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Diary

Deborah Devonshire

Wednesday, 19th September 2007

In the wake of my niece by marriage, Charlotte Mosley, queen of editors, I have done a few book signings lately in aid of The Mitfords: Letters Between Six Sisters.

Publishers sometimes think it is a Good Idea for an author to do a book signing to give the book a shove. We were invited to bookshops where we found an apparently inexhaustible supply of the things piled in heaps round Exhibit A, us. The staff in the bookshops are kindness itself. They have put two chairs and a table in the cave of books. The signing has been advertised and it is a matter of pride to the staff and terror to the signatories to see if anyone turns up. When the appointed moment comes we settle in the chairs, armed with pens (and specs for me), and with luck some would-be customers shuffle into view. Even if they have come on purpose to buy the book, they look at several identical volumes as if there might be something different between one and another.

It is strange how few people seem to buy a book for themselves. He/she picks one up, looks doubtfully at it, turns it round and says, ‘It’s for my mother, actually.’ Younger customers say, ‘It’s for my grandmother, actually.’ ‘Oh, good,’ says Charlotte, ‘That is really nice of you. What shall I write in it?’ Long pause, while the buyer considers whether the recipient should be addressed by her Christian name, as the author can’t very well call someone else’s mother/grandmother ‘Mummy’ or ‘Granny’. So the Christian name is chosen. It has to be spelt out, especially if it happens to be Sheila, a trap with a good chance of ‘gh’ at the end. Luckily, the most usual name is Margaret and, as far as I know, there is no peculiar spelling there. But names get ever more unlikely and you have to listen carefully to the invented ones. The next customer tells her life story. That’s fine as long as there is no one behind her, but it can make the attention wander if you see one or two people who are obviously in a hurry and don’t want to hear of far-off school days, a shared Oxfordshire childhood, or some aspect of life in Paris (where Charlotte lives). Then comes a man, rolled umbrella if in Piccadilly, tweed coat and pale trousers if in Burford. ‘Three copies? Oh thank you. What shall I put?’ ‘Just your signatures, please.’ Quickly done and off he goes. Obviously an excellent fellow, the sort the wireless calls a decision-maker.

Bookshop regulars spot the chairs and the pile of identical books and dart in the opposite direction to avoid having to buy out of pity something they don’t want. They ask, ‘Where are the maps?’ or ‘Are there any books on beavers?’ and make off like lightning. With luck, the pile has diminished in the hour which has passed. So have the customers. Now we can have a good talk to the shop staff, and find out what is really selling, while we sign a few copies for stock. The devotion to books of staff or owner of the shop, as the case may be, shines out and we come away wondering about the charm of the written word.

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