Life and All who Sail in Her

The Music Hall

2012-01-16T09:17:00.002Z

Just an Act

[‘Our lodger’s such a nice young man,

Such a good boy is he;

So good, so kind to all our family!’

Murray & Barclay, 1897]

During those first years of the war we lived in Charham, my grandmother and I. She took in lodgers, offering what nowadays would be called bed and breakfast. She didn’t cater for travelling salesmen or the general public but for artistes, men and women who trod the boards of the music hall. It was a limited trade and those were straitened times but the small income helped. Having herself been on the stage my grandmother had an affinity with those in the business and had an interest in the theatre long after she had retired when she married my grandfather.

I was seven or eight at the time when Mr Gancey stayed with us. It was reading the short obituary of him in the ‘Northern Echo’ that brought those long forgotten years and memories back to me.

I had quite forgotten not only him but all the other entertainers who for those few years had populated my childhood. I no longer live in Kent and all the links which otherwise might have kept my memories tethered had been severed- my grandmother had died just as I was entering university up north.

The obituary merely mentioned his name, the date of his birth and death, and quickly summarised his short career in the music hall. The accompanying photograph of him was rather like a spectral apparition snapped at a séance. But this was enough to re-awaken my memory of him. We will all fade away but some memories are worth preserving.

There was little about Gancey’s act which made him stand out from the hundreds of others on the circuit in those days. He wasn’t in the same league as the big stars like George Formby, Max Miller, Will Hay or Flanagan and Allen. He wasn’t even one of those whose names might appear regularly further down the bill. He didn’t seem to have any particular catch-phrase.

He once told me ‘I don’t know why I’m in this game!’ but turned it into a laughing matter so that I had no idea if he was serious or not. Having the run of my grandmother’s large old house I would often spend time with the lodgers. Some would give me biscuits or sweets; others would show me how to make cards vanish or walk like an Egyptian in a sandstorm- and other things I’ve long forgotten but which at the time were fun!

My grandmother was independently wealthy. She had been quite successful on the stage herself and unlike many others hadn’t spent what she earnt freely on a lavish lifestyle. My grandfather had been well off too and as a Mason well-connected in society. By the time of his early death the family in which my mother grew up was comfortable. She had married my father and when she died giving birth to me my father took rapidly to drink and disappeared, leaving my grandmother to bring me up.

I remember nothing about my parents; but I remember evenings spent reading in my grandmother’s company as she listened to old 78rpm shellac records of performers she had known. One of her favourites was Millie Lindon and my grandmother would sing along to ‘Mary, she kept a dairy’, ‘For old time’s sake’ or ‘The Angel of my dreams’. She had a rich coloratura contralto voice which always surprised me when I heard it. She would only sing in my company and I never heard her singing alone or in the presence of anyone else.

I remember the time Mr Gancey got me on to the stage with him. It was the only time I have been inside the music hall, which had been opened in the last years of Victoria’s reign. By the time I was old enough to go on my own that venue and many others had either closed down or been turned into a cinema. It seemed like Aladdin’s cave to me then as I stared out into the auditorium with its two tiers, several private boxes and elaborately decorated central dome from which hung a massive chandelier. The balconies were intricately crafted plaster and the walls had decorative painted tile murals. In my dreams if ever I’m in a theatre that is how it appears to me!

It was an afternoon performance and he was filling in. That he was one of the first to go on the stage to me meant he was the star, though of course the top act would come on last. All I had to do, he told me, was to stand off to one side and whenever he said the word ‘mother’ I was to come in and ask him a question “Mister, where’s me shilling?” How his act went down ordinarily I’ve little idea; but that afternoon all I remember is the hoots of laughter which his monologue and my interjections drew. At the end, as he prepared to walk off, I was to silently trail him into the wings; but I called after him “Mister, I’m feeling wankle” (which was true) and as the curtain fell the audience- the theatre was half full- roared with laughter. Mr Gancey gave me the sixpence he had promised me all the while grinning hugely as he smuggled me out the exit. He said it was the first time he’d gotten off the stage without having a fusillade of tomatoes hurled at him. I’d always wondered why his suit looked so untidy.

The lodgings my grandmother offered were tidy and smart, the rooms well-appointed and cleaned daily. She could afford to have a woman come in to do the cleaning and another to prepare the meals. I never saw my grandmother cook, though she was not stuck up or unable to do ordinary household chores. She had high moral standards which for the lodgers translated into men and women keeping strictly to their own rooms and visitors only being entertained in the downstairs lounge.

I did not know then what ‘hanky-panky’ meant, only that it was not allowed. I would hear the cook and the cleaner whispering about it and falling silent when I came into view. Because it was forbidden I kept my eyes open for it, hoping I would know it when I saw it. Whether Mr Gancey got up to ‘hanky-panky’ with Miss Lily Lirry I couldn’t say, though I suspected he might have done. He was soft on her and would share her table for breakfast and the evening meal. If they were not performing of an evening they would sit together in the lounge and play All-Fours or Put while smoking a cigarette.

I knew that Miss Lily must have been in Mr Gancey’s room at least once since I found one of her gloves under a seat cushion one day whilst snooping around. I didn’t regard it as snooping since it was my grandmother’s house and I lived there. But she had explained to me that I was not to play in the lodgers’ rooms and usually I obeyed that rule. Mr Gancey often invited me into his room to listen to his monologues and offer applause- ‘Clap now, Robin,’ he would say. That was the name he had given me, even though he knew my real name was Bryce. He would only call me ‘Robin’ when I was in his room; should I cross his path in the hall or lounge he would call me Bryce like everyone else, though he would also wink as he did so. I took his regular invitations to mean that I could come and go more or less as I chose.

The problem with snooping was that even when I found something which interested me I didn’t understand it. Mr Gancey kept a diary and left it on the writing table by his bedroom window. I could read and only resisted the temptation to pry the first time I noticed the diary. When I did sneak a peek at what he had written I could understand little of it. He mentioned meeting or talking with various people I did not know. I knew my grandmother kept a diary but it only contained notes about household matters and lists of things to do or buy. I knew that because she told me as she wrote in it, helping me to learn and understand the workings of the house.

It was through my snooping that I came to know more about Mr Gancey than appeared in his obituary. At the time it all meant nothing to me. A child naturally forgets as new experiences come along. I had forgotten, for example, the morning when two men in belted raincoats arrived at breakfast time and took Mr Gancey away. My grandmother hushed me when I asked her what was going on. Two other men came later to remove the belongings from Mr Gancey’s room. By this time Miss Lirry had already left the lodging to keep another engagement in London. The rumour was that Mr Gancey was a German spy. Everyone who was different was rumoured to be a German spy, or so it seemed to me. I didn’t believe that since I had never heard him speaking German. He had vanished from the town that was for sure.

Forty years after the event is not a good time to try to find out ‘the truth’ of a rumour.

There was not a word in the obituary about German spies. The fact that there was an obituary suggested to me that the spy rumour had been false. Perhaps Mr Gancey had been arrested because of defaulting on debts. Perhaps he was what nowadays we’d call a paedophile. I knew nothing about that sort of thing then; but there had never been the slightest indiscretion on his part towards me- no fondling, caresses or naughty words. Maybe, I thought, someone had been playing a joke on him- there was always some kind of horse-play and setting up going on among the theatrical fraternity. I wondered if it had been a ruse to avoid paying his dig money; but my grandmother always asked for payment in advance to avoid such defaults.

Finding anything more about Mr Gancey beyond those bare bones in the obituary proved impossible. I spoke with the editor responsible for the obituaries. He told me that was all the information he had been given. The only reason for the notice having appeared was because Mr Gancey had been born in Birstwith, Yorkshire. I checked all the parish records I could find but there was no trace of him anywhere despite this information.

I had better luck when I began to research Lily Lirry. I found that she was still alive and living in an actors and actresses retirement home near Wickhambreaux in Kent. After phoning to make an appointment to visit her- yes, she was fully compos mentis, I was informed- I arranged to travel south. To some degree I wondered why I was going to all this bother. After all, I had not thought about those days for years. Perhaps it was a resurgence of that curiosity which as a child saw me snooping around the lodgers’ rooms.

Caxes Hall was a large mansion in several acres of land. I drove there from my hotel in London. So much had changed in the county- not that I knew this particular area all that well, for Charham had been near the Medway and more built up.

Miss Lirry was in her room and I was taken there by an attendant. When I introduced myself she nodded knowingly.

-Ah yes, you were Gertie’s grandson. We used to call you Robin because you were always hopping about the place…

I told her that I had read Mr Gancey’s obituary and how that had awoken my memories of growing up in Charham and the lodgers we had had staying.

-That wasn’t his real name, you know, Miss Lirry said as we sipped tea on the balcony of her room. Edward’s real name was Shay.

That surprised me. I mentioned having seen him being taken away by those two men and I saw a spark of compassion in her eyes.

-Bad luck you being there, she said. He was a spy, you know.

I looked at her and felt my heart plummet at the words.

-Oh not a German spy but one of ours. It was all an act. There never was a Mr Gancey, you see. We knew there was a cell of German spies operating in the area, collecting information on airfields and squadron bases. Edward was posing as an informant offering information in the hope of flushing them out. The arrest was meant to enhance his standing with the Germans- and it worked! We caught them trying to transmit the false information a few days later. It was all very hush-hush. Gertie knew, she had to know, but couldn’t let on, could she?

We? I queried.

-Oh yes, I was part of the team as well. You saw Edward’s act, didn’t you? He wasn’t very good, was he? But that was the point, to convince the Germans that he was desperate for money as his career was failing. I remember he took you to the ‘Hippodrome’ one time. That was very clever of him. That was when he passed the information to the German spies, who were in the audience. Every time he said ‘mother’ and you said your bit the next few words of his act were in code. When it was all strung together they had what they thought were the sites and strengths of the squadrons there. Your little ad lib at the end was the icing on the cake, young ‘Robin’! It convinced them what they had was genuine.

A Mystery

2011-12-24T14:13:00.002Z

The Choir Girls

‘It fell upon a simmer nicht

When the leaves were fair and green

That Willie met his gay ladie

Intil the wood alane.’

[“Willie and Earl Richard’s Daughter”]

My mother’s scrap book of that year during which the war broke out is still something I treasure.

She was just nineteen, excited at the prospect of her engagement and forthcoming marriage at the end of the year. Some people keep a diary for their entire adult life; or they collect information about all sorts of things- columns of Bridge hands, Royal events, gardening tips. Neither before nor subsequently did my mother keep such a scrap book. I guess ordinary life kept her too busy.

It was only when I was going through her effects after the funeral that I came across the scrap book. She had lived alone, once I’d left home, in that small cottage a couple of miles outside Otley. She had been retired from her position lecturing in music at the University of Leeds for a dozen years or so before her death. All that was valuable in the cottage- old music manuscripts and books and the more antique furniture she had collected over the years- I donated to various libraries or museums. I moved in my modern and more functional furniture and belongings, giving up my flat in the city so that I could live in the countryside. Much of my journalistic and writing work I could do at home once I’d completed whatever research might be necessary.

I found the scrap book tucked away underneath various articles of clothing in a drawer in her bedroom. The scrap book had seen a lot of use and I could imagine my mother sitting in her favourite chair- the one item of furniture I retained- turning the pages as she recalled those events from 1939. Here and there on some of the pages -or on the cut out newspaper articles themselves- in her clear, upright handwriting she had made annotations. The type of ink and writing style made me realise that these notations had been made over a number of years and not just at the time. Occasionally she enlarged on what the paragraph described.

At that time she was living off the Kirkstall Road and had just started to attend the Yorkshire College of Music and Drama where she was studying music. Marriage, the war and my birth interrupted that; but once the war had ended, despite being a war widow with a five year old child to look after, she completed her studies. She rapidly climbed the ladder of success and accomplishment in her field of expertise. I had been proud of her, as she had been of me when my talent for writing brought me success as a journalist first for the local papers and then a large national one.

Many of the cuttings she had kept came from local newspapers such as the Craven Herald, Leeds Mercury and Malton Messenger. There were only a few from the larger national papers. There was something musical about the scrap book as well, that is about the way it presented life and events over that year. I doubt that she had been consciously orchestrating the articles; it seems more likely that her inner musicality gradually emerged through the selection she had been making.

I recall how from my earliest remembered years we would suddenly start having a conversation in song. That’s how I learnt to speak- and to count- by singing the words before I would say them. For me it was much more fun as a child to be learning by singing about it, although I did not have my mother’s musical gift. Even now as I sit here writing this I seem to hear her voice singing softly as the bees buzz about in the garden among the flowers and the sun shines on the lawn. If I forget something- a fact, a piece of information, or a name- I can retrieve it eventually by humming or singing some nonsense tune with nonsense words. Suddenly, like a train emerging from a tunnel and reaching a station, up will pop the forgotten thing.

Browsing through the pages of that scrap book I tried to develop an impression of my mother as she had been then.

What had decided her to snip this or that article from a paper? There was no common thread, at least as far as I could see. Some of the clippings were clearly about music. There were notices to do with the Northern Philharmonic Orchestra and performances it was giving in Leeds Town Hall- a pianoforte recital of Chopin by Leff Pouishnoff, the Ukrainian virtuoso, in February; and Malcolm Sargent conducting programmes of a Bach Passacaglia arranged by Respighi, Haydn’s ‘Military’ Symphony No. 100, Richard Strauss’ ‘Don Juan’, Ravel’s ‘Mother Goose Suite’ and Borodin’s ‘Second Symphony’. I wondered if these were concerts she had attended or had wished to attend. Other cuttings were to do with things like the weather- January had been notably wet and the autumn had been an Indian summer-or meetings about the formation of the Otley Little Theatre, which met in the Recreation Hall. There was the announcement of a lecture being given by ‘Grey Owl’. There was nothing about the increasing international tension or about Mr Chamberlain and Herr Hitler and the approaching war. The impression of this little bit of the kingdom those newspaper snippets gave was of some untroubled land in which vicars opened fêtes and trains ran to strict timetables and the daily weather was of much concern. There were a few photographs but not of famous or important people. There were no films stars, no crowned heads, and no foreign dignitaries. There were people- ordinary people- in rather disorganised groups with anonymous buildings behind them. There were people shaking hands, a station master waving a flag and a farmer with a herd of cattle by a five-bar gate.

Perhaps, I thought, these were people she knew then, or friends she may have visited and dined with. It was all very ordinary, very commonplace, and yet also very mysterious. Why on earth would my mother have begun to collect such apparently random and meaningless (at least to me) articles of local news? It was hardly a record of her life then. There was no cutting about her engagement at Easter, a notice which I knew had appeared in ‘The Otley Observer’ because she had mentioned that to me. There was no photograph of her on the arm of my father in his RAF uniform as they emerged from All Saints Parish Church, passing under the raised swords of a guard of honour of his colleagues. There was no announcement of her acceptance, along with several other young men and women, into the music school. There was no announcement of my father’s death while based at Church Fenton.

I wondered if there was any link at all between those articles apart from the fact that they seem to have taken my mother’s fancy at the time. I knew that she was not the kind of person who would do things on a whim. She would not decide ‘Oh that looks nice (or interesting)’ and for that reason preserve it. Clearly these seemingly disparate and unrelated articles had meant something to her, not just when she was a nineteen year old but throughout her lifetime. Why else preserve the well-worn scrap book?

It was the series of cuttings about the three missing choir girls which most fascinated me. They were the last cuttings in the book, just as neatly displayed as all the others. There were several blank pages at the end of the book after those cuttings. I wondered why my mother had stopped collecting cuttings at that point. Was it because the war broke out at the beginning of September and that such a momentous event pushed from her mind all thoughts of ephemera and such an idle pastime? Had she simply lost interest in what she was doing? I found those last empty pages as evocative and puzzling as the preceding ones with their seemingly unrelated contents.

I have always enjoyed a good ‘mystery’. My mother would often set me little puzzles as a way of encouraging me to learn about something. Perhaps that habit- my curiosity and willingness to keep on digging until I had uncovered whatever it was that was hidden- helped me to become a journalist. In any event I found myself intrigued not just by the scrap book but also by the articles about the three missing choir girls. Because there were several articles I was able to piece together the story such as it was.

During the summer holidays the choir from Hummabbey Girls’ Boarding School near Harrogate- chaperoned and conducted by their music teacher Miss Frogett- had undertaken a tour of various towns in Airedale and Wharfedale. The first cutting included a large photograph of the group standing beside a dorsal-fin bodied Harrington Leyland Tiger bus which took them from venue to venue. Two dozen young faces smiled at the photographer. They were described as wearing dark navy blazers with the gold school badge on the breast pocket. They had on pale blue and white check cotton dresses, with white ‘Peter Pan’ collars and short sleeves with white cuffs. They all wore creamy panama hats with a blue headband. Three of the girls wore theirs at jaunty angles, perhaps tipped mischievously the instant before the cameraman took the shot. Beneath the photograph were listed the girls’ names and beside three of them- Cecilia Blake, Johanna Kittle and Sara Wick (the girls whose hats were tipped) - I could see my mother had made dots. Were those, I wondered, the girls who had vanished?

At either end of the double line of girls were two adults: Miss Frogett dressed in sensible tweed skirt and jacket with a fashionable bucket style hat on her head; and a be-suited gentleman named in the under-caption as Lord Beaugarth, sponsor of the tour and a distant cousin to the monarch.

Their itinerary (detailed in that cutting) took in All Saints Parish Church, Ilkley; Holy Trinity Church, Skipton; Temple Street Methodist Church, Keighley; Haworth Masonic Lodge; and the Church of All Saints, Bingley. The concerts began on various evenings at 7pm and lasted ninety minutes. There would be coffee and light refreshments afterwards.

The choirs’ repertoire was said to include many familiar choral songs- ‘Jesu, joy of man’s desiring’ by J.S.Bach, ‘The Miller’s Maid’ by Brahms, ‘La Fée aux Chansons’ by Fauré, ‘Gloria’ by Vivaldi and ‘Litanies à la Vierge Noir’ by Poulenc- as well as Yorkshire ballads and more popular songs such as ‘Over the Rainbow’ and ‘Do I love you?’

A second article gave a review of the first performance and the date of the next one. It was after the fourth performance in Haworth that the three girls went missing. The party had been staying that night in a Victorian guest house in the village. It was only in the morning that the girls were found to be missing. Their beds had not been slept in. The final performance of the choir was cancelled.

At first it was thought that the girls were playing some silly prank but within a week the police had become involved and the tone of the brief articles about their disappearance changed. The grounds of the nearby Scalebor Park Mental Hospital in Burley-in-Wharfedale, which was supervised by Dr James Valentine (who recently had succeeded Dr Gilmour the original Medical Supervisor from 1902), were thoroughly searched. Various local people were questioned but what emerged was that nobody had seen those girls after the performance in the Masonic Lodge. The final cutting was no more than a couple of sentences, saying that the police were ‘no further forward’ in their search for the missing girls.

As a journalist I was curious about the affair. Over a period of months I checked through the archives of the local papers to see if there was any conclusion to the matter. No bodies had ever been found and there was no further mention of it after that last cutting from October. The phoney war had started and there were many other newsworthy items to mention.

My further research found that Miss Frogett was about the only person involved either still alive or still resident in the area. In fact she was a long-term resident of Scalebor, having suffered a major breakdown following the tragedy. I arranged to visit her to see if she could recall anything further about that period. I had no great hopes, given the passage of so much time.

The hospital stood in Moor Lane opposite the railway station. Now part of the NHS it had originally catered for two hundred and ten thirty shillings a week fee paying patients and was the last of five built by the then West Riding County Council. It was a mixture of the eight warded original honey coloured stone buildings and 1960s modern red brick extensions. Built to what is called the ‘compact arrow’ style it had a light and airy feel to it, though it also reeked of that malaise we label ‘madness’. Even the shadows seemed to be infected with this.

Miss Frogett received me in her room. She seldom left it, I was told, living in fear of the outside world. The one attempt to discharge her into the community had failed miserably and the likelihood was that she would die in hospital. She was now in her eighties and, despite the grey hair, severely drawn into a bun at the back of her head, and her slight stoop, I was able to recognise the young woman I had seen in that photograph. She still retained her interest and skill at music, playing Bartok’s Concerto No. 2 on the violin to a small gathering of fellow patients each week.

I was pleased to see that she seemed mentally alert and regarded me with interested eyes, the way an owl might be considering another form of wildlife to gauge whether or not it was edible.

She thought I was a nephew and castigated me for the long time between visits. Then she asked me if I had any chewing gum.

I tried to explain who I was and why I was visiting but she prattled on.

She said the chewing gum would block out the voices and it was the only thing that did. It seemed clear to me that she was in another world. I was about to give up, say my goodbyes and leave her when she said:

-You’re Maria’s boy.

My mother’s name was Mary. I waited.

-I saw Bogart. It was him but mustn’t say. Shh!

She looked slyly at me. I shook my head, baffled at the nonsense. I got up and thanked her for her kindness in receiving me. I was almost at the door when she seized my arm at the elbow. Despite her frailty her grip was strong.

-Please believe me, she whispered. Nobody believes me.

For a moment as she was saying that her eyes seemed to be as sane and sober as any I’ve stared into. But then she let go of my arm, her eyes seemed to fill with that sly madness again and she returned to her chair by the tall window.

Once back home I found myself wondering how she had known my mother; that is if indeed she had. Maria was a common name and she had initially thought I was her nephew. From what the nurses had told me she had no living relatives, so that must have been fantasy. She had been so in earnest when she pleaded with me to believe her that for that second I had been willing to believe that she was sane. But what was I to believe? She’d mentioned the name Bogart- did she mean ‘Humphrey Bogart’ or the Boggle? Whichever it might be it was craziness, that is unless...but that too was craziness.

It was a few days later I received news from the hospital that Miss Frogett and garrotted herself with the strings from her violin.

© R.L.Paige 2011

On Writing

2011-12-15T08:28:00.001Z

The thing about writing is…you can write anything you want, anything at all! Like this: whether or not anyone wants to read it-or does read it- doesn’t matter, not in the least; what matters is that you write, that you want to write, that you are writing.

Some days you do write and some days you don’t. That’s how it is. You can’t change that. Sometimes you want to but you know that you can’t and that’s just how it must be.

Is a song-bird in a cage when mute no longer a song-bird? You watch it and feed it and coax it but it remains mute. You wonder if you have been sold a pup. You think of all those other song-birds in that large cage in the shop warbling away. You had chosen the merriest singer- my how it had trilled and tralalahed! But now it is mute. From the minute it came through the door it ceased to sing. Then one day you are doing something or other and you hear this marvellous tune. You rush into the other room and catch sight of the song-bird on its perch singing. Then-plop! - it is dead, motionless at the bottom of the cage. There is no one who can tell you what its song meant, even though you consult books in the library and learn about avian territorial and mating songs. Perhaps if you got into the cage and sat on the perch- what a ridiculous idea! So you write it all down, about the day you bought the song-bird. You’ve never done anything like that before and have never even had a pet. It was a whim getting the song-bird. Everyone has a whim now and then, even the Pope or Dylan. There’s no harm in having a whim. You remember how when you had brought it home, the song-bird in the cage, you had to find a space for it. You move things around and study how the cage looks here or there. Finally you just leave it where you last had placed it because you couldn’t decide then and there. That will have to do, you tell yourself; maybe later I’ll move it somewhere else but for the moment this will have to do. I’ve got other things to do. I can’t carry on shifting the cage here and there. So you set about doing the other things- there’s always something else to do, isn’t there- and the cage with the song-bird that doesn’t sing in it remains where you left it.

And then, having sung just that once, the bird drops dead. Perhaps it had been in a draft, you think, or perhaps that was just it for the bird, the end, as it will be for all of us, in a cage or not…

Encore McPeevish

2011-11-26T10:49:00.002Z

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

NEW COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES

2011-09-07T13:47:00.000+01:00

Spire have just published my latest collection of short stories- McPeevish in Moffatland & Other stories.

The ISBN is 9781926635620 and it (as my other books) can be ordered from AMAZON.

Living in Massachusetts

2011-09-02T14:04:00.003+01:00

THE ORCHARD

When I come home these days sometimes I hear myself calling out “Mom?” before I remember.

The year my mother died in that September President Ford survived two assassination attempts by women. Why he was so lucky unlike Kennedy, Lincoln, McKinley and Garfield nobody knew. Maybe women don’t make good assassins.

I knew that things were bad with mother and that I’d have to do something. It was pointless checking her into a drying out place since she didn’t want to stop drinking. She’d have no memory of things getting out of hand when she’d wake up the next morning after her usual bottle of vodka. Maybe I was relieved when I came home that day and found her unconscious at the foot of the steps leading down to the lake. How long she’d been lying there I couldn’t say. The ambulance took her to hospital in Springdale and she died a couple of days later. Though she woke up she thought I was her deceased brother.

The funeral was a small affair- our neighbours the deVerres and me. All the friends she and Dad made had long vanished as her fondness for the bottle grew. A few days after it Alan came over to see me and asked me what I was going to do now: did I want to sell the cottage? I had no great attachment to the place so I said “maybe”. I said that I’d look around for somewhere nearer town and if I found something I’d let him know. They owned most of the point and rented out the other cottages to vacationers.

I was surprised that mother had left a will. She must have made it while she was not drinking. I was surprised even further when I was told by the lawyer that as well as the cottage she had left quite a lot of money- mainly stocks and shares. She and Dad had been both thrifty and sensible in the early years of their marriage. I knew they had saved up some for my education, which was interrupted by the war in Vietnam, but I never knew how much they’d salted away. Once Dad had died unexpectedly mother just let everything lie and it kept gathering interest. The lawyer asked me what I wanted to do with it all. I didn’t know so I simply said to leave it until some time had passed and “maybe” I’d get back to him. All I had to do was to sign various legal papers taking over the cottage and the investments. I was in his office less than an hour, which I guessed was what he charged by.

I said “Maybe” a lot those days.

It was a bad year for the country and the Commonwealth. President Ford as well as pardoning Nixon also pardoned Robert E. Lee, who was long dead and couldn’t say thanks. Ford found he couldn’t say the word ‘recession’, but unemployment rose anyhow as ‘production’ fell. His golf swing didn’t improve either during his short presidency. When Dukakis took over as Governor that January he told us that the State was broke. Maybe we were; but there were sure a lot of rich folk around as well as the poor Puerto Ricans in downtown Springdale. They’d come looking for the American Dream and had found some kind of nightmare. Even the Jehovah’s Witnesses thought Armageddon was going to happen that year. Maybe this was why Jimmy Hoffa disappeared; but it couldn’t explain Ali beating Frazier in Manila.

I wasn’t unhappy when the paper mill gave me my cards. I’d moved from being the janitor to a box-stitcher. Wielding the mop and bucket had been simpler but there was more money in the packaging line of the factory. We had heard late in the previous year that sixteen men had been laid off at the Woronoco mill. Then in the new year Ricky mentioned to Tom that he’d heard from Ray, the foreman, that some of our night shift were going to be laid off. Neil asked Ray about this and Ray said he’d heard nothing. He also said that Ricky was a cheap little rumour-mongerer and shit-stirrer. Maybe, I thought, Ricky gets a kick out of making people uneasy; but maybe he was right.

I was called into the superintendent’s office along with two others one Friday as I started the shift. There was Neil, who was a stacker and Marty, the long-haired guy who feeds the trimmer. As soon as Ray told me to report I knew the rumours were true. I walked to the office whistling ‘Good-bye, Good-byee, wipe the little tear from your ey-ee!’

Worden stood in his doorway, pot-bellied and beer-reddened face, trying to look sincere.

‘Nobody likes doing this,’ he began and rambled on until we were each handed our termination papers marked ‘Laid off-lack of work’.

He wanted to know if we’d work our shift. Neil and Marty said they would work. I said no, took my pay packet and left. When I got home mother was already fast asleep in front of the television on which ‘Kojak’ was trying to catch some hoodlum. I told her in the morning and she’d forgotten it by lunchtime.

I’d drive out each morning after that looking for work at ‘Digital-Electrical’, ‘Old Colony’, ‘Third National’, ‘Food Mart’ and ‘Valley Savings’; anywhere, but nobody was hiring. Then out of the blue I got a call from Roy Norovich who owned a fruit farm just over the State line. He said he’d heard from Alan our neighbour that I was available for work and he was looking for some reliable help on the farm: was I interested? I said I sure was and he told me to come over the next morning at eight and we’d take it from there.

Well that’s landed head up I told myself. Mother said that she knew Carrie, Roy’s wife, from way back, when she and Dad used to drive around at weekends. They’d stop at the Norovich farm just outside Grantby and buy fruit and jams and honey. It was the best in the county, mother would say. I was to remember her to Carrie. I said maybe we could drive out there one day once I’d settled in and she liked that idea. We never did because it was back to the bottle and the television and she forgot the conversation. Then she fell down the steps and died.

I am thirty and unmarried and live by the lake alone now.

The house is quiet except for those occasional creakings that suggest the place is alive and gently flexing its muscles. At night when it rains I can hear water in the gutters and pounding on the concrete draining blocks at the corners of the house.

As I lie in bed and listen to the rain I sneeze. Draughts, pollen, dust, even an unexpected erection make me sneeze these days.

I have these disconcerting dreams all the time. The nightmares begin as soon as I’m alone. While mother was around at least her company and the need to look after her kept me safe. But now that I’m thrown back on myself I feel that I’m in danger of falling apart.

You ought to be able to turn the brainbox off, I tell myself.

I think of Willie Pawlak with whom I’d been to High school. His parents were Polish, friends of my parents. Willie was immature, insensitive and loud-mouthed. Others in the school found him quite unlikeable; but because of my parents’ friendship with the Pawlaks- who wouldn’t acknowledge that there was anything wrong with Willie- I tolerated him. His sister Katy had a crush on me ever since I took her to one of the school’s formal dances. Her parents and Willie had us ‘engaged’ and Katy tried pretty much everything to make that the case. When I started dating another girl- Katy by then had accepted I was just a friend- Willie did everything he could to break us up. In the end Joanna had to turn a garden hose on him to get him to lay off his attempts to date her. Willie had an inflated sense of his abilities, which were minimal. When I graduated top of the school he wouldn’t believe it, having himself come near the bottom. He phoned the school guidance counsellor and principal and tried to get my success ‘investigated’. Then we were both drafted and the Pawlak’s urged me to look after him. When he was killed they blamed me and stopped visiting mother. I couldn’t tell them that it was his own incessant talking which had enabled the Cong to drop the mortar on him.

The farm was just this side of Grantby, which had been settled in the early eighteenth century. It had a population of fifteen hundred mainly white Americans. Grantby was comprised of a town green with its stocks and pillory, the Old Meeting House, the village store, a library and a few Federal style buildings by the architect Ithiel Town. Most of the inhabitants lived in farms in the surrounding countryside.

Norovich’s orchards were in Connecticut but the farm building was the Massachusetts’s side of the State line. I could drive there in twenty minutes on the old town road which linked Grantby to Westville and other small farming towns in the county. Only local traffic came through here; the Turnpike to the North syphoned off all the heavy stuff. Maple trees lined the rolling blacktop which followed the line of the Hubert River. There were fields of ripening maize and meadowland all around. Here and there as I drove I could see several small waterfalls. Despite the settlements this was black bear country, though I’ve never seen one. They mostly snuffled around the campsites in the State forest, which used to be the hunting and fishing grounds for the Tunxis tribe before they were killed off.

Roy and their twelve year old coughing collie greeted me as I pulled up outside the skeleton of the new barn he was building. The collie did a lot of hand-licking and fawning. Roy was a wiry, weather-beaten man with both grit and warmth in his eyes. He was friendly and hard-working as they come. He said that when he was seventeen he couldn’t tell his ass from a hole in the ground but he was willing to learn. He had been ‘fiery’ and still had a bush of untidy red hair though he was the most placid and unpanickable man I’d ever met.

His parents had originated in Russia. His father had been booked to sail on the ‘Titanic’ but (as Roy told it) had spent ‘too long in a pub’ and missed the sailing. Roy remembered his father and mother speaking Russian at home and leaving Roy to speak the English he learnt at school whenever that became necessary. His parents could speak English but not too well and were self-conscious about that. The only Russian Roy could remember was ‘Xotite potancevat?’– ‘Would you like to dance with me?’

Roy had married a local girl- Carrie- when he was nineteen. When they were first married Carrie was handed a stool and a pail by her new mother-in-law and told to milk the cows. Her sister-in-law would watch everything she did to make sure she did it right. Several times during those first few months Carrie told me she went back to her mother. Each time Roy would go to bring her back home. They had two children, ‘Chip’ (also named Roy) and Sally. Sally had recently married but still helped out selling fruit. When I first arrived to work on the farm ‘Chip’ was away cycling around Nova Scotia, painting and drawing. He wanted to become an artist though Roy hoped he would blow that out of his system and help him to run the farm.

When later I saw some of the younger Roy’s work- which he offered for sale behind the roadside tables from which apples and other fruit were sold- I thought it more likely that ‘Chip’ would end up working the farm. But at least he had a dream, I also thought.

As I listen to the rain I think that I’ve never found any use for most of what I was taught, except that is to help me solve crosswords. All those graphs I drew and all those dates I knew; all those causes of revolutions and logarithm tables; all those atomic numbers and fine points of grammar- all gone!

The way life is on a farm is non-stop. No job was too little though some had to be done before others. You have to do everything yourself or take on casual and seasonal labour to help out. Each day when I arrived at eight Roy had been working for an hour or more. When I head for home at five he’s still working. You only stop for meals and that was only because you needed to take on fuel to carry on working. Farm’s never sleep, Roy would say, but we have to.

That first morning I guess Roy was checking me out as much as I was checking him and the farm set-up out. The pay was two dollars thirty-three cents an hour. I was working six days a week- unless it was raining, in which case Roy would ring me to tell me not to come in- and eight hours a day. I said that was fine by me and what did he want me to do?

He set me to mowing the grass around the house and barns. That took four hours pushing an old gas-driven mower. Because of the heat I wore my old Dodgers baseball cap and had a handkerchief down the back to cover my neck. Meanwhile Roy was taking delivery of timber for the barn.

Carrie called us both in for lunch and asked after mother, who she’d not seen for a while. No use beating about the bush, I tell myself. They knew about Dad’s death- Carrie had come to the funeral, which I remembered mother had been thankful for. I told them about mother’s drinking and they were silent for a moment.

-That’s hard, Carrie said.

-Yes it is, I said, but more for Mom than for me. She just thinks each day’s the same day, which I suppose it is. As long as I’m there she’s okay. As long as she’s okay I’m okay.

I told them that she remembered them and sent her best wishes and that one day I hoped to bring her over on a Sunday. Carrie said they’d like that but I guess she knew as well as I did that it was unlikely, given mother’s drinking.

In the afternoon Roy took me with two other casual workers- Wayne and Kenny- to an orchard just off the Grantby Road. There was a stone strewn stream running into a pond at the foot of the hillside on which the orchard stood. Buried in the undergrowth on one side of the orchard were the bodies of an old car and van. Just up a path- shaded by sumac and wild grape vines- which lead towards an upper gate was an old stump that looked like a cowled grey monk. Wasps nested in the hollowed limbs. Swallows were swooping through the trees as though slaloming. Vigilant hawks glided overhead like B52s.

Kenny was just out of the Air Force after four years’ service. In the evenings he pumped gas at the nearby ‘Texaco’ station. Wayne was from Pittsburgh and had this habit of reminding us what a poor season the Patriots had had in the AFC while the Steelers had beaten the Vikings and were the Superbowl champs. I made sure I worked a few rows over from him as the afternoon wore on and I saw Kenny had done the same. Some things seem even worse than when you’re up a tree with angry wasps buzzing around the bruised peaches above your head.

When I got home late that afternoon I had blisters on my hands, my shoulders were sore, my knees were bruised from climbing the ladder and my clothes were covered with grass, dirt and sawdust. I was itchy all over because of peach fuzz. On the WWLP Channel 22 news from Springdale I learned that it had been ninety degrees and it was going to get hotter as the week went on. I took a shower and threw my clothes in the washing machine before I carried mother to her bed.

