CHAPTER TEN

Through the open window of Rebecca Tonks' bedroom that evening, a mellow sun could be seen slowly disappearing behind a cluster of beech trees in the horizontal distance, its deep red glow mingling with their branches and bestowing upon them a sort of solar halo of such splendour ... as to transform an otherwise mundane scene into something startlingly supernatural and 'more deeply interfused', in Wordsworthian parlance, than even the deep glow of its own mellow setting. To Anthony Keating, the view from Rebecca's bed, where he lay with his back to the wall, was indeed enchanting, though insufficiently so, alas, to entirely erase the memory of what had recently happened to him, or to alter his depressed mood to one of passive, quasi-blissful receptivity. On the contrary, there occurred to him, in the sunset of this particular Friday evening in August, a symbol of his own life - a 'day' which was over and another 'day' which had yet to begin. Doubtless the Australian continent would soon be flooded by light from the very same sun which, at this moment in time, appeared to be on the verge of extinction.

But what of his own life? What sun would initiate a new 'day' there and thus grant him a fresh start, one that began where the offices of 'Arts Monthly' left off? And would it be a longer or a shorter 'day', one that lasted for weeks or months or even years? He flinched at the thought of years. Yet if one could do something one enjoyed doing, of what use would weeks or months be? As if time was the all-important factor! Perhaps, after all, tomorrow would be better than yesterday - brighter, fuller, warmer, more encouraging? No more embarrassing interviews with stuffy atonal composers or last-minute reviews of crazy non-representational artists! And what a crazy non-representational artist Alan Connolly had been! Not merely content to indulge in the more traditionally fashionable non-representational developments, but a paradoxical surrealist, to boot! A nostalgic crank who evidently imagined himself the natural heir of Ernst Fuchs and only succeeded in proving himself no better than a second-rate René Magritte! Really, it was a wonder he had been allowed to exhibit at all, even given the fact that his work wasn't exclusively confined to Surrealism or, at any rate, to his own rather interiorized and intellectualized brand of it, but also embraced a little Abstract Expressionism and Op Art as well. But the latter were hardly better, under the circumstances of their unorthodox treatment, than the more blatant anachronisms on display, and only succeeded in disillusioning Keating with the entire exhibition and inducing him, with Rebecca's prompting, to postpone his review until the following day, by which time the telephone call from Wilder had necessitated yet another postponement. Still, there was something amusing - one might even say gratifying - about seeing the belated review of Catherine Williams' paintings in the latest edition of 'Arts Monthly', particularly in light of the fact that few people outside the immediate college circles from which she hailed would have heard of her, and scarcely anyone took any interest in her work, which was overly representational and thus of a conservatism which made even Connolly's art appear radical, if from a reactionary point of view.

This last-minute replacement by Webb was really quite diverting! One couldn't even be certain that Cathy Williams would approve of it. But, there again, one couldn't be certain that she would care anything about the magazine anyway, since it wasn't exactly a matter of life-and-death to most contemporary artists. The only people who seemed to take it seriously stemmed, as a rule, from the commercial bourgeoisie; people who only turned to the arts in their spare time, as a substitute, more often, for the absence of spiritual creativity in their lives, a sort of surrogate culture, if you will, and even they weren't beyond writing abusive and sometimes threatening letters whenever opinions or philosophies contrary to their own appeared in print, which, unfortunately for the magazine, happened all-too-frequently! Yet, as far as Keating was concerned, all that was a thing of the past. As also, thank God, was the humiliating experience with Webb, even though it lingered-on in the memory and slightly poisoned his feelings. What mattered now was the new 'day' that had yet to begin, and whether or not Webb would approve of it didn't matter a jot!

He smiled faintly as the thought of his new freedom suddenly dawned upon him with the sun's final setting. The branches of those trees in the distance which, a short while ago, had been wreathed in a red halo of almost supernatural significance ... were slowly returning to their customary twilight appearance - devoid of even the slightest transcendent connotations. Within a little while they would disappear from view altogether, like the sun itself, swallowed-up by the impenetrable camouflage of night. And so, too, would the contents of Rebecca's room, if he didn't switch the light on.

