Encore McPeevish

The New Wave

There are few things that interest cats more than fish, McPeevish thought.

He was gazing down into the murky waters of the pond at the far end of the garden, not quite sure how he had found himself there.

-If you think that, Shayla thought, it goes to show that you still don’t know the first thing about cats.

McPeevish studied Shayla’s be-whiskered reflection in the water and wondered if he should have thought ‘birds’.

-I can see that there’s more work to be done educating you in feline philosophy, Shayla purred.

The problem is, McPeevish thought, that I can’t think like a cat.

It was also the case that he couldn’t purr like a cat.

-This is not surprising, Shayla thought, since you are a mere mortal.

Almost absent-mindely she allowed a spare paw to dangle near the surface of the water.

It was a fine afternoon in November. Of all the months that could come after October, McPeevish thought, November was the best. However this particular November the month seemed as confused as McPeevish was most of the time. One day it would be mild and the sky above so clear that you could see through to the other side of infinity. The next day would see a dull greyness clamp itself over the town with all the determination of a tax collector. Sometimes the greyness reminded McPeevish of the old drab vee-necked sleeveless sweaters he used to wear when attending grammar school. The past, he decided on such days, was like the dear one’s knitting bag: you never knew what kind of yarn you’d find in there.

Now he watched with interest as Shayla stalked off across the lawn, perhaps bored that the dangling paw had not drawn forth curious fish at which to flick. The question was whether or not to follow her, mindful of the old Moffat saying: He who follows the cat finds the mouse. But then he became aware that the fish in the pond had all risen to the surface and were studying him, or what they could perceive of him through the filmy divide between them.

Neither can I think like a fish, McPeevish thought. I may read ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ until the cows come home and I’ll be none the wiser of what a carp or koi thinks. This was perhaps just as well since somehow he felt the thought of worms might predominate. He noticed that, at that thought, the carp and koi seemed to glance knowingly at each other.

It is too easy, McPeevish thought as he tore himself away from the pool, to forget the purpose of my presence in the garden. I am here because…

Perhaps if I proceed in a logical manner that purpose will become clear to me, he thought as he ran up against the buffers of a blank in his mind. There is something about being in a garden which encourages forgetfulness, be it the winking of the flowers or the lullabying of the birds or the clouds gambolling above. He was convinced that his presence in the garden had nothing to do with conversations with the cat or philosophising with the fish. As he refilled the bird-feeder he felt no sense of satisfaction as though he had achieved what he had left the comfort of the armchair to achieve.

I am distracting myself with routine, he thought. Perhaps if I go back inside, retrace my steps, it will all come back to me.

Once in the living-room McPeevish found he was wondering why he had left the garden. It became clear that the only thing to do was to make a cup of tea and forget about it, whatever it was. Success brings its own rewards, he thought as his eyelids drooped and Shayla clambered on to his lap.

*

News has a way of spreading like spilt molasses around Moffat even before it became news. Perhaps no one outside was interested in the fact that Miss Maud Potter had knitted her one millionth scarf for ‘the boys at the front’; or the fact that the Reverend Cleikum had delivered his fifteen hundredth sermon (in none of which had he repeated any biblical quotations or confused I Chronicles with I Kings as some prelates are wont to do). There were many examples of ‘news’ known to local folk which would not have brought the presses in Canary Wharf or Glasgow to a grinding halt. Philosophers struggling to come to terms with particles which exceeded the speed of light and the infinite smallness of sub-sub-sub atoms cared not a whit that Meander Kneef (often compared to ‘The Ettrick Shepherd’ because of his collection of vintage crooks but never to be left alone in an unploughed field with horse and ploughshare) had conclusively demonstrated in ‘The Dirk’ that Space and Time were pigments of the imagination- or so the rumour went.

