Читать книгу An Encyclopaedia of Myself - Jonathan Meades, Jonathan Meades - Страница 8

Not applicable. I have no sexual abuser to confront.

There was no simpering, gingivitic distant cousin with crinklecut hair who beseeched me to come and play with a special mauve toy.

No wispily moustached, overfriendly, oversweaty ‘friend-of-the-family’ whom I was made to address as aunt, who tucked me up then, who must be hunted down now. What, anyway, was signified by that odd epithet? Could the ‘friend-of-the-family’ not make up its mind whom, in particular, in the family, it was a friend of? My family did not have ‘friends-of-the-family’. ‘Friend-of-the-family’ is as much an alarm bell as ‘magician and children’s entertainer’.

No doddering nonagenarian former ‘magician and children’s entertainer’ whose dirty secret was buried half a century ago and is now all but lost in the soup of dementia.

No lissom-fingered groin-pirate for me to approach as he opens his gate, all crazed-paint and rot. A ragged cotoneaster hedge flanks the gate. I can see the mange-like patches where the bungalow’s render has slipped to reveal the friable bricks. The own-brand Scotch in his naugahyde bag weighs down that bad bad hand of his.

No failed oboist, foxed scores all around, listening covetously to a prodigious pupil, gazing at a soggy autumn garden and broken paling.

No, no, none of those. I was not, in the brusque cant of the day, interfered with. I didn’t have what it takes. No adult wanted to love me that way. I was pretty enough, but it takes more than prettiness. It takes foolhardy insouciance, it takes uncomprehending nerve to return the stare of the not yet abuser, the tempter, and so, in his eyes, legitimise the compact and become complicit, willing and an equal partner in sex crime. Only the rash venture into the unknown from which there is no chaste return. I never had that rashness, was never a daredevil. Look right look left look right again – then repeat it all.

So, now a pre-dotard, I am left bereft. I am denied the sine qua non of recollective bitterness, mnemonic poignancy. Denied a cause of self-pity … a cause? The cause. Denied, then, the chance to incite the pity of others, to milk the world’s sympathy gland. I lack the paramount qualification of the auto-encyclopaedist. No abuser (I am, apparently, unique in this) – no abuser, so no life, no story.

Were I to stroll down False Memory Lane at dusk I might pick out a mac lurking in the grubby alders beside a playground: You there! You …

But that would to be to invoke nothing but dated cliché. Playgrounds! Macs! The predator surely wouldn’t announce himself by that dun uniform: he’d have had a gift for camouflage, he’d have been in mufti, he’d have been anywhere but on the school bus.

As well as cliché it would be a lie. There are strata of mendacity best left unbroached.

Why be so fastidious? Lies are humans’ desperate balms and risible solaces.

Where would we be without monotheism, fasts, judicial impartiality, the eucharist, sincerity, pork’s proscription, Allah’s ninety-nine names and seventy-two virgins, weather forecasts, life plans, political visions, conjugated magpies, circumcision, sacred cows, the power of prayer, insurance policies, gurus’ prescriptions, the common good, astrology?

Where indeed?

But those are the big lies.

Little lies, microfibs, are different. They are insidious. They go undetected, pebbles added furtively to a cairn. Every time I write once upon a time I am, anyway, already exhuming the disputable, conjuring a photocopy of a faded print made from a detrited negative. I am striving to distinguish the original from its replays. So why add to the store of the provisional? The forms and shades of what used to be are already hideously mutable, every act of recall is both an erosion and an augmentation. I remember therefore I reshape.

Further, memory is susceptible to contamination by a secondary memory, of the place where I find myself when the first occurs. Thus I cannot help but picture the swaying mane of the weeping willow I was dozing beneath at East Harnham in summer 1996 when my mind was suddenly filled with a dizzy, joyful, chlorinated night more than thirty years before, the night I cut the ball of my right foot beside the swimming pool at West Park Farm (broken glass? crown cork?), didn’t realise I had done so and laid a trail of blood through the loud house where teenagers clutching bottles of fruitgum-bright liqueurs shed inhibitions and just a few clothes.

The secondary location seeps into what is playing in my inner cinema just as the Gaumont’s hefty 1930s-Tudorish décor would intrude on the purity of the screen’s illusionism. Westerns’ canyons, gulleys and hoodoos, Denver Pyle’s badman grin in The Restless Gun, the tarred hut on the dunes in Forbidden Cargo where Joyce Grenfell and Nigel Patrick pretend to be ornithologists, West of Zanzibar’s smugglers’ dhows, the shack-like Snowdonian garage that yields the clue to Jack Hawkins in The Long Arm: they were infuriatingly framed by beams, halberds, casques, tapestries, chandeliers. These interventions from a competing pageant exacerbated my inability to distinguish between the fictive, the factual, the fantastical.