The next morning neither Wayne nor Kenny showed up. Roy said that was how it was a lot of the time. We started by nailing plywood on the roof over the joists of the barn. Then we raised and fitted in place a sidewall frame of the upper part of the barn. When I started singing Johnny Cash’s ‘Jesus was a carpenter’ Roy came right in with Tim Hardin’s ‘If I was a carpenter’ and we were both spitting nails with laughter.

-You’re a very pleasant fellow, Jimmy,’ Roy said once he’d got control of his mouth.

- Company’s the same, I smiled back.

Here I am up in a tree again, I’d think as I worked in the orchard. There was something safe about being up a tree, I thought.

There used to be an old spruce tree deep in the woods that I remember climbing as a child. It branches seemed to rise in a spiral almost to the very top and the lower ones were so thick that I could stand on them to climb as high as I wanted to. I never went too high up- from the top you could probably have seen the distant reservoir.

Then as now I used to run in the woods, following the line of pylons, over carpets of pine needles and the dirt track rutted by trail bikes. But then I ran for pleasure; now I run to tire myself so that I can sleep. I would jump over the gnarled roots exposed by the rain wash. They formed a natural stairway down to the stream. The stream would be choked with bracken and Lady Ferns. I’d hear the plop as large, basking and sluggish frogs plunged into the water at the pounding sound of my heels. I’d dance over running ground pine moss and stare at the gaudy peacockry of the dying leaves in autumn.

As a kid I’d marvel at the seasonal crops of fungi and mushrooms, which I’d look up in a book in the library. I wonder (as I’m up a tree) whether I’ve still got those old notebooks in which I’d copy out the now forgotten names of things- the poisonous red-capped Russula emetic; the white and shiny Amanita phalloides and the red and yellow Boletus roxanae.

Mother probably had stuff like that stashed away somewhere. After her death I started to nose around and found all kinds of junk- even my first baseball mitt. It hardly fitted my hand but I spent one evening looking at myself wearing it and popping a ball in and out of it while sipping a beer on the boathouse roof and listening to a Red Sox game. The Sox were doing well that year, heading for the playoffs.

When I was up the trees in Pecks’ orchard where Roy would leave me on my own to pick fruit I used to remember those days when I’d dash into the woods near Westville and clamber into the branches of that old tree. It was the place I ran to when Dad died. I remember staring up through the higher branches and thinking that maybe I’d see Dad as he went up to heaven.

Each day there was something to do and I liked not only the variety of it all but the apparent randomness of it. In the paper mill it had been the same floor to mop or another box to stitch and throw on the pile for someone to move and fill. It was different in the orchard. For a start everything was natural, peaceful, alive and following its own path of growth. There was no hissing of steam and whirring and thumping of machinery or howls of pain as clumsy fingers were cut off by the guillotine.

One morning I’d be working in the store building, nailing down a plywood floor. The air was filled with the sweet, sickly smell of boxwood saturated by the juices of all the fruit. Then I’d be removing tar paper tiles from the lower part of the roof adjoining the sales room, where the new barn was being built. Next we’d be stacking two by six inch lengths of planking on the roof ready to be nailed in place. Then we’d be putting up sheets of ‘Texture 1-11’ to side the new storage barn. And then I’d be fixing old fruit boxes; or nailing one inch lengths of wood on to broken skids; or shovelling sand and soil to fill a several feet deep hole containing a newly planted large black oil tank; or marking four quart and eight quart bags; or picking fruit and loading the boxes in the orchard on the trailer behind Roy’s old 1964 Allis-Chalmers Model D19 tractor. Anything that was broken could be fixed; if it couldn’t be fixed it could be used some other way. That’s how I felt sometimes too.

It was hot: that summer the heat just went higher and higher, like the thermostat was broken. It peaked at a hundred and stayed there for a while, like a blow-torch burning paint. Each day I shed two or three pounds just through sweating. The last time I’d spent so much time outside was in the jungles of Vietnam. They had been alien despite their lush greenness. In my dreams I would shudder when I saw those trees, trees which devoured or exploded or pierced you with their sharpened branches. Sure there was death in the orchard but it wasn’t so horrendous even when it was as gruesome as a coon ripping itself to pieces trying to free its leg caught in a metal-jawed trap. That’s the sight that greeted me one morning after Roy and I had spent the afternoon wrapping aluminium around the peach trees and setting traps to keep the coons off. I thought of Willie and threw up.

Roy and Carrie never asked about my service and I was grateful for that. The day I threw up over that torn coon he simply brought me some water to wash my mouth out and by the time I looked again he’d shovelled the carcase up out of sight and cleared the trap.

We’d work the orchard together some days, picking early McIntosh and Cortland apples. There’d be the smell of skunks around and wasps’ nests like old turbans hung from branches. With the heat as it was you had to take your time, work in quarter of an hour bursts, then shelter in the shade of the 1954 Chevy 3100 pick-up’s cabin as you sipped water. There’d be not a breath of air, no cooling breeze, and sweat would be dripping from your nose, ear lobes, eyebrows, chin, everywhere. Even the ladders were too hot to be touched more than briefly, as was the metal hoop around the top of the basket in which you’d place the picked fruit.

- I’m about beat, Roy said one afternoon.

- Roy, it’s so hot it’s illegal, I replied.

- Too hot to laugh, Roy chuckled and wiped his face. I’ve got sweat in my eyes.

- Sounds like an old Ink Spots’ number, I said.

Later when I climbed up on the back of the truck and helped Roy shifting the boxes of peaches and apricots so that more could be fitted in, he said that was one of the things he liked about me, the way I’d just pitch in without being asked to give a hand. Most ‘hired help’- and he said that as though I wasn’t “most hired help” but more like family- would have stood around waiting to be asked. I sat in the back and held on to the two ladders as we drove to the farm. Most evenings when I was about to go Carrie would give me some fruit to take home,

People came and went that summer and autumn. Some worked just a day, others maybe a week, some a bit longer. Some were hoping; some were just passing; and some couldn’t stay on the ladder. There was Dick: he had six children who lived with him and his wife in a trailer outside Springdale. His eldest daughter worked as a tobacco sorter and they all received ‘Welfare’ of one kind or another. He didn’t show up the day after Roy gave him a ten dollar advance on his pay cheque. There was Tom, twice divorced- the most recent marriage only lasted three weeks- and living in a motel. He was hoping to start a Laundromat business but couldn’t find a bank to give him a loan. There was Jay who arranged for me to pick him up at the lights at the Route 57 intersection and wasn’t there in the morning. I waited, reckoning he might just be late; but after twenty minutes I had to head for the farm and was ten minutes late myself. I apologised to Roy and explained what had happened. He was easy about it and advised me not to offer ‘casuals’ lifts since that kind of thing happened a lot. Roy was used to the unpredictability of casual workers which was why he was pleased with my dependability.

And there was Glenda who was Alan’s eldest daughter. She started to work in the sale’s room as the selling season picked up. Some days I’d help out on the stall when it got busy and she and I would chat. I’d give her a lift back to the lake and she’d tell me about her sister’s shenanigans out West in California. Kimberley had gone out there after she’d met some guy who had a chain of cocktail lounges in Hawaii and California. Kimberley went back with him to become ‘an exotic dancer’ and had graduated into the porn business. There was more money in that, she’d tell Glenda when they spoke on the phone; why didn’t Glenda come out and join her?

-Why didn’t you join your sister? I asked Glenda when she told me about Kimberley.

The thing was they were quite different. Glenda was more thoughtful, less impulsive and nobody’s fool. Kimberley was always on the look-out for a ‘good time’ and had been sexually promiscuous from the day she discovered what sex was all about. For her it was a commodity which, if used right, would get her out of small town Massachusetts and somewhere exciting. Glenda had never liked the way the boys who shagged Kimberley would try to get into her pants as well. She’d give them the brush off; and those few who didn’t take the hint and became pushier found that Glenda could deliver a mean punch and kick to the groin.

It was only natural, I suppose, that I should regularly give Glenda a lift back from work- her starting hours differed so usually her mother ran her out to the farm. Then she started to drift over now and then to join me on the boathouse roof for a beer or two in the evening. We’d chat about all sorts of stuff- music, movies and books, whatever. She’d been to see Bob Marley and the Wailers at Paul’s Mall in Boston. I said I didn’t really know his music and she said she’d lend me some. She’d seen Eric Clapton at the Civic Centre in Springdale when he’d played Layla, Bell Bottom Blues, Key to the Highway and Massachusetts Jam. I said I preferred him when he was in The Yardbirds. We forked out ten dollars each in July and went to see Elvis at Springdale- he’d not been this way before and wasn’t likely to again, so ‘Why not?’ we said. He was on stage for just over an hour, opening with ‘C.C. Rider’ and ‘I’ve got a woman’ and finishing with ‘Mystery Train’ and ‘Fools Rush In’. We agreed it was a pity he’d put on weight but his voice sure was mighty fine. Afterwards we stopped in the bar beside the ‘Mad Apple’ record shop and had a cold beer or two. When someone played Glen Campbell singing ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’ on the jukebox a fifth time we decided to call it a night. I guess we found each other pleasant company. We went to see ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ together. Then we kind of drifted into the bedroom one evening having decided to check each other out a bit more closely. That seemed to be mutually acceptable and pleasurable so that now and then became regularly and often.

She was the first woman I’d been with since I had been drafted. Unlike most of my pals in the squad when I was on leave I didn’t head straight for the cat houses of Saigon. Once I was demobbed and back home with mother I couldn’t get near to anyone. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to feel normal, human, to forget all about killing people I didn’t know and didn’t necessarily dislike even though they were ‘the enemy’. It felt like ‘the enemy’ was in me after all that killing.

Though we would make out she would always go back to her family’s cottage on the other side of the point afterwards. We didn’t really talk about that and it just seemed this was what would happen. Maybe she was being respectful of the fact that my mother had died only a month or so before we started to get together. Had she wanted to stay overnight I probably wouldn’t have minded; but then I don’t know how I would have felt waking up sweating and maybe crying out if there was someone in bed beside me.

During the picking season a reporter from Channel 22 came to interview Roy in the orchard. Since I was up a tree the cameraman asked me to ‘pick an apple’ so he could film it being done. I pointed out that I was up a nectarine tree and did he want me to come down and go up an apple tree? Roy cracked up. All I had known about apples and nectarines before I worked on the farm was that you ate them. Now I could tell the difference between the red and green skinned McIntosh with its crisp, white flesh (originating from South-eastern Ontario) and a Westfield-Seek-No-Further (with its firm, creamy yellow flesh). I could also tell the difference between a Ruby Grand nectarine, with its firm yellow flesh, and the white fleshed Arctic Glo. But it was the peaches I liked best.

I found out that you judge peaches with the eye and a caress, like you do a woman. You position your ladder in the branches so that the weight is towards the tree and you climb up to pick the fruit within your reach. You cup your hand around the peach so as not to bruise it and you gently place it in the wicker basket slung by a strap over your shoulder. You become as agile as a monkey and work from side to side, up and down the ladder, emptying the contents by undoing the straps holding the canvas bottom of the basket closed. So that the peaches don’t fall but gently roll on to the others you put the basket in the large crate placed nearby. Anything bruised is removed and goes for cider or jam.

They say you shouldn’t plant peach trees again in such an orchard. The life span of a peach tree is around fifteen years and they take five of those years to reach a size that bears reasonable fruit. The dead roots make the soil unhealthy for new growth.

That’s handy to know, I thought; and I wondered if people were like that. Maybe I’d think on that awhile and sip a Bud on the boathouse roof with Glenda, I told myself.

© R.L.Paige 2011

Sunday sonata

2011-07-28T10:27:00.002+01:00

Sunday sonata

-That’s a nuisance, I thought; my seat is taken.

I had climbed the thirty-nine steps from the station road. I was early for the Low Mass. I like to get that obligation out of the way so that I’ve got the rest of the day to myself. Today it is sunny, gloriously so. After all the rainfall of the past few weeks the prospect of a hill-walk was to be relished. So I had parked the car in my usual spot near the railway station. In the boot was my back-pack containing sandwiches, bottles of water, map and camera. Once the Mass was over I’d drive straight out of the city and into the hills to the south.

When I saw that my usual seat was taken- it is four rows back from the front in the small Lady Chapel and beside the alabaster crucifix with its missing toe- I felt slightly irritated. Two strangers- an elderly lady and a rather corpulent Franciscan friar- were firmly anchored in that row of three seats. I found myself wondering why they had decided to sit there.

As I walk past the side chapel to see what weekly leaflets there are on the piano at the rear of the nave, I am trying to decide where I should sit. I cannot bear to sit on the right-hand side in any church, don’t ask me why. I could say it’s because of my poor hearing- I’m virtually deaf in my right ear- but I’ve avoided the right-hand side long before my hearing went. Sitting on the left-hand side means that I have to twist my head slightly to the right in order to hear the short sermon the priest will give mid-way through the service. I often come away from Mass with a slight crick in my neck.

I am always curious as to what the priest will say to us. Sometimes I wonder what I would say if I was there behind the lectern. I like short sermons; they’re like a quick brush and scrub up before heading out into public. Those long, tedious Protestant affairs which roll on endlessly like boulders flung by Sisyphus numb my backside. Give me any day a quick shake of the pepper pot, a poke with the fork and let’s get on with it!

I could sit behind the pair, I think. But then I surmise that the bulk of the friar would blot out everything in front. I like to look at the Fra Angelico triptych of the Annunciation behind the altar in which the angels seem to be wearing saucers on their heads. I don’t fancy staring at his pate while the priest is going through the ritual. When I’m stuck like that- and it happens sometimes when there’s a rush of summer-time visitors to the church- I find myself studying the shape of ears and hairlines and dandruff on collars, or ear-rings and the smell of perfume. I also had olfactory memories of the malodorous and silent farts Brother Taubars used to loose during the Hours when I was on retreat once. His face would be glowing with concentration as he meditated while those kneeling to his rear were gagging. I was convinced he was doing that deliberately; others held the more charitable view that he couldn’t help himself; ‘the wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh’ and all that.

If I can’t sit behind them, I think, then it will have to be in front. I can’t sit immediately in front of them since I’d be all too conscious of their presence looming behind me. So it will have to be two rows in front. That’s one row from the very front of the seats; but at least I can lean against the wall to my left.

Once I’m there I feel dreadfully exposed. That’s one reason why I like to be further back, lost in the crowd as it were, just one of the passengers on the bus waiting for it to start. As a child I hated being seated at the front of the class. I didn’t want to sit right at the back because that’s where the miscreants would hide themselves. I’m sure I would have made a good galley slave, down there in the lower decks pulling on an oar rather than striding dominantly on the quarterdeck.

I’ve been worshipping here ever since I came to the city over thirty years ago. The first Sunday after I had arrived I went to a large church at the top of the main street leading down to the old docks. The church- a vast, stark hanger-like affair- had been virtually empty. I felt as though I was in the belly of some large, toothless beast. The liturgy was the 1929 order with all its ‘thees’ and ‘thous’. Afterwards I felt as though I was an extra escaping from a bad mediaeval epic filmed by Ealing Studios and lacking an Olivier to spice it up. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the cry ‘An ’orse! An ’orse! My kingdom for an ’orse!’

Slowly worshippers are arriving for the Mass. Of course nobody chooses to sit in the row ahead of me, or even in either of the seats beside me; they all tuck themselves in behind me, where they can see but not be seen. I sense that there are more people than the four or five other regulars who attend. It’s not a special feast day, just one of those ordinary Sundays during the year, after Pentecost and before Advent. I guess that some of them are visitors for the festival who are staying at one of the local hotels.

The old retired priest hobbles on his canes to the statuette of the Virgin and Child. He lights a candle and sticks it in one of the seven branches of the Menorah standing beside Her. A clump of freshly cut flowers stands in a vase at the base of the statuette. I recall the time an artificial bunch, too close to the flames, caught fire as the priest gave his sermon, which happened to be on ‘the Burning Bush’.

When the bell sounds it’s eyes down for a full house. I remember services when I was a youngster and it seemed to me that many of the adults were competing to see who could get on their knees the quickest! There are all kinds of techniques for doing so, some dictated by age and rheumatic joints, others pure showmanship like the high jump’s Fosbury Flop. There’s the straight drop; there’s the gradual bend and wind; there’s the crouch and collapse; there’s the weary wilt- oh I’ve seen them all! How far down you sink is also a matter of style. Some prefer the L with a slight head droop topping it off; others go for the full crumple so that you end up like a Z. I’ve never seen the full prostration though I know it’s rife amongst Higher Church breeds. Nowadays I just lower myself gently a knee at a time on to the cushion and cling to the ladderback chair in front, my balance not being what it was. Some of the chairs have uneven legs and wobble when you sit on them. The cleaner must move them around for they never seem to be in the same spot two weeks running.

It’s the Rector today assisted by the diminutive female server. I don’t know either of them outside the service. I like to keep myself to myself. It’s much the same when I take my car to Charlie for its MOT or check-up. We’ll chat briefly, I’ll pay the bill, and that’s the end of that until next time. I’ve heard that the Rector’s marriage has broken down. We all have our problems and these things happen, I suppose. It can’t be easy working the hours they do and being more or less constantly on call. There are difficulties for both married and unmarried priests. Myself, I’ve kept my head down and my nose clean all my working life in the civil service. The only call I’ve heard is for ‘last orders please’.

Sorry, I missed that, I think as the motor starts to run.

I look at the order of service card I’ve collected from the back of the chapel and can’t make sense of it. ‘What on earth is the priest saying?’ I wonder as I hear words which don’t seem to make sense either. There’s no Gloria, no Creed and no Prayer of Humble Access, Cranmer’s masterpiece, printed on the card. But it’s too late to change it. I am reminded of the time I sat in a Catholic church in Paris and heard a Tridentine Mass being said in Latin while I was struggling to make sense of it all in French. Now and then I catch a familiar phrase coming over the priest’s shoulder and I squeak out a response; but the voices behind me are churning out something completely different. Thank goodness we’re on our knees, I mutter feeling ridiculous.

We all sit when it’s time for the readings. I’m still at a loss as the server reads what should be the epistle.

‘Aliquam nec ante non lectus facilisis feugiat eu sit amet nibh.’

That can’t be right, I tell myself. I don’t recall Paul saying that, certainly not in Romans.

‘Sed interdum fermentum massa at hendrerit.’

Maybe her dental plate is giving her trouble.

‘Integer mauris lacus, eleifend non tincidunt nec, bibendum ut tortor.’

It could be the acoustics or my ears. I’ve been having trouble with them again recently. They fill with wax quickly. It was only a couple of months ago that I had them syringed. That was an oddly erotic experience at the time. When I told the nurse that she laughed and patted me on the shoulder in a motherly way. Not that I particularly wanted such an experience- it’s been years since that tickle has nibbled at me; the snake’s hiss of tinnitus has been more troubling.

‘Nunc quis magna nibh.’

‘Thanks be to God’, I concur. Thank goodness that seems to that.

The server steps away from the lectern and stands to one side. Maybe we’ll get some sense from the Rector. But he also seems to be having similar problems with enunciation. The Gospel is supposed to be about parables but instead it seems to me to be about puddles or poodles.

After a general zippering-north south east west (and some tap the sternum)- it’s take your seats for the ten minute pep talk.

‘Τέλειοι εργαλείων στη μα, προκύπτουν επεξεργασία συνεντεύξεις ναι ώς.’

Oh Lord, I think, this really isn’t going very well.

‘Φράση εργασίας προγραμματιστές να όρο, μέσης έστελνε κι λες, μη για νιρβάνα προσπάθεια εργαζόμενοι.’

He likes making eye-contact; they must teach you that at Cuddesdon. That way you can see when they’re coming to get you.

‘Αναφορά απαραίτητο λες τι, αν λες σελίδων επιδιόρθωσης μεταγλωτίσει.’

I must be missing something here, I think, as I hear the Franciscan chuckling behind me. It’s a deep chuckle, the kind which comes from the belly. Thin Franciscans tend to giggle, I’ve found. I don’t mind priests making jokes- in fact one of the best sermons I’ve heard was made by Rowan Atkinson in his one-man show some years ago- but I’ve always found erudite academic humour as dry as German gumboots- or it could be gunboats.

The service runs its course. The bits I can recognise I grab hold of with the fervour of a drowning man; the bits- and there are lots of them- which I don’t understand (and not just theologically) I watch float past like an untethered astronaut outside the Shuttle.

I avoid the general skirmish around the Rector at the end by slipping rapidly out at the altar end of the chapel.

From my vantage point I can see hills and valleys in all directions. I’ve eaten my sandwiches and lie in the sun reading some Tabucchi short stories. Throughout my walk and the gradual climb of the shoulder of the hills I’ve observed all kinds of wildlife, all kinds of growing things. There are times when I wish I could nail them all with names more specific than bird or bush or flower. But I don’t have that kind of mind. I enjoy the not knowing as much as others might enjoy the knowing. As a child- and such memories float about within me like the wispy clouds that decorate the blue sky above me- I would give new things I came across my own names. Those names I have forgotten, of course, but they would do just as well as the Latinised tags we use for flowers and animal or insect species.

It has been a while since I have climbed this particular hill. My health has not been good. Up here I feel refreshed as I look down on what were ancient kingdoms. Dotted about the landscape, invisible to my untrained eye but there nevertheless are ancient camp sites, tumuli, burial grounds and hill forts. The Romans, the Selgovae, Votadini and others meandered over this land, following the ridges or the valleys. Every so often someone with a metal detector will discover a treasure trove. As a child I remember playing hooky on the hill that overlooked the town where I grew up. I would imagine that I was an explorer, someone discovering that place for the first time. Behind me would be the overgrown redoubts built centuries ago and out at sea I would faintly make out the forts built to guard the harbour against invasion. Nowadays they are either abandoned or have been turned into luxury restaurants to which diners are taken by helicopter.

Up here I seldom think. I like to observe and up here I seem to become a pure observer. What I see does not change, or so it seems. There is a given-ness about this landscape, which an age ago was under thick layers of ice. In my mind’s eye I can see this as I lie daydreaming in the sunlight. What others may see may well differ. To me this high point has become necessary. The views from my windows in the city are restricted and what they reveal must be compensated by such natural beauty if I am to remain at peace and intact- or so I’ve come to believe. Looking back I cannot countenance growing up without those times I spent upon the hill. Nobody ever knew about them, those days I’d feign sickness and miss school.

At home in the evening after my shower I try to continue working on the story I’m attempting to squeeze from information I’ve found about Arletty, the French actress famous for her appearances in ‘Hôtel du Nord’ and ‘Les Enfants du Paradis’. She fell in love with a younger man, a German Luftwaffe officer Hans Soehring and had an affair with him during the nineteen forties. After France was liberated she was arrested in October 1944, interrogated and imprisoned for two months in Drancy internment camp. Like many other women who had collaborated she had her hair shorn. When she was released she spent eighteen months exiled to the Château de la Houssaye-en-Brie outside Paris, which she could not enter. Her film career was effectively over although she appeared in minor roles later and also acted on the stage.

I wondered why a writer such as de Beauvoir didn’t write about her and turn her into some kind of ‘existential heroine’ the way that Sartre turned Jean Genet into a ‘saint’. Perhaps it’s easier to write about a thief than it is about a collaboratist. Perhaps it’s easier to silence someone who writes (which is effectively what Sartre did to Genet with his book) than it is to vanish someone who acts. Arletty on the screen or stage was never less than Arletty in real life. There was an androgynous amoral boldness about her, an indifference to opinion proclaimed in the title of her autobiography ‘Je suis que je suis’. It is therein that she contradicts the popular version of what she said during her interrogation.

The one role she was most suited to was that of Joan of Arc. She appeared at the Théâtre Guignard in Montmartre in this role in the 1953 production of Genet’s ‘Jeanne Jaune’, based on St. Thérèse of Lisieux’s plays ‘The Mission of Joan of Arc’ and ‘Joan of Arc accomplishes her Mission’. Interwoven were extracts from Arletty’s own trial and auto-erotic dream scenes based upon Genet’s prison memoirs. The opening night (May 30^th) was a ‘succès de scandale’ and a ‘cause célèbre’ in the great tradition of Jarry’s ‘Ubu Roi’. Those who had packed into the small theatre to boo Arletty ended up cheering her; while those who had come to cheer ended up weeping. Arletty really did bare her backside for the burning at the stake scene. The play was banned- Genet was said to have overstepped the bounds of decency and to have offended the hierarchy of the church; the theatre was closed for breaching non-existent fire regulations; and reputations were made or destroyed, sometimes both at the same time. Posters were ripped from the walls and sold almost as religious relics. All copies of the script were confiscated and ceremonially burnt under the direct orders of the President. Only a few survive in the hands of private collectors who prefer to remain anonymous. The play has never been staged since though it was rumoured that Godard wished to make a film of it with Deneuve in the title role.

Late at night, as I’m falling asleep I wonder about that missing toe. It strikes me as less than coincidental that all the images in that little chapel have bits missing. The statue of the Virgin Mary is minus a pinkie and the Baby is missing an ear. The large crucifix affixed to a ceiling crossbeam above the lectern is missing a different toe. The wall carving of one of the Stations of the Cross depicts the Saviour with only one eye.

I fall asleep imagining myself on a hill-top watching a pyre being built in the valley below.

© R.L.Paige 2011

More Canadiana

2011-07-04T12:31:00.002+01:00

Hellzafreezin, Ontario

The Bull Moose was the only creature in sight as Father Andrew Manwell drew near to the building in which the morning service was to be held.

It has come to a pretty fine pass when only the local wildlife comes to hear me, he thought.

He was not surprised when the moose, finding nothing of interest in the garbage pail, emptied its bowels and sauntered off into the early dawn. By the time he opened the main door with the old key the moose’s droppings- a gift or insult- had frozen. Some of the locals might use the lumps later as a puck on a makeshift rink. The thermometer on the wall read minus fifteen degrees; but then it was broken, like so much else he thought.

Apart from the interior the church was like any other building in the small township. Father Manwell went through his preparations, all the time wanting to have a quick snort from the hip flask he always carried. The flask was legendary in the area. Many a sinner it had revived and- this was the amazing thing- it had never been known to be found empty. Father Manwell had suffered the indignity of being mugged once on a visit to the large city to the west. Why he had gone there was at first a mystery to the locals- the truth initially had been known only to Father Manwell and the Bishop. Whoever had mugged the Father hadn’t known he was a Father, seeing only a well-wrapped up late middle-aged easy meat customer. Father Manwell hadn’t even realised that he’d been mugged, so quickly did it all happen: a shove in the back and a sprawl in the road, a quick frisking while threats not to move were growled, the removal of his wallet and then footsteps thundering down the icy sidewalk. The blessing was that his hip flask remained and he gratefully drank from it once he’d risen to his feet. The wallet, stripped of the little cash he had had, was handed in to the police station some days later, his various personal papers being intact. A badly scrawled note apologised for the mugging and requested that the Father offer a prayer for his assailant (who did not sign his name). The hip flask had been with him since his early days training in the seminary and had seen more service than his breviary.

Father Manwell had been in Hellzafreezin for more years than he could remember. Sometimes it felt as though he had been there forever, like the ice and snow and the cold. At times he thought that he had simply been posted there and conveniently forgotten. Apart from that summons to see the new Bishop he had not left the township in twenty five years or more, nor had he wished to do so. It was a town in which everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to die first. The smart money, so Father Manwell was told, was on him. The odds had been fifty to one the week he arrived and had shortened as the years passed, the slate being kept on the wall at ‘Bilcox’s Bar’. The original proprietor of the bar had been named Wilcox but the sign writer of the time had an aversion to W. Father Manwell was reliably told by one of his confidants- Injun Jake who had lost an ear when it froze to the ground- that he was down to two to one on and that he should have got his bet in years ago as he’d be a rich man when dead: now he’d just be dead.

Without undue haste he said the mass to the empty room. It had been like that for some time now. Most of the Native American residents- the Ojibway- had returned to their own beliefs. In some ways now he was no different from many of the businesses in the short main street. How they got by was impossible to say. Me likewise, Father Manwell would think as he locked the outer door. Mostly this time of year if they weren’t out hunting or making ice sculptures, people stayed indoors, played cards and did all the usual things that people do. Sometimes someone would amble up the road, just to make sure all the buildings were there; and then they’d amble back to where they had emerged from to report that not much had changed since the last fall of snow.

As he made his way from the church up the main street- if it ever had any other name than “Street” nobody had ever mentioned it- Father Manwell stopped to study the ice sculptures which were scattered about. They were like miniature totem poles for the most part, immaculately made and sparkling in the low sunlight. Nobody could say when the custom had started, but it went on throughout the winter. In the summer the sculptures were replaced by blocks of wood, usually carved in the shape of a bear or lynx. It was the sort of scene tourists would have snapped avidly with their digital cameras, that is if a tourist could make it to Hellzafreezin. If you asked one of the locals what the purpose of those ice sculptures was you’d most likely get the answer ‘Yep’ and the local would move on at that steady pace which could only end in ‘Bilcox’s Bar’. There were some more loquacious residents in ‘Bilcox’s’ who might embroider things for a price, but that would be a load of hokum or hooey, depending on the speaker.

Father Manwell went into the bar where he would eat his breakfast. Heads nodded as he entered and he nodded back. Nodding was an art in Hellzafreezin, one which the good Father had mastered early and well. If you couldn’t nod in Hellzafreezin then you squandered a lot of energy which could have been put to better use. Behind the bar, which was shaped like an L, Estelle Shave was already piling bacon and eggs on the plate for him. He remembered baptising her when she was born, probably one of his first acts in the town; and he remembered more vividly unbaptising her along with the rest of the villagers. Unlike most bars you might go into in the northern territories ‘Bilcox’s’ had no jukebox, no fruit machines and no beer. The only beverage served there was the local tonic called Zhoom. It was made by Long-tongue Johansson somewhere out in the wooded area by the lake and ferried into town daily by sledge. A local ordinance banned the use of snowmobiles anywhere in the you-name-it-we-cover-it-by-snowshoe surrounds. The thing about Zhoomiwaadizi tonic was that it was non-alcoholic and non-hallucinogenic; but it put wool on your chest and banished the cold. It also added depth and vivacity to discussions about the performance of the Thunder Bay hockey team, the solitary object of betting officially sanctioned by the town council. There were those who swore by it as a hair-restorer and others who used it to light fires. During May and June it dealt death to blackfly and mosquito alike. Each year when the pressing was done Father Manwell would lead ‘the blessing of the pressing’- it sounded better in Ojibway, it was true- and that guaranteed ‘the proof’ of the vintage.

The large mug of black coffee was there beside the plate when Father Manwell sat down. Estelle knew what he would order and when he would walk into the bar. Estelle knew the names and orders of everyone in the bar. If you listened carefully- and not much was being said it was true- you would seldom hear anyone’s name mentioned in the bar. Conversation, when it took place, was directed at all and sundry; but you knew if it was meant for you by the kind of inflexion that a visitor would miss.

The last visitor to Hellzafreezin had been Father Manwell and he had stayed. There had seemed to be no other choice. As he’d stood there that morning, fresh off the sled and terrified as well as coated with a thin veneer of ice, his one thought had been- well, there were no thoughts until he had been warmed up a little with an infusion of local tonic (both poured down his throat and sprayed over his body after a polite ‘Excuse me, Father’). The tongues of a dozen huskies had licked the ice from his body. Can eyeballs freeze? That, he remembered, had been the first conscious thought he had once he’d ‘come around’, though he was aware of every jolting second of the journey through the snow and forests. Then he thought about fleeing, but the dog team had disappeared as had the sled; and he was being introduced to a plate of delicious reindeer steak (which he thought was prime Texas beef) and a baked potato into the skin of which he wished he could curl and fall asleep. The clincher had been the glass of Zhoom which he had swallowed in one gulp. This instinctual response was the only correct way for the very first glass of it to be swallowed; thereafter you could sip it or tip it, whichever served your purpose. Somehow everything about Hellzafreezin had looked different after that. Besides, if he went back, Father Manwell recalled, he would only have to deal with whatever it was that he had volunteered to come here to get away from. Local speculation had early fixed upon that being unrequited love of a woman; but once the locals got to know him opinions veered between ‘debts to the Mob’ and unpaid bar bills. Sometimes, it was conceded, people came to the wilderness to find themselves; but the intellectuals in Hellzafreezin reckoned that Father Manwell couldn’t find an axe in a block of wood; and if a man was daft enough not to know who and where he was, well, he might well find himself stuck in Hellzafreezin for the duration. Even the Ottawa government wouldn’t come to Hellzafreezin to collect taxes and that suited everyone just fine, since they weren’t going to Ottawa anyhow.

There had been some surprise, even concern, when Father Manwell received that letter from the Bishop a short time- some twenty years- after he had arrived. Not that letters were that rare. Most folk could read especially if it was an IOU or a ten dollar bill; after that they might lose interest it was true. The fact that everyone in Hellzafreezin knew that the good Father had received a letter from the Bishop could be explained by the insignia of the diocese being there in plain sight on the envelope which was handed round to everyone in town, along with Chief Stand-back’s pair of spectacles, before it was dropped through Father Manwell’s letter-box. When he booked the sled to the railroad halt some dozen miles south then some of the nods given over breakfast were more wondering and Estelle doubled the number of rashers she served him. When he’d gone the betting was high than he’d not be returning as the woman would want him to ‘do the right thing’, whatever that was away from Hellzafreezin. Medicine Hat Joe, wise beyond his thirteen years, put his family’s money on the good Father returning within a week. Estelle said that her extra helping of rashers would have ‘done the trick’ and she went with Medicine Hat. When Father Manwell returned two days later, clean-shaved and whistling, some slates were wiped clean while others had the losses added to them. The nods he received that morning were respectful. It was reckoned that any feller who could sort that kind of business out in two days, get a shave and whistle like that was worth his salt and a muskrat tail. The next mass he gave on Sunday was packed out, even though they’d all been unbaptized for years, the book being open on some sort of confession during the sermon. If Father Manwell had been surprised by the unexpected turn out he had given no sign. There were those amongst the older residents who said that they’d never seen him swinging the thurible so sweetly and vigorously.

In Hellzafreezin it was reckoned that there was always a defining moment in a person’s life. Such moments could knit you or split you. Once they had become familiar with the good Father’s ways and had quietly weaned him off them and adjusted him so that he was more accommodating to theirs, the townsfolk felt easy with the idea of him taking part in the annual lacrosse match with their neighbours from Loco Township. The match had been going on for as long as the towns had existed, and before that probably. Composing epics about each match kept some of the crabbier Elders busy. As a courtesy Father Manwell had been invited to participate that first summer. Nobody had expected him to accept the invitation, reckoning that he’d be good for a blessing and then could watch from the side-lines. When he did accept (feeling he would be insulting his parishioners if he declined) there had been much hasty re-shuffling of the line-up to accommodate him. For a week before the game, always held at the summer solstice, efforts had been made to familiarise the good Father with the rules- or, in the case of this local variety of lacrosse, the non-rules. This was not the game with which Saint Jean de Brébeuf would have been familiar. The object was to carry the ball across the town boundary of the opposing team. A certain chicanery had been practised in the distant past over the definition of ‘boundary’; but nowadays, since hatchets had become unfashionable and lawsuits more numerous, the ‘boundary’ had to be clearly marked on the outskirts of each town. Both Chiefs had to inspect and confirm that the boundaries were there and properly marked with skunk extract. The teams would assemble midway between the two towns, a distance of ten miles either way. The Chief of the losing team the previous year would lob the ball into the massed ranks of the teams and, well, all hell broke loose. Part of the problem, though the participants saw it as fun, was that there was no way of controlling the huskies which got free from the grip of the spectators. There were also those more unscrupulous onlookers who would ‘loose the husky’ at vital moments, causing players to be tripped, licked incessantly or bowled over when in full flight. If a husky got the ball then play had to be stopped until the husky was brought to heel and surrendered the ball. Mischievous onlookers would coat the ball with bacon fat and there are few things more difficult on this earth than parting a husky from a bacon-fat greased ball. To do so often a blow with a wooden mallet between the eyes was called for. It was believed- and not without some evidence- that the harder skulled huskies looked forward to this as a sign of affection, or at least not indifference, from their owners.

