The New Sonia Wayward Read Free Page B

comfortably in his swivel-chair. ‘But when, bless her heart, is she anything else? It’s always a pleasure to see the new Sonia Wayward in the bookshops. Don’t you agree?’
    ‘I do.’
    Petticate spoke with conviction. Perhaps because he had been constrained to tell so many lies of late, he was emphatic wherever his sincerity could be unflawed.
    ‘Never tires.’
    ‘Never. This new book is entirely fresh.’
    ‘Fresh?’ A shade of misgiving, even of alarm, spread over Wedge’s features. ‘She’s not breaking new ground?’
    ‘No, no – nothing of the sort.’ Petticate hastily clarified his statement. ‘I mean merely that the writing has a wonderful quality of freshness. But the – um – general outlines are much as usual. In fact precisely as usual.’
    ‘Then that’s all right.’ Wedge beamed again. ‘Even one’s most reliable authors, you know, are liable to go right off the rails from time to time. Turn in something you’d never expect from them. Of course, it never does. Sells badly itself, and kills the succeeding book.’
    Petticate shook his head.
    ‘I’m sure Sonia will never do anything like that. Certainly not if I have anything to do with it.’
    ‘That’s fine. And you’re tremendously useful to her, I know.’ In an access of what appeared to be sheer affection, Wedge fished a cigar-box from a drawer and thrust it towards the husband of his esteemed authoress. ‘Havana,’ he said.
    Petticate registered his gratified awareness of this impressive circumstance, and took a cigar.
    ‘I’ve no doubt,’ he said, ‘that you have shocks from time to time.’
    ‘Lord, yes! Take Alspach. Your dear wife excepted’ – and Wedge offered Petticate a frankly conspiratorial grin – ‘Alspach is quite the most distinguished writer on my list.’
    Petticate gave the sudden harsh cackle that commonly preluded his occasional assertion of those superior standards of judgement with which Providence had endowed him.
    ‘Only one in your whole stable, my boy,’ he said.
    ‘I wouldn’t deny his being in a class by himself. In the running for an OM, and so forth. You know his books. Always the same richly sombre tone. The still sad music of humanity. Deep sadness, majestic gravity, unfaltering compassion. That was Alspach – as solemn as Mrs Humphry Ward, and a genius into the bargain. Then he had a spot of trouble at home.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Petticate offered conventionally.
    ‘So, of course, was I.’ Wedge paused. ‘From a personal point of view, that is to say. Professionally regarded, it looked like being all to the good. His wife went mad. His only boy was killed while climbing in the Alps. They put his poor old father, who must have been over eighty, in gaol. And then they told him that he himself was going incurably blind. Frankly, my dear chap, I expected by every post the Alspach that would put all previous Alspaches in the shade. The music stiller and sadder than ever, and everything else to match. Wasn’t that reasonable?’
    Petticate, although he was not very interested in Wedge’s Alspach, gave this question decent consideration.
    ‘Well, yes – unless the poor devil’s misfortunes simply silenced him.’
    ‘They didn’t. The manuscript came in, all right. But it was completely off the rails. Not Alspach at all. Sadness, gravity, compassion: he’d ditched the whole outfit. The book was a savage comedy, a diabolical farce. Did you ever hear anything as unaccountable as that?’
    ‘Absolutely never.’ Petticate spoke promptly. It was not his part, he reflected, to argue with this useful imbecile – particularly as there might be tricky times ahead. He improved the occasion by asking: ‘May I tell Sonia about Alspach? She’ll be terribly interested.’
    ‘Yes, of course. I wish she’d come up to town with you.’
    ‘Ah – that reminds me.’ Petticate appeared to hesitate. ‘Do you mind, my dear fellow, if I drop a word in your ear?’
    Wedge looked