The Brightfount Diaries. Brian Aldiss

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       July

      SUNDAY

      Rather overcast in morning, but cycled dutifully over to Graves St Giles to see Uncle and Aunt. House in chaos, owing to the grand turn-out in honour of cousin Derek and his bride, who return from Singapore next Friday week. Doubt if Aunt will ever have the place ready in time.

      Slightly insulted to see how thoroughly they have thought it necessary to clean my room. It was stripped of everything bar wallpaper.

      Uncle Leo paced up and down it excitedly, gesticulating as he did so. ‘I wouldn’t have any furniture in the house at all, if I had my way,’ he says, adding in lower key, ‘not, as you know, that there is ever any likelihood of my having my way here.’ I know nothing of the sort, Aunt Anne being the gentlest of women, and he continues hastily, ‘My whole life’s been devoted to selling empty houses, as was dear old Pa’s before me, and believe me, they’re vastly better without being cluttered by a miscellaneous welter of furniture. You don’t smother the outside with lumber – why spoil the inside?’

      Now he is warming to his theme. In trying to sell an odd idea to me, he – how often have I seen him do it! – sells it to himself. A house should be a shell, filled only with the spirit of its inhabitants, a sort of homely monastery. He has forgotten about the necessity for beds, chairs, tables … If he had his life over again, and was free of the tedious necessity of running a miserable, moribund little estate agency (a job he loves), he would live indoors and cultivate his soul. ‘As it is, my soul’s all whiskers and bottom.’ He’d take up Yoga, a sort of Westernized Yoga.

      ‘Lunch is ready, dear!’ Aunt calls.

      ‘The voice of authority,’ says Uncle. ‘Come on, may as well eat. Don’t know what Derek and Myra will think of this room – it’s the draughtiest in the house.’

      Mr and Mrs Yell are very kindly couple. Would insist when I got back that I went into their living-room and had a slice of cold pork for supper with them.

      MONDAY

      Workmen in, doing new shelving job in cellar. Ever since I’ve been here there seem to have been workmen romping round.

      Poor old Mr Parsons, who as our packer looks on the cellar as his own domain, much put out by this strange activity round him.

      ‘Trouble with them’, he tells Rexine, ‘is they talks too much. Their boss is a bloke called Vaws; I reckon it ought to have been Jaws, because that’s all he does, jaw, jaw, jaw!’

      Spent long while sorting out order for University of Lehukker in America. Dave, seeing me begin to dust a thickly coated set of Lytton, cries in mock-horror, ‘Don’t do that! Our only chance of getting rid of a bit of dust is to send it away with the books!’

      Few customers about. Was sent after lunch-hour to get on with ‘Slaughterhouse’. This derelict bit of shop is crammed on all sides with unsorted volumes, piled on the shelves in no order. Being on ground floor, it is all too convenient place to store second-hand books when they are bought to await pricing and categorizing later. But in bookshops, later never comes. There always seems too much to do.

      Amusing to note people’s attitudes to the Slaughterhouse. Miss Harpe, who left in the spring, always referred to it as ‘the Miscellany Room’ and refused to go in it. When customers find their way in, they either exhibit extreme displeasure to find such disorder or extreme delight at such a gallimaufry.

      Gudgeon, our senior assistant, is on holiday. He spends all his holidays with equally silent friend, fishing up and down England. Poured with rain most of day; let’s hope the fish are rising well.

      TUESDAY