Free The Herring Seller's Apprentice by L. C. Tyler Page B

lot of time working on my book.’ He pointed to the cheap plastic wallet. ‘I’m going to be a writer.’ He smiled diffidently.
    ‘Really? That’s a coincidence. I’ve just spent most of the morning with a literary agent,’ I said.
    His eyes opened wide. ‘A literary agent. Gosh!’ he said. ‘Do you know an agent?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very well, unfortunately.’
    ‘Do you think you could introduce me to her?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I certainly could, but I am afraid I’m not going to. Sorry about that. Now, how long have you been here?’
    ‘I’ve just arrived. You saw me come in.’
    ‘I mean when did you start working here?’
    ‘Oh, I see. About three months ago.’
    ‘I didn’t see any mention of you in the books.’
    ‘Books?’
    ‘The accounts,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to say that any staff are being employed. No salary. No National Insurance. No tax. Mrs Tressider was paying you?’
    ‘Oh yes, every week. Cash.’
    And no questions asked. That would have been Geraldine all right. But why? He was clearly superfluous to the non-business that she was running.
    ‘So why are you still coming in?’
    He shrugged. ‘I use the computer to type my novel.’
    ‘Well, not any more, you don’t. As of today this office is closed. If you leave a note of your name and address, I’ll see you get sent a week’s pay in lieu of notice – if the company has any assets to pay you from. I’ll have your key back too, before you go.’
    He looked thoroughly miserable.
    ‘Couldn’t I just come in to use the computer? Nobody else needs it.’
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘Oh, and one other thing. Have the police contacted you?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Well, I’d stay out of their way. You know that you’ve been working here illegally without tax and National Insurance? I think that it would be best if they did not know about that, don’t you?’
    He looked even more miserable. I’ve never beaten a puppy – in that respect I had a rather deprived childhood – but he looked rather as I imagine a beaten puppy might look.
    ‘I’ll leave the key then,’ he said.
    ‘Just pull the door to when you go. I’ve got work to do.’
    And I returned to the inner office to contemplate what passed for Geraldine’s accounts.
    I knew perfectly well that I had treated Darren badly, and I was not especially proud of the way I had behaved. But why had I taken such an instant and profound dislike to him? He was, after all, a harmless, if rather awkward, young man. He merely wished to get on with his novel and not disturb anyone in the process. If he had a slightly exalted idea of the status of a novelist (and a very much exalted idea of the status of a literary agent), I could scarcely hold that against him. Then it occurred to me. Of course – bright-eyed, eager, shy, gangly and with an almost pathetic desire to please – he precisely resembled me at the same age.
    So, that was OK then. He had deserved all that he got.

Nine
    There is an important difference between fiction and real life. Fiction has to be believable.
    The novelist is obliged to have his small cast act in character, ignoring the fact that we are all a mass of exceptions and contradictions. In real life no sooner have we categorized somebody as miserly, than they disappoint us with some totally unnecessary act of generosity. In real life the most unlikely people become heroes, and people that you would walk past in the street without a second glance may have a murdered grandmother buried beneath the concrete floor of the new conservatory.
    Geraldine however stretched to the limits even real life’s capacity for the capricious and unexpected. Her sudden changes of tack, her ability to contradict one minute what she had confidently stated the minute before, made little sense when considered from day to day or week to week. It was only when you were able to take a longer-term view that you saw that her life was like an impressionist painting. Close to