Playground

I never did understand how I got into this mess; of where they all came from; of how the fight started.

Albert was one of the 'in' crowd, everyone knew him, who he was, and those he despised steered clear. Unkempt, scruffy, he lived somewhere on the council estate. The estate I had to walk through on the way home from school. I wasn't part of his clique; I most definitely wasn't.

All the other kids in the playground seemed to surround us; forming a tight circle; a barrier through which there was no escape. No teacher came to the rescue; they never did.

Really it was no contest. Albert was tougher; he knew it; he was known for being a bully, took pride in his fighting prowess; and, most of all, enjoyed it. I was there to be beaten; the weak unpopular one who deserved it. All the other kids where there to watch the inevitable. This circus show could have only one conclusion; all were rooting for Albert.

One kid, I little knew, held my blazer with embarrassment; folding it tightly over his arm. A pack swarmed around Albert's blazer, cheering and laughing; their blazer the victors prize. Much as I wanted to run there was no option but to fight. As best I could I kept aiming to the side of his face.

Book Review – Vathek by William Beckford

I'm something of a lefty, a revolutionary socialist, a Marxist. Then there's William Beckford late Eighteenth Century elitist spendthrift; reputed the richest commoner of his age; and, for a time, a Conservative MP for a rotten borough. So what should someone like me make of a novel written by such a person? What would political correctness demand? In fact things are far more complex than crude political diatribes would allow; this is a far better novel than might be expected.

William Thomas Beckford was an extraordinary man. His money came from daddy, also confusingly called William Beckford. Along with eyewatering amounts of cash came land and several Jamaica sugar plantations. The few biographers I have read seem a little vague on details. But surely this is just another way of saying his money came from slave labour; from black bodies worked to death. Even today, it seems, biographers disgracefully want to cover up for the slave trade; literally to whitewash history.

And could William Thomas Beckford spend? He managed to fritter away his fortune in a way that makes modern celebrities look positively frugal. When you see the gaudy gold plated crap that passes for style these days at least Beckford had taste. He managed to buy up some of the greatest artworks from his age.

Just as extraordinary is Beckford's Gothic novel Vathek. First published, in French, in 1786 and influenced by The Arabian Nights it presented itself as a contemporary translation of an ancient text. I don't think modern scholars would have been fooled; though a non-expert, like myself, could have easily been taken in.

This is the part of a book review where I'm supposed to give a you a long winded précis of story. So when you finally get round to reading the book you get annoyed because I've given away the plot. So lets just pretend I've done my duty here and fake it. After all Vathek masquerades as something of a fake.

I read two other smiler works recently. These being the more well known Rasselas (1759) by Samuel Johnson and The Castle of Otranto (1764) by Horace Walpole. All three cover broadly similar themes of fantasy and the leadership role of kings. Also Rasselas is set roughly in the same region. Personally I think Vathek is a best of the three; there's more substance to the plot. Otherwise writing skills are about evenly matched; the rival works being well worth reading.

The edition I read contains copious footnotes and, be warned, not all editions appear to reproduce them. These footnotes, I assume, are by Beckford himself and an essential part of the text. As the work presents itself as an ancient text, having been translated, the footnotes apparently being added by an editor, they give the novel an air of being a scholarly work. I like them, they show the experimental nature of the late eighteenth century novel; it's something later novelists could learn from.

I could see this novel making a great film. It could become a blockbuster mainstream movie; something in the manner of Lord of the Rings, and if the produce/director was really creative something actually interesting. Beckford writing is very pictorial; many of the scenes would prove expensive to stage – but not more costly then many lesser works. However any movie would be one where you lamented: read the book it's better.

The First, The Only One, 1859

By John William Haynes, active 1852 – 1882

Am I to end my days here in this little room. Not what I'm used to; but better than I deserve.

Our families had known each other for years and I got on well enough with George. We grew up; played together during the school holidays; at first he was like a brother. He looked well enough and everyone said I must be pleased with the prospect of such an auspicious match. But I sensed an anxiety and restlessness within him; I wondered - should I.

