Unholy Crusade Page 5

  A week later an airmail letter reached him. The book was selling splendidly. To take advantage of its success it should be followed up with another next spring, so it was hoped that he had one well on the way to completion. His presence in England could be helpful in getting his name established. Money had been cabled to his credit at the American Express and he was urged to return home as soon as possible.

  Overjoyed at this good news, Adam promptly moved to more comfortable quarters and booked a passage on a ship that was sailing for Liverpool the following week. Now he cursed himself for not having foreseen that, on the chance that his first book would do well, he ought to have another ready to send in; and for all the wasted hours he might have been working on it, instead of devoting his time to learning Spanish, then sitting about miserably in Recife.

  Filled with enthusiasm, he went to work at once and roughed out a plot. It was based on his recent voyage and a love affair between a fictional First Mate in a ship and a young Brazilian girl passenger who was heiress to millions.

  By the time he sailed he had written two chapters and on the voyage over he wrote a further six. Well before he arrived in England he had decided there was no point in his returning either to Scotland or Southampton, so he would live in London. When he arrived there the rents appalled him, but he settled for a bed-sitter, bathroom and kitchenette, which he felt he could afford, in Wandsworth. Then, living on eggs, tinned food and frequent brews of tea, he renewed his literary labours, working twelve hours a day.

  Soon after his return he was taken to lunch by his publisher, an elderly gentleman with a benign countenance but cynical turn of mind, named Winters. From Mr. Winters, Adam learned the hard facts of authorship as a career. It was the worst paid of all professions. He must not be misled by the incomes made by such writers as Agatha Christie, Somerset Maugham, Dennis Wheatley, Ian Fleming, and a few others of that kind. They could be counted on the fingers of two hands. Over eighty new novels were published every week. Many of them had entailed two or three years’ work, but earned their authors only a few hundred pounds, because ninety per cent of their sales were to libraries, which meant that they received about two shillings’ royalty on a book that would be read by scores of people.

  There was also the matter of ‘build-up’. However successful a first novel might be, unless it were filmed it would bring its author less than a leading barrister received for one case, or a Harley Street surgeon for two or three private operations. It was not until an author was established with eight or ten well-received books behind him, and a reasonable assurance that they would continue to be reprinted as paperbacks, that he could count on an income on the level of that of a bank manager in a not particularly rich suburban area.

  Mr. Winters went on to advise that no author could count on a first success as warrant for taking up full-time authorship. Far better get a steady job, even if it meant producing one book every two years, instead of two or three. Then, after a period, it would emerge whether the author was really a big-shot and could afford only to write for a living, or whether he was one of the thousands who gave all their leisure to providing entertainment for the public for a sum per book that could not have got them two minutes in a cinema.

  All this was new to Adam and he protested indignantly that the reading public should be made to pay at least a halfpenny per copy for every book they took out of the Free Libraries. Mr. Winters shrugged his shoulders, laughed and replied:

  ‘A. P. Herbert and others have been trying for years to get a law to that effect through Parliament. But they are lone voices crying in the wilderness. The big-shot politicians don’t give a damn for justice. All they think about is whether or not a measure might cost their party votes; and to make the British masses pay even a trifle for their reading would. So full-time authors, except those in the first rank, continue to eke out their existence on a few hundred a year, and most of our M.P.s couldn’t care less. Now, my friend, Across the Green Seas has done exceptionally well for a first novel, but if you are wise you will get yourself a steady job.’

  Considerably chastened, Adam returned to Wandsworth. On the voyage home he had had pleasant day-dreams of being received in England as a literary lion, invited here and there as the guest of honour and hearing his name on everyone’s lips. Now it emerged that that did not happen after just one successful book, and he might even have to get some other form of regular work to support himself. But, apart from journalism, he had no experience or qualifications which would get him a reasonably well-paid post. Rather than become a drudge on a pittance, he decided to spend his days and nights flogging his talent for all he was worth.

  Imbued with the new, fervid flame of creation he turned out story after story and scores of articles on topical subjects. Some were bad, some indifferent, but enough had something in them for several Fleet Street editors to become interested. Within three months he had established a connection and was earning just sufficient money to keep his head above water.

  It was at that time that a new element entered his life in the person of Mildred Soames.

  He met her at a party given by his publishers. Far from being the ‘lion’ at it, he was just ‘one of our authors’. But Mildred had read his book and showed wide-eyed interest in him. She was a dark, slim, fine-boned young woman with small, well-chiselled features and would have been nearly beautiful in a classic way had it not been for her protruding teeth. Physically and mentally she was the very antithesis of Polly and the only attraction she had for Adam was her evident enthusiasm about his work. Pleasantly flattered as he was at finding her to be a ‘fan’, he did not take her praise very seriously until it emerged that her husband was the firm’s representative in the northern counties, and that for some years past she had been reading manuscripts and advising on their acceptance or rejection.

  Her husband was not at the party and she went on to convey that, as he had to spend the greater part of the year on his rounds of the booksellers in the north, she led a rather dreary life. This emboldened Adam to suggest that if she had no other plans she might care to go on somewhere with him to dinner. She accepted with alacrity and when he confessed with some embarrassment that he knew very little about London restaurants she suggested a place in Chelsea at which they dined snugly but inexpensively.