Yes, what a pleasant room it was really, even more pleasant with the light bulb shining and the curtains drawn on unacceptable darkness! The armchair, table, bed, dressing-table, and wardrobe all seemed to him so reassuring at this moment! It was impossible to imagine them apart from Rebecca, to conceive of them as belonging to anyone else. Everything in the room appeared to have been fashioned specifically for her, to bear the hallmarks of her personality, to be in league with her against the outside world, which even included the rest of the house. There could be no question of one's confounding Rebecca's bedroom with anyone else's. It was virtually a work of art - the kind of art which, in its domesticity, mostly appeals to women.

The creaky sound of the door handle turning startled him from these smug reflections and brought him the reassuring sight of Rebecca re-entering a room she had vacated some fifteen minutes ago. He smiled his approval of her return and moved a little to one side in order to make room for her on the bed.

"I'm sorry my friend kept me so long on the phone," she murmured, as she scrambled up beside him and threw an arm round his neck. "Unfortunately, she's such a chatterbox that I always have to listen to her for at least ten minutes, especially when I haven't seen or heard from her for a few days." She was of course referring to Margaret, the blonde whom Keating had seen in her sunbathing company that first afternoon he arrived at the Tonks' residence. "Incidentally, my father would like to see you before you leave for home this evening," she added.

"What-on-earth about?" exclaimed Keating, suddenly becoming a shade apprehensive, since the prospect of seeing Mr Tonks again gave him what might be described as the honky-tonks blues.

"He didn't specify, but I suspect it has to do with the cancellation of that interview you told me to tell him about yesterday."

Keating reluctantly nodded in regretful agreement and simultaneously permitted a faint sigh to emerge from between his lips. Yes, it would almost certainly be about the interview, the cancellation of which could hardly be guaranteed to flatter a man who had put so much time and effort into giving it! Here was yet another inconvenience for Mr Tonks to live with, yet another insult to his professional reputation. As if what he had already experienced wasn't bad enough! And, to cap it all, Keating had been unable to break the news of Webb's decision to him face-to-face but had relied upon Rebecca to do so, and to do so, moreover, as late as the day before, since he had spent the greater part of the Tuesday and Wednesday evenings deliberating over whether to break any news at all. Only when she had telephoned him at his Croydon flat, late Thursday evening, and asked why she hadn't heard from him in the meantime, did he permit himself to confess to what had happened and then request her to inform her father. So it was with some reluctance that he accepted an invitation to visit her the following day, accepted it under the understanding that Mr and Mrs Tonks had given her permission to invite him. For, much as he wanted to see her again and secretly flattered though he was that her parents were resigned to his returning, he felt distinctly apprehensive at the prospect of what Mr Tonks would say to him about the cancelled interview when he actually arrived.

As it transpired, however, Mr Tonks hadn't said anything, being otherwise engaged when Keating was admitted into the house just over an hour ago. Nevertheless, he evidently had something in mind, and Rebecca's guest wasn't particularly happy at the prospect of having to hear it. Quite the contrary, he was convinced that this further blow to the composer's self-esteem wouldn't serve to improve relations between them. It might even result in his being prohibited from ever setting foot in Tonkarias again.

"Don't look so worried, Tony," murmured Rebecca, lightly stroking his nearest cheek. "He didn't seem that annoyed when I mentioned it to him."

"He didn't?"

"No, he was simply sorry to learn that you'd been dismissed from the magazine," she revealed. "Besides, it's my entire fault anyway. My fault from the beginning. Had I not lost my heart to you, none of this would have happened."

"I don't regret anything," Keating hastened to assure her. "It was worth being dismissed over you - worth every damn minute of it. In fact, I'm confident that, if one could reverse time, I'd do exactly the same thing again - even with a foreknowledge of the outcome." He smiled boldly and, catching hold of her hand, kissed it tenderly. "Yes, I would," he repeated, staring affectionately at her.

Rebecca reciprocated his smile. "You're an incorrigible romantic!" she opined on a note of gentle reproof. "But I still love you."

He squeezed her boldly against himself and applied his lips to hers. It was some consolation that they were together and that she loved him. He had always wanted to be loved by someone he thought it would be possible to love in return, someone he respected as an equal. Until then, he had never had that luck. Women there had of course been, but not the sort of women, alas, with whom he could have fallen in love! Here, at last, was the promise of what circumstances had hitherto denied him, and he was grateful for it - more grateful than words could express. For without love for another person, life was scarcely worth living. What did it profit one if one climbed to the top of the professional ladder in a prestigious concern like 'Arts Monthly', only to return home each night to an empty and loveless room? What was the point of achieving one's professional ambitions if they weren't justified by concern for someone else? Did one work for the mere sake of working? No, of course not! Work-for-work's sake was fundamentally as perverse and self-defeating as art-for-art's sake or power-for-power's sake, and eventually led to the same barren dead-end. It was indeed an ironic commentary on his life that, all the while he had been diligently slaving for Webb, he was without love, love for another person, and had lost his job primarily over the very thing that would have given meaning to and justified it - namely, Rebecca. And now that he was on the verge of discovering love ... yes, how paradoxical life could be! One of these days he might understand its convoluted logic. Meanwhile there was the fascination of Rebecca's lips, the sweet scent of her perfume, the soft resilience of her skin, the gentle warmth of her body.... He would rather have a love and no job than a job and no love!

