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James Pascoe is a name no one will recognise, for he was a writer who was never published. But now, some forty or fifty years after I heard of his death, I have been able to give him a kind of after-life by handing what I have of his to the Archive of British Publishing.
The author, of course, knew we were applying for this and learnt — after what must have seemed an interminable wait from 11 November to 13 February — that the application had failed. Whether it was this that caused him to take his own life, I will never know. As for our one meeting: he came and went like a wraith.
All I can remember is that he was tall and thin and wore a long black coat. I knew no more about his life from being in his presence — whether he had a job, was, perhaps, married — than I had before. I could find no trace of his existence when I leafed through one hefty leather-bound volume after another at the Public Record Office, hoping to find he might still be alive after all, or how he had died, if he really had.
The manuscript itself had been whisked away by a young woman who said she was his daughter and told me of his death. I knew him then, and I know him still, only as a young man whose wild imagination and love of language should have brought him not rejection but recognition.