“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

EMMA CLIFTON

1972–1975

Chapter 26

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.”