按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
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 ing 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 life 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 bee 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。
e on monday。 i will send a car to meet you from the half past four arrival at harrogate station。
vida winterhow 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 words； manipulated deftly； they take you prisoner。 wind themselves round 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 es 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