"Anthony!" protested Rebecca playfully, as his desire for her lips began to expand into a desire for other, more fleshy parts of her anatomy and resulted in her feeling ashamed of herself for encouraging such a thing while her parents were indoors. "Not tonight," she added, by way of reminding him of the situation.

"I'm sorry," he said, blushing slightly. But he had to admit it was only too easy to forget the situation when one had a beautiful young woman like her in one's arms! Especially when the lower half of her dress wasn't exactly in the most modest of positions, and one found oneself confronted by the greater part of what it ordinarily concealed!

"So when are you going to see my father?" Rebecca wanted to know, after Keating had considerately and apologetically given-up the pursuit of further carnal pleasure and duly returned the hem of her tight black dress to its former, more orthodox position. Her tone-of-voice was light and gentle, almost playful.

"Not yet," he informed her on a more serious note, his honky-tonks blues returning to haunt him.

Rebecca smiled up at him from where she lay. "I hope he gives you a good caning," she teased.

But Keating wasn't in the mood to be amused. His bad conscience over the cancelled interview just wouldn't leave him alone. It was obviously something Rebecca wasn't in a position to experience. And neither could she know to what extent his growing fondness for her made him desirous of establishing himself on the best possible terms with her father - a thing which could hardly be guaranteed by this latest setback!

"Did you say goodbye to the editor today?" she asked, growing bored with the silence which had fallen between them, like a psychological wedge, and giving voice to the first seemingly pertinent thought which entered her restless head.

Keating raised incredulous brows. "I could hardly do that!" he replied. "Particularly when you bear in mind the nature of my dealings with him on Tuesday. I was on the verge of throwing my attaché case at his head, you know. Yes ..." And he mentally congratulated himself for having had enough sense to restrain the impulse at the last moment. "In point of fact, I only saw him once, after he'd officially fired me, and that was on Wednesday afternoon, just as I was returning from lunch and he was on his way out. We crossed uncomfortably in the entrance hall."

"How embarrassing!" exclaimed Rebecca, screwing-up her facial features by way of emphasizing her assessment of the situation.

"More humiliating than embarrassing," Keating averred with philosophic detachment. "I guess that was the only occasion when our mutual endeavour to avoid each other broke down. But I said goodbye to most of the others," including, he remembered, both Neil Wilder and Martin Osbourne.

Yes, it was a pity, in a way, that he wouldn't be seeing either of them again, even though he had been invited to continue attending Osbourne's Thursday-evening 'stag parties'. The invitation had come to him, he now felt obliged to admit, as quite a surprise after what had happened. But he didn't much relish the prospect of endeavouring to be sociable towards people he was subsequently destined to have little or nothing to do with and who had, moreover, played a part in his journalistic downfall. Besides, he didn't want to be informed, every week, of what was happening at 'Arts Monthly', as would almost certainly transpire if he continued to visit the senior sub-editor's flat. Now that he was no longer one of its correspondents, he wanted a clean break, not an incentive for nostalgia, regret, or sentimentality, as might result from further contact with such people as one usually encountered at Osbourne's.

Moreover, he was only too familiar with the various arguments regularly bandied about, on a variety of subjects, to be greatly thrilled by the prospect of hearing them all again, albeit with minor variations, to the glory of the general aura of drunkenness which invariably transformed a relatively innocuous gathering into an asylum of raging lunatics hell-bent on one-another's intellectual destruction. Wasn't it better to be free of all that, free of the oppressive pretentiousness which invariably descended on the participants before the alcohol had taken effect? If, occasionally, a worthwhile discussion emerged from the conflicting personalities, it was indeed something for which to be sincerely grateful! Under the prevailing circumstances of progressive inebriation, however, worthwhile discussions were rather the exception to the rule, materializing, with luck, about once a month, and only lasting until such time as the sherry or wine or whatever decreed otherwise. No wonder that people frequently got bored with it all and either relapsed into their former vices or graduated to different ones instead! One could hardly blame them.

