all,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Perhaps he didn’t show it to you?’ I ventured.
‘No. He used to talk to me about Pepe, that was the girl’s name. Why shouldn’t he show me the story? Unless he changed his mind about it. This is a brilliant find, Mark, but I’m going to have to contact Graham before we schedule it. I’ll get it photocopied tonight, write him a note.’
Tony smiled and settled down to reread the story. I went back up to my room with a sense of anticlimax. I was meant to be studying for the exams that started the next day. The typewriter I’d written the story on was still by my bed. I returned it to the box room, replacing it with the Amstrad word processor my mum had bought me for my sixteenth birthday. I half expected Tony to come in at any moment, tell me the Greene story was a fake, and throw me out of the flat. But he didn’t. The next day, he told me he’d written to Greene.
‘Fingers crossed,’ he said. I was sure I’d made a huge mistake, one that Greene would quickly expose.
Twenty-one
My first year exams were a disaster. I hadn’t taken them seriously, being far too wrapped up in working for the LR and preparing the Graham Greene story. The exams didn’t count towards the final degree mark.You only had to pass to get through to the next year. So I’d slacked. I’d long since stopped attending lectures, but I’d gone to most tutorials. I’d studied one of the core texts at A level and felt I knew it inside out. But A level was two years ago and I had never got to grips with old English, or Malory. I was a hot shot at Twentieth Century stuff — hadn’t I convinced experts that I was Ernest Hemingway? But we didn’t get to the modern era until the Third Year. I hadn’t put in the donkey work on the syllabus. I left my last, three hour exam an hour early, because I couldn’t think of a single thing more to write. The prospect of failure terrified me.
When I got back to Soho, Tony handed me a letter that had come in the second post. It was postmarked New York. The handwriting was a scrawl, but I recognised its author, and went upstairs to read it, much to Tony’s amusement.
Helen Mercer was replying to my letter, which had been addressed to her husband. She pointed out that she and Paul had had no way of finding me until now. Helen was, she said, coming to London to see me ‘as soon as proves possible’. There was no mention of money, nor of whether Paul would accompany her.
Graham Greene also replied quickly.Tony read his letter to me. In it, Greene said that he had been ill since a trip to Dublin the previous year, and was about to move from Antibes to an apartment in a small village called Corseaux, which had good views of Lake Geneva and the Alps.
‘Doesn’t say why he needs to move,’ Tony commented.
‘Probably to be by a hospital. It must be more serious than he says, poor sod. Listen to this’.
Thank you for sending A Girl He Used To Know . I have no recollection of writing this story, though I do, of course, recall the circumstances that gave rise to it. Pity it’s too late to put it in The Last Word . Whatever happened to poor Pepe? All in all, not a bad inversion of the Greek myth. Use it if you think it’s up to scratch and thank you for the invitation. I regret that ill health does not allow me to visit London — or elsewhere — as I would like. All good wishes, yours ever, Graham.
He had returned the photocopied typescript with two minor amendments, improving the style in one place, removing an unnecessary comma in another. Tony was cock-a-hoop. I restricted myself to a gratified smile.
‘We’ll carry it in the next issue, pull that story by what’s-his-name.’
‘You can’t do that,’ I said. ‘I promised Tim his story would be in issue 499. Wouldn’t it be better to hold the Greene for the five hundredth issue?’
Tony gave me a wary look, but didn’t argue about dropping Tim’s story.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We need
‘Perhaps he didn’t show it to you?’ I ventured.
‘No. He used to talk to me about Pepe, that was the girl’s name. Why shouldn’t he show me the story? Unless he changed his mind about it. This is a brilliant find, Mark, but I’m going to have to contact Graham before we schedule it. I’ll get it photocopied tonight, write him a note.’
Tony smiled and settled down to reread the story. I went back up to my room with a sense of anticlimax. I was meant to be studying for the exams that started the next day. The typewriter I’d written the story on was still by my bed. I returned it to the box room, replacing it with the Amstrad word processor my mum had bought me for my sixteenth birthday. I half expected Tony to come in at any moment, tell me the Greene story was a fake, and throw me out of the flat. But he didn’t. The next day, he told me he’d written to Greene.
‘Fingers crossed,’ he said. I was sure I’d made a huge mistake, one that Greene would quickly expose.
Twenty-one
My first year exams were a disaster. I hadn’t taken them seriously, being far too wrapped up in working for the LR and preparing the Graham Greene story. The exams didn’t count towards the final degree mark.You only had to pass to get through to the next year. So I’d slacked. I’d long since stopped attending lectures, but I’d gone to most tutorials. I’d studied one of the core texts at A level and felt I knew it inside out. But A level was two years ago and I had never got to grips with old English, or Malory. I was a hot shot at Twentieth Century stuff — hadn’t I convinced experts that I was Ernest Hemingway? But we didn’t get to the modern era until the Third Year. I hadn’t put in the donkey work on the syllabus. I left my last, three hour exam an hour early, because I couldn’t think of a single thing more to write. The prospect of failure terrified me.
When I got back to Soho, Tony handed me a letter that had come in the second post. It was postmarked New York. The handwriting was a scrawl, but I recognised its author, and went upstairs to read it, much to Tony’s amusement.
Helen Mercer was replying to my letter, which had been addressed to her husband. She pointed out that she and Paul had had no way of finding me until now. Helen was, she said, coming to London to see me ‘as soon as proves possible’. There was no mention of money, nor of whether Paul would accompany her.
Graham Greene also replied quickly.Tony read his letter to me. In it, Greene said that he had been ill since a trip to Dublin the previous year, and was about to move from Antibes to an apartment in a small village called Corseaux, which had good views of Lake Geneva and the Alps.
‘Doesn’t say why he needs to move,’ Tony commented.
‘Probably to be by a hospital. It must be more serious than he says, poor sod. Listen to this’.
Thank you for sending A Girl He Used To Know . I have no recollection of writing this story, though I do, of course, recall the circumstances that gave rise to it. Pity it’s too late to put it in The Last Word . Whatever happened to poor Pepe? All in all, not a bad inversion of the Greek myth. Use it if you think it’s up to scratch and thank you for the invitation. I regret that ill health does not allow me to visit London — or elsewhere — as I would like. All good wishes, yours ever, Graham.
He had returned the photocopied typescript with two minor amendments, improving the style in one place, removing an unnecessary comma in another. Tony was cock-a-hoop. I restricted myself to a gratified smile.
‘We’ll carry it in the next issue, pull that story by what’s-his-name.’
‘You can’t do that,’ I said. ‘I promised Tim his story would be in issue 499. Wouldn’t it be better to hold the Greene for the five hundredth issue?’
Tony gave me a wary look, but didn’t argue about dropping Tim’s story.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We need
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