  By the time they were having coffee the small, dark, intense Mildred was extracting from her large, shy, Viking-like companion full particulars of his ambitions, circumstances and present impecunity. Promptly she offered her assistance. She read not only for his publisher but also for several magazines, so was in a position to introduce his work to their editors.

  This necessitated their meeting again on numerous occasions: at first over a drink or for dinner, then in her Chelsea flat. On the third occasion he went there he found that her husband had returned to London on one of his monthly visits to report sales. His name was Bertie and he proved to be a short, fat, jovial-faced man. Mildred had already told Adam that, as Bertie was seldom at home, he made no objection to her having friendships with other men, so he had heard from her all about her new ‘literary discovery’ and gave Adam a hearty welcome.

  In fact Adam found it embarrassingly hearty, for the exuberant Bertie not only plied him with much more gin than he was used to, but slapped him on the back, referred to him as his wife’s new ‘boy friend’ and proceeded to launch into his latest repertoire of questionable stories.

  Mildred, failing to head him off, looked down her well-modelled little nose with obvious disapproval, and it was evident to Adam that any great affection that might once have existed between the couple had long since been dissipated.

  At their next meeting Mildred confided to Adam that she had good reason to believe that Bertie was unfaithful to her during his absences in the north, and that they continued together only as a matter of convenience. He liked to be able to return to a comfortable home of his own to which he could invite his friends, while she was the gainer by the generous allowance he made
her and by living in a better flat than she could otherwise have afforded.

  Meanwhile, as the manuscript of Adam’s second book had not yet gone to press, she had been through it with a tooth-comb, cutting out many of the passages about the sea and expanding those concerning the love interest. He did not approve all her alterations, but accepted them because she assured him that she knew best. People, she said, did not want to read long descriptions of tempests and ill-feeling between ship’s officers; they had, to her mind, a childlike absorption in sexual urges and the moves that eventually led to people getting into bed together.

  Nine months later, owing largely to Mildred’s connections, Adam was making quite a good income. It was not spectacular and, with Scottish caution, he refused to abandon his bed-sitter in Wandsworth for better quarters; but he had been able to refurnish his seedy wardrobe with new and smarter clothes and, more and more frequently, take Mildred out to dinner and a theatre or movie.

  At last the big day came when The Sea and the Siren was published. That night, to celebrate, they dined and danced at the Savoy. Afterwards he took her back to her flat and went in for a last drink. It was a very long time since he had had his affaire with Polly and in recent months he had increasingly toyed with the idea of trying to find a girl whom he could care for and who would be willing to take him as her lover. Mildred had given him the impression that she despised that sort of thing, and he had never even kissed her. But that night both of them had drunk much more than they were accustomed to carry. On a sudden impulse he put his arms round her as they sat on the sofa. She protested, but only feebly. His caresses did not seem to rouse her and she refused his plea to undress and allow him to go to bed with her, but, eventually, still on the sofa, she let him have his way.

  In the small hours of the morning he walked back from Chelsea to Wandsworth. He felt none of the elation he had experienced after his first night with Polly; only a relaxed feeling and a vague uneasiness about how the thing he had started might develop.

  Next morning he sent flowers. Later that day Mildred telephoned her thanks and asked him to come in for a drink the following evening. By then he had recovered sufficiently to feel better about things. He thought it probable that Mildred’s lack of enthusiasm was due to Bertie’s having mishandled matters on their honeymoon, as it was said that many women suffered from a lasting reaction on that account. But he had again acquired a mistress, and one who shared all his interests, made a charming companion and had an apparently complaisant, virtually absentee husband; so, given time and patience, he felt that the future could hold much happiness for them both.

  When he arrived at the Soames’ flat, Mildred opened the door to him. Her large eyes were intense, her prominent teeth flashed in a sudden, rather coy, smile and she said in a low voice:

  ‘Come in, darling. Bertie’s back from the north for a few nights, and I’ve told him about us.’

  For a few seconds Adam did not take in the implications of what she had said. Then he was seized with an impulse to turn and run. But by that time he was inside and advancing towards the open door of the sitting room with Mildred blocking his retreat.

  A moment later he was confronting the rotund Bertie, who gave him a look more of pain than anger, and said with a shake of his head, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it of you, young feller. You didn’t strike me as that sort, and I thought Mil was content to go on as things were. I suppose it’s largely my fault for not having insisted on her coming up to Manchester so that I could be with her much more frequently. But there it is. These things do happen, and Mil tells me that you’ve fallen for one another. Well, I’m not one to stand in the way of other people’s happiness. She can have her divorce and I’m sure you’ll do the right thing by the little woman.’

  Swallowing a lump in his throat, Adam stammered, ‘Yes … oh, yes. Of course.’ Upon which Bertie suddenly became quite cheerful, began to mix Martinis for the three of them and declared:

  ‘That’s settled, then. I’m glad we can all remain friends. All we have to do now is to work out ways and means so that we can get things tidied up with a minimum of fuss and bother.’

