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PART TWO

LADY NARCOSIS (SWEET COUNTRY MUSIC)

There is a show tonight in the Highwood, John. There will be all sorts of people to play music there. We must go tonight to the Highwood, John. We’ll breathe in the music and the cold-starred air.

*

And Cornelius has taken down the moon – hasn’t he? – with gleam-of-eye and giddying snout and his touch on the wheel is delicate as the spring, here a soft tip, there a glanced tap for each swerve of the road as it runs the country and turns.

Oh this is the knack of it – John can see clearly now – the carefree life, and he envies him the spring.

And before we know it, John? The summer proper will be in on top of us and the woods will be whispering.

Fuck the whispering woods, Cornelius. Just get me to my fucking island.

But he is snagged again; he turns helplessly.

How’d you mean, about woods?

Cornelius beams –

There are things we can’t describe, he says.

Go on?

What we see around us is only at the ten per cent level, John.

Of?

The reality.

And what’s the leftover?

Unseen.

How’d you mean?

Well, he says. The way sometimes you’d walk across a field and a sense of elation would come over you. Are you with me?

Okay . . .

You’re half risen from the skin. The feet are not touching the stones. The little heart is about to hop out of your chest from sheer fucken joy. And the strange thing about it?

Go on.

That patch of happiness could be floating around the field for the last ten years. Or for the last three hundred and fifty years. Out of love that was had there or a child that was playing or an old friend that was found again after a long time lost. Whatever it was, it caused a great happy feeling and it was left there in the field. You’re after walking into it. And for half a minute you’re lifted and soaring but then you’re out the far side again and back into your own poor stride and woes.

You’d find a sadness just the same?

Or an evil, John. Or a blackness. Or terror, John, or fucken terror, because there’s plenty of terror in the world. Always was and has been.

A soft whisper –

I mean take a look out the window.

A sweep of the arm for the greys and sea-greens of the moonfull hills, the pale night as they pass by –

I mean why’d you think I’ve the fucken foot down, John?

*

In the darkness of a sudden valley the van is brought to a halt. Its engine ceases apologetically. Cornelius raises delicate business –

The suit is fine. I’ll say again I’m inclined against the running shoes. But here . . .

He presents a tub of hair cream:

A pawful of this gentleman, John.

He greases back his hair. He checks his look in the rearview. He arranges a fag in the corner of the gob for a spiv’s face, a nylon-dealer’s – he has a Second War face.

Take the spectacles off, John. Thank you. Now try these boys for me?

Bloody hell.

My poor dead father’s prescription-issue. The misfortunate man couldn’t see his own hand half the time nor the plate in front of him.

The lenses are so thick the world comes down to just blurs and vague shapes. Everything is abstracted. He climbs out of the van. He is close to moving water. It is a warm night in the Maytime. The dark water laps. He looks over the tops of the glasses and examines his reflection in the van’s window. Cornelius climbs down for an inspection also and at once chokes back a sob.

John?

Yes, Cornelius?

You’re the fucken bulb off him.

*

Your name is Kenneth.

Kenneth?

You’re home from England. You’re the first cousin on my father’s side. You don’t talk much.

Oh?

On account of a brutal speech impediment.

And what does K-K-Kenneth do in England?

He works in a car factory in Coventry and is married to Monica and does the pools of a Saturday.

*

Look. We are all terrified, John. There is no mystery to it. If you weren’t terrified, there would be something wrong with you. The world is a hugely uncertain fucken place. Things can go either way and at any time. Step out of the bed in the morning and there is no guarantee you will step back into it the same night. The whole of your life is up in the wind and it might take off in any direction. We are all terrified at least half the fucken time. So what matters? For a finish? If we are all terrified and if it all ends in hell and misery and roaring fucken death anyhow? I’ll tell you what matters. How you hold yourself is what fucken matters. How you walk through the world is what fucken matters. The set that you have of the shoulders. That’s what matters. Is the chin held up in the air and proud or is it sunk down on the chest like a frightened little pup? That fucken matters, John. It’s all a gamble. We have no control. We have no hope. We haven’t a prayer against any of it. So throw back the shoulders. Comb the hair. Polish the shoes. Never let a plain girl pass by without compliment. Keep the eyes straight and sober-looking in the sockets of your head. Look out at the world hard and face the fucker down. And listen at all times, John. Do listen to what’s around you.

*

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

When was it you adopted me?

The shyness of the smile; the fondness in the eyes –

I’m not sure when it was exactly.

*

The van is parked by the roadside. John is all angles in the phonebox. He is getting an earful. Cornelius passes into the phonebox the 5p pieces and the 10p pieces – John feeds them to the phone like prayer tokens.

Across the ocean the signals travel and their voices.

At length Cornelius shakes his head and makes the sign of a slit across the throat.

Because sometimes, John, a man has to attend to matters he has been called to.

The ground beneath them feels hollowed out and deep.

*

And the season is at its cusp, as if this is the night precisely that spring will give way to summer, as if it is all arranged in advance, at celestial council, and the world soon will throw back its doors and open out its moments.

It becomes for him a sedative night. The world moves slowly on its chains. Car lamps range their lights all over the mountain – the lights are thrown slowly and move. A breath of wind moves the trees as softly and the hedges. There are people aiming for the Highwood from just about everywhere. They tunnel into the dark by their lamps.

The sky above is starless and discreet behind clouds, and along the flank of the mountain the van moves quickly and climbs. Cornelius slaps down a cassette for mood – a heartbroke voice picks sentiment from the air and yodels it dreadfully.

Cornelius?

Ray Lynam, John. That’s what I’d call a fucken singer. The way he holds the note and wouldn’t be caught looking for it? Superb.

*

They leave the heavy airs of the sea behind. They are headed for the Highwood. It is lost somewhere in the hills.