Cecil Roberts (1892-1976) was an English novelist, poet and dramatist. His books include: A Terrace in the Sun and the Pilgrim Cottage trilogy. When I was around 16, I read A Terrace in the Sun. This novel introduced me to the idea of the past returning to haunt or delight us in the present. I have never forgotten it. In fact, I can say that most of my novels, to a greater or lesser extent, have been influenced by this theme.
For many years, I would have been ashamed to admit that Cecil Roberts had such an influence on me. Why? Because Roberts was a dreadful snob and what he wrote was, in a sense, a commentary on a society which was on the brink of great change. It was the 1940s and 1950s he wrote about - a very different society from that in which we live today. Here is an extract from the fifth book in his autobiography – The Pleasant Years (1974).
I was back in New York at the end of April. I dined with Mrs Cartwright at her Fifth Avenue apartment. One of the guests was Mrs Dorothy Caruso, her cousin. She was very surprised when I recalled that in 1924 she had given me and my travelling companion, Armand de la Rochefoucauld, her box at the Metropolitan Opera House, and we had taken with us the two Mdivani brothers, Prince Serge and Prince Alexis, then in poor lodgings in New York. She had married Caruso a few years before his death. They had one child, Gloria, whom he adored. I said I remembered that she had told me Caruso would not allow any birds to be shot on his Italian estate near Florence, unlike other Italians. “What an incredible memory you have!” she exclaimed, “He loathed ‘other singers’ being shot.”
In a sense, Roberts was simply writing about what interested readers of his day. Apart from style, is there really a difference between his writing and the reports on celebrities we read today? Have a look at the following report from a UK newspaper concerning a celebrity party. The article also drops names - but the style is very different.
While Lauren Goodger still may have looked all glammed up, she was feeling souped up and sassy as she flipped the bird to fans on her way out - seemingly proud as punch of her nude manicure and wanting to show it off for all to see. Pulling an emotive grimace, the former-TOWIE beauty also toted the exclusive gift bag, no doubt filled to the brim with a bunch of luxurious goodies. Sarah Harding clutched a massive gift bag as the Girls Aloud star held onto a pal's friend on the way out. While Jess Shears and Dom Lever were on their very own Love Island as the brunette beauty jumped a ride on her boyfriend’s back as he carried her out of the event and into the cab line.
I always found Roberts to be a super storyteller and there is no doubt that his writings influenced me. One of the first short stories I wrote (1991?) was directly inspired by the plot of A Terrace in the Sun. The story turned up in an old folder while I was cleaning out my office. I wrote it almost 30 years ago and I want to reproduce it here - unedited. If you enjoy it, then get a copy of A Terrace in the Sun. You will enjoy it more!
The Clock Tower
As far back as he could remember he had been like this. Even when he had still been a writer, he would put off the moment of starting. And so it was now. He had written the note. The bottle of pills was open beside the whisky, and he had locked the door. Still, he paced around the room, sometimes supporting his broken body on chair backs or table tops.
The pain was getting worse. He was a penniless arthritic, written out and no use to anyone. It was right that he should end his own life. The qualities that had made him a successful writer had left him friendless and lonely. There was a knock on the door.
“Mr Barnes, sir. Mr Barnes?” It was the porter. “Are you at home, sir?”
Damn the man’s eyes. Not now. Why couldn’t he leave an old man alone to die in peace?
“There’s a letter for you, sir.”
Three flights of stairs were nothing to the porter, but the youngster knew how difficult they were for the cantankerous old man who lived on the top floor. The porter was persistent.
“Looks important, sir.”
“Slip it under the door then,” growled Nigel Barnes, “and leave me.”
There was a pause and then the corner of an envelope appeared on the doormat.
“May be an old flame, sir.” The young porter was attempting a joke, something to brighten Nigel’s day. Nigel made no response. The young porter’s footsteps disappeared down the stairs and Nigel snatched up the letter.
“An old flame? No chance of that, son,” Nigel muttered and he tossed the envelope onto the table and beside the bottle of pills. His wife had been the last woman in his life and she had left years ago. And before that? There had not been many women in his life. Writing had been an all-consuming passion and his existence had been self-centred. But maybe, just once, the summer of 1939, there had been an earnest youth, a young German Jewess and the burning Italian sun. They had escaped the torrid Venetian heat and met at the bicycle-hire shop on the Lido. They rode off along the sea front to the end of the island where they waited for the boat for Pellestrina.
