The Backward Shadow Read Free

would help me if I asked him, of course, but I didn’t want to ask him. And I didn’t want Terry’s help, either, though he’d begged and begged me to let him give me an allowance. I felt a bit mean for refusing; I could see it would make his conscience infinitely easier if I let him pay something … but that would give him rights, would sanction his paternity, and I shrank from that. David was mine. I’d earned him all by myself—or at least, with no help from Terry—and I wasn’t going to let anyone horn in on him now if I could help it. I saw my fierce independence for the stubborn, unlovely thing it was, and didn’t flatter myself; but I could not deny it.
    I turned from the two discouraging red figures at the bottom of my bank statement to the other typewritten envelope. It had been forwarded from Fulham. I tore it open.
    Dear Miss Graham,
    Sorry I’ve been so long getting in touch with you about your aunt’s book, but I wanted to wait till I had something good and definite to tell you. Now I have. As I suspected, the English publishers, always inclined to be timorous, have all shaken their money-wise old heads (some with genuine regret, I think). So I tried across the water, and halleluia! one of the New York firms has come up with an offer. It’s a very good list, and your aunt can congratulate herself on landing in itwith her first book. They’re very enthusiastic, as you’ll see by the enclosed copy of their letter. Once it comes out there, I think it’ll undoubtedly find a place here too.
    Will you now ask your aunt to get in touch with me direct? I don’t seem to have her address. I’m simply longing to meet her. I still think it’s one of the most fascinating pieces of writing that’s ever come into my hands.
    Yours sincerely,
    Billie Lee
    I fell off the high stool, and tottered to the living-room to seek something more stable to sink into. The truth was, I’d forgotten all about the tough, hard-bitten little red-headed literary agent to whom I had taken Addy’s manuscript months and months ago. I remembered her now, though, clearly—small, tightly corsetted, smartly dressed and coiffured, three charm-bracelets jangling on one tiny wrist and a man’s watch incongruously strapped round the other. An impression of compactness, self-assurance and determination … Where had I heard of her? Oh yes, from Toby. She must be his agent … I read the letter again, letting my eyes slide over the final paragraph. I would think and feel about that later. After my first outburst of grief when Father told me of Addy’s death, I hadn’t shed one tear for her; it seemed oddly incongruous to mourn her here, where she still seemed alive. But now I was going to have to face those realisations which are a far sadder part of death than merely missing the person—those if-only-she-could-have-been-here-for-this regrets.
    But first the letter from the American publisher. I was disappointed to see it was a carbon copy on commonplace flimsy, not as I had hoped the impressive original on high-quality airmail paper. The letter itself was very dignified and restrained, quite English in fact—a far cry from the sort of uninhibited New World enthusiasm I would have expected from an American firm. But a genuine excitement was apparent between the lines. Secure in the knowledge of being alone, I read it aloud to Addy’s shade. I read Billie Lee’s letter aloud, too. Then I put them both in my apron pocket, went outinto the autumn garden, and wept.
    A lovely thing about living miles from anyone else is that you can cry out loud, luxuriously. How well I understand the Irish and other women, who wail and keen over their dead! How it helps, and how much more, instinctively, you feel you are paying tribute to your dead when you don’t bottle it up, but let it all come out with a lovely, mournful, anguished sound! I could