The formula states that adults are wicked predators, children are innocent prey. In the hierarchy of abuse, paedophilia (which may be literally that, liking children) is demonised, fetishised. It has giddily attained equal status with race crime. (Stabbing an Arab in a Maida Hill launderette simply because she is an Arab is a more serious offence than stabbing her because she jumped the queue for the one functioning dryer or pocketed a garment left in the lugubrious drum by the previous user or because she is a woman. She can of course take comfort from this knowledge as she loses consciousness on a reddening moraine of fresh-baked sheets. The culprit, the gravity of whose crime is determined by motive rather than effect, will, if arraigned, plead a different cause and claim that his action was motivated by something apart from race and ‘otherness’.) Homo faber. Isn’t he just? Man has devised multitudinous forms of child abuse which are not sexual. Not covertly sexual, not displacedly sexual. Their immeasurable consequences may, however, be just as grave as those of sexual abuse.

Child soldier, child slave, child labourer, child miner, child skiv, child beggar, child bloody from scrounging in the shambles.

There were children before there was childhood. There have always been children. There has not always been childhood. Steam, foundries, pollution, unprecedented urban concentrations, megalopolitan sprawl, soot, canalisation, dams – the industrial revolution’s manifestations were, as early as 1873, described by Antonio Stoppani as ‘a new telluric force which in power and universality may be compared to the greater forces of earth’. Since then the world’s population has multiplied fivefold. Humankind propels the atmosphere. It has unwittingly created a geological age which the meteorologist and chemist Paul Crutzen named the anthropocene.

Modern western European childhood is a by-product of industrial revolutions, thus an invention of adults. It is protracted, an antechamber to longed-for adulthood, a mere waiting room before we achieve the real thing. Whilst it is hardly an abuse, it is a temporal space where communitarianism and generational apartheid are enforced. Its characteristic condition is attritional boredom, a boredom that foments the desire to escape, no matter how, and to punish the captors. Until the era of enclosures, rural diaspora and urbanisation, childhood had been the province of the lettered classes. Thereafter, throughout the nineteenth century childhood, like recreational drugs in the later twentieth century, became gradually democratised, available to all save the very poor (who needed it most). The change is readily ascribable to a succession of education acts which ordained the free provision of schooling and ever more elongated compulsory attendance. Schools occasioned a concentration of coevals: the child spends most of his time with other children.

We take for granted the existence of commercial stratagems to confine children to a specifically infantile ghetto, to prolong the age of play, to emphasise their separateness, to profit from an exclusive and imposed subculture. Yet these stratagems are of comparatively recent foundation. They devolve from the invention of childhood. They are conditional upon mass production, the separation of home and work, the statutory compulsion to submit to education after the end of physical childhood. They extend childhood, they inhibit its elision with adulthood. Not least because what follows is of course another commercially determined niche age, an even more recent created parenthesis: when my parents were teenagers there were no such persons, they often reminded me, as teenagers. We are persistently shocked when children go straight from Lego to legover. We shouldn’t be. It is as though there is a collective will to stunt them with toys, to prolong infantilism and delude ourselves about states of innocence. It is as though we creepily wish to put the pituitary gland on hold and keep them kiddies for ever. The ‘us’ in Toys ‘’ Us is adults who are perennially keen to keep children in stasis, to freeze them at whatever stage of development is sentimentalised as ‘such a lovely age’.

When, after they had both died, I sold my parents’ house, I got rid of a cupboardful of toys which had collected decades’ dust, and a bookcase of Eagle annuals, Tiger annuals, Buffalo Bill annuals and so on. I picked through tins of broken pens and perished erasers. I wondered where my model cowboys and Indians had got to then recalled that I had lent them to Roger’s younger brother when I had ‘grown out’ of them and had never bothered to get them back. I excitedly anticipated that the past would come rushing back. Each of these rusting tarnished pieces of metal or plastic is, surely, a potential trigger, a mnemonic of some bright day in 1959, a correlative of a particular sensation. They were however doggedly mute. A brown and cream Dinky Austin Atlantic even prompted a chronological anomaly, the recollection that when I was about twenty I had met what wouldn’t have then been called an Austin Atlantic anorak who collected lifesize editions of that pseudo-American tourer. It took time in that house whose purpose was finished to realise that this was a pitiful and self-pitying exercise: I was trying to freeze myself, to transport myself back to the land of yore, to dream days which had, actually, been no such thing. I was trying to do to myself what parents do to their children.

A further persuasively significant foundation of childhood was the separation of workplace from home and the consequent separation of children from adults. Thitherto children routinely enjoyed prepubertal sex. They also endured incestuous liaisons, were bound in endogamy, or something closely related to it: life was, after all, as predatory adults realised, short.

Ci-gît le fils, ci-gît la mère,

Ci-gît la fille avec le père,

Ci-gît la soeur, ci-gît le frère,

Ci-gît la femme et le mari,

Et ne sont que trois corps ici.

The Levitical taboos on incest – which don’t extend to cousins – were widely ignored. Notably in remote fastnesses and the backwoods. Hence, no doubt, the plentiful supply of village idiots, victims of primal concupiscence and of a feast of recessive afflictions: respiratory problems, developmental stasis, albinism, seizures, club feet, renal and hepatic failures, tons o’ snot, pallor, involuntary urination, jabbering, short life etc. Improved economic conditions, increased longevity, embourgeoisement, urban propriety and internal migration appear to have lessened the incidence in Britain of intrafamilial intercourse save among Muslims.

This prosperity and civility which encouraged sexual restraint (and moral repugnance at the absence of such restraint) were enjoyed by an ascending proportion of the populace which now lived in disgusted fear of the feral inbreds at the gates, whom they longed to hang or to transport at the first sign of a mare’s slashed belly or burning rick.