Still, there was something agreeable about meeting other people once a week and indulging one's tongue for better or worse. It had a kind of therapeutic effect, after all, which it was unwise to underestimate when one had been shut-up in the prison of oneself for too long. True, the conversation might not always have appealed to one's higher judgement, the fruit of private reflection. But on a physiological level it could certainly provide the basis for a useful catharsis against the dangers of prolonged repression. Yes, indeed! And who knew that better than Michael Haslam and Stuart Harvey? One had to admire the tenacity with which they depended upon each other for mutual therapy in the face of an indifferent and largely ailing world! No female could have served their cause more thoroughly!

"So what are you going to do with yourself next week?" asked Rebecca, as soon as she realized that Anthony had nothing further to add to his previous comment.

"At the moment I'm not absolutely sure," he replied meditatively, "though I've thought of doing some freelance journalism for a while. Fortunately, my financial position isn't too precarious at present, so I needn't rush headlong into another full-time job - assuming I could get one right now. I have also thought of going to Paris for a couple of months to complete the novel I've been struggling with this year. But, since you're so fond of me and I'm loathe to be away from you for any length of time, I suppose I'll remain in Croydon and finish it there.... Not the most romantic of towns admittedly! Although it did have some connection with D.H. Lawrence, if I'm not mistaken."

"While he was a schoolmaster and part-time novelist," confirmed Rebecca, recalling to mind what she had read about the great writer's early life teaching at the Davidson High School from 1908-12.

Keating nodded and smiled. "Yes, and it was the birthplace, moreover, of both Malcolm Muggeridge and Havelock Ellis," he informed her. "I dare say you've heard of them?"

"Who hasn't?"

"Yes, well, it's currently serving as the birthplace of my novel - one which, as I think I may have told you last week, follows the vicissitudes of a young man who is unfortunate enough to fall madly in love with a beautiful lesbian without realizing the situation until it's too late."

Rebecca laughed aloud. Frankly, she thought the idea hilarious! Of all the odd tricks fate could play on one, that would certainly be among the oddest! Why, if Tony could conceive of such an implausible plot with a moderate degree of equanimity, what was there to prevent him from delineating the converse possibility - that of a young heterosexual woman unlucky enough to fall madly in love with a homosexual? Or was it that such a prospect would fail to appeal to his wayward imagination on account of the probably one-sided, stand-offish nature of its protagonists? For, with the lesbian scenario, there was always the possibility that the man, growing impatient with his predicament, would take her by storm and thereby at least gratify his carnal desires to some extent, whereas, with the converse situation, a young heterosexual woman could hardly be expected to initiate sexual relations with the homosexual victim of her love - least of all in England, where women were traditionally so reserved, if not prudish, on account, in no small measure, of its puritanical legacy. On the contrary, a rather tedious unrequited passion would seem to be the only possible outcome. Thus, in relation to Tony's choice of subject-matter, there was evidently a method to his madness, albeit a method, Rebecca felt, that it was perhaps wiser not to inquire into too deeply, since feminine modesty forbade. Doubtless she would find out what became of the incompatible couple in due course, when he had brought the misadventure to its tragic denouement - whether through anti-climax or otherwise. In the meantime, however, she was content merely to laugh and shake her head in feigned disbelief. Croydon's latest literary foetus could hardly be expected to develop into a best-seller. With a parent like Anthony Keating, it was bound to remain on the shelf!

"Aren't you being a little harsh on my genius?" the budding novelist expostulated, by way of facetiously commenting upon her response to his literary revelation. "After all, it isn't very often that the reading public get an opportunity to sympathize with one or other of the victims of such an anomalous relationship. Most of the relationships they read about, in this sex-obsessed society, are frightfully predictable - so predictable, in fact, that one wonders why they even bother to read about them in the first place! But at least the novel I'm currently writing has the charm of novelty, which is no small distinction these days. It may not be the type of literature to appeal to someone like Malcolm Muggeridge, what with his rather strait-laced heterosexuality, but I'm quite confident that Havelock Ellis would have derived some profit from it, which would probably have supplemented his knowledge on the varieties of sexual relationship, and perhaps even induced him to further expand his Psychological Studies."

