Meeting Steven (Short Fiction)

Ruth found her granddaughter in the study curled in the window seat, her bare and, it was observed, rather grubby feet denting its faded green brocade cushions. Looking up from the book on her lap, Suzanna smiled Henry's slow, half-apologetic smile, laid the novel face down beside her and swung her long legs to the Persian-carpeted floor.

"Hi Gran." In a husky-toned mid-Atlantic accent. Casual as a cat stretching, the low autumn sun behind her toasting the edges of her curly hair to a crisp hennaed crust. Green eyes blinking. Henry's eyes. So much of Henry in her. Nothing of her synthetic Californian mother. But unnerving sometimes, that steady, so-familiar look.

"Doesn't do a book much good, treating it like that. Wrecks the binding." Ruth stretched past her and picked up the volume, gently stroking its spine. But she sounded more wistful than cross as she gazed at the grainy black and white photograph of the author on the inside flap of the dust jacket. She hadn't opened the cover in God-knows-how-many years.

"Sorry." Suzanna sounded genuinely contrite as she peered over Ruth's shoulder. "I just saw it on the shelf and vaguely remembered someone mentioning that you knew him."

"I met him once, a long time ago. I can hardly say that I really knew him. It's not at all the same thing." And she sighed and felt a bubble of regret rise and pop inside her. "It was a long time ago." She thought Suzanna would let it go at that but, after a moment's hesitation, she pressed on.

"Would you tell me about it?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I suppose I'm just being nosy." But it was more than merely a seventeen-year-old's natural curiosity. Something beyond such a simple definition.

The women regarded each other with solemn affection. Finally Ruth took Suzanna's hand and led her back to the window seat where they made themselves comfortable in a warm pool of dying light.

"There's not much to tell, really." Ruth began. Oh, but there was. And the memory of it flared, fierce as a welder's torch. Its heat burning through her breast.



It was surprising how vividly it all came back to her. The mood of that day. The slow motion plodding of the last few hours between lunch time and five thirty. Clearing her desk. Covering her typewriter. Changing in the cupboard-sized chiller of the office cloakroom. Folding her workday skirt and blouse into a carrier bag and slipping on the expensive cherry silk shift bought at Dickens and Jones. She took her time over the transformation. Hair, nails, fresh make-up. There was no hurry. It didn't start until seven thirty.She checked her ticket: seven thirty for eight. Cheese and wine. Her stomach rumbled a reminder that she had skipped lunch in favour of shopping. She would have to find somewhere to grab a snack first. Saying goodnight to a diligent few who worked on at their desks, she left the building.

Out on the street, wildly gusting October winds buffeted the crowds. Ruth drifted along with them, bright-eyed with expectation and filled with the certain feeling that something momentous was about to happen. She found a cafe, ordered a cheese omelette and side salad, took a few mouthfuls and found she had no appetite. She paid the bill and went back to the streets. That was where the excitement was. The city's erratic pulse. She checked her watch. Ten past. Not yet. Not quite yet. Headleighs was less than five minutes walk away. She lingered in a doorway. The air felt moist. It was beginning to rain.

Immediately, umbrellas mushroomed and taxis did a frantic trade. Ruth watched the rush for the Underground entrance and the impatient pushing in a nearby bus queue as passengers squeezed aboard. Within minutes the crowds had thinned to a trickle, as though physically dissolved away by the downpour, and the hastily deserted pavements shone, sleek and black.

Ruth waited as long as she dared. At twenty five past she made a dash for it. Her slingbacks were soon awash and she could feel the rain penetrating her coat like an icy hand on each shoulder. She squelched on towards the beacon of light and colour that was Headleighs window, head down and passing the blur of posters, the impressive display of books.

It was warm and noisy inside. She exchanged her ticket for a glass of wine, sipped it gratefully and looked around. The place was swarming with literary types but he obviously hadn't arrived yet. Good. She had time to find the ladies room and, hopefully, dry out a little.

The radiator was piping hot. She took off her stockings and draped them across it, ready to snatch them back and stuff them in her handbag should the door open. Her shoes were in a sorry state, both the leather and lining soaked right through. She looked for something to wipe them with, dabbed at them with a wad of toilet paper and left them near the pipes, hoping the leather wouldn't crack as it dried. She stood barefoot, trying to get the tangles out of her dripping hair. She combed, coiled and pinned it up off her face so that it wouldn't stick to her neck and shoulders. She smoothed her dress and found it damp around the hem where her coat had blown open, this discovery interrupted by the awareness of approaching voices. Grabbing up her stockings and shoes, she retreated into a cubicle.