Rather than rape its own children this new middle class beat them instead. There, that’s a kind of progress.

The anthropocene childhood has changed. But only so much. Like education, which is, astonishingly, still symbolic of it, childhood may have become increasingly ‘child-centred’ rather than ‘adult-centred’ aka ‘sadist-centred’ which is the form of education still practised in preposterous faith schools with their mission to beat the biddable into superstitious submission. But ‘child-centred’ childhood still remains within the ghetto of adult creation. The ghetto that children yearn to escape from is now more gadget-strewn though hardly cushier. Childhood is the condition of wanting to be someone else. In play we seek to emulate the behaviour of adults, our wishfulness caused us to become grocers or soldiers, cowboys or tractor drivers. (Evidently a generationally biased list of models. Today’s children long to be body-piercers, security consultants, the mutant subjects of the tattoos themselves.)

Rather, we ought to yearn to escape the ghetto. But when we have escaped we discover that its pull is that of the superstition that tempts the atheist, the tenderness that infects the murderer. Childhood tugs at our sleeve all our life. Look at moron executives bonding through paintballing, look at the queues in airports wearing kiddie clothes, look at them unabashedly reading J. K. Rowling. (Would an adult of my childhood have read Richmal Crompton – and in public?)

Such infantilism is a pathetic refuge. It signals a forlorn effort to be a child again, despite the bulbous evidence of the body distended by sweet comforting childish foodstuffs and the actual children who clamorously demand more, more. It’s a delusory rebirth which can convince only those with a capacity for faith and credulousness. The recall of childhood from a distance – as though peering into a glass cabinet whilst wearing a sterilised mask and surgically scrubbed gloves – is different. It does not imply a denial of adulthood, it is not a soft self-abasement which sweeps us sartorially and mentally backwards. Nor does it imply that what is recalled was actual and enjoyed an existence beyond the laboratory of our imaginings.

There were projects that never, so to speak, came to fruition, never could have done. At the age of eight I began to conjure up the future, year by year. This prospective speculation was of the lowest grade, a series of acquired banalities which did not come to pass. Nonetheless it remains potently limpid. For instance, when I was ten – still a long way off – I would definitely be going on very long bike rides through a sandy terrain of broom, gorse and scattered pines (I sense the sea was close by, though it was not visible). The sun shone. I would be laughing and picnicking with healthy, Aertex-clad coevals apparently plucked from the pages of Enid Blyton though I did not then recognise that source. We would compare bicycles in amiable competition: the merits of Campagnolo and Simplex gears and their superiority to Sturmey-Archer, drinking flasks, brake systems (cable, calliper brakes were old hat), tyre makes and pressures etc. This fantasy was partly learnt from advertisements of the period, again unacknowledged. Partly from frequenting Hayball’s cycle shop and scrutinising the ranks of Rudges, Hercules, Raleighs, BSAs. The fancy stuff like Dawes and Claud Butler were hung from beams. The shop’s odour was that of clean oil. It was a serious place. The beefy bespectacled Hayball in a brown warehouseman’s coat never smiled.

That outdoorsiness and sportiness should have informed so much of my imagined future suggests that I had only the frailest grasp of my capabilities. When I was thirteen I would be opening the batting for an eminent if undefined cricket team with my imaginary friend Andrew Parker. In fact I was a laughably incompetent cricketer. Had I dared wear glasses I might have ascended to mediocrity. But I didn’t because I feared losing an eye to a shard of lens, shattered by an improbably fast schoolboy bouncer. After the age of nine when my (unfulfilled) promise as a swimmer was recognised I was seldom obliged to play cricket. Now I dreamed of emulating teenage Olympians such as the Aberdonian Ian Black and Neil McKechnie who advertised Horlicks and came from Wallasey, which I knew to be nearby the glamorous-sounding New Brighton. My photograph would appear in the Eagle diary with my freestyle and butterfly records listed beneath.

Hark hark the dogs do bark!

The beggars are coming to town.

Some in rags and some in tags

And one in a velvet gown.

The rhyme was hardly affecting.

The illustration, in a poster style brazenly filched from the Beggarstaff Brothers, terrified me. The leader of the motley sordids was indeed resplendent in a scraggy, ermine-trimmed ceremonial robe – a hanging judge’s twin gone to the bad. He was gross, ruddy, unshaven, voracious, with obese predatory lips, a prognathous jaw and bared mustard-coloured teeth. Here was a truly aggressive beggar, a figure of abominable daymares. And my parents abandoned me to him. The very presence of the book on a shelf near my bed was discomfiting. Yet I was drawn to this beggar-king and, all affright, I would dare myself to peep at him with the pages hardly parted before I snapped them shut again lest he escape into the room. He was not the only figure I feared. Many of my earliest books had been my mother’s. A child born in 1912 was routinely subjected to imaginative horrors that her son, a New Elizabethan born thirty-five years later, might easily have been spared, protected from in that golden age of euphemism and evasion which saw our young Queen crowned. But I wasn’t spared: my mother still had those books, Grandma and Pop had not dumped them out the back in the steep alley behind the house in Shakespeare Avenue.

