“She’s an expert at that.” Images filled his poor battered head. He left the chapel and ran across to the main building, up the fractured stairs, over the demolished threshold, waist-deep in lath and plaster, brickwork and shattered timber, wading towards his only hope, his goal, his faith, flailing around him as, with his last reserves of energy, he shifted muck and rubble.
“Catherine!
“Catherine!
“Catherine!”
In critical awe Sebastian Auchinek watched the wasted body of the wailing barbarian disappear in a chaos of dust.
10. HIGH INTENSITY COLOUR (THAT’S ACTUALLY GOOD FOR YOUR EYES!)
“Airship! You never bin on a bleedin’ airship—not since you woz a boy at ther bloody Scrubs Lane fair!” Mrs Cornelius had a good laugh before looking down on her son and shaking her huge head, freshly permed, freshly gold. Her mouth was a handsome crimson, an exotic blossom, its tints echoed in her cheeks, contrasted by her eyelids of midnite blue, the pink powder. She belched and her breasts wobbled as she patted at her belly. “Pardon.” She tugged at the waist of her cotton frock with its pattern of maroon and yellow nasturtiums. “Ah. Thass better. Wot’s ’appened ter Frank?”
“He went off with the colonel, Mum,” said Jerry meekly. “You didn’t tell him about Cathy, did you?”
“Fink I’m daft? Silly bugger! ’Course I didn’t. We don’t wan’ the ’ole fuckin’ world ter know, do we?” Although not altogether sure what was wrong with her daughter, Mrs Cornelius had a strong suspicion that it was connected with something scandalous. When Jerry had brought her home his mother had immediately suspected him of having attempted an abortion on her. It had been Colonel Pyat, with his connections, who had known of the fortified hospital at Roedean and arranged for the girl to be taken there. Catherine had been in the worst condition Jerry had ever seen her—more than a little frost-blackened. The hospital, however, was the best there was. The doctors had every confidence, they said, in an early revival. Jerry had had to borrow four cases of 12.77mm machine-gun ammunition from Colonel Pyat to add to his own store, and that had been for the hospital’s down payment only. He wasn’t sure where he was going to find the BTR-50PK armoured personnel carrier he would need to secure the release of his sister once she was up and about. Again Colonel Pyat had been reassuring, promising that he would underwrite Jerry until the situation improved for him.
Jerry had wanted to go straight back to London from Roedean but his mother insisted on making a day of it. Frank was living in Brighton now, running a small general shop, and Mrs Cornelius wanted to see how he was getting on.
“It ’asn’t arf changed,” declared Mrs Cornelius as she stood regarding the twisted pier, most of which had tipped itself into the sea. She pointed at a distant girder. “Thass where the ol’ dodgems useter be, innit?”
Jerry turned up the collar of his black car coat. He put his hands deep into his pockets. It was very cold for May, although the sky was blue and clear and the water as calm as the Mediterranean. He was worried in case Colonel Pyat told Frank something which would start the whole trouble all over again. He looked back towards the darkened dolphinarium in time to see the colonel and his brother ascending the steps to the street. Colonel Pyat shook his head calling: “Nothing I’m afraid!”
“Orl I bleedin’ want is a bag o’ fish an’ chips!” said Mrs Cornelius with a gigantic sigh of dismay. She patted her son on the shoulder. “Up yer get, Jer.”
Jerry rose from the bench, moving his weight from foot to foot, running his tongue round the inside of his mouth. “I’m a bit worried about the lorry,” he said. “What with the scavengers and that.”
“It’ll be safe enough where it is,” she reassured him. “I wish ther bloody trains woz still goin’. Cor! Wot a cum-darn, eh?” She cast a disgusted eye over the wrecked façades, the faded signs. “Yer carn’t even go on ther fuckin’ beach for bleedin’ bar’ wire!”
Frank and Colonel Pyat arrived to stand beside them. Jerry was disturbed by the fact that Frank wore a black coat almost identical to his own. His brother’s eyes were warm and cunning as if he had recently sniffed prey. “Not a chip to be had,” said Frank. “Sorry, Mum. It’s what I thought. Nobody’s catching any fish, for one thing.” He anticipated his mother’s next question before she asked it. “And, of course, there hasn’t been a pub open since the ordinance. You’d better take me up on that sandwich.” He nodded towards the twittens of the town’s cold interior. “Back at the shop.”
