Eschol House, St Mawes, Cornwall
This project was commissioned by ARTS FOR HEALTH CORNWALL as an element of their Art With Older People project, winner of the Guardian Public Service Award 2009.
Each week I would work with a group of residents to determine the shape and content of pieces of writing, poetry or prose, often stimulated by associations with a particular word or title chosen at random, or an old photograph. Then I would take the pieces away and complete them, to be read back to the group at the next meeting. Eventually all the writing was collected in the book Tales by the Sea, sold to support further activities in the care home. In many ways this was a project about listening to each other. Here is the work we made together.
Each week I would work with a group of residents to determine the shape and content of pieces of writing, poetry or prose, often stimulated by associations with a particular word or title chosen at random, or an old photograph. Then I would take the pieces away and complete them, to be read back to the group at the next meeting. Eventually all the writing was collected in the book Tales by the Sea, sold to support further activities in the care home. In many ways this was a project about listening to each other. Here is the work we made together.
WEEK ONE
On The Music (Norfolk Rhapsody by Ralph Vaughan Williams)
It’s like the sea
Smooth
Peaceful
Like the top of a hill in sunshine
It’s very good
But it’s nothing special
It’s boring
When’s it going to start?
Smooth
Peaceful
Like the top of a hill in sunshine
It’s very good
But it’s nothing special
It’s boring
When’s it going to start?
WEEK TWO
some words - Beautiful
flowers, an orchid
little children
a butterfly
a rose
sea states and the sea
The Bird of Paradise
today
little children
a butterfly
a rose
sea states and the sea
The Bird of Paradise
today
some words - Quiet
a mouse
church
peace
a library
a dead calm sea
a lighthouse
inside a jar
reading
an examination
church
peace
a library
a dead calm sea
a lighthouse
inside a jar
reading
an examination
some words - Comfortable
A favourite chair
a calm lake
my bed
a bean bag
with friends
by the fire in the winter
watching the fire
security
comfort food – big pots
porridge, stews, cakes, pancakes
you can feel comfortable anywhere
a calm lake
my bed
a bean bag
with friends
by the fire in the winter
watching the fire
security
comfort food – big pots
porridge, stews, cakes, pancakes
you can feel comfortable anywhere
some words - Uncomfortable
A dentist’s waiting room
wet in the rain, horrible
with strangers
squashed into a tube
sitting on an uncomfortable chair
queuing
a busy train
being pushed back into a crowd
thunderstorms – disturbance
when you’re used to being in the front row
and you are not in the front row
not being in your own situation
a soldier mixing with civilians
operating in a totally different way
wet in the rain, horrible
with strangers
squashed into a tube
sitting on an uncomfortable chair
queuing
a busy train
being pushed back into a crowd
thunderstorms – disturbance
when you’re used to being in the front row
and you are not in the front row
not being in your own situation
a soldier mixing with civilians
operating in a totally different way
The Sea Today
calm
changeable
very blue
vast
sails
the biggest view in Europe
you can see the curvature of the earth
smooth
small waves or none at all
ripples, laps
a hissing sound
from the wind’s energy elsewhere
basking sharks
seals
dolphins
sometimes a porpoise
fish – mackerel, bass, hake
line fishing
shore fishing
crabbing, though you can’t do anything with them
fascinating
calm
changeable
very blue
vast
sails
the biggest view in Europe
you can see the curvature of the earth
smooth
small waves or none at all
ripples, laps
a hissing sound
from the wind’s energy elsewhere
basking sharks
seals
dolphins
sometimes a porpoise
fish – mackerel, bass, hake
line fishing
shore fishing
crabbing, though you can’t do anything with them
fascinating
calm
Summer on the Beach
In a wooden rowing boat on the calm sea off Portscatho one warm, late summer day, sat three people. There was George Smythe, his friend Alexander Parker and George’s younger sister, Jane. All of them had fishing rods but only one of them was catching fish. George had finally allowed Jane to come along only because she kept going on and on at him, and for some reason Alexander too seemed to want her company in the boat. George had given her the oldest, most battered rod, reserving the best for himself. But it seemed the fish would only take the bait on Jane’s hook. She had no sooner cast than she was reeling in again.
George had been hoping to show off in front of his friend Alexander. He certainly had not planned to be shown up by Jane. There was ten years difference in their age, which meant he had always regarded her as a baby, as a burden, always tagging along with him when he was trying to have fun with his friends, embarrassing him. And here she was doing it again!
“I’ve heard the fish prefer the scent of a woman. Perhaps that’s why they choose Jane’s line,” said Alexander.
George, determined to find an excuse for his annoyance, bristled. “Are you saying my sister smells?”
“Stop it George,” said Jane, smiling at Alexander. “He didn’t say anything of the kind.” Alexander smiled back, but his face had gone very red.
On the beach Sally Smythe, George’s and Jane’s grandmother, was trying to light a fire of driftwood. Her grandchildren and their friend Alexander would be back soon with their catch and George had insisted that fresh fish must only be cooked on an open fire and straight from the boat. But the wood was very damp and would not light, and Sally had used up nearly all the matches she had brought from home. And to make matters worse she had to put up with her son Harry, George’s and Jane’s uncle, on holiday from his parish in Oxford. Harry complained about everything. He had just moved on from moaning about the seaweed – how badly it smelt in the warmth of the sun, making him feel quite ill – to complaining about two local fishermen, who had chosen to disregard Harry’s dog collar while walking past deep in conversation about the state of the fishing industry, and treat the picnickers to a string of juicy swear words which, to Harry’s even greater annoyance, caused his mother merely to smile, turning to outright laughter when Harry failed to find words to express his indignation, and could only sit opening and shutting his mouth like a dying fish.
But at last a plume of smoke revealed that Sally had successfully lit the fire. “Well, at least that’s something,” sniffed Harry. “I cannot imagine why such a simple task took you so long, mother.”
“I didn’t notice you helping very much, Harry,” said Sally. “Fortunately I managed to find a piece of dry wood, otherwise I would never have got the fire going at all.”
“Mother,” frowned Harry, “Where is my antique rosewood and ivory walking cane?”
The boat came back to the beach, in an uncomfortable silence broken only by the sound of the oars in the rowlocks as Alexander rowed the fishing party ashore. The keel rasped on the sand and George vaulted out in a rage, tripped and sat down in the warm, shallow water. He waddled angrily up the beach, while Jane and Alexander caught each other’s eye and tried not to laugh out loud. They gathered up Jane’s catch and hurried after George towards the smoke of the fire.
Harry and George were each sitting in their own silent rages when Jane and Alexander arrived at the picnic place. But the smell of baking fish soon reached their angry noses and reminded their stomachs that it had been a long time since lunch. Despite themselves, both the men found themselves watching Sally as she extracted the silver packages from the ash and unwrapping the fishes, each with their small parcel of onions, garlic and butter, Sally’s own recipe. And as they all ate the feast their bad moods evaporated in the well-being of a full belly. They forgot about their grievances – Harry realised the gnarled bough of cherry he had found that morning could be carved into an even better walking cane – more interesting, more all his own – and George, in his mind had completely rewritten the story of the fishing expedition in a way that made him an absolute hero, gallantly letting his kid sister claim the credit for the entire catch, while really all the expertise – choosing the perfect fishing place, showing her just how to cast, and where – was his. In the pub tonight he would once more be the hero.
Alexander watched as the food did its work on the other men, relieved that the horrible atmosphere had lifted. He wondered why Sally and Jane had strolled away, apparently to study a very uninteresting-looking rock. And then, borne on the first of the warm evening breeze, he heard the sound of their laughter.
George had been hoping to show off in front of his friend Alexander. He certainly had not planned to be shown up by Jane. There was ten years difference in their age, which meant he had always regarded her as a baby, as a burden, always tagging along with him when he was trying to have fun with his friends, embarrassing him. And here she was doing it again!
“I’ve heard the fish prefer the scent of a woman. Perhaps that’s why they choose Jane’s line,” said Alexander.
George, determined to find an excuse for his annoyance, bristled. “Are you saying my sister smells?”
“Stop it George,” said Jane, smiling at Alexander. “He didn’t say anything of the kind.” Alexander smiled back, but his face had gone very red.
On the beach Sally Smythe, George’s and Jane’s grandmother, was trying to light a fire of driftwood. Her grandchildren and their friend Alexander would be back soon with their catch and George had insisted that fresh fish must only be cooked on an open fire and straight from the boat. But the wood was very damp and would not light, and Sally had used up nearly all the matches she had brought from home. And to make matters worse she had to put up with her son Harry, George’s and Jane’s uncle, on holiday from his parish in Oxford. Harry complained about everything. He had just moved on from moaning about the seaweed – how badly it smelt in the warmth of the sun, making him feel quite ill – to complaining about two local fishermen, who had chosen to disregard Harry’s dog collar while walking past deep in conversation about the state of the fishing industry, and treat the picnickers to a string of juicy swear words which, to Harry’s even greater annoyance, caused his mother merely to smile, turning to outright laughter when Harry failed to find words to express his indignation, and could only sit opening and shutting his mouth like a dying fish.
But at last a plume of smoke revealed that Sally had successfully lit the fire. “Well, at least that’s something,” sniffed Harry. “I cannot imagine why such a simple task took you so long, mother.”
“I didn’t notice you helping very much, Harry,” said Sally. “Fortunately I managed to find a piece of dry wood, otherwise I would never have got the fire going at all.”
“Mother,” frowned Harry, “Where is my antique rosewood and ivory walking cane?”
The boat came back to the beach, in an uncomfortable silence broken only by the sound of the oars in the rowlocks as Alexander rowed the fishing party ashore. The keel rasped on the sand and George vaulted out in a rage, tripped and sat down in the warm, shallow water. He waddled angrily up the beach, while Jane and Alexander caught each other’s eye and tried not to laugh out loud. They gathered up Jane’s catch and hurried after George towards the smoke of the fire.
