Death of a Unicorn

‘Is he really a mystery man?’ I said. ‘He sounds like one when you talk to him, but I’ve always assumed that people who talk like that are really utterly boring when you get to know them.’

‘He is a man of some mystery, but not total,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Naturally we have asked around. He appears to have been on the Control Commission in Germany. Two years ago he acquired a number of small companies specialising in the by-products of the sugar-refining industry, reorganised them into a group and sold them at a considerable profit. He is unmarried, but . . .’

He was interrupted by a bellow from along the corridor, only slightly muffled by the swing doors.

‘The laceration of laughter at what ceases to amuse,’ said Mr Duggan.

He waited for the sound of footsteps and then called, ‘In here, Jack, if you’re looking for Miss Millett.’

Mr Todd came shambling in, holding my paragraph at arm’s length in front of him, like a reprieve from the scaffold.

‘Get that set, Tom,’ he said. ‘Type as for Round, but a couple of ems less. I want it in a box, fancy rules, so readers learn to pick it out. Give it a lead in, make it clear it’s not by Cynthia Darke but is part of the Round. Right? And the girl’s got to have a name. Be with you in a second, Lady Margaret.’

He flapped out.

‘Stand-off,’ murmured Mr Duggan.

‘More like partial victory,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Jack has surprising resources of will. This is decidely interesting.’

Mr Duggan had started to read my paragraph. He looked up and glanced at me.

‘Decidedly,’ he said.

He went on reading. My heart was thudding absurdly. Whatever had happened between Mr Todd and Mrs Clarke, I realised that he hadn’t been only pretending to like what I’d written. Readers were going to learn to pick it out. That meant next week, and the week after . . . I felt I was living through one of the most crucial moments in my life.[1] It seemed desperately important that Mr Duggan should like it too, but he gave no sign. When he’d finished he looked up.

‘Did I hear right, what Jack called you?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

He nodded, apparently unimpressed, which was good, then picked up a pencil and made a couple of small marks on what I’d written.

‘She’d know there was a “c” in “luscious” wouldn’t she?’ he said. ‘She’d try and get it in somewhere.’

‘Oh, yes, I suppose so.’

‘What about a name?’

‘She’s based on a girl called Veronica.’

‘Libel. Ronnie, name for an illiterate young socialite. -ite, not -ist.’

‘Petronella.’

‘All right,’ I said.

‘You sound doubtful.’

‘I expect I’ll get used to it.’

‘We go to press Monday, so you’ve time to change your mind unless Bruce decides to order special type for the heading.’

‘What do you think? I mean, is it all right? Mr Todd seemed to like it.’

‘Jack’s got to keep his job,’ said Mr Smith.

I didn’t mind. He hadn’t read it. Mr Duggan had gone back to writing on the sheet of paper. He folded it carefully and put it in a brown manilla envelope, which he weighed in his hand.

‘I’ll pass an opinion when you’ve done six of them,’ he said, and tossed the envelope into a wire tray on the roll-top.

[1] I have just looked the paragraph up. There is nothing to it at all. Mysterious business. Once it must have been impregnated with the odour of its time, now clean gone. This is always the case. Writing my own books about the Edwardian period I have to mark each page with some pungent signal—a brand name, song, form of speech, public person or event in the news—in an attempt to bring the odour of period to life. Cheating, of course. Few people living in a period notice such things. Their real sense of their time is as unrecapturable as the momentary pose of a child.

III

It was a real job. I adored it from the very beginning.

This wasn’t only because it was new and interesting, though it was. But I’d had my row with Mummy, worse than I could have imagined, about taking it on, and for the first time ever I’d won. So it seemed like the beginning of freedom.

She hadn’t minded me working for Mrs Darling, because that wasn’t a real job; it certainly didn’t pay enough for me to be able to afford to live anywhere except at Charles Street. If anyone thinks it peculiar that the heir to a vast house and estate in Leicestershire, and another house in Mayfair, should have needed to think about things like that, all I can say is that Cheadle ate almost everything[1], and the rest was taken up with what Mummy thought important, such as bringing my sisters out. I had an allowance from the Trust till I was twenty-five, when I was due to inherit, but the Trustees were completely under Mummy’s thumb. She could stop it whenever she wanted. In fact she threatened to when I said I was going to Night and Day until I explained that Mr Todd was going to pay me as much as my allowance and Mrs Darling put together. I could actually have afforded (just) to rent a tatty little room in Pimlico or somewhere and move out of Charles Street altogether. I could have got away.