But the impending arrival of Jean-Luc Godard and a star of the magnitude of Catherine Deneuve to make a new film had even the sheep in the hills gossiping. The Moffat branch of the Scottish Film Society hastened to rush into print a résumé of Jean-Luc’s œuvre as well as handy French pronunciation cards. The Town Hall put on a series of French films to refresh the memory of those who didn’t have cable television and wondered what all the fuss was about. Things perhaps did not get off to an auspicious start when ‘La Mort en le Jardin’ by Luis Buñuel and starring Simone Signoret was shown; and ‘Le Doulos’ by Jean-Pierre Melville only confused matters further (though one could hardly blame the programmer for the uncontrolled number of Jean-whatevers there were in France). As any drinker in ‘The Dirk’ could tell you minor hiccoughs were the price you paid for real culture. If there was one thing the denizen of Moffat prided themselves on, amongst the many things that they prided themselves on, it was “the Auld Alliance”, never mind the shameful ‘Treaty of Edinburgh’ in 1560. The annual rugby match with Montreuil-sur-Ille in Brittany occasioned much bonding between the citizens of each town, much bonding indeed as the sales of prams over the years had amply demonstrated.

McPeevish had to confess that he had a certain interest in the news which had queues in ‘Crumbles’ buzzing and the sale of croissants and baguettes soaring. If the beloved’s recently disclosed teenage fanaticism for Johnny Hallyday had taken him by surprise, especially given its survival into what Miss Brodie might decorously refer to as ‘the prime’ of the dear one’s life, then the way was open for his counter-confession of a youthful crush on the divine Deneuve. She had not been the first, McPeevish had to acknowledge, for before the divine Deneuve had been cute Kim Novak. He wondered why, when the beloved had danced like a dervish at the mention of Johnny H, he merely dissolved into a wistful reverie in the armchair as he thought of that female Gallic divinity.

Ah well, console yourself with the fact that men and women are different, McPeevish sighed. How dull life would be if they weren’t.

They were used to pneumatic drills digging up the road for reasons too obscure to make sense even to a dog looking for buried bones, but having a film crew on location was a novelty for Moffat. The famous director and his star were naturally offered accommodation at Gearran Manor. Deneuve accepted graciously but Jean-Luc felt he had to be close to the proletariat so that his creative faculties could function. He took over a suite at ‘The Colic Coffin Makers’ whose view over the nearby cemetery perhaps helped him to focus on the task in hand.

The queues were long for the auditions for roles as extras in the crowd and other scenes. It was not clear to McPeevish, who watched the various processes from the side-lines, what the criteria were for selecting those who were chosen: l'authenticité was an expression he heard bouncing around between the various members of the crew. It would perhaps have helped if one were given a clue as to what the script- if there was one- was about. But like many great men Jean-Luc seemed to make it up as he went along in the hope that it would all come right in the end. How often, thought McPeevish, have I looked into the washing machine and wished the same.

*

When Deneuve learnt as she dined with Lord Gelding and his family that Sir Andrew Bruik, the famous retired and reclusive Scottish actor, lived just outside the town she was delighted. She had seen him in walk-on guest parts in shows such as ‘The Man from UNCLE’, ‘Jeux Sans Frontières’ or ‘Le Chevalier Tempête’’ and despite such a great actor slumming it she had found him inspiring. Jean-Luc had been dithering over the leading man. Depardieu was too this; Trintignant was too that; and Gabin was too dead. Jean-Luc knew what he wanted- and here he would tap his head, forgetting the cigarette in his hand and scorching his ear encore un fois- but he couldn’t find l’homme bon any damned place.

There were those who thought that Sir Andrew Bruik was dead. He was occasionally one of them, though his creditors were not to be fooled. He had not so much bowed out of the profession as stumbled out. In his latter years- and there were more of these then there were of the former- his fondness for ‘the Scottish teat’ had led to directors by-passing him when it came to roles suited to someone of his ability and theatrical standing. This was a man whose ‘Lear’ had reduced Olivier to a screaming wreck; whose ‘Macbeth’ had Woolfit streaking through the streets of Streatham naked; and whose Iago had led to a court case which changed the law in remarkable ways, though ones which had no practical application or consequence whatsoever. His last stage appearance had been as Widow Twankey in ‘Aladdin’ at the Hackney Empire. There are those who still remember his sudden outburst of “Kiss me, Hardy!” and re-enactment in mime of the Battle of Trafalgar, which brought the audience to their feet and stampeding for the exits.

