A Half Forgotten Song Read Online Free PDF Page A

while since I’ve heard from you. In truth, it’s been over eighteen months. I know you said you needed more time to get the manuscript to me, and we did agree to that, but there does come a point when a publisher starts to wonder if a book is ever going to appear . . .”
    “Yes, look, I am sorry for the delay . . . I’ve been . . . well . . .”
    “Zach, you’re a scholar. Books take as long as they take, I am well aware. The reason I’m calling today is to let you know that somebody else has come to us with an outline for a work on Charles Aubrey . . .”
    “Who?”
    “Perhaps it might be more politic if I didn’t say. But it’s a strong proposal; he’s shown us half the manuscript and hopes to finish in four to five months. It would coincide very nicely with next year’s exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery . . . Anyway, I’ve been told by the powers that be to chase you up, not to put too fine a point on it. We want to go ahead with a major new work on the artist, and we want to publish next summer. That means we would need a manuscript from you by January or February at the latest. How does that sound?”
    With the receiver pressed hard to his ear, Zach stared at the Aubrey drawing in the catalog. It was of a young man with a faraway expression; straight, fair hair falling into his eyes, fine features, a sharp nose and chin. Wholesome, slightly raffish. A face that conjured up images of boys’ school cricket matches; mischief in the dorm room; pilfered sandwiches and midnight feasts. Dennis, it was called, and dated 1937. The third drawing of the young man Zach had seen by Aubrey, and with this one, more strongly than ever, he knew that something was wrong. It was like hearing a cracked bell chime. Something was off-key, flawed.
    “How does that sound?” Zach echoed, clearing his throat. Impossible. Out of the question . He hadn’t even looked at his half-constructed manuscript, his reams of notes, for over six months.
    “Yes, how does it sound? Are you all right, Zach?”
    “I’m fine, yes . . . I’m . . .” He trailed into silence. He had abandoned the book—one more project that had petered to nothing—because it was turning out just like every other book about Aubrey he had ever read. He’d wanted to write something new about the man and his work, something that would show a unique insight, possibly the kind of insight only a relative, a secret grandson, would be able to give. Halfway through he’d realized he had no such insight. The text was predictable, and covered well-trodden ground. His love for Aubrey and his work was all too obvious, but that was not enough. He had all the knowledge, all the notes. He had his passion for the subject. But he didn’t have an angle. He should just tell David Fellows that and have done with it, he thought. Let this other Aubrey man get his book published. With a pang, Zach realized he’d probably have to pay back the publication advance, modest as it was. He wondered where on earth he might get that money back from, and almost laughed out loud.
    But the picture on the page in front of him kept pulling at his attention. Dennis. What was that expression, on the young man’s face? It was so hard to pin down. One minute he looked wistful, the next mischievous, and then he looked sad, full of regret. It shifted like the light on a windy day, as if the artist couldn’t quite capture it, couldn’t quite commit the mood to paper. And that was what Charles Aubrey did, that was where his genius lay. He could pin an emotion to paper like nobody else; catch a fleeting thought, a personality. Portray it with such clarity and skill that his subjects came to life on the paper. And even when the expression was ambiguous, it was because the mood of the sitter had been the same. Ambiguity itself was something he could draw. But this was different. Wholly different. This looked as though the artist couldn’t decipher, couldn’t recapture the