The Silent Tide Read Online Free PDF

Stephen said gravely. ‘But I’ve not enquired too closely into Berec’s past or indeed his present. He is a man of great talents and has a gift for friendship that proves very useful on occasion. Him bringing you here is typical.’ He smiled.
    ‘He meant me to ask you about a job,’ Isabel rushed in, taking advantage of the smile.
    ‘I’m afraid that, too, is typical Berec,’ Stephen said, the smile turning regretful. ‘Sometimes he acts before he thinks. I can’t afford to employ anyone else at the moment. Business is very tight. There are too many writers and not enough people who buy their books.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, crestfallen.
    ‘I hope something turns up for you soon,’ he said. ‘If I hear of anything, of course . . . Ah.’ A large man of about sixty, with sad eyes and an untidy moustache, had shambled through the door. ‘That is the great William Ford,’ he whispered. ‘Or so he likes to think of himself. I’m afraid I must ask you to excuse me for a moment.’ Isabel watched him greet the man and pour him a drink. For a while she was completely alone. She didn’t mind. It had been a long day, a momentous day, and not without its disappointments. She was too tired for bright conversation with strangers. She took a tentative sip of the whisky and screwed up her face. It tasted like castor oil. She swallowed it hastily and it burned her throat, but she liked the warmth it spread inside. The second sip was a little better and she allowed herself to relax and take in her surroundings.
    This room must once have been a reception room, but was now furnished as an office, with a big mantelpiece above a blocked-up fireplace, and windows on three sides hung with blackout curtains. The twenty other people in the room were about all it could accommodate amongst several large desks, an elderly dining table on which bottles and glasses were laid out, bookshelves, piles of paper, potted plants and other assorted paraphernalia. A delightful, messy collage of book covers and newspaper cuttings decorated the wall by which she stood. These she perused eagerly, without recognising any of the titles and hardly any of the authors. There were lists and notices: mysterious charts concerning paper and typesizes; handwritten instructions regarding petty cash and returning the key to the lavatory. There was a poster printed in clear capitals to simulate carving in stone. She began to read it with a deep sense of thrill:
    THIS IS A PRINTING OFFICE, it said, CROSSROADS OF CIVILISATION, REFUGE OF ALL THE ARTS AGAINST THE RAVAGES OF TIME, ARMOURY OF FEARLESS TRUTH.
    ‘Isabel, did you speak to Stephen about employment?’ She swung round to see Berec.
    ‘Well, yes,’ she said, touched by his persistence, ‘but he said there isn’t anything. He can’t afford to pay.’
    ‘What nonsense,’ Berec growled, his normal good-temper ruffled. ‘You must speak to him again. We will both speak to him.’
    ‘But if he has nothing, what is the point?’
    ‘Nonsense,’ Berec said again. ‘He has some successes. Maybe not with poetry, but Miss Briggs’s romances sell well. He must expand. He needs another editor, he can’t rely on Trudy Symmonds for everything.’ He bent close and whispered in her ear, ‘I don’t care who she’s married to, the woman has no soul. Not like you. You have soul. I can always tell in here.’ He struck his chest with a clenched fist and said something resonant in his own language.
    ‘I can’t be an editor,’ Isabel said. ‘I know nothing about it. I mean, I read and read – but that’s all.’
    ‘Read widely and believe in your judgement. One day you will be an editor. You are an intellectual, I tell you. I always know.’ He gave a broad smile.
    ‘You are kind to me, Mr Berec,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘Nobody has ever said encouraging things like that to me before, certainly never my parents.’ Was it only this morning that she’d been living at home, being ordered to