"Really, you're quite incorrigible!" Rebecca hastened to remind him, playfully slapping his backside. "You'll end-up writing like the Marquis de Sade, if you're not careful."

"To the extent that he was one of the best writers of his time, I shouldn't be at all ashamed or disappointed," Keating blandly asseverated. "He liberated literature from more mental shackles than the rest of his generation put together.... Which is only to be expected, I suppose, from a man who spent most of his adult life in prison and duly felt obliged to seek compensation in mental freedom. Had he been less physically constrained, it's doubtful that we would care anything much about his writings these days. Our interest in his books - assuming he'd have written anything radical in freedom - would be either negligible or, more probably, non-existent. Even D.H. Lawrence seems rather tame by comparison. One can read Lady Chatterley's Lover without a single blush. Try doing that where the Marquis' most notorious works are concerned! You'll soon spot the difference."

"It's not a difference I'd particularly care to spot," admitted Rebecca, smiling coyly. "My literary tastes are really quite prim. Nothing stronger than Pride and Prejudice."

"That's strong enough," Keating assured her, grimacing at the mere thought of its title. "Though you might as well settle for Wuthering Heights, if you're prepared to read Austen. All great literature begins with the pen and ends with the sword. Anything that ends with a dagger is second-rate."

"Don't exaggerate so!" Rebecca light-heartedly chided him. "Great literature needn't always be tragic. It sometimes ends happily. What about Camus' A Happy Death?"

Keating knit his brows in pensive consideration a moment, as he sought in his memory for what he could recall about the novel in question. "I'm not absolutely convinced of its greatness," he at length confessed, mindful of the novel's radical brevity, a consequence, he had always believed, of Camus' generally dilettantish commitment to literature in view of his various practical commitments elsewhere, including politics and journalism. "Besides, the fact of the leading character's death doesn't make for a genuinely happy ending anyway. In fact it's really quite depressing that a young man should be whisked away from life just when he was beginning to enjoy it. But if I was wrong to say that all great literature ends tragically, I don't think you can deny that a happy ending tends to be the exception to the rule. We expect the tragic, and in nine bloody cases out of ten we damn-well get it!" He paused a moment, as though for dramatic effect, before continuing: "Occasionally, however, a work of value ends happily, as in the case, for example, of Hermann Hesse's Narziss and Goldmund. For the most part, however, Madame Bovary is the rule. And it's the rule I'm attempting to stick to where my own novel is concerned, even if, under the prevailing decadence of contemporary society, it will never attain to true literary greatness. If I cannot achieve a tragic consummation with the sword, I may have to settle for the dagger. Or maybe even the metaphorical penknife," he added wistfully.

"I fear you'll lacerate my heart with your tongue if you're not careful," protested Rebecca, while gently stroking the back of his head with the hand that, a moment before, had served her better use elsewhere. "You'll shatter all my illusions about great literature."

"I'm sorry," rejoined Keating, responding to her fingers with a deftly placed kiss on her brow. "You must think me a frightful egotist."

"More delightful than frightful, actually."

"I'm sincerely relieved to hear it," he admitted and, taking her nape in his right hand, lovingly applied his lips to hers in a renewed spate of kissing.

The minutes passed quickly as they lay together on the bed, arm in arm and lip on lip. It was almost blissful for Keating to lie there like that - basking complacently in Rebecca's bodily warmth. But not quite. For at the back of his mind the consciousness of his impending meeting with her father refused to disappear, refused to budge, and he was aware, too, that he would have to see him fairly soon, before it grew too late. Rebecca's bright-red alarm clock was already indicating 9.45pm. It was quite a long way between Hampstead and Croydon, north and south London, and if Mr Tonks kept him talking longer than thirty minutes he might well miss the last train from Victoria Station and have to resort to a taxi instead - a prospect which didn't particularly appeal to him. But would Mr Tonks have much to say? Unfortunately, that was a question he had no way of answering while he lay in Rebecca's arms. It was regrettable that he should have to break away from her so soon.

"Yes, I suppose you'd better go," she agreed, after he had disengaged himself from her body and reminded her of his obligations to her father.

"Will I see you tomorrow?" he asked nervously, putting on his zipper jacket.

"I can't see why not," she replied. "After all, I'd like to hear about what dad has to say to you."