Harry and George were each sitting in their own silent rages when Jane and Alexander arrived at the picnic place. But the smell of baking fish soon reached their angry noses and reminded their stomachs that it had been a long time since lunch. Despite themselves, both the men found themselves watching Sally as she extracted the silver packages from the ash and unwrapping the fishes, each with their small parcel of onions, garlic and butter, Sally’s own recipe. And as they all ate the feast their bad moods evaporated in the well-being of a full belly. They forgot about their grievances – Harry realised the gnarled bough of cherry he had found that morning could be carved into an even better walking cane – more interesting, more all his own – and George, in his mind had completely rewritten the story of the fishing expedition in a way that made him an absolute hero, gallantly letting his kid sister claim the credit for the entire catch, while really all the expertise – choosing the perfect fishing place, showing her just how to cast, and where – was his. In the pub tonight he would once more be the hero.
Alexander watched as the food did its work on the other men, relieved that the horrible atmosphere had lifted. He wondered why Sally and Jane had strolled away, apparently to study a very uninteresting-looking rock. And then, borne on the first of the warm evening breeze, he heard the sound of their laughter.
WEEK THREE
some words - Frightening
scariness
imagination of what might happen
the darkness
a loose horse
people doing something that ladies don’t like
something driving at you on the motorway
snakes
big spiders
bees and wasps
rats or dogs
heights
flying
rough seas
women
you need something to cling on to.
imagination of what might happen
the darkness
a loose horse
people doing something that ladies don’t like
something driving at you on the motorway
snakes
big spiders
bees and wasps
rats or dogs
heights
flying
rough seas
women
you need something to cling on to.
At the End of the Day
After lunch of soup and sandwiches, Johann and Christine, the activity leaders, gave them a little lecture on safety and they set out on their first expedition together.
It was early summer. The sun shone warmth through the trees, but there was a cooling breeze as they carried the boat towards the lake. The water was a smooth, dull green. Monica, the shortest of the party, her long curly hair whipped round her face by the breeze, soon grew tired of reaching up to keep hold on the boat and stopped taking any of the weight. Ben and Linda resented this, and thus began another of the bickering arguments that had been going on all day - in fact ever since they had arrived at the camp the previous afternoon. Johann and Christine exchanged a despairing glance. Unless these children somehow learned to get along, this was going to be a long, miserable week.
When they reached the lakeshore, Johann supervised the launching of the boat, the smallest and least stable of all the craft owned by the activity centre. He carefully climbed in.
“OK, said Christine, “Now which of you is going first?”
“I am!” said Linda, and Monica, and Ben simultaneously.
“No,” said Christine, patiently. “Johann has already explained that the boat is too unstable to take more than one of you along with him. So you’ll have to take it in turns.”
But Monica was not prepared to wait for a turn. She simply got into the boat. Stung by this, Linda got in as well. “Look!” shouted Ben, “They’ve just got in!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Johann. He let go of the tree root with which he had been mooring the boat and pushed off with the paddle.
“That’s not fair!” shouted Ben.
“Shut up baby,” taunted Linda as the boat moved slowly away from the shore. Monica giggled.
This infuriated Ben. He ran to the edge of the water and launched himself into the air, landing half in and half out of the boat. The boat dipped its gunwale under and began to fill with water as Ben’s momentum carried the boat far out into the middle of the lake. Linda and Monica screamed. Ben pulled himself into the boat, and his extra weight caused the boat to begin to sink.
"That’s it,” cried Johan. “We’ve had it. We’re all going to die. Swim for it!” He flopped out of the boat and away, leaving the three children to their fate.
“I can’t swim,” wailed Monica. The boat was now completely submerged. Ben panicked and flailed around in the water. “Help us!” called Linda to the useless adults.
Then the children heard the laughter.
Christine was sitting on the bank with tears rolling down her face, gasping for air. Then Johann too started laughing.
He was standing up in the lake and the water came up only to his knees. The boat had ceased to sink. Linda could feel mud between her fingers on the bottom of the lake.
Ben too stood up, and then so did Linda and Monica.
“You’re horrible!” shouted Monica at the red-faced Johann. Johann splashed water over her. Angry, Monica responded, sending large scoops of green lake over Johann’s laughing face. Ben and Linda joined in and Johann was buried beneath cascades. No one can remain indignant through a water fight: soon the three children too were laughing. Christine helped them onto the bank and they all laughed again at the streams of water that ran from their clothes. Johann pulled the boat to the shore where he bailed it out and they set off back to the centre. Now instead of niggling arguments there were jokes and laughter between the children. Christine and Johann exchanged another look – and this time a smile too. At the end of the day it was all going to be all right.
It was early summer. The sun shone warmth through the trees, but there was a cooling breeze as they carried the boat towards the lake. The water was a smooth, dull green. Monica, the shortest of the party, her long curly hair whipped round her face by the breeze, soon grew tired of reaching up to keep hold on the boat and stopped taking any of the weight. Ben and Linda resented this, and thus began another of the bickering arguments that had been going on all day - in fact ever since they had arrived at the camp the previous afternoon. Johann and Christine exchanged a despairing glance. Unless these children somehow learned to get along, this was going to be a long, miserable week.
When they reached the lakeshore, Johann supervised the launching of the boat, the smallest and least stable of all the craft owned by the activity centre. He carefully climbed in.
“OK, said Christine, “Now which of you is going first?”
“I am!” said Linda, and Monica, and Ben simultaneously.
“No,” said Christine, patiently. “Johann has already explained that the boat is too unstable to take more than one of you along with him. So you’ll have to take it in turns.”
But Monica was not prepared to wait for a turn. She simply got into the boat. Stung by this, Linda got in as well. “Look!” shouted Ben, “They’ve just got in!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Johann. He let go of the tree root with which he had been mooring the boat and pushed off with the paddle.
“That’s not fair!” shouted Ben.
“Shut up baby,” taunted Linda as the boat moved slowly away from the shore. Monica giggled.
This infuriated Ben. He ran to the edge of the water and launched himself into the air, landing half in and half out of the boat. The boat dipped its gunwale under and began to fill with water as Ben’s momentum carried the boat far out into the middle of the lake. Linda and Monica screamed. Ben pulled himself into the boat, and his extra weight caused the boat to begin to sink.
"That’s it,” cried Johan. “We’ve had it. We’re all going to die. Swim for it!” He flopped out of the boat and away, leaving the three children to their fate.
“I can’t swim,” wailed Monica. The boat was now completely submerged. Ben panicked and flailed around in the water. “Help us!” called Linda to the useless adults.
Then the children heard the laughter.
Christine was sitting on the bank with tears rolling down her face, gasping for air. Then Johann too started laughing.
He was standing up in the lake and the water came up only to his knees. The boat had ceased to sink. Linda could feel mud between her fingers on the bottom of the lake.
Ben too stood up, and then so did Linda and Monica.
“You’re horrible!” shouted Monica at the red-faced Johann. Johann splashed water over her. Angry, Monica responded, sending large scoops of green lake over Johann’s laughing face. Ben and Linda joined in and Johann was buried beneath cascades. No one can remain indignant through a water fight: soon the three children too were laughing. Christine helped them onto the bank and they all laughed again at the streams of water that ran from their clothes. Johann pulled the boat to the shore where he bailed it out and they set off back to the centre. Now instead of niggling arguments there were jokes and laughter between the children. Christine and Johann exchanged another look – and this time a smile too. At the end of the day it was all going to be all right.
WEEK FOUR
some words - Astonishing
satellite navigation
like magic
is there a woman on the satellite?
the sunshine after summer rain
sunsets and sunrises here
the view from the window
the garden
lots of fruit from a tiny seed
it multiplies so much
a bean
a huge sunflower
the human body
the precision of placing your feet in slippers
lots of things we take for granted.
like magic
is there a woman on the satellite?
the sunshine after summer rain
sunsets and sunrises here
the view from the window
the garden
lots of fruit from a tiny seed
it multiplies so much
a bean
a huge sunflower
the human body
the precision of placing your feet in slippers
lots of things we take for granted.
some words - Astonishing (by L)
The sea – paddling
a surprise
something out of the ordinary
a gift from heaven
a secluded bay – the ocean was kissing us
the sea lapping
that’s all the magic.
a surprise
something out of the ordinary
a gift from heaven
a secluded bay – the ocean was kissing us
the sea lapping
that’s all the magic.
Back to the Simple Life
Miranda was driving too fast. Miranda always drove this big new car too fast. The car did not belong to her or to her husband, or even to the company they had created when they had decided to get out of dairy farming on Phil’s old family farm. The car belonged to a leasing company and as soon as she misjudged a parking manoeuvre and scratched the paint, or it showed the slightest signs of age or mechanical failure, it would go back, to be replaced by a shiny new, even more up-to-date model. It was all very different from the old Land Rover they had once used to drive in the cows from the High Field for milking.
Miranda spent a lot of time on the road, driving through the whole of Cornwall and up into Devon and Somerset, sometimes as far as Bristol and back, visiting offices and warehouses and shops to gather orders for their range of heat pumps and solar panels, ecological methods of controlling the working environment. Miranda would arrive, made up and businesslike in her smart and Marks and Spencer clothes, her short hair permed into tight curls of artificial brunette, long earrings dangling, and charm yet another order from the proprietor or managing director. So successful was she that even when she had wearily returned home she had to spend the rest of her waking hours helping Phil to fulfil these orders, packing, stocking, despatching and answering enquiries. Before they both went away to university, Peter and Tessa had helped with these tasks but these days it was just the two of them. Sometimes she wished things were as they had been on the farm when they were first married, before they started the business. Sometimes she wished they could get back to the simple life.
“Miranda? Hello? Are you in there?” said Phil to her that evening as she tucked polystyrene around the item she was packing. “You were miles away. What were you thinking about?”
Surprised out of her reverie, Miranda looked at the clock on the wall of the old farm dairy that now housed the business. Somehow it had got to be half past ten, when it seemed that only a moment before it had been eight o’clock. “Oh, nothing,” she said. “I was just working out the best way to drive to Minehead tomorrow.”
“It seems to be taking you a long time to work out,” said Phil. “I’d go by way of Taunton, A30 and M5.”
But Miranda wasn’t listening. Once again she was lost in her thoughts, a look of grim concentration on her face.
“It’s no good,” said Phil. “I’ve got to sleep. Let’s knock off. Miranda?”
“Oh sorry,” she said. “You go in. I’ll only be a minute or two.”