The carrier of the ball (huskies aside) would run as far as he could towards the opponent’s boundary. He would be escorted and protected by his team-mates, forming a phalanx around him which was akin to the Roman ‘turtle’ (minus the shields). The opposition would attempt to break through the phalanx and steal the ball from its possessor. For much of the afternoon the good Father with his soutane flapping like the wings of an eagle was peripheral to the action. Neither side came closer than five miles to the opponent’s boundary. The moment of truth came as the twilight was gathering and the spectators were lighting the torches which would enable play to continue into the night. The only problem then would be the low flying owls which often made off with the ball. A melee of gigantic proportions, involving players, huskies and a passing moose in heat, developed. The ball squirted loose and Father Manwell scooped it up with his net. The moose, as locals would know, is a short-sighted animal, quite peaceably minded as long as it could chew some sphagnum moss; but the male in heat has other things on its mind. Catching sight of Father Manwell’s flapping soutane, the moose let out a bellow which would have summoned cows from the depths of the tundra and it raced towards the priest. Choice is a funny thing, Father Manwell thought as he gripped the hem of his soutane and began to exercise his legs. The moose has four and the human only two. Whether or not this is an advantage or disadvantage in the snow and over ice rather than in the mud, only scientists would be able to say. What was the case was that the good Father found gear after gear as the pair flew towards the outskirts of Loco. Huskies streamed after them, pulling spectators on sleds, all hollering encouragement, some for the good Father and others for the moose. At the seminary Father Manwell had been proficient at the long distance running- proficient but not necessarily excellent. However, there are few better stimulants to improvement than a single-minded bull moose in hot pursuit. It is difficult to say what might have happened had not fate taken a hand. The boundary was in sight; the moose was gaining and was within snapping distance of the flapping soutane; Father Manwell held the ball aloft like the host at mass; the smell of skunk suffused the night air. A female moose meandered into sight, uttered a summoning snort and the bull moose veered off to the left, crashing into the shrubs in pursuit. Father Manwell, unaware of what had developed behind him, crossed the boundary and was only brought to a halt when he ran into the side of a house. From that day on he was referred to (in hushed tones) as “inini aweni gagwejikazh”- or at least that’s what Father Manwell thought he heard being chanted as he was chaired back to Hellzafreezin in triumph.

Goes-way-back Henry would tell anyone who would listen- and even those who’d heard it all before would respectfully listen to the oldest inhabitant of Hellzafreezin, just to make sure he told it right- about the day the map-makers came to the town and tried to put the town on a map. Now you look at any map of the county, any map at all, and all you’ll see so much that it makes you want to blink and exchange your eyeballs is whiteness and emptiness. You’d as well try to map the tracks of animals as pin down Hellzafreezin. Those who know how to get there get there and those who don’t can’t, it’s as simple as that.

Pinned to the wall they call the ‘Map-wall’ (or akii-mazini’igan aasamisagoon for those who got no other way of using their tongue) is a large map of the Province. Now there are plenty of bugs squashed on it but nobody pays them any mind except Tadpole the cat. She likes to sit and count the smudges and meow for her grub when she’s done. Estelle is the only one can feed the cat; anyone else tries he gets a clawing from Estelle. Here and there on the map-wall you might see the stain of tobacco juice where someone’s aim was off and they missed the spittoon. If the spittoon looks like a wolf skull to you well you’re right, it is: costs you a nickel if you miss it and a dime for Estelle when she wipes the spit off the map. You look at that map and you see plenty of places with names- Dead Horse Falls, Snakepiss, No Trees Forest, Scratchass and such like. Names don’t mean too much and most of them look like somewhere else that you can’t quite remember.

‘So,’ says Goes-way-back Henry warming to his tale, ‘the door opens and in comes this young feller saying he’s from the guv-er-ment and he’s gonna put us on the map. In those days, way back, we didn’t have a map, not like we do today. (At this point in the telling everyone looks at the Map-wall and nods. They’re proud of that map, prouder still that it doesn’t show Hellzafreezin.) What we had then was a blizzard; but not like the blizzards we had when I was a kid. My pa would tell me about some he had to dig himself out of with his bare hands. Biggest pair of hands I’ve ever seen (and here Goes-way-back Henry would demonstrate the size of his father’s hands by holding his not very small hands side by side.) If snow was cents we’d be rich, he was always saying. Sometimes the blizzard would last so long, he’d tell me, you’d forget how to count. He comes out of one blizzard and I’d been born and grown three foot high. Says it was a surprise ’cause when she started to blow and snow he was single, but that’s how funny the mind gets. (Everyone would nod, having been in blizzards which had turned you round the corner and holed your kayak.) This young feller- called himself Samuel-something-or-other- he had all kinds of e-quip-ment with him- telescope, compass, chain, and something called a theod-o-lite which walked on three legs and had us all walking around it crazywise. Most folks round here then didn’t go in for e-quip-ment. No call for it, I guess. Anyone here got any e-quip-ment?’

At this people in the bar checked their pockets and inside their boots and looked around to see if they could see any lying around. The huskies might drag anything in, if they were in the mood. But all agreed there was no e-quip-ment to hand that morning. Father Manwell’s hip flask they didn’t count as such but as an e-ssen-tial.

‘So we gets Samuel-something-or-other sat down, right where you are Father, and we listens to him while Estelle’s great-granny One-tooth-smile poured him some Zhoom. Feller was lost, that was for sure, and he had a touch of snow-blindness never mind all the rest. We reckoned the best thing was to get him bedded down in the sweat lodge and get that fever out of him. That blizzard just kept on blowing. I must’ve whittled a thousand pipes before it stopped blowing. By then we’d got right friendly with Samuel-something-or-other. He was good with co-ordinates, though none of us had seen one fly. We helped him put some places on the map- Many-Bugs-Bite, Too-Deep-Bog, Loon Haunt them’s some of ours. (And here folk would look at the map with pride and pick out the names of the places their forefathers had put on the map, places no man had ever been to and if he passed through their co-ordinates would wonder where they were.) I guess we forgot to give him the co-ordinates of hereabouts but by then he was right friendly with my sister Make-Sun-Shine. She had that look women get sometimes- begging your pardon, Estelle- and she took him away on a long sled with his e-quip-ment once the blizzard had blown herself out. Haven’t had a blizzard like that since then; no need I guess.’

Estelle banged a full glass of Zhoom down in front of Goes-way-back Henry to signal the end of the story. There was more, of course, much more; but if you let Goes-way-back Henry get up a real head of steam then, hell, the moon would bump shoulders with the winter sun and nothing would get done in Hellzafreezin. Not that anyone minded nothing getting done; it’s just that they liked the easy feeling of being able to get something done should they turn their mind to it. There was always something that ought to be got done, but maybe not right now since there was a blizzard coming and the huskies needed a run. If the huskies didn’t get their run, well, forget about sleeping tonight because they’d be howling fit to make a dead moose shit. Besides, Estelle’s grandmother would be waiting for Goes-way-back Henry to get home with the box of matches he came out for six hours ago.

But Goes-way-back Henry isn’t budging till he’s had his fill. He’s not left his seat of his own volition for more than fifty years- probably longer, if there was anyone older than that to remember. Blame the clock over the bar, which he swears by. It’s been ten o’clock since it was knocked off the wall in the last indoor fist fight in Hellzafreezin thirty years ago. Everyone has tried to fix it but it won’t tick and it won’t tock. Now and then they all look at it in the hope that it will, though the odds are getting longer by the no-tick-no-tock. Everyone else is settled and waiting to see if Estelle’s grandmother will come in like she always does and bat Goes-way-back Henry round the head with a dead pike. The betting favours a bear’s paw this morning, though some of the clientele fancy the beaver’s tail. One thing’s certain, though: sure as hell he’ll get it round the left ear. Estelle’s grandmother comes in swinging and Goes-way-back Henry always turns his good ear to the door when it bangs open. The sight of his feet being dragged through the door means it’s time for a smoke and out will come the pipes and tobacco pouches. Whoever calls it right- dead pike, bear paw or beaver’s tail- gets a free glass of Zhoom from Estelle. Most days nobody wins, but that’s fine as there’s always a one day carry-over.

Estelle leans across the counter and tells Father Manwell that Tadpole has given birth again and would he do the baptising. Of course, he replies. All Tadpole’s litters- and she keeps dropping kittens once Sneaky the stray has got at her- have been baptised and it’s a tradition the good Father gladly keeps up. Somehow it takes the wildness out of them, at least that’s what Estelle says. The next infant born in the town will also be baptised and then unbaptized before the shaman takes over. Father Manwell and the shaman have their systems synchronised so that everyone is happy (except the Bishop who isn’t interested in Catholic kittens). Today it’s the good Father’s turn to go first; tomorrow it will the shaman’s turn. Everyone is agreed that this division of labour thing is good news. Everyone at the bar feels fine and dandy about the fact that someone somewhere is doing something, just as they are. The most important thing they are doing, they will explain once they’ve meandered back home to face the music, is preparing themselves for doing something. By sharing their wisdom, the say, they’re improving their prospects. The wives are unimpressed and many a beaver’s tail is swung in private.

Father Manwell had a dilemma. He has told no one since he knows that the solution- if there is a solution- is down to him and him alone (‘begging your pardon, Lord’, he adds as an afterthought). The Bishop had been direct with him. He was one of the new school, was Bishop Burden, the kind who expects results and compare statistics with other statistics in the belief that the resulting statistics will reveal something statistically significant. He had all kinds of documents on his desk and while Father Manwell patiently waited seated before that desk, the Bishop read them and sighed. His sighs were more than punctuation or those of a weary man longing for spiritual rest. They were interspersed with sharp glances up at the good Father who would have fidgeted except he knew that would not do in such august company. Finally, when he had read enough, or there was no more to be read, Bishop Burden leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers and sighed. Alas this last sigh tipped the scales, he over-balanced and fell backwards. The good Father hastened to help the Bishop rise, not without having been shocked by the colourful expression which Bishop Burden emitted. Once his derangement was seen to he waved Father Manwell back to the other side of the desk and tried on several frowns until he found the right one, mixing gravity with injured dignity. This, he said, will not do at all. Father Manwell awaited clarification but none came. He heard mutterings about ‘kittens’ and ‘wasted time’ and ‘godlessness’. Then Bishop Burden said that he felt Father Manwell had been ‘in the wilderness’ too long, had ‘gone native’, and needed to be ‘refreshed’ in the ways of the priesthood. To this end the Bishop was going to move him to another, inner city parish and send Father Lenfer of the Rigorós Ordre Déu Meu to bring some spiritual discipline and orthodoxy to these ‘savages’. Father Manwell was to return to this ‘backwater’ and ready himself for the summons. That would be all; good day.

Once Father Manwell had left the Bishop rang for his secretary to take a letter which was to be sent off that very day.

Since the next train back to the halt near Hellzafreezin wasn’t until the following day, Father Manwell decided to get himself a good shave and pass the evening pleasantly at the Magnus Theatre watching a performance of ‘The Marine Excursion of the Knights of Pythias’ based on Stephen Leacock’s short stories- manna to a tired priest!

News travels fast when it’s cold enough for the eagle to fly with one beat of its wings. The train from Thunder Bay slowed and stopped at the halt and Father Manwell descended whistling and clean-shaved to be whisked away by Swift-foot-No-noise and his team of huskies. Father Manwell was deep in thought throughout the journey and didn’t notice that it took twice as long as it normally would. One birch tree looks pretty much like another when you’re whizzing along strapped to a sled with billows of snow curtaining your eyes and the rumps of slavering huskies before you. Some customers of Swift-foot-No-Noise’s have asked for the mallet to be applied before they’ve been conveyed wherever they wanted to go. Father Manwell cheerfully endured the sights and sounds as the sled wove from hillock to hillock and past birch wood stands galore.

Chief Stand-back had called the Pow-Wow to order in ‘Bilcox’s Bar’. He asked Estelle Shave to report to the community the news she had received from her cousin in Thunder Bay that very evening. Everyone had seen the eagle arrive at her chimney. All forty-seven inhabitants, huskies, Tadpole and Sneaky listened intently as Estelle relayed the news. It was agreed, with one of those Hellzafreezin nods, that it was not good news. The question was: what to do? It was the shaman who, from her close acquaintance with Father Manwell, had thought of the solution. There were nods of agreement. The only thing left to decide was who was to write the letter? It was agreed that Ink-finger Charlie (who couldn’t tell a cormorant from a lynx) had the necessary handwriting skills for a letter such as this. There was a comfort break of an hour while Zhoom was served and Chief Stand-back, Estelle and Ink-finger Charlie worked on the wording. It met with approving nods when the Chief read it to the meeting and sped on its way within minutes of the meeting being closed. It still being early and the bar being open there was general agreement (even from Estelle’s granny) that people might just as well stay where they were and do a bit of dancing and powerful medicine making, howling with the huskies. Maybe some babies would be made as well; it was a full moon after all.

Father Manwell knew nothing of this as he sipped his coffee and marvelled at the accuracy of Estelle’s grandmother’s swing. There were four men, including himself, sitting on that short side of the bar and she picked out Goes-way-back Henry with the accuracy of a magnet. The good Father has often wondered why Henry doesn’t duck; but then why does a husky like the mallet? Some questions in Hellzafreezin were just too profound for even the likes of Saint Thomas Aquinas, he decided.

A few days later the eagle returned to Estelle’s chimney. Father Manwell, who had received an urgent call to baptise a new child in the distant settlement of Lost, noticed the ‘Closed’ sign on the door of ‘Bilcox’s Bar’ as the sled sped him out of town. To his knowledge this was the first time he had ever seen that sign. Even when the Thunder Bay Eagles had lost in the Northern Territories Senior Cup (sponsored by ‘Chilly’ ice cream makers) and many bets had sunk without trace the bar had remained defiantly open. It was another one of those journeys when Swift-foot-No-noise and his huskies seemed to meander to their destination. When he arrived at the small building all on its own by a frozen lake Father Manwell found that it was a false alarm; it was the family’s pet wolf which was whelping. The family stood by respectfully as he went through the ritual and sprinkled the water. The wolf licked his hand in gratitude. After such a long journey he was thankful for the meal he was offered and staying the night was agreeable too. The Zhoom they all shared had a particularly piquant maplewood bouquet.

As the weeks went by Father Manwell wondered when the promised letter would arrive. He still remembers the day it did. The snow fell as it had been doing since the first logs of the first cabin in the town were slotted together a century or more ago. Under his feet the snow crackled like a gleeful child. His mass that morning had been as usual a lonely one, apart from the moose by the door. As he made his entrance to ‘Bilcox’s’ he saw that though the bar was packed his stool was free. Estelle was already shovelling the necessary victuals on to a plate which seemed the size of a snowshoe- in fact it was a snowshoe over which had been wrapped some caribou hide and foil. Unusually early for Christmas, the good Father thought. On his stool he saw a letter. He exchanged nods with all and sundry. Odd that Chief Stand-back should be in so early, Father Manwell thought. The Chief usually went through four or five pipes while getting in the mood for thinking in the morning and hit the bar around noon. Estelle’s grandmother: now that was unusual! Goes-way back Henry was sitting demurely by her side, his ear-flaps down. The conversation had paused as the good Father entered and now all eyes were upon him as he took the letter and slid on to his seat. The platter was placed in front of him, the coffee by his elbow; and then Estelle stood back to watch. Something told Father Manwell that everyone was waiting for him to open and read the letter. It bore the Bishop’s insignia. This is it, Father Manwell thought. Had the clock been able to tick or tock- even hiccough or cry ‘whoopsy!’- it would have found plenty of elbow room in that watchful silence. Father Manwell was not the kind to hesitate, certainly not when forty-seven pairs of eyes were on him and he had a plateful of bacon and eggs- and was that Estelle’s famous blue corn and oatmeal pudding? Can’t be Easter, I’d’ve noticed, Father Manwell thought as he slid a finger under the flap of the envelope.

As he read the letter a broad grin began to spread over his face; and as it spread over his face so it spread over the faces of all the townsfolk in the bar. Even Tadpole was grinning.

Folk don’t rush in Hellzafreezin, there being no need to. If you rush it’ll be just as cold over there as it was over here. The snow will be just as deep, maybe deeper. Just as much as nodding so settling down to the business in hand is one thing you’ve got to learn in Hellzafreezin if you’re going to sleep easy at night and not forever be checking the traps. There are priorities in Hellzafreezin and when someone is sitting at the counter in ‘Bilcox’s Bar’, even with forty-seven folk and a cat grinning at you, the first matter of business is the contents of the plate in front of you. Father Manwell set the letter to one side and addressed the plate. He didn’t rush: the bacon and eggs weren’t going anywhere except his belly. The silence all around him was one of those respectful, anticipatory silences which bound people together and kept them in good shape for that dead pike around the ear or the unexpected beaver’s tail of fate. Only once he’d cleaned the entire plate, mopping up the yolk with the pudding, did Father Manwell nod his appreciation to Estelle and reach for his coffee with one hand and the letter with the other. Chief Stand-back unbidden and silently passed over his spectacles. Father Manwell, who could see perfectly well without any such artificial assistance, perched them on the very tip of his nose and studied the letter. You could have heard a fly fart.

‘This letter’, Father Manwell said, ‘it’s from the new Bishop, the new one that is who has just replaced Bishop Burden.’ He looked at the grinning faces, his own face as solemn as if he was exorcising a demon. ‘The new Bishop says that the Holy Father has called the previous Bishop to Rome for some vitally important work. The new Bishop says that the Holy Father is pleased with the incumbent priest’s diligence and confirms his position in that parish.’

Father Manwell looked around at all his friends and returned the spectacles to Chief Stand-back. He nodded and everyone went about their daily business. Estelle’s grandmother caught Goes-way-back Henry by the ear-flap and dragged him (not so unwillingly today, Father Manwell noted) out the door.

© R.L.Paige 2011

The Garden

2011-05-16T08:14:00.002+01:00

Aisling’s Garden

“Touch lightly Nature’s sweet guitar

Unless thou know’st the tune...”

Emily Dickinson

In the beginning it had been nothing special, the garden. A wilderness was too fine a term to use. At the rear of the house there was just this seemingly boundless space of tangled vegetation, none of it nameable.

It feels as though I have lived here forever, he thought.

That he had not done so he was sure of at times; that is, those times when he could recall a time before he had purchased the house.

That’s too long ago to worry about now, he thought. This is home, whatever else it may have been, and I shall die here. There is nowhere else.

Does it matter who I am? he thought. Does it matter what kind of person I have been? What matters is now, not my antecedents, though they might be worth someone writing about.

He sits in his study by the bay window. His knees are covered with an old red, white and blue coloured blanket, patterned with alternating stripes of diamonds, triangles and wavy bands. On it is a closed book. It is Borges’ ‘Ficciones’ and he has just finished reading ‘El Jardin de senderos que se bifurcan’.

The sunlight of the morning warms him. From the bay window he can overlook the garden. He seldom goes out the front nowadays or gazes from those windows except from his bedroom on the second floor. The view there is of a road, hills and a distant stretch of water which might be the sea or a lake. He used to go for a drive that way, into the village or the hills. He used to cycle that way before he could drive and before he was driven.

I have forgotten the chauffeur’s name, he thinks.

Each morning, once he has taken breakfast, he is brought from the dining room to the study. He eats little now, less than a mouse he thinks. It is just enough to keep the doctor at bay. When the doctor visits he asks about his diet and the manservant Ness shows him the notes he has made of the meals he has eaten.

He wishes that they would just leave him alone; but when he says he can manage they both smile at each other and pay no attention to him. Once that might have mattered; now it does not, not in the way it once used to matter. He smiles too.

Once I am here, in the study, I am left in peace, he thinks. It is enough that he knows Ness is there, that someone is there. Someone has always been there, he thinks.

Whatever Ness needs to be doing he will do out of his sight and without fuss. Sometimes he wonders what Ness finds to do all day long, that is when he is not tending to him. But there is the house and its grounds to maintain. That must keep him busy.

If he needs anything he will ring. That is the arrangement. Ness will leave him alone until eleven, when he will bring in some coffee, not in a cup but in a silver pot on a tray, leaving him to pour it as he wishes. The coffee pot is from the reign of George I and is of straight sided design. It was made by William Darker and is decorated with flowers, leaves and scrolls.

Ness will see that the blanket is tucked in securely and that the coffee on the stand is within his reach, and then he will leave him. He will sip some coffee, if he feels like it, and gaze out of the window as far as his sight can see. Some days he seems to see to the very horizon and some days his eyes can only see as far as the window and not beyond it.

He thinks of the places he has lived, or thinks he has lived. This will be the last. He cannot recall the first, though there will have been a first, the one where he was born. They are scattered everywhere, he thinks, the places I have lived. Some I was hardly there; others I seemed to start to settle. But I have never rooted, even here, where I am caught in this wheelchair and have to be waited on, put to bed, taken to the toilet.

This is no way to live, he thinks; and it certainly is no way to die.

Not that he can do anything about it. He is dependent upon others, where once he was dependent only upon himself- or so it must have seemed.

What did I make of my inheritance? Or was that one of my stories?

I become confused. I am confusing myself.

He blinked at the brightness of the day.

The coffee is still hot. Ness must have just poured it. I did not see him come in or go.

He drinks some coffee. He is careful not to let it dribble down his chin.

How many such windows have I looked out of? Have I ever seen what I have hoped to see, what I have wished to see? Have I always looked outward rather than inward?

There are no answers to these questions; he doesn’t know why he asks himself them. Usually questions are asked with the hope- even expectation- that there will be an answer.

But I do not expect an answer, he thinks. I am asking these questions to hear myself think. I dare not ask them aloud. If I ask: Ness, what is the time? Ness will think I am even more forgetful. I am forgetful; but I have always been forgetful. That is how I have managed to last this long. Forgetting is an art; remembering is a burden- did I say that? I have said many things: perhaps I have said too much; perhaps I have said too little.

What name do I have today? he thinks. Should it be the same as the one I had yesterday? I have had many names. People have called me this and that and I have nodded or bowed as this or that. They were fine names, famous names, names printed on the covers of my books- but not my real name. Ness- does he know my real name? I cannot remember hearing him call me by it. It is always ‘Sir’ with him.

I look out the window and hope- what do I hope? That I will see my father or my mother or a ship come sailing into harbour? But that is not this window. This window looks out onto the land, the countryside, a wilderness I might once have described and explored with my imagination; a scene I can only gaze at now with as much understanding as one of those trees on the hills.

Everything I see in this landscape, he thinks, is older than I can imagine. In the distance are Neolithic mounds and standing stones where once perhaps ancient rituals were enacted. Somewhere nearer the building, beyond the lawn and the downward slope leading to the tangle of vegetation, are bee hives which once were tended but now cannot be seen for the shrubs and plants that have run wild.

Even the glass through which I am gazing is old, perhaps still original. Do you see things differently through old glass? he wonders. If someone were to look in, someone other than the birds which occasionally sit on the outside sill and peck at the insects in the corners and crevices, would that person see a different me to the one I think I am?

On the inside windowsill he sees a pack of playing cards and wonders in what order the cards lie. Perhaps, he thinks, they are not playing cards but Tarot cards. There is also an ashtray, though no half-smoked cigarette with the smoke curling up from its glowing tip lies in it.

Do I smoke? he wonders. Have I ever smoked? Has someone just left the room, gone out of my sight and left the thought of a cigarette in the ashtray? What am I to make of the toy soldiers lying and standing there? Do I have children, grandchildren? Are they mine, those toy soldiers, relics of my childhood? I cannot recognise the uniforms they wear, perhaps Kitchener’s 21^st Lancers. Are they made by Britains, Charbens or Mignot?

Once all such speculation would have intrigued him. Once he would have sat with pen and paper and have written what he thought and what he saw. Now it all flits past him like the bird outside flying in search of nesting material.

Somewhere a radio station is giving out the weather forecast. The music that had been playing softly ceases and a masculine voice is saying that it will be fine and warm. A weather front will move in later in the week, bringing much needed rain. Somewhere there are small fires on the heath land of the peninsula. Local fire-fighters are containing the smouldering gorse. The temperature will be such and such and the wind is from this or that direction, the pollen count high or low- he cannot absorb it all.

A vase holding some dried flowers stands on a table near the window through which he has been looking. The flowers are carefully composed, or so he imagines- perhaps some Ikebana style? The vase is a pale green and has a curved shape below the narrower neck.

Why do I notice things? he thinks. Once perhaps I did so that I might tell the detail to another but now I only tell myself. Once you have seen is it not pointless to then say: there are dried flowers in that pale green vase.

In the light, this light, the vase seems to change colour, so that now he might call it a darker green. Gazing past it and through the window it seems to become one with what lies out there, though he knows it is in the room, this side of the window.

He sips the coffee.

I thought I had finished it, he thinks. Perhaps I have poured myself another cup, or Ness has come in and discreetly poured one for me as I’ve been distracted by what I see through the window.

I only drink coffee at this time of day, he tells himself. It is a habit I have had since I can’t remember when. Some habits I can remember when I first started them, others are just habits- like tying my shoelaces. I no longer have to do that- or do I? I am wearing slippers so perhaps I never wear shoes these days.

These days: I do not know what day it is. It does not matter. I cannot remember when it ceased to matter. It used to matter, though I cannot recall why it used to matter. Now there is just today. Yesterday: that must lie somewhere behind me, like a shadow. I will have been doing what I am doing now, looking out of the window, wondering what I was doing the day before and noting what I see without changing anything.

Those clouds, he thinks; I once knew the name and shape of all the cloud formations. I can remember being taught that in school. I was sitting behind a desk and in the text book on the desk were black and white photographs of clouds with captions under each picture identifying this one as Cumulonimbus, that one as Altostratus and the other as Cirrus fibratus. The sky is like a constantly revised painting, or the palette from which paint is taken: how restful it can be just gazing up at its constant pageantry and silent unrolling!

Did I fall asleep? The coffee tray is gone. The clouds are still there, other clouds or the same I cannot say.

Now Ness is pouring me coffee. I do not know if it is made from Coffea arabica or Coffea canephora beans. I do not know if this matters. I taste it and it is as I like it. I say thank you; I hear myself saying thank you; I feel my tongue moving and my mouth opening. I watch his shadow on the carpet as he silently moves out of the room.

I did not ring for him but it must have been the time for him to come. There will be a clock in the kitchen. There will be clocks elsewhere. There is none in this room. One would serve no purpose in here. What could it tell me that I want to know or do not already know? Perhaps on the lawn there is a sundial. It would not surprise me if there was. Perhaps I once watched as the shadow slowly crept across its face. I was much given to that kind of thing, watching, as I am doing now.

On the wall to his left there is a large mirror with an ornate frame. In it he can see himself sitting in his chair with the cup raised to his lips. He wonders what his reflection would think of him sitting in this room, by this window, day after day. Does his reflection see what he sees?

Nonsense, of course, he thinks; but then I have been much given to that kind of speculation as well. I made my living from it. I am still making my living from it. And what then, he wonders; what then?

The music being played now on the radio is Manuel de Falla’s ‘Noches en los Jardines de España’. It is the 1928 original recording by Aline Isabelle van Barentzen. He recognises this, one of Hemingway’s favourite pieces found amongst the other over nine hundred records in the living room of ‘Finca Vigia’ in Cuba.

Why do I remember this, he thinks, and not the name of my chauffeur? He would drive me once a week to that headland where she was buried. He would wait while I walked to and from the grave. There was just a rough path through the grass leading to it. I would place the flowers- sometimes marigolds and sometimes zinnias- on her grave. Some days I would sit there with her and gaze out across the sea as we had done when she was alive. As I gazed out on my own I would sometimes imagine that I could see with her eyes and hear her murmuring as she sat beside me. We would speak seldom as we sat watching the waves and the birds, the clouds and the sun. Somehow words did not fit with the view. At the most one of us might say ‘Look there’ and point at something that had caught our eye. I looked without her and nothing would catch my eye; but sometimes I would hear her whispering ‘Look there’ and I would look and it was as though I had just glimpsed the coat-tails of an angel disappearing.

I do not believe in angels, he thinks. Or is that my reflection in the mirror thinking that? He stares at himself staring at himself, wondering. Somewhere between us is that thought, trapped by the glass, absorbed by the glass.

It is the second section, about the unidentified garden in which there is the exotic dance, that is being played now.

He reaches out to ring the bell for Ness to come to take away the coffee service. He sees that the table is bare.

If I ring the bell now, he thinks, will Ness appear with the coffee or will he wonder why I am calling him after he has taken it away?

He closes his eyes, feeling tired. Somewhere a piano is playing and he can hear flutes, oboes, a harp and trumpets.

This is not music to sleep by, he thinks, but to dance to. But he knows his dancing days are over. In his mind he imagines that he is dancing again with her. How she loved to dance, he thinks. He was a clumsy dancer, yet she had made him seem as nimble and agile as Astaire. ‘I shall be the man,’ she had said smiling that first time they had danced; and he had followed as she led. That was how it would always be: she would lead and he would follow.

The building- a mansion of some antiquity- stands on its own several miles from the nearest township on the coast. There is no sign that points to the building. If you wish to find it you have to stop in the town and ask. If you do not know its name then it may still be found for there is only one such building in the surrounding countryside. The day he came to view it he had the cutting from the paper and a letter from the solicitor, who had advised him to enquire at the local inn where he would be lodging overnight. Yes, he was told, the place is well known but it’s off the beaten track. He was given directions, seemingly simple directions, but even then he had almost missed the turning.

The main road in and out of the town was itself a narrow road, for there was not much traffic came that way near the coast. The railway ran some distance to the north. The narrow road threaded its way through pleasant countryside- hills and valleys that seemed the same as each other as much as they differed in names and foliage. Even with the windows down and a fresh breeze blowing on his face he could feel the hypnotic rhythm of the scenery and motion of the car carrying him into a kind of trance. He decided to stop to break what seemed like a spell being cast over him; and it was then that he thought: I have come too far. He got out of the car and walked back along the road, more to shake himself awake and to loosen his cramped legs; and it was then that he noticed the turning to the right. There was no sign but from the description he had been given at the inn he knew that this had to be the road to the building. He returned to his car, reversed and began to drive carefully up the single track road. It was sunk somewhat deeply between wild hedgerows which hid from his view the fields to either side. The surface of the road was metalled and thankfully free of potholes.

After a moderate climb up the side of the hill the road levelled out swiftly and then ahead he could see the building. It had been designed by a Dutch architect in the second half of the 18^th century. The walls were of rough stone covered with lime render. Dutch bricks surrounded the heavy sash windows and main door. It was set back from the road but the road more or less ended where the building was.

Even now I can see it, he thinks as he gazes out the window. That first sighting was enough to tell me that I had found what I was looking for here. I sit within the shelter of that mansion I once saw from a lofty rise after the drive. That morning I walked around the building, gazing at it not to find flaws- if there were any I did not see them- but just to familiarise myself with its lineaments. Perhaps that is how farmers look at livestock on a market day. All the while I was studying the building I thought that it was studying me: a strange thought but it felt true! I had already, on the very first sight as I crested the hill, decided that this was what I wanted; but was I what it wanted? I did not venture into the garden, designed by the Dutchman Johan van der Niemand, and grounds behind it. I merely took in the sweep of them at the back and the view to the coast from the front. Once I had circled the building I returned to my car and drove back to the town. I phoned the agent at once and told him I wished to buy the place. He sounded relieved- it had been on the market for some considerable time and there had been, so he told me later, no enquiries prior to mine.

Or has the house always been in the family and I have inherited it?

When it is time for lunch Ness will come to wheel me into the dining room. Two places are always set. A fresh rose in a small clear glass vase is always set beside her placement.

On a wall there is a portrait of a young woman. It is a three-quarter length portrait in the manner of Gainsborough. The young woman is half-turned in her high-backed seat and over her left shoulder is a view out of a window to a garden. The detail is very fine, not only of her dress and hair but of that section of the garden visible through the window. The colours of the painting are bright as though it has been cleaned recently. The young woman’s head seems crowned with a neatly bunned riot of auburn hair, a long twisted tress of which hangs over her left shoulder and falls past her breast to her waist. Her features are sharp and clear, her skin light with just a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and on her half-bare forearms. Her hands are lightly clasped in her lap, the fingers interlaced and an emerald ring glitters on her wedding finger, matching the colour of her eyes. She is smiling slightly as though she is about to rise and embrace someone who is entering the room.

I remember how she would rise to embrace me, he thinks, whenever I came into the room. It would be as though I had been away for a long time, rather than for a few hours or the odd day or two. She would hold me as though she was reuniting herself with a part of her being she had mislaid.

Over the right shoulder of the young woman, along a wall is a bookcase full of books. It is possible to read the names along the spines of some of the books- ‘Novum Organum’ and ‘Essayes, or Counsels, Civill and Morall’ by Sir Francis Bacon; ‘Pinax Theatri Botanici’ by Gaspard Bauhin; ‘Yuan Yeh’ by Chi Ch’eng; and ‘Systema Horticulturae’ by John Woolridge. There are dozens of others but their titles are not so readily discerned.

He is frowning as he looks through the window.

My eyesight is getting worse, he thinks. His spectacles are on the table beside him. He cannot remember having taken them off and having put them back in their case. Perhaps he never put them on. Perhaps he took them off when he drank the coffee, to avoid them becoming steamed up. That would make sense, he thinks; but then why should things make sense?

He puts his glasses on and returns to his survey of the scene beyond the window. There are times, he thinks, when it could just as well be a screen, such as are to be found in cinemas, or a television screen. But what was it that had distracted him and caught his eye just then?

In those first weeks after her death he had wandered uselessly in the garden, already seeing those signs of neglect which he couldn’t repair.

It is all a tangle of greens and browns, he thinks, like a tumble of sweaters in a chest. Some of this is because of my poor eyesight and some of this is because of the untamed growth in the garden.

It has been like that, he thinks, since she died. It was their garden but she was the one who tended it, as she tended him. He would do some of the more burdensome chores- shifting or wheeling things here and there at her behest, or mowing the lawn. He enjoyed the physicality of that, whilst she revelled in the creativity, the envisioning of the garden, the transformation of the wilderness into something more accessible.

What was it I would recite to myself from the “Dark Rose” as I worked beside her, he thinks? ‘Shiubhalfainn féin an drúcht leat is fásaigh ghuirt, Mar shúil go bhfaighinn rún uait nó páirt dem thoil.’ Once the words would bind him to her like the invisible thread of freshly spun spider’s webs in the avenue of trees. Now they weighed heavy as empty oil drums: they were unable to sink, jarring and echoing emptily as they floated on the surface in his memory.

If I turn my head, he thinks, on the wall behind me I would see her portrait. I can feel her gazing out with me on to the wilderness that has overtaken the work of her hands.

When he first turned the key and entered the inside of the house looked as though it was ready to be lived in.

The previous occupant had died suddenly; there were no relatives and so the contents of the house had been included in the sale. He had not wished to view inside before the purchase. He could not explain then or now why that was. Take it as it is, he told himself. Others might well have had all the contents carted away and disposed of; but he wanted to get a sense of the spirit of the place as it was, rather than impose on it his nature and tastes. Perhaps that was because then he was not quite sure of them, who he was and what he liked and disliked. Somehow he was incomplete and he felt that the puzzle he might find inside would propose answers to him- or at least insist on answers.

He told none of this to the agent, of course. The company were relieved to have the place off their books.

Once he had moved into the mansion he hired someone to look after the grounds. The fellow was named Josef Johann and though he lived locally, in the village, he was originally from Klosterneuburg near Vienna. Then Johann had mysteriously moved on. Some of the locals suggested he had been a Nazi spy and they swore that they had seen a U-boat surfacing in the bay one evening. But it was pub talk. He had been a good gardener- dependable and knowledgeable, someone who knew more than just that a tree was a tree.

