[1985]

The Nature of Things
The panther rippled sleek through the proud grasses, green eyes searching, shining.
Beauty and grace and perfect motion, rich, dark fur, a furnace within; green eyes searching, shining.
Nostrils dilating, tail flicking, muscles flowing in swift pounce of death; green eyes searching, finding.

[1991]

I used to believe in the redemptive power of beauty – that if you surrounded yourself with works of art, rich fabrics and furnishings your soul would be uplifted, elevated above every evil act – a Wildean fable of sensuality in which lust masqueraded as sternest purity, a whiff of decadence, of sickliness. It was an impossible ideal, yet continues to exert a fascination. A life purged, incense, bells and embroidery, stained glass, vivid colour. It was never a matter of simple vanity or affectation – in the natural world beauty, the ornamental and the functional are intertwined – shimmering hummingbirds. Artifice is the very perpetuation of nature, its validation – plumage, horns, beaks, extravagant to the point of excess. Good is pallid, sterile. The flush of a wine-warmed cheek, the fingers dripping with balm, these are transient and by virtue of that transience poignant, fragile, in bloom suffused with a sweet and alarming hint of decay, the autumn swirl, how much more intriguing than cold chastity, how much more human.

[2007]

We might have been shabby, but we nurtured compensatory aesthetic sensibilities as we dreamed of the next plate of chocolate porridge (with a sprinkle of cinnamon), trudging through the streets, eyes fixed on the pavement not to avoid the dog-laid landmines, but scanning for dropped coins (or the occasional pound note blowing along the gutter). If we had been a little less proud, we might even have resorted to the tramps’ tactic of visiting phone booths and inserting a probing finger in the returned coins slot in hope of a jackpot. To survive the poverty induced by a corrupt landlord whose eviction method was increasing the rent from one month to the next until the grant money ran out we banished the crude and vulgar from our unheated rooms, retreating behind the glass-panelled door, allowing nothing from the outside to intrude.

The grey relieved only by graffitied initials, peeling paint on neglected walls. Beauty is the dandelion growing from the pavement crack, the buddleia with its butterfly attendants in the gap site, roots anchored in the rubble of demolished dwellings, anarchic, tenacious, surprising.

[From my Grandfather's Notebook]

SUBMARINER SAM.

(With due apologies to Stanley Holloway)

Sam Small, when Second World War were declared,
Had been drawing his pension for years;
“Old England’s in danger once more”, he exclaimed,
And she’ll need me again, it appears.
But Duke Wellington’s dead now, like rest of brave lads,
So Army to-day will be strange,
And I’ve fought enough battles on land, anyway,
I think I’ll try Navy, for change”.
So he out his old Waterloo uniform on,
With medal he’d got from George Four
And sadly took leave of his famous old musket
That hung there for years upon door.
Then he marched into Whitehall as bravely could be
And said, in a voice firm and clear,
“Will somebody please go and find the First Lord
And tell him that Sam Small is here?”.
As soon as the First Lord were given the news
He got in a proper flat spin;
He sent his Staff Captain to usher Sam up
And got out fresh bottle of gin.
When old Sam comed in, First Lord shook him by hand
Saying “Sam, what can I do for thee?”.
So, while they sat there sipping gin, Sam explained
That he’d like to fight war upon sea;
And although he were over a century old,
He were feeling quite agile and nifty,
He’d been taking a course of these ‘ere Monkey Glands
And he felt like a young man of fifty.
The First Lord then asked him which branch he preferred,
Sam replied – “As I ain’t nohow nervous,
I’d like to have go at most dangerous job
So I think I’ll try Submarine Service”.
And so Sam did his training and sat his exams
Which he just passed, with nothing to spare.
He seemed to be lacking in gumption, and so
‘t were decided to rate him Gunlayer.
And then comed the day Sam were due for a draft,
So they sent him ’way out to the Med. [Mediterranean, marked in margin]
And put him on Submarine, same as whose Chef
Were notorious baker of bread.
Ship went on patrols but she seldom used gun
Though she did gradely work with torpedoes,
And each time the Captain sank ship, Sam would growl,
“He gets all the recommends, he does”.
Not that Sam didn’t have no gun-action at all
But then ‘twere all small stuff, the likes
Of a couple of barges, a schooner, a factory,
A train, and some half dozen caiques.
Then comed a patrol when they’d fired all their fish [Torpedoes, marked in margin]
And been depth-charged for nearly two days;
The batteries were low and the boat needed air.
“We must surface soon now”, Captain says.
Old Sam were fair downcast and thinking as how
He could still have been home wearing mufti,
When Captain, who’s anxiously peering through look-stick
Calls out – “Here Sam lad, have a shufti”. [Look – Arabic, marked in margin]
And, looking through periscope, Sam saw a sight
That sunk his heart down to his feet,
For there, all around them, he saw, with dismay,
Best part of Italian Fleet.
“I’M depending on thee now”, said Captain to Sam
‘We must surface when all’s said and done,
So we’ll charge up the batteries for couple of hours
While tha holds them off with thy gun”.
Old Sam were elated, his moment had come,
When sudden thought flashed through his head –
He hadn’t got key for the magazine hatch,
He’d lost it ashore in Port Said.
He had to tell Captain the state of affairs
And he simply murmured “Good Gracious”,
“Well then, tha must think up alternative plan.
Coom, coom, Sam, each moment is precious”.
But, try as he might, Sam could think of no way
To open up magazine hatch,
When, all of a sudden, his gaze fell upon
The bread chef had made, a fresh batch.
And there in a moment his problem were solved,
To the Captain he said “It’s a cinch;
Just rig up long hose-pipe to H.P. Air Line [High Pressure, marked in margin]
Three thousand pounds pressure, square inch”.
So that were soon done, then Sam gathered gun’s crew
And armed them with hose-pipe and bread.
He gave them their final instructions and then
“All ready in tower, sir,” he said.
Then up to the surface shot brave submarine
And when whistle sounded “Gun Action”
Sam, followed by crew, opened hatch and manned gun
In one second, one half and one fraction.
The loader shoved loaf down the front end of spout,
Called “Ready” – Sam ordered “Fire one”,
And the chap with the hose-pipe switched pressure on full
And poked it up blunt end of gun.
And away flew the bread towards enemy fleet,
Sam’s aim it were steady and true
For the terrible missile hit foremost destroyer
Fair ’midships and smashed her in two.
Then round followed round with incredible speed,
You may not believe, but it’s true, sir,
In just little over ten minutes Sam sank
Four destroyers, two sloops and a cruiser.
The rest fled in panic, but Sam still fired on
And just how the fray would have ended
Is hard to conjecture, for just at that moment
Came cry – “Ammunition expended”.
And when it were over, they all shook Sam’s hand,
“I’ll get thee promoted” said Skipper.
While Jimmy the One, with his eyes full of tears [First Lieutenant, marked in margin]
Said “Sam, lad, coom round for a ‘sipper’ [sip of a tot of rum: Naval expression, marked inmargin]
So that’s how Sam Small beat Italian Fleet
And in well-informed circles ‘tis said
They refused to poke nose out of harbour again
As long as Sam stayed in the Med.
And for many a day, Mussolini, in vain,
Were trying to give explanation
To Hitler, as how Britain’s new secret weapon
Had caused such a grave situation.
When Submarine got back to base, Captain (S) [Submarines, marked in margin]
Comed aboard in his cocked hat and sword,
“I’ve come to congratulate Sam,” he explained
“And I’ve brought message from the First Lord.
He says that Old England is proud of Sam Small
And King has got medal for thee
And their Majesties both hope that when tha gets home
Tha’lt coom up to Palace for tea”.
There were also a message from Armaments Chiefs
Who were offering Chef a commission,
Inviting him to take charge of big works
And produce his new secret munition.
The very next day Skipper sent for old Sam
Concerning the promised promotion,
And there and then gave him the highest award
For bravery and for devotion.
You may think the honour were paltry enough
Unless you had sampled Chef’s bread,
For the Captain’s award to our hero was this –
He’d be served with ship’s biscuits instead.

