Well Done God! Page 5

  Anyone who imagines himself or herself slighted by not being included above can fill in his or her name here :

  It would be a courtesy, however, to let me know his or her qualifications for so imagining.

  Are we concerned with courtesy ?

  Nathalie Sarraute once described literature as a relay race, the baton of innovation passing from one generation to another. The vast majority of British novelists has dropped the baton, stood still, turned back, or not even realised that there is a race.

  Most of what I have said has been said before, of course ; none of it is new, except possibly in context and combination. What I do not understand is why British writers have not accepted it and acted upon it.

  The pieces of prose (you will understand my avoidance of the term short story) which follow were written in the interstices of novels and poems and other work between 1960 and 1973 ; the dates given in the Contents are those of the year of completion. None of them seem to me like each other, though some have links and cross-references ; neither can I really see either progession or retrogression. The order is that which seemed least bad late on one particular May evening ; perhaps I shall regret it as soon as I see it fixed.

  Make of them what you will. I offer them to you despite my experience that the incomprehension and weight of prejudice which faces anyone trying to do anything new in writing is enormous, sometimes disquieting, occasionally laughable. A national daily newspaper (admittedly one known for its reactionary opinions) returned a review copy of Travelling People with the complaint that it must be a faulty copy for some of the pages were black ; the Australian Customs seized Albert Angelo (which had holes justifiably cut in some pages, you will remember) and would not release it until they had been shown the obscenities which (they were convinced) had been excised ; and in one of our biggest booksellers Trawl was found in the Angling section . . . .

  B.S.J.

  London

  4.5.73

  Aren’t You Rather Young to be Writing Your Memoirs ?

  At dusk by the old mill I was spinning for pike in the pools beyond the race.From the parapet of the bridge. Leaning on the noticeably bent iron railing surmounting the parapet of the bridge.

  A romantic opening. But you would be unwise to give up at this point. Or to make assumptions.

  One could reach this mill, I did in fact reach it myself, by way of an unmetalled track, after passing through a railway crossing at road level the gates of which had to be operated manually or pedestrially by those set on passing through with their vehicles. The gates carried warnings as to their congruous operation. I contrived to pass my car through without incident, without transgression of the regulations interpreted as I understood them, according to my lights, whatever they are, unless one of them was that green eye which assured me no train was officially due to run me down during the period of my transcursion. This was a source of sufficient comfort to me. As hardly less to my wife, I assumed, for she said nothing. My wife was with me on the first occasion.

  I baited the hook of the lighter rod with a lob for my wife and indicated generally where I imagined she might profitably display it in the water below the bridge.Soon she grew tired, just as I finished baiting the hook of the second rod, of this spot and moved behind the mill to the traditionally still, flat, wide, smooth millpond before the weir which plashed and boomed under the clapboard walls of the probably seventeenth-century building.

  Later still she grew tired of even this, and wandered off rodless, unrodded, into the meadows lying low towards the railway embankment, no doubt in expectation of those objets trouvés which come to her hand so readily and as if fortuitously. Aha ?

  I write this down so you may know in time of the circumstances of my first visit, which in turn led to my second visit.

  I was float-fishing for roach or perch or anything (it was so long since I had last fished that I was not feeling particular, was hardly in a position to choose, in any case) with lobworms as the comehither. I had myself moved from the race to the millpond and back again to the race, and in the fading light my eyes were engaged in persuading my brain of doubtful bites as my float cocked and uncocked in the distance on the current : at which series of points, as I reeled in to assure myself that my lob was still at least nominally on duty, if not wriggling with that enticingly sinuous shimmy which represented the most I hoped from it, a splash on the surface that my experience told me could not have been made by a fish of less than half a pound in weight greatly encouraged me. And so comforted was I that I immediately floated off my bribe yet again into the race, thinking that this darkening hour must be just the time the perverse fish chose to feed.

  It was now on this first occasion a man approached me from round the corner of the mill with (I could tell) the sureness of a native. I at once explained that I had asked permission to fish, and he was then friendly enough. He described the day he had caught twenty chub in this place (though he was careful not to give away the exact pool) and he told me that old one about reeling in a threequarter pound roach and having a pike twothirds swallow it a few yards from the bank. In return (what else did I have ?) I told him how there had been a splash on the surface as I reeled in just before his arrival. The man expressed an opinion that this splash was caused by a small pike going for the moving float. It seemed reasonable. But so much does.

  My wife returned, and it appeared that she was now more covetous of the house standing at a right angle to the mill than of any fish which might be found in either the race or the millpond behind. And indeed it was a fine house, of about the middle of that period known as Georgian, I should imagine, of apparently sound local brick, three storeys and three dormers, the latter above nearly-suppressed eaves : perhaps therefore having ten bedrooms, and with a bowed extension at the downstream end.

  The man was willing to talk about anything, conversation it now becomes clear was what he had approached me for in the first place rather than to chide me for fishing in reserved waters. His father had owned the mill house. . . .but you will not be interested in that. It was on my second visit that the thing in which I hope to interest you happened.