  It then transpired that Bertie was willing to give Mildred ‘grounds’ on the understanding that she made no claim for alimony and that, apart from her personal possessions, he retained the contents of the flat. He added, with disarming generosity, that until the divorce came through he would remain in the north, so Adam was welcome to move into the flat if he wished.

  They then shelved the subject, made a determined pretence that it had never arisen and, with somewhat forced cheerfulness, dined together at a nearby restaurant.

  Adam got away as soon as he decently could, and walked home with his mind in a whirl. Later, lying in bed, he made a fairly shrewd appreciation of the situation. The full-blooded and gregarious Bertie was thoroughly tired of his earnest and puritanical-minded wife; he had, therefore, jumped at this chance to be rid of her at no financial loss to himself. She, too, was thoroughly tired of him and, as his future held no particular promise, had seized on this opportunity to swap him for an author who was a potential best-seller and in due course, might become a distinguished and wealthy husband.

  Much as Adam took pleasure in Mildred’s company, he was not in the least in love with her and he had no wish to be married to anyone. Yet it seemed that, like it or not, he had landed himself with her. Short of cutting loose and disappearing, he saw no way to evade the course that was being thrust upon him. She had become his main contact with the editors who provided him with a living. Moreover, having been taken off his guard, instead of having had the courage to make his feelings about her clear, he had rashly promised Bertie to do the right thing by the ‘little woman’.

  Greatly troubled, he eventually fell asleep, vaguely hoping that something might arise that would enable him to wriggle out of his obligation.

  But next morning the ground was cut from beneath his feet. Mildred arrived at his lodging, kissed him with unexpected fervour and took charge of matters. She said that Bertie had gone, so Adam could move into her flat.

  In vain he protested that to do so might queer the divorce and that her good name would suffer with her neighbours. Mildred replied that in these days there were so many divorces that the King’s Proctor had not the means to investigate one per cent of them and that, as she and Adam were to be married as soon as the divorce was through, her neighbours were quite liberal-minded enough to look on them as turtle-doves rather than as adulterers. She then made Adam pay his landlady a week’s rent in lieu of notice, packed his belongings for him and carried him off.

  Once they had settled down, Adam was much happier than he had expected to be. He enjoyed many small comforts that he had previously lacked, and in bed, although she was no Polly, Mildred gave herself to him willingly. Having had little experience of sleeping with women he accepted it that her limitations were normal in contrast to Polly’s, whose amorous abandon he now put down to her having been a nymphomaniac.

  Nevertheless, after some months their initial contentment was to be marred by increasingly bad news from the literary front. Adam’s second book proved a flop. It had been well subscribed; but the reviews ranged from indifferent to downright bad, and in its first three months it sold less than thirty per cent of the copies that Across the Green Seas had in the same period.

  Mildred railed against the critics and remained convinced that Adam had the makings of a best-seller. Together they laboured on his third book in which, for background, he used his experiences as a crime reporter in Southampton. Again she insisted on inserting lush passages describing the hero’s affaires with several young women. Reluctantly he accepted them, while marvelling that a woman who could write of sexual encounters with such gusto should, herself, be comparatively cold.

  This was more than ever borne in on him after the divorce came through. They were married quietly a week later at Chelsea Town Hall, and moved to a smaller flat in the same neighbourhood which they had b
een decorating and furnishing as their new home. That night, although they had had only half a dozen friends in for drinks, she declared herself too tired to let him make love to her. And from then on their relations in that way steadily worsened.

  Mildred began to suffer from migraines and backache. When Adam became sufficiently wrought up to press her she submitted; but reluctantly, and with the air of a martyr, so that he was left with the guilty feeling that he had behaved like a brute. Clearly she derived no enjoyment from it and for him it became only a hard-won temporary satisfaction. Bitterly, he came to the conclusion that she had exerted herself to give him pleasure before their marriage only to keep him on the hook. Twice when she flatly refused him he lost his temper, seized her with his big hands by the shoulders and shook her until her teeth chattered, then took her by force; but afterwards he was thoroughly ashamed of himself and begged her forgiveness.

  A fortnight after he sent in the manuscript of his third novel, Mr. Winters asked him to lunch at the Garrick, and there took him to task. Over the coffee he said:

  ‘We are taking After Dusk in Southampton because the success of your first novel will still enable your name on a book to show us a margin of profit. But it’s not going to get you anywhere. Now tell me, how much of it is you and how much is Mildred?’

  Adam admitted that Mildred had had a considerable hand in it, particularly with the love sequences.

  Mr. Winters gave his cynical grin. ‘I thought as much, and to you as an author your wife is a menace. She is a competent reader and good enough to recognise the big stuff when she sees it; hence her appreciation of your first novel. But her real flair is for light romance: the triangle fiction that goes down well with young girls and frustrated spinsters. Its sales are entirely to the libraries and its authors are almost unknown. But the ones that Mildred picks always show a profit. Not much, but it is bread-and-butter publishing that helps to keep the firm going. Some writers are naturals at turning out such trash. But you are not, and your new book is neither flesh, fowl nor good red herring. Snap out of it, dear boy. Go home and tell Mildred to put her head in a pudding cloth, then sit down to it and write me a really good book.’