Corduroy Mansions

70. At the Ragg Porter Agency

That Monday was not proving to be a particularly busy day at the Ragg Porter Literary Agency, and the three directors - Barbara (non-fiction), Sheila Stevens (films and other media) and Rupert Porter (fiction) - had taken the opportunity to have their quarterly planning meeting somewhat in advance of its normal date. The agency was doing well, having recently taken over the administration of the estate of a deceased novelist who had suddenly - and posthumously - become immensely successful. They were now looking at the list of their existing authors with a view to guessing which of them might be expected to die in the short rather than the long term, and which of these might enjoy a sudden burst of posthumous popularity.

‘It seems such a pity that some people have to pass on in order to be widely read,’ said Sheila.

Barbara winced. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t use that term,’ she said. ‘Passing on! What a euphemism. Call it what it is. You die when you die, you don’t pass on. Where do you pass on to, may I ask?’

Rupert came to his colleague’s defence. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Passing on sounds very reassuring. Rather stately, in fact. And who knows where we go after this mortal vale? My housemaster at Uppingham used to talk about the Elysian Fields as if they really existed. I think he may have believed in them. Probably did.’

Barbara gave him a glance. They heard a great deal from Rupert about Uppingham.

‘Well, that’s very nice,’ she said.

Rupert did not pick up her sarcasm. ‘Yes, indeed it was. He used to give us little talks and, do you know, everybody listened. Even the chaps who were not very academic. They sat there and listened. He explained that the Elysian Fields were probably restricted to those connected with the gods in some way; ordinary people had to go to the Fields of Asphodel, if I remember correctly. Not quite so comfortable.’

‘Like standard class on the trains,’ suggested Sheila.

Rupert nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose so. That’s quite a good analogy, in fact. Indeed, one might expand it and apply it to Christian notions of the afterlife. First class would be heaven, while standard class would be hell, or purgatory.’

‘That depends on the line,’ said Sheila. ‘Some lines are all right, the others, well . . . Why do we tolerate it? Why do we tolerate having the worst train service in western Europe? And one of the most expensive ones in the whole world?’

‘Because we privatised the railways,’ Barbara said. ‘The French and the Germans warned us. They said: “It’s not going to work.” And we ignored them, and look at us now. Dirty trains. Not enough seats. Nowhere to put your luggage. When you get into the train in France, for example, there’s always bags of room to stow your suitcase. They assume, you see, that people are going to travel with a suitcase. Radical assumption!’

‘So what are we going to do about it?’ asked Rupert.

They looked at one another. ‘Well, frankly,’ said Barbara, ‘I don’t see that there’s much that Ragg Porter can do about it. So I suggest that we get on with our meeting.’

‘All right,’ said Rupert. And then, with the air of one who had just remembered something, ‘Oh, I took a call for you, Barbara, while you were out for lunch.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert. ‘It was a journalist. I noted his number down somewhere. He wanted to know about that Greatorex manuscript of yours.’

Rupert now had Barbara’s full attention. ‘Greatorex?’ How had the press got to hear of this?

‘Yes. That’s the yeti biography, isn’t it?’ said Rupert. ‘Not that I believe it for one moment. At Uppingham we had a chap who had climbed quite a few of those mountains in Nepal. He said that the yeti was complete nonsense.’

Barbara gave him a withering look. ‘That is a matter of opinion. Errol Greatorex is a highly regarded travel writer.’ She held Rupert’s gaze. ‘And may I remind you of the advance we’re going to be getting for this particular manuscript? And serialisation rights sold to the Sunday Telegraph. So don’t talk this thing down, Rupert.’

Rupert put up his hands in mock defence. ‘All right.’

Barbara still looked at him severely. ‘Who was this person, anyway?’ she asked.

‘Somebody from The Times,’ he said. ‘He said that he had been talking to an MP he knows who told him that you had this manuscript and that you could arrange an interview for him.’

Barbara’s eyes glinted. ‘Which MP, may I ask?’ She knew the answer, of course.

Rupert laughed. ‘Your boyfriend. Oedipus Snark.’ He paused. ‘Pillow talk getting out of hand, Barbara?’

Barbara ignored this and they moved on to the next topic on the meeting agenda. But immediately after the meeting she got the journalist’s telephone number from Rupert. She would have to handle this carefully, she thought. If the story broke prematurely, then the large advance that she was confident of securing for her author might be compromised. The point about the yeti book was that it would have impact, and the leaking of the story beforehand could substantially diminish that.

The journalist was available and took Barbara’s call.

‘So what’s the story?’ he asked. ‘Is it true that you’ve got the biography of the abominable snowman?’

Barbara laughed. ‘Who on earth told you that?’

‘Somebody. You know that we don’t reveal our sources.’

‘Well, I know exactly who it was: Oedipus Snark. And yes, it’s true that I spoke to him about this. But it was a joke. A complete joke. I didn’t expect Oedipus to take it any further. I assumed that he’d know that the whole thing was absurd.’

The journalist was silent. ‘You mean there’s no yeti?’

Barbara laughed. ‘Of course there’s no yeti. Sorry about that. And no Father Christmas either.’

The journalist sounded disappointed. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘The best-laid scoops of mice and men . . .’

‘Well put,’ said Barbara, and rang off.

She stood at the window and thought. Oedipus Snark could spoil everything unless he were stopped. But how did you stop somebody like that? Threaten him with something? But what could she threaten Oedipus Snark with? Unless . . .