The Thirteenth Tale
by Diane Setterfield
The Letter
It was November. Although it was not yet late,
the sky was dark when I turned into Laundress Passage. Father
had finished for the day, switched off the shop lights and
closed the shutters; but so I would not come home to darkness he
had left on the light over the stairs to the flat. Through the
glass in the door it cast a foolscap rectangle of paleness onto
the wet pavement, and it was while I was standing in that
rectangle, about to turn my key in the door, that I first saw
the letter. Another white rectangle, it was on the fifth step
from the bottom, where I couldn't miss it.
I closed the door and put the shop key in its
usual place behind Bailey's Advanced Principles of Geometry.
Poor Bailey. No one has wanted his fat gray book for thirty
years. Sometimes I wonder what he makes of his role as guardian
of the bookshop keys. I don't suppose it's the destiny he had in
mind for the masterwork that he spent two decades writing.
A letter. For me. That was something of an
event. The crisp-cornered envelope, puffed up with its thickly
folded contents, was addressed in a hand that must have given
the postman a certain amount of trouble. Although the style of
the writing was old-fashioned, with its heavily embellished
capitals and curly flourishes, my first impression was that it
had been written by a child. The letters seemed untrained. Their
uneven strokes either faded into nothing or were heavily etched
into the paper. There was no sense of flow in the letters that
spelled out my name. Each had been undertaken separately -- M A
R G A R E T L E A -- as a new and daunting enterprise. But I
knew no children. That is when I thought, It is the hand of an
invalid.
It gave me a queer feeling. Yesterday or the day
before, while I had been going about my business, quietly and in
private, some unknown person -- some stranger -- had gone
to the trouble of marking my name onto this envelope. Who was it
who had had his mind's eye on me while I hadn't suspected a
thing?
Still in my coat and hat, I sank onto the stair
to read the letter. (I never read without making sure I am in a
secure position. I have been like this ever since the age of
seven when, sitting on a high wall and reading The Water
Babies, I was so seduced by the descriptions of underwater
life that I unconsciously relaxed my muscles. Instead of being
held buoyant by the water that so vividly surrounded me in my
mind, I plummeted to the ground and knocked myself out. I can
still feel the scar under my fringe now. Reading can be
dangerous.)
I opened the letter and pulled out a sheaf of
half a dozen pages, all written in the same laborious script.
Thanks to my work, I am experienced in the reading of difficult
manuscripts. There is no great secret to it. Patience and
practice are all that is required. That and the willingness to
cultivate an inner eye. When you read a manuscript that has been
damaged by water, fire, light or just the passing of the years,
your eye needs to study not just the shape of the letters but
other marks of production. The speed of the pen. The pressure of
the hand on the page. Breaks and releases in the flow. You must
relax. Think of nothing. Until you wake into a dream where you
are at once a pen flying over vellum and the vellum itself with
the touch of ink tickling your surface. Then you can read it.
The intention of the writer, his thoughts, his hesitations, his
longings and his meaning. You can read as clearly as if you were
the very candlelight illuminating the page as the pen speeds
over it.
Not that this letter was anything like as
challenging as some. It began with a curt "Miss Lea"; thereafter
the hieroglyphs resolved themselves quickly into characters,
then words, then sentences.
This is what I read:
I once did an interview for the Banbury Herald. I must
look it out one of these days, for the biography. Strange
chap they sent me. A boy, really. As tall as a man, but with
the puppy fat of youth. Awkward in his new suit. The suit
was brown and ugly and meant for a much older man. The
collar, the cut, the fabric, all wrong. It was the kind of
thing a mother might buy for a boy leaving school for his
first job, imagining that her child will somehow grow into
it. But boys do not leave their boyhood behind when they
leave off their school uniform.
There was something in his manner. An
intensity. The moment I set eyes on him, I thought, "Aha,
what's he after?"
I've nothing against people who love truth.
Apart from the fact that they make dull companions. Just so
long as they don't start on about storytelling and honesty,
the way some of them do. Naturally that annoys me. But
provided they leave me alone, I won't hurt them.
My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but
with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there
in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at
midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear
in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the
bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long
fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in
your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to
come running to your aid. What you need are the plump
comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
Some writers don't like interviews of
course. They get cross about it. "Same old questions," they
complain. Well, what do they expect? Reporters are hacks. We
writers are the real thing. Just because they always ask the
same questions, it doesn't mean we have to give them the
same old answers, does it? I mean, making things up, it's
what we do for a living. So I give dozens of interviews a
year. Hundreds over the course of a lifetime. For I have
never believed that genius needs to be locked away out of
sight to thrive. My genius is not so frail a thing that it
cowers from the dirty fingers of the newspapermen.