[Stamped and signed by the censor, dated 20^th April 1945]

Mr Eugenides has done an excellent job in hosting this week’s edition of the Britblog Roundup, which can be perused here.  Next week it will be hosted by poons and will eventually be hosted here (on 22nd April to be precise).

Tim Worstall  initiated this venture, the democratic credentials of which are unrivalled (in that there is no self-appointed panel of judges or arbiters of taste or style, the sole criterion for inclusion being that the post in question was nominated).  He was open-minded enough not to exclude material on grounds of conflicting ideological affiliation, an admirable tradition I am confident his successors will uphold.

[This is likely to be the only such honourable mention I will make, not out of a curmudgeonly reluctance to publicise the output of others, but my desire to preserve the integrity of this site and its aspirations]

[Saturday 23rd January 1988]

All is frosty. Roof slates, lawns, evergreen fronds and needles. My brother is in the driveway with his yellow Mini, he has scraped the ice off the windscreen and is continually switching on the engine, revving it up and switching it off again. The vociferous gulls and the occasional bus along the (to me still) new route interrupt the peaceful morning. The noise of water travelling through pipes and the tank, the view of the telephone cable stretching between our houses where blackbirds, starlings and thrushes love to perch a while, even sing. The monkey puzzle tree, rising like a great, jagged pillar, the garages: our own, with black-painted doors, the more distant flat-roofed ones belonging to the neighbours two doors down. The hospital beyond, red brick chimney rising above the huddle of box-shaped buildings, the wooded hills of the valley in the distance. The window opposite, from which Annette would call across; the front gate and path; the road, neatly trimmed yellow-leaved hedges. The entrance to the cul-de-sac where my Granddad lived; the swings and the school grounds beyond, churned mud of the playing fields half solid in the chill. Once these marked the boundaries of my existence, stretching to the public baths on the Crieff Road and to the red sandstone of the Sandeman Library (I was never allowed there unaccompanied, though).

[2007]

Squabbling sparrows congregated unseen amongst the lilac twigs waiting to cadge some mouldy crusts (now that the preservatives have been removed, bread does not keep anything like as long as it used to). Folded tea towel beneath her elbows (bruised dark purple in spite of the padding), my Mother leaned on the draining board as she filled in the crossword, Ally Bally’s phone-in quiz blaring in the background, the window open in a vain attempt to conceal her fly smoke and avert the slight flicker of disappointment that registered on our faces (we never challenged her directly). Sometimes she would hastily stub out the evidence in the blue glass ashtray on the sill, which she would then slide behind the pot draped with the spider plant’s prolific fronds. Or else she would shut herself away in the bathroom, knowing that the sound of the lock would make us aware of the urge.

In earlier years I had always dreaded the request: “Would you nick down to Johnny’s for twenty Benson and Hedges?” even though she would sweeten it with a bribe. I loathed the errand, as if the malignant yellow stain of the nicotine would seep through the packet and contaminate my fingers as I laboured up the steep slope from the shop, lungs like lead. Annette and I had long since ceased pacing up and down the bench in the back garden pretending to be prisoners, picking up the butts from the gravel and inhaling deeply on unpolluted air, a fantasy of toughness.

Even the shed has been emptied, the old dog’s bones in the soft earth of the border an invisible token of our former occupancy.