Here were Joseph Martin Kronheim’s giants and child-stealers. Here was Gustave Doré’s nocturnal butcher slitting the tender throats of sleeping children who had feasted on birds: poisoned birds? Here were the babes in the wood, the dark wood, the eternal wood, asleep now for evermore in each other’s arms. And everywhere was Camelot, swathed in dusty crêpe, in tendrils of desiccated caul, haunted, benighted, all decay, all death. Tom the chimney sweep died, he turned into a water baby swaddled in art nouveauish clusters of weed, befriended by crustacea and sea trout. To be a child was to be close to death. How I pitied the boy sailor sprawled weeping across his mother’s grave in Arthur Hughes’s Home From Sea: but at least he had a sister to comfort him, I would have no one. I feared for the filial resolve and life of the grave little boy being interrogated in And When Did You Last See Your Father? I fretted about him. What became of him? I knew all too well what became of the princes in the tower. Prescient of their fate they cowered together on a hamper in their cell or they clung to each other on a four-poster bed or they were smothered with a pillow by an armoured man whose rude companion holds a burning lamp or they were smothered by coarse mechanicals with beards and fringes or their bodies were lowered down a steep staircase by killers with the faces of angels taking them to a better place. Royal, incarcerated, innocent, prepubescent, (perhaps) pretty, defenceless, dead or about to die: the attractions of these victims to Victorian illustrators are evident. But the greatest appeal must have been that the plight of these two hapless princes of long ago would – through chromolithographs, steel prints, etchings, silk Stevengraphs – terrify countless children, incite them to tuck their head beneath an unsmothering pillow and will the image to quit their brain. Those artists manipulated my occiput which tingled in the night. Their gleefully cackling cruelty outlived them. They died knowing that children yet unborn would wake screaming from the nightmares they kindled, the nightmares that I craved: I relished oneiric abuse – the nightmares’ foals would do.

I dreamed of malevolent sheep surrounding me near an isolated railway halt in a landscape of drystone walls and tufty grass. Every attempt to escape over those walls was thwarted by further flocks who penned me in, baaing at high volume till a Wolseley police car arrived to apprehend me.

I dreamed of a lugubrious, flickeringly lit gilded room, with glimmering fabrics, a chaise longue, heavy dark scarlet velvet curtains from behind which, terrified lest I make a sound and am discovered, I spy on a brooding Napoleon. (I had never witnessed a performance of Hamlet. But I had read it, slowly, painstakingly. More importantly I had seen stills of distant, dusty productions. Paintings of prince and arras excited me.) There was the flash of a blade, a vegetal tearing and with it a rent in the curtains. Many years later it occurred to me that some part of my brain had, in REM, conflated the names Napoleon and Polonius and had decreed that my fate should be the latter’s at the former’s hand: he was, after all, still Boney. I no doubt belong to the last generation of British children to be casually warned of that spectral ogre. Mr Coleman used to caution me: ‘Old Boney’ll get you if you dawdle about there, Sunny Jim.’

If only! I wanted him to try to get me so I might experience the thrill of being quarry. I would of course escape. ‘There’ was the covered alley in the middle of the terrace on the other side of the road. It ran between the house where Roger lived with his parents and grandmother and its neighbour: the first floors had a party wall, a sliver of both ground floors had been sacrificed to this narrow passage. It was where I waited for him to come out to play. It led to the perpendicular alley between the Rose and Crown’s car park and the gardens of this terrace of about twenty houses (red brick, c.1912, each with a name incised in stone beside the front door, as well as a mere number like ours). Mr and Mrs Coleman’s house was three away from Roger’s.

Mr Coleman, a grocer on his day of rest (Wednesday half-day closing excepted), would open his back gate and say testily: ‘Can’t you nippers keep it down!’

His tone towards me when I skulked silently was more jocular.

‘Can’t do better than join ’em when you’re big enough, Sunny Jim,’ he’d instruct me, well-meaningly, on Wednesday evenings whilst Bishop Wordsworth School’s blanco-gaitered Sea Scout Troop, led by a youth twirling a baton with thrilling abandon, marched past hammering their drums and bugling their one and only tune under the martinet’s eye of a naval-uniformed and atypically spruce William Golding.

‘You make sure you eat them greens, Sunny Jim,’ Mr Coleman instructed me, well-meaningly, whilst I queued on my mother’s behalf at Mr Rose’s vegetable van.

