Walcot. Brian Aldiss

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      Your father, meanwhile, disliked displays of emotion. Perhaps his war injury reinforced his withdrawn character. Ignoring socialist principles, he sent you away to a nearby public school as soon as possible.

      One consolation in this form of exile was the weekly arrival of your favourite magazine, Modern Boy. In the pages of Modern Boy you followed the adventures of ‘Captain Castern of the South Seas’. Captain Mike Castern sailed a ketch about the Pacific Ocean. He had a crew of Kanakas, who would say of a dead man – and someone, generally wicked, died every week – things such as, ‘Dat man he go big sky blong Jesus.’

      At school, you developed an eccentric habit. There were certain senior boys whose looks were so peculiar in your eyes that you christened them with sentences from books you had been reading. That fellow with the swollen red face, suffering from some variant of acne rosacea, you dubbed, ‘Morning dawned, red and angry’. Another fellow was ‘The burly janitor replied’. Another was a thin fellow with a downcast air; he was christened, ‘He watched it drain away without regret’. Another lumbering fellow was ‘One excellence I crave’; but he left school early.

      A curious protocol about these phrases dictated that you had to utter them obsessively to yourself whenever you caught sight of the boy to whom they referred. Often – for instance when the whole school was filing into the school chapel – the phrases had to be mumbled quickly, one after the other. The habit served to distance yourself from the other boys. You had contracted a splinter of isolation from your father.

      You gave other boys of your own age, with whom you were more closely associated, exotic secret names, known only to yourself. You may recall Pyrodee Nangees, Trevor Birdshit, Fizure, Georgie Suckletrot and Gaspar de Peckubee. And a dull-looking day boy who became simply Fartadoo.

      This inventive turn of mind caused you also to form with a friend a secret clique of two, called ‘The Royal Society for the Overthrow of All Masters and the Government’. You and your friend were required to chant fifty times, ‘We the Murderers will Overthrow all stinking rotten Masters – pooh! – and the stinking rotten Gov’ment, too.’ The society flourished only for one term, to die of boredom since you were unable to dream up the means by which to execute your good intentions: although teams of well-trained cobras certainly entered into one of your proposals.

      Following the example set by Hugh Miller’s The Old Red Sandstone, you took to reading the strange books with strange titles you found in the library: The Museum of Unconditional Surrender, Confessions of an English Opium Eater, On the Use of the Herb Slac, The Return of the Native (the native what, you wondered), and The End of the Imp, translated from the Russian.

      Among the strange books you were reading, cheek-by-jowl with Captain Castern, was one entitled The Miscellaneous Writings of Sir Thomas Browne. This volume contained many curiosities, including a paper on certain fossil remains discovered at Winterton. Winterton was the first place at which Robinson Crusoe was shipwrecked. It lies on the North Norfolk coast, not very far from Walcot.

      Browne, a seventeenth-century doctor, said: ‘Upon the same coaste, butt at some miles distance, divers great bones are sayd to have been found, & I have seen one side of a lower jaw containing very large teath petrified, farre exceeding the teeth of the biggest ox. It was found after a great flood neere to the cliff, some thousand loades of earth being broaken down by the rage of the sea.’

      Thomas Browne was mystified, as were you, by these great bones. Many years later, in the nineteen-eighties, the fossilized skeleton of a mammoth was found near Weybourne. Browne’s animal was very likely a mammoth too, possibly from the same herd.

      Your curiosity moved you to join a schools geological expedition in the summer holidays. A group of boys and masters were taken by ship to La Rochelle, from whence a coach conveyed you all inland to a small village called Beaussais. Outside Beaussais was an extensive dig, where the remains of a Roman villa that had been buried in an earthquake were being excavated. You all stayed in a small hotel just a kilometre away from the site.

      The dig had been roped off. Topsoil, on which grass grew, lay in piles outside the ropes. All that had been revealed of the villa so far was a paved pathway with a broken pillar standing at one end of the path. To one side, a radial ditch had been dug, leading nowhere. Your companions were excited. You felt only disappointment; you do not know what you had been expecting. A revelation of some kind?

      Your lack of enthusiasm was noticed by one of the masters superintending you. He was not from your school. His face was roughly the shape and colour of a plum. His hair was well-oiled and curly. He wore khaki shorts and heavy boots, with thin, hairy legs showing in the exposed area between them. His name was Mr Loftus.

      ‘Have you no interest in Roman villas?’ he asked.

      You thought, what was another Roman villa? but could not articulate the thought. You hung your head.

      ‘A mile from here there’s a more interesting site, where a meteorite struck. Would you be interested in looking at that?’

      His dark eyes regarded you rather contemptuously.

      ‘Yes,’ you said, although something in your head warned you to say no.

      You went with Mr Loftus, following him up the slope. The ground was broken and stony. No trees grew, only clumps of bracken and furze; it was a landscape scraped bare.

      Looking ahead at Mr Loftus’s hairy legs working their way onwards, and Mr Loftus’s boots, clumping along on your eye level, you conceived a hatred for all boots, reflecting that those who had power – the power represented by the boots – could do whatever they liked. You felt it to be your destiny always to be on an eye level with boots, plod, plod, plodding: boots with their studs, with their horseshoe-shaped metal shodding. There was a feeling in your stomach, totally unformed by intellect, that in only a few years – three at most – the world would be full of the clamour of metal-shod marching boots.

      All your concerns about bursting into adulthood, a butterfly from a chrysalis – about how your career would go, about how you would earn money, about whether your friends liked you or secretly despised you – all those concerns would be kicked away by the legions of boots that even then were preparing to march in Germany, and out of Germany into neighbouring countries.

       I am surprised you know what I thought then. I hardly knew my own thoughts.

      They were deep within me.

      You are not surprised. Nothing can surprise you here.

      Yes, but those unspoken thoughts.

      They were recorded. There are no privacies, no surprises here.

      You climbed for about an hour before the ground levelled off. Mr Loftus continued to plod on, while you stopped to look at the view. From your vantage point, the country in the main looked flat. To the north, the serpentine bends of the river Niortaise gleamed in the sunshine. More distantly, the higher ground of the Sèvres region was obscured by a heat mist. Only faint noises arose from humanity below, challenged by nearer bird calls, plangent in the thin air. The sight of this beautiful sparse foreign land awoke vibrations within you.

      You walked now on bare rock. Mr Loftus stopped at last. The boots were at rest, the knees of the hairy legs companionable together. Mr Loftus mopped his brow with a blue handkerchief. A whisper of breeze was keeping the temperature down in this high place.

      ‘Here we are,’ СКАЧАТЬ