Sir Andrew, though a recluse, was well known to the regulars in ‘The Dangling Dirk’. Many was the night that, suitably disguised- his valet and long-standing dresser would kit him out for the evening- Sir Andrew would glide into the inn to take his seat at the bar and begin to demolish the optics one by one. He was always reckoned to be good for a soliloquy or two once he’d emptied the rum optic, which followed the gin and the vodka ones. You never quite knew whether he was going to give you ‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ or ‘Oh for a muse of fire’. But what you did know was that ‘The Dirk’s’ wheelbarrow- known as “Knight Rider” to the locals- would come into play the minute he hit the floor. Billy Brecknock and Charlie Closewool would toss a coin to see whose turn it was to wheel Sir Andrew home. The coin would inevitably fall down a crack in the floor and while they were trying to retrieve it Moribund Mattle, the undertaker, would do the honours. He would be escorted by Constable Glendale whose torch would show the way past the cemetery to Sir Andrew’s cottage.

To persuade Sir Andrew to appear in anything other than the lounge bar was thought to be a feat beyond the capabilities of anyone. His appearance on the Parkinson chat show (which could be viewed in its unedited form on ‘YouTube’, despite the attempts by the best legal minds to have it withdrawn) had left a lasting impression on those who controlled the industry in the Kingdom. Impresarios have long memories- which is not quite how Sir Andrew had phrased it- and even advertising work for ‘Irn Bru’ had dried up. He was thought fortunate to have received his knighthood before offence had been taken in top circles and it was said that he would be lucky to be circumcised nowadays should he convert to Judaism.

But Deneuve was set on having Sir Andrew star beside her. Jean-Luc, being putty in her hands like every other French male, agreed to ‘consider’ him should he be persuaded to emerge from his retirement; but, in the meantime he would rehearse Herr Wolfgang Togersum, a “promising young Austrian actor” to whom his attention had been drawn by Dame Hilary Bonchaffe.

She may have drawn his attention to ‘Wolfgang’, McPeevish thought as he considered the news; but her Dameship was really trying to slip him her son Jeremy in wolf’s clothing. It was to be hoped that at the audition, taking place that morning in the Town Hall, Jean-Luc would not allow the wool to be pulled over his eyes. But then, who am I to talk about l'authenticité?

As he heard the front door being opened McPeevish buried himself in the stocks and shares section of the paper.

McPeevish had to acknowledge that the financial segment of the paper made as much sense to him as a treatise on quantum electro dynamics, the kind of book most properly used as added weight on a wobbly MFI bookcase. Sometimes he wondered if the typesetter hadn’t mixed the stock quotations up with the times of tides and wind direction segment. The names Barings, Enron and Guinness lit like neon lights flashing in the Nevada desert whenever he thought of the ‘Footsie’. Nevertheless circumstances necessitated that he watch the market closely. There are those in life who want to get rich quick. There are also those who want to help themselves get rich quicker. McPeevish had always felt that if you found someone else’s hand in your pocket it was not because they were feeling friendly. The Colonel was exhibiting an unusual interest in desolate tracks of moorland where neither the wing of bird had beaten nor the hoof of beast had trod for centuries. In McPeevish’s book his in-built Hannay told him that there was chicanery afoot.

The Colonel had seemed surprisingly indifferent to the arrival of Jean-Luc and his crew. McPeevish had thought the Colonel might have made a play for some kind of role. At the civic reception given to honour the director and the leading lady the Colonel had done a lot of harrumphing as the formal speeches were being given. He had noticeably remained apart from the various local dignitaries and characters who had been introduced to their guests. This could only mean, McPeevish thought, that the Colonel had other fish to fry and in the interests of civic safety, public order and sheer decency McPeevish knew he had to find out what was in the wind.

-You’ve been spending a lot of time chatting with Matty, my love, the dear one said as she sat beside him on the sofa.

McPeevish acknowledged that he was seeking local information from a variety of sources for the article he was working on.

-Has Lachie been helpful as well, dear heart?