In the morning she slept right through the alarm that brought Phil back to life with a groan as he remembered that this was to be a particularly demanding day. There was the meeting at the bank for a start, to increase the overdraft facility. Then there would be the lunch with the woman from the Regional Development Agency, which Phil would have to pay for.
Phil sniffed. There was a strange bitter quality to the air, and it seemed darker than it should be. He got out of bed and went to the window. “Miranda….” he said.
Phil and Miranda stood in the smoking ruins of the old dairy. There was nothing left – it had burned completely to the ground during the night and they had both slept right through it. They had called the fire brigade but there was really nothing to be done. Their business was gone – all the stock, all the paperwork, the computer digested by the fire into unidentifiable black sludge. They had been quite frank in their answers to the firemen’s questions – they had both been so exhausted after a fifteen hour day that they might well have left something simmering on the cooker they had installed so they could grab a quick bite without having to go into the house. “I hope to God the insurance is all in order,” said Phil, “Otherwise we’re ruined.”
A few weeks later the cheque arrived from the insurance company. It was a lot of money. “They’ve paid to replace the lot,” said Phil. “We’ll get an industrial unit to replace the old dairy. I’ll get some stock ordered, and we’ll be back in business.”
“Phil,” said Miranda, “Do we have to?”
“What do you mean?” asked Phil. “We’ve got to make a living somehow.”
“I’m tired of being a business woman,” said Miranda, “Dressing up and driving around all day. I want to get back to the simple life.”
They used the insurance money to rebuild the dairy just as it had been, and installed milking equipment. They started off with a small herd of Jersey cows, and, using their hard-won business skills, they insisted on the use of gold tops on the bottles that contained their milk. Things had changed while they had been out of farming. Times weren’t quite so hard these days. They expanded the herd and started to earn a reasonable living. They began to enjoy their lives.
“You know what?” said Phil one day, “I hated being a businessman. That fire was a blessing in disguise.”
Miranda smiled, but she didn’t say anything.
Miranda spent a lot of time on the road, driving through the whole of Cornwall and up into Devon and Somerset, sometimes as far as Bristol and back, visiting offices and warehouses and shops to gather orders for their range of heat pumps and solar panels, ecological methods of controlling the working environment. Miranda would arrive, made up and businesslike in her smart and Marks and Spencer clothes, her short hair permed into tight curls of artificial brunette, long earrings dangling, and charm yet another order from the proprietor or managing director. So successful was she that even when she had wearily returned home she had to spend the rest of her waking hours helping Phil to fulfil these orders, packing, stocking, despatching and answering enquiries. Before they both went away to university, Peter and Tessa had helped with these tasks but these days it was just the two of them. Sometimes she wished things were as they had been on the farm when they were first married, before they started the business. Sometimes she wished they could get back to the simple life.
“Miranda? Hello? Are you in there?” said Phil to her that evening as she tucked polystyrene around the item she was packing. “You were miles away. What were you thinking about?”
Surprised out of her reverie, Miranda looked at the clock on the wall of the old farm dairy that now housed the business. Somehow it had got to be half past ten, when it seemed that only a moment before it had been eight o’clock. “Oh, nothing,” she said. “I was just working out the best way to drive to Minehead tomorrow.”
“It seems to be taking you a long time to work out,” said Phil. “I’d go by way of Taunton, A30 and M5.”
But Miranda wasn’t listening. Once again she was lost in her thoughts, a look of grim concentration on her face.
“It’s no good,” said Phil. “I’ve got to sleep. Let’s knock off. Miranda?”
“Oh sorry,” she said. “You go in. I’ll only be a minute or two.”
In the morning she slept right through the alarm that brought Phil back to life with a groan as he remembered that this was to be a particularly demanding day. There was the meeting at the bank for a start, to increase the overdraft facility. Then there would be the lunch with the woman from the Regional Development Agency, which Phil would have to pay for.
Phil sniffed. There was a strange bitter quality to the air, and it seemed darker than it should be. He got out of bed and went to the window. “Miranda….” he said.
Phil and Miranda stood in the smoking ruins of the old dairy. There was nothing left – it had burned completely to the ground during the night and they had both slept right through it. They had called the fire brigade but there was really nothing to be done. Their business was gone – all the stock, all the paperwork, the computer digested by the fire into unidentifiable black sludge. They had been quite frank in their answers to the firemen’s questions – they had both been so exhausted after a fifteen hour day that they might well have left something simmering on the cooker they had installed so they could grab a quick bite without having to go into the house. “I hope to God the insurance is all in order,” said Phil, “Otherwise we’re ruined.”
A few weeks later the cheque arrived from the insurance company. It was a lot of money. “They’ve paid to replace the lot,” said Phil. “We’ll get an industrial unit to replace the old dairy. I’ll get some stock ordered, and we’ll be back in business.”
“Phil,” said Miranda, “Do we have to?”
“What do you mean?” asked Phil. “We’ve got to make a living somehow.”
“I’m tired of being a business woman,” said Miranda, “Dressing up and driving around all day. I want to get back to the simple life.”
They used the insurance money to rebuild the dairy just as it had been, and installed milking equipment. They started off with a small herd of Jersey cows, and, using their hard-won business skills, they insisted on the use of gold tops on the bottles that contained their milk. Things had changed while they had been out of farming. Times weren’t quite so hard these days. They expanded the herd and started to earn a reasonable living. They began to enjoy their lives.
“You know what?” said Phil one day, “I hated being a businessman. That fire was a blessing in disguise.”
Miranda smiled, but she didn’t say anything.
WEEK FIVE
some words - Fragile
If you drop anything you’ve had it
A lamp
glass
babies
fragile.
“That’s fragile – be careful!”
the word is always a warning.
It’s not fragile if it’s in a case
then it’s delicate
a matter of design.
We put up with things being fragile
because they’re useful or beautiful
perhaps fragile is beautiful.
In nature:
flowers
get damaged in order to pass their pollen
eggs
something inside needs to get out.
The fish tank isn’t fragile
but it’s still a disaster waiting to happen.
A lamp
glass
babies
fragile.
“That’s fragile – be careful!”
the word is always a warning.
It’s not fragile if it’s in a case
then it’s delicate
a matter of design.
We put up with things being fragile
because they’re useful or beautiful
perhaps fragile is beautiful.
In nature:
flowers
get damaged in order to pass their pollen
eggs
something inside needs to get out.
The fish tank isn’t fragile
but it’s still a disaster waiting to happen.
The Fish Tank 1
Mesmerising
relaxing
Micky Mouse fish
neons
romantic fish
kissing their relections
a catfish died
relaxing
Micky Mouse fish
neons
romantic fish
kissing their relections
a catfish died
The Picture With the Camel
Rachel, Arthur, Marian, Harold and Marie sat drinking coffee on the sofas in the lobby of the Hotel Medina, loudly proclaiming the thrills of foreign travel in this strange Arab land. The truth was that, since arriving yesterday or the day before, none of them had yet ventured beyond the doors of the hotel. Having come here, they had no idea what they might do in this low white town between coast and mountains. But when they had all got into conversation at lunch, each felt embarrassed to admit they had never left Europe before, or the USA in Rachel and Arthur’s case, though this was the case for all of them in these days of post war austerity and currency controls.
The Maitre d’hôtel, overhearing their cosmopolitan conversation, told them of a wonderful walk they could undertake. “It should take you no more than one hour,” he said, in his heavy French accent, before repeating it in French for Marie’s benefit. “You will see most things of interest in our town.”
Of course, there was no avoiding it then. They must all take the walk, though Arthur, having earlier complained of a slight headache, now said it was like a steel band around his head and that he had better go and lie down.
“Of course,” he said, “I would love to come with you, but I would only slow you down.”
“Oh, my poor Arthur,” said Rachel, “I must stay and nurse you.”
“No my dear,” said Arthur, “That certainly will not be necessary.” And off he went, pausing only to collect a copy of the International Herald Tribune from the Reception desk.
The others gathered in the lobby fifteen minutes later. At a loss to know how to dress for a walk in a desert town, even one with distant views of Europe across the Mediterranean Sea, they had put on their best visiting outfits. They set out into the afternoon sun and immediately realised how unwise they had been in this choice of dress, especially the jackets or, in Marie’s case, a full-length white cloth coat. The women found that their hats too were most unsuitable, failing to provide shade, while clamping a solid wall of heat to the crowns of their heads. Harold was very uncomfortable in his suit. Sweat ran a river down his back and burned like acid on his forehead. Rachel carried a huge black handbag containing a smart lightweight travelling coat she had ordered from Sears and Roebuck before they left Maine. “You never know,” she had said in their room to the smug, reclining Arthur.
They walked slowly along the street, seeking patches of shade from the appalling sun whose heat seemed to drape itself over them, threatening to carry them to the ground. It was quieter than they had expected at this central hour of the day, but several taxis slowed to drive alongside them, inviting them in every known European and American language to climb inside and save themselves from heatstroke in the name of Allah. But the travellers were too scared by the warnings they had been given, all the tales of White Slavery, kidnap, ransom or worse. They walked on and the vicious sun drove all thoughts from their heads except fear and the knowledge that they must keep moving. Fleeing yet another taxi, they turned a corner and found themselves in an area of open ground where the road petered out and they all stopped, exhausted, dehydrated. And it was then that they met the camel.
Marian became aware of it first, a hot hard wind on the back of her neck and a flapping noise in her right ear. She turned her head to find herself only inches from the dark liquid eyes and furry muzzle of a small dromedary. “Oh my God!” she yelled and jumped backwards, to land square on Harold’s instep.
“Ow,” shouted Harold, “Marian!” But turning to confront his wife, he too came face to face with the camel. “Marian!” he cried again, and screwed up his eyes in confusion.
There was a man with the camel, a tall man wearing a rough brown jubba, hood up against the sun. He scrutinised the sun-dazed white people and called out to two youths who disappeared into a nearby dark doorway and returned with a jug, which they offered to Rachel. “No, no,” she cried, “We don’t want to buy your pots. Jeez!”
“Buvez, s’il vous plait,” said the man. “Buvez, buvez!”
“He wants you to drink,” said Marie.
To drink – despite themselves this was an idea they could not resist. As the man in the party, it fell to Harold to be the guinea pig. He drank from the jug. “It’s water,” he said, and drank on.
