The Silent Tide Read Free

story, but Emily couldn’t imagine how it must feel for a writer to know his future was behind him.
    And now her thoughts flew to the editorial meeting of the day before, in the old Regency boardroom with its views across Mayfair and its awful modern features – the long table of pale ashwood, the sleek plasma screen for presentations of budget figures and marketing plans.
    The Publisher, Gillian Bradshaw, a tall, willowy woman who ran on nervous energy, had glared round the table at the half-dozen editors present and asked whether any of them knew Hugh Morton’s work well. ‘We’re all familiar with The Silent Tide, of course. It’s a staple of our classics list. But what about the others?’
    ‘I’ve read The Silent Tide, naturally – find me someone who hasn’t,’ one of the fiction editors said in her sophisticated, world-weary fashion. ‘A TV adaptation is coming with Zara Collins playing Nanna. The fifties are still so popular.’ A couple of other editors murmured that they’d read The Silent Tide. After all, it was on schools’ reading lists. In the 1950s it was considered ground-breaking. ‘That’s the only one of his titles we own, isn’t it?’ she asked.
    ‘I’m not sure,’ Gillian replied. ‘It’s the only one in print, anyway. Morton had so many different publishers.’
    ’And kept falling out with them, I gather.’ The fiction editor gave one of her amused smiles and began to examine her long blue-polished fingernails.
    Emily, still feeling very new and needing to prove herself, said, ‘I’ve read three or four of the others. Our English teacher gave us an assignment. There was one set in the sixties, I remember, about a writers’ retreat on an island . . .’ She stopped, seeing that everyone was staring at her. She felt her face grow hot.
    ‘We’ll have to believe you there,’ Gillian said, looking over her glasses at Emily in a not unkind fashion. ‘I must admit that I, too, have only read The Silent Tide.’ She withdrew a crisp, cream-coloured sheet from her pile of papers and smoothed out the folds, then paused dramatically before continuing. ‘As you all know, Morton died two years ago. The funeral was just family, but I wrote to his widow, Jacqueline, to offer our sympathies. She’s sent me what I think is an interesting proposal.’
    She frowned as she scanned the letter. ‘Here we are: “You might know that my husband always resisted approaches from biographers, disdaining the modern lurid obsession with the purely personal. I have, however, been approached by a young man who has, I believe, the appropriate attitude to a writer of Hugh’s stature, and have allowed him access to Hugh’s private papers. The project being somewhat advanced, I should accordingly like to arrange a meeting with you. As the current publisher of The Silent Tide, I feel that you are the most appropriate home for Hugh’s biography.’
    Gillian stopped and looked directly at Emily. ‘Emily,’ she said, like a cat pouncing on a mouse, ‘since you’ve read more of the novels than the rest of us, I’d like you to follow this up. La Morton clearly wants someone to go and see her in Suffolk and I simply can’t spare the time at the moment.’
    ‘Surely a life of Morton wouldn’t exactly be a bestseller,’ said a young man with curly blond hair, tapping his pen on the table’s edge. Emily found his arrogant drawl irritating.
    ‘You’re possibly right, George, ‘ Gillian said, unruffled. ‘But I still think there’s more interest in him than you’d expect, and the TV adaptation will add to that. By the way, does anyone else remember that brilliant programme about Morton in the eighties?’ A couple of the older editors nodded. ‘‘You, George, would have been in nappies at the time.’ Everyone smiled and George gave a selfconscious snigger.
    ‘You’ll find the house absolutely fascinating,’ Gillian remarked to Emily as she pushed the letter across the table. Emily took it,