The Brightfount Diaries. Brian Aldiss

and ordered a half gramme of mescalin.

      ‘Mescalin?’ the chemist asked, puzzlement in his voice.

      He knows me well, and at first I thought he was merely surprised to find I was not after aspirins. But it transpired that he had never heard of mescalin. Nor did he find it in the pharmacopoeia.

      ‘Huxley experimented in California,’ I said.

      ‘Ah … That explains it. It’s American.’

      So have not experienced that blessed state of beatitude; instead, feel merely a slight frustration. The only consolation about the business is that I described Huxley’s book so glowingly to my chemist friend that he parted with six shillings for a copy on the spot!

      Publishers show a business-like alacrity to link books with films: would not a similar arrangement with Boots be easy to make? How fascinating to organize a ‘Read the Book – Taste the Drug’ campaign.

      Or perhaps a limited edition could be produced complete with an unbreakable phial of mescalin contained in a back flap. Such a reasonable policy might bring considerable financial rewards; for instance, the tome would probably be chosen as the Underworld’s Book of the Month.

      TUESDAY

      Travellers much in evidence. What nice hats the Heinemann men wear!

      In the quaint, gangling structure known as the book trade, the publishers’ travellers play an important part. Like bees going from hive to flower they provide vital links between the strongholds of London W. and such shabby outposts of literacy as Brightfount’s.

      Had to barge into Mr Brightfount’s office while M—’s rep. was there to get a book set aside for someone. Mr B., looking very cheerful, hands in pockets, canting his chair back dangerously, was saying, ‘Of course you know we never had any Ascent of Everest on subscription order!’

      Thought this quaint thing to boast about, later realized it must have been a counter-gambit to a new mountaineering book produced as ‘another Sir John Hunt’.

      Sold our second-hand copy of Augustus Hare’s Walks in London. Noted from its costing that it was bought into stock year I was born. Twenty-five years on one shelf! Hope it gets a good home.

      Pretty busy in afternoon, but found time to play one of Mrs Callow’s hard little games. Think she organized it to brighten up old Gudgeon, who wears far-away look: it gets further away as his holidays get nearer.

      Object of this game was to think up literary animals. Thurber had a peke called Darien: did we know any other such pleasant beasts? Dave announced that a Maori had a little lamb, but this was disqualified. We could only produce that hybrid, the old English Bear-wulf, and a Gorbuduck. So Mrs Callow won with a Shakespearian nursery animal called Fardels Bear.

      At this point Mr Brightfount appeared, and we returned to our posts. The bear presumably went back to Hoo Wood.

      Actually found a book on fortification in our Architecture for Uncle Leo. We are a bit short of staff at present, have been since Miss Harpe departed, and on top of that Edith was away to-day with a cold or something. So I left shop late, and cycled slowly home enjoying sunshine. Arrived at ‘Hatchways’ to find Uncle had gone to bed.

      ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked Aunt.

      ‘Nothing, as far as I can make out. He simply said he wanted to go to bed with the birds.’

      ‘But the birds won’t be going to bed for two or three hours yet!’

      ‘You remember those stuffed owls and things in glass cases up in the front attic? He’s gone to bed with them. I don’t pretend I’m not worried.’

      WEDNESDAY

      Our junior partner, Arch Rexine, and I spent most of the morning cataloguing. Trade very quiet. A traveller in to see Mr Brightfount, reappeared to tell us the one about the Army Captain and the frog who turned into a beautiful princess in the middle of the night.

      Just before closing, about ten to one, a flock of people came in, talked volubly together without looking at the shelves and left after a quarter of an hour without buying anything.

      Dave hastily put the blind up, but before he had turned the key one of the talkative group thrust his head in again and said, ‘I say, I forgot to ask – have you a copy of Local Government and Local Expenditure?’

      ‘Our books are under alphabetical order of authors,’ Dave said sourly. ‘Who’s it by?’

      ‘Oh. I forget. I had it written down but I’ve lost the piece of paper.’ With that he retreated, and Dave locked the door.

      ‘You know who that lot was?’ Mr B. said, emerging from his office with his hat on. ‘They’ve come down for the local conference. They’re Efficiency Experts …’

      Half-day. Beautiful sunshine. Helen and I swam in the river down past Poll’s Meadow. Not a soul about.

      Where do people go to in the summer countryside? Except for Helen and me, everyone might have been sucked up with the morning’s dew into heaven. We soaked in water and sun, and I felt perfectly content – pro tem, anyhow – to remain on earth.

      THURSDAY

      Foreigner, a Belgian, in shop in morning asking for Galsworthy’s Saga. I tried to imply that Kingsley Amis’ Lucky Jim presents a more up-to-date, if narrower, picture of us.

      ‘It must be Galsworthy,’ he said. ‘It is for my friend at home who has never heard of Galsworthy.’

      The answer still puzzles me – not so much its meaning as its implication: one of us, despite all appearance to the contrary, was not understanding the other perfectly. What then will his friend make of Soames? (Somewhere here is hidden a pointer to international co-operation.)

      Later, while I was wrapping the parcel, I asked our visitor how he liked England (stupid question!). He said he did like it, that it was his first visit here, and that he had always wanted to come over because ‘several of my parents were born in England’.

      (Somewhere here is hidden a pointer to international co-operation.)

      FRIDAY

      A. H. Markham, an old customer and a bit eccentric, bustled in as we opened after lunch and went straight to History. He seized on our new copy of Tate’s Parish Chest (C.U.P., 25s.) and stayed there with it till we closed. Now and again he would pop a peppermint in his mouth and make a note on an old envelope.

      Commented Mrs Callow as we trooped out to get our bikes: ‘Quite a tête-à-Tate.’

      More cataloguing in afternoon.

      SATURDAY

      Probably most authors realize how profitable it is to be published in America. Came on an old advert to-day that proclaimed Hammond Innes as the Englishman with most serials in the Saturday Evening Post to his credit. That’ll make some of his rivals wistful! Not that wistfulness will help them get into the Post: the demand is evidently for forthright action.

      Still, as Lionel Johnson remarked a while ago:

       Some players upon plaintive strings

       Publish their wistfulness abroad.

      Moral: There may not be a market for every book, but there is for every mood.

      Apropos of which, when Dave complained to Mr B. once about some ancient stock, he got the surly answer: ‘There’s a customer for every book, young man.’

      ‘The trouble is,’ Dave said later, ‘half of ’em are dead.’

      Nice to get out of the shop into the summer air. Just getting on my bike when Mr Mordicant appeared; I did my Army service with his son. He is something on the local Journal and Advertiser but