McPeevish was aware that the dear one, in her less than obvious way, was trying to pump him for information. If there was one thing he had learned from Hannay, apart from the need to have a good Italian tailor and to keep one’s beard (if sported) in good trim, it was that secrecy was of the essence. If you involved those closest to you in your game-plan then what if they were kidnapped and subjected to the kind of heinous tortures a fiend like Fu Manchu…

-I’m sure I could bear up under torture, dearest, the beloved one assured him with a smile. If the girls from ‘Coláiste Lognáid’ School Hockey Team could get nothing from me when they wanted to know where we’d dumped their mascot, then an oriental fiend has no chance.

McPeevish could concede that she was made of sterner stuff than the ordinary woman, but that innate desire to protect the weaker sex…

-I seem to recall you lost the last arm-wrestling bout, sweetness.

This was true but then McPeevish had never claimed to have finished the Charles Atlas course of self-improvement. It had been hard enough getting the packaging undone, let alone compressing the bull-worker.

-Doubtlessly I’ll find out when the time is ripe. Did you remember to put salt on the shopping list?

McPeevish’s study of Hannay had also taught him that the merest facial tic, the twitch of a moustache or tweaking of an ear, never mind the sudden dropping of an empty cup as he went to the kitchen for a refill, could be a give-away. When he returned with two full cups the dear one was perusing the page of the paper he had left open.

Perhaps after all he had thrown her off the scent?

-Lavinia was telling me about the ‘Hempy and Klippert’ share prospectus that was going the rounds. Have we received one?

But then perhaps not, McPeevish thought.

-How are the buttons doing, dear heart? the beloved asked cheerfully

He had heard that tone of voice before. He glanced casually at her over the edge of the paper, noting the roseate blush on her cheeks and the glitter of merriment in her eye. A glance around the room told him that Shayla had ‘picked up the vibe’ and was giving her full attention to the couple.

It didn’t take a Hannay to work out that something was afoot, McPeevish thought.

-Holmes actually, the dear one said.

McPeevish assembled ‘the facts’ as he knew them. There were not a lot but they all pointed in one direction. The beloved had left the house early with that determined look about her which had told McPeevish that something was being done about whatever it was that had been on her mind since she’d heard about the auditions. She was here now beside him positively glowing with satisfaction and a desire to impart the welcome news.

-You’re usually on the Sudoku puzzle by this hour, she said with that sweet smile which drove all thoughts of Deneuve or Novak from his synapses.

Of course it was true, McPeevish acknowledged, that by now of a morning he would be wrestling on the floor with pencil and pads of paper covered with illegible numbers while Shayla, whose input had been to dance all over the papers, yawned and looked on. Tea was no help. The Japanese must have minds plumbed differently from our Western ones, McPeevish would think as he tried to uncross his eyes. He had to admit that when it came to certain sorts of puzzles he was hopeless. Anything that called for the logical application of the brain- his brain- usually ended up in the kind of tangle he made when cooking spaghetti.

Soup, now, he thought, I’m good at soup. The thing about soup is that you chuck it all in- cut up or whole- add water, slam the lid on and leave it for hours. Sudoku was not like soup: you needed to keep stirring.

But, McPeevish thought, narrowing his eyes and reconsidering the dear one who was resting her chin on his shoulder and contemplating the commodities section with amusement; I have been distracted.

-I see Madrim Mining shares have risen again, the dear one said disingenuously.

Whenever the beloved was being ‘disingenuous’ McPeevish knew that he was in danger of being led astray with enough red herrings to satisfy a homesick Norwegian.

Focus, McPeevish, focus, he told himself.

-There was quite a strammash at the Town Hall this morning, she said with just a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

Light begins to dawn, McPeevish! Perhaps that unexpected nap I expected to revive me has dulled me somewhat.

-Oh there’s no fear of dullness, dear heart, she sighed.

It all began to unfold within McPeevish’s inner comprehending apparatus.

-I just popped in to have a word with Andy at the cottage, the beloved acknowledged. And then we toddled along to the auditions.

Andy! Auditions! How she managed it McPeevish had no idea.