That was before she came into his life.

It was the study where I now sit, he thinks, which welcomed me the most. Wherever I went that first day, into whichever room I strayed or was led, I felt settled; but it was here that I felt most at home. It was to this window that I was drawn.

The room had been bright, despite the mahogany bookshelves crammed with volumes all of which gleamed as though freshly dusted.

As I hurried to the window that morning, he thinks, I took in a few of the titles: ‘Les Jardins de Samboursky’, ‘Joyfull Newes out of the New Found Worlde’, ‘Paradisi in Sole Paradisus Terrestris’ and ‘Le Jardin de Mme Jeanne’. Two leather chairs were drawn up either side of the bay window which looked northward into the heart of the countryside. I half expected two people to be standing to greet me, he thinks. The chairs are thrust back into the interior of the room now, so that there is space for the wheelchair in which I sit.

Have I taken any book down from the shelf? he wonders.

On his knees he turns over and over the copy of Wittgenstein’s ‘Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus’ he may have been reading. A sterile phrase lurks on the edge of his consciousness like a caterpillar in its chrysalis waiting to take the form of a butterfly. In the mirror he sees behind himself- himself in the mirror- a small vacant space on one of the shelves. It seems too high for him to have reached and perhaps Ness took the volume down for me, he thinks.

All of these books were here, he thinks, and I have added nothing to them. That first morning I had hurried to the bay window to gaze out of it, even though I had seen the view that day I had come to first see the mansion. It was exactly as I remembered it, the view. I had dreamt about it in the days and weeks following my visit. Now there it was, here it is, the view over the terrace with its skirting of lawn and then the wilderness which is the garden, and then the wilderness which is the wilderness.

I saw something then, he thinks, as I have seen something just now- or was it before I fell asleep? I may be asleep now.

He smiles at the thought.

He tells Ness there is someone in the garden.

That is what has been troubling me, he thinks. That is what I saw, or thought I saw, a moment ago as I was gazing out of the window.

Yes, he tells Ness, there was someone out there.

I shall investigate, sir, Ness says. But he can tell that Ness does not believe him. There is never anyone in the garden- birds, yes, wild animals, yes, but never anyone. The village is too far away, several miles of rugged hillside and heath-land, and why would anyone wander all the way out here?

Through the window he watches as Ness walks along the terrace, shading his eyes as he quarries the distant wilderness for a trace of this interloper.

Ness will know that I am watching, he thinks. He is a good servant; he will do his duty and look to see if someone is there. But I can tell that he does not believe he will find anything. Later he will tell the doctor and they will put it down to my declining state.

When Ness returns he tells him to ask the chauffeur to prepare the car as he wants to go to the headland to visit her grave. Ness says he will do so straight away and leaves the room. It has been some time since he has visited her grave. He cannot remember the last time he went. It was not last week- not that he can clearly recall last week. Maybe it was last month? He cannot say.

Why have I forgotten? he thinks. This at least I do not want to forget and now it seems that I have forgotten.

He looks at the painting on the study wall. It is the same woman as in the painting that hangs in the dining room. In this painting the young woman, perhaps a year or two older but perhaps not, is standing in a garden, most likely the garden that lies beyond the window.

It could be a mirror, he thinks, and if I were to turn suddenly I might see her at the window.

In her hands, held raised to her waist, is a bunch of flowers, a mixture of Daisies, Dahlias and Forget-me-Nots. He can see them in his minds eye in a bowl on the table in the sitting room at the front of the building, as fresh as when they had first been picked. If he were to look into that room now he would find those flowers still there, he was sure of it. Unlike the portrait in the dining room her hair is loose and cascades around her head and over her shoulders like some of the bushes and shrubs behind her. All around her flowers seem to be blooming, a riot of colours which make her figure stand out all the more. She is wearing a blue dress which is stirred slightly by an unseen breeze and perhaps some motion on her part as she moves slightly forward. On her lips there is that same smile, a hint of the sunrise which was her full smile, a smile which was sure to end in either a kiss or her rich laughter. Her laughter seemed to summon the creatures from the garden and if he looked closely he knows that he would see them peeking through leaves and branches, revelling in her joy.

It is not the chauffeur he remembers. This man is younger, he thinks, and his hair is cut differently. Perhaps he is the son of the chauffeur.

This is not the route that he remembers either. He feels as though he is being driven to an unknown assignation. He sits in the back of the car and watches the scenery as it scrolls past the windows. It might be a dreamscape. At any moment exotic creatures might appear. He hears some music from the car radio. It is Ravel’s ‘L’Enfant et les Sortilèges’ with its libretto by Colette.

When they stop he has to wait for the chauffeur to open the door and help him out. For a moment he looks around himself in bewilderment. Which way should he go? The chauffeur is busying himself with the car, rubbing some smear or mark from the long black bonnet.

I shall go this way, he decides.

The chauffeur makes no attempt to stop him. Why should he? It is none of his business. His job is to drive, to drive wherever he is told to drive. The route he may chose may vary- though hereabouts it cannot for there are few roads - but his orders are to go here or there, to wait or not to wait, to be prepared to leave at such and such a time. This is his job. His job is not to suggest that his employer is going the wrong way once he has left the car.

None of this is familiar to me, he thinks. Perhaps I was last here in a different season. It is summer now and there is new growth all around.

He looks at the grave, startled to find it so close, just over the ridge which shields it from the road.

The flowers in the small vase still look fresh. He replaces them with those he has brought today- Sunflowers set in a necklace of Queen Anne’s Lace.

There is a mist over the headland as he gazes out to sea. It is barely possible to see the ocean and the boundary between it and the sky is obscured so that it is all one. He feels unsteady on his feet, untethered. He wonders why he has come today. It may be an anniversary of a kind but he does not think so. Perhaps, he thinks, I have come because I felt the need to come. Perhaps I have come out of habit.

When he returns to the house Ness carries him straight up to his bedroom as he has fallen asleep. The chauffeur will return the car- a 1931 Bentley 8 litre Saloon- to its garage after he has once more polished away the dust of the road and any other debris.

He lies in the large double bed with its canopy and gazes across the darkened room. The curtains are wide open so that the starry night can be seen. He has snuffed the candle which Ness always leaves burning on the table beside his bed.

It is odd, he thinks, that I insist on staying in this bedroom, with its view to the south. At night, when it is dark, when I can see only vague shapes in the darkness or the punctuation of the stars if there are no clouds, I lie here and gaze out of a higher window.

He cannot see the walls. In the darkness it is possible to believe that there are no walls and that he is laid out beneath the stars with this view towards the site of her grave.

She is still, he thinks, my compass.

When he dreams, if he dreams, he dreams of her, their life together. His life before her is closed off as though behind a wall.

Otherwise his dreams are empty, like a scooped out eggshell.

In the morning the candle will be alight beside him, as though his dreams have relit the wick.

When he dreams of her he wakes with a good appetite. When his dreams are absent he has no hunger in him and will only sip his tea of coffee, waving away the food he might be offered.

The mansion was built for a successful 18^th century merchant named Diarmuid Fise. It was his marriage present to his wife-to-be. She saw it for the first time on the day of her marriage when he and his bride drew up outside the mansion in a landau. He could tell from her face that it was just the house she had seen in a dream she had once described to him.

In the library is an old leather bound volume of his diaries which he kept from the time of the clearing of the land to the death of his wife whilst in labour. He wrote no more after her burial in a grave which overlooks the bay where his ships would drop anchor before unloading their cargo. Her portraits- the only two pictures to be found in the mansion- were painted by Cornelia van der Mijn, sister of the better known Dutch painter George van der Mijn. Most of her works are lost, including a known self-portrait from the year 1780. Her only other surviving picture- of flowers- is to be found in the Rijksmuseum.

During the building of the mansion several local tradesmen were employed and some of their descendants still live in the village. In Fise’s diary of the time- the work took two years all told- he notes the death of a couple of labourers who were buried under a collapsed wall. These deaths were thought to have brought bad luck to the site and for a while the workmen refused to continue building. Fise doubled their wages and this overcame their superstitious scruples. From the diaries it is clear that Fise was a daily visitor to the site when not elsewhere dealing with the calls of his business. Much material had to be imported, such as the bricks, and the mahogany used for the panelling in the hall, study and sitting rooms.

He tells Ness there is someone in the garden and Ness goes to investigate. When he returns he tells him that there was no one there and takes him to the red pine panelled dining room for lunch. He notices the solitary Provence rose in the small vase beside the second place at the table. Today the rose is red; was it a white Botzaris yesterday?

How she loved flowers, all kinds of flowers, the simple and the complex, those with scents and those without. Many of the original plants and seeds were brought from Andrieux’s of Quai de la Mégisserie in Paris. It has now become Vilmorin’s at Verrières-le-Buisson and was visited by Chekhov when building his garden in Yalta.

He would watch from the terrace as she cut those flowers she wanted to set around the house. He would feel an odd sense of excitement as she stood running her eye over the display. Would he have chosen the same flower, the same example of each flower? When she noticed the intensity of his gaze she would smile and then plunge her hand into the display to select one almost at random, although he knew that she must have already chosen.

Was that how it had been at the dance? he wondered. He had felt awkward as he watched the others moving on to the dance floor as the band began to play Paul Whiteman’s ‘Happy Feet’. There had been no way to decline the invitation. He had told himself that he would go along for an hour, perhaps two, and then he would slide away discreetly. Then this young woman was asking him to dance. All his composure seemed to desert him. He mumbled something about not being much able to dance. She had smiled and said ‘I shall be the man’ and had held up her hands for him to hold and then he had been gently swept on to the dance floor.

He eats some cold meat with pickle. In the afternoon he requests that he be wheeled out on to the terrace so that he might enjoy the freshness of the air and the warm sun that the afternoon promises. Ness settles him beneath a large umbrella so that he has some shade. On a table beside him there is a book which he may read. The windows of the study are open so that he may hear Mozart’s opera ‘La finta giardiniera’ which is on the radio. Ness has left some lemonade in a pitcher on the table, in case he becomes thirsty.

He watches as the woman works amongst the beds overgrown with weeds.

Diarmuid Fise made his fortune transporting labourers from Ireland to Newfoundland and Labrador where there was a migratory fishing industry. He also supplied them with salt beef, pork and butter. He was a self-made man, hard-working and, like many of that time, devout without being a fanatic. Though he subscribed to the Protestant faith which was the dominate power at the time he was a Catholic but hid that fact so that he might trade and prosper and look after the family he hoped to raise. When his wife died he deserted the house, left his business in the hands of managers he trusted, and disappeared. Some thought he had gone into a monastery near Vienna; others thought he had become an adventurer, travelling to the Far East or the Americas both north and south. The truth is that nobody knows what happened to him. The house was eventually sold and over the years has had several owners. After their initial pleasure at owning such an estate the isolation becomes too much and the place is sold again.

Some of its owners over the years have revived the gardens and have installed lighting, gazebos and a Ha-ha. Over the years these improvements have decayed. The lighting no longer works and the gazebo and Ha-ha are as overgrown as the bee hives. There is no problem about things growing there. Whatever is planted thrives.

The only thing that does not thrive, he thinks as he sips some lemonade, are the occupants of the mansion.

Though he sees the woman he isn’t sure if she sees him. Or if she does she must not care about his presence.

He looks at the words in the book he is holding. The letters seem to jiggle together in the sunlight, as though dancing. He cannot make sense of what he reads. Perhaps it does not make sense. Perhaps it is a foreign language, one that he cannot understand though he understands several. He turns the page and watches the letters dancing some more, leaving the pages and being carried away. Then a light breeze turns the page for him.

He looks up and sees that the woman has disappeared. He hears Ness approaching. Ness tells him that the doctor is here.

Has a week passed already? he thinks.

The doctor says it is good to see him out on the terrace. Doctors have this great belief in sunlight and fresh air. Doubtlessly they are right, he thinks, though he prefers the darker comforts of his study and the bedroom. He allows himself to be examined and blood to be drawn. Ness will have already told the doctor about what he has or hasn’t eaten. They sit and chat for a while. The doctor enjoys some lemonade. He watches as the doctor runs his eye over the tangle that is the garden. Perhaps he is himself an amateur gardener like Chekhov and is imagining what he could do with such a place.

He does not tell the doctor about the woman he has seen. Some things I must keep for myself, he thinks. There is little enough that I have left.

When the doctor has said his goodbyes and gone he asks Ness to take him back inside. The opera has finished and he wants to read somewhere that the letters don’t dance.

Cornelia van der Mijn did the painting in a studio in London. The background details in each of the portraits- the library and the garden- she improvised from the sitter’s description. The garden had not been completed then, existing only in the recently wed young woman’s mind. He is struck with how accurately the real garden, what can be made out beneath the tangle, matches the painting. Perhaps she had seen the library for those books are still there on the same shelves. Even curiosity has not made him remove them to glance through them. He wonders if he’s fearful of what he may find in those pages.

She watches as the artist steps back to survey her. If the artist is conscious of her watching her paint she gives no sign of it, so absorbed is she in her task. She has chosen the blue dress especially for this sitting and the flowers that she holds at her waist. She has never sat for a portrait before and is excited by the occasion. Before he left Diarmuid had asked her if she might not become bored and perhaps a shorter sitting would be better; but she and the artist had waved him from the studio both excited at the prospect of the sitting. What he did not know then was that she was in the early stages of pregnancy; but the artist, being a woman, knew this at once. Though he was shooed from the room he is present in both their minds. The painter was thinking of the fine commission fee she has been promised; but once she began to put brush to canvas such thoughts had disappeared from her mind. The sitter was thinking of the pleasure the portrait would give to her husband; and the thought of him kept that expression on her face and that eagerness in her pose which excited the painter.

When he returned to the studio she was sitting downstairs in the lounge sipping tea with the artist who had changed from her smock and canvas trousers into a comfortable dress. He was surprised that it had taken less time than he thought it would. When he asked to see the painting she laughed and said he must wait until it was hung in their home and in the meantime he must make do with just her. The second painting, the one that hangs in the dining room, was done some months later by the artist from memory.

When she dies, the day that she dies, in his grief he wants to take a knife to the paintings; but he can not bring himself to deface what would be the only external image of her he is left with.

He wonders how the flowers come into the house. Only when he is going to visit the grave does he ask Ness to gather a few flowers for him to take. Ness will do that; but otherwise he has not seen Ness in the garden picking blossoms.

He does not select at random, though it may appear that way. She had made a list for him of flowers to collect while she was away visiting her sister in the north. She did not like to think of the house without their colours and scents. He had been diligent in collecting the flowers, though he could have asked the gardener or one of his boys to do it. He wanted to be close to her by doing what she would have done when she selected the flowers and cut them and arranged them. He knew that his eye was not as good as hers; but the results were not as bad as he feared they might be. Everyone would smile at ‘the master’s flowers’ when they saw them on the tables and in the vases in all the rooms- and he would smile too, knowing that she would be smiling at the thought of what he was doing.

One day, with the aid of his walking stick, he manages to descend the steps from the terrace and stand in the garden. He sees the woman working some distance away. She pulls weeds from the beds and gives space and light to choked plants which are now flowering again. Wherever she moves in the garden she re-establishes order where there was wilderness. He watches her moving slowly through the beds of weeds. Her head is uncovered and her hair is plaited down her back. She is well tanned by the sun and wind. He cannot guess at her age. There is a determined air about her as she works, her arms and hands never still or empty. He wonders how long she has been working in the garden. Was it yesterday he first noticed her? But Ness said he saw nothing then and today. But there she is, crouched down on her knees and intent on her work.

He would call out to her but he does not want to startle her. She does not look up.

Motionless, leaning on his stick, he stands at the edge of the garden almost afraid to venture into it. He glances around at the vastness of the garden and when he tries to locate her again he cannot see her.

He manages to climb back up to the terrace and return to his wheelchair under the umbrella.

In the book he has been trying to read the words seem to have settled down. It is ‘El Jardin de los Sueños Perdidos’ a story by an obscure Spanish Basque poet and novelist Javier Galera. They have never met. He has read the story many times before. It is one he translated for an anthology many years ago, before Galera achieved fame and notoriety. Like many who fought on the Republican side during the Civil War in Spain he was murdered by Franco’s Nationalists during the Represión Franquista. His body, along with others shot beside him, was buried in an overgrown garden in the town of Badajoz. The site is now marked with a bed of carnations.

Is this really the story of Galera, he thinks, or one I have written but forgotten? He closes the book and the words disappear, leaving only an echo of some indescribable feeling.

He wonders what it would be like to fight against fascism and to be put against a wall and shot. There are all kinds of walls against which all kinds of people have been shot, he thinks.

Ness will find me, he writes, where I have collapsed in the garden.

He will pick me up and carry me up to my bedroom and will lay me on the bed. He will summon the doctor but will know already that I am dead.

As I lie on the bed I will see the painting on the ceiling, the painting of a garden; and in it I will see a woman working. The palm of one hand is bloodied where she has pricked it on a thorn.

Each time I see the painting the garden becomes more and more vivid. I recognise it and am smiling when the doctor comes to pronounce me dead.

On his cheek is a smear of blood.

THORNYBAUK

2011-04-12T16:28:00.003+01:00

My new book, about my work with men and women with alcohol problems in Edinburgh, has just been published by ‘Spire’.

The ISBN 978-1-926635-57-6

It is available from ‘Spire’ and Amazon.

MURDER IN THE CHESS CLUB & OTHER STORIES

2011-02-24T05:01:00.004Z

My new collection of short stories has just been published by Spire.
It can be ordered from them or from AMAZON.
The ISBN 978 1 926635 55 2

THE LIGHTHOUSE

2011-01-01T07:36:00.004Z

Light in Storm

‘A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,

Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove…’

H.W.Longfellow “The Lighthouse”

‘Ceci arrive tout le temps,’ mumbled the concierge of Le Musée des Objets Perdus.

He was taking delivery of Fresnel’s Moulin noir escritoire, made from solid mahogany and bearing the mark of Joseph Baumhauer. Recently discovered in the old family home at Ville d’Avray, it was being carefully placed in the restoration workroom. There experts would examine and polish it until it was suitable for public exhibition. As the four workmen stood back to admire the precision of their delivery a loud click was heard. A secret drawer sprung open revealing its contents: a bundle of old letters and manuscripts which would change the perception of scholars the world over.

Anna Maria Porter (1780-1832), nicknamed ‘L’Allegra’, was the pretty and gay younger sister of Jane Porter who wrote ‘Thaddeus of Warsaw’ (1803) and ‘The Scottish Chiefs’ (1810). She, like her older sister, was a poet and novelist. Originally from Durham, when their father died the family moved to Edinburgh where they were befriended by Sir Walter Scott. Anna had her first work ‘Artless Tales’ published at the age of twelve. Unlike her better known sister she was a prolific writer, producing such romantic novels as ‘Walsh Colville’ (1797), ‘Don Sebastian’ (1809) and ‘The Fast of St. Magdalen’ (1818). The family eventually moved to London, living in Esher, Surrey.

Many of Anna’s books were translated into French. A well-thumbed copy of ‘The Hungarian Brothers’ (published in 1807) was amongst those papers found in Fresnel’s writing desk. This book, about the vicissitudes in the lives and loves of the brothers Charles and Demetrius, sons of Count Leopolstat, was set during the French Revolutionary wars and it had made a considerable impression on Fresnel. He had written to Anna and their correspondence, which reveals an increasing mutual affection- one might even say love- was part of that bounteous cache of letters. Prior to this discovery the received opinion on Fresnel was summed up in the address given by M. Jamin, Secrétaire de l’Académie Des Sciences in 1884: ‘Malgré la modestie de sa situation, Fresnel savait s’en contenter; il ne recherchait pas le monde, qui n’avait aucun attrait pour sa nature réfléchie ; aucune légende ne se fit autour de son nom ; on ne sait presque rien de son caractère, si ce n’est qu’il joignait à une grande douceur une parfaite égalité d’humeur … Vivant sans passion, il ne se maria pas ; il ressemblait à Newton, c’était un pur esprit.’

They met only once when Fresnel, already ailing with the tuberculosis which was to kill him, came to London in 1825. He was to receive his fellowship to the Royal Academy of Science from Sir Humphrey Davy at Somerset House. He stayed with the Porter family for a few days before returning to Paris. Anna’s diary entries record their attendance at a formal dinner and dance and she notes that ‘despite his Jansenist upbringing Augustin enjoyed himself immensely. He ate little, some soup but hardly any of the meat or game. Afterwards we danced the Quadrille, Cotillion and Scotch reel. Then Augustin taught the company La Demoiselle and Les Portrait à la Mode, which caused much gaiety and laughter…When it came to saying our goodbyes on the morrow I felt quite tearful, believing that I would not see him again. As he bravely waved farewell from the carriage, my last sighting was of him coughing into the white kerchief he always had in the sleeve of his jacket.’

Fresnel’s known collected works are all theoretical, to do with his research in mathematics and light, for example ‘Rêveries’ (1814) and “Mémoire sur un nouveau système d’éclairage des phares” (1822). The surviving correspondence likewise discusses finer points of double refraction, electro-magnetism and diffraction with colleagues such as Poisson, François Arago and Dr. Thomas Young. To these now must be added this cache of love-letters. One product of this correspondence was that Fresnel offered simple technical advice to Miss Porter for a story she was composing centring on a lighthouse. Fragments of this story have survived only in this unexpected find; among Miss Porter’s papers there are only brief allusions to her desire to write such a story, which she refers to as ‘Lumière dans la Tempête’.

France is famous for its many lighthouses. The Phare de l’Île Vierge in Brittany is the tallest in Europe. Le Tour de Cordouan in the Gironde estuary is the oldest in France, being designed by Louis de Foix and finished in 1611. It was in this lighthouse in 1823 that the first ‘Fresnel lens’ (a tier of prisms, like a beehive, which produced a powerful beam of light) was installed. The coast of Finistère is dotted with lighthouses, from the Ïle Noire (built in 1843) on the Bay of Morlaix in the north to the Doëlan Aval in the south. La Jument (three hundred metres from the coast of the island Ushant) is in the Atlantic Ocean. To the north of it is Nividic lighthouse and beyond that Créac’h. But further to the west of these three lies the forbidding Kerys lighthouse.

It is now many years since a keeper manned that lighthouse. The journal of the last keeper, one M. Ancou who disappeared mysteriously, was also found amongst Fresnel’s hidden papers. Perhaps he intended sharing it with Anna. A problem with the text of the manuscript is that a common translation cannot be agreed. It is almost as though the text changes according to the reader! One expert says that the manuscript is little more than a list of the provisions requested and received by the lighthouse keeper. Another, of equal stature and maturity though more florid temperament, maintains that the manuscript gives daily and hourly details of the sea and the sky, and the number of birds and fishes observed during these periods. Occasionally a passing ship might be sighted, but they are often too far away to be clearly identified; and even if so their log proves them to have been elsewhere at the time. Yet another expert, called in after the first two fought an inconclusive duel over their contradictory interpretations, swears that the manuscript is nothing more than the incoherent ramblings of a broken and deranged mind. When challenged by both the others- pistols, swords or whips- he returned to Strasbourg and never left that city again, devoting himself to pétanque and designing boules.

Just as many families would dedicate one son to the Church, another to the army and a third to the family business, so in the village of Budoc, the closest point on land to the lighthouse, one son of the Gradon family was dedicated to become the keeper. The son chosen was often the runt of the family, the one who was thought fit neither for marriage nor for the company of his fellows. At some stage in their history the lineage became female, perhaps because no male was born. Instead of entering a convent or the service of the local Comte d’Ahut, the young woman would be assigned to the lighthouse. In the local cemetery, which encircles the parish church of St. Gwen & St. Guénolé, the bell tower of which is shaped like a lighthouse, there are no graves of those members of the family who had become keepers. They are all buried at the foot of the lighthouse, interred in that small nub of rock which had risen from the ocean floor like the carapace of some fabled sea monster. When the sea swells to its height, as can be seen by the tidal mark on the base of the lighthouse, those graves are flooded. Many is the keeper who has sworn that he heard the bones jangling as the waters played upon them!

The light can still be seen whenever a storm sweeps across that part of the ocean, though the lighthouse no longer exists on maps- whether this is deliberate, an administrative or printing error is not clear. The journey from Budoc to re-provision the keeper would take between two and three days, even in the calmest weather. The tides and currents would conspire to carry the craft anywhere but towards the rocky outcrop on which the lighthouse stood. Local legends refer to it as ‘le Doigt du Dieu’; but some other legends, equally venerable, say it resembles the bony finger of some long lost seafarer, or even Poseidon himself! Certainly when you first see it through the mists and spray it has a spectral quality, like some ghostly figure abroad on the waters.

« À la lueur d’une petite lampe, le gardien écrivait sur le grande livre du phare toujours ouvert :… »

“I find nothing unbearable now about this loneliness. The silence and solitariness is a crucible of a kind…

…When I first landed on the rock and studied the lighthouse I thought how vulnerable it looked. All around me, placid and tranquil that morning, was the shimmering sea. The boat that had brought me was already no more than a distant speck as it headed back to land. Piled on the small landing platform were the provisions for my stay. They had been dumped there by the crewmen who would look at me- when they looked at me, for throughout the journey to the lighthouse they had seemed to be keeping their eyes deliberately averted- with a strange awkwardness. There had been no words of farewell from them as they clambered back on to their boat and the captain spun the wheel to take them away from the rock. I busied myself carrying the boxes and bags into the storeroom at the base of the lighthouse. I stacked everything neatly so that I could find whatever I wanted without difficulty. All the while that I worked I was aware of the stillness around me. The surface of the sea was like a silvered mirror and over it would fly the occasional sea bird. Once I had securely stored all the provisions I inspected my living quarters: a small kitchen and room which served both as bedroom and sitting room. Then I climbed the tower for the very first time. As I did so I found myself thinking: I have done this before. The feel of the steps beneath my feet was familiar. The wooden rail which twisted up the wall was like an endless tapeworm in the intestine of some host. The only sounds within the cylindrical tower were those of my footsteps and my breathing. I will get use to all this, I thought even as I also thought: I am use to this. I paused here, on this step, and then I paused there, on that step a dozen or more above me. I have leapt up these steps and I have hauled myself wearily up them, I thought. I listened to the echoing of my heartbeat as I climbing. I could feel it within my chest as I heard its muted call in the tower. I have lost count of these steps and I have counted them all, I thought. I have reached the top and I have never left the base of the tower; I am still climbing…

... The steps of the tower are endless…one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred, to infinity and beyond the Eddington number…They cannot be counted with certainty; yet they must be counted. See how they are worn! This is where the feet of countless keepers have trod, patiently ascending, wearily descending. How many ascents and how many descents? This is another one, my first, my last, my just another one. Outside it may be calm or there may be a raging storm; but what does the keeper think as he ascends these steps? What do I think as I climb to the top? I am the keeper. I have always been the keeper. Only the keeper can ascend; only the keeper can descend. These are the marks I have made, there with my feet and on the wall as I have trailed a button on the sleeve of my uniform against it. As the keeper descends are his thoughts set on the bowl of hot bouillabaisse he will soon be devouring? When he sleeps does he dream of the light burning so high above him? This is the one star which it is his duty- his alone- to tend. As he studies the sky and embraces all those stars overhead on a clear night does he imagine them to be the glow of other lighthouses guiding travellers to safety? Do those keepers see his light in their darkness and wonder as he does?

… Now I am gazing out from the pinnacle of the tower for the first time, for the last time, for a time other than the time before. There is the sea, a companion, an enemy, an enigma, surrounding me like a vast skirt, like the skin flenched from the tower itself. I study the lamp as a priest might the monstrance. This I must tend. This I must feed incessantly. I must never fail it. Why am I screaming: What have I done? I am not screaming. The only noise is that of the circling sea birds. I do not know their names. Are they greeting me or mocking me as I stand here gazing out at them and the sea? Are they really the unshriven souls of unknown victims of the sea?

...The sea below sometimes is so still as it reflects the stars above that you can lose your sense of balance. You can imagine that you are above the sky gazing down upon it. And when the storms rage and clouds of spray swirl only this light, your light, is visible. Silently it slices like a scimitar through the gloom to warn passers-by of the danger of the rocks on which it sits. And when the fog descends I must sound the fog-horn which roars like Behemoth from the deep! There are days and nights when you can feel the structure shivering with each cuff of the sea to its cheek, each gust of the gale. Sometimes you lie abed and dream that the sea has won, that the lighthouse has been snapped like a twig and the light above extinguished. But, you tell yourself, the walls are thick, so thick that they might be the very earth itself; and they are impenetrable, unbreachable. No wonder the sea snarls and rages at this slender upright! It is like a dart in the hide of some beast, unreachable no matter how much it may writhe and roar…”

The concierge swears that as he made his round that night he saw someone sitting at the escritoire his face half lit by a light that seemed to come from the manuscript he was reading. He forced himself to drink a large cognac before reporting the apparition.

THE FORGOTTEN JOCKEY

2010-12-18T08:07:00.002Z

SPREOTY

Degas’s fascination with racing is well known. It is estimated that he produced over three hundred paintings, pastels, sketches and sculptures of racing scenes, jockeys and horses, such as ‘Cavaliers sous la pluie’, ‘Jockeys avant le départ’, ‘Sur la piste de la course’ and ‘Chevaux de course dans un champ’. After his death in September 1917 many works were removed from his apartment in the Boulevard de Clichy, his last address in Paris. It was believed that all his existing works had been catalogued.

In 1859 Degas had his studio in the Rue de Laval- nowadays this is called the Rue Victor-Massé. A street of four or five storeyed apartment buildings, it was close to the centre of the city and near Montmartre and the Rue des Martyrs. When renovation work was being carried out at number thirty-seven a few years ago workmen discovered an old antique pine travelling trunk from Alsace. It still had the original polychrome painting on the outside. The trunk contained various items- dresses, a hand-written diary and several paintings which were wrapped in an old Fleur-de-Lys patterned chabraque (saddle-blanket). The foreman of the gang doing the work contacted the authorities and eventually someone came to take the chest away. It was thought to have belonged to the last known tenant of the upper floor of the building, who was deceased. Because of the antiquity of the chest- the manufacturer’s name on it was from the mid-nineteenth century- someone from ‘La Musée des Objets Trouvés’ was finally sent to study the contents.

Horse racing had become popular in France in the early years of the nineteenth century, the popularity spilling over from England where ‘the sport of Kings’ had been established for some time. The ‘Société d’Encouragement’, which was the beginnings of the French Jockey Club, was formed in 1833. There were a handful of Englishmen on that first committee, including Lord Henry Seymour, who was the first President of the Club. In 1863 their headquarters were established at the corner of the Boulevard des Capucines and Rue Scribe. Near Paris there were race courses at Chantilly, the Bois de Boulogne and the Champ de Mars.

In the early history of horse racing there have been many great horses- for example Eclipse, Pot-8-Os, Highflyer, Regulus and Bay Middleton.

There have been many famous owners- in France there were Achille Fould, Count Frédéric de Lagrange, Count de Cars, Count de Morny, Baron Nathaniel de Rothschild, Auguste Lupin, Madame Latache de Fay, Prince Marc de Beauvau and the brothers Eugène and Alexandre Aumont (succeeded by his son Paul).

Many of the early trainers in France were Englishmen- for example Thomas Carter, Tom Jennings, Mr. Boldrick and Thomas Cunningham.

Jockeys were likewise brought over from England, riders such as Nat Flatman (Champion Jockey from 1840 to 1852), Charles Pratt and Arthur Watkins.

The popular imagination is fascinated by such superlatives as ‘the greatest’, ‘the fastest’ and ‘the biggest’ or ‘the best’. Each generation proclaims its champion as superior to all those who have gone before. Anglers forever pose with the large fish they have caught, be they tuna, bass or salmon. Champion hard-boiled egg eaters smile from their hospital beds. The scarred palms of boomerang catchers are exhibited for posterity in photographs on the walls of drinking holes in the outback of Australia. ‘The Guinness Book of Records’ solemnly lists those who have consumed intolerable quantities of spaghetti or sprats; or those who have danced innumerable fandangos in packed telephone kiosks on Clapham Common. Statues are erected to hula hoop champions (complete with mobile hoop). If it can be done, or ought to be done, or was never thought do-able, or shouldn’t be done (on any day of the week or month of the year), then there’s a record for it. Weevils spinning on a weather vane; Nuns eating nougat: just try it, we’ll record it!

In the annals of French horse-racing one diminutive figure stands supreme. The most well-known French jockey racing in France from the early 1840s until his death was Jack Spreoty. Edmond About in ‘Maître Pierre’ wrote: ‘Spreoty est le premier jockey du monde, il n’y a pas à discuter là- dessus. Je ne veux pas médire de Watkins, ni de Wells, ni de Mann, ni de Carter, ni de Pratt ; mais campez-moi Spreoty, à cheval sur une canne, avec des poids tout le long du corps ; il partira au petit galop, sans se presser ; il laissera prendre la corde à tout le monde ; mais au dernier tour, hurrah ! il fera tant des éperons, de la cravache et de tout, qu’il gagnera d’une pomme de canne, pour le moins.’(p 207 f)

Spreoty’s list of successes is impressive. He won L’Omnium Handicap at Chantilly three times (in 1843 on Lanterne, in 1844 on Error, and in 1847 on Tomate). He won the Prix d’Aumale at Chantilly three times (on Saint Martin in 1844, on Scamper in 1845 and on Error in 1846). He won the Prix de Diane (for 3 year old fillies) five times (on Serenade in 1848, Hervine in 1851, Dame D’Honneur in 1856, Mme de Chantilly in 1857 and Étoile Du Nord in 1858). He won the Prix Gladiateur (for 4 year old and older thoroughbreds) five times (on Hervine in 1852, Echelle in 1853, Royal Quand Même in 1854, Monarque in 1857 and Mon Étoile in 1862). He won the Prix du Cadran (for 4 year old and older thoroughbreds) three times (on La Cloture in 1851, on Hervine in 1852 and on Monarque in 1856). In 1852 on ‘Porthos’ Spreoty won the Prix du Jockey Club (the equivalent of the English Derby) at Chantilly. He also won this race in 1855 on ‘Monarque’. In 1859 at Versailles he won Le Prix de Satory on Phare. In 1860 at Baden- Baden he won the Pries von Baden on Mon Étoile. In 1863 at Limoges he won the Prix Imperial on Orphelin, which that same year came second to Alerte in the Prix du Cadran. Late in his career at Bois de Boulogne in 1881 he won the Grand Prix de l’Impératrice on Mon Étoile. He became a trainer for Paul Aumont, though he seems to have been less successful in this capacity.

Others at the time and since have won more races, have had longer careers, or have spent spells in prison. But Spreoty’s uniqueness lay in this: ‘he’ was a woman. The truth is known to us now because of the contents of that recently discovered chest. This fact was concealed from his contemporaries throughout his lifetime. One of her few public appearances as herself (though using an assumed name) was to attend the opening night of Florimond Hervé’s now lost Operetta “Hippodamia and Pirithous’ at the ‘Théâtre des Bouffes Parisiennes’. She was escorted by Apollinie Sabatier.

The diary is Spreoty’s and quotations from it have been used extensively in the recently published biography of the jockey by Jules Perceval (a writer rapidly making a name for himself in the field of obscure nineteenth century figures). Éditions Mensonge is to be congratulated for their superb production of this work.

The paintings have been authenticated by M. Toiser of the Académie des Beaux-Arts as the work of Degas, who is mentioned throughout the diaries when Spreoty was sitting for him. There are portraits of Spreoty the jockey in the silks of M. Aumont (casaque verte and toque blanche) and the Prince de Beauvau (casaque rouge and toque rouge). There is also one of her in one of the dresses found in the trunk. It is of rich red satin with laced short sleeves over a linen chemise. There are elaborate details at the bottom part of the skirt. She wears a pointed hat with one curved feather, has on long gloves and holds a delicate umbrella. Around her neck is a simple necklace and she wears short, tasselled earrings. The illustration was found- unattributed both as regards the painter and the lady depicted- in an edition of ‘Journal des Demoiselles’ in 1861.