Despite little recompense of love our families expected us to marry and set great faith on our union. I did my duty; I did what I had to do to keep him. But it was all to no avail. It was far easier for him to escape the demands of society than I could ever have hoped for myself.

For months I had no idea I was in disgrace. The very sentiment filled me with fear. What could I do? I reached for all sorts of potions to try and save a yet more disgrace. But none were effective and only served to heighten my melancholy.

I had taken to wearing ever more extravagant dresses to hide my growing expanse. And had almost starved myself to try and deny my predicament. But when it was far too late there was no denying the unsightly truth.

Little was said; but looks could shame. It was then that I was sent here. To have the child out of the gaze of enquiring eyes. I blame my abstinence for a week and sickly darling. They don't expect it to have long to live. Society will have its revenge on me.

I cannot let myself get too attached to the little fellow. But I cannot help praying for its survival. All I can accomplish now is to watch with anxiety. I cry when they say it's for the best.

The consequence is I'm unlikely to ever have another child again. Something I have spent my whole life desiring and planning. It's the only task I have been brought up to accomplish. I'm damaged goods and no one will endure me.

So my life is forever over. I can see what beholds me, to die a sad spinster, passed from one resentful relation to another, ever dependent on their goodwill, ever looked on in unspoken shame. And never to speak of this pain again.

Many would, no doubt, condemn me if they knew the truth. But none could torment me more than I do myself.

George Goes Home

It was closing time and George had been there since finishing work some hours ago. He was not drunk, it took a lot to get George drunk, but he was certainly merry.

Picking up his large best coat he said, “I know, let's go for a meal. Famished I am. I know this place where-”

“No, had enough,” said the last remaining of his colleagues, also buttoning his coat. “The wife, you understand. See you.” And this colleague hastily made his getaway into the pub car park.

It had been some celebration. George had at last become salesman of the year after being runner up for the previous four years. It had been a hard slog and George had made an extra special effort to be even more genial than usual. Twenty years as the office joker and what had he to show for it?

On stepping outside he found everyone gone. The promised lift had evaporated and a cold wind cut into him. George shuffled to the bus stop and was just in time for the last bus home. On the long meandering journey George huddled as best he could in the corner. Winter was early this year.

It was pitiably dark as George struggled up the steps outside the Victorian terrace where he lived. On the bare floorboards inside he looked upon the hall table; no mail. Huffing and puffing he made his way up to the third story. In the dim light and out of breath he slid his key into his flats door.

Inside his bedsit he put on a single bar of the electric fire. Keeping his coat on he slumped in an uncomfortable threadbare chair. He reached for the whiskey bottle but there was not enough remaining to get a man of George's size or experience tolerably drunk.

The Return

The upstairs flat was strangely quiet and had been all that Sunday evening. Such bliss, such solitude meant I had taken advantage and read, read, read, and then been surprised to find it was nearing midnight; that, sad to say, was way past my normal bedtime. It was then I heard that fateful sound that I knew would disturb this unusual and welcome solitude.

The buzzer for the upstairs flat emitted its nauseating screech; and I knew what that harsh, incessant rasp meant almost as soon as it shuddered down my spine. I rose and crept into my own hallway and turned off the intercom for my downstairs flat in this two story block. The buzzer continued its metallic cacophony and would annoy the entire block, and probably most of the street. No sound came from the upstairs flat this hateful sound was aimed at. I inched towards a window that looked out onto the blocks main doorway then drew back fearing I should be seen. Was it a him or a her?

Ten or more minutes had elapsed as the buzzer rasped with only the occasional momentary relief. Also there had been the occasional loud 'hic' as the insistent, would be, visitor appeared to have the hiccups. Then the pattern of previous nights followed, one that I had diligently prepared for; the person at the doorway began to ring the buzzers of the other flats. I was most definitely not in, asleep, or otherwise engaged; intrigued as I was, I was not getting involved. Still no one dared answered.