Downstairs, in front of the door to Howard Tonks' study, Keating hesitated, suddenly becoming apprehensive as to what lay beyond. On the immediately discernible level, it was apparent someone was playing the piano in a honky-tonks manner. But it wasn't that level which particularly worried him, even though he didn't much like the idea of barging-in on the player and interrupting his performance, no matter how disagreeable the music. He felt sure that whatever happened between himself and Mr Tonks, after he crossed the threshold, would be disagreeable.

"Go on!" Rebecca urged him from the stairs to his rear. "He won't bite you!"

This dramatic last-moment reassurance sufficed to goad Keating's fingers into turning the doorknob as, with reluctant resignation to his fate, he pushed open the study door and walked straight in. His heart beat wildly as he closed it behind him again. When he turned around, however, the man at the piano wasn't Mr Tonks but someone he hadn't seen before! And the room was otherwise empty! His heart almost came to a standstill. He couldn't believe his eyes.

Catching sight of him standing where he was, the stranger immediately ceased playing and stared intently at him a moment. It was evident to Keating, by the look in the grey eyes now confronting him, that his entrance had come as rather a surprise. Perhaps he had come to the wrong room? But just as he was about to apologize and take his leave of it again, the grey-eyed man politely asked him what he wanted. He explained.

"Ah, so you're Mr Keating!" the man enthused, raising himself from the piano stool and holding out a friendly hand. "Delighted to meet you! My name's Roy Hart, a friend of Howard's."

Keating nervously advanced towards the outstretched hand and allowed it to shake his own. He was still somewhat apprehensive about what lay in store for him.

"Take a seat," Hart advised, drawing attention, with a well-directed nod of his head, to the nearest armchair. "Howard went to the kitchen to make some, ah, coffee, so he'll be back any minute."

"Oh, right!" responded Keating, hardly knowing whether to be thankful or resentful for this perfectly straightforward information. The two men sat down simultaneously on their respective supports.

"I hear you recently conducted an interview here?" Hart commented, following a short pause.

"Yes," admitted Keating, feeling slightly hot-under-the-collar all of a sudden. He didn't want to dwell on that subject now. "An aborted one, alas," he added.

"So I hear," Hart sympathized. "Not one of your lucky weeks, eh?"

"Indeed not!" It was evident to Keating that Mr Tonks wasn't the only person who had something to say about the affair.

"Were you at 'Arts Monthly' long?" asked Hart, clearly aware of more things than the young man had suspected.

"Only a couple of years, I'm afraid," confessed Keating, turning red.

"Ah, so you probably wouldn't know anything about the interview they did with me a few years back," conjectured the pianist, changing tack. "One of the worst interviews I've, ah, ever given."

Keating was fairly nonplussed. "Really?" he said.

"Quite dreadful!" Hart insisted. "I swore that would be the last one I ever gave. But I succumbed, a couple of months later, to a German magazine, and since then it's been the same old story. I should imagine I've appeared in just about every, ah, serious arts or music publication in the Western world - with the possible exception of a few in America. But I'm not boasting, don't think that! On the contrary, I'm really quite ashamed of my, ah, weakness for publicity. It has brought me more pains than pleasures."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," declared Keating, though, in reality, he was personally somewhat relieved that the older man had switched to talking about himself rather than asking embarrassing questions. Any number of autobiographical confessions would have been preferable to them!

Such confessions, however, weren't to continue. For at that moment the door was thrown open and in walked Howard Tonks, carrying a tray with two mugs of steaming coffee on it.

"We've a visitor," Hart informed him, drawing attention to the occupied armchair.

"Ah, so we have!" exclaimed Mr Tonks, before carefully depositing the tray on the small coffee table in front of him. "I'm delighted to see you again," he added, and he extended a hand for his rather startled visitor to shake. "But I was sincerely sorry to hear you've lost your job. It must have come as quite a shock to you."

"Not as bad as I thought it would be," admitted Keating, blushing anew.

Meanwhile, Roy Hart had helped himself to his coffee and returned to the piano stool, from whence a gentle cultured sipping could now be heard.

"By the way, would you like some coffee, Anthony?" asked Mr Tonks. "Had I known you were here, I'd have made another one."

"No, I'm fine thanks," Keating assured him, reminding himself of the time. It had already gone 10.00pm.

"Well, since you're here, I suppose I'd better bring you up-to-date about the interview," said the composer, who picked up his coffee, walked a couple of yards in the direction of his mini-portraits of Ives and Varèse, and sat down in the remaining empty armchair. "From what my daughter told me last night," he continued, putting his coffee to one side, "it would appear that the interview was annulled because of your dismissal."