There have been many well-known “cross-dressers” throughout French history. Perhaps the most famous is the country’s patron saint, Joan of Arc. She was burnt at the stake by an envious church as much for daring to wear men’s clothes as her supposed heresy. Julie d’Aubigny (who died in 1707) was popularly known as ‘Le Maupin’. She was a swords-woman and opera singer, upon whom Théophile Gautier based the character ‘Madeleine de Maupin’ in his 1835 novel. The diplomat and soldier Chevalier d’Eon, who died in 1810 of a surfeit of names, was another cross-dressing woman. Jeanne Baré (an expert botanist) disguised herself as a man and was the assistant and valet to Philibert Commerçon the official botanist on Louis Antoine de Bougainville’s expedition (1766-1769). Amandine-Aurore-Lucile Dupont was better known as the nineteenth century writer George Sand who outraged society by dressing as a man and had affairs with both sexes. She was rumoured to occasionally frequent the stables at La Morlaye. Rosa Bonheur was a nineteenth century lesbian artist who legally wore men’s clothing for her painting purposes. Her favourite brush stroke was said to be scumbling or the vigorous vertical.

‘La seule personne qui connaît la vérité sur moi est Degas, car il a peint me nu à ma toilette,’ she writes in her diary. Degas had done many paintings of women washing themselves- ‘La Toilette’ (1884/5), ‘Après le bain, femme s’essuyant la nuque’ (1898), ‘Femme assise sur le rebord d’une baignoire et s’épongeant le cou’ (1880) and so on- but the woman in these paintings is muscular and athletic. The face is slightly averted though the features are unmistakable those of Spreoty. The setting of the bathing scene is a countryside pool or stream. In the distant background is an unsaddled horse. The saddle, with ornate pommel, lies beside a tree which shelters the bathing spot.

No matter how successful you were the life of a jockey was a hard one. The crowds might cheer you as you reached the post and entered the unsaddling enclosure in triumph, but a jockey was only one step up from the stable lads. It was the owner who held the trophy. Once the jockey had done his job he would fade into the background. Society was still stratified into ranks and class based on birth as much as on wealth. Most jockeys had to constantly battle to keep their weight down and many were alcoholics. Several died tragically- Charles Carroll was killed at Musselburgh in 1867 when his horse fell; Henry Grimshaw was killed on his way home from a race meeting when the trap he was riding in was overturned. To the spectator their life may have seemed privileged and exotic as they rushed past like squadrons of colourful birds, but the reality was different.

Spreoty lived this perilous life and had to keep the secret of her gender. In the diary she describes the bawdiness of the changing room and the earthy talk of her fellows. Somehow she managed to remain distant and not part of that world. When the racing season was over she would disappear to a retreat in the countryside where she could enjoy her life as a woman.

We get no hint that she had any lover or paramour, of either sex. Her great love was for the horses she rode and later trained. Even though the horse might have lost- for though he could bring out the best in any horse Spreoty could not transform its basic nature- he would still pat it with affection and then give it the trademark kiss on the nose which the spectators waited to witness.

The diary covers only a brief part of her life and career as a jockey. During this period Spreoty was at the height of his fame. There are allusions to her years growing up in Normandy. Thus:

‘I like nothing more than to be on the back of a horse. Somehow I feel incomplete when it is just me. Perhaps I should have been a Centaurides! When I ride I want to merge with the beast I am astride, not to tame it but to release it. I have this gift- I have always had it since I was a child- of being able to communicate with any horse, by touch and by thought. They welcome me for that brief time that I am perched on their back. As we circle the track I can see through their eyes; I can feel the rhythm and strength of their muscles as they gallop. I add nothing to them; yet without me they say they too are incomplete! Their sex does not matter; neither does mine. What matters is the fusion of beings, of souls if you like. I know that I can never find anything like this with another of my kind, whether male or female. In such a union lies only servitude. I desire freedom not the bridle. Even that freedom as I ride is restrained by the saddle and bridle on the horse. My free-est moments, moments of true rapture and reverie, were when as a child I rode à cru [without a saddle- J.P.] on Bienor. My hands were clutching the mane and we galloped over fields. Bienor was the first horse I ever rode. Papa thought it had bolted with me on its back; but I was laughing with delight when we returned to the yard! Relieved he had not scolded her but had reached me down as I prattled on about the joy of the ride I had had. Dear old horse! No one else wished to ride her because she was old and unattractive compared to all the other mares and stallions in the stables…’

«Je n'aime rien plus que d'être sur le dos d'un cheval. D'une certaine façon je me sens incomplète quand il est juste moi. Peut-être que j'aurais été un Centaurides! Lorsque je roule, je veux fusionner avec la bête Je suis à cheval, de ne pas l'apprivoiser, mais pour le libérer. J'ai ce don, je l'ai toujours eu depuis que je suis un enfant de pouvoir communiquer avec n'importe quel cheval, par le toucher et par la pensée. Ils me souhaiter la bienvenue à cette courte période que je suis perché sur le dos. Comme nous le cercle de la piste, je peux voir à travers leurs yeux, je peux sentir le rythme et la force de leurs muscles comme ils galopent. Je n'ajoute rien à leur disposition; mais sans moi, ils disent qu'ils sont trop incomplets! Leur sexe n'a pas d'importance, pas plus que la mienne. Ce qui importe est la fusion des êtres, des âmes si vous voulez. Je sais que je ne trouve jamais rien de semblable avec un autre de mon espèce, mâle ou femelle. Dans une telle union ne se trouve qu'à la servitude. Je veux la liberté n'est pas la bride. Même que la liberté que je roule est retenue par la bride et la selle sur le cheval. Mes moments libres, des moments de ravissement véritable et à la rêverie, ont été quand, enfant, je montais à cru sur Bienor. Mes mains étaient serrant la crinière et nous au galop sur les champs. Bienor a été le premier cheval que je n’ai jamais roulé. Papa pensait avoir boulonné avec moi sur son dos, mais je riais de joie quand nous sommes retournés à la cour! Soulagé, il ne l'avait pas grondé mais m'avait atteint vers le bas comme je l'ai bavardait sur la joie de la course j'avais eu. Cher vieux cheval! Personne d'autre ne voulait la monter, car elle était vieille et peu attrayants par rapport à tous les autres juments et des étalons dans les écuries... "

We do not read about her declining years when younger men would be favoured with the better horses by the stable. Despite the fewer successes that came his way Spreoty retained the support of the Aumont family, though he also rode for other owners in order to make a living. The crowd still loved him and cheered him whatever the result, recognising his genuine passion for the sport.

Spreoty died in Chantilly on February 27^th 1885. There is only a brief mention of this in ‘Le Figaro’ the following day which reads : ‘ Il a succombe hier à cinq heures et demie à une maladie qui ne laissait plus d’espoir depuis quelques jours.’ Neither ‘La Presse’ nor ‘Journal des Débats’ carried any notice of the death of France’s greatest jockey. The passing, however, of notables such as M. A. Grand’homme (one time Secretary of the ‘Société d’Encouragement’), Baron Sainte-Aure d’Estreillo (who under the pseudonym of Ned Pearson was a sports writer and supporter of ‘Le Sport’), Baron de Bray (owner of the stud farm at Montgeroult) and the financier E. Balensi during this same year were well reported.

Later that year in May Victor Hugo died. Amongst his papers was found the draft of a story about horse-racing on which he had been working.

‘Spreoty never used the whip, though he would carry one like every other jockey. His relationship with the horse precluded such brutality. When he rode he seemed to become one with his steed, balanced delicately in the high stirrups and leaning on to the galloping beast’s neck almost as though he were whispering encouragement in its ears. There were times when, in the finishing straight, he seemed like a lover urging the other to ecstasy. When the race was over, whether he had won or not, his eyes would be glowing and sweat gleaming on his face, like a saint in rapture.’ (Victor Hugo ‘La Course de la Reine Blanche’-unpublished)

«Spreoty jamais utilisé la cravache, mais il serait porter une comme tous les autres jockeys. Sa relation avec le cheval empêché une telle brutalité. Quand il montait, il semblait ne faire qu’un avec son cheval, équilibrée délicatement dans les étriers de haut et, se penchant sur le cou de la bête au galop presque comme s’il chuchotait des encouragements à ses oreilles. Il y avait des moments où, dans la dernière ligne droite, il semblait comme un amant exhortant les autres à l’extase. Lorsque la course était terminée, s’il avait gagné ou pas, ses yeux étaient lumineux et la sueur brillait sur son visage, comme un saint en extase. »

McPEEVISH IN MOFFATLAND

2010-12-01T07:44:00.002Z

“The Dangling Dirk Inn”, Moffat

-Evening McPeevish…Some weather, eh?

-…Brr!

-Didn’t catch that…

-Brrff!

-Call this cold? Worse last year. Even the sheep carried hot water bottles…

-Brrrrykn!!!

-Can’t say I have seen the Yukon…What d’you fancy?

-Mmmmt…

-Nice malt, eh? Got a shelf full of ‘em. Take your pick…

-Rdbgrrrr

-Ardbeg? Fine malt...Oops! Bit heavy with the thumb. Get that down you...

-BrrrrrBrbbbh!

-Better?

-Mmmmch…

-Freezes the birds in flight, this kind of wind, never mind the vowels…

-Smgn…Bnnhbhn…rrr

-Bunnahabhain it is…Minus seven last night…Old Bill the shepherd said the sheep were building igloos in the hills…Crafty buggers: no council tax on igloos in Scotland…

-Ssmmggnn…Brchlddchrrr!

-And how’s the good lady? Not with you tonight?...

-Wbrmmhhzzph…

-Ah! Just coming along…You’ll be upstairs for the Bridge night I expect…

-Jjbbhxx!

-Another? Same again?

-Cccl!

-Caol Ila…fine malt...

Give him his due, McPeevish thought; he was liberal with the thumb. Whenever he motioned for another, the landlord correctly interpreting the glottal sound he emitted from within the scarf and balaclava.

-Ah! Here she is. Evening Miss...

-Evening Jim. He still got lockjaw?

-McPeevish? Seemed in fine oratorical form to me. Malt will get past anything…The usual Horse’s Gaskin for you?

-Mmmm. How many of those has he had?

-Those? Just the one.

McPeevish noticed how her eyebrow arched just a notch, hardly recordable on any of Stevens’ scales of measurement: nominal, ordinal, interval or ratio. He must re-read Thurstone’s ‘The Vectors of the Mind’. Come to that he must have a haircut soon.

James gave a weak grin and nodded at the shelf behind him.

-And one of those and that and them as well. Seems he plans on drinking himself through the alphabet of malts.

F’s a bit of a bugger though, McPeevish thought.

-We’ll take these up with us, shall we darling?

McPeevish acknowledged the landlord with a nod.

He followed her up to the room where the Bridge tables were set out. He found himself desperately trying to distinguish a Phoney Stayman from a Reverse Drury; or was that a Fishbein? No that was Mrs. Crowhurst’s Maltese Terrier. Yappy little thing, especially when she bid one No Trump. Was that a Brozel? No, that was the kettle for tea at the break. And what the hell was a Rystra, some kind of West Indian music fanatic? Somewhere in his memory floated a Sputnik and a Flannery and a Gerber and an Ogust and a …

How the dear one did it McPeevish had no idea as he stumbled to the table and sat. She was elegance personified, greeting all about her with cheerfulness and a smile. If he moved a muscle he knew his face would crack like a skim of ice on a lake.

He looked at the cards he had been dealt, trying to remember the protocol of royalty, the order of numbers, the ability to feel. Where was his drink? Safely on the table, thank God. He arranged the pieces of card into reasonably pretty patterns.

Now everyone was looking enquiringly at him: what had he done? Couldn’t be his flies. Had he started to dribble? Dementia was similar to the tram project in the capital: by the time it was due to be finished you’d forgotten about it. Something stirred in the cellar of his memory. Speak-bid.

-Pss.

That seemed to relieve the tension and the eyes swivelled to the person to his left. Remember that one, McPeevish he told himself. Might come in useful again.

Oh Lord, now they’re all looking at me again, he thought. Should I be paying more attention? Drift off like that all the time. The cold, dulls the brain, like Scott of the Antarctic.

-Pss.

Worked again! he thought with delight, or at least the frozen embryo of delight. Easier than I thought, if I could think.

As relief edged through his autonomous nervous system, what little of it was still functioning after the teeth of the easterly had sawn through it, McPeevish considered the contents of his glass. Someone’s been at it, he thought. Short thoughts he could manage; the longer ones fell over the precipice of oblivion. Good word that, oblivion. He looked around, using his eyes rather than chancing swivelling his neck and breaking it- nasty shock to all if his head rolled around the carpet. McPeevish eyed the Maltese Terrier speculatively as it eyed him evaluatively. If it made a move towards his leg…

My, he thought, it has a long tongue. Why do dogs lick their undercarriage like that?

They were looking at him again.

McPeevish stared at the table. Oh Lord, there were cards strewn on it. They were waiting for him to play. Would his digits work? He desperately plucked a card from the fanned collection which clung to his fingers like a frozen bouquet.

There, now someone else has the problem, McPeevish thought. He felt a trickle of sweat running down the back of his neck. The open fire was thawing him out. How long would it take, he wondered, before it was safe to remove the scarf and balaclava?

The eyes were on him again. There, take that, he thought as he propelled another card on to the green cloth. The eyes moved on around the table. McPeevish wondered what his eyes were doing. At least they were still in his head. The internal mechanism for shifting them seemed reasonably intact, the channels of communication with his central sponge likewise. They found the glass; dare he take another sip? Life was full of conundrums and half-empty glasses and dogs that licked their unmentionables with glee…

-Well played, partner; a nice finesse.

McPeevish blinked. They were going down the stairs, her arm though his.

-One for the road? The landlord called as McPeevish and consort reappeared in the lounge bar.

-Oh I think so, the beloved voice said.

McPeevish fumbled through the vague imprints of the snow-banks of his recent memory. Finesse?

He looked around, noting that each person present seemed constitutionally correct and intact. No sheep had infiltrated the company. The beloved one was deep in conversation with those others from upstairs who had likewise mastered the ability to descend. Probably talking about horses and the prospects for Kelso on Sunday, McPeevish decided.

Finesse.

McPeevish glanced at the landlord, who stood receptively and attentive to every nod and wink.

Nod or wink? McPeevish thought. I’m not a nodder or a winker.

Finesse.

That did it. Some of the old skill was still there, McPeevish. A glass, nicely filled with a light amber restorative that promised bliss seemed to materialise in his hand, which remained attached to his wrist and arm. Some things hadn’t changed, despite the cold. Now, could he raise it to his lips, parting the scarf carefully so as not to expose too much flesh?

Done. Bliss.

-A fedora’s not much use in a blizzard, is it dear?

-Hwfrtg?

-It was kind of the Colonel and his wife to ask us over tomorrow night.

-Nmm?

-Oh you poor dear, the sinuses must be gummed up too.

McPeevish’s head had always been the problem, he thought. They struggled against the howling blizzard which raked the High Street like Stukas on the rampage. He knew no Colonel, let alone this chap’s wife. God, how much snow was coming down from Siberia? Couldn’t they keep their house in order there? Snow-nets, everyone knew you needed snow-nets or it blew all over the blace. Blace? His synapses were seizing up. He was moments away from Nirvana and he didn’t mean the pop group. Think warm thoughts.

His arm was squeezed in reply.

-Almost there, darling.

He knew that voice; he knew that tone. There was a strange tingling feeling…

-This should take away the chill, she was saying as he sank into the armchair. I thought all those Canadian winters you told me about would have toughened you up for a little blow like that.

McPeevish considered that cat. The cat considered him. They agreed: little blow outside it was not.

His feet were still there, thank God. How he’d not lost them during that interminable trek through mountains of snow he had no idea. Best not to think about it, McPeevish. Remember Scott, Robert Falcon not Walter Sir.

His hand clung to the glass she had put in it. His spirit clung to his body. What his body clung to he wasn’t sure.

A mere hundred yards? What did she mean, mere? Men like he and Scott of the Antarctic knew that yardage was nothing where snow was concerned. Snow had this way of erasing all meaning. You never caught sheep nipping down to their local for a snort or two and a hand of bridge on an evening like tonight. Snuggle up to a bottle of Moffat malt, that was the sensible answer to weather like this.

-We’ll take a bottle of wine over tomorrow, shall we dear?

If there was a tomorrow, McPeevish thought glumly. After all that stuff about Global Warming, this could be the final, apocalyptic snow to end all snows, the capo di tutti capi of snows, the Grandfather of the Godfather of the capo di tutti frutti capi of snows…

Then again, McPeevish thought as his glance caught that of the dear one in the armchair on the other side of the fire, if there was a tomorrow then, by the miracle of logical deduction, there had to be a tonight! He could see the flames reflected in her eyes and he rapidly gulped the remains of the malt…

The full moon shone on the mother-of-pearl snow-covered lawn.

-What a lovely bird bath.

-He’s cheating, McPeevish muttered through clenched teeth.

He felt her hand tighten on his arm.

-Good Lord, dear heart, surely not here in Moffat!

-The buttons on his cardigan, McPeevish whispered.

-I thought he was just a bit fidgety.

The Colonel was at it, all right, McPeevish thought as they circumnavigated the Stupa by the garden shed. It was the way the Colonel fingered the buttons before and during the bidding. Everything had been tried now, McPeevish thought despairingly, wondering at the depravity of a man who could involve buttons in his perfidious schemes.

There’s obviously some kind of rudimentary coding system, a bit like Schapiro and Reese using their fingers to signal Hearts held, McPeevish thought. The Italian pair Facchini and Zucchelli had been more direct, playing footsie under the table. Others held their cards high or low, held them in peculiar portions, or coughed and sniffed to signal to their partner. There was even one inventive pair who hummed and whistled excerpts from operas!

-Why on earth would he stoop to that? her beloved voice floated to his ear. He’s such a good player he’s really no need to do that to win.

How ‘superior’ did one have to feel oneself to be? McPeevish supposed that, wiser in the ways of devious and scheming men, he might make a stab at trying to fathom the Colonel’s motives; but was it worth the effort?

-What are we to do? Shall I have a headache?

How typically sweet of her to offer to be the victim, McPeevish thought. Why do I have to be so damned observant?

-That must be why Clarrisa advised me that we shouldn’t play Bridge with them after supper tonight.

This is fiendish! They must have done it to other couples from the club, McPeevish thought grimly. I was the new boy so the Colonel decides it was our turn. For him it must be like branding strays.

Their hostess’s voice announcing that the coffee was ready floated from the open French windows like an escaping moth.

I’ll be damned if he’s going to get away with this, McPeevish thought determination stiffening his resolve. It took a lot to do that to McPeevish. If there was a way to avoid it, whatever it was, he’d head for that channel with all paddles flapping. The man’s probably not even a Colonel, just like Elvis’s manager wasn’t. What unit did he say he served in out in India, the King’s Own What? Surely it had been the 6^th Field regiment out there? Even the 4^th Indian, the Red Eagles, had fought with the 8^th Army through Africa and Europe. Maybe like Adolf in the Great War the Colonel just ran messages from gin hole to snooker table. Was that really a Cobra bite on his wrist? Having Sabu’s autograph on the brochure of the premiere of ‘Elephant Boy’ didn’t prove anything other than the gullibility of the on-line buyer. Quoting ‘Gunga Din’ carried no weight; nor did having jars and jars of Kopili Assam and Nilgiri Black and Darjeeling Green or Kashmiri Chai teas. Nowadays the local ‘Spar’ catered to your every taste.

--I’ll try to think of something, McPeevish whispered as they neared the windows. If I do I’ll start talking about pony trekking in Tibet.

-Oh darling, not that!

-When I do, if I do- when and if I do- just have a wobbly, you know, come over all flushed or something, women’s stuff and get their attention for a moment. Then just say ‘Pass’ when it comes to the bidding.

-Be careful, dear heart.

Thus it had been with Hannay, so it must be with McPeevish, McPeevish thought.

As they stepped back into the deceitful warmth of the drawing room with its walls hung with souvenir paintings of Ratnasambhava and kha-dens from the Himalayas, McPeevish felt as though a mantle had fallen upon his shoulders. But it was only her hand gently brushing dust, loose hairs and drops of snow from his sweater. Thus did the women in ancient Greece prepare their men-folk for battle with the Persians, McPeevish thought approvingly. Fortunately she wasn’t given to the wailing and gnashing of teeth, the pot smashing and foul Attic oaths which also accompanied the men-folk decamping for a good randan.

In his childhood he had once shoved tadpoles in his brother’s ears. That had been enough to prove conclusively that it could be done. Whether it had been a wise thing to have done was another matter. Wisdom and boldness sit uncomfortably together- who said that?

-Alan Sugar, I’m afraid dear, she whispered back.

Oh well; at least my name’s not an anagram of ‘a glar anus’, McPeevish thought.

The bruises his brother had inflicted upon him had soon healed. If the gods of the card table were with him- and so far this evening they were sneering disdainfully at his efforts to trump, finesse, overcall and show that he had a modicum of savvy- then perhaps he, McPeevish, would be able to teach the Colonel something. As long as it wasn’t ‘There’s always another sucker who comes along’- was that W.C.Fields? It certainly wasn’t Saint Augustine.

As their hostess poured the coffee the Colonel offered to pour the special Indian liqueur he had had sent over from Mumbai. It tasted suspiciously like Cointreau to McPeevish, with something not un-akin to ‘Quink’ added to it. He blinked as the Colonel asserted that it was an ‘expensive’ Arrack whose ingredients included cardamom and blueberries. When McPeevish said he preferred the Mangalore with its flavour of the coast of Malabar, the cinnamon and cardamom being blended to smooth out the pepper, the Colonel suggested they resume play. McPeevish glanced knowingly at his beloved who had been discussing croquet grips; she had heard the exchange and caught his raised eyebrow, acknowledging the sub-text: the man is a fraud. Perhaps I can unnerve him a bit, McPeevish thought, letting drop that his mother came from the foothills of the Hindu Kush and had grown up on the sub-continent. She used to croodle to him in Hindi as he lay in his cot. He excused himself to use the facilities as the others edged their way towards the table, his eye having been caught by the very thing he’d hoped to see on a desk in the hall.

The cards were running better for them after the break, McPeevish thought. Maybe he had rattled the Colonel a bit. Damage limitation was all he and his wife could muster for a run of several hands until McPeevish and partner equalised the score and sent it into a final game for the rubber.

How many hands had they played now?

Not that any of their successful rear-guard action could be put down to McPeevish. He was playing like a berserker intent on reaching Valhalla at all costs. His bidding, never the most seasoned part of his game, stank to high heaven, ranging from the unimaginable to the gorblimey. It was only by the heroic and Herculean efforts of the dear one that they avoided being despatched time and time again.

She reads me like a book, McPeevish thought as yet again she interpreted his bizarre play and found the rescuing card, the route that avoided loss of game.

McPeevish could see that the strain was beginning to tell on the Colonel. There were no more generous chuckles and words of consolation, no more sparkling repartee and witty remarks to his soul-mate and aide-de-camp. They were well past the stage when slippers would have been welcome. There was that set look about the Colonel’s mouth that McPeevish had once seen on John Wayne’s face as he despatched an injured horse. Perhaps the Colonel had seen the same film? He had long given up responding to McPeevish’s puerile and dislocated remarks and questions. Now and then McPeevish caught a look of contempt on the Colonel’s face as with the luck of the devil and the dear one’s skill yet again they drew back from the abyss. They had eased their way through the drinks trolley, McPeevish carefully sticking to the rather inferior (and probably watered) whisky, leaving the much touted Indian liqueur to the Colonel.

There is a heavy cobalt tinge about his gills now, thought McPeevish, the kind of colouration known as ‘Calcutta Shadow’.

That remark almost made the Colonel snarl; but hosts don’t snarl. Perhaps aware that some primordial test was nearing its culmination and mindful of her best china and ornaments, his wife was mechanically playing her cards. She seemed hypnotised by her husband’s button fiddling, which at times had a Wagnerian frenzy about it.

The cotton thread will be wearing thin by now, McPeevish thought. A few more tugs and twists and he’ll lose number three. I’m sure that button number four shows acute signs of wear as well. Will he twiddle his shirt buttons next? His belly button? He’s close to cracking, that’s for sure.

But McPeevish was concerned about his partner. Throughout the proceedings he had kept a close eye on her. Uncomplaining she had taken up the slack as he had seemed to disintegrate under the effects of the alcohol and that rich dessert of Makhana Kheer. A wisp of hair, like a silent question mark, had come loose from her coiffeuse. It seemed such a frail, slender thing as it trembled against her temple, wherein he could discern the pulse of a delicate blue vein. He longed to reach over and…

The clock struck eleven.

The mechanical figure of Shiva as Nataraja with his unkempt hair within the fiery circle emerged and began his ritual dance.

McPeevish, whose deal it was, reached for the cards and began to shuffle.

-D’you know, once when I was pony trekking in Nepal…

The dear one seemed to snort and whinny, then let out a scream that Bette Davis would have given her soul for. She fell sideways in her seat, twitching and mewling. The next moments were a whirl of activity as their hostess leapt to comfort her and the Colonel poured her a stiff medicinal brandy from the reserve supply in his ivory golfing hip flask with its tiger skin covering.

-I am so sorry, the dear one said fanning herself as she gulped down the brandy. The curtains…when the clock struck…Nepal…that anecdote of yours at supper, Colonel…I thought I saw… those demons Rahu and Shesha…

With a vigorous bracing of her shoulders she regained her composure, smiling weakly in thanks as their hostess patted her hand. The loose strands were neatly tucked into place. Everyone settled.

It had been a rather dark story the Colonel had told as they’d dined, McPeevish mused. You couldn’t call him a bore, whatever else you might call him. The tale certainly ranked with the best of Rider Haggard. In fact it was Rider Haggard! The Colonel had subtly stripped it from its nineteenth century setting and brought it into the nineteen forties, making himself rather than Allan Quatermain the hero. Few people knew of ‘The Jewel Stone of Shambhala’ these days, McPeevish sighed inwardly. Perhaps I should have spoken up then, cut the whole thing short. But when you are a guest you’re rather on the back foot, at the mercy of those who are entertaining and feeding you. What was that story about the couple who would never let their guests leave? Was it by Edgar Allan Poe or Marie Louise Ramé?

McPeevish finished dealing. He tried to focus on his hand as he fumbled the cards into some semblance of order. The Colonel noticed the trembling in McPeevish’s voice as he croaked out his bid:

-Err…One clubby thingy…

Scenting the coup de grace the Colonel permitted himself a final Godfrey Philips cigar. Clearly his posture now said: I am a man of patience, a determined man, a man not to be gainsaid. McPeevish couldn’t recall if he had ever gainsaid anyone in his life. It didn’t sound a pleasant thing to do, rather like gutting a trout. Not that he’d gutted a trout either. Gainsaying and gutting were two things, without deliberately avoiding them, he had never done and never would. Never. Yes, the Colonel had the air of a man who had been mightily tested, mightily, but who now was about to reap the reward of his patience as Sinatra prepared to sing ‘My Way’.

Everyone passed.

You could hear a cymbal drop, McPeevish thought as he screwed up his eyes, screwed up his courage and seemed to screw up altogether.

-Umm…two Spades.

Pass once more echoed around the table. McPeevish seemed hell bent on hurling himself over the barricade as he found voice afresh:

-Ahhh...three Hearts? his voice quivered querulously.

There was to be no relief for Lucknow tonight, the Colonel’s blood-shot eyes seemed to be saying.

There’s more passing going on than during the Melrose Sevens, McPeevish thought as once more the Greek chorus that foretold his doom rang out crystal clear- bass profundo from the Colonel, the lyric soprano of the dear one and the contralto tessitura of the hostess: P-ASS.

McPeevish sat back, studied his hand, looked at the clock, looked for the exit sign and seeing none assumed the air of Sydney Carton mounting the scaffold.

-Seven diamonds, McPeevish said with what might have been his last breath.

-Double, the Colonel snapped.

Both ladies passed and for a brief moment all that could be heard was the creak of a hempen rope somewhere out in the dark night.

That’ll be the bird feeder, McPeevish thought.

The Colonel ran his eyes over his cards. He looked pitying at McPeevish who seemed aghast at the shore to which he had drifted. The Colonel let his gaze wander deliciously over to the cabinet in which were displayed his collection of antique knives. He seemed to be trying to decide which one to select for the final thrust- a katar? A kukri? The kila which had belonged to Vajrakilaya? Finally he led the King of Spades and dummy lay down her hand.

-‘Roger, thou, unskilled in art must, surer bound, go through thy part,’ McPeevish muttered.

What the devil is the fool on about? the Colonel thought. He was now sure that McPeevish had completely taken leave of his senses.

Whistling can have an odd effect on some people. Dolphins may take to their heels at a certain pitch, horses bolt and kangaroos dive in each other’s pouch. Whistling, like a persistent wasp or midge, can drive maiden aunts to profanity. There are tales told about Saint Simon Stylites…but this is hardly the place to go into that.

McPeevish was emitting a sound that could have been the punctured boiler of the ‘Flying Scotsman’ as it wheezed its last. There were many useless skills he had not mastered and whistling or blowing bubbles with chewing gum were two of which he was particularly proud. Give him a yo-yo and ask him to make it ‘walk-the-dog’ and he’d benumb his toes with each failed effort. Let him loose on a Border hillside with a whistle like that and sheep would flock to him while sheep dogs bolted for the horizon. Men would dive down mines should they hear a whistle like that, thinking that a doodle-bug was about to land.

-Well there’s a stroke of luck, McPeevish said as he trumped the King with ‘The Curse of Scotland’. Wasn’t the nine of diamonds the card used by Sir John Dalrymple to authorise the Glencoe Massacre, my sweet?

-I do believe it was, she said smiling across the battlefield at him.

McPeevish had noted with joy the uneasy expression that began to flit like a grave-robber across the Colonel’s face. The latter had shifted more and more uncomfortably in his seat, as though prodded somewhere delicate by Shiva’s trishula. As the play had unfolded the Colonel watched with all the reluctance of a man obliged to lick a leprous toad. The buttons popped one by one. As he won the last trick completing the grand slam McPeevish had smiled at his beloved and sighed:

-‘Such are the fortunes of the game, and those who play should stop the same by wholesome laws.’

They had bid their hostess goodnight thanking her for the wonderful meal and delightful evening. She had seemed distracted beyond conversation, aware of the strangled growling noise coming from the sitting room. The Colonel had been too busy folding the table, picking up the scattered cards and pieces of the broken glasses to see the couple out.

-McPeevish, the dear one said much later; you are the only man who can make me snort and whinny without feeling like a complete nincompoop.

-And you, beloved, are the only woman who can…

She silenced his mouth with a kiss.

And she did.

© R.L.Paige 2010

JULES HENRI GIFFARD

2010-11-20T02:26:00.003Z

Flight of Fancy

‘Our recollection, our expectation was of a peacock;

The reality is a bullfinch.’ (Proust)

“I leave the Hippodrome at quarter past five. The wind is blowing with considerable force. There is no one but me up here, 1500 metres above the city, suspended beneath a hydrogen filled bag. Looking down as I begin my journey, I have much to tend to as the machine makes its way eastwards driven by the three-bladed propeller. No doubt my many colleagues will be interested in the details of this mechanised flight, the first by any man, but I shall also keep this record of my thoughts as the flight develops.”

[« Je laisse l'Hippodrome à cinq heures et quart. Le vent souffle avec une force considérable. Il n'y a pas que moi ici, 1500 mètres au-dessus de la ville, suspendu sous un atome d'hydrogène remplis sac. Regardant vers le bas alors que je commence mon voyage, j'ai beaucoup à tendance à la machine fait son chemin vers l'est entraîné par l'hélice à trois pales. Sans doute mes nombreux collègues seront intéressés par les détails de ce vol mécanisé, le premier par n'importe quel homme, mais je vais aussi garder cet enregistrement de ma pensée que le vol se développe. » ]

So begins Henri Giffard’s personal journal of his historic flight on 24^th September 1852 and we now know what Giffard thought as he flew. This journal, only recently discovered in the archives of ‘Le Musée des Curieux et Onirique’ in Paris, has yet to be fully translated and published. The delicate task is in the hands of Tagore. But this account of the very first flight by man in a mechanical device- an airship propelled by steam engine- offers many insights into this very private man’s thoughts as he flew above Paris and the countryside leading to Elancourt, near Trappes, where he made his landing.

Previously the only contemporary record was the brief account given in ‘La Presse’ the day following this singular achievement.

[‘A l’Hippodrome aujourd’hui vendredi la première expérience de la navigation aérienne par la vapeur (système Giffard)…Cette curieuse machine qui fait l’admiration de tous les savants réunira l’élite de la science et de la société parisienne qu’une si haute question intéressera vivement. Les exercices équestres seront généralement suspendus. Les bureaux ouvrirent à quatre heures et demie…’]

The Hippodrome was the area for the display of horsemanship outside the ‘barrière de l’Étoile’, a large road junction today called the Place Charles de Gaulle. Here they could capriole, croupade, courbette, levade and piaffe to their heart’s content.

Ballooning was a popular amusement in those days at the beginning of the Second Empire. Jules Verne was to write a fictional story (‘La Science en Famille: Un voyage en Ballon’) about a flight, concentrating more on “action” than the experience of the flight. We may assume that he was one of those who witnessed Giffard’s departure; perhaps he even threw his hat in the air! There was quite a to-do after the dirigible had disappeared from sight as gentlemen sought to recover their hats and disputes and fights broke out. Whether or not Jules Verne recovered his hat we leave for the historians to decide. Scientific enthusiasts proliferated. Monarchs, diplomats, ladies and gentlemen of culture and distinction- bewigged, bejewelled, bedevilled or bald- all wanted to soar into the sky so that they might look down on the world and think thoughts nobody else had thought (or they thought had not been thought). Quizzical birds would cock their eyes as they fluttered past and think what a cumbersome device that was. Angels, discreetly hidden by clouds, would tut-tut and mutter to each other about Icarus. It was the generally received wisdom (accepit sapientiam) in the Vatican that if man had been meant to fly he would have been given wings, or at least some kind of membranous in-built parachute system which would allow him to leap from cliffs and other high spots (such as skyscrapers, when they were invented, or ziggurats, when they existed) and to glide bat-like o’er the green sward and roiling oceans. One of the great dangers of ballooning was that the globule might be punctured by the pecking beaks of curious or naughty birds- starlings were the worst. It was only when specially trained claw-clipped cats were employed to patrol the globule that the danger of ‘deflation by pecking’ was controlled sufficiently to allow pleasure flights for profit to boom.

Giffard was a chess enthusiast and to stave off boredom, as much as for the sheer hell of it, he had arranged to conduct a game of chess with his friend Pierre Saint-Amant, recently returned from California, as the flight progressed. (The score of this game, abstracted from Giffard’s journal and also found in Saint-Amant’s papers at Algiers with commentary, is given at the end of this article.) Saint-Amant was seated comfortably in the Café de la Régence and the moves were to be transmitted between the two friends by means of a system of mirrors.

Since the route of Giffard’s flight could not be predicted in advance, other than by knowing the general direction in which the wind was blowing, a series of riders on horses galloped along the several outlying roads to the east of Paris to pick up the flashing messages from balloon and Café. Special Uzbek nosebags full of prime oats were affixed to milestones along the way to give sustenance. A telephone would have been nice, but they hadn’t been invented. Semaphore would have involved a lot of waving but the French weren’t particularly skilled at that. In any case they had replaced semaphore with Morse telegraph that very year, all the flags being turned into fashionable dresses for ladies of breeding. Pigeons would simply have flown home, missing the dirigible in motion by miles. No, mirrors it had to be (the heliograph having first been used by the clever ancient Greeks to bemuse the not so clever Persians) especially as Giffard wanted to shave during the flight to test the tensility of the badger’s tail at altitude. (It was known that badgers were averse to flying and would burrow deeply to avoid the sky.) What the results of that test were we do not know though Giffard was eminently presentable and clean-shaven (he grew his beard again quickly) when he returned to Paris later that evening.