‘Enjoy your pop, Sunny Jim!’ he’d instruct me, well-meaningly, whilst I bought my two bottles (fluorescent lime and American cream soda) from the gleaming Corona lorry. I resented being addressed as Sunny Jim. But I didn’t show it, would not have dared answer him back, for I knew that the reason the Colemans never smiled was that their son had been taken from them. Listening to the whoops and cries of their boy’s living contemporaries can only have intensified their loss. There were now just the two of them. It was for only five years that there had been the three of them. It must have been grief that made Mrs Coleman pendulous-breasted, gingery-grey, myopic, musty, thin-lipped: staleness surrounded her. It must have been grief that made Mr Coleman glue hair from faraway sources to his pate. My bald father mocked these strands as grocer’s stripes. They gleamed like oily feathers. The coarse artifice was appealing to a child who preferred plastic to leather, formica to wood, who delighted in prostheses. Every morning save Sunday the Colemans drove in an old Ford delivery van to their little shop where they whiled away their days till they too died. They left Little John Coleman in heaven and in a shaded corner of All Saints churchyard. The dead could be in two places simultaneously. At least two places: Mowbray Meades was in heaven, he was in all his family’s heart, he was in a war grave at Lille, where on 9 July 1918 he had succumbed to pneumonia. Afterlife and transubstantiation, prayer, angels, hell, miracles, holy rocks, voices from above, flying horses, visitations and the very notion of the sacred, are creations of aberrant hallucination and desert fasts which might have been expressly devised to ensnare credulous children. There’s no more willing religious warrior than the child ignorant of everything save what he is instructed in by his abusive imam, himself in turn a victim of doctrinal abuse – so the wheel goes round: tradition is no more meritorious than is sincerity. The flowers were fresh each week (and still are; a dwarf pine has been recently planted). The tiny headstone was scrubbed.

John Coleman

February 10th 1952

Aged 5 years and 6 months

Happiest Memories

I never set eyes on this valetudinarian boy, the subject of whose life was its imminent ending. He was my senior by six months. He lay dying less than fifty yards away across the road whilst I, a longer stretch before me, climbed high in plum trees and hid from marauding Comanches in a gap in between Kalu’s hedge, a trunk seeping fat beads of tawny resin and a woven hurdle. He was too feeble to play. He lived in bed in a blanched room matt with sunbeams. His days were all beef tea and expectoration, plumped pillows and the doctor’s hushed voice. I knew of his secret existence through murmured hearsay, through rumour’s mysterious seepage. He wasn’t talked about. He was hidden away. My parents never referred to him, as though infant mortality were itself infectious like polio, myxomatosis for children, the viral Boney of those years that lurked in wait to maim our bodies, to steal them forever.

Infant mortality? Any mortality. Death might go dogging everywhere but how was I to know? Intelligence of the final finality was only grudgingly vouchsafed me by my parents. For all they spoke of death, I might have believed that we live perpetually, growing ever more crooked, more and more dried up, more rasping, more fearful. (I obviously didn’t know that it was death’s proximity that caused the eyes of the very old to communicate unimaginable terror.) Did my parents talk of it in camera where the renchild could not hear? I doubt it. It hurt my father too much to consider it. Death was denied by near-silence: what was not spoken of did not exist. So it was not addressed, nor were dying and the invisible invaders which honeycomb this internal organ and make leather of that one. The names of the dead were dropped from conversation, as one might drop that of a disloyal friend. Death seemed to be a kind of disgrace. The dead were somehow culpable. They brought it upon themselves. The rare times they were remembered, it was with irked brusqueness. This quasi-muteness might have been designed to protect me from a truth that was evidently considered just about unspeakable. It more likely derived from the near-paralysis that any thought of his father’s death caused my father.

George Meades had died at the age of forty-one in 1920 when his third child and second son was eleven years old. John Meades, who twenty-seven years later would become my father (twenty-six, if measured by the Seathwaite Conception), considered, so far as I could ascertain, that this premature departure was a gross betrayal, like that of a star batsman who has too easily surrendered his wicket to his team’s cost. (This must be an exceptional matter: I have never before used a cricketing simile.) Apprised by life’s whispering campaign that all this ends for all of us, I asked my father about his father’s death. He regarded me with astonished hurt that turned into a defensive flinch I had not seen before, it was an expression of vulnerability that a more malign (or less timid) son might have exploited. I had neither the nous nor the will.

‘How did he die?’

Perhaps he pretended to himself that his father had never existed. He had no photo of him. I had furtively pocketed one that I found buried among piles of Picture Post and tobacco tins filled with screws and wingnuts in the shed behind my grandmother’s house in Northwick Road where, equally, he wasn’t on display. It was obvious whom the photo showed – he was the double of his eldest son Harry, my uncle Hank, save that the ambit of his eyes was sooty with disease or fatigue.

‘Died in the night. Been ill. Grandma told us in the morning.’

My father glared a furious and wounded warning. I knew I must never again ask about, never again even mention my grandfather. And I didn’t.

Was George Meades, as my father had it, a solicitor and Evesham’s part-time town clerk? In Hank’s version he was a solicitor who contributed law notes to the Harmsworth press. I suspect that they had both promoted him out of filial pride. Or out of social shame: they wanted to elevate themselves just as their father, son of a joiner, had wanted to elevate himself by membership of a profession, cynosure of the unimaginatively aspirant. The house in Northwick Road – mean, terraced, dark, no bathroom, outside toilet – was improbably the home of a middle-aged solicitor. And Kitty recalled riding with him across the hills in a dog cart to Chipping Camden where he collected rents, a task more likely undertaken by a solicitor’s clerk rather than a solicitor. In the year of his death he had passed the Law Society’s examinations in trusts, accounting and bookkeeping. Did those successes complete a tardy qualification or was there further struggle and exhausting lucubration to come? With bitchy glee Kitty observed to my then wife that Meades men don’t live long lives. My father once pointed to a double-fronted stucco villa around the corner from Northwick Road near St Peter’s church and ruefully observed: ‘That was where we were just about to move to.’