"...Of course, Betjamin's such an entertainer and so English. Always a packed house when he comes. It's the first time we've managed to get Steven de Vyne. He's apparently abroad a good deal. A bit of a recluse, I gather. Villa somewhere. Writer's retreat in the foothills. That sort of thing. But he's very popular. Three best sellers and quite charming, so I'm told."

"Is he married?"

"No, I don't think so, dear. Not the type, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I see." The last remark heavy with emphasis.

One of them also commented on the puddles of water on the floor. Ruth didn't catch exactly what was said over the sound of the flush, waiting until the two women had washed their hands and the door banged shut behind them. She dressed again, her stockings now thankfully dry, but her shoes oozed slightly as she walked and left faint footprints on the tiles. Another drink would, perhaps, take her mind off the discomfort.

She stood uncertainly at the back of the shop and wondered how difficult it would be to mingle. The crowd was far from a random bunch and there were, she observed, intimate groupings. Definite patterns of stars and satellites, talkers and listeners. She didn't know or recognise anyone. Not a single face in the whole buzzing galaxy. But the wine was good and plentiful so she hugged her glass and discreetly listened in to their conversations. No one spoke to her except the pale, dreamy-looking young man handing out the drinks. His polite but barely audible "would you like another, Miss?" and her "yes, thank you" being the sum total of their exchange. It was difficult not to feel left out but, she reasoned, it wasn't that everyone here was deliberately excluding her, it was simply that being so wrapped up in their own exclusive little worlds, they seemed distant and aloof. Arty, creative people tended to be like that. Or so she believed.

A sudden hush heralded his arrival, then a spontaneous burst of clapping. Ruth had a brief glimpse of his profile as he walked through the shop, his dark blond hair flopping slantwise across his forehead, a fluttering smile and a large, partly raised hand acknowledging their applause. He halted beside an imposing wooden lectern and waited to be introduced. The manageress of Headleighs stepped forward and Ruth recognised her voice from the exchange overheard in the ladies room.

"...I have great pleasure in welcoming Mr. Steven de Vyne, who will now read an extract from his latest novel The Thunderstone."

There followed more applause, some clearing of throats and general rustling as his audience settled down to listen. He waited patiently for total silence, his eyes on the open book. The actual sound of his voice took her by surprise, being lower than she had anticipated, bordering on the plummy side of theatrical but proving absolutely right for narration. He read for maybe twenty minutes without noticeable hesitation or mistake. It was obvious that he liked words because he rolled in them linguistically. He flourished and displayed them, relishing their flexibility and poetic fluidity. He painted vast colourful canvases with them and contrasting delicate miniatures with a stylistic flair that demonstrated total mastery of the craft. And there was humour and humanity in the multi-layered prose. A strong hint of warmth and inherent sympathy. Something of himself, Ruth fancied.



"Was he really that good?" Suzanna asked.

"Oh yes, very good. And very well received, even by the critics. Excellent reviews, for the most part. There was one chap, can't remember his name, who was a bit scathing but I always suspected it was a personal thing." Ruth stared out of the window. The street lamps were beginning to come on along the avenue. Insignificant orangey-pink worms almost swallowed by the deep blue yawning gape of evening's cloudless sky.

"Then what?" Suzanna prompted.

"Well, then we all queued up for him to sign our copies of his book."



It wasn't a very polite or orderly queue. People seemed to join it randomly along its length wherever they fancied. Ruth watched the technique, fascinated by the nerve of those who, by standing and chatting to acquaintances already halfway along it, effectively pushed in as everyone moved forward. As far as she could see, no one objected to this. Normal rules just didn't seem to apply to these individuals.

As she got nearer to the signing table, she strained to hear what he was saying. He laughed a good deal. A rich, throaty laugh, pleasant to the ear. He sounded relaxed. Much more relaxed than she felt now that he was so near.

When her turn came she managed to hold his gaze for a moment as she leaned forward. He smiled and asked her name. "Ruth" he repeated. His voice imbued the word with warmth and roundness as his pen scratched lightly across the page. "There, now." And she took the book from him, quietly said her thanks and turned away.



"Was that it?" Suzanna's amazed tone bordered on disdainful. She realised how it must have sounded and quickly added "I mean, there was more to it, wasn't there?"

"Yes. There was actually much more to it, in a manner of speaking."

"You had an affair!"

"Good heavens, no!" Ruth spluttered, laughing. "Nothing so sensational." The expression on her granddaughter's face encouraged her to go on. "We met again later the same evening, quite by chance."



The room had become uncomfortably warm, the atmosphere growing foggier by the minute as swirls of cigarette and cigar smoke wafted upwards from a forest of expressive hands. Her eyes smarting, Ruth squeezed through the throng and made her way once again towards the ladies room.