  On this second occasion, then, as a result of the opinion expressed by the man, I was spinning for pike at dusk by the old mill in the pools beyond the race. It was not a cold evening, but I was glad of the exercise provided by the action of casting, reeling in, retrieving, and casting again. I was enjoying it, if you must know.

  It was not the man I had seen on the previous occasion, but another. And he was in a car, a Hillman Husky about two years old, if I am not mistaken. He came swishing by me as I stood by the malformed railing on the bridge, the car lurching and bumping in his haste on the stone-studded road. He stoppped just over the bridge and his arrival coincided with that of two young men as they climbed a fence from the meadow in which I hope I have established the millpond was situated. This coincidence appeared to be intentional, to be no coincidence, in fact. For he (the man in the car) quickly opened his driver’s side door (which was on the side farther from the two young men) and he swung his legs out, first one leg, and then the other leg : he had done it many times before, I could see that from the assurance, from the expertise, with which he did it. Very quickly he was round the front of his stationary Husky, to accost the two young men, block their way, almost. He seemed quite angry, from his movements I could tell that, at the distance he was from me.One of the young men had a shotgun, the taller of the two younger men had a double-barrelled shotgun, the stock snugly under his left armpit, his left hand round the barrels a few inches towards their muzzles away from the triggerguard, in what I took to be the classical position for maximum sporting safety, the gun in this way pointing at the ground so that it would do least damage if inadvertently discharged.The car and the group of three countrymen were too far away for me to overhear their conversation, but from the situation I posited (not unreasonably ?) that the two young ones were poaching, or had offended in some other wise against campestral l
aw or custom, and that the driver of the car, incensed with what many would presumably consider to be justified outraged righteousness, had seen them from afar, had leapt to his saddle, so to speak, and cut them off near to the very spot where I had chosen to spin for pike.

  Having in my own way accounted for this event to the furthest extent to which I was prepared to speculate, I turned and leant my stomach back again on the bridge rail. I wondered whether I should feel guilty that this stomach has perhaps garnered unto itself more than a reasonably average, or at least fair (but what is fair ?), share of the world’s produce. The extent to which the circular-section sank into it gave rise to this serious question. Besides, I was spinning for pike : that much is quite clear to me.

  There was a gunshot. It was the sound of the gunshot which made me turn, of course, from my pursuit of the predator of the green depths, as they say, probably, but my head was round quickly enough for me to understand what had happened almost as if I had been watching the three men all the time. The gun was still pointing at the ground, but from where it was directed there rose a small cloud of cordite smoke, of dust as well, not very far from the older man’s right foot. That the foot had not itself been hit by any of the shot from the cartridge fired I assumed from the way the man stood his ground, only his face and clenching and unclenching fists indicating he was further outraged. I could not decide whether the shot had been fired deliberately or not. The fairhaired young man holding the gun did not have a threatening or warning look on his face, but, on the other hand, neither did he seem surprised nor apologetic. As I watched, the older man came to some decision. Without saying a further word to the other two, he walked back round the front of his car, opened the door, entered, slammed the door and, shortly, reversed past me over the bridge at a speed not really compatible with safety in that disorienting direction, slewed to the left, stopped, and drove forward past the mill house out of my line of vision.The two young men were walking off down the lane towards the level crossing gate when I next looked in their direction, the shotgun still carried in its recommended safe position as it had been all the time I had seen it.

  The elements of this situation were such that further speculation as to motives, indeed, as to what had happened, were pointless, on my part, in the circumstances. It did occur to me that perhaps some felony had been committed, in which case I might conceivably be required at some future date to give an account of the incident as I had witnessed it. This did, however, seem to me unlikely.

  I returned to my fishing, casting carefully to avoid the weedbeds while yet spinning my spoon close enough to attact any lurking monster (as I thought) resident therein. As usual my attention wandered, and very soon I was thinking of the provenance of colours, how Tyrian purple comes not from the inkfish or calamary, or from pulpi in general, but from the murex shellfish ; of how sepia from the inkfish was used as a writing fluid, hence (how could it be otherwise ?) the name of this cephalopod ; whereas brown onions will give a green dye highly regarded by leather workers of the past and present-day fakers of the past. Soon I began to feel that since no pike showed signs of giving itself up I might just as well think about these things first as I was packing up, then as I was driving home, and finally (for that day anyway) over and after the dinner my wife (or the friends we were staying with) had, it made me slightly guilty to expect, prepared. The packing I did easily, some (not I) would say lazily, by unsocketing the rod into two parts and laying it in the boot after making sure that the line and hook were effectively clear of snags. It was this easiness, or laziness, which in fact enabled me, quite by chance, to be present at what you must be hoping for by now : an end.

  Driving off easily, carefully, in a pleasant state of tiredness, towards the house that was for those few days home, I had gone about — I don’t know, a mile or so, — on the metalled road in the opposite direction from the level crossing, when I came upon — indeed, I had to slow down to avoid it — the Husky of the man I had seen by the bridge not long before. He was talking to a policeman on a bicycle. I drove on and past.

  The conclusion I hoped for was that the informed and uniformed policeman rode off, down the mile or so to the mill, over the bridge, along towards the level crossing, and over it, up until the three-ply road became a metalled minor one. And failed to find the two men with the shotgun.

