How It All Began by Penelope Lively Page B

ahead—pushed it aside to deal with another time. He rattled through the darkness, reading.

CHAPTER SIX
    H enry Peters, too, was reading.
    “Scandal, gossip and innuendo received majestic treatment in the Augustan Age. Some of the most elegant art of the eighteenth century addresses itself to the perceived weaknesses and transgressions of aristocrats, royalty and politicians. Think of the style, the wit, the delighted savagery of Gillray, of Hogarth, of Rowlandson. Cartoons, broadsheets and flyers enabled the public of the day to savor the goings-on of the great and the good by way of raucous humor . . .”
    Henry had always enjoyed reading his own work—appreciating a turn of phrase, an appropriate word. He sat at his desk with the handwritten sheets spread out in front of him; the first draft was just about done, ready for Rose to type up, and then he would get down to the final tweaking and polishing before sending it off to one of the Sundays.
    He read on. More about eighteenth-century circulars and broadsheets, with quotes. A Gillray would be nice as illustration—note to the features editor on that, and a suggested choice. References to some scandals of the day. Move on to a comparison with contemporary style—the crude sledge-hammer operation of the gutter press, the dogged nature of investigative journalism, its sobriety, the absence of any élan. And then the tidbit to make the point that even in the dayof investigative journalism things slip through the net—potential political dramas. For herein lies the crux of the whole piece—the nugget of information, in what is almost a throw-away aside, that will be the whole reason that the features editor will light upon this otherwise unprovocative article: “A letter in my possession serves up a nice instance of a choice item thus undetected . . .”
    “This should set the cat among the pigeons, Rose. To the Features Editor of
The Sunday Times
, please, with the covering letter from me—handwritten, I don’t know the man, but a personal note always looks well.”
    But
The
Sunday Times
was not receptive. Nor was the rejection letter in any way personal. Henry was annoyed—offended, indeed. “One does wonder if it landed on the right desk. Well,
The
Sunday Telegraph
may well have been a better choice in any case.”
    The
Telegraph
was equally swift to make clear its lack of interest, as was
The Observer
. Henry was now tight-lipped, wounded rather than outraged. “The fact of the matter is, Rose, that these people don’t know one’s name—one’s reputation. I’ve mentioned the forthcoming memoirs each time, so you would think . . . Or are they so young that they’ve never heard of Harold Wilson’s government?” A mirthless laugh.
    Rose had come to dread the sight of those long white envelopes. She shook her head and tutted.
    Henry picked up the sheets of paper and put them into a drawer in his desk. “Thank you for your efforts, Rose. We shall have to put this down to experience. One will need to think very carefully when settling on a publisher for the memoirs—some firm with senior, knowledgeable editors. Coffee, Rose, could you?”
    She went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Oh dear. Poor old boy. She felt a frisson of pity, and was surprised at herself.
    Henry reviewed the situation. Evidently a thirty-year-old political scandal that got away was of no concern—at least not in the eyes of the sort of Johnny-come-lately who ran newspapers today. Time was, journalists were more astute. All right, so that was not the way to attract a bit of attention, restore one’s name.
    He thought again about a scholarly article. Something not necessarily of generous length, but shrewd, succinct, throwing new light on a neglected part of the eighteenth century.
    On what aspect?
    He thought. He did some desultory reading. He got out old notes. And, somewhere far away and untouchable, the eighteenth century sneered at him.
    No.