It was a shock to find him just the other side of the connecting door, glass in hand, expensive silk tie now loosened and his tall frame propped against the corridor wall.

"Hello, again." Steven de Vyne gave her a weak smile. The one eye she could see into was bloodshot and unfocused, the other was hidden behind a flop of blond hair. "Sorry, I'm feeling a little unwell."

"Can I get you anything?" She couldn't think of anything else to say. He looked tired, embarrassed and vulnerable.

"Another gin, maybe. If you'd be so kind."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Probably not, but it's the only idea that presents itself." He offered her the empty glass."A dash of Indian tonic, no ice or lemon." his words slurring very slightly, his large white hand not quite steady.

This really wasn't how she'd imagined things or, for that matter, how she'd imagined him. Perhaps he caught something of her confusion for as she turned to go he beckoned her back. "No, no. I shouldn't expect you to. Anyway, best not. I'll just make my excuses and leave. D'you think there's a back way out of here?" He tried to straighten up, failed and fell back heavily against the wall, swearing softly under his breath.

Worried that he might pass out, Ruth took his arm."Come on,"she coaxed,"let's get some fresh air." He was slow, awkward and hard to manoeuvre but she managed to steer him through a fire exit and out into the night. It had stopped raining. She left him beside some bins in an alleyway while she hurried back for their coats.

When she returned he seemed more in control although his complexion had acquired a greenish tinge. "I'm so sorry, I've spoiled your evening. I'm not usually like this..." he faltered, a little theatrically she thought, and swallowed."It's just that I've had some bad news..."

"Please don't feel you have to explain." But even as she said the words, Ruth knew he was going to and that she would listen, a captive audience of one.

"My sister Anne phoned to let me know my father had a severe stroke this afternoon and Mother's insisting I should go up to Durham and see him, make my peace and all that. She seems to think that suddenly faced with the spectre of the Grim Reaper we are, by some miracle, going to reconcile our long-held differences and hug tearfully like a scene from one of those hammy old films she watches. Real life isn't like that but it's no use trying to tell her. I'll have to be a dutiful son and show my face and I can't tell you how much I'm dreading the whole sorry charade. He won't appreciate the gesture. If he's able to speak he'll most probably be insulting, if not he'll just glare at me like some malevolent old shaman laying down a curse. I'm a red rag to a bull where he's concerned. It really would be best if I stayed away but Mother can't see it. Wants us to play at happy families before the end, the sweet, silly woman."

He kicked at a loose stone, careless of his finely polished Oxfords."I'm supposed to be seeing my agent for lunch tomorrow. She'll be understanding, of course, but will probably do her agony aunt routine and offer columns-worth of well-meaning advice I haven't asked for, don't want to listen to and have absolutely no intention of taking."

He noticed Ruth shiver and turn up her coat collar against the wind which, having once died down, was picking up again."My dear girl, I do apologise. Here I am, selfishly bending your ear over matters which don't even concern you whilst you're turning blue with cold. I should think you're bored rigid!"

"No, not at all. But I would like to get moving, if you feel up to it. My flat's not too far - only ten or fifteen minutes walk. Perhaps you'd like to come in for a coffee?" Or however many cups it takes to get you fully sober, she thought as they set off.

He thanked her solemnly."You're very kind. It is Ruth, isn't it?"

"Yes," she nodded, pleased he'd remembered her name from the signing,"Ruth Jameson." She paused, gauging whether the moment was right, decided it was now or never and carried on. "You were at university with my mother - Emily Winters."

They had been making slow progress along the street but he abruptly stopped dead, looking so pale that she thought he might be about to throw up.

"You're Emily's daughter?"

"Yes. She used to talk about you quite a bit. I wanted to meet you. That's why I came along tonight."

"Used to?" He said it softly, fearfully.

"She died last year."

His body appeared to fold in on itself as he took in this news. "I didn't know."

"It was very sudden. A brain haemorrhage. Just two days short of her 37th birthday." Ruth sighed and, suddenly confident of her claim, reached for his hand. "She was very fond of you." She allowed the silence to lengthen, waiting for him to respond.

He didn't pull away, his hand growing warmer in hers as he struggled with his reactions. Finally, he put it in words. "I loved your mother. We were very close for a while. She was the best friend I ever had."

"So why did you drift apart and eventually lose touch?"

"Emily never went into much detail, then."

"No. She always tended to be rather enigmatic where you were concerned. I always imagined you'd shared something very special but that, for one reason or another, it didn't last."

"That's not so far from the truth." He stamped his feet vigorously, coughing and searching the night sky, finally coming up with "shall we walk on?"