Mrs Cornelius sighed. “I used ter love this place. It woz reelly fun. Remember ther races, Ive?”
Colonel Pyat, who wore a cavalry twill military-style overcoat, nodded his heavy Slavic head. “Everything is gone now.”
“It’s not as bad as all that,” said Frank. “A lot of the old residents are still here. We’ve quite a flourishing community, really. We’ve kept our identity, which is more than you can say of some. We can’t offer the facilities to visitors nowadays, of course, but perhaps that’s for the best—so far as the indigenous population’s concerned. But you’ll see. Brighton’ll be back to normal before you know it.”
Jerry removed a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose. Frank darted him a weary look. “Cool it, Jerry.”
Jerry put his handkerchief away. “I shouldn’t’ve thought it could have got any cooler.”
For the first time Mrs Cornelius noticed the cold. “You’re right. It’s bloody freezin’. You got anyfink I c’n put on, Frank?”
“I’ve got some lovely coats back at the shop. Real mink. I’ll lend you one of those.” Frank began to walk along the front and they followed.
“Mink?” said his mother. “Bloody ’ell! You must be doin’ orl right, as usual!”
“There’s not a lot of call for luxury goods just now. But that’ll change in time. I accepted them as barter.” Frank laughed. “I must have every decent mink coat on the South Coast. I’ve literally got a back room full of them. The trouble is, though, that they attract rats.”
“Aaawk!” said Mrs Cornelius ritualistically.
Frank stopped and then fell in beside Jerry. “And how’s life treating you?” His bleak eyes stared out to sea, giving the horizon a shifty once-over. “Getting by, are we?”
“Under the circumstances,” said Jerry.
“A bit more realistic, these days, I should think.” Frank was almost euphorically triumphant. He tapped his head. “Got the old imagination in check at last. You’re staying with Mum?”
“I’ve been a bit queer,” said Jerry.
“So she’s looking after you, is she?”
“Well, my own place…”
“A direct hit, I heard. Shame.”
They were some distance ahead of Mrs C. and Colonel P. now. Frank led the way up King Street. “You had your head in the clouds, you see. Now I saw the way the wind was blowing. I’ve got my shop. In real terms I’m probably the richest man in Sussex. Surrey, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Got four Pakis working for me. Kept my head down, see, and my nose clean and here I am. I don’t deny I’m well off. I don’t feel guilty.”
“Guilty?” Jerry had never heard his brother use the word. He cheered up a fraction. “Blimey! You must have done some terrible things. Brighton’s getting to you, then?”
“What?” Frank was puzzled. “I’m happy, Jerry. Not many can say that, these days. Got my pick of anything I want. Any body I want.” He nudged his brother in the ribs. “Some of those people’ll give anything for a bit of fresh liver. Their little daughters. Eh? What! They never learned to fight, you see—only complain. I must have had every ‘Disgusted’ in the Home Counties in my shop! Well, I ask you!” He paused. Mrs Cornelius and her escort were a fair way behind, labouring up the hill. “You want to work for me? Is that why you came?”
“Mum wanted to see how you were doing. I just drove the lorry.”
“Your lorry, is it?”
“The colonel’s. He was in the last government for a few days.”
“Did all right for himself, then?”
“He reckons he was sold short.” Jerry spoke listlessly as he looked at a sea bereft of boats, a sky without ships, a street without music. Catherine remained and he was helpless to give her comfort or take any direct part in her destiny. He swayed as his mother came closer. She was bent almost double, rubbing her thumb against her index finger, making peculiar smacking noises with her lips. He felt very dizzy indeed. Frank glanced at him. “You’ve gone all yellow.”
“I’m tired,” said Jerry.
“Totch-totch,” said Mrs Cornelius. “Come ’ere, yer littel bleeder. Totch-totch-totch.”
Through rapidly blurring vision Jerry saw that she was addressing a small, mangey black-and-white cat in the gutter. The animal walked slowly and amiably towards her, rubbing its flank against the kerb, its tail erect.
Jerry sat down on the pavement.