-I fear Jeremy’s not cut out for the stage, she sighed. He did get offered a position, though I don’t think he’s quite that flexible. Jean-Luc was very kind and just kept the camera’s rolling all the time Dame Hilary had her tantrum. Whatever he’s doing I’m sure it’s quite cinema vérité.

McPeevish wondered how Andy had done.

-Oh Sir Andrew was his usual magnificent self, the dear one smiled. He had Jean-Luc rolling about with his drollery and reminiscences of Maurice Chevalier in a bordello in Nice when they used to knock about together. He got the part all right and signed autographs and he even managed to lift the cameraman’s hip flask. I think he’s taken Cathy off to ‘L’Escargot’ for luncheon. I’ve not seen his valet so excited in years!

McPeevish found himself thinking about Dame Hilary having a tantrum. For some odd reason he found himself then thinking about Sting, the pop star who was always blethering on about tantrum sex. He glanced curiously at the beloved. She was ahead of him.

Shayla sighed as she watched the pair of them high-tailing it up the stairs.

*

Many scenes were being shot in the old abattoir close by to the now closed railway station. Whereas most directors would have excluded the public it was clear that Jean-Luc welcomed and encouraged spectators. Indeed his assistants (all wearing distinctive Breton berets) moved around among the spectators with their hand-held camcorders seeming to film anything that took their fancy. There seemed to be a lot of Gallic and Gaelic shouting and singing going on, never mind the bleating, each time McPeevish took his morning constitutional and meandered past the abattoir.

Murdo Nosebitt, proprietor of ‘Murdo’s Newsagents’ in the High Street, ferried in the daily supplies of Gauloise and Gitanes without which it seemed no filming could be done. Only once the interior of the abattoir was suffused with a fug as blue as that which the antechambers of hell must have contained did Jean-Luc begin to work in earnest.

Tavish Onfrack, the Church of Scotland music master, was called in to record various pieces of music, the like of which had never quivered through the pipes of St. Ninian’s church organ. It was surprising how many in the town found that their various duties and chores took them past the old station on the outskirts of the town. Some of those who listened in the street outside said that the noise sounded like the bleating and roaring of the animals that used to be slaughtered there years ago. Others thought the trains were back running and queued to buy tickets. Still others felt certain Tavish was playing Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ but with a touch too much left hand. Those who knew Tavish well were privy to the secret that, long before he had taken up residence in Moffat, he had been in one of those heavy metal seventies bands which spawned ‘Black Sabbath’ and similar. There were times it was acknowledged by the sisters and brethren who attended St. Ninian’s that Tavish’s playing of ‘De ol’ Ark’s a-moverin’’ had been rather lively and more suitable for after the nine o’clock watershed. Some of the stricter members of the local churches paraded outside the abattoir with placards denouncing ‘Satinism’, giving up their protest when Jean-Luc invited them in and gave them bit parts which demanded only that they wandered about carrying placards denouncing placards.

After a day’s shoot everyone involved retired to one of the local hostelries for refreshment. Even there cameramen would be filming, collecting scenes which, in the privacy of the large trailer parked at the Manor, Jean-Luc would view and edit like the alchemist Zosimos of Panopolis making gold.

*

‘Hempy and Klippert’ produced a fine brochure, McPeevish had to admit. It was glossy and it was bulky, as such things should be, and the printing was legible if barely intelligible to the average person. Among the appendices was a mineral reconnaissance survey on behalf of the Institute of Geological Sciences. But the brochure was not aimed at the average person. The copy he had been able to peruse had been loaned to him by Lord Gelding with the question as to what he made of it being unspoken. It would appear that the moneyed classes- or those who fancied themselves as being in the upper bracket of things financial and social- were receiving this piece of unsolicited mail. ‘Hempy and Klippert’ had their main offices in Hong Kong, Singapore and Tokyo, presumable for tax avoidance purposes but also possibly because it was a long way to travel to ask for your cash back. They had subsidiary offices in London and their representative had travelled to Scotland to give a presentation on investment opportunities in precious metals in the capital. McPeevish had chanced to be up in town incognito that particular afternoon and, for want of anything better to do- it was a bad month for cinema releases- he had decided to pop into the old ‘North British Hotel’, now re-named ‘The Balmoral’ to see what Messrs Hempy and Klippert had to say.