  But you can provide your own surmises or even your own ending, as you are inclined. For that matter, I have conveniently left enough obscure or even unknown for you to suggest your own beginning ; and your own middle, as well, if you reject mine. But I know you love a story with gunplay in it.

  I am concerned only to tell you what appears to me to have been the truth, as it has happened to me, as it appears to have happened to me. Why me ? That, I may honestly reply, is a good question. Have I not interested you enough to make you want to read this far ? Have there not been one or two wry moments, the occasional uncommon word ?Why do you want me to tidy up life, to explain ?Do you want me to explain ?Do you ask of your bookmaker that he explain ?Madame, I am a professional !

  Mean Point of Impact

  CONFIRMED 0035 HRS ENEMY OCCUPATION

  OF CATHEDRAL SAINT ANSELM 07364219

  STOP AWAIT FURTHER ORDERS BATCOM

  Elias was the man John wanted, Elias of Caen who had worked at Amiens and Salisbury, had learnt the subtle lessons of St. Denis (where it started) and Chartres, Elias who was still young enough to see a cathedral designed and built and consecrated : to see it done, to have it finished in John’s lifetime too.

  John’s was the initial act of will to build, build, a will sustained through nearly thirty years, and the first exercise of it was in persuading Elias. This he did by trusting the mason’s sense of what was now possible and remarkable in architecture, and by offering him as if equal partnership in the project ; and he was fortunate, too, in that Elias met and married a woman of the village shortly after he arrived, so that John was able to secure for him the final respect of and position in a narrow community by making him Magister Elias.

  Have care for the comfort of your men, but do not sacrifice atmosphere for comfort.

  Neither atmosphere nor comfort here, in this dark : we might be anywhere, as well be nowhere.

  They sank the footings thirty feet until they came to the water table. There were those who said that this was not deep enough, and that they should find another site away from the river where there was bedrock nearer the surface ; others that they should build a lighter, smaller structure, even to have no spire at all on the tower ; but Elias argued that thirty feet was enough, just enough.

  So they outlined the cruciform in trenches, three hundred feet in length and one hundred and eighty across the transepts, and filled them with seventy wagonloads a day of rubble from two quarries and most of the ruins within ten miles or so.

  And John stood on a nearby hill and saw the shape of his long cathedral on the ground at last, no longer lines on paper.

  Work above ground began first on the nave, and progressed as rapidly as John could have hoped : within eight years it was up to clerestory height, and another five saw it vaulted over. Work on the west front was not far behind, and at the completion of the nave it had been finished up to the height of the stringcourse just above the great circular window to which Magister Elias had given five anaconcentric thicknesses through to the inner wall : there was no other like it in Europe at the time.

  Map reference 07364219 . . .

  The spire of the Cathedral of St. Anselm . . .

  Yes.

  Sixteen years after John had first persuaded Elias to build his cathedral there was a fire which severely damaged the partly-built choir and chevet, and which in its wake brought disagreement between Elias and his assistant Nicolas over how they should rebuild. John’s will resolved the first problem by raising yet more money from the Crown to offset the loss ; and, seeing that Elias’ integral conception of the cathedral was being threatened, successfully diverted Nicolas’ need and talen
t for innovation by setting him the Chapter House to design. This he did in the new Decorated style, with fan vaulting from one slender column, and having a perfect echo that made the place like an extension of one’s skull ; but whose acoustics could make heard everywhere an unwary bishop whispering at a Chapter meeting : a light, small-scale foil to the hard strength of the main building.

  Just south of east, bearing 108° as near as dammit. They’ll confirm that from the air, presumably just before dawn.

  The best travelling detailer was an atheist, a wencher, an artist. Elias employed him for his skills, not for his opinions or his morals : because he treated stone honestly, revelled in its own qualities, did not try to make it seem like wood or plaster, exploited stone for what it exactly was. The detailer’s mildly ungrateful revenge on his religious patron took the form of a monkey gargoyle which from the choirmaster’s room at clerestory level appeared from the back to be hunched over with its hands between its thighs ; but from the front it presented a very different aspect. By placing an oval pebble in a runnel so that it alternately held and released water the detailer contrived that during rain the monkey masturbated in passably lifelike spurts. No one except the detailer was ever in a position to see this, he was the only one who ever appreciated and laughed at it : he thought of it as art for his sake. The monkey saluted rain with fertile abandon until the middle of the seventeenth century, when runnel corrosion and wear of the pebble caused a malfunction of the simple mechanism.

  Range 8,500 yards equals elevation 21-3° on the clinometer.

  Elias had always known of the narrowness of his foundations’ loadbearing margin : the certainty that the tower would never carry the spire he had planned came just before his fifty-fifth birthday, but his disappointment was tempered by the realisation that he could build to the height he wished, and perhaps even higher, by adoption of Nicolas’ Decorated style for a pierced, hollow spire which would be two-thirds or less the weight of a solid one. So Elias and Nicolas worked together in great peace to build a spire that subtly changed its appearance as those on the ground walked past at various distances, being fretted and light and delicately proportionate, the interplay between masonry and space, pierced rondels and finials.