‘I must say it’s very interesting how much debate killing a character generates on social media.’
Di Thompson, the senior librarian, had made much in her introduction of the large number of followers Burton St Clair had on Facebook and Twitter. Looking at the average age of that evening’s audience, Jude wondered how many of those present would have encountered him there. But, even as she had the thought, she realized she might be guilty of unthinking prejudice. Apparently quite a lot of people considerably older than she was were much involved in social media.
‘For instance,’ Burton continued, ‘a lot of my followers have criticized me for killing off Clinton, Celia’s fading rock-star husband in Stray Leaves in Autumn. He was a character who clearly struck a chord with many people. Struck a chord with me too. Needless to say. All of my characters strike a chord with me. If they didn’t, I couldn’t immerse myself so deeply in their lives during that agonizing time which covers the nativity of a work of fiction. I loved Clinton, but the dynamics of my story left me in no doubt that I had to sacrifice him to the greater good of my novel.’
There was an impressed stillness while the audience took in this act of creative magnanimity.
‘And now …’ the author broke the silence, nonchalantly picking up a copy of his novel, ‘before I open up to questions from you, I would like to conclude with a reading from Stray Leaves in Autumn. And I think I dare mention to you now – you’ll be the first people to know this – that all the Ts are not quite crossed and the Is dotted, but there is a strong interest from Hollywood in developing the book for a movie. Early days, of course, a lot can go wrong, but there’s talk of Meryl Streep being interested in playing the part of Celia. And, as for Tony … well, there is talk … no, no, I don’t want to tempt providence here. Let’s just say there is a male actor being talked of who has an even greater profile than Meryl Streep. But …’ he raised a finger to his lips ‘… keep it to yourselves, eh?’ Knowing full well that they wouldn’t.
Burton St Clair’s reading, like the rest of his performance, sounded almost offhand, but again was the product of meticulous preparation.
He concluded on a funny line and, as he bowed his head, the audience’s laughter melted into enthusiastic applause. While this was going on he poured more water into the glass he’d occasionally drunk from during his talk and took a long swig.
‘Right,’ said Burton with a self-depreciatingly boyish grin. ‘Any questions?’
Jude wasn’t to know, but when he’d started on his literary career, this cue had always been greeted with very English awkwardness, silence, and a lot of people concentrating on their shoes. Every author doing a library talk had experienced that aching hiatus. And it was frequently only ended by a member of staff from the library hosting the evening coming in with her own carefully prepared fall-back question.
But that was no longer the case. The Fethering librarian who had introduced Burton St Clair, Di Thompson, did not anticipate any such awkwardness. With dark hair cut so short she looked almost like a recent cancer patient, she sat serenely at the back of the audience, pleased with how well the evening she had set up was going. She knew that, since the mass explosion of book clubs, many of which were organized by librarians, such reticence about asking questions had long gone. Audiences at author events were well used to expressing their literary views, and question-asking hands shot up as soon as they were given the opportunity.
The hand which got in ahead of the others belonged to a thin, shaven-headed man in his fifties, who wore a safari jacket and combat trousers in a different camouflage pattern, above black Doc Martens. On being given the nod by the visiting author, he asked in a voice which combined lethargy and insolence in equal measure, ‘Can you tell me why the photograph behind you is twenty years younger than you are?’
The expression on Burton St Clair’s face suggested he was piqued. Since the publication of Stray Leaves in Autumn he’d become accustomed to wallowing in a warm bath of praise, so this very positive rudeness brought him up short. What’s more, Jude recalled, he had always been extremely vain about his looks. When the photograph blown up behind him had been taken, Burton had had more hair, and it had been shot in such a way as to hide what deficiency there was. Since that time, more of the precious follicles had given up the ghost, and the overhead lighting of Fethering Library only accentuated the thinness on top of his cranium.
The author’s preparedness for public speaking did not include a ready supply of lines to deal with hecklers, so all he said was, ‘Oh, very amusing. Do we actually have any serious questions?’
Of the raised hands, he selected one belonging to a well-groomed woman – no, she would have thought of herself as a ‘lady’ – in her sixties. And with her question, normal fawning was mercifully restored.
‘Mr St Clair …’ she began.
‘Call me “Burton”, please.’
‘Very well … Burton, one thing I can’t help noticing in Stray Leaves in Autumn … and I’ve come across the same thing in your earlier books …’ The author’s good humour was instantly restored – a reader who’d read his previous books was clearly a serious fan ‘… is that you do have a very deep understanding of women characters, you seem to be able to get inside the female brain. Is this something that you’ve had to work on very hard, or is it something that just came naturally?’
‘I’m very glad you asked me that question.’ And he was. It gave him an unrivalled opportunity to demonstrate what an unusually sensitive man he was; to show, in fact, his feminine side. ‘The thing is,’ he went on, ‘I do actually like women … and I’m not sure that that’s a universal masculine characteristic.’ His words prompted sympathetic nods and sighs of regret from his listeners. He then elaborated at some length about how much more empathetic he found female than male company. Burton St Clair drew around himself the mantle of The Perfect Man – caring, appreciative of women’s contributions to life, aware of the shortcomings of his own gender, and yet safely and loyally married. The Fethering audience could not get enough of him, though Jude found herself adding liberal loads of salt to every word he spoke. She had known Al Sinclair too long to be totally taken in by Burton St Clair.
Eventually his disquisition on the natural rapport he felt with women came to an end, and he looked around for another question.
The raised hand he selected belonged to a man in his sixties, dressed in a light tweed jacket and expensively faded pinkish trousers. He had about him the ease of having been to the right schools and university.
‘I was interested, Burton, in what you said about crime fiction …’
‘Ah.’ The author smiled. ‘I’m not really here this evening to talk about crime fiction.’
‘Perhaps not, but your comments on the subject …’ the questioner looked down at some notes he had made ‘… when you said you were not in the business “as a crime writer might be – of killing people simply for the convenience of my plots”.’
‘And I stand by that. Though plot is a significant ingredient in any kind of story-telling, in literary fiction it does not have the primacy that it does in crime fiction.’
‘Are you talking here about Golden Age crime fiction or more contemporary stuff?’
‘Does it make much difference?’ asked Burton St Clair loftily.
‘Oh, so you’re saying all crime fiction is an inferior genre?’
‘I’m not saying “inferior”,’ said Burton, though he clearly was. ‘I’m sure there’s some very fine writing in the crime world, but I just feel that, for me, the crime novel would not offer sufficient space to explore the ideas that I need to pursue in my own work.’
‘Hm,’