“Harold, it says in the guide you shouldn’t drink the water,” said Marian. “It says you can catch – things….”
“Give it to me,” said Rachel. She poured the water down her throat, and also down her chin and all over the front of her blouse. Then it was Marie’s turn, and finally even Marian chose to accept the risk of catching “Things” and to drink herself back to a state of full compos mentis.
The camel had smelt the water and now thrust his woolly face against Marian’s and a searching tongue into the jug. Everyone laughed and even the camel looked cheerful.
“How much do we owe you?” asked Harold, taking out his wallet.
“Non, c’est rien,” said the man, indicating that Harold should put his money away. He introduced himself as Mahmoud, and the boys as Rachid and Ahmed. “They are his sons,” explained Marie. Rachid said something to his father in Arabic and the three of them laughed.
“What’s funny?” demanded Rachel. Rachid pointed at Marie’s wedge-heeled sandals. “In these shoes this lady’s feet look like the camel’s,” he said, in English.
“Pardonnez!” said Mahmoud. “Rachid, tais-toi!”
“A picture! We’ve got to have a picture,” said Rachel, producing a Box Brownie from her enormous bag.
Ahmed, fascinated by the camera, was allowed to take the picture. And that is how there comes to be a photograph of Marian holding the bridle of her new friend the camel, supported discreetly by Harold behind her, with Mahmoud and Rachid at either end of the group, Rachel covering the wet patch on her blouse with her hand and Marie proudly displaying her camel’s feet alongside those of the camel itself.
The Maitre d’hôtel, overhearing their cosmopolitan conversation, told them of a wonderful walk they could undertake. “It should take you no more than one hour,” he said, in his heavy French accent, before repeating it in French for Marie’s benefit. “You will see most things of interest in our town.”
Of course, there was no avoiding it then. They must all take the walk, though Arthur, having earlier complained of a slight headache, now said it was like a steel band around his head and that he had better go and lie down.
“Of course,” he said, “I would love to come with you, but I would only slow you down.”
“Oh, my poor Arthur,” said Rachel, “I must stay and nurse you.”
“No my dear,” said Arthur, “That certainly will not be necessary.” And off he went, pausing only to collect a copy of the International Herald Tribune from the Reception desk.
The others gathered in the lobby fifteen minutes later. At a loss to know how to dress for a walk in a desert town, even one with distant views of Europe across the Mediterranean Sea, they had put on their best visiting outfits. They set out into the afternoon sun and immediately realised how unwise they had been in this choice of dress, especially the jackets or, in Marie’s case, a full-length white cloth coat. The women found that their hats too were most unsuitable, failing to provide shade, while clamping a solid wall of heat to the crowns of their heads. Harold was very uncomfortable in his suit. Sweat ran a river down his back and burned like acid on his forehead. Rachel carried a huge black handbag containing a smart lightweight travelling coat she had ordered from Sears and Roebuck before they left Maine. “You never know,” she had said in their room to the smug, reclining Arthur.
They walked slowly along the street, seeking patches of shade from the appalling sun whose heat seemed to drape itself over them, threatening to carry them to the ground. It was quieter than they had expected at this central hour of the day, but several taxis slowed to drive alongside them, inviting them in every known European and American language to climb inside and save themselves from heatstroke in the name of Allah. But the travellers were too scared by the warnings they had been given, all the tales of White Slavery, kidnap, ransom or worse. They walked on and the vicious sun drove all thoughts from their heads except fear and the knowledge that they must keep moving. Fleeing yet another taxi, they turned a corner and found themselves in an area of open ground where the road petered out and they all stopped, exhausted, dehydrated. And it was then that they met the camel.
Marian became aware of it first, a hot hard wind on the back of her neck and a flapping noise in her right ear. She turned her head to find herself only inches from the dark liquid eyes and furry muzzle of a small dromedary. “Oh my God!” she yelled and jumped backwards, to land square on Harold’s instep.
“Ow,” shouted Harold, “Marian!” But turning to confront his wife, he too came face to face with the camel. “Marian!” he cried again, and screwed up his eyes in confusion.
There was a man with the camel, a tall man wearing a rough brown jubba, hood up against the sun. He scrutinised the sun-dazed white people and called out to two youths who disappeared into a nearby dark doorway and returned with a jug, which they offered to Rachel. “No, no,” she cried, “We don’t want to buy your pots. Jeez!”
“Buvez, s’il vous plait,” said the man. “Buvez, buvez!”
“He wants you to drink,” said Marie.
To drink – despite themselves this was an idea they could not resist. As the man in the party, it fell to Harold to be the guinea pig. He drank from the jug. “It’s water,” he said, and drank on.
“Harold, it says in the guide you shouldn’t drink the water,” said Marian. “It says you can catch – things….”
“Give it to me,” said Rachel. She poured the water down her throat, and also down her chin and all over the front of her blouse. Then it was Marie’s turn, and finally even Marian chose to accept the risk of catching “Things” and to drink herself back to a state of full compos mentis.
The camel had smelt the water and now thrust his woolly face against Marian’s and a searching tongue into the jug. Everyone laughed and even the camel looked cheerful.
“How much do we owe you?” asked Harold, taking out his wallet.
“Non, c’est rien,” said the man, indicating that Harold should put his money away. He introduced himself as Mahmoud, and the boys as Rachid and Ahmed. “They are his sons,” explained Marie. Rachid said something to his father in Arabic and the three of them laughed.
“What’s funny?” demanded Rachel. Rachid pointed at Marie’s wedge-heeled sandals. “In these shoes this lady’s feet look like the camel’s,” he said, in English.
“Pardonnez!” said Mahmoud. “Rachid, tais-toi!”
“A picture! We’ve got to have a picture,” said Rachel, producing a Box Brownie from her enormous bag.
Ahmed, fascinated by the camera, was allowed to take the picture. And that is how there comes to be a photograph of Marian holding the bridle of her new friend the camel, supported discreetly by Harold behind her, with Mahmoud and Rachid at either end of the group, Rachel covering the wet patch on her blouse with her hand and Marie proudly displaying her camel’s feet alongside those of the camel itself.
WEEK SIX
some words - Clean
Not dirty
sparkling
spotless
pristine
absolutely
like kit in the army
boots
water that isn’t clean is dangerous
distilled water
clothes
thoughts
polished
scrubbed
sandblasted
pure
have a swill and clean my hands
alcohol gel in the vestibule
when you get up
before it gets dirty
preparing food
‘straight in the dustbin’
Hospitals
shining
clear
not unclean
or grubby
or murky
or filthy
sparkling
spotless
pristine
absolutely
like kit in the army
boots
water that isn’t clean is dangerous
distilled water
clothes
thoughts
polished
scrubbed
sandblasted
pure
have a swill and clean my hands
alcohol gel in the vestibule
when you get up
before it gets dirty
preparing food
‘straight in the dustbin’
Hospitals
shining
clear
not unclean
or grubby
or murky
or filthy
Working Against the Flood
It was autumn. The people of the town knew that tonight would see the highest tide for many years. The sea defences had been inspected and augmented with sandbags where necessary. But as darkness fell the wind got up from the east, howling round the town chimneys. People gathered near the harbour to stare out to sea. This was trouble. The wind would hold back the ebb tide. When the sea rose again it would be even higher - much higher.
Then came more bad news: the drizzle that drifted across the town in the onshore gale had turned into a lavish rain up in the hills, a month’s fall in a single day and night, running quickly into the valleys. The river was rising and once it was backed up by the huge tide the sea defences would be useless because the town would flood from inland. Tonight could see a major catastrophe here.
Following warnings on local radio and television, the Parish Council hurriedly convened a meeting in the church hall to which they summoned people by knocking on their doors. Arthur Emmet, chairman and the local sailmaker, spoke first. He had been on the phone to Highways and the news was alarming. The rain had overwhelmed the bridges upriver and the town was already cut off. The tide would be full very early the next morning. They had only a few hours and their own resources to create some defence against the flood.
Arthur called on their county councillor, real name Thomas Mitchell but always known as Tom Mix, what materials were available in the town for the prevention of the coming disaster. Tom Mix was evasive but eventually admitted that there was nothing at all.
“Sorry Tom,” said Arthur Emmet, “I don’t understand. There always used to be sandbags and so on in the store down in the park.”
“Cut,” said Tom Mix. “All that stuff was costing too much money at the Council Tax payers expense.”
“But – we’re the Council Tax payers!” called a woman’s voice. It was Elizabeth Watt, wife of the local doctor, usually very quiet and reticent. “It’s a fat lot of good us saving two pounds twenty-five on our tax bills if we lose our houses and everything we’ve got.”
This caused much alarm in the hall. “No call for that sort of talk,” said Tom Mix. “I was elected on a tax-cutting manifesto.”
“Tell that to the husbands, wives and children of the people who drown here tonight,” said Elizabeth. “We don’t even have a doctor here – John is trapped the other side of the bridges.”
“Well, you’re so clever, why don’t you stop the flood, Queen Canute?” sneered Tom Mix.
“All right,” said Elizabeth Watt, “I will.”
She organised the townspeople into teams of six. She sent two of the teams down to Mr. Sargant’s hardware and garden supplies shop for his bags of fertiliser, grass seed, and everything else that came in some kind of sack; plus all his turf and his green plastic garden waste bags, and take it all to the riverbanks. There she set more teams to filling the empty bags with sand from the rapidly covering beach. They worked their socks off, using all these materials to build the banks up to the level of the sea defences.
The waters grew. They ran out of bags and it looked as though the steadily rising tide and the flood of water from the hills would beat them. Elizabeth Watt sent everyone back to their homes to collect their store of black plastic rubbish bags. The sand was now covered, so the bags were filled in place with mud and shingle. They wouldn’t last long but perhaps it would be long enough. But still the river continued to rise, six feet, eight feet, ten feet above the usual level.
“Looks like we’re done for Liz,” said Arthur Emmett quietly. He wiped his sweating brow with the back of his hand, and smeared mud across his face. It looked like blood in the car headlights illuminating their labours. “You’ve done your best, but we’re not high enough and there’s not a single bag left in the town.”
Elizabeth had an idea. “Arthur, get all your sail makers on their machines in your loft.”
“If you say so, Mrs Watt,” said Arthur.