His mother didn’t notice what was happening to him; but the cat turned to look at him, its intelligent green eyes piercing his own.
For a moment it seemed to Jerry that his entire being was about to be drawn into the body of the cat. Then Mrs Cornelius had pounced and seized the animal. “Gotcha, yer little bugger!”
“This is a fine time to start playing the Fool,” said Frank.
Jerry passed out.
EARLY REPORTS
Many bathing deaths were reported from seaside resorts yesterday. Two men and a boy were drowned while bathing near Llanelly, and Bertie Crooke, sixteen, son of a soldier, was drowned at Exmouth. Mr Duncan McGregor (twenty-four), a chemist, of Coatbridge, while bathing at Spittal was carried away by a strong current and drowned, despite the brave attempts to rescue him made by Mr James Webster, of Airdrie. Two young munition workers named Griffith Robert Jones and Richard Morris were drowned while bathing at Buryport.
Sunday Pictorial, 22 July, 1917
The following notice announcing the adoption of a system of air-raid warnings for London by “sound bomb” was issued last night:—The experiments made on Thursday with sky signals showed the value of sound bombs for the purpose of warning the population of London … The signal will consist of three sound bombs fired at intervals of a quarter of a minute … having regard to the speed at which aeroplanes now travel, the warning at the point attacked can only be of a few minutes’ duration.
Sunday Pictorial, 22 July, 1917
The Bourse Gazette states that the Premier, Prince Lvoff, has resigned. M. Kerensky has been appointed Premier, temporarily retaining the portfolios of War and Marine. M. Kerensky has sent a message to Reval, Helsingfors, and other points, saying: The disturbances have now been completely suppressed. The arrest of the leaders and of those guilty of the blood of their brothers and of crimes against the country and the revolution is proceeding … I appeal to all true sons of democracy to save the country and the revolution from the enemy without and his Allies within.
Sunday Pictorial, 22 July, 1917
Aliens living at Folkestone and Margate have been given notice to leave the towns … under a new Home Office Order which prohibits their presence within 20 miles of the coast. At Folkestone 130 foreigners are affected. They must be out of the town by midnight tonight. At Margate 238 have been given three days’ notice.
The Times, 5 June, 1940
The trial began before Mr Justice Atkinson at the Central Criminal Court yesterday of Udham Singh, 37, an Indian engineer, who is charged with the murder of Sir Michael Frances O’Dwyer, a former Governor of the Punjab, at the close of a lecture at Caxton Hall, Westminster, on March 13. He pleaded “Not Guilty”.
The Times, 5 June, 1940
Prefabs, with people clinging to the roofs, floated past bedroom windows at Felixstowe, where disaster arrived when the River Orwell burst its banks two miles away. Survivors told of nightmare screams and shouts for help as they watched people slide to their deaths from floating prefabs. Mrs Beryl Hillary … said they were awakened by screams. “As I looked out of the window I saw a little girl washed off the roof of a prefab and drown.” In Orford Road, where the Hillarys lived, a mother, father and two young children were drowned in a downstairs flat. People in the top flat were rescued. Mrs Katherine Minter, of Lauger Road, said: “In the darkness all that could be heard was the roaring of the water and the screaming of terrified women. The housing estate was like an ocean.” … Two-year-old Valerie—she could not tell nurses her surname—cried in hospital for her parents. They are listed among the missing.
Daily Sketch, 2 February, 1953
A baby girl died in a basement blaze in Sorcham Street, North Kensington on Saturday after two passers by had hurled themselves into the burning front room when they heard her screams.
Kensington Post, 19 February, 1965
Fire danger in North Kensington has become a controversial issue between the LCC and KBC. They sharply disagree on the code of fire prevention for lodging and rooming houses. Kensington Council say that the LCC Code of Escape from Fire is impracticable and expensive. They claim it would mean an average cost of £300 per house … Kensington Council have not yet revealed their own plans for fire prevention, but there is no doubt they envisage a much cheaper and simpler code.
Kensington Post, 19 February, 1965
Jimi Hendrix, the pop musician, died in London yesterday, as reported elsewhere in this issue. If Bob Dylan was the man who liberated pop music verbally, to the extent that after him it could deal with subjects other than teenage affection, then Jimi Hendrix was largely responsible for whatever musical metamorphosis it has undergone in the past three years. Born in Seattle, Washington, he was part Negro, part Cherokee Indian, part Mexican, and gave his date of birth as 27 November 1945.
