Fictional Lives Read Free Page A

Joe himself had often told her that if anything happened to him, if you weren’t around—or weren’t willing—to ‘do’ him, then no one else was to, and his papers were to be destroyed.
    Of course I realize you only met Brandon once, and could not consider yourself a friend, or even an acquaintance. And you have apparently never met Margaret. But I cannot forget that he was the only colleague of yours you had any respect for, that you did write some remarkable pieces on him in the past for the New York Review and the TLS, and that you both, to a remarkable degree, had similar backgrounds. Both expatriate Americans, both raised as Catholics, and both from the South. (Yet neither of you ‘Southern’ or ‘Catholic’ writers.) Added to which—as must be obvious— you were the only fellow writer whom Brandon himself admired; and indeed only three months ago he asked me if I had heard from you, and said that your stopping writing had always seemed a tragedy to him.
    So—what do you think? I realize that if you accept this commission it will involve your coming to London, and possibly returning to the States; neither of which is likely to please you. Nevertheless, I would beg you to give the matter your most serious consideration. For (apart from the fact that Margaret seems quite serious in her intention to destroy the papers if you don’t accept) I am convinced that only you could do full justice to Joe Brandon—and even more convinced that only you, while doing full justice to him, could write a book that is, if you’ll excuse the expression, a work of art in its own right.
    I look forward to hearing from you. My best regards to Maisie and yourself, As ever, Christopher.
    Tina’s first reaction, once she had finished this—and once she had recovered from her surprise—was, of course, to dismiss  the idea as preposterous, and forget all about it. She write a biography indeed! Her second reaction however—that came to her as she strode through the narrow streets back to the car—was that she should discuss the matter with Maisie. For while she was naturally tempted to act on impulse, and justify that impulse later, Maisie was not only far more cautious, but also, she had come to believe over the last eight years, of rather sounder judgement than herself.
    Not, in this case, that she doubted what her friend would say.
    *
    She was wrong though. Maisie, that evening, advised acceptance.
    ‘It’ll do you good to get away,’ she said. ‘You’ve been cooped up here too long.’
    They were sitting in their small book-lined living room; and Tina felt tears come into her eyes.
    ‘I can’t possibly leave,’ she protested. ‘Apart from anything else, who would take care of everything?’
    ‘Who do you think?’ Maisie smiled. ‘I’m quite capable, you know.’
    ‘Yes, of course I know. Only—’
    Only she didn’t like to admit it. One of the understandings of their life together was that she, so tall and square, with her crop of blonde hair, was the strong one, the one who looked after the physical side of things; while quiet, pale, sandy-coloured Maisie, who was ten years her senior, who didn’t like to go out in the summer because of the insects, and who spent most of her life behind netting, was good only for buying newspapers, doing accounts, and—at a pinch—feeding cats and dogs. This did overlook the fact that Maisie had spent twenty years of her life working as a doctor in the slums of Bombay, whereas until they had moved here Tina Courtlandhad never done anything more practical than buy cut flowers and lift a pen to paper. But somehow—
    ‘And it’s not as if we don’t have help here, or that you’d be away for long. You’d only have to go to London for a couple of months probably. Talk to the wife and friends, make copies of any letters or papers you think are relevant. Then you can come back here and work in peace.’
    ‘But I don’t want to work. I’ve said all I have to say,