Elizabeth set the teams to gather every tarpaulin and boat cover in the town and to take them to Arthur’s sail loft. There they were hacked, sliced, ripped and torn into long rectangles which the sail makers quickly shaped into sacks on their industrial sewing machines. When all these materials were gone, Arthur took a deep breath and broke out thousands of pounds worth of bolts of sailcloth in white, dark red and pale blue. They were rushed to the riverside, filled with shingle and raised into position by teams of exhausted townspeople. Then the work stopped. There was nothing else to be done. All they could do was wait and watch the black water rushing its way to the roaring sea.
“Look,” called a voice out of the darkness. “You can see two layers of bags. The water is going down!” There was a crack of light in the sky to the east. Dawn was coming. They had saved their town.
By the time it was light, the wind had dropped, the tide had turned again and the river was four feet from the top of their hastily constructed defences.
“Listen,” said Arthur. A voice could be heard crying, “Help! He-elp!”
“Who is it?” said Elizabeth. “Where are they?”
Then they saw him. Rather than helping with their work against the water, Tom Mix had climbed a tree to escape the flood he thought inevitable. Now he was trapped up there.
“Idiot can wait for my help,” said Arthur. “Him and his cuts! Reckon it’s going to be Tom Mix himself gets cut at the next elections. And I know just the woman to take his place too….”
And that was it, though the town remained cut off by road for two more days. Emergency supplies were dropped by helicopter, and people with minor injuries were taken away to the hospital in a fishing boat that managed to get into the harbour through the still crazed waters, bringing with it Doctor Watt to nurse his exhausted wife.
Then came more bad news: the drizzle that drifted across the town in the onshore gale had turned into a lavish rain up in the hills, a month’s fall in a single day and night, running quickly into the valleys. The river was rising and once it was backed up by the huge tide the sea defences would be useless because the town would flood from inland. Tonight could see a major catastrophe here.
Following warnings on local radio and television, the Parish Council hurriedly convened a meeting in the church hall to which they summoned people by knocking on their doors. Arthur Emmet, chairman and the local sailmaker, spoke first. He had been on the phone to Highways and the news was alarming. The rain had overwhelmed the bridges upriver and the town was already cut off. The tide would be full very early the next morning. They had only a few hours and their own resources to create some defence against the flood.
Arthur called on their county councillor, real name Thomas Mitchell but always known as Tom Mix, what materials were available in the town for the prevention of the coming disaster. Tom Mix was evasive but eventually admitted that there was nothing at all.
“Sorry Tom,” said Arthur Emmet, “I don’t understand. There always used to be sandbags and so on in the store down in the park.”
“Cut,” said Tom Mix. “All that stuff was costing too much money at the Council Tax payers expense.”
“But – we’re the Council Tax payers!” called a woman’s voice. It was Elizabeth Watt, wife of the local doctor, usually very quiet and reticent. “It’s a fat lot of good us saving two pounds twenty-five on our tax bills if we lose our houses and everything we’ve got.”
This caused much alarm in the hall. “No call for that sort of talk,” said Tom Mix. “I was elected on a tax-cutting manifesto.”
“Tell that to the husbands, wives and children of the people who drown here tonight,” said Elizabeth. “We don’t even have a doctor here – John is trapped the other side of the bridges.”
“Well, you’re so clever, why don’t you stop the flood, Queen Canute?” sneered Tom Mix.
“All right,” said Elizabeth Watt, “I will.”
She organised the townspeople into teams of six. She sent two of the teams down to Mr. Sargant’s hardware and garden supplies shop for his bags of fertiliser, grass seed, and everything else that came in some kind of sack; plus all his turf and his green plastic garden waste bags, and take it all to the riverbanks. There she set more teams to filling the empty bags with sand from the rapidly covering beach. They worked their socks off, using all these materials to build the banks up to the level of the sea defences.
The waters grew. They ran out of bags and it looked as though the steadily rising tide and the flood of water from the hills would beat them. Elizabeth Watt sent everyone back to their homes to collect their store of black plastic rubbish bags. The sand was now covered, so the bags were filled in place with mud and shingle. They wouldn’t last long but perhaps it would be long enough. But still the river continued to rise, six feet, eight feet, ten feet above the usual level.
“Looks like we’re done for Liz,” said Arthur Emmett quietly. He wiped his sweating brow with the back of his hand, and smeared mud across his face. It looked like blood in the car headlights illuminating their labours. “You’ve done your best, but we’re not high enough and there’s not a single bag left in the town.”
Elizabeth had an idea. “Arthur, get all your sail makers on their machines in your loft.”
“If you say so, Mrs Watt,” said Arthur.
Elizabeth set the teams to gather every tarpaulin and boat cover in the town and to take them to Arthur’s sail loft. There they were hacked, sliced, ripped and torn into long rectangles which the sail makers quickly shaped into sacks on their industrial sewing machines. When all these materials were gone, Arthur took a deep breath and broke out thousands of pounds worth of bolts of sailcloth in white, dark red and pale blue. They were rushed to the riverside, filled with shingle and raised into position by teams of exhausted townspeople. Then the work stopped. There was nothing else to be done. All they could do was wait and watch the black water rushing its way to the roaring sea.
“Look,” called a voice out of the darkness. “You can see two layers of bags. The water is going down!” There was a crack of light in the sky to the east. Dawn was coming. They had saved their town.
By the time it was light, the wind had dropped, the tide had turned again and the river was four feet from the top of their hastily constructed defences.
“Listen,” said Arthur. A voice could be heard crying, “Help! He-elp!”
“Who is it?” said Elizabeth. “Where are they?”
Then they saw him. Rather than helping with their work against the water, Tom Mix had climbed a tree to escape the flood he thought inevitable. Now he was trapped up there.
“Idiot can wait for my help,” said Arthur. “Him and his cuts! Reckon it’s going to be Tom Mix himself gets cut at the next elections. And I know just the woman to take his place too….”
And that was it, though the town remained cut off by road for two more days. Emergency supplies were dropped by helicopter, and people with minor injuries were taken away to the hospital in a fishing boat that managed to get into the harbour through the still crazed waters, bringing with it Doctor Watt to nurse his exhausted wife.
WEEK SEVEN
some words - Interesting
Photographs
family
and postcards
Budapest
the Danube
Hermina with her son
interesting stops you going to sleep
things we haven’t seen before
keep us occupied
visitors are interesting
earwigging
gossip
a read - books
a magazine
but not all books
not all magazines
music must be interesting
television documentaries
natural history
soap operas for some
but not for everyone
our own likes and dislikes
family
and postcards
Budapest
the Danube
Hermina with her son
interesting stops you going to sleep
things we haven’t seen before
keep us occupied
visitors are interesting
earwigging
gossip
a read - books
a magazine
but not all books
not all magazines
music must be interesting
television documentaries
natural history
soap operas for some
but not for everyone
our own likes and dislikes
Autumn
reds, yellows, orange
conkers
acorns
blackberry and apple pie
things watery and woody
the sun looks different
lower darker
allows less light
an autumn spider
has lived here a week
not on the bottom floor
not on the middle floor
a little monster
wind
falling leaves
fireworks
bonfire potatoes
a mess of toffee apple
in the cold
of winter coming on
an autumn cake.
conkers
acorns
blackberry and apple pie
things watery and woody
the sun looks different
lower darker
allows less light
an autumn spider
has lived here a week
not on the bottom floor
not on the middle floor
a little monster
wind
falling leaves
fireworks
bonfire potatoes
a mess of toffee apple
in the cold
of winter coming on
an autumn cake.
Leaves
Sycamore leaves
fallen down
sticky
autumn
green and brown
scrunching through
kick them around
disintegration
they rot down
into compost
into the ground
back up the tree
round and round
sticky
autumn
green and brown
fallen down
sticky
autumn
green and brown
scrunching through
kick them around
disintegration
they rot down
into compost
into the ground
back up the tree
round and round
sticky
autumn
green and brown
Naming the Baby
Their baby wasn’t yet born so Barry and Mary Alexandra Stott did not know whether it was a boy or a girl. Nevertheless they had endless one-sided discussions over the issue of the baby’s name. Barry knew that he was not really being consulted, but used as a sounding board – as in so many things, he acted willing but was prepared to leave the actual decision to his wife.
Mary Alexandra could feel the baby would be coming very soon and knew the decision must be made. At great expense she had bought every book of baby names she could find but none of them helped her to make up her mind. In the end, as a keen royalist she decided that the baby should be called Anne Elizabeth if a girl, after the princess royal, and Charles George, after the Duke of Cornwall, if a boy. Barry, though not really listening, expressed fervent agreement and admiration without diverting his eyes from Match of the Day. Then, happy that the issue had been finally settled, Mary allowed herself to be whisked away to the hospital.
After a straightforward and relatively stressless delivery, the baby turned out to be a little girl. The mother was secretly delighted and began to plan outfits. Barry meanwhile prepared to depart with his father and brothers to wet the baby’s head. His was a very traditional family.
“Don’t forget to go up to County Hall and register the birth,” said Mary.
“Shouldn’t you do that?” asked Barry’s dad.
“It’s always the father who does it in my family,” insisted Mary.
“That’s fine,” said Barry hurriedly, making secret faces to his father not to argue with Mary. Barry found that it was usually pointless. It generally saved time to agree with her straight away.
And that was the last Mary heard of Barry for two days.
She had taken the baby home by taxi and, despite the doctors’ instructions to rest, had restored the house to some sort of order after its swift disintegration into a bachelor pad when he crept home. After a quick look at his daughter where she lay in her carrycot, Barry collapsed onto the sofa and held his head as though he suspected it might fall off.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “And please could you talk a bit quieter?”
“Did you remember to go and register the baby’s birth?” she asked, tight lipped.
“Oh yeah. I’ve got the certificate somewhere,” he said, going through his pockets and producing a strange assortment of objects, some of which he very quickly put away again. Finally he produced a somewhat battered birth certificate.
“That’s all right then,” said Mary. “Daddy’s been a good boy, hasn’t he Anne Elizabeth?”
“Ah….” said Barry. He was staring at the certificate, his face red.
“What does that mean exactly,” asked Mary, tight-lipped.
“I remembered you wanted royal names….” offered Barry.