The Times, 19 September, 1970
Part-time soldiers have been on manoeuvres with a Nazi “secret army” it was claimed yesterday. The troops were members of a Territorial Army unit. Special Branch investigators have been told that TA men linked up with a Nazi paramilitary group known as Column 88 for exercises in the Savernake Forest in Wiltshire. At least one TA officer—said to be a secret Nazi group member—is alleged to have helped to set up the operation. Members of the 20-strong TA unit thought the Nazis were another TA group. During the exercise the soldiers acted as mock terrorists, while the Nazis played the role of defenders of an important military target.
Daily Mirror, 19 April, 1976
TUNING UP (4)
“What infernal bad luck!” As he walked along the deck in his glittering white uniform Colonel Pyat tossed his racquet in the air and caught it again. “We lost all our balls.”
“Overboard,” said Catherine, indicating the Mediterranean. She, too, wore white, a boater with a blue-and-white band, a simple silk shirt-waister with a pale blue broderie anglaise bodice. The skirt of the dress was cut just on the ankle of her kid boots. She and he had been playing tennis in the yacht’s court, astern. “Entirely my fault. I’m terrible.”
Jerry shifted his weight in the blue-and-white deckchair, putting his newspaper on the matching canvas stool at his elbow. “I’m sure we’ll be able to get you some more. In Alexandria, perhaps.” He ran a finger round the inside of his hard collar.
“Is it far, Alexandria?” she asked him. She sat in the chair next to his. Colonel Pyat hovered, then went to stand by the Teddy Bear’s rail.
“Not too far.” A tiny breeze found his face. He sighed with pleasure.
Colonel Pyat laid a finger on one side of his small moustache and peered out from beneath his cap. The peak shaded his eyes completely. Indeed, the only strong feature visible was his neat imperial. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready? It’s almost teatime.”
“So I should.” Jerry rose from the canvas chair. He gathered up his books and papers. “And you, too, Catherine, eh?” He raised his panama. “I’ll see you later, then.”
“Fine,” said the colonel.
Jerry crossed to his cabin. It faced forward—a bedroom, a sitting room and a dressing room. It was full of light
from the large portholes on three sides, simply furnished with Charles Rennie Mackintosh designs. Even as he changed into his costume he heard eight bells ring for the dog-watch; time for tea. Slipping on his domino Jerry hurried out, making for the stern and the quarter-deck where a piano had already been set up by lithe Lascar matelots. On the rest of the deck were little gilded bamboo tables with lace cloths; they had matching gilded bamboo chairs, upholstered in blue plush.
As Jerry approached the quarter-deck, racing down the companionway, he almost bumped into Miss Brunner, the governess, who made a clicking noise with her tongue before she guessed who he was. Dyak stewards, in white turbans, red Zouave jackets and blue sarongs, were setting silverware and teapots on the tables. Jerry ascended the last companionway just ahead of Bishop Beesley and Karen von Krupp (wearing her usual Brunswick coffee-coloured gown), two of his guests on the cruise, and just behind Una Persson who was smoothing the folds of her elaborate Columbine costume, gold, white and scarlet, and adjusting her own domino mask. She stood beside the piano, protecting her head with a Japanese sunshade. Jerry winked at her and sat down at the piano.
“Shall we try it, then?”
Una Persson looked at Bishop Beesley, Karen von Krupp and Miss Brunner who were arranging themselves at the furthest table, near the rail. “Why not?” she said. She cleared her throat. Jerry lifted the lid of the piano and played a few notes, exercising his fingers, folding back the flounced cuffs of his red, white and blue Pierrot suit. “Where’s Catherine?”
“On her way.” Jerry spread his new music.
“And Prinz Lobkowitz?”
“On his way.”
“Auchinek?”
“You’d know better than I, my dear.” Jerry put his thumb on middle C.
“Your Mr Collier?”
“Doubtless on his way.”
“They’re all arriving, the audience. Oh, I hate bad time-keeping.” She folded her sunshade and put it behind the piano.
Conditie van muzak Page 12
