The Brightfount Diaries. Brian Aldiss
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– and sold her nothing. She wanted a good English grammar that would do for her two boys for reference at home. I felt I knew those wretched children personally before she left: Dennis, aged nine, Wilfred, fourteen. ‘We want to give them really good careers. Trouble is, we can only afford it for one of them. Ought we to concentrate on Wilfred, who’s the elder? – but he’s always been so slow – or cut our losses and just plug for Dennis, who’s frightfully bright for his age?’ Etc., etc.
Finished with the suspicion that she wanted neither book nor advice, just a chat about her troubles. Odd how people unburden to strangers!
Can’t help worrying about Wilfred, though. If he doesn’t watch it, he’ll end up as a bookseller’s assistant.
Tennis in evening: singles with the Dodd girl. Bought her a squash afterwards. May see more of her.
TUESDAY
Late. Rexine saw me come in at 9.15, just looked. Expect I’ll hear about it some time.
Been thinking about yesterday’s customer. Her problem is much the same as a bookseller’s; to push the old, slow stock or concentrate on flogging what is already doing well? In Brightfount’s we’ve never decided.
Mrs Callow’s birthday. Gave her a box of chocolates – only person on staff who gave her anything. Dave and I invited up to her house this evening, went by bus. Very nice there. Food first class. Mr Callow science-fiction enthusiast, to Dave’s delight – we went for walk, left them chatting and diving excitedly into vast cupboard full of magazines with bright, neat astronomical covers and titles like ‘Stupendous’, ‘Staggering’ and ‘Unlikely’.
Have not said anything to anyone about Lawrence. Rather wish now I was going out to ‘Hatchways’ next Sunday, but have already planned to go home for week-end.
WEDNESDAY
Half-day. Rained. Bored. Should not be reading Kafka’s Diaries if they weren’t remaindered. Very good bargain.
Few customers show much interest in anything to do with books apart from whatever particular one they are after – except when it comes to remainders. Name seems to waken their interest. ‘Why are they so cheap? How can you afford to sell them at this price? Do the authors know about this?’
Any number of answers really. Most of our reduced books are not our own dud stock, but come from firms who buy up from publishers. Publishers get rid of books for several reasons, most of which they do not mention, for remaindering is not the glorious business publishing is; all publishers remainder, none do it with cocktail parties. Pity, that!
You are cordially invited to
A COCKTAIL PARTY
at
The Algernon Hotel, Bifold Street,
on
the – July, 19—,
in celebration of the clearance of the last seven hundred and seventy-three copies of Mr ABLE-FURBISH’S Still More Writing Really at Random for one shilling and twopence apiece.
TIES.
R.S.V.P.
And this because, perhaps, the publishers have overprinted a good book, to be on the safe side and avoid reprinting later. Or perhaps they had overestimated the market for that particular book (already glutted by Mr Furbish’s previous works, Writing Really at Random and More Writing Really at Random). Or perhaps Mr Furbish wanted a holiday in Old Calabria and required a lump sum in a hurry. Or perhaps his book had been rather drably produced. Or perhaps the publisher’s production manager had cut his costs on the book jacket, and nobody liked the look of the thing at all.
Or perhaps – which is quite likely – it was just a rotten book.
THURSDAY
Up v. early in burst of energy for swim by Poll’s Meadow. Back pleased with self and peckish. Landlady, spotting me, commented irritably, ‘Fancy getting yourself hungry like that before breakfast!’ (She operates under fixed impression rationing is still on.)
She was annoyed again at tea when I came in filthy from the shop. We moved two old sets of Scott from the Slaughterhouse to the basement and I had cobwebs on shirt and hair. Mrs Yell: ‘Now just look at you! And I thought books was a gentlemanly profession.’
‘Not the retail end,’ I explained wearily.
We all had some of Mrs Callow’s birthday cake in tea-break. Peggy Ellis promised to bake some buns and bring, one day. Dave, being funny, said he would bring some beer. Peggy: ‘You won’t really, would you?’ (She is disappointingly naïve)
Dave: ‘Of course I would. Why, last Christmas I brought some wine and we got old Brightfount so pickled he couldn’t say “Hodder and Stoughton”.’
I heard him telling her later that this Christmas we would have some mistletoe. Those two are getting very friendly, suspect romance in the air; but offensive young fellow still meets Peggy outside shop about twice a week.
Workmen have finished in basement, Vaws has gone. Old Mr B. looking very miserable all morning; perhaps he has had the bill. He spent long while shut in office with Rexine. We know these moods of old. Everyone apprehensive; the next devel. is generally a lecture by Mr B. on saving electricity, paper, etc., commencing with the words, ‘I’ve just been looking at the figures …’
‘He’s probably seen the announcement that U.K. booksellers had a turnover of forty-four million pounds last year,’ Dave said, ‘and thinks he’s not getting his fair cut of it.’
Sudden inrush of customers then, including A. H. Markham who wanted back a book he sold to us two years ago.
We still had it.
FRIDAY
Pay-day.
Tucking her envelope away, Mrs Callow observed, ‘Well, we must be grateful for small purses.’
Had my article on book-trade back this morning: ‘not of sufficient general interest’. Bang goes another promising literary career.
Expected lecture materialized to-day, before we went down to cellar for morning tea. Gathering us all together in the back of the shop by Rexine’s office, Mr B. commenced, ‘You’ll be interested to know I’ve just been looking at the figures …’ Usual talk followed. Try and save string.
The man from the public library came in shortly after and ordered a lot of Biggles books, which seemed to restore humour all round. He and Mr B. get on well together: they were Fire Watchers or something in the war.
Royal Family books selling well – especially on Fridays, market day. Farmhouses hereabouts must be full of them.
Customers not exciting on the whole. We have one or two people whose visits we look forward to: Owen Owen, the town councillor, Ralph Mortlake, who is rather an ass, Prebendary Courtnay, rather stiff, Professor Carter, vague, and of course A. H. Markham, who distributes sweets. And there’s old Maclaren, whose appearance we dread. And the plump fellow we call our Thief, although we’ve never actually caught him taking anything.
Of course, there is also Jocelyn Birdwine, but he hardly ever comes in nowadays. He was the most odd and charming person you could imagine. Now he owes us £4 14s. 6d. and has ceased to call.
Sometimes people make their inquiries so disinterestedly, so tediously, looking away or yawning as they do so, that I long to scare them back into showing a semblance of intelligence. What a luxury to wait until they’ve fumbled into silence and then to drop the dummy mask of assistant – saying in the most freezingly rude tone, ‘Now get back outside that door, come in briskly and say your piece coherently, and then we’ll see what we can do for you.’
Had a lovely customer in before we closed, fully compensating for a hundred stodges. She was dark, slender and sad, but smiled most beautifully. Imagine her name was something Shakespearian, probably Miranda. A car waited outside for her – I saw her climb into it with a flash of