. But then dreams are apart from the business of living; they are things we shed from us gently as we grow older.

Jake would smile if he saw me now. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said. He was never wrong. I think he always knew what would happen to me. Adventure and excitement, sorrow and love, they were all phases of my life that had to be.

Jake and the sea, Paris and Hesta, my writing, too: they were only phases - that, and no more.

I found my MS. the other day at the bottom of a drawer. I sat up one evening and looked through it. I laughed a great deal. I wondered how I could possibly have written it. It did not sound like me at all. There was an old snap-shot of Hesta, too, torn half across. One that was taken at Barbizon. I had forgotten she used to wear her hair so short. I put it back with the MS. at the bottom of the drawer. It’s rather nice to look over these things.

The other day, after leaving the City, I drove to the bridge across the river where I had stood the first time with Jake. It was an evening, too, and the sun setting behind the spires, throwing great crimson patches on the water. I realized then something of the peace of London, the dim buildings shrouded in a haze, the beauty of the tired sky, the strength of the dome of St Paul’s against a stray white cloud. The water ran beneath the bridge brown and swift, as it had run before. And once there was a boy who leant against this bridge, and dreamt of adventure, and the sea, the shouting of men, the call of strange countries, ships, and the loveliness of women.

I stood there for quite a little while, remembering my dreams. Looking back, I suppose I wasted my years. Maybe I spoilt the beauty of youth, let it slip through my fingers, shut my eyes to the swift passage. If it came again perhaps it would be different - I wonder. Whatever happens, though, I shall have had my time. It cannot be taken from me.

I am happier now than I have ever been. The restlessness has gone, the indecision and also the great heights of exultation, the strange depths of desolation. I am secure now, and certain of myself. There is peace and contentment.

From my window I look down upon the little square. The trees are green in the garden opposite. There is the clean, fresh smell of an evening after rain. Somewhere, on one of the branches of the trees, I can hear a bird singing. A note that sounds from a long way off, sweet and clear, like a whisper in the air. And there is something beautiful about it, and something sad. At first he is lost, and then he is happy again. Sometimes he is wistful, sometimes he is glad.

He seems to be saying; ‘I’ll never be young again - I’ll never be young again.’

 

London, June-July, 1930.

Myself When Young

Daphne du Maurier

 

With an Introduction by Helen Taylor

 

Both her novels and her non-fiction reveal Daphne du Maurier’s overwhelming desire to explore her family’s history. In
Myself When Young
, based on diaries that she kept from 1920-1932, the most famous du Maurier probes her own past, beginning with her earliest memories and encompassing the publication of her first book and her subsequent marriage. Here, the writer is open and sometimes painfully honest about the difficult relationship with her father; her education in Paris; early love affairs; her antipathy towards London life and the theatre; her intense love for Cornwall and her desperate ambition to succeed as a writer. The resulting portrait is of a captivating and complex character.

 

‘A writer of dark, intense power’ -
Sally Beauman

The Glass-Blowers

Daphne du Maurier

 

With an Introduction by Michelle de Kretser

 

‘Perhaps we shall not see each other again. I will write to you, though, and tell you, as best I can, the story of your family. A glass-blower, remember, breathes life into a vessel, giving it shape and form and sometimes beauty, but he can with that same breath, shatter and destroy it.’

 

Faithful to her word, Sophie Duval reveals to her long-lost nephew the tragic story of a family of master craftsmen in eighteenth-century France.

 

The world of the glass-blowers has its own traditions, its own language - and its own rules.‘If you marry into glass’ Pierre Labbé warns his daughter, ‘you will say goodbye to everything familiar, and enter a closed world’. But crashing into the world comes the violence and terror of the French Revolution, against which the family struggle to survive.

 

The Glass-Blowers
is a remarkable achievement - an imaginative and exciting reworking of du Maurier’s own family history.

Mary Anne

Daphne du Maurier

 

With an Introduction by Lisa Hilton

 

In Regency London, the only way for a woman to succeed is to beat men at their own game. So when Mary Anne Clarke seeks an escape from her squalid surroundings in Bowling Inn Alley, she ventures first into the scurrilous world of the pamphleteers. Her personal charms are such, however, that before long she comes to the notice of the Duke of York.

 

With her taste for luxury and power, Mary Anne, now a royal mistress, must aim higher. Her lofty connections allow her to establish a thriving trade in military commissions, provoking a scandal that rocks the government - and brings personal disgrace.

 

A vivid portrait of overweening ambition,
Mary Anne
is set during the Napoleonic Wars and based on du Maurier’s own great-great-grandmother.