The conference room was packed and McPeevish caught sight of the Colonel in the very front row. Had the Colonel caught sight of McPeevish he would not have given him another glance, just as Citoyen Chauvelin overlooked Sir Percy Blakeney time and time again. McPeevish had taken the precaution of slightly altering his appearance. For a master of the art of disguise such as Zeus this would have been simplicity itself; but lacking skill in this arcane art McPeevish had put himself in the hands of Miss Melody Balow, an acquaintance who worked in make-up in the King’s Theatre. Had she worked on Odysseus even his old dog Argus would not have recognised him! McPeevish felt satisfied that only someone as close as the beloved would identify him beneath the pancake, burnt cork, cobbler’s wax, powder, rouge, eye shadow, tinted contact lenses, Australian bush hat, false Roman nose, cheek padding, hunchback and Inverness cape. It is true that several infants in prams had begun wailing as his shadow fell across them but this seemed a small price to pay for anonymity. Signing himself in as “Robert Kirk” he avoided the radiators in case anything melted and paid attention to all that was said.

Mr Simon Smool was the representative giving the presentation. McPeevish could admire a master charmer when he met one. Everything was slick, professional and designed to ease one’s wallet from one’s pocket.

-This is an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Mr Smool explained with the eagerness of a peewit plucking worms from the earth.

Rather like life itself, McPeevish thought as, with the aid of slides and all the paraphernalia of the seminar presenter, the audience were walked through the easy steps by which, should they invest in the ‘Madrim Mining Corporation’, they would become so rich they’d need to sew more pockets into their suits. Mr Smool explained that the exploratory drilling and digging in the Lowther Hills of Dumfries and Galloway and the testing of sediment in this and that stream had indicated conclusively that there was ‘gold in them thar hills’! The discovery in 1984 of a gold bearing quartz vein on Beinn Chùirn above Cononish Farm had encouraged exploration elsewhere. A mine was opening up near Tyndrum in the Loch Lomond National Park. In the sixteenth century from Leadhills and the northern tributaries of Megget Water some of the world’s purest gold had been extracted and used in the making of the Scottish crown jewels. ‘Madrim Mines’ had only just begun trading on the stock market. Anyone investing now would be getting in at rock bottom prices. As an ethical and environmentally conscious company the landscape would be fully restored once the mining was finished.

As every chart and graph in the prospectus demonstrated- and Mr Smool’s smooth tongue persuaded- for the discerning investor there was a fortune to be made. The mine was expected to produce almost one hundred thousand ounces of gold annually and up to one hundred jobs would be created. The local economy would benefit enormously. So certain was he and the company of success once full production got underway, that for every one hundred shares bought by new investors the company would be adding another five for free. To avoid over-subscription new shareholders would be limited to a thousand shares and only the first one hundred could be accepted at this time. During lunch, which was a buffet awaiting them in the banqueting hall, Mr Smool would be available, with his colleague Amanda Meall (who had sat smiling demurely by the rostrum through the presentation, crossing and uncrossing her legs in conjunction with the clicking of the slide projector), to answer any questions. After lunch they would be available to accept any commitments to buy, remembering that there was the statutory thirty day cooling off period for all potential investors.

