In Pursuit of the English - Doris Lessing [98]
‘Why, is it going to be a brothel as well?’
‘I say! You’d better be careful you know, That reminds me. You stay here. I’ll telephone my friend. He’ll have an idea or two that’ll interest you, you’ll see.’
I waited for about half an hour. Then Bobby Brent came back with a small ratlike man who introduced himself as Mr Ponsonby’s lawyer, Mr Haigh.
Bobby Brent could not prevent himself from smiling with premonitory triumph.
‘And now,’ I said, ‘let’s have it.’
They exchanged glances. Bobby Brent nodded.
Mr Haigh said; ‘You’re a writer, is that correct?’
‘That is correct.’
‘And you’d like to make some money on the side.’
‘Mr Ponsonby thinks so.’
‘Mr Ponsonby knows his way about. Now. You know about the libel laws?’
‘You tell me.’
‘That’s right, we like someone who’s careful about what they’re getting. But I know my trade. Now. You write a story. You get it printed. Doesn’t matter where. Anywhere will do. And then – bob’s your uncle if you go about it right.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘All right, all right. We’ll start from another angle. Have you had a story published in a magazine lately?’
‘As it happens, yes.’
‘Good. Right. Take a look at Raymond here.’
‘I’m looking.’
‘He’s in your story. How would you describe him?’
‘Tall, dark, handsome.’
‘Not enough.’
‘Sinister.’
‘No, no. It’s the distinguishing marks you have to go for. Take another look – right? He’s got a scar under his jaw.’
‘Bayonet,’ said Bobby Brent, modestly. ‘Commandos. The man next to me – should have stuck the dummy, stuck me instead.’
‘Right. Now. A tall dark handsome man – sinister is not the right note, it’s the wrong touch. With a scar down under his jaw. Now, what does this man do in your story? Right, I’ll tell you. He breaks the law. Doesn’t matter how. Bob’s your uncle. Right?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Raymond here comes to me. A lawyer. Right? I write to the publishers. My client’s been libelled. Easily identifiable. Damages. Settled out of Court. One hundred nicker, just like that – split.’
‘Nice for you.’ I said. ‘But what about me?’
‘Insurance pays. You don’t. The publishers don’t. I’ve made hundreds that way. Hundreds. Always settle out of Court, they do – frightened of Court. The libel laws work against them. Only once went to Court. We lost. Mistake. But what’s one mistake with so much to gain? How about it?’
‘I’m not entirely clear in my mind.’
‘Right. Try again. Take me. How would you describe me – as a writer, mind.’
‘Small, furtive, rodentlike.’
‘Nab, not those fancy words. Look at my face. What do you see? I’ve got a mole. Look. Now, there’s your character for you – a lawyer with a good practice, his office situated so and so, and the name’s important, not Haigh, too close, something like Hay, or Hag – enough to establish malice. And with a mole on his upper cheek, he does something he shouldn’t. It’s in the bag. Not that I want you to use me – it’s too close the knuckle in a manner of speaking. But Raymond here. Or I can find someone, I got three hundred once, split three ways, it’s a hundred nicker each – what’s it cost you – spend an evening scribbling something, good enough to sell. I know three writers – they’ve lived off the libel laws these five years. Right, Now, what do you say?’
‘What immediately strikes me is, I’m surprised you’re interested in such small stakes. Knowing the way Mr Ponsonby operates, what’s even a hundred to him?’
They exchanged another glance.
‘Raymond Ponsonby’s in a class by himself,’ said Mr Haigh. ‘That I grant you. And I’m not saying it would be Mr Ponsonby who’d oblige. I’m not saying that. I was using him and myself as examples. Right?’
‘I’ll think it over,’ I said.
Bobby Brent controlled, with difficulty, a look of pure vicious triumph.
We all shook hands. Mr Haigh departed, hoping he would have the pleasure of my further acquaintance.
We locked up. ‘And now, a taxi,’ I said.
‘You want your pound of flesh, don’t you?’
‘I’m learning.’
I saw him laugh silently.
In the taxi he pulled