Further wishfulness? Or was this true? And, if so, was his resentment then worldly, a festering regret about a property denied him, about status unattained? It wasn’t a matter that my father did much to rectify. He had no aptitude for making money, a resigned contempt for those, like Smoothie Derek, who had, and would not own a house till he was fifty-three.

Death was, then, off limits with my father. He told me in a matter-of-fact way that my maternal grandmother had died the previous night as we passed the church at Fugglestone late one Sunday afternoon: I had been sent to the Lush family for the weekend, presumably in anticipation of her death, of whose imminence I had of course not been foretold. ‘Mummy’s upset.’

Charles Wallis, brother of Barnes, married Christine Benn – his first and only, her third (first widowed, second divorced). She cooked Anglo-Indian curries which my father scorned as inauthentic. I was thus obliged to pretend to him that I did not enjoy them. She lived with her two sons in a flat at the top of an Edwardian house overlooking Chafyn Grove School’s lopsided playing fields. The flat below was occupied by a couple with the fine name of Saxon-Harold. Charles was a gentle decent man who rarely shed his crisp white mac. He was amused by my fondness for The Platters’ ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes’, a song he recalled from the version in a film of the 1930s. He drowned on his honeymoon trying to save a child in difficulty in a Cornish bay. He was mourned by my father: ‘Christine isn’t taking it too well.’

Anthony, the infant son of my parents’ bent solicitor Eric Broad, had also drowned, early in the war, a few hundred yards upstream from our house. There was little sympathy for his negligent parents who had left him in the garden.

Both the great horn player Denis Brain and the heir to the Sun-Pat peanut butter fortune died at the wheel of sports cars. That was the way to go.

My mother taught Mary N—, the daughter of an army family. In her early twenties, after a brief failed marriage, she took to prostitution in Bristol. She was strangled by a john. My mother, reading a newspaper report, shrugged as though there was an inevitability to that end and that surprise was misplaced although sympathy wasn’t.

Although my mother’s instinct might have been to speak to me about death with qualified candour she acceded to my father’s will. Together they were conjoined in reticence. When alone with me she was slightly more open though hardly voluble. So I developed (or inherited by mimesis) a guardedness in public whilst cultivating a clandestine obsession with the forbidden: if the living reckoned it was that terrible there must be something to it. Like winklepickers, illegitimacy, tinned salmon, canals, hair cream and gross nipples it was a secret vice to be shamefully indulged, guiltily pored over and obviously not admitted. I kept deaths to myself.

Jolyon Spiller. Late August 1957. Richard Griffiths sat down beside me at the Cathedral School swimming pool and told me his father had just been phoned: a fatal bicycle accident in Sherborne. Two years later his father Laurence Griffiths, headmaster of the Cathedral School, was giving me daily lessons during the holiday to remedy my innumeracy. I arrived at his house beside the school at 9.30 sharp. The door was opened by his elder daughter Lilian. She told me that her father was unwell. I learned a few hours later that he had died in the night. Her calm stoicism was extraordinary.

David Hayden. September 1958. It was said that his parents, coach tour operators, never got over the loss of their beefy son whose brother had already died. Alan Moss, elder brother of my contemporary Melodie, was injured and hospitalised. Car crash near Tilshead on Salisbury Plain.

Richard Sturdy. April 1959. He and his father, a Wareham vet, were drowned when their skiff capsized in Poole Harbour. I heard from a friend whom I had run into outside Beach’s bookshop, my de facto alma mater; most of the staff had been taught by my mother and were happy to let me sit on the floor reading for hours on end without pressing me to buy anything.

Seven years earlier, in February 1952, I had been on the very same spot with my mother when she noticed the lowered flag above the Close Gate and realised that King George VI had died. We were on our way to The House of Steps a few yards away. My first act as a New Elizabethan was to eat hot buttered crumpets in that most sinisterly named tea-rooms from whose owner my parents bought my first bicycle when his son Peter Rothwell had outgrown it: a maroon BSA with a curved crossbar, an American design made under licence.

Spiller and Sturdy were my fellow pupils though I hardly knew them. David Hayden was seven years my senior. I have no idea how I met him. But at the age of eleven my aptitude for indiscriminate acquaintanceship was already coming along hummingly.

Since my parents had improbably heard of any one of them during their life I didn’t bother to familiarise them with them now dead. My silence, in these instances, was guiltless.

It was not always so.

A. Hand & Son (groceries, provisions, post office) stood on the corner of Ayleswade Road, Harnham Road and St Nicholas Road, at whose southern end two bridges cross branches of the Avon: the houses between the bridges were often flooded and A. Hand was not immune. As the handle of a high-geared Berkel bacon slicer was turned ponderously the blade rotated at twenty times the speed in an enticingly lethal blur which prompted me to tuck my scrotum between my legs. A spiral staircase rose to a storeroom, and a wooden ladder, smooth as a shove-ha’penny coin, to the highest shelves whose glass-fronted compartments held cotton reels, Kirby grips, pins, needles, decorative combs, Germolene and lint. A wire-mesh screen signified the post office area.