Lying in the shade of a cypress tree, he had told her of his burning ambition. “To become a writer, famous and respected.” He rolled over. “Liked even.”
She encouraged his grand ideas and sympathised with his passion. She felt his desire and he felt her misery when she told him of her wretched life, of what it meant to be a Jewess in Germany. What she wanted was to escape oppression and to know freedom. He understood her then and he recalled the compassion he had felt now. He recalled it with such intensity that he gasped. The feeling was in such stark contrast to the barren intellectual life he had led. He grabbed at the letter, tore it open and shook the contents onto his lap.
There were two enclosures. One had an American stamp on it and was addressed to him in neat handwriting. The other was from a company of London solicitors. What did they want now? Didn’t they ever stop demanding money?
Nigel chuckled. There was nothing he could give now. He closed his eyes and felt again the compassion and the heat of the sunlight of the Venetian lagoon. How they had laughed and talked together. Pellestrina, the trattoria, sitting on the terrace in the stillness of the afternoon sun; yellow plaster walls, soft red roofs, green shutters closed to the sunlight, Corvo wine, the fishing boats and the hazy blue silhouette of Venice across the water.
He knew she had felt it too – those moments, like a thread making sense of their lives. Barely adult, they were no longer children, but at a crossroads they seized the present.
They took the last boat across the lagoon and in the morning she had said: “Please, I want that I have something to remember you, Nigel Barnes from Alston.” And then she added: “I don’t know where is Alston.”
He had taken a postcard from his pocket. “This is a photograph of Alston. The clock tower. It was built to commemorate the dead of the Great War. Look - the hands of the clock have been stopped at 11.00 o’clock. My father and his brothers are all remembered there.”
He had turned the card over and written something inspired by The Ruba’iyat of Omar Khayyam on the back of it.
“I shall be your family,” she had said but he never saw her again.
She went back to Germany and three months later the war had broken out. He supposed she were dead. Nigel opened his eyes. Outside it was pouring down. He sliced open the letter from the solicitors. It concerned the last will and testament of a Mrs Patterson now deceased of Jacksonville Carolina. It appeared that the late Mrs Patterson had named him as the recipient of the larger part of her fortune.
Nigel blinked. There must be some mistake. He had never known anyone by the name of Patterson. He muttered angrily at this disturbance. They were going to hound him to the grave; well, so be it.
Mrs Patterson, the letter went on, had married wealthy art dealer Rudi Patterson. On his death his wealth had passed to her but on her death in a road accident several months earlier and having no family of her own, Mrs Patterson had left almost everything to Nigel. He was urged to telephone Klein Cohen and partners as soon as possible. Klein Cohen had also been instructed to pass on a letter from Mrs Patterson to Mr Barnes and the epistle was enclosed therein.
Nigel leaned forward painfully and picked up the envelope. He did not recognise the handwriting. This must be a cruel joke. Had he offended someone so much that they should want to play such a trick? Maybe it was a fan; or maybe just a case of mistaken identity. He had never been to America, he had never known many Americans and as far as he knew, his books had never been popular there. Nigel pushed his finger under the sticky flap and ripped it open. Slipping his hand inside, he pulled out a sheet of paper and he unfolded it. There were just a few words on it, the second half of a sentence. Nigel was alternately confused and disappointed, but then something stirred in his memory and he frowned.
"And in the track of a hundred thousand years out of the heart of dust, hope sprang again Like greenness."
It was The Ruba’iyat!
Nigel fumbled for the envelope, slipped his hands inside but something fell out and landed on the floor beside him. As he bent sideways to pick it up, Nigel felt such a pain in his back that he slumped back in his chair, moaning. He knew what the object was and he remembered now what he had written on the back of it.
He dropped to his knees and carefully leaned sideways. The postcard was worn and tattered now but he could still make out the clock tower at Alston, built to commemorate the fallen. Flipping the card over he read his lines written fifty years earlier.
...still the end of the affair will be your departure. It is a dream I will dream all my life...
For a second Nigel held the card tightly to his chest, his head bowed. Painfully he got to his feet.
She was a bit sentimental even then, but this? Christ! With three claps of his hands Nigel screwed up the postcard and lobbed it through the open window.
How much money were they talking about here? Nigel made towards the telephone. He would have to call Klein and Cohen immediately.
Robert John Goddard 1992
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