Dragonwriter by Todd McCaffrey Read Free Book Online Page B

Alec’s viewpoint, but you simply had to smile and shrug and say, “Typical Annie.”
    Also typical of Annie was her excitement over her achievements and her ability to share her enthusiasms. I remember another day, yet again at that kitchen table, when a package arrived in the post. It contained books from Japan—author copies of her first Japanese translations. She ripped open the box excitedly and pulled them out to show everyone, with a huge grin spread across her face and a sparkle of glee in her eyes. They were in Japanese, and they were printed back to front. These books had made her day. The accompanying royalty check hardly even got a glance.
    For me that table was the center of the second Dragonhold, and although I spent a lot of time in that house while I was in business with Alec in the mid-’90s, the good times happened in the kitchen. My kids would give you an argument on that one. For them, memories of Dragonhold and Annie revolve around her pool. Almost nobody in Ireland has an indoor heated swimming pool in their house, but Annie had one. My daughters, Vickie and Danielle, learned to swim in it, and while they were kids, they loved it. They still have the fondest of memories of it almost twenty years later.
    Considering how much time I spent with Annie over the years, it is odd to think that I was only ever at one science fiction convention outside Ireland where she was a guest. In 2007 I was invited to Eurocon in Copenhagen to launch a short story collection. I was proud to see my name on the poster, almost like I was a real guest, especially so as the Guest of Honor was the venerable Anne McCaffrey.
    Denmark took us seriously, unlike Ireland, which treats science fiction as, at best, a slight embarrassment. The convention guests were treated to a reception by the city in a beautifully appointed municipal building as though we were real writers—in Ireland real means “literary,” though not necessarily good. At the reception, I snuck up on Annie from behind and took her by surprise. And she had one of those moments when she drew a complete blank. Her minder was no help—a fan volunteer who didn’t know me from Adam. I was a little taken aback myself. But I smiled and said, “It’s Bob.” And suddenly everything clicked into place, and she said, “Bob Neilson.” She proceeded to list the names of my wife and kids and my address and every other fact she knew about me. And we grinned and embraced and chatted for a while. The next day I bumped into her at the convention. “Bob Neilson,” she yelled across the room. “Husband of Stacey. Father to Victoria, Danielle, and Christopher. Want the pets too?” She grinned. And the same when we met on the plane to fly home. Same wicked grin, same list of names, same sense of fun.
    It was also in Copenhagen that it was brought home to me just how big a star she was. Albedo One, my magazine, had been allocated a free table to sell our wares, so whenever I wasn’t on panels, I hung out at the table. The dealer beside us sold nothing but Anne McCaffrey collectible books and did a roaring trade until he ran out of stock. Signing sessions had been set up in the dealers’ room, and as I was launching my collection, I was put onto the list of authors to sign. This I was not looking forward to, but as I watched the other authors signing a half dozen or a dozen books in their allotted hour, I felt it wouldn’t be too embarrassing—I had a handful of friends from Ireland at the con who could pretend to get stuff signed in a pinch.
    When my signing came along, I was paired with Harry Harrison. I was introduced to Harry by Todd in the early ’80s and knew him quite well at this stage, so we chatted with a few interruptions for book signings for our hour. It was pleasant, and I didn’t feel that I had acquitted myself too badly—hell, I’d have been horrified if I’d signed