I’d just been dumped by my book agent in 2004 and was feeling rather gloomy, so I decided to enter my novel into the Lichfield first book prize, and got shortlisted. Beryl Bainbridge was a founder and one of the judges. I spent a few days before the prize ceremony swotting up on her work.
I turned up with my parents and sister and was introduced to Beryl along with the others shortlisted. She was the sort of person you really noticed in a room full of people: she was in her late 60s, very petite and elegant and a bit ravaged, with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I remember my mother saying that Beryl was wearing a very expensive black cocktail dress.
I stood – somewhat frozen – next to her as she said some nice things about my book. Beryl had this lovely way of speaking that was accentless. She went up on stage and gave the most depressing speech on how the publishing industry was cutthroat and cruel and that winning a prize wouldn’t make any difference. She went on to say that good writers aren’t respected – it was a real downer, but she was captivating.
At one point my father, who was 97 and hard of hearing, shouted out: “Has Charles won yet?” – which was embarrassing and funny, especially considering that I didn’t go on to win.
Afterwards we had another drink and she was very warm – we discussed how difficult it is to get published and she mentioned money and contract issues she was having.
A few years later I’d found a new agent and my book was going to be published. My agent asked me to see if Beryl would give me a blurb for my book, so I wrote to her, not even expecting a reply. To my surprise she sent me the loveliest letter: she said that although she didn’t remember the plot of my novel, she did remember that she and another judge had voted for my book and that they’d been out-voted. I replied thanking her and she sent a postcard back wishing me luck and that was that.
Beryl died on the same day as the launch of my second novel. I heard while I was at my party and shed a tear – though we weren’t friends, it felt like a nice irony, in a way, that despite all her warmhearted discouragement, she had been very supportive of a budding novelist.
The Children’s Home by Charles Lambert is out now (Aardvark Bureau, £9.99, or £7.99 at bookshop.theguardian.com)
