‘Lovely girls. Shame they’re not gonna be going to Pars,’ says Eddy. ‘They won’t let anyone in with jeans.’
Night has quietly fallen outside The Fox. We are oblivious to the drop in temperature but we notice the altered appearance of the streets under artificial light. The street lamps glow yellow like deformed daffodils on metal stalks. We walk swiftly on.
The old Palais dance hall has undergone extensive structural alteration; an extra floor has been put in and two ends of the hall partitioned off in wedges to lend the room the shape of a parallelogram. There are four stroboscopes suspended from the ceiling. They shed a dazzling mix of light upon the dancing women.
‘Ask her for a dance.’
‘Don’t be stupid. It’s way too early.’
Eddy and I hover near the dance floor onto which few men have walked.
Somebody is pulling at my arm. Eddy is shouting, and through the drunken haze, I can just make it out the words: ‘Is this it?’
La Comédie du Livres, Montpellier, May 1997
James Crumley’s books have inspired a generation of crime writers. Over the Tannoy, his French publisher announces his presence on a stand near to mine. Dad agrees to hold the fort so that I can go and meet him. I’ve loved reading his fiction, which is a cross between Raymond Chandler and Hunter S. Thompson. Crumley has something of a cult following of which I’m a fully paid up member.
Rapt in conversation with an elderly man is Crumley’s agent. Sitting in front of them is the man himself. Near to the table’s edge is a bottle of pastis. And near to the pastis is a pile of books that await signing. My eyes meet his and I’m struck by how bloodshot they are. I strike up conversation after purchasing Un pour marquer la cadence, a French translation of his first published novel, 1969’s One to Count Cadence, which is set in Vietnam. We chat. I explain what I’m doing here and attempt to convey my admiration for his writing without, I hope, slipping into sycophancy. He inscribes my copy. ‘Bill — See you soon (for a beer) Jim Crumley Mai 1997’. I intend to do just that. But by the time I have packed away my books, he has been whisked away by his publisher.
Crumley’s books feature either the character C. W. Sughrue, an alcoholic ex-army officer turned private investigator, or another PI, Milo Milodragovitch. In the novel Bordersnakes, Crumley brought both characters together. Of his two protagonists, Crumley says that ‘Milo’s first impulse is to help you; Sughrue’s is to shoot you in the foot.’ In our brief meeting, I detect in Crumley’s character distinctly more of the Milo than the Sughrue.
Richmond, Surrey, 1989
Late on Wednesday, the natural light of the day is fading fast. Plumes of cigarette smoke spiral up from the desks. Phones ring intermittently. There are hurried conversations and a frantic finger dance on keyboards. My index fingers, too, contribute to this deadline rush of stories. The screen is lined with sentences I’ve just written. I stare at the green background enveloping the words. Imagining the greenness as an ocean, I wish crassly that the sentences be drowned in it. Jennifer has left. I can’t really take it in. Are these precursor thoughts to a breakdown? Can I get insurance, ‘nervous’ breakdown cover? Crack up and be paid to convalesce somewhere nice? I stare, as if hypnotised by the freshly typed words that await punctuation. Must get going though. I type with demonic vigour, spewing out stories. I correct spelling mistakes before rearranging words, bringing them into accordance with the paper’s style sheet. When using a typewriter, I did this job inside my head. But now I tend to write the first draft of a story in one big splurge of disordered thought.
I don’t join the others for a drink after work. This upsets Eddy, who wants my company to divulge a confidence. It must wait. I want to visit my parents to break the news. I also like the idea of a good lounge in front of the television, mug of tea in hand.
There is no need to hurry but an inexplicable force impels me to ride the bike at top speed. A car swerves out into the middle of the road to avoid contact. I then realise that I have fallen into the spirit of competition, racing against cars and fellow cyclists. My heart pumps harder. I feel my back moisten with sweat. Pushing down aggressively on the pedals, I soon arrive. I park my bike in the alleyway that runs alongside the house. It is dank and full of derelict bikes, some of which have ‘stabilisers’ dating back to my infancy. There are bigger bikes stripped of various essential components like seats and cross bars. They make me think of skeletons awaiting burial. Mum resists organising their removal; it would signal the emphatic end of something quintessentially familial.
For some reason I forsake the lounge and tea. Instead I go out to stand in the cold garden. The shiftless clouds have come to harden my sense of frustration. I want sunshine. A beaker full of it and more. And I know what I don’t want: fêtes, marriages, council meetings and supermarket openings. I can rid myself of it all by a single press of the ‘Delete’ button. I have come to tell them this.
Phil has given me a copy of Sartre’s Nausea. A mistake, maybe, given my current solipsistic musings.
Tregarth Council Flat, North Wales, February 2003
We get the call. Along with a fellow bookseller, I have the chance to go through the library of a man who must leave his council house for a nursing home. We arrive to find the books in various corners of the house. Dan is happy to buy a handful but for me only one title stands out. The Britannia and Conway Tubular Bridges by Edwin Clark in two volumes. With General Inquiries on Beams and on the Properties of Materials used in Construction.
Some research is needed. Edwin Clark, it transpires, was the clerk of the project which built a bridge across the Menai Strait between the island of Anglesey and the mainland of Wales. The volumes contain descriptions and drawings of the original tubular bridge; with wrought iron rectangular boxsection spans. It is now a two-tier steel truss arch bridge.
Clark produced a comprehensive presentation of continuous beam theory as applied to the Britannia and Conway bridges, backed up by experiments, within the scope of a two-volume book about both bridges, I am reliably informed. The work was published by Day & Son and John Weale, 1850. And with the sanction, and under the supervision, of Robert Stephenson.
Two vols. of text in 8vo, orig. blind-stamped cloth spines gilt. contents very good, spines worn and scuffed at top and bottom, no markings, binding good; both volumes are heavy and we will need to incorporate postage costs into the book price.
I take the book to a Llandudno dealer at the trade’s top end. ‘Museum stock’, I say to Dan by way of explaining the man’s credentials. The dealer expresses interest although there is some confusion as to whether there should be another volume. There is no mention, in the book we have, of a third volume, but COPAC — an online library catalogue giving access to major university, specialist and national libraries in the UK — suggests that there is a third volume.
In spite of a lingering doubt over a third volume’s existence, the dealer agrees to part with hundreds of pounds.
The mystery ends appropriately enough within sight of Britannia Bridge several years later while taking a tour of Plas Newydd, a National Trust country house in Llanfairpwll, Anglesey. We have brought the kids to see Rex Whistler’s drawings and the military museum with relics from the Battle of Waterloo. Here, in front of the former marquis’s artificial leg, a Trust volunteer is railing on about the iniquities of Napoleon and his people. We allow him to finish his speech before revealing Anne’s and our children’s French nationality. Afterwards we pass into an anteroom where I spot, lying on an elegant mahogany table, a large leather bound volume with the words Britannia Bridge and Plates embossed upon its side. The book is of a larger format than the two volumes we have sold. The usher in the room breaks protocol; kindly permitting close examination. It is indeed the missing volume; an atlas complete with 47 lithographed plates (six tinted, five double-page and folding).