Ruth matched his now steadier pace, hanging on to his arm, concerned that without further prompting he might not offer any further information. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Do you know who my father was?" Worded so bluntly, the question bordered on the melodramatic and that wasn't what she had intended. She bit her lip, waiting for his answer.

"Yes I do. But if your mother had wanted you to know, don't you think she would have told you herself?" he hedged, looking first at her then down at his feet."It puts me in a rather awkward position, morally. I'd be betraying a confidence."

"But she's gone now, so what harm can it do?"

He shrugged. "That rather depends on what you intend to do with the information, should I decide to give it. Perhaps you haven't considered the possiblity that your natural father may not even know you exist."

It was evident from her reaction that this aspect hadn't figured in her reasoning and now she was floundering, nonplussed by his arguement. She had been so sure in her conclusions, so convinced that she had tracked him down, everything had pointed to it.

"There were some letters amongst mother's things, several of them from you. One was dated August 1939, seven months before I was born. Perhaps I shouldn't have read it but I felt I had to, you know?" He nodded and she went on "you'd taken mother home to spend the weekend with your parents and your father was evidently very taken with her. His heavy hints concerning her as a future daughter-in-law had embarrassed you both.You tried explaining things to him but there was an unpleasant scene for which you apologised in your letter to her.You also thanked her for her understanding. I drew the obvious conclusion."

"Which was?"

"That you weren't going to marry her."

"Not exactly. You've assumed that my relationship with your mother was a romantic one. It was deeply affectionate and very important to both of us, but it was essentially platonic. We did, albeit briefly, consider getting married as it would have provided both a father for the child she was expecting and would also pacify my own father, who already had sneaking doubts about my sexual preferences. But your mother decided it was best if we didn't try to deceive anyone. She was right, of course. I made a clean breast of it to the old man, admitted that I batted for the other side, so to speak. There was an almighty row. All kinds of threats to disinherit, publicly disown et cetera. He's never really been able to accept it. Then, of course, the war came along and everything was thrown into chaos. I'd graduated that year and immediately joined the RAF for the duration. I suppose, looking back, I used it as an opportunity to escape from the situation. Your mother went ahead and had you, then went into teaching. By the time I got back to civvy street she'd met and married Robert."

"So, you're not my father." She couldn't hide the disappointment in her voice.

"No, I'm afraid not. Although looking at you now, I honestly wish I could claim otherwise."

"I can understand why she loved you."

"Thank you, my dear. That's very sweet of you." His eyes were moist and full of the past."Perhaps I owe it to you to tell you what you want to know."



"And did he tell you?" Suzanna's voice was a detached whisper hanging breathless in the shadow-filled room.

"Yes, he told me." Ruth paused. "At least, he gave me his version of the story. One should, I suppose, always bear in mind that Steven was a novelist and may have edited reality a little. Anyway, according to him, my mother had had a clandestine affair with one of the senior lecturers, a certain Hugh Williams. Not only was he a lot older than her, he was also married to another member of the faculty. That was the jist of it, anyway. Apparently she didn't tell Hugh she was pregnant, believing there wasn't any point. Instead, she confided in Steven, discussed various options and decided to go it alone.The war conveniently covered a multitude of sins. She told everyone the baby's father was a serviceman who'd been posted abroad. Naturally, he never came home."

"I guess that sort of thing happened a lot."

"Oh yes. I don't think she had any problem getting people to believe it. War changes everything. Women coped with single motherhood then just as they do today. But back then people accepted it as a consequence of the times and were sympathetic, supportive even." Ruth's voice trailed off, her thoughts elsewhere.

"So," Suzanna prompted," what happened next?"

"I made Steven several cups of coffee and we sat talking in my tiny sitting room. Or rather, he talked and I listened. He was a wonderfully inventive storyteller, which is why I had my doubts even then."

"You didn't believe him about this Hugh Williams being your natural father?"

"Maybe it was simply that I didn't want to believe it. Perhaps he wasn't a romantic enough figure for me. Didn't live up to my expectations.Whatever. Anyway, a thoroughly sober Stephen departed in the early hours and went back to his hotel and his successful literary life. I never saw him again."

"Is he still...?"

"No," Ruth shook her head, "he passed away some years back."

"So you never knew for sure, then?"

"My instincts remained pretty strong but I wasn't absolutely certain until after your dad was born. As he began to grow, it became increasingly obvious that Henry didn't physically resemble either me or your grandfather. A genetic throwback, he's much taller, fair-skinned with blond hair. But his most striking feature has to be his green eyes," she paused and opened the book that lay between them,"and perhaps if this old photograph of Steven had been in colour, it might have confirmed my theory as to who he'd inherited them from."



THE END