In the early years they used to try to catch
me out. They would do research, come along with a little
piece of truth concealed in their pocket, draw it out at an
opportune moment and hope to startle me into revealing more.
I had to be careful. Inch them in the direction I wanted
them to take, use my bait to draw them gently,
imperceptibly, toward a prettier story than the one they had
their eye on. A delicate operation. Their eyes would start
to shine, and their grasp on the little chip of truth would
loosen, until it dropped from their hand and fell,
disregarded, by the wayside. It never failed. A good story
is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth.
Afterward, once I became famous, the Vida
Winter interview became a sort of rite of passage for
journalists. They knew roughly what to expect, would have
been disappointed to leave without the story. A quick run
through the normal questions (Where do you get your
inspiration? Are your characters based on real people? How
much of your main character is you?) and the shorter my
answers the better they liked it. (Inside my head. No.
None.) Then, the bit they were waiting for, the thing they
had really come for. A dreamy, expectant look stole across
their faces. They were like little children at bedtime. And
you, Miss Winter, they said. Tell me about yourself.
And I told. Simple little stories really,
not much to them. Just a few strands, woven together in a
pretty pattern, a memorable motif here, a couple of sequins
there. Mere scraps from the bottom of my ragbag. Hundreds
more where they came from. Offcuts from novels and stories,
plots that never got finished, stillborn characters,
picturesque locations I never found a use for. Odds and ends
that fell out in the editing. Then it's just a matter of
neatening the edges, stitching in the ends, and it's done.
Another brand-new biography.
They went away happy, clutching their
notebooks in their paws like children with sweets at the end
of a birthday party. It would be something to tell their
grandchildren. "One day I met Vida Winter, and she told me a
story."
Anyway, the boy from the Banbury Herald. He
said, "Miss Winter, tell me the truth." Now, what kind of
appeal is that? I've had people devise all kinds of
stratagems to trick me into telling, and I can spot them a
mile off, but that? Laughable. I mean, whatever did he
expect?
A good question. What did he expect? His
eyes were glistening with an intent fever. He watched me so
closely. Seeking. Probing. He was after something quite
specific, I was sure of it. His forehead was damp with
perspiration. Perhaps he was sickening for something. Tell
me the truth, he said.
I felt a strange sensation inside. Like the
past coming to life. The watery stirring of a previous life
turning in my belly, creating a tide that rose in my veins
and sent cool wavelets to lap at my temples. The ghastly
excitement of it. Tell me the truth.
I considered his request. I turned it over
in my mind, weighed up the likely consequences. He disturbed
me, this boy, with his pale face and his burning eyes.
"All right," I said.
An hour later he was gone. A faint,
absentminded good-bye and no backward glance.
I didn't tell him the truth. How could I? I
told him a story. An impoverished, malnourished little
thing. No sparkle, no sequins, just a few dull and faded
patches, roughly tacked together with the edges left frayed.
The kind of story that looks like real life. Or what people
imagine real life to be, which is something rather
different. It's not easy for someone of my talent to produce
a story like that.
I watched him from the window. He shuffled
away up the street, shoulders drooping, head bowed, each
step a weary effort. All that energy, the charge, the verve,
gone. I had killed it. Not that I take all the blame. He
should have known better than to believe me.
I never saw him again.
That feeling I had, the current in my
stomach, my temples, my fingertips -- it remained with me
for quite a while. It rose and fell, with the memory of the
boy's words. Tell me the truth. "No," I said. Over and over
again. "No." But it wouldn't be still. It was a distraction.
More than that, it was a danger. In the end I did a deal.
"Not yet." It sighed, it fidgeted, but eventually it fell
quiet. So quiet that I as good as forgot about it.
What a long time ago that was. Thirty years?
Forty? More, perhaps. Time passes more quickly than you
think.
The boy has been on my mind lately. Tell me
the truth. And lately I have felt again that strange inner
stirring. There is something growing inside me, dividing and
multiplying. I can feel it, in my stomach, round and hard,
about the size of a grapefruit. It sucks the air out of my
lungs and gnaws the marrow from my bones. The long dormancy
has changed it. From being a meek and biddable thing, it has
become a bully. It refuses all negotiation, blocks
discussion, insists on its rights. It won't take no for an
answer. The truth, it echoes, calling after the boy,
watching his departing back. And then it turns to me,
tightens its grip on my innards, gives a twist. We made a
deal, remember?
It is time.
Come on Monday. I will send a car to meet
you from the half past four arrival at Harrogate Station.
Vida Winter
How long did I sit on the stairs after reading
the letter? I don't know. For I was spellbound. There is
something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they
take you prisoner. Wind themselves around your limbs like spider
silk, and when you are so enthralled you cannot move, they
pierce your skin, enter your blood, numb your thoughts. Inside
you they work their magic. When I at last woke up to myself, I
could only guess what had been going on in the darkness of my
unconsciousness. What had the letter done to me?
