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Short Story THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE HOLIDAY by DIANA ELVIN “Good Morning ladies and gentlemen. We have arranged a very special treat to round off your ‘Book Lover’s Tour’ today.” Outwardly enthusiastic, hiding boredom, the drivercum-guide pressed on. “Haven’t we had a super week visiting the places where your favourite authors lived and the settings they used for their wonderful novels?” Not being a reader herself, she couldn’t see the point. Still, as long as it sold seats – and it certainly did. The holidaymakers (with the exception of Alex, dragged along by his wife) were loving it, lapping it up. “Today we shall concentrate upon just one very special writer, the prolific, elusive Bradley Beecham. And, not only will we visit the places associated with him, but we shall actually call at his beautiful home to meet him in person.” It was the highlight of the holiday. He had never let readers near his home. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures. “He’ll be happy to sign all those books you’ve bought from the special display at the hotel.” (Shop sales were flagging). “Along here we come to the simple two-roomed school Beecham attended.” And so they did – well, a reasonable replica anyway, knocked up hastily on the cheap but as accurate as modern materials could manage, conveniently placed at the far side of the modern comprehensive playground to prevent too close a scrutiny. The organisers had done their best with a writing life spanning 60 years in an environment modernised beyond recognition. They had located the furniture factory where Bradley first worked. He had made the tea and brushed up sawdust for a mere six weeks, not being much good at either brewing or brushing, but they saw no reason to mention this. From the outside the place looked, providentially, much the same, not successful enough to expand or to modernise. Then the tours began and money was paid for coaches to park and passengers to peer so a clause in the agreement naturally specified ‘no changes.’ Luck had also favoured the tour arrangers when they reached the grassy headland from where eager readers
could make out the caves and beaches which had been the mainstay of a whole series. The fisherman’s cottage, now a patched up ruin, was too far out to be seen clearly but the caves looked mysterious and exciting. Bradley Beecham, when sales fell, had been promoted, by a resourceful agent, as a kind, courteous old gent that it would be a privilege to meet. So, week after week, the fans beat a path to his door. The coach parked by the main gate, the passengers walked reverentially up the path, and the guide gave the ceremonial ‘Rat-a-tat-tat’ to be greeted by Beecham himself with a welcoming smile. Hating every minute, he would still say all the right things (he was after all, master of the well-chosen word). Sales would be boosted, his agent, his publisher, and book shops nationwide would all benefit. Obviously, today, he didn’t hear them coming. However, it is doubtful whether he would have noticed a herd of stampeding buffalo, he was in such a rage. “You stupid fool” he was shouting at an unseen recipient, “I can’t see to this now. I’ve got a load of gaping tourists due any minute and I have to look as though I’m pleased to see them, say a load of rubbish like how I love writing, when it’s actually ruddy hard work.” There was a sudden appalled silence. “Dear, kind Brad” must have caught sight of the disillusioned group outside the open windows. Then Alex laughed, not unkindly but with simple pleasure at finding this idol was human after all – and shown to be so. Alex, who never read a book, sometimes lost his temper, often found his clients hard to like and would hate to have them pouring into his house, couldn’t stop laughing. All the boredom and resentment of that long week was expelled as his body shook and he slapped his thigh.He walked forward, hand outstretched, beaming happily. After a startled gasp the other passengers followed, also smiling. “Good morning, Mr Beecham”, he said. “Do, please, let us in because I think I am going to enjoy meeting you very much after all.”
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40 Life in... Orpington December 2021
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