A horrible feeling of dread now launched itself into Keating's soul. It seemed as though his worst fears were about to be realized. "Yes, I imagine so," he confirmed.

"Well, you might be interested to learn that I received a letter from Mr Webb this morning, informing me that it will now be published in the October edition of his magazine and that he, personally, is going to edit it."

"You what?"

"Here's the letter," declared Mr Tonks, extracting from his trouser pocket a crumpled piece of paper which he uncrumpled and handed across to the stunned occupant of the other armchair. "Read it for yourself."

Nervously Keating did so. It categorically stated that the publication of the interview was going ahead as planned. There was no mention of him, nor any reference, not altogether surprisingly, to his dismissal. "I can't understand it," he gasped, re-reading the letter and becoming more incredulous with every line. "The editor made it perfectly clear to me on Tuesday that he had no intention of publishing the thing. How could he have changed his mind?"

"How indeed?" Mr Tonks rejoined. "I can only conclude that he lied to you in order to make your dismissal more painful. Lied to you in order to pay you back for having previously deceived him."

"The dirty rotten bastard!" erupted Keating, unable to restrain the impulse to resurrect his former hard-feelings.

"You needn't feel too badly about it," Mr Tonks assured him, smiling sympathetically. "For, believe it or not, I've taken your side in the matter and refused Mr Webb permission to press ahead with his intentions. I phoned him this afternoon and personally invalidated the interview, threatening him with legal action should he proceed."

"You what?"

"He did what I suggested he ought to do, under the circumstances of Rebecca's, ah, fondness for you," interposed Roy Hart, momentarily desisting from his coffee. "From what I gather, she takes you quite seriously. So it would seem that the pair of you are destined to spend a lot more time in each-other's, ah, company. Now, under those circumstances, it would have been quite unfair of her family to treat you badly. And to submit to Webb's intentions would have been to do just that! Besides, it was this very same man who interviewed me, and the impression he created at the time was, ah, anything but favourable! As I intimated to you earlier, I was less than satisfied with the result."

"Webb interviewed you?" exclaimed Keating, his eyes opening like wild flowers under pressure of this latest and most astonishing of the pianist's revelations.

"He did indeed!" Hart confirmed. "And did so, moreover, in a manner which I found highly insulting. But when I eventually read the published material, I was even more insulted. His editing took so many, ah, liberties with what I'd actually said, that the interview was barely recognizable to me. It was virtually a caricature, a grotesquely sordid travesty of the original, for which I ought to have sued him. Unfortunately, due to my involvement in a series of, ah, foreign concerts, I didn't get round to reading the interview until my return to London, approximately five months after its publication. By which time it was too damned late to take action, even to protest. So, if my experience counts for anything, I believe I was justified in advising Howard to, ah, cancel what might well have become, in Webb's devious hands, a similar caricature. Of course, with you conducting and presumably editing the interview, he was confident that things would turn out relatively well. But now that that arrogant bastard has his dirty hands on it, however, I thought it appropriate to, ah, remind him of what befell me."

"A reminder which might have gone unheeded, had it not also been for Rebecca's influence on me," Mr Tonks confessed. "She, too, had a desire to thwart Webb, albeit one motivated by rather different reasons from those elicited by my good friend here."

Keating was even more nonplussed than before. "You mean, she knew about Webb's letter as well?" he gasped.

"She did indeed!" Mr Tonks revealed. "For I showed it to her first thing this morning, before I phoned his office."

"And she wasn't very keen on the way he'd said one thing to you on Tuesday and written an entirely different thing to Howard on Wednesday," declared Hart, drawing Keating's attention to the date on the letter. "Had she not phoned you when she did, yesterday evening, it's highly likely that Webb would have got away with his, ah, cruel intentions and made a bigger fool out of you than anyone else has probably ever done."

"Instead of which, he has been made to look a pretty big fool by us," averred Mr Tonks smilingly. "But I must say, Anthony, you certainly left that confession to my daughter rather late! Had she not immediately told me about it, yesterday evening, I would almost certainly have given Webb the go-ahead today. As it happens, I've prepared, in addition to my telephone conversation of this afternoon, a signed letter absolutely forbidding publication of the interview.... Or perhaps one should say potential caricature?" he added, deferring to Hart.