I knew very little about Vida Winter. I was
aware naturally of the various epithets that usually came
attached to her name: England's best-loved writer; our century's
Dickens; the world's most famous living author; and so on. I
knew of course that she was popular, though the figures, when I
later researched them, still came as a surprise. Fifty-six books
published in fifty-six years; they are translated into
forty-nine languages; Miss Winter has been named twenty-seven
times the most borrowed author from English libraries; nineteen
feature films have been based on her novels. In terms of
statistics, the most disputed question is this: Has she or has
she not sold more books than the Bible? The difficulty comes
less from working out how many books she has sold (an
ever-changing figure in the millions) than in obtaining solid
figures for the Bible -- whatever one thinks of the word of God,
his sales data are notoriously unreliable. The figure that might
have interested me the most, as I sat there at the bottom of the
stairs, was twenty-two. This was the number of biographers who,
for want of information, or lack of encouragement, or after
inducements or threats from Miss Winter herself, had been
persuaded to give up trying to discover the truth about her. But
I knew none of this then. I knew only one statistic, and it was
one that seemed relevant: How many books by Vida Winter had I,
Margaret Lea, read? None.
I shivered on the stairs, yawned and stretched.
Returning to myself, I found that my thoughts had been
rearranged in my absence. Two items in particular had been
selected out of the unheeded detritus that is my memory and
placed for my attention.
The first was a little scene involving my
father. A box of books we are unpacking from a private library
clearance includes a number of Vida Winters. At the shop we
don't deal in contemporary fiction. "I'll take them to the
charity shop in my lunch hour," I say, and leave them on the
side of the desk. But before the morning is out, three of the
four books are gone. Sold. One to a priest, one to a
cartographer, one to a military historian. Our clients' faces,
with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book
lover, seem to light up when they spot the rich colors of the
paperback covers. After lunch, when we have finished the
unpacking and the cataloging and the shelving and we have no
customers, we sit reading as usual. It is late autumn, it is
raining and the windows have misted up. In the background is the
hiss of the gas heater; we hear the sound without hearing it
for, side by side, together and miles apart, we are deep in our
books.
"Shall I make tea?" I ask, surfacing.
No answer.
I make tea all the same and put a cup next to
him on the desk.
An hour later the untouched tea is cold. I make
a fresh pot and put another steaming cup beside him on the desk.
He is oblivious to my every movement.
Gently I tilt the volume in his hands so that I
can see the cover. It is the fourth Vida Winter. I return the
book to its original position and study my father's face. He
cannot hear me. He cannot see me. He is in another world, and I
am a ghost.
That was the first memory.
The second is an image. In three-quarter
profile, carved massively out of light and shade, a face towers
over the commuters who wait, stunted, beneath. It is only an
advertising photograph pasted on a billboard in a railway
station, but to my mind's eye it has the impassive grandeur of
long-forgotten queens and deities carved into rock faces by
ancient civilizations. To contemplate the exquisite arc of the
eye; the broad, smooth sweep of the cheekbones; the impeccable
line and proportions of the nose, is to marvel that the
randomness of human variation can produce something so
supernaturally perfect as this. Such bones, discovered by the
archaeologists of the future, would seem an artifact, a product
not of blunt-tooled nature but of the very peak of artistic
endeavor. The skin that embellishes these remarkable bones has
the opaque luminosity of alabaster; it appears paler still by
contrast with the elaborate twists and coils of copper hair that
are arranged with such precision about the fine temples and down
the strong, elegant neck.
As if this extravagant beauty were not enough,
there are the eyes. Intensified by some photographic sleight of
hand to an inhuman green, the green of glass in a church window,
or of emeralds or of boiled sweets, they gaze out over the heads
of the commuters with perfect inexpression. I can't say whether
the other travelers that day felt the same way as I about the
picture; they had read the books, so they may have had a
different perspective on things. But for me, looking into the
large green eyes, I could not help being reminded of that
commonplace expression about the eyes being the gateway to the
soul. This woman, I remember thinking, as I gazed at her green,
unseeing eyes, does not have a soul.
Such was, on the night of the letter, the extent
of my knowledge about Vida Winter. It was not much. Though on
reflection perhaps it was as much as anyone else might know. For
although everyone knew Vida Winter -- knew her name, knew her
face, knew her books -- at the same time nobody knew her. As
famous for her secrets as for her stories, she was a perfect
mystery.
Now, if the letter was to be believed, Vida
Winter wanted to tell the truth about herself. This was curious
enough in itself, but curiouser still was my next thought: Why
should she want to tell it to me?
Copyright © 2006 by Diane Setterfield
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