Period product inventory. Hairy cardboard boxes; hairy Izal toilet paper; Weston’s Wagon Wheels; Nestlé’s segmental chocolate bars with green mint filling and green wrappers, Fry’s segmental chocolate bars with white mint filling and navy wrappers; Fry’s Turkish Delight; Crosse & Blackwell Russian Salad; Trex; Robinsons Lemon Barley Water; Kia-Ora (which meant good health – it was everyone’s single word of Maori); Walls’ disgusting pork sausages; Millers’ even more disgusting pork pies; Smiths Crisps (which often weren’t); parlously balanced displays of Daz, Omo, Persil; Weetabix, Grape-Nuts (for the cleaner colon), Welgar Shredded Wheat from Welwyn Garden City (the name suggested a corner of paradise); Keillers butterscotch; individual fruit pies; Lyle’s Golden Syrup (Out of the strong came forth sweetness); packet soups; tinned soups, fruit salad and cling peaches; bottled sauces – A.1., HP, OK, Daddies, Heinz Salad Cream and ketchup; cut flowers in dank water according to season; glass jars of Black Jacks, bullseyes, aniseed balls, licorice allsorts and shrill boiled sweets; scrubbing brushes; Oxo and Bovril; Rowntree’s Fruit Gums (which caused mouth ulcers) and Fruit Pastilles (which didn’t); baskets of wasp-bored apples and blighted vegetables; towers of biscuits; Camp Coffee; Shipham’s Paste; Sandwich Spread; Sun-Pat peanut butter (smooth – crunchy was still far in the future); Energen rolls and Dutch rusks; red Edam, mousetrap henges, St Ivel lactic cheese and Dairylea; Nestlé condensed milk (sweetened for instant sick), Ideal Milk (evaporated); Spangles and Refreshers; stacks of the Salisbury Journal, the Salisbury Times, Harnham Parish Magazine.

Dun split peas in burlap sacks seemed hopelessly old-fashioned among the gaudily packaged products of the first age of food colouring.

By the summer of 1956 an up-to-the-minute freezer had been wedged into a corner beside the slicer and window display to store ice cream, Koola Frutas, Mivvis, Birds Eye fish fingers, Findus fish cakes, Ross peeled prawns and fish and chips in a box designed to resemble crumpled newspaper – a Mudd Pack by H. Mudd & Sons of Grimsby. All this and much more was contained in a shop hardly larger than the combined front and dining rooms of the houses in the adjacent terrace. Mr Hand (cleaner-shaven than his wife, wirewool hair en brosse) had two assistants: the severe, bespectacled Mr Weston (grocer’s stripes) and the chummy one (grocer’s stripes). They wore long tan warehouse coats. They edged nimbly through canyons of boxes. They clambered daintily over teetering crates. Customers were less practised in negotiating the multiple obstacles. When more than eight people were in the store things went tumbling because of the squash. Everyone was so close you smelled your ripe neighbour. No gossipy whisper went unheard.

Midday, early September 1956. I was waiting in the bunched queue to be served from the freezer when a woman in a pacamac squeezed into the shop, causing the bell on a spring to ring. There was the usual murmur of ‘Good morning or [polite laughter] is it afternoon already?’ The pacamac took her place at the back of the queue. And that would have been that had she not espied the fat-arsed woman in front of me. She busied through. She spoke in hush-voice to her friend’s ear.

‘Did you hear … terrible … Dr Laing’s little boy … they don’t know if he was thrown off … fell he could have fell … he fell on his head … his own pony … brand-new … he had one of those hats on cap things but … in the field behind their house … where the barn is … the ambulance took him up Odstock … too late they said … nothing they could do to save the little mite nothing … didn’t regain you know … died in the theatre …’^fn1

She wasn’t as hugger-mugger as she believed.

The shop fell silent.

Thus I learnt that Jeremy Laing had been killed. He was my first friend to die. I thought of his nice wise face and his thick round glasses and his quizzical earnestness and the strain of mockery he got from his father. I dawdled home with my lolly – now somehow shameful, undeserved.

There were, as usual, the gusts of stinging sourness from Hawk Bowns’s dairy, of scorched horn from Curtis’s smithy. I loitered outside Sid the Butcher’s shop: unburdened by horrible knowledge he was, as usual, sawing and gabbing. Sid the Butcher’s bicycle’s rear wheel’s translucent plastic veil to protect his mac from spray that escaped the mudguard was, as usual, crazed and engrimed. Mr Thick the Drowner grunted, as usual, through his abundantly encrusted moustache. The wicket fence that supported his arthritic bones was, as usual, rotten and miraculously vertical. Ian Horn’s parents’ front garden was, as usual, full of axles, tarpaulins and buckets. The Lovely Queenie’s rouge was, as usual, like a scary clown’s. The russet fur round the collar of her peplum’d serge jacket was, as usual, thick as a bush. Iridescent feathers glinted, as usual, in her hat. She greeted me, as usual, with her blowsy cackle and her former-barmaid-trying-but-failing-to-make-comeback leer. Even though it was a minute further from her house than the R & C, The Lovely Queenie was, as usual, off to The Swan for her lunchtime noggin. Old Street’s ragged metalled surface was succeeded, as usual, by muddy gravel, cinders and puddles. The alley off it that was also a drain flowed with foul leucous liquid, as usual. In the small square of reeking rookeries it led to the pye-dogs howled, as usual.