Keating was bluntly amazed. He hadn't expected anything of the kind, and it was as much as he could do to prevent himself from bursting into tears of gratitude. No wonder Rebecca had teased him about his pessimism with regard to the impending meeting with her father! How amusing it must have seemed to her, to see him making a mountain out of a molehill, a tragedy out of a comedy! Wasn't that typical of him anyway? Hadn't he always instinctively feared the worst? Well, for once, his pessimistic preconceptions were unjustified. He had been his own worst dupe!

"I don't suppose you saw Mr Webb this afternoon, by any chance?" Hart nonchalantly inquired of him, returning his half-empty mug of coffee to its resting-place beside the piano.

"No, unfortunately not!" cried Keating, whose face suddenly became illuminated by a radiant smile at the thought of Webb's deceitfulness being invalidated by the telephone call from Howard Tonks. To be sure, it was remarkably therapeutic, incredibly cheering! How gratifying it would have been to see the bastard's face when the news had first invaded his mind and shattered his deceitful strategy to pieces! How dumbfounded he must have looked! And, having no means by which he could hope to change the composer's mind, not being in a position whereby he could see his correspondent again and offer to reinstate him, how frustrated he must have felt! Now Keating knew this, he was almost sorry he hadn't done the unspeakable and said goodbye to his former boss, before leaving the firm earlier that day. The look on his face could only have been pathetic!

"Incidentally, what do you intend doing with yourself, now you're free?" asked Mr Tonks, breaking the silence which had fortuitously fallen between them.

"That's something about which I'm not absolutely certain at present," confessed Keating, his feelings rapidly changing course and descending to a less-exultant level. "I've got a novel which I intend to complete during the next few months. But after that ...?" He shrugged his shoulders in perplexity.

"Do you think you could write a biography?" Mr Tonks suggested.

"A biography?" echoed Keating. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, my good friend here is of the opinion that it's about time someone made a serious attempt at writing my biography," declared Mr Tonks, nodding in Hart's smiling direction. "Now if, Anthony, you think you might be able to manage the job and, no less importantly, feel that you'd be able to tolerate a fair amount of my company in the process," he continued, ignoring Hart's ironic burst of laughter at this remark, "then I can see no earthly reason why you shouldn't undertake it. Since you're a pretty intelligent young man with some experience of professional writing, I can't see why you shouldn't make an attempt at it, especially if you haven't got any specific plans for the future. The fact that, thanks to the interview, you already know quite a lot about me should facilitate further inquiry. And if you intend to continue visiting Rebecca, then it would be to your advantage to also make what use you can of her to acquire additional information on me. Thus by being an intimate of the family, you're in the best possible position to undertake the task. So what do you say?"

Keating was too bewildered by this unexpected offer to know quite how to respond. The possibility of writing a biography of Howard Tonks had no more crossed his mind than had an autobiography of himself. It was almost unbelievable. And yet he was being asked, and by no less a man than the composer in person, not only to believe it but to actually get on and damn-well do it! Had Rebecca known about this, too?

"Well?" pressed Mr Tonks engagingly.

"Okay, I'll have a go at it," agreed Keating, breaking into a smile of acquiescent relief.

"Excellent!" the composer enthused. "My family and I will provide you with whatever help you may require. Even if you're obliged to do some freelance journalism whilst working on the project, there's every chance that, providing you do it well, you won't have to work as a drudge-ridden correspondent or journalist ever again, least of all for a clown like Nicholas Webb! As yet, no biography of me has appeared, but when one finally does, you can be pretty confident that it will sell hundreds-of-thousands of copies the world over. So don't waste this unique opportunity to make a name for yourself! Given the necessary determination, you must surely succeed."

"And if you succeed with a biography on Howard, you might well feel inclined to tackle one on, ah, me," Hart remarked humorously. "Even though I'm slightly less famous than my, ah, eminent friend here."

"But none the less controversial!" opined Mr Tonks, and he picked up and commenced drinking his neglected mug of coffee.

"Oh well, I think I'd better be taking my leave of you now," concluded Keating as he consulted his watch, and, getting up from his armchair - the very same armchair he had sat in during the course of that first afternoon at Tonkarias - he thanked and shook hands with each of these great men in turn. It was indeed a long way to Croydon but, in the joyful mood he was in, he could have walked there. Or even spent the night on Hampstead Heath. Provided he got home before Rebecca telephoned him the following morning, what matter? The whole night was ahead of him and tomorrow, after all, was a new day ... in every sense. He had nothing to fear!

LONDON 1979 (Revised 2011)

Preview AN INTERVIEW REVIEWED eBook