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“I told her,” admitted Harry.
I would also like to have known Priya, who by all accounts was a very special young woman, who loved you so dearly she was willing to sacrifice her life for you. And what a compliment to your parents that the color of her skin never crossed your mind, because you were in love with her, so her race and religion were irrelevant, which would not have been possible for someone of my generation. You lost Priya because of her parents’ prejudice. Make sure you don’t lose Sam and Jessica because you are too proud to make the first move.
Sebastian bowed his head. He knew she was right.
And now to you, dear Emma. Frankly, people should never listen to their mothers-in-law. Behind every successful man, they say, is a surprised mother-in-law. Harry owes so much of his success to your loving support, as both a wife and mother. But, and you knew there would be a “but,” you have, in my opinion, by no means achieved your potential. Proust said, we all end up doing the thing we’re second best at. There is no doubt that you have been an outstanding chairman of Barrington’s Shipping, as your directors, shareholders and the City of London readily acknowledge. But that should not be enough for someone with your remarkable talents. No, I believe the time has come for you to use some of your vision and energy for the public good. There are so many causes that could flourish under your leadership. Simply giving money to charity is the easy way out. Giving time is much more precious. So make it your aim that, when you die, people will not remember you only as the chairman of Barrington’s.
“Why didn’t she tell me that when she was alive?” said Emma. “Perhaps she thought you were too busy to listen, my darling.” “I can’t wait to hear what she has to say to you, Dad.”
And finally, my beloved son, Harry. For a mother to say that she is proud of her son is only human. However, I could never have dreamed of the happiness your success, both as a novelist and as a campaigner for those who don’t know freedom, would bring me.
Although I believe, as I know you do, that your courageous fight for Anatoly Babakov is your finest achievement, I know you will not be satisfied until he is a free man and can join his wife in America.
Have you ever told Emma you turned down a knighthood, an honor you would not consider accepting while Babakov was still in prison? I am proud of you for that, even though I would have enjoyed hearing my son addressed as Sir Harry.
“You never told me,” said Emma.
“I never told anyone,” said Harry. “Giles must have somehow found out.” He returned to the letter.
And now to William Warwick, who has entertained so many people, for so many years. Harry, perhaps it’s time for him to retire, so that you can finally stretch yourself to reach even greater heights. You told me once, many years ago, the rough outline of a novel you had always wanted to write, but had never got around to. You never got around to it because Harold Guinzburg, that wicked old publisher, kept tempting you with bigger and bigger advances. Perhaps the time has now come for you to write a book that will bring happiness for generations to come, whose reputation will outlive any bestseller list and make it possible for you to join that handful of authors whose names will never die.
Rant over. All that is left for me to say is thank you for making my final years so peaceful, comfortable and enjoyable. And when the time comes for any of you to write a similar letter, please don’t be like me and feel you could have done so much more with your life.
Your loving mother,
Maisie
Harry poured three glasses of the ’57 Merlot and handed one each to Emma and Seb. He raised his own glass and said, “To Maisie. Shrewd old thing.”
“To Maisie,” repeated Emma and Seb, raising their glasses.
“Ah, and I nearly forgot,” said Harry, picking the letter back up. “There’s a postscript.”
P.S. Please remember me to your dear friend Giles, who can consider himself lucky that I didn’t write about him, because had I done so, it would have been a far longer letter.
EMMA CLIFTON
1972–1975
26
“GOOD MORNING, Mrs. Clifton. My name is Eddie Lister. We met briefly at your mother-in-law’s funeral, but there’s no reason you should remember me.”
“How did you know Maisie, Mr. Lister?” Emma asked, because he was right, she couldn’t place him.
“I’m chairman of the governors of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. She was one of our volunteers and will be sadly missed by patients and staff alike.”
“I had no idea,” said Emma. “What did she do?”
“She was in charge of the lending library and organized the daily rota for the book trolley to be taken around the wards. More people read books at BRI than in almost any other hospital in the country.”
“Why am I not surprised,” said Emma. “Are you looking for someone to replace her, because if you are, I’d certainly be happy to do so.”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Clifton, that isn’t the reason I’m calling.”
“But I’m confident I could organize the library and, what’s more, my family has had a close association with the hospital for many years. My grandfather, Sir Walter Barrington, was chairman of the governors, my husband was nursed back to health at BRI after being seriously wounded by a German landmine in 1945, and my mother spent the last months of her life there under the care of Dr. Raeburn. What’s more, I was born at the Royal Infirmary.”
“I’m impressed, Mrs. Clifton, but I still don’t think you’re the right person to organize the book trolley.”