“Oh my God,” said the mother, “What have you called her?” She snatched the certificate and read it. “Oh no,” she groaned. “How on earth is she going to get through life with a name like Queen Victoria Stott?”
“I must have been watching Eastenders,” said the father.
“Well, one thing about her will be royal,” said the mother, reading on. “You got the date of birth wrong too. She’s going to have a real birthday and an official birthday.”
Mary Alexandra could feel the baby would be coming very soon and knew the decision must be made. At great expense she had bought every book of baby names she could find but none of them helped her to make up her mind. In the end, as a keen royalist she decided that the baby should be called Anne Elizabeth if a girl, after the princess royal, and Charles George, after the Duke of Cornwall, if a boy. Barry, though not really listening, expressed fervent agreement and admiration without diverting his eyes from Match of the Day. Then, happy that the issue had been finally settled, Mary allowed herself to be whisked away to the hospital.
After a straightforward and relatively stressless delivery, the baby turned out to be a little girl. The mother was secretly delighted and began to plan outfits. Barry meanwhile prepared to depart with his father and brothers to wet the baby’s head. His was a very traditional family.
“Don’t forget to go up to County Hall and register the birth,” said Mary.
“Shouldn’t you do that?” asked Barry’s dad.
“It’s always the father who does it in my family,” insisted Mary.
“That’s fine,” said Barry hurriedly, making secret faces to his father not to argue with Mary. Barry found that it was usually pointless. It generally saved time to agree with her straight away.
And that was the last Mary heard of Barry for two days.
She had taken the baby home by taxi and, despite the doctors’ instructions to rest, had restored the house to some sort of order after its swift disintegration into a bachelor pad when he crept home. After a quick look at his daughter where she lay in her carrycot, Barry collapsed onto the sofa and held his head as though he suspected it might fall off.
“Where have you been?” she demanded.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “And please could you talk a bit quieter?”
“Did you remember to go and register the baby’s birth?” she asked, tight lipped.
“Oh yeah. I’ve got the certificate somewhere,” he said, going through his pockets and producing a strange assortment of objects, some of which he very quickly put away again. Finally he produced a somewhat battered birth certificate.
“That’s all right then,” said Mary. “Daddy’s been a good boy, hasn’t he Anne Elizabeth?”
“Ah….” said Barry. He was staring at the certificate, his face red.
“What does that mean exactly,” asked Mary, tight-lipped.
“I remembered you wanted royal names….” offered Barry.
“Oh my God,” said the mother, “What have you called her?” She snatched the certificate and read it. “Oh no,” she groaned. “How on earth is she going to get through life with a name like Queen Victoria Stott?”
“I must have been watching Eastenders,” said the father.
“Well, one thing about her will be royal,” said the mother, reading on. “You got the date of birth wrong too. She’s going to have a real birthday and an official birthday.”
WEEK EIGHT
some words - Frustrating
Not being able to think of something
not knowing what to call something
not being able to do something
being late when you should have been early
having to wait and wait and wait
I lost the keys to the shed
thinking of something you should have said too late
lecturing people who are going to sleep
people not agreeing
people who are always late
families.
people don’t put the lid on the toothpaste
something on the tip of your tongue
static when you brush your hair
time slipping away.
things that are maddening
trying to think of frustrating things
trying to throw a two or a six
things that do not happen as you want
things that do not happen.
not knowing what to call something
not being able to do something
being late when you should have been early
having to wait and wait and wait
I lost the keys to the shed
thinking of something you should have said too late
lecturing people who are going to sleep
people not agreeing
people who are always late
families.
people don’t put the lid on the toothpaste
something on the tip of your tongue
static when you brush your hair
time slipping away.
things that are maddening
trying to think of frustrating things
trying to throw a two or a six
things that do not happen as you want
things that do not happen.
Rain
Mist
dull grey clouds
rain
on plants, trees and path
puddles
I don’t have to be out in the rain
someone has to, but it isn’t me
farmer
milkman
postman
bin man
fisherman
someone working
I like watching it from indoors,
watch it for hours
in front of the fire with the lights on
I like the sound snug at night
rain running down the gutters
or with an umbrella out in the rain
bouncing off the street
the rain on the sea
wet and cold
smelling the dust in summer rain
or freshness that is more than a smell
a quick shower
a rainbow
ducks walk happy in the rain.
dull grey clouds
rain
on plants, trees and path
puddles
I don’t have to be out in the rain
someone has to, but it isn’t me
farmer
milkman
postman
bin man
fisherman
someone working
I like watching it from indoors,
watch it for hours
in front of the fire with the lights on
I like the sound snug at night
rain running down the gutters
or with an umbrella out in the rain
bouncing off the street
the rain on the sea
wet and cold
smelling the dust in summer rain
or freshness that is more than a smell
a quick shower
a rainbow
ducks walk happy in the rain.
Her Roots
“Dougall!” called John. “Come back!”
“Look at my shoes,” complained Lisa. “I’m covered in mud. And there’s nothing here. Nothing at all.”
The wind blew November rain against their faces and they shivered in their coats. There were no houses visible here, no buildings at all, just mine waste, scrub and a driven grey sky.
They had driven here that morning, their collie Dougall sitting high and proud on the narrow back seat of Lisa’s sports car. It had taken her years to persuade her mother to give them the location of the house where they had lived when Lisa was small. Her mother seemed not to want to talk about the place.
Lisa had excitedly told John her plan on the way. Why shouldn’t they live in the house? Her mother still owned it though she hadn’t been near the place for years. Lisa remembered sunny childhood days that never seemed to end, rambles along tracks through dark tree tunnels and over the hills. She and John had been talking about buying a place in the country. If necessary they would buy the house from her mother.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “This is definitely the place, but where’s the house?”
“Dougall!” shouted John again, growing angry. “What the hell is up with him?”
“Which way did he go?” asked Lisa.
“Over there.”
They followed the dog into a copse of scrubby bushes. Inside they came across an old ruin. It looked like the remains of an ancient outhouse with a corrugated iron roof, the walls heavily plastered with a rotting beam visible over a door that stood partially open. Lisa shuddered. In the liquid air the building seemed to breathe out mould and decay.
Dougall was sniffing an old iron framework just outside the door, overrun by brambles in a bed of brown bracken.
“Come away Dougall,” said John.
“John,” said Lisa quietly, “I think I recognise that thing.”
She pushed herself forward to the doorway through undergrowth that snatched and tore at her clothes and skin. She examined the old metal stand and the mechanism it supported.
“That belonged to my Nan,” she said. “It’s her old mangle. This must be our house.”
“This?” exclaimed John.
They looked at the cracked walls and the mossy wreck of a roof. They breathed the house’s damp history and an old and terrible sadness, as the strengthening rain fell on their heads and rolled down their faces. Dougall turned and, in a series of leaps to prevent the undergrowth catching in his long black fur, disappeared back towards the track.
Without a word John and Lisa followed him.
“Look at my shoes,” complained Lisa. “I’m covered in mud. And there’s nothing here. Nothing at all.”
The wind blew November rain against their faces and they shivered in their coats. There were no houses visible here, no buildings at all, just mine waste, scrub and a driven grey sky.
They had driven here that morning, their collie Dougall sitting high and proud on the narrow back seat of Lisa’s sports car. It had taken her years to persuade her mother to give them the location of the house where they had lived when Lisa was small. Her mother seemed not to want to talk about the place.
Lisa had excitedly told John her plan on the way. Why shouldn’t they live in the house? Her mother still owned it though she hadn’t been near the place for years. Lisa remembered sunny childhood days that never seemed to end, rambles along tracks through dark tree tunnels and over the hills. She and John had been talking about buying a place in the country. If necessary they would buy the house from her mother.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “This is definitely the place, but where’s the house?”
“Dougall!” shouted John again, growing angry. “What the hell is up with him?”
“Which way did he go?” asked Lisa.
“Over there.”
They followed the dog into a copse of scrubby bushes. Inside they came across an old ruin. It looked like the remains of an ancient outhouse with a corrugated iron roof, the walls heavily plastered with a rotting beam visible over a door that stood partially open. Lisa shuddered. In the liquid air the building seemed to breathe out mould and decay.
Dougall was sniffing an old iron framework just outside the door, overrun by brambles in a bed of brown bracken.
“Come away Dougall,” said John.
“John,” said Lisa quietly, “I think I recognise that thing.”
She pushed herself forward to the doorway through undergrowth that snatched and tore at her clothes and skin. She examined the old metal stand and the mechanism it supported.
“That belonged to my Nan,” she said. “It’s her old mangle. This must be our house.”
“This?” exclaimed John.
They looked at the cracked walls and the mossy wreck of a roof. They breathed the house’s damp history and an old and terrible sadness, as the strengthening rain fell on their heads and rolled down their faces. Dougall turned and, in a series of leaps to prevent the undergrowth catching in his long black fur, disappeared back towards the track.
Without a word John and Lisa followed him.
WEEK NINE
some words - Clumsy
Someone falls over
dropping things
accidental
some people more than others
sit in a draught
fall over
big people are clumsier
big personalities
bump into things
there’s too much of them
distracted
thinking of several things at once
clumsy trips over feet
not concentrating
clumsy doesn’t know it’s clumsy
blames the carpet
having big feet in the kitchen
blames other things and people for all problems
clumsy hurts itself
breaks things
dishes
clumsy doesn’t achieve much
clumsy because tired
knocks things into the bath early in the morning
a series of accidents
being clumsy in a car
being.
dropping things
accidental
some people more than others
sit in a draught
fall over
big people are clumsier
big personalities
bump into things
there’s too much of them
distracted
thinking of several things at once
clumsy trips over feet
not concentrating
clumsy doesn’t know it’s clumsy
blames the carpet
having big feet in the kitchen
blames other things and people for all problems
clumsy hurts itself
breaks things
dishes
clumsy doesn’t achieve much
clumsy because tired
knocks things into the bath early in the morning
a series of accidents
being clumsy in a car
being.