As well as the small chess board and pieces which he had brought with him, not knowing how long the game might last and fearing that time might drag once the novelty of flying had worn off, Giffard had taken along a selection of books to read. These included Pushkin’s ‘Gabriliad’; Li Yu’s tale Cuìyǎ lóu (萃雅樓, "House of Gathered Refinements"); Jean Charles Nodier’s little known erotic classic ‘La Coquille’; Eugène Sue’s ‘ Les Mémoires du Comte de Colombin’; Lamartine’s ‘ La Discipline des Jumelles ’; and Dumas père’s ‘Marie Graillon et le Mataf ’. When towards the end of his twenty-six kilometre flight the coke was running out Giffard had to feed these rare tomes one by one into the steam producing boiler in order to maintain his altitude and forward motion. Being a scientist first and foremost he detailed with minute care the combustibility of each work. Though Dumas père’s tome had it for sheer weight and size it gave the lowest thrust and momentum; whereas Nodier’s slim volume burnt slowly and yet fiercely, propelling the dirigible towards its desired target with estimable steadiness. Pushkin’s work (in Russian) gave rather erratic results (‘урывками’ as they say on the Volga). Lamartine, Li Yu and Sue were much of a muchness, emitting heat roughly in proportion to their content. On reflection he thought that one volume of de Sade (e.g.‘Histoire secrète d'Isabelle de Bavière, reine de France, dans laquelle se trouvent des faits rares, inconnus ou restés dans l'oubli jusqu'à ce jour, et soigneusement étayés de manuscrits authentiques allemands, anglais et latins’) could have replaced the entire consignment of coke, leaving room perhaps for some bottles of wine and canapés.

“These are the moments I savour” he wrote, “the moments as the wind takes me where it wills! Below, so far below now, lies the babble of the many voices of those come to cheer my departure. The great cacophony of noise drove the nesting birds from the rooftops. They all shout and demand and cheer. The tongue can do more harm than the sword ever could. There are languages and dialects that are extinct, glyphics that are indecipherable; and then there is this silence, this cold silence broken only by the rumble of the steam in the boiler. Who amongst us would prefer silence? We are not taught so to be. We are imprinted with language and the need to utter, to communicate. As well as casting stones we can cast words. For us silence is a torture, a prison. The mute we regard as impaired. Yet up here what a blessing! How marvellous to be free of all that which makes you cling to the ground! Up here I am pure observation, an all-seeing eye that encompasses as much as can be seen. Around this craft the birds serenade and escort me, as though I was a colossal cousin visiting from another continent. The clouds shyly part like virginal thighs to permit my passage. How the winds blow, the mirages swirl and the horizons allure!”

Perhaps he should have chosen more catholic reading matter.

“Do the insane have a concept of time different from ours? Do birds have a sense of time? If so, is it similar or dissimilar to ours? Is time one thing or many? I wonder if the sense of time is real or just something we learn, like the alphabet. We use concepts such as year, month, day, hour, minute, life-time to differentiate the passage of time. So much of our thought, so many of our actions, are dictated by these concepts and imperatives that seem to enmesh us. To the Buddha it is all ‘unreal’, that from which we must free ourselves. Up here, for a brief while- time again! - I feel freer than on my natural platform, terra firma the earth beneath. Let me float above these things for ever!”

What the animals on the ground made of the overhead passage of that shape akin to a whale out of water we don’t know. Did they regard it as a ‘chindogu’ (珍道具)? Perhaps we’ll never know; and if we did know we don’t know that it matters at all. Most of the animals carried on with their routines as though they were on the stage at the ‘Théâtre du Vaudeville’ in the place de la Bourse- chewing the cud, chasing each other down holes, sticking their tongues out and trapping flies, clucking and strutting and scratching and neighing and oinking and mooing. Some hopped, some skipped and some took piggy-backs. From the contraption drifted down a voice singing ‘Hey get along, Jim along Josie, Hey get along, Jim along Joe!’ in that strange language they’d probably last heard when Wellington’s troops skirmished with General Vandamme near Clamart. It would take a lot more than something like that to impress the wildlife of Seine-et-Oise!

Giffard was at a height of 1800 metres when, wanting to land before nightfall, he began his descent. This involved putting out the fire in the boiler, releasing its contents and making a rapid descent in a cloud of steam which blotted out everything around him until with a bump he landed in a field near Elancourt, narrowly missing one of the scarecrows which the birds used for target practice. Whose field he landed in is still a matter of dispute. The locals, who had been nearby playing a game of la soule, helped him to deflate the balloon and unhook the undercarriage.

At Trappes he waited for the train that would take him back to Paris. Near the station was the large Étang de Saint-Quentin the water of which fed the fountains at Versailles. Also near the station was the site of the abbaye de Port-Royal des Champs, the monastery having been founded in 1204 by Mathilde de Garlande. It was here that Racine had been educated after his parents had died. Giffard thought of those lines of Racine’s as he glimpsed the lake:

Que c'est une chose charmante
De voir cet étang gracieux,
Où, comme en un lit précieux,
L'onde est toujours calme et dormante!

The train drew away and travelled across the wide, fertile plateau of Trappes. All around grew wheat and barley and long lines of fruit trees stood on either side of the roads. Clumps of woodland began to dot the more undulating land as the train approached Saint-Cyr, where he could see the edifice of l’École militaire. Giffard recalled that it was for the boarding school girls of Saint-Cyr that Racine had broken his silence and written his later tragedies ‘Esther’ and ‘Athalie’. To the right lay the woods of Satory and then the train pulled into Versailles. Where once there had been a ramshackle impoverished village, brush and scrub and muddy potholes there now stood the Palace. Onward the train ran, through the wooded hills near Viroflay and past Chaville until it stopped once more at Bellevue, where Madame Pompadour had had a château. Nearby was Sèvres, famous for its porcelain production started by the Marquis de Fulvy. Then over the viaduct de Fleury, past the Château de Meudon near Clamant and between the forts of Vanvres and d’Issy (where the first French opera ‘Pastorale’ was said to have been performed and where Bossuet and Fénelon debated ‘quietism’). As the train drew closer to its destination Giffard could see the darkening plaine de Montrouge, known for its windmills, and through the other window the plaine de Vaugirard, known for its Mécontents in the sixteenth century. He thought back fondly to his days as a train driver and to when aged fourteen he played hookey to watch the passage of the first locomotive from Paris to St. Germain. Finally the train drew to a halt in the Gare Montparnasse and as he stepped out on to the platform the clock was striking ten. His friends- David, Mousser, Sciama, Téter, Alpion, Pacsin and others- cheered him and tired though he was after the long day he permitted them to embrace and congratulate him.

We know that to celebrate his historic flight and safe return a few days’ later Giffard’s friends arranged a triumphal meal at Véry’s. The party consuming sole Dugléré, ducklings à la rouennaise, ortolans on toast and lobster à la parisienne; and the floor show was provided by the dancer Jules- Joseph Perrot. Afterwards they took him to see the first performance of the comedy in two acts at the Gymnase Theatre. The play had been announced via the following advertisement in ‘La Presse’:

« Une personne inconnue a déposé dans les premiers jours de septembre, au théâtre du Gymnase-Dramatique, un manuscrit intitulé ‘La Pariure de Jules-Denis’. Cette pièce a été examinée, reçue, lüe aux acteurs, on l’a mise en répétition aujourd’hui même ; elle sera jouée jeudi 30 septembre dans une représentation extraordinaire donnée au bénéfice de Mme Rose-Chéri…L’auteur de cet ouvrage est prie vouloir bien faire connaître dans le plus bref délai son nom et son adresse à l’administration du Gymnase… »

The authoress was later revealed to be a mature woman of 33 (who should have known better) named Mme Élisa Adam-Boisgontier, who wrote under the pseudonym of Mme. Rocheblave Dubourg. The year before she had written ‘Nouveau Théâtre des demoiselles’ and she now, in a blessed leap year which gave us Turgenev’s ‘Zapiski Okhotnika’ (A Sportsman’s Sketches), inflicted this upon the public! The only relief for the hero at Waterloo was that the Duke of Wellington had died on September 4^th and thus been spared the performance. Giffard, who was warm-hearted and generous to a fault, conceded that Louis Marie Lafontaine had been wickedly superb as the young sailor and that Rose Chéri as La Lise had been virtue personified. But he was heard to say sotto voce that the moment he enjoyed most after the Chorus had opened the proceedings with (to the Air de M. Delioux) ‘Ah! Quel heureux jour pour tout l’voisinage! Toujours! Toujours! Danson en ce jour, c’est la fête au village !’ was when « le rideau baisse ».

The fate of that dirigible has given rise to much speculation over the years. The orthodox view is that Giffard, once it had been deflated and wrapped up, had it transported back by train to Paris where he had repaired the various small rents before using the apparatus for a future, less successful flight. What is more likely is that the local farmers spirited the pieces away. The fabric of the aérostat was used to cover hay stacks. The boiler was used to make the unlicensed Médard liqueur discreetly distilled in the ‘Commanderie de Templiers’, which used to be ‘un étape de repos pour les pèlerins en route vers la Terre Sainte’. Its fame is whispered discreetly in the ears of those who chance to pass through the area. Some of the guy-ropes were used for skipping purposes by local youngsters. Other scraps may have turned up on the shelves of ‘Au Bonne Marché’ in the rue de Sèvres.

His private journal like that of many other travellers he forgot and left on the seat of the carriage when he disembarked in Paris. How it found its way into the museum is a mystery.

***

Pierre Charles Fournié de Saint-Amant v Giffard, Henri [B01]

Paris (and mid-air), 1852

1. e4 d5 2.exd5 Nf6 3.d4 Bg4 4.Bb5+ Nbd7 5.f3 Bf5 6.c4 a6 7.Ba4 b5 8.cxb5 Nxd5 9.bxa6 Nb4 10.Nc3 Rxa6 11.Nge2 Rxa4 12.Qxa4 Nc2+ 13.Kf2 e5 14.Be3 Nxe3 15.Kxe3 exd4+ 16.Nxd4 Bc5 17.Kf4 Qh4+ 18.g4 0–0 19.Nxf5 g5+ 20.Ke4 Re8+ 21.Kd5 Nb6+ 22.Kc6 Qf2 23.Qd1 Qxb2 24.Qc1 Re6+ 25.Kb7 Qb4 26.Qxg5+ Rg6 27.Qd8+ Bf8 28.Ne7+ Kg7 29.Qd4+ 1–0

© R.L.Paige 2010

The Edinburgh Cyrenians

2010-10-15T09:18:00.000+01:00

Just published by Spire (www.spirepublishing.com) is my new book, the first of a planned trilogy about my work with homeless young people and men and women with alcohol problems. It's available on Amazon (www.amazon.co.uk) and the ISBN is 9 781926 635460

Lionel Kieseritzky

2010-10-14T07:35:00.002+01:00

KIESERITKY’S LAST GAMBIT

The Musée des Choses Déplacées, once the famous Café Brisé, can be found at the far end of a cul-de-sac called the rue Abandonné off the boulevard des Italiens in the 2^nd arrondissement of Paris.

Discreetly displayed on the wall alongside Achille Déverai’s lithographs of Balzac, Dumas, Hugo and de Lamartine is the lesser known one of Lionel Kieseritzky. The only other extant likenesses of Kieseritzky are an anonymous drawing made of a group of chess players and the famous photograph by Gaspard-Félix Tournachon (more commonly known as ‘Nadar’). He had studied medicine at the Hôtel du Dieu and had written satires and essays for various Parisian publications before turning to photography.

The casual onlooker might be tempted to wander past for there is much to beguile the visitor in this enchanting museum. Amongst the many items on display in delicately lit cabinets are the score in the hand of Mozart of his comic opera (never performed) entitled ‘Boreas and Orithyia’; a Stradivarius harp whose strings are made from the gut of the wild Siberian Crane (Grus leucogeranus); Emile Littré’s translations of the Chinese ‘Yongle Dadian Encyclopaedia’ and ‘The Diamond Sutra’; an original Sainte-Croix music box which plays Chopin’s Étude number 13 (‘Mesmera’) in D Sharp; Madame de Sévigny’s letters to the young Montesquieu; Cicero’s great work ‘De Natura Risus’; and the boots worn by Marshall Ney whenever he visited his mistress Ida Saint-Elm. But it is with the lithograph that this story is concerned. At the time it was made (so one may learn from the brochure of the museum’s contents) Kieseritzky was resident in the Hôtel du Dieu, which nestles between the Quai de la Corse and Notre-Dame on the Île de la Cité. This building, still in existence today, was a Hôpital d’enfermement, a place for the care of the insane. Déverai was friendly with Arnaud Trousseau, who held the Chair of Clinical Medicine at the Hôtel and various inmates were selected to pose for him as models. A few of Déverai’s more unsavoury erotic lithographs were inspired by some of those inmates, but these are in the hands of discreet private individuals and need not concern us here. It is Kieseritzky whose haughty bleak stare and semi-paralyzed face gives us pause. In the 1840s he was the monarch of the chess board in the Café de la Régence but is virtually forgotten nowadays. His name is attached to a seldom played line of the King’s Gambit opening.

Little enough is known about Kieseritzky’s personal life. His father was a comfortably off Estate manager. Kieseritzky fils settled in Paris in 1839, having left Dorpat (now Tartu in modern Estonia) where he had taught mathematics. His departure from his home town had been under a cloud of scandal, involving a young woman’s honour and money. He was an excellent amateur pianist and composer, having staged dramatic and musical performances in Dorpat. The scores of some musical compositions in his rather crabbed handwriting are in the possession of the museum. One bears this notation by Chopin:

« Peut-être que si vous mettez des notes dans un ordre différent et la clé de la mélodie serait son plus doux à l'oreille sans formation »

Many of them seem to be unfinished (such as his Symphony based on the life of Samuel de Champlain) and they certainly have not been performed in public for several decades. Now and then such manuscripts turn up in auctions or are to be found on the second-hand bookstalls along the Seine, often folded as bookmarks in worm-eaten medical encyclopaedias. Without being regarded as eminently collectable they do catch the eye of the connoisseur.

Amongst the collection of artefacts on display are the following written accounts of Kieseritzky’s stay in the Hôtel du Dieu:

‘When the mind collapses and the brain degenerates it is a pathetic thing to see the shell that was the man. There he sits, the once famous chess master, his face upturned to the sun as its rays glide through the window like some stealthy predator come to suck out life rather than infuse his being with it. You would think that he was a mannequin in some department store’s tableau. In his prime he reigned supreme, the heir of Deschapelles and De Labourdonnais. Now he sits and waits for the great bell tower of the cathedral to boom out its daily message. This he gravely records in his notebook as though he were solving some universal mathematical conundrum. Each evening M. K- surrenders to me this diary (to call it that) for my perusal. At that moment, despite his pitiful physical state he seems to have the hauteur of a General turning over to a subaltern a briefing for the troops.

The stroke that has paralyzed his left side seems paradoxically to have stimulated his mind in certain ways and at certain times. Usually listless, he will be clothed and unclothed, bathed and examined, fed and assisted with his toilet. His stool is like rock or shrapnel. When animated he will write feverishly in his notebook and is heard muttering about ‘the small and humble star rising in the west’. It is as though he is prophesying the fate of mankind. His sole consolation is his chess set. He had been slumped over it in his lodgings when found by the police who had been called by his landlord. My assistant Foch felt that this one familiar object might be helpful in his stabilisation and therapeutic recovery. For this I hold out little hope, despite his relatively young age of 47. Recovery is as much a matter of volition as it is a neurological healing and functionality. The sad truth is that friendless and penniless M. K- has little for which to live. His debts are considerable as letters found in his lodgings reveal. ‘La Régence’, the magazine which he had published having failed, his sole source of income was the daily games of chess he would play for a fee with all comers. Debtors have already sold off those volumes and other belongings found in his apartment. Were it not for the Sisters who daily tend and feed him, he would simply starve and rot in his own filth. Faith of any sort, Catholic or Protestant, does not seem to have featured in his life. The most we are doing for this poor unfortunate is keeping him comfortable until death finally embraces him. That, in my view, will come soon…’

(Extract from the hospital log of Claude Bernard, quoted in “Bulletin de L’Académie Nationale de Médicine”.)

‘I once made the rounds of his wards in the Hôtel du Dieu with Roux. I heard his lectures and saw his operations. There are many great medical men here in Paris and they treat me as an equal or colleague, not as some frail and witless inferior species. Dr. Francois Magendie is a physiologist who works here as a physician. He has been kind enough to give me access to his personal library, from which I have borrowed ‘Traité des maladies du cerveau et ses membranes’ by Antoine Bayle, ‘La Folie’ by Louis Florentine Calmeil and ‘Des Maladies Mentales’ by Jean Esquirol. Dr. Bernard has taken me under his wing. Knowing of my interest in literature he has kindly presented me with a copy of M.Viennent’s newly published ‘Mélanges des Poésies’ and his own prose drama ‘Arthur de Bretagne’. Because of my study of the workings of the diseased mind he took me to see his patient M.K-, the once famous chess player who was suffering from ‘reamollissement de cerveau’. He had a pallid complexion though at times his face would become florid. I spoke with the poor man, who was having quite an animated spell following a course of electric stimulation of the skin, as recommended for melancholia by Dr. Bucknill. He was playing chess with one of the male nurses, convinced that his adversary was a M. Staunton, an English exemplar of the game. “And how is M. Le Roi today?” asked Dr. Bernard as we approached. “Still in zugzwang, M. Count Saint-Germain,” the patient replied. His vocal chords had been affected by the stroke and he had little control over the pitch of his voice. At times he sounded like a mouse squeaking behind the skirting boards; at other times you would have thought you were hearing Levasseur. When introduced to me by Dr. Bernard M.K- gravely handed me one of his printed cards which read: ‘On presente M. Kieseritzky, Bibliothéque vivante!’ I watched as he moved the pieces with a rapidity and jerkiness occasioned by spasms which now and then rippled through his arm and shoulder. He invariable won and at the end of each game M.K- would make a notation in a book on the table by his side. When I asked what this was he told me it was a tabulation of his winnings. Of course there were no stakes, but it was his belief that his ‘winnings’ would defray the cost of his treatment…On a table beside his armchair I espied a book. It was ‘Souvenirs de la marquise de Crépuy’ by Cousin de Courchamps. The nurse told me that, precisely at noon, when the pigeons took flight from the square as the bells of Notre-Dame sounded, he was to begin reading at random from that book to the patient. This act had a strangely calming effect on M.K- should he be in agitated mood. When I enquired as to whether or not this book might be a favourite of M.K- I was informed that the book had been in the ward at the time of M.K-‘s admission and had belonged to another now deceased patient. Somehow M.K- was accepting it into whatever constructs his damaged mind retained of the world. I wondered if any other book might have the same sedating effect and Dr. Bernard told me they had once removed this book and replaced it with ‘Mémoires d’une contemporaire, ou souvenirs d’une femme sur les personages principaux de la République, du Consulat, de l’Empire.’ As soon as the nurse had begun to read from that book M.K- set up such a howling that the only way to placate him was to return to the original. I found this to be a fascinating symptom, without being clear as to of what it was a symptom…”

(Extract from a letter from Mademoiselle Clémence Juillac, first French woman to become a Doctor, to her sister Madeleine.)

‘On the 18^th of May the Emperor and Empress took a walk in the Champs-Elysées. As was the custom among those attending them was M. Mépris whose sole task was to keep count of the number of paces the Emperor made. At the end of each walk the number of steps was to be added to the total already kept in a leather bound ledger. Every thousandth step warranted the ceremonial firing of cannon. During their promenade the Emperor had one of his attendants (preferably the one who did not lisp) read discreetly to him from Napoleon et la Conquête du Monde by Louis Geoffrey; and the red-haired Empress had one of her ladies recite to her from the poem Tristan et Iseut by Béroul (1835 edition edited by Francisque Michel). When, occasionally- and without missing their step- their majesties would exchange a word (it didn’t matter which word) all conversation about them would cease.

Mademoiselle Flore, a well-known variety theatre actress, died aged 63 after a long illness, but this did not trouble their majesties as they strolled.

At the Porte-Saint-Martin was performed ‘Le Vieux Caporal’ (by Alphonse d’Ennery); at the Gaité ‘Le Chien de Montargis’ (by de Pixerécourt); at the Cirque National ‘Les Pilules du Diable’ (by Ferdinand Laloue); at the Palais Royal ‘Le Bourreau des Crânes’ (by Édouard Lafargue); at the Gymnase ‘Philiberte’ (by Emile Augier); at the Odeon ‘L’Honneur et L’Argent’ (by F. Ponsard); at the Opéra Comique ‘La Fille du Regiment’ (with Mademoiselle Caroline Duprez as ‘Marie’); at the Théatre-Lyrique ‘Les Amours du Diable’ (by the Belgian composer Albert Grisar) ; and singing at the Théatre-Italien were Mademoiselle Sophie Cruvelli and Madame Anna Caroline de Lagrange.’

Their imperial majesties attended none of these, the Emperor being engaged with his current mistress Mlle Harriet Howard (who had trouble with the shoe-horn) and the Empress being closeted with her confessor Father Basilare, of the Order of Jesses.

(Extract from the diary of Sébastien Pommepois, Director of Musée des Choses Déplacées 1850-1860)

Nobody counted the steps or breaths of those in the Hôtel du Dieu and the Emperor and Empress, along with their entourage, gave not a thought for any of this nor for the fact- unknown to them as it was to most of the inhabitants of that beautiful city, about to be rearranged into boulevards and parks by Baron Haussmann- that Lionel Kieseritzky, re-arranged by his Maker, expired on that very day, his last words being: “Ombre de Philidor, je t’évoque! Allons! Je suis échec et mat!”

As he died a volley of a dozen pigeons- whether Carneau, Jacobin or Mondain wasn’t clear- took flight from the square, in a formation known by the locals as ‘Fit Res Amarissima’. One of their number it was that muted on the Empress (who was not carrying her usual parasol made from the skins of a thousand voles specially bred for that purpose). This caused consternation to the royal bodyguard who suspected a republican assassination attempt.

‘Enlevez le chaperon de le faucon!’ cried the Emperor.

Alas one was not to hand; but who could tell the Emperor this?

As her confessor remarked to Empress Eugénie much later: ‘Mais Votre Majesté, il est que de la merde d'oiseau. Amor Volat Undique.’

BROTHER THADDEUS

2010-09-14T05:09:00.003+01:00

ASHMORE ROAD

I was on my way home from visiting my university friend Reg and his family in a small village just outside Leeds. Being retired I had no reason to hurry back to Scotland. The weather was fine for September, one of my favourite months.

I'd spent some time that morning taking photographs of Rievaulx Abbey. Then I drove across to the Yorkshire Dales and in the Tan Hill Inn above Keld I had my lunch of home made steak and ale pie with a pint of Black Sheep beer. I finally arrived at the hotel in Reeth where I would be staying overnight.

My room had a fine view across the Green. On one wall was a framed print of Manet's 'Le bar des Folies-Bergère'. After I'd unpacked I went for a stroll and took in the view to the fells of Fremington. I browsed around the Folk Museum in the old Methodist school room for half an hour learning about the lead mines in the surrounding hills. Then I walked a short distance to watch the anglers where the Arkle beck and the main river joined.

I am always fascinated by what people hang on walls. In my flat there are just a few photographs taken by myself of various places I have visited- Toronto, Aix-en-Provence, Flavignac, Nexon, Islay- as well as a Turner print. They break up the otherwise bland expanse of wallpaper. While I waited for dinner to be served I studied the select few prints and photographs displayed here and there in the lounge bar, corridors and sitting rooms. Some were familiar and some not. There were one or two pen and ink sketches of surrounding beauty spots. There were two by Picasso: one a photograph of a sculpture of a bottle of beer, glass and newspaper dated 1914 and the second a cubist painting of another bottle of beer, glass and packet of tobacco. I was not familiar with either though I felt they struck a chord.

I was half asleep, already losing count of the small, scraggy local sheep I had seen all over the hills, when I sat up in bed as the sudden realisation struck me: this was Thad's old family home! Some paths once they diverge do not cross again, except by what seems to be chance. Was that all there was to it, my waking up in the middle of a September night realising the significance of those bottles of Bass in the paintings?

His ashes are in an urn at the friary and there's a Rowan tree planted in his memory. They tell me the tree grows taller each passing year and that the jelly, jam or wine made from its fruit is good to taste.

Yes, trees are fine, I suppose. In their way they tell us a story we do well to heed. There are times when I think I'd rather be a tree! A beech, maple or pine would be fine, as long as there are plenty of leaves. Being rooted instead of the wanderer that I am, like the rest of my family, would be welcome.

I can see Thad in that tree; but I also want to be able to see that tall, muscular young man with his wisp of a beard and his wise-beyond-his-years eyes. I want to see that man who would smoke roll-ups of 'Golden Virginia' and seemed to make them last as long as any conversation he might be having. I want to see that man who taught me how to make bread and how to be with people in their suffering. He would walk the streets of North Kensington in his brown habit and sandals, radiating acceptance, humility and love. Vivid in my memory is the sight of Thaddeus, moving fearlessly between the lines of police and black youths in Tavistock Road as violence erupted at the Notting Hill carnival. I had been in the streets earlier, noticing the vast numbers of police waiting in the wings of the side streets. Martin had wandered bemused with drink into the turmoil and had fallen over a low wall. Thad did not hesitate to rescue and to carry him to safety, while both sides had paused in their aggression. Hostilities were resumed once Martin had been removed. That moment lives, like a seed from the tree; but these images are inchoate, scattered and need flesh and a voice.

I knew little about Thad's background. I suppose that's how it was in the Order: whoever you were when you entered it you left behind like dirt on a doormat. Sloughing off the old man and donning the new is what they said. When I took my first tentative step into the religious life- I backed away eventually- I clung stubbornly to my given name. There was no conceit in this, just an unarticulated recognition that essentially this was me. But he renounced the 'Philip' he had been, and all the wealth he would have inherited. He was an only child and had not been allowed to mix with the other children in the village. His family owned the Bass-Charrington ale making business.

I met them once, briefly, when they came to Ashmore Road that hot summer when from every pub seemed to be coming the sound of Abba's 'Fernando', 'Mamma Mia' or 'Dancing Queen'. I had just taken up residence there and everything was new. Whether or not Thad had been expecting them I don't know. Maybe it was a last attempt to 'bring him to his senses' before he took his life vows. It had that feel about it to me. I was the one who opened the door when they knocked- or, rather, the chauffeur knocked. They couldn't bring themselves to get out of the limousine. I saw this long black car, maybe a Daimler- I'm no good at car recognition- and this man in a uniform and peaked cap on the doorstep.

'Is Mr. Burgoyne-Johnson in?' he asked.

'Who?' I replied, knowing nobody of that name.

'That'll be for me,' Thaddeus called from behind me.

He went down the steps to the shiny car. All around the street seemed to be athrob with loud reggae music and the smell in the air was a mixture of patchouli oil, cannabis, Caribbean cooking and blocked drains. Neighbours hung from windows calling like exotic birds to each other, recounting the exploits of Viv Richards and Michael Holding at the Oval Test match recently finished. I watched as Thad spoke through a rolled down window with the older couple in the car. The woman, his mother, seemed animated and passionate as she spoke; the man beside her, Thad's father, was saying nothing. He had a hard face, the mouth tight-lipped and eyes bright with some inexpressible fury. The chauffeur had returned to stand by his vehicle, a pained expression on his face as he watched dust and fragments of burnt paper or soot settling on the highly polished bonnet and bodywork. After a few moments at a gesture from the man inside the car the chauffeur got in and the window was wound up. The limousine rapidly and silently glided away. I watched as Thad slowly returned, climbing the stoop as though it was a Calvary.

'They wouldn't come in,' he said. There was sorrow but not surprise in his voice.

I knew nothing then of his relationship with his parents and only later did I get the rest of it from Brother Iain who was recuperating with us for a while from his work in Soho. They had wanted Thaddeus to come to see them at their hotel in the West End. Initially he had intended to refuse; but after talking with Iain he had changed his mind and had gone. They had asked him not to wear his habit but naturally he did. When Thad returned that night he spent what seemed like hours in the meditation room and I fell asleep in the dormitory long before he turned in.

His mother mourned the grandchildren she would never see; his father banished him from his thoughts and shot more grouse than a household their size could ever eat. Neither parent attended his 'life vows' when he took them in London. His mother wanted to attend but was forbidden to do so; his father preferred that they should lunch with his lawyer and discuss a will that would ensure his wealth did not go to the Order. What fuelled his bitterness I never knew.

The house was in a run-down terrace of Victorian white stucco buildings typical of that part of London. There was nothing on the outside to distinguish it from others: in the basement area you would find an old mattress or the tangled remains of many bicycles, washing machines and other junk. You won't find any trace of the building now: the terrace and those of the surrounding streets were bulldozed years ago to make way for newer housing. At the time many of the houses were owned by slum landlords and others had been turned into squats or divided up into several flats. The inhabitants of the area were a mixture of West Indian immigrants and homeless young people. The crazed and the damaged, the lonely and the desperate existed side by side like packs of wild animals protecting their territory and dealing with each other out of need. Crime, illegal drugs and alcoholism were rife. Yet amongst this 'detritus of society' (as the local weekly 'The Mercury' once termed those living there) like a beacon of hope lived Thaddeus and the other Brothers who now and then came to support him in his work. Many regarded being sent to Ashmore Road as a punishment or a penance! It was utterly different from the relatively cosy, middle-class way of life of the larger friaries in Dorset or Northumberland.

The property had been derelict and boarded up when it had been given to the Order on a short-term lease. Thaddeus had moved in and lived among the rats and bugs as he began to rebuild the insides. At some point he was joined by one of the young men, Tommy, who was still living there when I arrived. Tommy came from the North-East, just like Thad; but whereas Tommy was working class Sunderland Thad was upper class Swaledale. Together they rebuilt the house from top to bottom, gradually being joined by other homeless young people, some of whom would stay for a while and others who would disappear as quickly as they had arrived, often taking the contents of the petty cash treacle tin with them.

Even his name struck for some a dissonant chord. In the Order there were many variations of Michael, Edward, Clare, Francis, Peter, Basil, Jerome- nice names, holy names, familiar names. But 'Thaddeus' is one of the most obscure of the original Disciples, often linked with another called 'Jude' about whom likewise little is known. Names are powerful things, or at least they used to be. To know your adversary's name, his real name, gave you power over him. How comfortable or uncomfortable do you feel when someone you do not know calls you by your name? But 'Thaddeus' is an unknown, said to be the patron saint of lost causes. There are myths which have grown up over the years to fill the gap this anonymity creates. We are not comfortable living with the unknown. So we console ourselves by making up stories that seem to give us control of it.

As I settled in the house so I found myself picking up bits and pieces of information about the people with whom I was living, amongst whom I was working. I remember only a few of our visitors from those days. I suspect many of them never made it to middle age and others probably still languish in the community on maintenance drugs or are in secure units somewhere. They were all like ghosts, drifting past each other, lacking adhesiveness and substance. Des would drive Tom from the room with his disorganised, crazy theosophy and Zen talk. He'd claim to be 'a thousand year old Chinaman...I am the self that the mirror imagines..'. He'd ramble on about male and female bisexuals and doppelgängers and untouchables and gurus, as though he was quoting some van Morrison lyric. Then he would suddenly burst into a smile that thundered madness more loudly than his chaotic monologue, claiming this hodgepodge of ideas and images was his way of remaining sane. I saw him one day in the Portobello market shop-lifting with adroitness and cunning. When he realised that I had seen him he came across the street to me and said proudly in a voice as sane as ever I'd heard 'I'm good, aren't I?' He had been in a seminary at some point, though much else of what he told about himself- the girl-friend in America, the alien spaceship abduction- was sheer invention. His great rival for attention, should their visits coincide, was Erik who came from South Africa. He was always consulting the I Ching, giving readings to whoever would let him do so. He once declared that the guiding principle in my life was stasis, stagnation. Alan had a drag act which he did in the pubs of Camberwell. He wrote all his own material, some of which he would try out on us to see if it got any laughs. He lived with someone called Geoffrey- we never met him and wondered if he was an invention to stave off loneliness. Alan claimed to have had a relationship with Keith Richard. What was certain was that he spent four months on remand in Brixton for attempted house-breaking and I visited him there. Penny was an older woman who owned and lived in one of the large family houses in the area. It had no gas, electricity or hot water and we would invite her around to have a bath. She kept dozens of dogs and I would often see her out walking several of them at a time, all on leads. She spoke fluent French, German and Russian, and would call to the dogs in those and other languages. Periodically she would end up in Springfield hospital in Tooting Bec and the R.S.P.C.A. would remove the dogs. As soon as she was discharged she would have them back. Fran, a young Irish friend of Kevin's, spoke about experiencing abuse and brutality at the hands of the Christian Brothers. He was constantly being arrested for drunkenness and petty thieving. Mary, another one from Ireland, lived in local Cyrenian houses and was frequently attempting suicide, usually with drugs. Her younger sister Julie had hung herself when her baby was taken away by the social services. Martin, when he was sober, would tell me about his life on a farm in rural Ireland. He once described how he helped his father to kill rats with a pitchfork in the chicken run, all the while interspersing the tale with the refrain 'I'm a humble man, I wouldn't harm anybody'. When he was having trouble with his feet I took him to Harrow Road hospital where I saw how he was treated with deliberate contempt because he was an alcoholic. There were others less damaged, such as Mal from Rotherham, who was squatting nearby and hoping to resume his education at Southwark College after having dropped out for a year. Everyone we met seemed to be fractured, broken, to have only the burnt stub of a life. Though they gradually took me into their confidence it was really Thad they depended on, him whom they wanted to see and talk to and be near. There was that about him which gave them hope, even when everything they were experiencing day by day told them they were worthless. Fear in a variety of manifestations had blasted their roots; at least in Ashmore Road they felt nourished and encouraged to grow. Though they might occasionally steal from the house or otherwise abuse it, they never doubted that what was on offer was genuine.

I was uneasy with the jaggedness and rawness of this life, though I had chosen it (and eventually would live it in my own way). For Thaddeus, however, the brokenness and anonymity of others, their fleeting passage through the house or their prolonged stay were as natural and acceptable as the quiet presence of the stray cat Shanti which had adopted the house as its home. Shanti would only sleep in the meditation room at the front of the house. Whether it was his presence or the power of prayer or superior hygiene which kept the house free of rats I don't know. Occasionally we would have an infestation of fleas or lice, at which time mattresses and bedding would be burnt on a pyre in the back yard and fumigation would waft through the place like ritual incense. Once purged we would re-provision the rooms with the help of the local Missionaries of Charity and deaconesses.

We place a premium on 'knowing'. Information and knowledge are power. In business someone like Thad's father was undoubtedly powerful. You had only to consider that Daimler, the chauffeur, the way that the window was rolled up, to witness power in action. Day by day- and more so nowadays as I write this than back in 1976 when I was living it- the newspapers and internet offer us 'news' and 'information' and 'knowledge'. To do what with? It feels as though we gorge ourselves on 'facts' rather as the Romans did on food to the extent that they needed a vomitorium. Somehow Thaddeus seemed to live without this compulsion we have of needing to know. People told him things, as indeed I did, and they mattered, as did the act of confession (if that's what it was) or personal revelation; but somehow it didn't accumulate within him, didn't become a burden or squalid imitation of 'wisdom'. Often this 'knowledge' we acquire, or the 'news' and 'facts' and other 'information' get in the way of our “being”; it seemed to me that Thaddeus was able to just be, despite all that people told him, demanded of him. He was able to be himself despite the wishes and desires of his family, and despite their being unable to accept him as he was rather than as they wished he would be.