This was all wrong.

Someone had ceased to exist in the form he had enjoyed till earlier that morning, had stopped being a person, had made a monumental shift into a state that wasn’t a state.

Yet this routine itinerary’s stages, scents and personae had not changed. Nor had the way I perceived them changed. There was no revealed acknowledgment that he was dead. What did I expect? Wilting flowers? The collapse of Mr Thick’s fence? A shocking fact was hidden in my head. That it had no effect on the exterior world signified that world’s heartlessness. I tried to calculate where Jeremy was now, what he was now. Was he a void? And was a void like a vacuum? Probably. Where he had been there was nothing – but where was this freshly created nothingness to be found? How did lack and emptiness manifest? Did a hole appear in the sky with nothing beyond it? Was he going to heaven? If so, had he already got there? How long did the journey take? Did it begin immediately after death?

Jeremy won’t be round to play again, to go out in the boat again, to row upstream to Alligator Island again. I went through the high gate between the brick sheds into the garden. Crazy-paved path, two fruit trees, hurdle fences, cotoneaster hedge, wallflowers and currants, sandpit I’d grown out of just as I would grow out of short trousers, cowboys, water pistols, Jokari, sport, War Picture Library, sleeping with a night light. All of which Jeremy would never grow out of. He was condemned to be forever frozen in Aertex and Startrite.

My father was already home. So I remained mute. Over lunch I volunteered nothing of what I knew. It was too embarrassing a subject to broach. Even had I wanted to blurt out the news I wouldn’t have known how to. I lacked the moral means to contravene the etiquette of silence he decreed. And, besides, the start of each academic year brought into my mother’s class new pupils, a catalogue of whose foibles and quirks she treated us to. My father and I ate, she picked at her food and talked. After lunch she returned to the C of E primary school a couple of minutes’ walk away.

My father went to his den to do his ‘writing’. On a 1930s Remington he typed, in multiplicate, the orders he had written down by hand in the shops he had called on that morning. Later in the afternoon one copy of the orders would be posted to Southampton, a second to Bristol, a third to Liverpool, the headquarters of William Crawford and Sons, where Brigadier Sir Douglas Crawford DSO (1904–1981), Lord Lieutenant of Merseyside (1974–1979), presided over the great baking empire. He lived, surrounded by imperial Chinese gewgaws, at Fernlea, an Edwardian barrack between Sefton Park and Mossley Hill. He shared it and a house in Marbella, Costa Lotta, with his widowed sister, Jessie. He never found the right girl.

It was counted a privilege to shake the white hand of this powdery, childless paternalist and collector. I was twice honoured, at the Royal Hotel in Bristol, which merely reinforced the weird perception that I was being introduced to royalty. He seemed to demand deference as though his blood were blue or blueish, a baron of biscuits receiving forelock from his vassals and their children, his dependents: Chas Perry, Mr Berrett, Mr Uren, Mr Tyson etc. I hated to see my father demeaned, blusteringly pretending that he was the old snob’s fellow officer.

That these painful encounters took place in Bristol was particularly inappropriate, for this was a city that, more than any other, I associated with unmitigated pleasure. This was partly due to a friend of my mother’s charming lodger, Dick Lalonde. His route to the estate agents where he was doing his articles was the same as mine to school. He was a voluble propagandist for Bristol: he had been brought up there, had gone to Clifton College and returned when he qualified. Because I admired him I wanted to share his enthusiasm. That wasn’t difficult. The zoo, unlike London Zoo, didn’t reek of animals with hygiene deficiencies. There were deep-fried egg and chips at the Marine Café on the Triangle. Across the road, I ate my first ‘Chinese’ meal, and, in a barrel-vaulted cellar, my first pizza. At Daniel Neale on Park Street I bought a yellow and black dogtooth shirt and a French navy Windac windcheater. I gazed longingly at the chisel-toe slip-ons in a shop window on College Green. My father returned the old Morris Eight (reg JFM 897) which had been defeated by Hardknott to William Crawford and Son’s car fleet and collected a brand-new Morris Minor in which I took proprietorial pride. The words ‘floating harbour’ were enchanting.

Later I would bunk off school trips to the Old Vic – Dürrenmatt’s The Physicists was the most memorably dire play imaginable – and head with John Rosser and Jonathan Goddard to The Rummer, the very first Berni Inn, to drink ‘schooners’ of sherry. An exception was Harry H. Corbett’s Macbeth. His performance, immediately pre-Steptoe, was so dourly captivating that I did not accompany my friends to the bar. Three years later I saw Richard Pasco’s Hamlet (in gratuitous Napoleonic garb, which accorded with my childhood nightmare, but can have made little sense to anyone else). I had left school by then and had, I told myself, grown out of schooners.

And by then I had begun to appreciate the city’s manifold peculiarities. The jazz modern Smiths Crisps factory at Brislington; the literality of Totterdown’s name; the deep flights of outdoor steps; the sudden exhilarating glimpses of verdant hills outside the city; the sheer might of the tobacco warehouses; the streets of red sandstone Gothic villas; the terraced gardens of Clifton; the thrill of the gorge and the heartstopping suspension bridge and beyond them Leigh Woods where Mary N—’s body had been found.