My mother was constantly working, for her literary efforts were our only
means of support, my father having died before I was born. The picture that
always comes to mind, when thinking of her, is of spindles of grey-flecked
dark hair escaping from beneath her cap and falling over her cheek, as she
sat bent over the large square work-table that was set before the parlour
window. There she would sit for hours at a time, sometimes well into the
night, furiously scratching away. As soon as one tottering pile of paper was
complete and despatched to the publisher, she would immediately begin to lay
down another. Her works (beginning with Edith; or, The Last of the Fitzalans,
of 1826) are now quite unremembered it would be disloyal to her memory if
I say deservedly so; but in their day they enjoyed a certain vogue; at least
they found sufficient readers for Mr Colburn to continue accepting her
productions (mostly issued anonymously, or sometimes under the nom de plume
A Lady of the West) year in and year out until her death.
Yet though she worked so long, and so hard, she would always break off to be
with me for a while, before I went to sleep. Sitting on the end of my bed,
with a tired smile on her sweet elfin face, she would listen while I
solemnly read out some favourite passages from my precious translation of
Monsieur Gallands Les milles et une nuits; or she might tell me little
stories that she had made up, or perhaps recount memories of her own
childhood in the West Country, which I especially loved to hear. Sometimes,
on fine summer nights, we would walk, hand in hand, out onto the cliff-top
to watch the sunset; and then we would stand together in silence, listening
to the lonely cry of the gulls and the soft murmur of the waves below, and
gaze out across the glowing waters to the mysterious far horizon.
Over there is France, Eddie, I remember her saying once. It is a large
and beautiful country.
And are there Houyhnhnms there, Mamma? I asked.
She gave a little laugh.
No, dear, she said. Only people, like you and me.
And have you been to France ever? was my next question.
I have been there once, came the reply. Then she sighed. And I shall
never go there again.
When I looked up at her, I saw to my astonishment that she was crying, which
I had never seen her do before; but then she clapped her hands and, saying
it was time that I was in my bed, bundled me back into the house. At the
bottom of the stairs, she kissed me, and told me I would always be her best
boy. Then she turned away, leaving me on the bottom stair, and I watched her
go back into the parlour, sit down at her work-table, and dip her pen into
the ink once more.
The memory of that evening was awakened many years later, and has ever since
remained strong. I thought of it now, as I puffed slowly on my cigar in
Quinns, musing on the strange connectedness of things; on the thin, but
unbreakable, threads of causality that linked for they did so link my
mother labouring at her writing all those years ago with the red-haired man
who now lay dead not half a mile away in Cain-court.
Walking down towards the river, I felt intoxicated by the thought that I had
escaped discovery. But then, whilst paying my half-penny to the toll-keeper
on Waterloo Bridge, I noticed that my hands were shaking and that, despite
my recent refreshment at Quinns, my mouth was dry as tinder. Beneath a
flickering gas-lamp, I leaned against the parapet for a moment, feeling
suddenly dizzy. The fog lay heavy on the black water below, which lapped and
slopped against the piers of the great echoing arches, making a most dismal
music. Then, out of the swirling fog, a thin young woman appeared, carrying
a baby. She stood for a few moments, obliviously staring down into the
blackness. I clearly saw the blank despair on her face, and instantly sensed
that she was about to make a jump of it; but as I moved towards her, she
looked at me wildly, clutched the child tightly to her breast, and ran off,
leaving me to watch her poor phantom figure dissolve into the fog once
more. A life saved, I hoped, if only for a time; but something, perhaps,
to set against what I had done that night
U.S. ebook sales up in 2012, but rate of growth is slowing(May 16 2013) In 2012, trade book sales (i.e. non academic book sales) rose 6.9%, to $15.049 billion, and e-book sales continued to grow, although the rate of growth...