Daily life in the house was as simple as it was complex. The basic structure for the brothers was to recite Morning Prayer between seven and eight, Evening Prayer between seven and eight, and finally Compline at eleven. When Edmund, who was a priest, came to live with us, there might be a simple Mass at noon using freshly baked bread from the kitchen. Mid-day prayer would be recited at noon by any one of us who was in the house. More often we would be out and about, working or visiting in the community. For a while I did secretarial work in a community centre in Harrow and helped Mr. Huffie, a single parent, with his handicapped son. Thad had a small, part-time cleaning job. A couple of afternoons a week he would go to the house of some fairly wealthy people in Kensington or Holland Park to tidy up for them. This brought in a few extra pounds for the household's common pot.

The young men living in the house would usually be on the dole, signing on at Lisson Grove and paying rent (if they didn't drink their giro first or squander the money on drugs). Their number fluctuated, with people often simply disappearing after a few day's stay; but those who were there in my time were Tommy (who had his own room), Tim and Kevin, who shared the dormitory on the first floor with Thaddeus, myself and any other brother who was staying. There was a bunk bed in the basement lounge for other visitors. Some nights Martin would sleep on a mattress in the basement area (if Tommy didn't let him sneak into the lounge). All visitors- those who might drop by for counselling, a cup of tea, a meal or a chat- had to leave by eleven. Many would have preferred to stay, because the house was warm and welcoming and their lives outside were lonely and confused, but there was never any bother in people leaving.

We all took turns in preparing the evening meal which was eaten communally at six. Tommy was a lovely cook, when he could be bothered. Kevin could be depended on to produce a good pot of mince. Tim tried to make something different every time and Tommy would mock him should the experiment fail. 'I'd've been heppy with just bangers und mash,' he'd say, something he never made himself. Thad would usually produce a vegetarian meal of great simplicity but fabulous taste. 'Th' usual muck,' Tommy would scoff, though he always ate it and would help himself to seconds before anyone else had a chance. He appreciated my toad-in-the-hole, but would mutter about the lack of meat in the sausages.

Tommy didn't quite know what to make of me with my chess playing and ability to sing old rock and roll songs word perfect. My witticisms left him unimpressed as though life was far too grim to be laughed at. He spent a lot of time writing letters to his brother about various women he had fucked, letters he would deliberately leave lying around for others to read. Some times he'd invite me to tag along with him when, at a loose end, he'd go out to wander through Portobello market or to rake through the records at 'Rough Trade' in Talbot Road. We'd often end up in either 'That Tea Room' in the Great Western Road or 'Mike's Café' in Blenheim Crescent. Other times we'd settle on 'The Elgin' in Ladbroke Grove (where Joe Strummer and the 101'ers were for a while the resident group) for a lunchtime pint. In all our conversations Tommy never spoke about himself. I knew he had a history of indecent exposure and was sexually destructive in his casual relationships with women. Once, when I was reciting Mid-day prayer, Tommy walked stark naked into the meditation room and stood at the front window masturbating casually. I would have carried on praying had the absurdity of the situation not doubled me up with laughter. Tommy looked offended and stomped out, slamming the door behind himself. It took me a while to gather myself and to resume. Quite what kind of response Tommy had expected or wanted I don't know.

Tim was an altogether different young man, university educated and intensely serious. He was only twenty-two and came from Shrewsbury. On and off he had worked with the Cyrenians and helped out at the 'Blenheim Project'. He would ask my opinion on things like the separation between 'Beauty' and 'Truth', and would seem disappointed when I said I didn't know how to answer him, though I could tell the difference between a football and a hard boiled egg. He had some kind of rarefied, long-distance relationship with a woman named Elspeth whom he had met in Venice and to whom he wrote passionate love letters. He said he was fascinated with the thought of 'doing evil' just for the sake of it, but he never would. Compared to the others he seemed studious and sane. I was never quite clear how he had arrived at the house.

Thad was both protective of those with whom we worked and lived but also happy to seek to spread the word of what the friars did, as long as it didn't compromise people and their privacy. I remember one morning taking a phone call from a Bill Nicholson of BBC television (who some years later wrote the notable play 'Shadowlands'). He told me he had produced religious documentaries in the 'Anno Domini' series. Two that I knew of were 'God and Lord Hailsham' (1975) and 'A Hard Road to Heaven' (1976), the latter being about John Ogilvie who had been proclaimed a saint by Pope Paul VI in October. Bill said that he had visited the larger friaries and had thought them 'comfortable'. He really wanted to find out what it was about the Franciscans that made them reject the 'more makes you happier' standard and prefer poverty. I passed him on to Thad who whilst happy to talk with him about the work being done wasn't keen to have filming in the house with the vulnerable people. Nothing came of that project.

There were always people around, people coming and going, people staying for a while or passing as flittingly as shadows. In this variety, transitoriness and unpredictability, life in the house mirrored what was happening in the streets outside, with the exception that there was a solid, prayerful core within the house which enabled things to be held. Outside it was chaos, fragmentation, decay and despair rather than celebration and revival.

It was not all work and no play. Now and then we would have an evening off duty, as it were. Edmund would usually stay behind in the house- he was less comfortable mingling socially with the young people outside; also, I guess, like us all he needed time for himself. Unlike Thaddeus he was physically frail and always to me seemed to be on the point of physical collapse, though he never did. His wry sense of humour and self-mockery seemed to bolster him at the most perilous point.

Once in a while I would go with Thad on an evening jaunt, usually to listen to music. Thad was a jazz fan. I remember we went to 'The Black Cap' in Camden High Street. It was an evening when there was live jazz on as opposed to the usual drag cabaret acts such as Reg Jameson's “Mrs. Shufflewick”. After a while people from the floor would get up and wander on to the stage to join the small group who were playing. I'd noticed that many customers had brought their own instruments. When the front man gave a nod the newcomer would play, improvising on the theme being woven among the twists and twirls of cigarette smoke and low lighting. I thought that Thad was going off to the loo when he got up. I was surprised when he climbed up on to the stage and took up the spare saxophone from its stand. People seemed to know him, though at that point I hardly recognised him! With a nod he was given and took his cue. I never knew he could play the sax, certainly not like that! I knew he had a lovely singing voice- mine wasn't much cop, more a dying canary warble than anything. When we'd go along to St. Michael's and All Angels in Ladbroke Grove or to St. Augustine's in Kilburn Park Road for the Sunday sung Mass it was always Thad's deep, rich bass which would carry my frail warbling and reverberate through the often empty pews. But that evening I watched entranced as Thad played the saxophone, seeming to lose himself in the melody he was phrasing. I forget the tune the band had been meandering through, some jazz classic I'm sure; but Thad's interlude seemed mesmeric and I would have sworn that the diaphanous drifts of smoke synchronised their movements to the flow of his playing. And then as abruptly as he had gone on Thad had replaced the instrument and descended from the stage and rejoined me at our table. He sipped his pint and made another roll up. Someone else was already mounting the few steps to join the house band.

Edmund would be waiting up for us like a worried mother hen anxious to have all her chicks back in the coop before lights out.

Women fell in love with Thad, all kinds of women. They formed what Tommy disparagingly referred to as 'Thad's harem'. They were usually well-off young women, women from the débutante set, often gazelle like creatures who had artistic temperaments or abilities. They may have known about each other but they would only come grazing individually. There were painters, writers, sculptresses, singers, actresses and socialites. They would invite him to soirées or recitals; they would call with examples of their art for him to decorate the house with; they would bring little parcels of foodstuffs from 'Harrods'. I could tell by that doleful look in their eyes how hopelessly in love with him- the young man, not necessarily the friar- they were. There were some who still had that glint in their eye which indicated that they were in hot pursuit and felt they would succeed in bedding him; while others had that pained look of longing that they knew would never be satisfied in the way that they wanted it to be satisfied.

Thaddeus would not have been unaware of all this; but the love he felt for them and all of us was not of the carnal, biological kind. 'What they all need's a gud fucking,' was Tommy's take on it. Because of his love/hate relationship with Thad I suspect he also meant that to apply to Thad as well. For Tommy that was the way to deal with most things in life. The fact that Thad was chaste and unattainable sexually, yet so undeniably potent, made many of those young women that much more determined to be the one to 'sort him out'. Sometimes I imagined that Thad's parents had sent some of them on 'kamikaze' missions! Even should someone throw herself into Thad's arms and sob uncontrollably that she loved him, he would hold her with a gentleness, grace and dignity, but without the kind of passion which she would have welcomed. 'I'm sorry, I've made a fool of myself,' she would say as she disentangled herself. Thad would assure her that she hadn't and would see her out the door in a manner which simply erased all sense of embarrassment and ensured that a welcome was still to be found here. One of that coterie of adoring women- Miriam, an opera singer- sang at his funeral Mass, so I was told. She had sung at the celebration of his taking his life vows a year after I had left.

I cannot recall anyone- male or female- ever being rejected from Ashmore Road. It was more the case that some people rejected themselves, fled because they found the unconditional acceptance somehow unbearable. This is what Kevin did on his birthday, disappearing with thirty pounds from the jacket of someone who was working on a sofa in the basement's back-room workshop. All you had to be in Ashmore Road was yourself; and how hard some of us found that challenge and freedom! As much as I revelled in it I struggled with it because I had yet to be certain then of who I truly was. To me it seemed that Thad had found that certainty, and his healing presence in that small part of a rotting terrace in a condemned area invited and encouraged others to be themselves.

Inevitably, once I had left the Order, I gradually lost contact with Thad. The house was bulldozed along with all the others in the terrace and by 1979 he was living in a 'Patchwork Community' house in West London continuing his work. I visited him there, when I was down on holiday from Scotland; and he once popped in to see me in Edinburgh when he was visiting the house the friars then had in Lothian Road.

I heard later that he had been sent to India and it is there he contracted the wasting disease which caused his premature death.

I cling to false consolation- knowledge, history, memories. The truth is that all things shall pass. Even the passing will pass. We try to cling to the visible, the familiar, the safe, the image, the flesh, whatever is comfortable and comforting. We do not trust if we cling.

If there's one thing I learnt from Thaddeus, who is present even through his absence, it is that I should not cling. Even now I find myself clinging: secretly and jealously I have been clinging to these memories.

Perhaps in writing this story I am letting go as best I can so that a seed may grow elsewhere.

POEM

2010-09-03T10:08:00.002+01:00

GENTLE JESUS

Ad hoc Jesus

Billboard Jesus

Canard Jesus

Data Jesus

Elastic Jesus

Fatwa Jesus

Gentile Jesus

Hooligan Jesus

Id Jesus

Jew Jesus

Kilroy Jesus

Loony Jesus

Marionette Jesus

Nigger Jesus

Oh Jesus

President Jesus

Quisling Jesus

Refugee Jesus

Sassenach Jesus

Toy-boy Jesus

Ubermensch Jesus

Virtual Jesus

What-Ho Jesus

X-rated Jesus

Yellow Jesus

Zigzag Jesus

WORDS

2010-09-03T08:53:00.002+01:00

WORDS

There are many Old English words but none more mysterious than

'œphwych'

Various spellings have been found but no precise definition can be agreed upon. In fact virtually all the authorities argue compulsively about the word, its form, its derivation and its meaning!

What is agreed on is that the very writing of the word changes life for the one who writes it!

As I have been composing this I have been wearing a glove on my right hand. The glove is woven from the wool of a virgin alpaca, one which has never been tethered nor shorn before that shearing which collected the fibres. Those fibres must then be woven upon a previously unused loom. This loom must then be dismantled and its separate pieces burnt before the end of the day in which the glove was woven. Once worn this glove, and all others like it, must also be incinerated so that it may never be worn again.

This is what I have been told; this is what I shall do.

The fate of those foolish enough to ignore this instruction is recorded in the 'Book of the Doomed', currently on display in the reading room of the National Library. This book was discovered during excavations of the monastery at Saint Nebb's Mount. That monastery was a ruin even before the Vikings arrived or the Dissolution saw the demolition of many others. In what is assumed to be the very foundation stone of the monastery is carved the word œphwych. This is one of the few examples of the word found in red sandstone.

Nowadays the word is used indiscriminately in advertising slogans for everything from tame lemurs to luxury yachts. Schoolchildren have incorporated the word into their playground games and chants. Stroll down any street in Affpuddle or Yazor and eavesdrop on any conversation at a bus stop or in the greengrocers or even on a park bench and you will eventually hear this word uttered either as a profanity or as the clincher to some argument. There is even a thoroughbred horse, owned by the Sheikh Ali- Ram-mah , that bears this name. Tipsters will tell you that it is favourite for every classic flat race this season. It has been entered for the Prix de l' Arc de Triomphe in Paris and the Breeder's Cup.

APPOPLOXIMES

2010-08-08T04:53:00.003+01:00

(Prose fragments from 1970)

Mercenary’s Oath

“All is lost!” I cried.

I abandoned the ramparts and prepared to transport the few remnants I had managed to cling to.

The other sentry was undecided, unconvinced.

“What? Treachery? And so close to hand! Who would have expected it?”

His voice rang out with all the boldness of one who would never wish to be taken alive. It was the voice of someone who would never desert his post.

I moved a little further away from him, trying to judge the distance I would need to cover to escape the range of his throwing arm.

“Sir!” I entreated him, though I owed him no deference on account of birth or rank; “Sir! I am no coward. There are many who can vouch for the scars I have gained in the service of this and other masters. Not once have I failed to stand my ground when faced with seemingly overwhelming odds. Many is the time that I have been so grievously wounded as to have wished myself dead.”

I shuddered at this admission. I could see his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“But fortunate though I count myself to be at your side today I have never seen such banners as these! They seem to spring from the earth itself and to brush against the clouds! No man was meant to withstand them, I least of all. You have my blessing should you chose to stay but I must withdraw and seek a new battle to believe in.”

So saying I broke my sword upon the masonry and cast my shield into the path of the coming horde. There was still time to escape. My horse had been saddled in preparation for this moment of renunciation. The gates stood open. My erstwhile companion crouched in the shadows his face obscured, his body set like the very stones against which he hid. I cast my breastplate aside as well. It was best to travel as light and as inconspicuously as possible. Who knew how far I would have to ride before I reached safety.

In the bright moonlight the concave armour winked like a gouged eye.

My horse snorted and reared as, one foot in the stirrup, I made ready to mount. I glanced back at my comrade and saw his sword thrusting towards my uncovered breast.

“Traitor!” I screamed as the blade pierced me. I slumped in the saddle and was being carried headlong across the deserted battlefield. Behind me, upon the blood-soaked battlement, I could see a figure driving a sword into its own breast and falling out of sight.

The Tocsin

The tocsin has only just sounded. Its imperial tone rolls through the streets like a tidal wave.

I am late unintentionally, sidetracked by some object in a window which caught my eye. My watch must have been slow; perhaps I had forgotten to wind it?

I lengthen my stride as the last notes fade.

So soon? I think. There are still several streets to be traversed before I reach my lodgings. Some other stragglers hurry off the street through rapidly closed doors. I dismiss them from my mind with a shrug and a suppressed snort of contempt. So they are safe for the night! But I have to run the risk of being apprehended.

As the interminable minutes pass my feet seem to be flying. I feel emboldened by my continuing good fortune at not meeting any official. I chance walking in the moonlight. I stroll around corners without any of the hesitation which caution would advise. I grow indifferent to the thought of being caught and linger by the fountain, trailing my fingers through the silvery water. I laugh aloud at all the closed shutters until silenced by my own echo. I start to run down the cobbled alleys as I near my dwelling. Now I am leaping around every corner as though to say ‘Here I am then!’ Who will punish me for my exuberance, my disobedience? I feel intoxicated by the freedom and lurch about like a drunkard.

Finally here I am entering my street. I reach the doorstep and pause as I put the key in the lock. It seems a shame to waste what little freedom I have left so I saunter nonchalantly to the corner and pose for anyone to see.

As I turned back to my door, only a step or two away, I see that the guard have marched into the street and grim-faced are bearing down on me! My bravado vanishes as two huge men seize me and drag me before the officer. He is licking his lips as he pulls the white gloves from his hands.

‘Name?’ he demands but seems neither to have heard my stammered reply nor to accord it much importance. ‘The tocsin has sounded yet you wander the streets in defiance; do you think you will go unpunished?’

I tried to explain that this was my very doorstep and that I had merely come outside for a breath of air before the tocsin had been rung and that the door had closed behind me and…but he was not interested in my stammered lies. With a flick of his wrist he dismissed them.

‘Do you not know the dangers there are in the streets after the tocsin sounds? Very well, go, wander as you wish and see if your arrogance stands the test.’

He gestured and the soldiers released me. With scarcely a glance at me they strode off continuing their patrol. I wondered if I had imagined them or seen a ghost.

At my door I found it as I had been describing, locked. I could not find the key. Had I dropped it in my fright? I pounded on the door and shouted for the concierge, but nothing would wake the others inside.

So I turn back into the unwelcoming maw of the streets and once more prowl through them, as they become more and more unfamiliar to me, colder and colder, and I wonder if I will be excluded and lost forever.

The Artist’s Canvas

The artist had a magical canvas. No matter what he painted or drew on it overnight the image would come to life and leave the canvas blank in the morning.

At first this puzzled him. One morning he woke to find new vases of flowers in his room; the next morning there were small, furry kittens. But he quickly realised what was happening.

He could see that he must exercise his talent with care. It would not do to wake up and find an elephant or tiger in the studio! But he could not restrict himself to flowers and fruit and small furry animals forever. One day he painted a landscape. In the morning the canvas was bare and there in his studio was a landscape. For hours he strolled through it. Then he decided to paint a seascape so that at night the leaping waves would lull him to sleep.

Opening his door was a problem now, since the curious and potential buyers of his art might wonder where these things had come from. To avoid this he painted his studio as it had been- plain walls, the easel and couch with a window looking out over the rooftops. In the morning there he was in his studio without all the other things he had painted.

His problem about affording food, or paying the rent, was of course solved as all he needed to do was to paint a meal spread on a table or some banknotes and in the morning things would be taken care of. It was with some hesitation that he painted people but they would be there waiting for him in the morning, would politely greet him and walk out the door, going about their business. This saddened him as he sometimes longed for a companion. When vexed or annoyed he might paint barking dogs or twittering birds which would rush out the door and create pandemonium in the neighbourhood. For a while he painted tables and chairs, all kinds of fine furniture and wall-hangings, but nothing so audacious as to be too conspicuous. The odd unicorn or two might meander out into the street but they would be quickly taken to the local zoo. One time he painted an army and watched the cheering townsfolk waving to the marching soldiers as they went off to battle.

But one day he closed his shutters and stared silently at the canvas. ‘What is the point of all this?’ he wondered. “I have nothing that can be exhibited, nothing that anyone might buy, and nothing that will make people remember my name.” He would lie on his bed sleepless and watch the canvas in the dark wondering what he could paint next.

He painted God or what people then commonly imagined God to be like. In the morning he woke with a start as the sunlight crashed through the slats of the shutters. The canvas, of course, was bare. For some reason the artist was filled with jubilation; but when he threw open the shutters he burst into tears at what he now saw.

The Syrinx

The child discovers the musical pipe in the clearing. He puts it to his lips and blows as hard as he can. A shrill, atonal whistle emerges. It startles the birds from their nests. He wants to play a tune and so fingers the holes of the pipe as he blows. Somehow by chance he creates a scale and then his fingers begin to dances and he smiles. The birds now flutter about the clearing in graceful aerial pirouettes. Leaves shudder and some detach themselves from the branches to sail and swoop down like parachutists. The grass sways and nods, straining to uproot itself so that it can join in the dance. The sun bounces from horizon to horizon as the child keeps the tune whistling through the glade. Sparks are struck where the sky touches the earth. The tune spirals among the trees and the earth moves on its axis, whirling in an increasingly frantic reel. Clouds billow like loosened skirts. Captivated by his playing the child dances across the grass, skipping around the agitated lake which longs to burst from its bed. In their distant heavens the gods, slumbering, are woken by the plaintive, insistent sound and marvel that, after such a long time, someone has discovered the pipe and remembered the key. Such a gay whirligig! And the child, swept up by the whirlwind of sound he is creating, is lifted out of sight. The pipe falls back to the ground and an exhausted stillness reigns again. The birds drift almost reluctantly back to their nests. The leaves, deserted on the ground, curl up like severed claws. The grass gives one last sigh and is still. The sun, reminded of its solemn duty, once more patrols the horizon like a diligent sentry. The sky stretches and smoothes its pleats, spreading its noncommittal countenance over the land. The earth, like a tipsy man staggering to his feet, resumes its gentle oscillation, holding tight to all its children. Somewhere the gods, entranced, welcome and fête their new companion. And somewhere else, where he had fallen asleep, lies a child, watched over by owls and covered with flowers by foraging ants.

The Mountaineers

Always in front of you as you continue to scale that steep mountain are the footprints of a previous mountaineer.

Despite the slowness of your ascent, the repeated and protracted stoppages you make- more now since your muscles have grown weary after all the time that has passed- those footprints appear fresh. Their outlines are still sharp and the snow’s surface freshly broken. The other mountaineer cannot be too far ahead of you, yet you hear no sound of his labouring. Even on the more open slopes you do not catch a glimpse of him, seeing just that trail of footprints leading upwards.

When you come to a sheer rock face and would detour to right or left to avoid that obstacle- for there must be easier paths up the glacier or over a moraine- you see the pitons he has left, the markings made by his hammer on that rock face. So you begin your climb.

You calculate that you will reach the summit an hour before sundown. Already you can make out the pennant of cloud which clings to the peak. Jagged outcrops and ravines obscure your view of those uppermost slopes. But there are his footprints ahead of you. You strike out again after them until you reach the final ridge. Through the mistiness you think you see a figure nearing the summit. You would hail him were you not afraid of disturbing his concentration and exhausting more of your depleted strength. He is oblivious to your presence, has never once looked back or stopped. The two of you might have climbed better together; but then have you not in truth been a team as you’ve followed those empty footprints?

With the last ebbing remnants of your strength you move upwards and emerge from the mist to stand alone on the summit. There is no further height to climb. There are no footprints leading away from the cairn of rocks which mark the very top of the mountain. As you gaze about the traces of your own footprints have already been rubbed away by the gusting wind.

In the cold of twilight despite your furs you shiver.

The Horsemen

They ride in silence. Their steeds seem to have been cast from some strange, supple metal. The hooves make not a sound upon the dirt track. The hills seem to have drawn back from them and huddle in the distance.

The horsemen are approaching the crossroads. There is no signpost. Wordlessly two horsemen sweep to the left while the other six gallop straight ahead. There is no gesture of farewell as they part.

Tirelessly, as though fresh from the stalls, the majestic beasts on which they ride cover the ground. No dust is raised in their wake. Clouds settle closer and closer upon the countryside as though to blot out sight of that remorseless gallop. The riders’ cloaks are swept back like wings by the speed of their passage.

Now at another crossroads, indistinguishable from the first, two more horsemen diverge and rush into the gloom. And then two more further on.

Two horsemen are left to continue along that path which had been the main route from the start of their ride. The road bisects an empty plain, plunges through a high-walled chasm and skirts the lip of a long-dead crater.

Now one rider glances behind. Perhaps they are being pursued? The two horses increase their pace, as though in response to that glance, lengthening their strides until they appear to be flying over the ground. Their nostrils are distended, their muscular necks straining forward. Their legs seem to seize the ground and hurl it behind them. Their sides are glistening with sweat and their deep chests heaving from the effort.

On the horizon a city can be seen. Behind it the sun is rising. Past peasants’ huts and cultivated fields the horsemen race, until they enter the city through a portcullis.

Now lost from sight only the sudden clatter of hooves can be heard. Then even that is lost to one’s ears. They have dismounted or passed into some inner fastness.

Already, out on the road, two riders have appeared and are approaching the city. The reins are tight in their hands, their stern faces pale from exhaustion. As they vanish into the city two riders appear on the horizon and are racing towards the city. And then two more. Until the sun rise, and the land is flooded with sunlight, and all the shadows have been dispersed.

The Target

In a clearing in the forest stands a target.

Idly as you cut the tree and hack the fallen trunk into logs, you wonder who can have placed it there, so far away from any habitation. The castle is several miles hence and surely no one would come this far just to practise for the contest.

As you stare an arrow streaks through the air and hits you in the chest.

You notice that the feathers of the flight are red and black. The shaft is highly polished. Quite a work of art, you think.

With a jolt another arrow sticks in your belly and then a third pins your hands to your throat. With an angry shout of protest you pluck the shafts from your body. You gesture towards the target in the clearing as though to direct the hidden bowman towards it.

An arrow pierces your mouth and transfixes your tongue to your gullet. Before you have time to pluck that out another spears one of your eyes and then another in the other eye. As you pluck angrily at the shafts yet another hits you in the groin. Yet another drills into your forehead. As fast as your hands can remove the barbs a dozen more fly from the bush and hit you until you’re bristling like a hedgehog. Finally you give up the effort and stand motionless until arrows are buried in every part of your body.

At last they stop. You hear footsteps and suddenly the arrows are being plucked out. Finally only the one in your mouth remains. As you pluck that one out another shower of arrows hits you. So you acquiesce, submit to the rain of arrows which are all withdrawn save the one in your mouth.

You turn and continue chopping the tree.

The target is a pincushion of arrows.

Terms of Imprisonment

These are the terms of your captivity:

You shall never attempt to escape. Any such attempt would be futile in any case. It would indicate a certain unacceptable reluctance on your part to embrace your imprisonment. Even should you succeed momentarily in gaining some freedom, it will be soured by the knowledge that you will soon be recaptured. Even though you may be at large for years, for centuries, and even though you may believe that you have eluded your captors, you will know that they are not far behind you and that at any time, should they so wish, they can recapture you. Even should you be lying on your death-bed, content and confessed, surrounded by those loved ones who will mourn you, know that even then, as you may be expiring, there will be a knock on the door and those you thought you had escaped will be there to haul you back to this cell. And even should you die and be at the gates of Heaven itself, or have tumbled into Gehenna, know that you will be dragged back from there until you have served the full term of your sentence.

You shall be known by this brand being burnt into your flesh. It is indelible, invisible to you, seen only by your fellows, who each bear their own brand, visible to you and indelible.

The Mapmakers

The task of compiling the map has been going on for centuries.

The research undertaken so far has enabled the Royal Surveyors to publish a series of maps, each for a different location. Many are of the opinion that the task will soon be complete. Once it is done, and the mosaic reproduction on the Emperor’s palace floor has been completed, it will be safe for travellers to journey to any part of the kingdom knowing that the route has been inspected and charted by those imperial mapmakers.

The mosaic floor itself is one of the wonders of the kingdom. It reflects the majesty of the Imperial Presence both in its design and its conception. Constructed within the palace it enables the Emperor to view the progress of his mapmakers. He can see the extent of his kingdom at a glance. At the time this mosaic was begun no one had an idea of the true extent of the kingdom. The Emperor seldom travelled outwith the confines of his palace. It was enough that he should issue an order or that word should be brought to him on this or that matter. His armies and commanders guarded the provinces and administration was in the hands of trusted local governors. So the Emperor had little need to wander beyond the walls of his palace, which itself is so immense that any new emissary could easily lose himself in its vastness.

The palace, so it is said, was built so as to reflect the kingdom itself. Each garden is different and is a miniature of the province it represents. It is even possible to imagine as one wanders among those fragrant plants and listens to the chorus of birdsong and running water that one is in that very province. Above, so real that one could believe it to be the actual sky, is a masterpiece of painting that reproduces the effects of a tranquil summer day or changes into the darkness of the night. There is a legend which says that the craftsmen who laboured upon the palace were blinded so that they would not be seduced by the marvel they had created.

Though he has no need to quit the palace the Emperor has been known to undertake a personal visitation to one or other of the provinces. Such visits are chronicled by the court historians, although they disagree as to the exact number of such visitations. The imperial carriage and entourage must be in a state of perpetual readiness, since no one other than himself knows when the Emperor might decide to embark on such a trip. Were the moment known generally then the streets and highways would be thronged with crowds eager to catch a glimpse of the Emperor as he passed, in such reverence is he held.

Though the spaciousness of the palace truly duplicates the boundless lands of his realm, the Emperor ordered the mosaic to be constructed so that he might see at a glance the extent of his kingdom. The work of mapping the kingdom was vital since many roads had fallen into disuse and marauders from outside had encroached upon the kingdom. The only entrance to the courtyard in which the mosaic is being constructed is from the upper balcony from which the emperor can descend via a curved staircase. The blind workmen, often descendants of those men who had built the palace, are provided with the information by the cartographers who themselves never see the mosaic. One can witness upon the faces of the workmen the rapt, awed look of those who contemplate absolute perfection. Their fingers have become so sensitive that they more than outweigh the loss of the faculty of sight. The materials they use for the mosaic are jewels from every mine in the kingdom. These flawless jewels have been carefully selected so as to capture the radiance of the sun and to release this radiance even in the darkest night. They are so perfectly cut and fitted together that the Emperor can walk barefoot across the mosaic without harming the soles of his feet. There is an ivory and marble border raised around the mosaic. The rivers and streams are made of turquoise and sapphire; the hills and plains are made of emerald, aquamarine and amethyst, while the snow on the mountains are pearls; diamonds stud the ebony dome above it all.

At the very centre of the mosaic has been set a perfect miniature of the palace, so that the kingdom holds within itself the kingdom. There is no border of the kingdom which is closer or further from the palace than any other. There is no part of the kingdom from which the palace is obscured. No matter how distant, no matter how high the intervening mountains may be, no matter whether one is approaching or moving away from the palace it is always to be seen, if only as a suffused glow in the sky.

At night, when the workmen have left, the Emperor descends from the balcony and walks alone across the bejewelled mosaic of his kingdom. His face is hidden by the shadows. When he emerges from the hall the hem of his cloak seems to be agitating the floor into watery waves and his very feet are bespeckled by the lustre of the mosaic.

And when the work is done, when the mosaic is complete, it is possible that the Emperor will have no need to venture out into his kingdom any more; and that the kingdom then may fall into disarray, become overgrown and even forgotten by that figure standing motionless in the centre of the mosaic surveying his kingdom with a glance.

The Explorer

The old sailor drew himself up as though he was uncoiling a rope.

‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I was once an explorer. I earned nothing from it, neither gold nor fame. Here I am with not even a place in which to die. I could tell you about my life and travels, but I’ve told the same tale to countless others who have encountered me half-drunk in any of a hundred taverns. Those unfortunates who have heard me, they re-tell it with more skill and detail than I can muster, and it’s infinitely more amusing heard from their lips.’

The listener felt embarrassed for indeed he had heard the tale told by one of his friends and he had laughed along with the others.

‘In fact I much prefer to hear my story being told by others! It seems to me that their version is more truthful than mine, which I know perfectly well to be correct. It almost makes me want to discard my version and relate the one I have heard. My supposed adventures from the lips of others reawaken all my deepest dreams and I seem to be experiencing those adventures for the first time again. If I am not too drunk that evening then I may challenge the upstart who has mocked me. If I do I am usually flung out of the tavern for causing a disturbance. They laugh at me as I roll in the gutter. They take my money, they take my story, and then they pitch me into a night colder than this.

Can you afford one more drink? That’s most kind. You think to amuse yourself? I don’t blame you. I amuse myself at my own expense. Do you want to hear about the fabulous cities and vast untraveled kingdoms I visited? Do you want to know about strange and exotic customs I have encountered? Well, you can read those lies in your history books and believe them if you chose. Something tells me, however, that you are less gullible than the others. No one but me knows the truth and though the humourists repeat “my” story it is possible that I have deceived them with lies, just as I may be deceiving myself. Sometimes I seem to remember incidents which the others have made up and other times I seem to doubt the facts which I know to be true- how I got this scar, where this tattoo was done and what it signifies, and so on. These hot, smoky bars make everything appear unreal at a certain point…They would not believe me when I told them about the world I had see. Unlike their marble heroes I have seen what they never could. Oh yes, they founded colonies and brought back cargoes of ivory and fruit and gold and tobacco. But they only skirted the lands to which I sailed and they never went beyond what they wanted to find. They came back to die in their splendour and fame, while I came back to be mocked and reviled. Do you know that when I returned some years after having set out from this very harbour, even the lighthouse beam would not shine to guide me home? It was as though they knew that the news I was bringing was not to their liking. Who wished to hear about the dread things I had seen when there were such heroes to laud and praise?’

He gazed into the past with his blind eyes seeing again what no man could bear to see now.

THE GREAT PHILOSOPHERS

2010-08-05T07:39:00.002+01:00

1. Socrates

Socrates had a cat. Not a very grand cat, it’s true but a cat nevertheless. He had no doubt about its ‘cat-ness’.

The cat often wondered what Socrates would do if he kept a canary instead: would he feed it or torment it?

On Mondays he’d call the cat “ψιψίνα” (1) and on Tuesdays he’d call it something else. It didn’t matter much as the cat ignored Socrates in any case. The cat called Socrates “Χονδρά γόνατα” (2) but Socrates never knew that. All he ever heard was ‘Meow’ or a strange Persian purring. At those sounds Socrates would fill a saucer with goat’s milk- cows hadn’t been invented then in Athens (or anywhere else for that matter) - and the cat would come trotting along for a guzzle. All round this seemed to be a mutually satisfactory arrangement (although the goat might have thought otherwise).

After the Elders had left the Pantheon, heading home to their wives (who knew how to bake a mean Aeolian tart) the cats- there were cats everywhere in ancient Greece- they would all saunter in, clean their whiskers and then have a good parley about life, circles and numbers, shadows and reality, and (inevitably) rats.

Socrates’ cat was a fine ratter. There was none better in the whole of Athens. I can’t speak for Sparta, of course and I expect Spartan cats would have argued the point. Socrates’ cat built traps from bits of string and old sandals, really old sandals, sandals that no respectable philosopher would wear when declaiming what it was that he might wish to declaim, irrespective of what it might be that the general populace (who usually gave philosophers a wide berth) wanted to hear.

The cat would catch innumerable rats. He knew they were innumerable because he couldn’t count them there were so many. That’s the thing about rats: where there’s one there’s a lot more, more than you or I or anybody can count. It’s not just because there are so many of them that they’re innumerable, but they’re bloody fast as well and you start counting one then don’t know whether that was two or three, so what the hell: innumerable would do!

Once the cat had weighed the rats he’d let them go back to their ‘ratctivities’, whatever they might be. The rats would usually give the cat a queer look over a shoulder and then bunk off for the nearest rat-hole, or failing that a ship at anchor, or a nice sack of grain. Odd for a cat to be a vegetarian, but then Socrates’ cat could deal a mean hand of ‘Bluff’ as well. Mind you, some thought the pack was fixed but you don’t argue with a cat with sharp claws.

When Socrates was spouting off to some fine looking youth- funny how he seemed to give the older citizens a bye- the cat would tug at his chiton, Socrates’ chiton, and generally polish old Socrates’ ankles and toenails. Cats know how to fawn! At such moments Socrates would look down and point and say (in that deep profound voice of his):

“Βλέπετε ότι η γάτα;” (3)

Alcipedes of Impetigo, or whatever the youth’s name was- they were never called Cecil, that’s for sure- would usually reply:

‘Yes?’

After all, you could hardly not see a great big ball of ginger fur weaving around the naked calves of the greatest living (or dead) philosopher. Then Socrates would be off on one of his rambles, chortling all the while as the cat rubbed against his legs:

“Ή μήπως νομίζετε ότι μόνο δείτε τη γάτα; Είναι ότι η ιδέα σας μια γάτα; Πού βρήκες αυτή η ιδέα μιας γάτας από;” (4)

The cat thought it all very silly and stalked off to show Socrates where the sardines were kept. The cat surmised that Socrates’ short-term memory must be in a bad way since he always seemed to forget where the goodies were kept. The cat was trying to work out a better system of stimulating Socrates’ memory than all that labour-intensive dancing around his legs.