*

‘Film Alba’ was the review programme for the Borders television channel. Usually it had little to do except mirror those reviews which came from down south. Its presenter Abernethy Culyeon, however, had secured the only interview with Jean-Luc and the two stars of the film which seemed to be titled ‘La Grande Valdingue’. His Saturday evening review of the piece was eagerly awaited by all and sundry. Even Sir Andrew had not seen the final cut. Most folk in Moffat lived their lives in straight lines- birth, life, death. They were familiar with the odd blind curve and sudden pratfall, as well as the uphill bits and bogs you got stuck in; but beginnings, middles and ends were what they understood, be it in a plant, a sheep, or themselves. Consequently they were rather bewildered by the fact that eventually the film crew left the town and they had nothing but memories and whatever revenue they had garnered from the presence of the crew and hangers on. There was the promise of the premiere of Jean-Luc’s masterpiece in the Town Hall and later it would be shown at the Cannes Film Festival. People wondered how long it took to stick bits of film together. They wondered about this business of over-dubbing. Pastor Channer, whose dog-collar always seemed to be too tight, wondered if it was something he should warn his congregation to avoid. It had been bad enough when someone shouted ‘Cut!’ and all the sheep stampeded from the abattoir. The cry of ‘Shoot!’ had flocks of geese flying overhead swerving off their course.

“Older viewers” intoned Abernethy with that nasal whine which suggested a major sinus problem, “ may remember Sir Andrew Bruik from his many famous film roles- as Julien Sorel in ‘The Red and the Black’; Pechorin in ‘A Hero of Our Time’; or Migawari Zanzen in ‘The Zen Substitute’. His quickness of wit, permanent priapism and brilliance of mimicry stand alongside his capacity to drink regiments of Cossacks under the table. When asked by Parkinson why he had never married he replied that he had never found a woman who could bear him farting Mozart’s Trumpet Concerto between the sheets. It was a matter of considerable surprise that he was brought out of retirement by the opportunity to work with avant-garde French director Jean-Luc Godard. Most actors prefer retirement to appearing in his films which are not unlike the twisted wreckage out on Highway 61. Those who saw my recent interview with Godard- during which he uttered not a word in order to convey his solidarity with the Streaked Antwren Amazonian songbird which is muted for the bourgeois indoor cage market- will know of his maverick career. How the delectable Catherine Deneuve- much more forthcoming as viewers will recall in her segment of the interview during which she experienced several ‘wardrobe malfunctions’- allowed herself to become mixed up in what promised to be a farrago of nihilistic nonsense, I do not know. As a critic I confess that I went into the special preview in Moffat Town Hall with my eyes firmly closed, expecting the worst. Had it not been for the sizeable fee I was receiving and my dedication to the job I would rather have stayed at home and watched my pet Hairy Nosed Wombat being sick…When I tell you that at the end I was like everyone else in the hall on my feet whooping and laughing and cheering, you can tell that something quite extra-ordinary had taken place!...All of Jean-Luc’s signature trademarks and peccadilloes are on show- the jump cuts, the freeze frames, the whip pans, the Bird’s eye shots, the long tracking shots. Remarkably they don’t detract from your enjoyment but somehow enhance and underpin the story. And there is a story, not just the inchoate churnings of Godard’s mind and fantasy… The film opens to the strains of shakuhachi flute music and clouds of volcanic dust billowing from the Grimsvotn or Eyjafjallajökul volcano- ‘does it matter which?’ is immediately one’s thought. Gradually into focus comes a view of Sloun Castle in the Scottish Borders. The familiar rich baritone of Sir Andrew Bruik begins to describe the scene as though presenting a tourist board advertisement. But we are in the early fourteenth century (according to a caption) and it is William de Soulis, Lord of Liddesdale and Butler of Scotland we see being boiled alive wrapped in a sheet of iron at Nine Stane Rig near Hermitage Castle. In the voice of Jean-Luc he is describing “the most beautiful fraud” as though he was lecturing a group of students… We are now in the current century and there are shots of Jean-Luc discussing the film with various people, including a character called Jonathan Collins (played by Sir Andrew) who is later revealed to be a vampire…Another seminal scene shows a crowded gold mining investment seminar in Edinburgh …Did I mention the music? When was the last time you saw Silvestre de Palma’s opera ‘I Vampiri’ or heard ‘Wie ein schöner frühlings Morgen’ from ‘Der Vampyr’ by Heinrich Marschner? Suddenly Sir Andrew is singing with all the gusto of the great Luigi Lablache ‘Blut! Ich muss blut!’ while ethereal organ music suffuses the moorland in which he tramps- a perfect parody of Julie Andrews coming over an alp singing ‘The Sound of Music’…The plot becomes more labyrinthine than Resnais’s ‘Last Year at Marienbad’ but also remains crystal clear as a commentary on man’s greed for money, the struggle for his immortal soul and the endless scope of comedy to alleviate the suffering of any paying audience. To see Miss Deneuve, who has previous form as a vampire in ‘The Hunger’ with David Bowie (who isn’t in this film, as the credits make abundantly clear) biting necks and turning cartwheels across the floor of Sloun Castle while singing ‘Oh what a beautiful morning’ is a joy. At one point she gives a disquisition on the size of a cat’s brain which reduced the audience to helpless tears of laughter…Now we are in the world’s oldest post office in Sanquhar where Miss Deneuve is posting a letter. The walls are covered with posters for ‘Alephaville’, ‘À Bout de Soufflet’ and other Godard films from the past. The great director, not previously known for his whimsy and skill at comedy- there have been those who have doubted that he ever laughed even in the cradle- is clearly mocking his pretentiousness and preparing himself for the last rites… There are scenes from the auditions of various locals the stand-out of which is an unnamed individual trying to improvise the role of a sheep before an audience of sheep while being prompted by a bellicose and increasingly exasperated Grande dame who is his mother…In what seems to be the dungeon of Sloun Castle we hear Deneuve torturing the Lord of Liddesdale with the torments of ‘the rough pussy tongue’…One is hardly surprised when, midway through the film, there is a guest appearance by Jess Conrad- recognisable despite strumming a lute and the heavy blacking up he wears- as a troubadour singing ‘They all walk the wibbly wobbly walk’ in a duet with Deneuve which over-trumps that he did on ‘Hurt’ with Pat Booth.. Set piece follows set piece until one feels one is caught up in the delirium of a demented mind…”