Book Review – The wings of Icarus by Laurence Alma-Tademe

This is a curious novel from the last years of nineteenth century by Laurence Alma-Tadema (1865–1940). She seems best remembered today for some fairly conventional poetry and while this short novel may not be the best ever written it is certainly worth reading.

The full title is the grandiose: THE WINGS OF ICARUS: BEING THE LIFE OF ONE EMILIA FLETCHER AS REVEALED BY HERSELF IN 1. Thirty-five letters, Written to Constance Norris between July 18th, 188-, and March 26th of the following year; 2. A Fragmentary Journal; 3. A Postscript. Gosh: such a long title for so short a work.

At first it seems a conventional love story. Though you wonder, at the start, who Emilia is in love with; at least when reading with a modern sensibility. Could it be the young, attractive and defiantly female Constance Norris herself? Could this be a lesbian novel that dare not state its intent? And did the author realise what she was writing? Alma-Tadema never married herself; but the little reading I have done from web based biographies reveal no other woman in her life. But who knows?

Then the novel's male love interest enters; dull convention restores itself. But only to a limited extent and the moral question arises of should a marriage be about love or duty? To say more would ruin the story.

The novels structure is unusual. Starting with a series of letters from Emilia to Constance. Incidentally these letters show an interesting use of the second person point of view and show this can have its uses. The novel then moves to a change of scene and a diary section. Finally there is a postscript which I first though was going to be a suicide note; but this turned out to be... well, you'll just have to find out for yourself. I think this structure is interesting and inventive.

There is a theme throughout the novel of the role of women within marriage. While this holds back from completely endorsing feminism you do get some notion of the swirl of ideas that resulted in the Suffragettes. Also there are doubts cast on the church and religion; again Alma-Tadema holds back from outright atheism but goes further than might be expected.

A novel that may not be top of your reading list but it's short and interesting enough to dig out when you have a little time to spare.

The Afterglow

Death.

Death,

Like
Stone.

Death,
Grey,
Like clouds.

Death,
Like
Ashes,
Baked, now cold.

Death,
Like
Savage
Icicles.
Unforgiving death.

Jean Abercromby, Mrs Morison of Haddo, about 1767

By Allan Ramsay (1713 – 1784)

Every morning I have to clean this room and light the fire. Everything has to be neat and tidy before they all come down in this big draughty house. Then my mistress runs me around all day, fetch this, get that. Even when you make an effort nothing is good enough for her. Never stops complaining.

That's her picture up there, up above the fireplace, looking down on me, looking down on everyone. As if it's checking up on everything I do. That's her picture allright, though she's a lot older now. Everyone says she's some great beauty, but I can't see it. Not as pretty as my sister. But I suppose they only say that because she has all that finery.

She sent my sister away. She used to clean this room, like me now. Accused her of stealing some silly trinket. Not that you could get away with taking anything around here. Those lot keep an eye on everything they've got. One little thing out of place and they fine you. Or you're out, no references.

Then they go and find it again. Her up there had mislaid it, taken it upstairs somewhere. I'm not allowed up there. Does she apologise? Does she bring my sister back? Of course not, they just carry on as if nothing had happened. They don't care about the likes of you and me. It's over there on that side table – horrible, ugly thing isn't it. Good mind to take it myself, get revenge. Only then my life wouldn't be worth living.

One day I'll get her up there back, you'll see. I can bide my time.

Liverpool at Night

Car,
Stoned.
Shop-burns.
What do they?
Police run away.

Kids,
Run,
Fightback.
What glimpse?
One brief moment of power.

Cops,
Stoned,
Rampage.
What of they?
Spewing racist filth.

Car,
Stoned.
Shop-burns.
Where are we?
The crowd victorious.

Demonstration

Fear,
Hate,
Loathing.
Unwelcome
feast of yesteryear.

Strike,
Riot,
Rebellion.
Harbinger
of the new free age.