The sardines, being at a lower end of the food chain (which had been invented then, by a cat if not by Diogenes the Dodgy), didn’t have much say in the matter. Their idea of heaven was:

μία αγκαλιά κοντά σε ένα σκοτεινό χώρο γεμάτο με λάδι (5)

As long as the key hadn’t been invented (Diogenes was working on it, but had only got as far as the plunger) they were safe from Socrates’ cat- or any cat (or idea of a cat) for that matter.

Notes:

1. “Puss”

2. “Knobbly-knees”

3. “See that cat?”

4. “Or do you only think you see the cat? Is that your idea of a cat? Where did you get that cat idea from?”

5. “A close embrace/ in a dark space/ full of oil” (Epiphallus of Oncae, fl c500B.C.)

2. Empedocles

Empedocles (‘MP’ to his mates) was short-sighted, long-winded and always getting in his own way. This was a great inconvenience if he happened to be going out of the door. He didn’t have so much trouble coming in, perhaps because he was often merrier returning than when exiting. No matter what the day or portents people when they saw him approaching, twitching and juddering about like a drunken oarsman in a sinking trireme, would shift rudder to give him a wide berth.

Like most philosophers Empedocles also had a way of confusing road signs and calling a spade a shovel. He was prone to muttering things like “Η ουσία! Η ουσία!” (1). Passers-by, as they swerved around him, would shout ‘Ναι! Ναι! Είναι εκεί!’ (2). Empedocles would trim his sails- he invariably carried a small parasol- and veer to starboard.

At home Empedocles was always creating a mess if he wasn’t trying out new conjuring tricks. He’d knock things off the shelf, if they were on the shelf, and trip over them on the floor, where they fell, if they’d been on the shelf in the first place. He’d stack the children one on top of the other. At first they thought this was fun, but over time it became a source of exasperation to them. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d made a perfect triangle, for example; but Empedocles would try for the perfect ‘thingy’- he’d’ve said “Je ne sais quoi” but French hadn’t been invented, along with Wellington boots and other useful items. Somehow a ‘thingy’ wasn’t as exciting for the children as a triangle, and they’d tumble all over the place like random atoms on holiday at the beach.

Mrs. Empedocles would shoo him out of the kitchen lest he shatter more of her precious amphora. It is a fact, perhaps little known outside of academic hexagons but a fact for all that, that no one could juggle plates and be a successful philosopher. Most philosophers drop the plates (or the balls) and either spend too much time sweeping up the pieces before their better halves come home, or –this is a sentence in which either/or can be used- they run themselves ragged trying to catch the loose balls. Dogs which should be doing this kind of thing are too caught up in sniffing each other or scratching fleas, or generally snoozing in the Mediterranean sun, which has that kind of effect on dogs and other animals. If ever you’re out for a walk one ancient Grecian afternoon and you happen to see a ball bouncing down the street, do yourself a favour and dive into the nearest doorway. As sure as there’ll be bulls in Pamplona, there’s bound to be a philosopher chasing that ball; and where there’s one philosopher there’ll be another. And where there are two philosophers you can bet your sandals and toupee a third will come along. They may not be good at whistling in the dark but one thing philosophers are good at is multiplying. The one thing a ponder of philosophers can’t abide, other than poorly cooked squid, is letting one of their fraternity have all the fun chasing random balls in the street. They don’t mind plates being swept up by one philosopher alone- ‘διακόπτουν μια πλάκα συρτάρι μέχρι ο ίδιος’ (3) is a motto sewn on all their vests- because that’s tedious in the extreme, or any neck of the woods. You’ll never see another philosopher offering to hold the pan for Schopenhauer, though they’re pretty darn quick in pointing out the pieces that have been missed! But when it comes to bouncing balls in any thoroughfare, cul-de-sac or whatever, they want everyone in on the act!

Except Empedocles, who only gets in the way and is a right Woosnam’s caddy. They’d rather he jumped in a volcano.

Notes

1. “The essence! The essence!”

2. ‘Yes! Yes! It’s over there!’

3. ‘Break a plate, sweep it up yourself’

3.Wittgenstein

Dear old Ludwig could never get the time right.

By the same token he seemed incapable of putting on the same coloured socks. It wasn’t that his drawers weren’t organised; oh no, far from it! His drawers were very well organised, Teutonically so one would say if one wanted to say anything about it at all. He had a specially constructed tallboy which was his pride and joy. Whenever he moved lodgings he would take it with him; that is, he would have someone take it for him, which is almost but not quite the same as taking it with him. The tallboy did not belie its name for it had eight drawers in all, whether numbered from the top or the bottom. In them, each thing/article/type/item separately stored, were his shirts (collared and collarless and all free of starch), his ties (no stripes just solid colours, and dots, and other shapes, but not stripes), his underpants (plenty of those, both Y-fronts and X-fronts, though none of your wimpish boxers), his kerchiefs, his trousers (all with turn-ups so that he might have the pleasure of fishing therein and discovering who knows what), his sweaters, his scarves and his foibles. He had plenty of foibles as well as a considerable collection of pokers, but these he kept in a shed marked ‘SHED’ so that he didn’t get it confused with the outback karzy. Many people would have made do with a gazunder: not Wittgenstein! He composed most of his Tractatus whilst sitting in splendour in his outdoor ‘One-Flush’ convenience.

Ludwig was always climbing ladders to clean windows so that he could see things as they really were. He was also prone to turning up late for his lectures and only half-hosed. (A fully hosed philosopher in Cambridge was a rarity at any time- Editor.) The more enterprising of his students, those who bothered to turn up at all before noon, were running a book on which ankle would be unsheathed on this or that day of the week and what the colour of the sock on the other foot would be. The smarter students calculated the odds while those with the keenest eyesight strained to glance under his turn-ups. A whisper would go around the class once the result was known and money discreetly changed hands. Ludwig believed that the attentiveness of his students was the result of his erudite and witty habit of speaking half in German, half in Latin, half in error and half in jest- that is when he could find the words for whatever it was you needed words for.

He was also known (though not at the same time) to throw away numerous eggs. Had he not thrown them away- and his reason for throwing them away is lost in the sands of time (somewhere near Scarborough) - he would have preferred them soft boiled. It is a common misapprehension that Wittgenstein was a hard-boiled man. This inference, drawn from the way he stood before a roaring hearth, or a croodling kitten, is easily understood if all things were equal, which they’re not. Language, after all, has to have some flexibility if it isn’t merely to be a pastiche akin to spilled spaghetti, or misshapen macaroni, or any pasta.

The postman on the walk was often bruised about the head by precipitated eggs.

“That Ludwig is a menace,” he would mutter, wiping his brow. “If he threw hard-boiled eggs, as befits his character, I could catch them. As it is I’m being battered and bruised while pedalling my bicycle, which is no fun at all- the battering and bruising, that is, for I would quite like pedalling if it weren’t for the bollards.”

Catching a bus was quite beyond Ludwig. Request stops caused him to scratch his head. He was astute enough to know that scratching someone else’s head was a social misdemeanour in the corridors of Cambridge. What people thought of it in Oxford he’d never bothered to discover. He didn’t know his way about that well.

Ludwig, who always took Wittgenstein with him since he could never bear to be anywhere without himself, would try to make the matinée at the old ‘Roxy’ cinema (now sadly boarded up and the haunt of peewits) especially when ‘Blue Angel’ was showing. Wittgenstein, despite his devotion to Marlene Dietrich, had never been able to watch it all the way through, a fact of which Marlene Dietrich was quite unaware (as much as she was of Ludwig’s devotion and existence). There were various reasons for this, some of them understandable, others more bewildering than anything else and some quite senseless (sinnlos). He would enter the darkened auditorium late, irrespective of what the advertised starting time was. This meant that though he might see the middle and end of the film (but not necessarily at the same showing) he had never seen the beginning- or, at least he thought he hadn’t. He was as pleased to be able to think a negative as he was to lick his vanilla ice cream cone, which he invariably consumed with exactly the same number of licks- to have done otherwise would have caused him considerable angst (angst). He enjoyed sitting in the darkened auditorium- same seat, same aisle every time- listening to Marlene purring like a well-tuned Mercedes Benz. He could not envisage her as a Volkswagen.

Most of Ludwig’s best ideas and pensées came to him as he sat in the ‘Roxy’ licking his ice cream cone watching Marlene’s sinuous movements across the silver screen. There was something of the eel about her, he thought on more than one occasion. Whenever she struck a match Ludwig would shiver with excitement and an idea would come to him. Once he had had a pensée he would have to scribble it down, which was difficult in the dark, whether in the ‘Roxy’ or not: difficult but not impossible. Ludwig’s cuffs were always immaculately clean when entering the cinema but a mass of squirls and squiggles when he finally emerged into the afternoon light. The management of the ‘Roxy’ often wondered where all the pencil stubs came from and the landlady of his digs, distraught at the state of his linge, would mutter Spanish imprecations (if she was Spanish: sometimes she was Lithuanian in which case her Spanish was non-existent and Lithuanian was her trump). Wittgenstein couldn’t decipher his cuffs but would happily transcribe the balderdash into Germanic gnomisms or odd oxymorons which he’d then read out to the boys at the dart club. They’d nod and mutter approvingly to each other.

‘That’s Ludwig for you; daft as ein pinsel (a brush)’ they’d say; and sure enough he was!

4. Plato

Plato spent much of his time- much, not most- wearing sandals and poking about in caves.

He spent some of his time- some, not a lot- trying to invent a contrivance which would capture shadows.

He was also renowned for his prize peaches. There wasn’t much that he didn’t know about peach fuzz.

The very first ‘ball-hit-ball’ table was made by Plato. The table was covered with the stretched skins of dried peaches. Once he’d invented the game Plato had to think up some rules. He didn’t like things just to be random and play-as-you-will. His neighbours when they looked at the contraption thought it was a landing area for small birds. In fact small birds were quite at home on it, though they tweeted unhappily when Plato tried to insist on rules for their landings and take-offs. Dogs would sniff warily at the table and give it the tail. Cats, of course, didn’t bother to acknowledge its existence. Someone suggested it could be improved by suspending a mirror above it; but that only confused the sparrows (a type of small bird) when they came in to land and cooked them when the sun was in the ascendance.

Then Plato had a great idea. Well, really it was his wife’s idea. She grew fed up watching him mope in front of a shadow with a net and one day (it could have be a Thursday) shouted at him: ‘How about putting balls on it and hitting them around with sticks?’ This at least got Plato out from under her feet and into his lumber-yard. He finally found a branch that didn’t have a kink in it. Then he put some spheres on the table- there were usually plenty of spare spheres lying around from the classes he gave in shapes of shadows.

A few neighbours- those who weren’t mowing their lawns or fighting the Persians- and some professional busy-bodies and loitering philosophers gathered around at a safe distance. Plato’s wife, who was hanging the washing, sighed and went looking for hairpins, a sure sign that she was exasperated. Plato’s brow was furrowed- a sure sign that he was perplexed rather than ploughed. Which side of the sphere to hit? Did it make any difference? Could you hit a sphere? And what was the object, the stick or the sphere- or Plato himself? If he imagined a sphere being hit would that be real, or did he need to inscribe it on a slate and hang it beside the table?

Eventually, after much squinting- he was rather adept at that- Plato took aim at a sphere, struck it with the end of the thin branch and watched the sphere roll off the side of the table and on to the ground. A dog ran off with it- the sphere not the ground.

The onlookers all laughed. They were an uncouth lot in chitons; out of chitons they were naked.

Of course, Plato realised, I’ve not invented pockets yet! But then one man can’t think of everything. Bugger this for a game of soldiers, he thought; I’m going back to trapping shadows. Whether he succeeded or not no one can say, but it does get dark at night, doesn’t it?

5. Pythagoras

If there was one thing that annoyed his wife more than anything it was Pythagoras’ habit of leaving cut-out shapes littering the floor. The dog was always chewing them. Whenever his wife pleaded with him- Pythagoras, not the dog- he said he was on the verge of making a break-though for the perfect shape.

‘That’s the back of my hand,’ Mrs. Pythagoras would say, exhibiting same.

At this old Pythagoras would execute a perfect curve and head for the door. Grabbing his son Quadrant, who had been quietly disembowelling small insects, Pythagoras would make for the playground.

While Quadrant joined the other children in the sandpit and demolished ziggurats by the score if they didn’t meet his exact specifications, Pythagoras chewed the fat and other ambrosial substances with his cronies.

Poor old Mnemenies, despite his terrible stutter, related how he’d invented the k-k-kite, only to get short shrift from his wife who had actually wanted a woven carpet for the marble floor. Anaxel, past master of the whoop, slip and plunge at the Olympian Games was pressing an ice bag to the back of his head where a fusillade of amphora had made contact. His donkey had fallen at the fourth trapezoid and explaining the absence of drachmas had been beyond his limited wit. Dear deaf Decibel, whose snoring drove the gods to the other side of Olympus each night, was miming how his spouse had attempted to throttle him.

‘We don’t need another goat!’ she had bawled as he exhibited his latest purchase. ‘I asked for a fur coat!’

If only I could invent the wheel, Pythagoras thought; or something more useful like the corkscrew or a step-ladder. Anything would do! Then I’d be made. One day you won’t be able to sneeze without whatever it is that I’m trying to imagine. There’s no end to things that need a shape, or shapes that need a thing in them. Once I’ve made it, or them, you’ll be able to float them, fly them, fling them, flush them, finger them and eff them all over the place. I’d particularly like to invent the reversible hole. That would be a most useful addition to mankind’s trolley, once I’ve invented the trolley. Just think what you can do with a reversible hole!

So Pythagoras mused while his son played and the daylight waned, the goats butted and soon enough it was time to wander home for his bath.

6. Buddha

He sat. (वह सेंट)

7. Aristotle

Aristotle- ‘Arry to his friends- was an Alpha male. If there was one thing he knew about it was beans. Maybe he couldn’t tell a nag from a thoroughbred, or a slider from a knuckleball, but he sure knew his beans. Most people when you mention beans politely flip their sandals, consult a distant sundial and head for the chariot stop. But when Aristotle pinned your lead-off foot to the ground with his walking stick and began to wax lyrical about beans most folk reached the shores of Lethe quicker than a Persian could say Thermopylae.

It probably hadn’t helped that Père Aristotle- ‘Pop Tot’ to his contemporaries- had made the family fortune by trading beans.

‘Beans,’ Aristotle would say in that leisurely way of his which told you you were there for the long haul; ‘Beans are a means to an end.’

‘Come on ‘Arry, let go me foot,’ the victim might snivel.

People knew he meant well even though he was a bore, always trying to get them to fork out drachmas for one of his books. Usually if you bought one of the tomes he carried around in a sack with him, or a packet of beans (he always had two sacks, one for the beans and one for the books) he’d release your foot. There were plenty of limpers in Athens in those days and podiatrists made a fortune. There were those suspicious types- you know the kind I mean- who thought Aristotle deliberately pinned the foot so as to guarantee that he’d win the annual hop, step and jump competition.

Long before Bostonians tried floating tea as a way of irritating people in red coats, the Athenians were famous for their ‘bean feasts’. The Wind Flute had been specially invented for the bean harvest festival. Satyrs were rather good at that kind of piping.

‘Never get downwind of an Athenian’ was sage advice to new recruits joining the Greek army long before anyone knew about broccoli.

But as soon as the festival was over Aristotle would start moping. He began to invent useless things, like moonbeam stretchers which nobody wanted. Such inventions cluttered up the yard and drove Mrs. Aristotle crazy.

‘What use is this thingamajig?’ she’d ask. ‘Invent a vacuum cleaner, for Zeus’ sake!’

With that Aristotle would slide off to the barber shop where he found the mirrors soothing and the hot face towels a comfort.

8. Descartes

Like many famous philosophers Descartes was always adding things up and sipping infusions of exotic teas. He could see no good reason for getting out of bed before noon, though he could prove that God existed. For a time he applied himself to the problem of windmills, of which there were many dotted about the landscape of the Dutch Republic waving their arms and tormenting the likes of Don Quixote, whose horse Rocinante always got stuck in the mud in mid charge.

Having solved the problem of windmills- the solution is too complex to be summarised here but any standard reference work on Descartes will enlighten the reader if he or she is still awake- Descartes decided that bubbles would be his next tasks. Since he spoke French, wore clogs and wrote in Latin this seemed quite a sensible idea.

It was dear old René who first put the horse before the cart. In his illustration the cart is actually a hearse- he had a rather dry sense of humour, perhaps a natural defence against the wet climate in the polders where he spent most of his adult life. In essence, however, the more generic term ‘cart’ would serve. The cart could, for example, be conveying apples rather than corpses, which if upset might walk away in a huff. With the cart before the horse a lot of pushing is involved, unless the horse is trained to walk backwards, which I understand most horses prefer not to do, in case they should inadvertently back over a precipice. The reason for a horse having its head at the front and its tail at the back is precisely so that it can see where it’s going. Had God intended it otherwise surely the head would have been at the rear and the tail at the front. And if the tail was at the front it would have to be called something other than the tail.

Such difficulties were removed at a stroke by Descartes stratagem: horse first then cart. Simple!

Feeling pleased with himself- that is thinking how pleasurable it was to have been so clever and deducing that it was himself who was thinking, rather than a pig in a poke- Descartes (for that was the name by which he knew himself and presented himself to others) decided to treat himself to a new wig, or perhaps name a tree after himself.

BORIS VIAN

2010-07-29T10:12:00.006+01:00

CHESS & THE WORLD OF PATAPHYSICS

As we now know it wasn’t Boris Vian who died in the ambulance that day in June 1959.

Paris was in the grip of a typical Gallic strike involving ambulance drivers and funeral services. In the morgues throughout the city corpses piled up like lemmings approaching their leap of faith. Those few ambulances permitted by the unions to operate would be routed by dispatchers to pick up more than one patient or casualty. Thus it was a certain Mademoiselle Iris Bovan who died. She was a transvestite cabaret chanteuse already in situ and transit when the ambulance was directed to the Cinema Marbeuf. It is likely that the ambulance attendant Gédéon Molle confused the two unconscious bodies as they were unloaded from the vehicle.

Boris Vian was later discharged from hospital after a severe bout of indigestion and flatulence- he had dined on le Boudin avec pommes Savoyards - brought on by the screening of ‘Je irai crâcher sur vos tombes’. By the time he was released news of his ‘death’ had already hit the newsstands and reached the airways. Rather than spoil the party, and relishing the tributes from those who had previously sneered at his œuvre but now were sniffing money in biographies and articles, Boris decided to disappear. He took a taxi to Orly and boarded a flight to Guadeloupe where he began his new life. He assumed another pseudonym, adding to those known, to whit: Baron Visi, Bison Ravi, Andy Blackshick, Michel Delaroche, Vernon Sullivan, Hugo Hachebuisson, Zéphirin Hanvélo, Claude Varnier et ainsi de suite. Every year on June 23^rd, the quasi-anniversary of his so-called passing into the other world and the oblivion of an unmarked grave in le cimetière de Ville-d’Avray, Avenue Thierry, the ‘widow’ Ursula would receive a single Vanilla Fragrans and this poem on a card signed “Nelson E. Read, an admirer”:

Comment me trouvez-vous?

Cheri

J’adore le charme

De ton soleil

De t’ombre

Et le charme

De ta cassolette.

After his ‘death’ Boris Vian continued to pursue a varied career. He sang with Leonard Cohen and wrote the lyrics to several significant heavy metal anthems by the likes of Metallica and Def Leppard. He was consultant to the development of the acting careers of people as disparate as Arthur Mullard and Jess Conrad. He lobbied to have yodelling (Swiss style) included as an Olympic sport. His treatise on soil analysis inevitably lead to him being sought as an after dinner and pre-cremation speaker. He wrote profoundly on the uses of shoelaces and their relationship with knots and crosses in the Muslim and Christian ethics. He showed absolutely no interest in the Tour de France preferring to re-educate budgerigars and teach seals how to skip a rope. He concocted plot ideas for several ‘Saint’ novels published under the name of that character’s creator Leslie Charteris. He was the first to expose the little known fact that Wilfred Hyde-White was a female Negro male impersonator whose real name was Winifred Shooblack from Bouville (or thereabouts).

A feature somewhat ignored in the plethora of articles and books about Boris Vian is his chess ability. It is known that circa 1941, when he was twenty-one, Boris founded ‘le Cercle Legâteux’ club for chess and other creative activities, such as flying bizarre and cosmic kites in St. Cloud Park. There is a minute, made by Boris as the Secretary General, of a five player tournament held on 7^th June 1943 at 29 rue Pradier. Among the players, as well as Boris, seem to have been Francois and Jean Rostand (the latter later a famous biologist). Vian was instrumental in forming the still existing ‘Le Petit-Roque’ Club d’échecs de Sèvres-Ville d’Avray in 1945.

No attention whatsoever has been given to the first and only ‘Grand Tournai de Pataphysiques’ which took place in Paris in September 1953.

The participants were Boris Vian, Don Evany Marqué (Raymond Queneau), Marcel Duchamp, Fernando Arrabal, Alfred Jarry (participating as Kempelen’s Turk through André Breton as the medium) and (playing hors de combat and for a small fee) Dr. Savielly Tartakower. The latter had just won the French Championship, beating Claude Hugot (with whom he tied on 7 points) on Sonneborn-Berger tie-break. Arrabal for over thirty years had written a chess column for the weekly ‘L’Express’. Marcel Duchamp, a Transcendent Satrap in the Pataphysic movement like Vian and Arrabal, had more or less given up his artistic career to concentrate on chess. In the 1930s he had contributed to a chess column in ‘Ce Soir’ and with Vitaly Halberstadt had written ‘L’opposition et les cases conjugées sont réconciliées’. In an article ‘Amors décues’ published in ‘Tribu’ (Toulouse) in 1986, Queneau wrote about his experience with chess and playing André Gide in Torri de Benneio in 1948.

The tournament was a double-round affair- Queensbury rules c’est entendu- and if you touched an opponent’s piece then you had to move it, even if out of sequence. The games were played chez les Vians.

Among the spectators could be seen a rather vexed and peevish Jean-Paul Sartre. He knew little about philosophy and nothing about chess, preferring the click and clack of boules; but he did like to be ‘là où l'action était' and that September it decidedly was at 6 bis Cité Véron in Montmartre.

Each round commenced after an extemporary performance by the jazz group Claude Abadie. They would continue to play with their instruments muted ‘par les moyens justes ou malpropre’ throughout the duration of each round. On several occasions- counting was strictly prohibited unless it was in the tempo of ‘one-two-grunt’, ‘three-four-huff’- Miles Davis burst into frenzied improvisation on the ocarina. Juliette Greco would entertain those unable to understand the chess strategy by singing various chansons- ‘Si tu t’imagines’, ‘Les feuilles mortes’ and ‘Soixante-neuf be-bop’ for example. Checks would be announced with a rattle of the snare drum. Drinks were served regardless of colour and had to be consumed before anyone made a move. Duchamp won a special prize for leaping up to photograph the board with his Polaroid Land camera (model 95), then urinating in a convenient flower pot (thus enhancing its value at the subsequent auction of Boris Vian’s effects) and daubing a self-portrait of Salvador Dali (alas unable to attend as he was caught in a lift somewhere in the Basque country) on the curtains.

The young and not yet famous Alain Resnais, whose short film ‘Les Statues Meurent Aussi’ was becoming the talk of the boulevard intellectuals, filmed some of the activities and a 35mm unedited film is known to be in the hands of a private collector who bought it for a pittance at an Hôtel Drouot auction some years ago. Queneau, seated at a chess board opposite Tartakower, is shown consulting the Cartes Taride ‘Grand Plan de Paris Réseau Métropolitain’. Snatches of their conversation, when interpreted by a lip-reader, suggest they are trying to work out the most direct route- on foot and by Métro- from Bonne Nouvelle to Abbesses. Boris Vian is shown discussing the Poincaré conjecture with Juliette Greco, who is powdering her nose and studying her hair in a spherical mirror. Jean-Paul Sartre, clutching a well-thumbed copy of the red-covered ‘Almanach Vermot’, shoulders his way into their discussion and demands to know when his work will be profiled on RTF’s ‘Lectures pour tous’. Vian advises him to dial ‘Odéon 84-00’ and Sartre meanders away writing the number down on a cuff. We glimpse Duchamp in a corner browsing through the latest ‘Cycles Aiglon’ and ‘Cycles Rexor’ catalogues. Queneau, interviewed after one game by the journalist Louis Pauwels, is heard expounding on his collection of bottles of rare perfumes. His pride and joy, he says, is a full bottle of Pleville and Dalon’s 1917 original ‘Flamme de Glorie’. ‘J’essaye de dépister une bouteille de Gelle Frère 1878 “Violette”,’ Queneau says winking roguishly. When asked his opinion of the interminable Presidential elections Jarry/Breton/The Turk shouts ‘Merde! Ubu! Merde!!’ three times and the witty Franco-Polish grandmaster Tartakower claims a draw by repetition. The film ends with a group of masked Zigzagistes watching enthralled as Arrabal demonstrates a knight’s tour of the chess board in a darkened mirror. In the background can be seen Jean-Paul Sartre, perhaps the worse for drink, frantically trying to light his pipe with a tulip.

As well as the absence of Simone de Beauvoir- she was seriously knitting at this time- other notables of the day who either did not or would not attend these proceedings were: Jacques Tati (on holiday), Yves Bonnefoy (‘Je suis rêver trop occupé’), Louis Bobet (still saddle-sore), Emil Coran (‘C'est un dérangement trop grand’), and Django Reinhardt (who had inexplicably died that May). Denis Degaré, intent on insulting anyone, tried to gatecrash but was floored with a left-right combination by the recently retired middleweight boxer Robert Villemain who was acting as doorman.

A private pamphlet of ten pages, published by the ‘College de Pataphysiques’ in 1953, contains twenty of the games. Several have been lightly annotated by Dr. Tartakower. Others have been adorned with poems by both Vian (e.g. ‘Postillionage’) and Queneau (e.g. ‘J’ai soif de coucheries’). The pamphlet is described in various catalogues as ‘nardigraphiées en noir avec la griffe de l’auteur en rouge et la Chandelle en vert, sur papier cerise’. We have space only to quote a few of the games.

Paris –septembre 1953

1	S.Tartakower	X	1 1	1 1	1 1	1 1	1 1	10
2	M.Duchamp	0 0	X	1 1	1 1	1 1	1 1	8
3	B.Vian	0 0	0 0	X	1 1	1 1	1 1	6
4	R.Queneau	0 0	0 0	0 0	X	½½	1 1	3
5	F.Arrabal	0 0	0 0	0 0	½½	X	1½	2½
6	A.Jarry/A.Breton	0 0	0 0	0 0	0 0	0½	X	½

(1) Tartakower,S - Arrabal,F [C06]

Pataphysique Paris, 1953

1.e4 e6 2.d4 d5 3.Nd2 Nf6 4.e5 Nfd7 5.c3 c5 6.Bd3 Nc6 7.Ndf3 cxd4 8.cxd4 Qb6 9.Ne2 f6 10.exf6 Nxf6 11.0–0 Bd6 12.b3 A novelty 12...0–0 [12...Bd7 13.Bb2 0–0–0 14.Rc1 Kb8= 0–1 Anderson,F-Yanofsky,D/ Winnipeg 1953 (39)] 13.Be3 Bd7 14.Ne5 Be8 15.Nf4 Nd8 16.Rc1 Ne4 [16...Bb5 was better 17.Re1 Bxd3 18.Qxd3 Re8=] 17.Qg4 Bxe5 18.dxe5 Qa5 The Queen is too far away from the action against her soulmate [18...d4 19.Bxe4 dxe3 20.fxe3 Qxe3+ 21.Kh1 Qxe4? 22.Nxe6 Nxe6 23.Rxf8+ Nxf8 24.Qxe4+-] 19.f3 Nd2 This piece is now lost [19...Nc3 saves the piece but loses material 20.Rc2 Rc8 21.Nxe6 Nxe6 22.Qxe6+ Bf7 23.Qe7 Rfe8 24.Qxb7+-] 20.Rf2 Nc6 21.Rxd2 Nxe5 22.Qxe6+ Nf7 23.Qf5 g6 24.Nxg6 Nh6 25.Qxf8# 1–0

(2) Tartakower,S - Jarry/Breton/The Turk [A00]

Pataphysique Paris, 1953

1.g4 d5 2.Bg2 c6 3.h3 e5 4.d4 [4.d3 Bd6 5.Nd2 Ne7 6.c4 Be6 and Black stands better 1–0 Brown,F-Van Vliet,L/ London 1904 (27)] 4...e4 5.c4 Bd6 6.Qb3 Ne7 7.Nc3 0–0 8.Bg5 dxc4 9.Qxc4 Be6 10.Qa4 Qb6 11.Qc2 Qxd4 [11...f5= leaves Black with a slight edge] 12.Bxe4 h6? Weakening the kingside [12...Ng6 13.Nf3 Qb4 14.h4 is to White's advantage] 13.Rd1 Qb4 14.a3 Qb6 15.Rxd6 After this Black's position is hopeless 15...hxg5 16.Bh7+ Kh8 17.h4 Opening the h-file and heralding the final attack on the enemy monarch 17...g6 18.hxg5 Kg7 19.Qe4 Qc5 20.Qf4 f6 21.Ne4 fxg5 22.Qh2 Qc1+ 23.Rd1 1–0

(3) Vian,Boris - Tartakower,S [C58]

Pataphysique Paris, 1953

1.e4 e5 2.Nf3 Nc6 3.Bc4 Nf6 4.Ng5 d5 5.exd5 Na5 6.Bb5+ Bd7 7.Qe2 Be7 [7...Bd6 8.Bxd7+ Qxd7 9.Nc3 0–0 10.d3 Bb4 11.0–0 Bxc3 12.bxc3 Qxd5 13.c4 with advantage to White 1–0 Anderssen,A-Falkbeer,E/ Berlin 1851 (41)] 8.Qxe5 It is unwise to open the e-file with his King still uncastled [8.Nc3=] 8...0–0 9.Bxd7 [9.Be2 Re8 10.Qd4 Bf5 and Black is better] 9...Nxd7 10.Qc3 Bxg5 11.Qxa5 Though White has recovered the piece his King is now caught in the centre 11...Re8+ 12.Kd1 Nf6 13.c3 Ng4 14.Kc2 Nxf2 15.Rf1 Re2 16.h4 [16.c4 Ng4 is still good for Black] 16...Bxh4 17.Qb5 Qe8 18.Qb4 The White King is hunted down- exchanging Queens was his best [18.Qxe8+ Raxe8 19.c4 Ne4–+] 18...Re1 19.Rxf2 Bxf2 20.d6 Qe2 21.Na3 Qd1+ 22.Kd3 Re3+ 23.Kc4 a5 24.Qb5 c6 25.Qf5 b5+ 0–1

(4) Tartakower,S - Duchamp,Marcel [B20]

Pataphysique Paris, 1953

1.e4 c5 2.b3 d5 [2...e6 3.Bb2 d5 4.exd5 exd5 5.d4 Nc6 6.dxc5 d4= 1–0 Kalinsky,N-Dus Chotimirsky,F/ Kiev 1903 (41)] 3.e5 Bf5 4.Bb5+ Nc6 5.Bxc6+ bxc6 6.Nf3 e6 7.d3 g6 8.Bg5 Be7 This Bishop is valuable and should have been preserved [8...Qc7=] 9.Bxe7 Nxe7 10.h3 h5 11.Nc3 Qc7 12.Qd2 a5 [12...g5! was a better idea so that White is discouraged from castling short] 13.Na4 Qa7 14.c4 [14.Qc3± was stronger] 14...d4 [14...Rd8 was preferable] 15.0–0 0–0? Magnetism-but his King is now attacked [15...h4 was a better idea and then perhaps walk his King to g7 16.Rfe1 Rh5±] 16.Qh6 f6 The only defence but ultimately inadequate 17.exf6 Rxf6 18.Ne5 Qc7 19.Rae1 Qd6 20.g4 hxg4 21.hxg4 Raf8 22.Kg2 Now a Rook gets to the h-file and Black is quite lost 22...g5 23.Qxg5+ Bg6 24.f4 Kg7 25.Rh1 Ng8 26.Qh4 Rc8 27.Nxc5 Qxc5 28.Qh8+ Kf8 29.Nd7+ 1–0

(5) Vian,Boris - Queneau,Raymond [C39]

Pataphysique Paris, 1953

1.e4 e5 2.f4 exf4 3.Nf3 g5 4.h4 g4 5.Ne5 Nf6 6.Bc4 d5 7.exd5 Bd6 8.d4 Nh5 9.Nc3 [9.Qd2 Qe7 10.Kd1 0–0 11.Qe1 Re8 12.Nd3 Qd8 and Black is on top 0–1 Elkin,L-Morphy,P /New York 1857 (25)] 9...f5 [9...Bf5 10.Ne2 Bxe5 11.dxe5 f3 12.gxf3 gxf3 13.Bg5 f6 14.exf6 Qd6 15.Qd4 fxe2 16.Bxe2 Qg3+ 17.Kd2 0–0 18.Rag1 1–0 Morphy,P-Bird,H /London 1858; 9...Qe7 10.Bb5+ Kd8 11.0–0 Bxe5 12.dxe5 Qxe5 13.Re1± 1–0 Steinitz,W- Deacon,F /London 1863 (24)] 10.Qd3 Qe7 [10...Qf6 was the better move when White's advantage is slight 11.Bd2 Nd7 12.0–0–0 etc] 11.Kd1 0–0 12.Ne2 f3 13.gxf3 Qg7 14.Nf4 Nxf4 15.Bxf4 h5 The Black King is vulnerable and subjected to a vigorous attack 16.Qe3 Re8 17.Bh6 Qe7 18.fxg4 hxg4 19.Bg5 Qg7 20.h5 Kh7 21.h6 Qh8 22.Re1 Nd7 23.Bf4 Nf6 24.Qf2 Nh5 25.Bd3 Nxf4 26.Qxf4 Qf6 27.Qxg4 Bxe5 [27...Rg8 28.Qf3+-] 28.dxe5 Rxe5 29.Rg1 Re8 30.Kd2 Qxh6+ 31.Qg5 Re4 32.Rh1 Rh4 33.Rxh4 Qxh4 34.Qxh4+ 1–0

(6) Jarry/Breton/The Turk - Arrabal,F [A02]

Pataphysique Paris, 1953

1.f4 e5 2.fxe5 d6 3.exd6 Bxd6 4.Nf3 g5 5.g3 g4 6.Nh4 Ne7 7.d4 Ng6 8.Nxg6 [8.Ng2 Nc6 9.e3 h5 10.Bd3 h4 11.Bxg6 fxg6 12.Nxh4 Rxh4 13.gxh4 Qxh4+ 14.Kd2 Bf5= 0–1 Schenkein,J- Spielmann,R/ Vienna 1910 (23)] 8...hxg6 9.Qd3 Nc6 10.c3 Bf5 11.e4 Qe7 12.Bg2 0–0–0 13.0–0 Ne5 14.Qe3 Nf3+? A false trail [14...Be6=] 15.Bxf3 gxf3 16.e5 Bc5?! Desperation 17.dxc5 White can safely accept the piece 17...Rd3 18.Qf2 Bh3 19.Re1 Bg2 20.b4? Now Black mounts a winning attack [20.c6! leaves White on top 20...b6 21.Nd2+-] 20...Qe6 21.Qc2 Rxh2 Forcing mate 22.Kxh2 Qh3+ 23.Kg1 f2+ 24.Kxf2 Qxg3+ 25.Kg1 Qxe1+ 26.Kxg2 Rg3+ 27.Kh2 Qg1# 0–1

NEW BOOK

2010-06-22T08:41:00.003+01:00

Just published by SPIRE PUBLISHING (www.spirepublishing.com) is my new collection of short stories and poems.

The ISBN 9781926635422 and it can be ordered from AMAZON.