*

McPeevish studied the open tin of ‘Cardinal’ polish as he knelt in the hallway, cloth in hand. The problem was whether to polish inwards or outwards. Inwards and he would not be able to shut the door without walking back over the polish; outwards and he would not be able to enter the house. If he closed the door before he began polishing several things could happen- mail could drop on his head or the door could be opened and his head yet again struck a blow. The solution was to leave the French windows on the latch so that he could enter or exit via the garden after closing the door from the outside.

If the aliens landed now, he thought, and they made contact with me, would they think that I was engaged in a rudimentary religious exercise rather than a spot of house cleaning? Or, if aliens polished floors, would they recognise me as a similar and intelligent species? Perhaps they would ask me why this polish and not another one? How to answer that?

Time is short, McPeevish, the clock is ticking and the aliens are waiting, he thought.

McPeevish heard a rather squeaky, high-pitched sound and raised his eyes from the coloured tiles to the shiny brass edging of the doorstep. A shiver went down his spine as he noticed two staring miniature faces, black as the Ace of Spades and boggle-eyed. The aliens seemed to be small and rather squashed in size as though reacting badly to the gravitational pull of the planet upon which McPeevish so daintily be-sported himself. Above the faces were two whitened tubular objects which could have been hats or something else altogether.

This was not a moment for which McPeevish had prepared himself. One never thinks that one will be the point of first contact by the aliens, McPeevish thought as he continued to remain prostrate, the polishing cloth extended as though in greeting. He just hoped that the alien craft, which had arrived quite soundlessly, apart from a minor crunching of gravel, wasn’t harming the lawn and shrubbery.

This time that noise, some kind of glottal attempt to communicate, had a deeper resonance.

Perhaps they were trying to find the correct frequency, McPeevish thought.

-Sorry to disturb you Mr McPeevish, a voice said.

McPeevish looked up, above the highly polished boots, above the spats, above the immaculately creased tailored trousers and saw the Colonel. He rose with as much dignity as he could muster, smoothing the pinafore he wore and pocketing the polishing cloth. The hair-net would just have to stay where it was.

-Just wanted to call in and…damn it I’m not good at this sort of thing…and thank you for stopping me from buying those mining shares and making a bloody bigger fool of myself than I am already.

-Would you like a cup of tea, Colonel? McPeevish asked holding the door open.

© R.L.Paige November 2011