November
It feels like winter but they call it autumn
a time of change
quickly from light to dark
long dark mornings
dark when you come
dark when you go home
birds have gone – migrated
robins, starlings stay
a chilling frost
warm inside
burning logs
leaves came in with my husband
changing colour
amber brown & golds
warm clothes
warm colours
conker season
bonfire fireworks toffee apples
then armistice day, remembrance, sadness
waiting the long wait
it seems longer than thirty days
for December to come
children wishing for Christmas
So we turn on Christmas lights
Santa and his reindeer arrive next week
shopping ’til the last day
of autumn’s creeping darkness.
a time of change
quickly from light to dark
long dark mornings
dark when you come
dark when you go home
birds have gone – migrated
robins, starlings stay
a chilling frost
warm inside
burning logs
leaves came in with my husband
changing colour
amber brown & golds
warm clothes
warm colours
conker season
bonfire fireworks toffee apples
then armistice day, remembrance, sadness
waiting the long wait
it seems longer than thirty days
for December to come
children wishing for Christmas
So we turn on Christmas lights
Santa and his reindeer arrive next week
shopping ’til the last day
of autumn’s creeping darkness.
story from words: Faded charismatic cotton; assessment: elegant
He looked older than he was after years wandering the Mediterranean. But all his ladies agreed that the lines burned into his face by the sun made Professor John seem all the more charismatic. He made his living in the Greek islands, delivering lectures on myths, legends, heroes and voyagers of the ancient world to cruise ship passengers.
Today he was leading a party from the Women’s Institute of a small English provincial town. He wore his usual eccentric costume - an old canvas jacket with a large pale blue handkerchief hanging from the breast pocket and his faded floppy cotton hat to keep the sun from the crown of his head. The Professor’s joke was to pretend he thought the ladies were from a Witches institute and to beg them not to put any spells on him. Most of the ladies laughed every time but it was the one who did not who caught Professor John’s eye. She was tall and elegant and, despite being of a certain age, as the professor put it to himself, she had considerable appeal.
This particular island had a long-standing British expatriate community, dating back to the height of Empire. So marked was this influence that the Ladies felt quite at home as they walked past a very-familiar seeming municipal park.
“Look! It’s a cricket pitch,” called out one of them.
Even more familiar was the clap of thunder and a sudden downpour of rain.
“Quickly ladies,” called the Professor, “We must shelter. When it rains here it rains very hard. Into the pavilion.”
And sure enough there was a classic English cricket pavilion nearby, into which they all ran, as the rain grew into an uproar on the tin roof. It had grown quite chilly and they closed the double doors behind them. The Professor turned on an electric light, a single bulb that flickered a threat of coming darkness. Black clouds now covered the sky.
“I think we may be in for a flash flood,” said Professor John. The rain now covered the road and was spreading across the grass towards them. The women, unaccustomed to such hazards of nature, grew shrill in their nervousness.
“Ladies, there is no need to fear,” said Professor John. “I have seen this phenomenon many times before. The waters will subside as quickly as they have risen. There really is no cause for alarm.”
The elegant woman too obviously realised something must be done to settle her colleagues.
“Professor John,” she said coolly, “I’m sure we would all be absolutely delighted to hear how a scholar as distinguished as yourself came to be living and working in this part of the world.”
This was familiar territory for Professor John. He unfurled a folding chair, set himself up in the centre of the room and began his tale. Under the spell of his voice the women were immediately calmed and enthralled by his much-rehearsed assessment of his own life. It was a wistful tale of romantic loss. He told them of his marriage to the beautiful Diana, the belle of Oxford University, tall and clever and herself a noted academic, more than an intellectual match for Professor John. Theirs had been a cultured, civilised home but unfortunately, as the Professor confessed to his ladies with disarming frankness, his romantic nature had led him to amorous adventures beyond the marital home. His world collapsed when Diana, undeceived by his philandering flannel, had lost her patience and left him.
Soon the Professor found that his life and loves meant nothing without her. He resigned from the university and set off in search of Diana. Eventually his wanderings brought him here to the Mediterranean, Homer’s ‘wine dark sea’, the cradle of civilisation.
“But I never found Diana,” he concluded. “Never found her . . ..” Professor John’s audience sat in silence, lost with him in reveries of past lives, some plain, some romantic, in regrets for events that had happened, but more in longings for things that had not.
A dry voice cut through all this. “It seems that the rain has passed and the flood subsided,” said the elegant woman. Released from the mood, the women threw open the pavilion doors and hurried outside into a strange world of warm golden mists, as the wet ground surrendered its pools of water to the hot sun.
As the Professor and the elegant woman left the pavilion he made his move.
“You know my dear,” he said, “There is something in you of Diana.”
“Really?” she said.
“Indeed. The same grace, the same poise . . .. What is your name, my dear?” asked Professor John.
“Diana,” she said, “As you well know.”
“Yes,” confirmed Professor John. “I recognised you at once, of course.”
They walked in silence for a while. “Might I ask,” said Professor John eventually, “Where you have been all these years?”
“I simply moved back to my home town, and there I have been ever since,” said Diana, “The first place anyone else would have sought me. You didn’t really search very hard, did you?”
“Not hard enough, certainly,” agreed Professor John. “And why are you here? No mere coincidence, surely?”
“No,” said Diana. “I’m just much better at looking for people than you are.” She took his arm and they followed the rest of the party back to the quay.
Today he was leading a party from the Women’s Institute of a small English provincial town. He wore his usual eccentric costume - an old canvas jacket with a large pale blue handkerchief hanging from the breast pocket and his faded floppy cotton hat to keep the sun from the crown of his head. The Professor’s joke was to pretend he thought the ladies were from a Witches institute and to beg them not to put any spells on him. Most of the ladies laughed every time but it was the one who did not who caught Professor John’s eye. She was tall and elegant and, despite being of a certain age, as the professor put it to himself, she had considerable appeal.
This particular island had a long-standing British expatriate community, dating back to the height of Empire. So marked was this influence that the Ladies felt quite at home as they walked past a very-familiar seeming municipal park.
“Look! It’s a cricket pitch,” called out one of them.
Even more familiar was the clap of thunder and a sudden downpour of rain.
“Quickly ladies,” called the Professor, “We must shelter. When it rains here it rains very hard. Into the pavilion.”
And sure enough there was a classic English cricket pavilion nearby, into which they all ran, as the rain grew into an uproar on the tin roof. It had grown quite chilly and they closed the double doors behind them. The Professor turned on an electric light, a single bulb that flickered a threat of coming darkness. Black clouds now covered the sky.
“I think we may be in for a flash flood,” said Professor John. The rain now covered the road and was spreading across the grass towards them. The women, unaccustomed to such hazards of nature, grew shrill in their nervousness.
“Ladies, there is no need to fear,” said Professor John. “I have seen this phenomenon many times before. The waters will subside as quickly as they have risen. There really is no cause for alarm.”
The elegant woman too obviously realised something must be done to settle her colleagues.
“Professor John,” she said coolly, “I’m sure we would all be absolutely delighted to hear how a scholar as distinguished as yourself came to be living and working in this part of the world.”
This was familiar territory for Professor John. He unfurled a folding chair, set himself up in the centre of the room and began his tale. Under the spell of his voice the women were immediately calmed and enthralled by his much-rehearsed assessment of his own life. It was a wistful tale of romantic loss. He told them of his marriage to the beautiful Diana, the belle of Oxford University, tall and clever and herself a noted academic, more than an intellectual match for Professor John. Theirs had been a cultured, civilised home but unfortunately, as the Professor confessed to his ladies with disarming frankness, his romantic nature had led him to amorous adventures beyond the marital home. His world collapsed when Diana, undeceived by his philandering flannel, had lost her patience and left him.
Soon the Professor found that his life and loves meant nothing without her. He resigned from the university and set off in search of Diana. Eventually his wanderings brought him here to the Mediterranean, Homer’s ‘wine dark sea’, the cradle of civilisation.
“But I never found Diana,” he concluded. “Never found her . . ..” Professor John’s audience sat in silence, lost with him in reveries of past lives, some plain, some romantic, in regrets for events that had happened, but more in longings for things that had not.
A dry voice cut through all this. “It seems that the rain has passed and the flood subsided,” said the elegant woman. Released from the mood, the women threw open the pavilion doors and hurried outside into a strange world of warm golden mists, as the wet ground surrendered its pools of water to the hot sun.
As the Professor and the elegant woman left the pavilion he made his move.
“You know my dear,” he said, “There is something in you of Diana.”
“Really?” she said.
“Indeed. The same grace, the same poise . . .. What is your name, my dear?” asked Professor John.
“Diana,” she said, “As you well know.”
“Yes,” confirmed Professor John. “I recognised you at once, of course.”
They walked in silence for a while. “Might I ask,” said Professor John eventually, “Where you have been all these years?”
“I simply moved back to my home town, and there I have been ever since,” said Diana, “The first place anyone else would have sought me. You didn’t really search very hard, did you?”
“Not hard enough, certainly,” agreed Professor John. “And why are you here? No mere coincidence, surely?”
“No,” said Diana. “I’m just much better at looking for people than you are.” She took his arm and they followed the rest of the party back to the quay.
WEEK TEN
some words - Fabulous
Joan says fabulous
excitingly good
but also about fables
a fabulous story
is a masterpiece or a pack of lies
and often both
we were being visited by a baby
fabulous
but not imaginary
1960s clothes were fabulous
things were ‘fab’
Elvis Presley’s costumes
sequins and jewels
a gold toilet
the definition of fabulous
Liberace’s jewelled fingers
reflected in a polished piano
the pink of Lady Penelope’s car.
excitingly good
but also about fables
a fabulous story
is a masterpiece or a pack of lies
and often both
we were being visited by a baby
fabulous
but not imaginary
1960s clothes were fabulous
things were ‘fab’
Elvis Presley’s costumes
sequins and jewels
a gold toilet
the definition of fabulous
Liberace’s jewelled fingers
reflected in a polished piano
the pink of Lady Penelope’s car.
story from title - My Favourite Food
The Argumentarians’ Club was a great University institution with many illustrious figures amongst its members. The Club met each week for a jolly good argument. It was not a debating society so there were no rules. Members were free to shout each other down and combine in ad hoc alliances to barrack each other. They would use tactics to distract from and delay an opponent’s speech and there were tales from the past of spontaneous duelling to win a point, a practice that had almost led to the forcible dissolution of the entire institution back in the Dandy days.
But now the threat to the Argumentarians was of an entirely different nature. They were engaged in perpetual all-against-all warfare over the Great Dinner that always followed the Annual General Meeting. Each year the event ended in bitter confrontations and even blows over the contents of the menu. The wrangling and plotting over next year’s bill of fare would begin immediately this year’s fiasco was over. Such were the members’ skills in disputation that each conflict threatened the end of this venerable institution. Peacemakers had been brought in from time to time. Usually they counselled democracy, maturity and compromise, drawing up lists of proposed dishes to be submitted to secret ballot, the dish that garnered the most votes being chosen for each course. But as many different dishes would be suggested as there were members and in the ballot each gained the single vote of its proposer.
Others suggested the hiring of expert consultants, usually themselves. But when in due course the reports had been received (and paid for) the Argumentarians could never agree whether to take the advice or not and the arguing became even worse than before.
Finally someone came up an entirely new idea. It was Doctor Pinker, head of Modern Studies. The members flocked to the ancient grim brick clubhouse that was clad all over with ivy, to hear what he had to say, in order immediately to reject it. They had been looking forward to the occasion with relish. But Doctor Pinker confused them with twisted logic.
“Fellow Argumentarians,” he began. “We have mistaken ourselves. We have consistently committed category error.” (Doctor Pinker’s remit included philosophy.) “We pride ourselves on argument, on our refusal to be swayed by the expert informed and enlightened exercise of reason, come what may. Yet somehow our consistency has failed us in addressing the issue of the Great Dinner, ever our greatest challenge of the year: how we shall choose the constituents of our great annual repast. So here is my solution: we shall agree by refusing to agree.”
Doctor Pinker stopped and drank deeply of the glass of water that had been brought to him by one of the Club servants. There was a puzzled pause.
“Rubbish!” shouted someone. There was applause at this.
“Why, thank you, lords, gentlemen and ladies,” said Doctor Pinker, delighted. “I shall elucidate. We cannot agree to eat what the majority of us would wish to eat, because we each refuse to want what anybody else wants. And in the great tradition of the Argumentarians, so should it be. So we shall eat, not what everybody agrees to eat, but that which nobody wants to eat.”
There was another silence, broken eventually by Dame Edith Bagshaw-Fanshawe-Shaw.
“I do not want to eat what nobody wants to eat,” she said. “I do not even wish to eat what I myself wish to eat.”
Again there was loud applause at this, the ultimate exposition of the Argumentarian creed, and the club dog, Zimbo, barked combatively.
“Exactly!” cried the Doctor. “Madam, you make my case precisely.”
There was another pause while everyone tried to work out whether this was true or not. But then Dame Edith cried “Quite! That’s right! Hear hear!” So it seemed it must be so, and applause rang out.
This was the nearest the Argumentarians had come to agreement for many years - in fact since they had agreed to vote for Lloyd George in the 1924 General Election just in time for the 1932 General Election. Voices called on Doctor Pinker to explain his plan in detail.
“What we shall do is each propose one dish for each course of our great dinner,” he said. Hearts sank. A groan went up - they had been here before and knew that disappointment was inevitable.
“And then,” he continued, “We shall eat none of them!”
Uproar greeted this declaration of war on all agreement, democracy and consensus, on the very idea that humans could come together in common cause, this rolling back of the very concept of civilisation. Above the tumult Doctor Pinker detailed his idea. Each dish proposed, be it chicken a la king, roast beef, corn beef hash, goulache, whatever it might be, would be instantly disqualified from the menu and only dishes proffered by no one at all would be eligible for presentation on that great festive night. Pinker’s idea was shocking in its ruthless simplicity.
It was a dark night in November. Rain hung yellow in the lamps of dark college closes. The Annual General Meeting had passed like a particularly bloody civil war, to the great satisfaction of all concerned, and the election of officers had left old friendships in tatters, as it did every year. Replete with conflict, the members processed to the dining room behind the outgoing chairperson. It was a fine scene, the Argumentarians in their finest clothes, the women in brocades, taffeta, tulle and eau de nil, the men in full white tie fig and many in kilts.
They took their seats in the dining room before candelabra and fine silver and prepared for their repast, full of curiosity to discover the nature of each dish guaranteed to please none of them. The Club servants and slaves wore the expressions of people in pain as they served the starter. The covers were taken off to reveal:
“Pigs’ kidneys on a bed of pink marshmallow, drizzled with Lucozade,” announced the Master of Ceremonies. There was applause at the sheer unacceptability of this offering. The Argumentarians tore into the dish with joy and completed it with somewhat less enthusiasm.
Thoughtfully they sat back to await the next course.
“Roast fruit bat and budgerigar eggs with a compote of bladder wrack,” came the announcement.
The carnage this wrought in the ranks of the diners was compounded by the threat of the pudding:
“Tripe and apple pudding with pink custard, or hippopotamus cheese served with finest Devonshire Custard Creams.”
For the first time ever the speeches were cancelled, because by the end of the meal the dining hall was completely empty but for Zimbo, the club dog, who climbed onto the tables and ate and ate and ate until even he grew pensive and fell asleep amidst the debris of the Argumentarians’ Club Great Annual Dinner.
But now the threat to the Argumentarians was of an entirely different nature. They were engaged in perpetual all-against-all warfare over the Great Dinner that always followed the Annual General Meeting. Each year the event ended in bitter confrontations and even blows over the contents of the menu. The wrangling and plotting over next year’s bill of fare would begin immediately this year’s fiasco was over. Such were the members’ skills in disputation that each conflict threatened the end of this venerable institution. Peacemakers had been brought in from time to time. Usually they counselled democracy, maturity and compromise, drawing up lists of proposed dishes to be submitted to secret ballot, the dish that garnered the most votes being chosen for each course. But as many different dishes would be suggested as there were members and in the ballot each gained the single vote of its proposer.
Others suggested the hiring of expert consultants, usually themselves. But when in due course the reports had been received (and paid for) the Argumentarians could never agree whether to take the advice or not and the arguing became even worse than before.
Finally someone came up an entirely new idea. It was Doctor Pinker, head of Modern Studies. The members flocked to the ancient grim brick clubhouse that was clad all over with ivy, to hear what he had to say, in order immediately to reject it. They had been looking forward to the occasion with relish. But Doctor Pinker confused them with twisted logic.
“Fellow Argumentarians,” he began. “We have mistaken ourselves. We have consistently committed category error.” (Doctor Pinker’s remit included philosophy.) “We pride ourselves on argument, on our refusal to be swayed by the expert informed and enlightened exercise of reason, come what may. Yet somehow our consistency has failed us in addressing the issue of the Great Dinner, ever our greatest challenge of the year: how we shall choose the constituents of our great annual repast. So here is my solution: we shall agree by refusing to agree.”
Doctor Pinker stopped and drank deeply of the glass of water that had been brought to him by one of the Club servants. There was a puzzled pause.
“Rubbish!” shouted someone. There was applause at this.
“Why, thank you, lords, gentlemen and ladies,” said Doctor Pinker, delighted. “I shall elucidate. We cannot agree to eat what the majority of us would wish to eat, because we each refuse to want what anybody else wants. And in the great tradition of the Argumentarians, so should it be. So we shall eat, not what everybody agrees to eat, but that which nobody wants to eat.”
There was another silence, broken eventually by Dame Edith Bagshaw-Fanshawe-Shaw.
“I do not want to eat what nobody wants to eat,” she said. “I do not even wish to eat what I myself wish to eat.”
Again there was loud applause at this, the ultimate exposition of the Argumentarian creed, and the club dog, Zimbo, barked combatively.
“Exactly!” cried the Doctor. “Madam, you make my case precisely.”
There was another pause while everyone tried to work out whether this was true or not. But then Dame Edith cried “Quite! That’s right! Hear hear!” So it seemed it must be so, and applause rang out.
This was the nearest the Argumentarians had come to agreement for many years - in fact since they had agreed to vote for Lloyd George in the 1924 General Election just in time for the 1932 General Election. Voices called on Doctor Pinker to explain his plan in detail.
“What we shall do is each propose one dish for each course of our great dinner,” he said. Hearts sank. A groan went up - they had been here before and knew that disappointment was inevitable.
“And then,” he continued, “We shall eat none of them!”
Uproar greeted this declaration of war on all agreement, democracy and consensus, on the very idea that humans could come together in common cause, this rolling back of the very concept of civilisation. Above the tumult Doctor Pinker detailed his idea. Each dish proposed, be it chicken a la king, roast beef, corn beef hash, goulache, whatever it might be, would be instantly disqualified from the menu and only dishes proffered by no one at all would be eligible for presentation on that great festive night. Pinker’s idea was shocking in its ruthless simplicity.
It was a dark night in November. Rain hung yellow in the lamps of dark college closes. The Annual General Meeting had passed like a particularly bloody civil war, to the great satisfaction of all concerned, and the election of officers had left old friendships in tatters, as it did every year. Replete with conflict, the members processed to the dining room behind the outgoing chairperson. It was a fine scene, the Argumentarians in their finest clothes, the women in brocades, taffeta, tulle and eau de nil, the men in full white tie fig and many in kilts.
They took their seats in the dining room before candelabra and fine silver and prepared for their repast, full of curiosity to discover the nature of each dish guaranteed to please none of them. The Club servants and slaves wore the expressions of people in pain as they served the starter. The covers were taken off to reveal:
“Pigs’ kidneys on a bed of pink marshmallow, drizzled with Lucozade,” announced the Master of Ceremonies. There was applause at the sheer unacceptability of this offering. The Argumentarians tore into the dish with joy and completed it with somewhat less enthusiasm.
Thoughtfully they sat back to await the next course.
“Roast fruit bat and budgerigar eggs with a compote of bladder wrack,” came the announcement.
The carnage this wrought in the ranks of the diners was compounded by the threat of the pudding:
“Tripe and apple pudding with pink custard, or hippopotamus cheese served with finest Devonshire Custard Creams.”
For the first time ever the speeches were cancelled, because by the end of the meal the dining hall was completely empty but for Zimbo, the club dog, who climbed onto the tables and ate and ate and ate until even he grew pensive and fell asleep amidst the debris of the Argumentarians’ Club Great Annual Dinner.
