Barnabas Tales

by Denzil Lawrence

  The third was on a high Alpine glacier above Val d’Isere on an exceptionally cold, sunny day. The air was full of particles of ice so small that when they landed on a black glove they were barely visible for a moment before vanishing. These motes in unimaginable numbers glittered around us so that we were surrounded by sparkles, and in addition below the sun there was a clear glowing cross, far brighter than the surrounding particles. I had never before seen clouds of ice-motes and watched in wonder. We interpret through what we believe, and I suppose that refraction or interference patterns caused this cross, but I can easily understand how an sight like this associated with some major event would become accepted as a miracle. Whatever the explanation, that memory is deeply planted.

  All three remain clearly in my memory years later. Were they just beautiful and strange, or did the magical extra ingredient of wonder make them so special? Alas, I was not in a position to observe whether a cow or dog would also be impressed, but one possibly unique benefit of our species is that we can enjoy and perhaps even learn from wonderment.

  LOST CONTACT

  He had been there once before. Would Carruthers still be on duty? Had he really seen Carruthers?

  From his visit in 1969 he remembered Cairo as an empty city. There had been sandbags around the public buildings with the best Tutankhamen relics removed to safety, and shell holes were still obvious in the walls by the Airport road.

  Cairo airport terminal building had been grey and weary, and beneath it the men's lavatories were filthy. As he picked his way cautiously out of a cubicle, the fat custodian waddled towards him demanding baksheesh. He had told him firmly, in English, to be ashamed of the mess, had sharply refused baksheesh, and to his surprise a beautiful smile overwhelmed the keeper's face as he was told that his establishment was disgusting and a disgrace. As he stormed out, the keeper had shuffled to the door beaming, chuckling, and rubbing his podgy hands. Who else but Carruthers or one of his brothers in arms could have rejoiced at that flash of Imperial temper? And where would be better to place an underground agent than in the public conveniences beneath the crossroads of the Middle East?

  Sixteen years later 1985, the airport was less shabby and the subterranean facilities were smarter, cleaner, and larger than he remembered. Twice in a week he looked in vain for Carruthers or any other custodian. Had there been a call to return to London, had the agent's cover been blown, or had Carruthers simply become redundant in a technological age of mechanical floor-polishers and spy satellites?

  The traveller sighed for the innocence and simplicity of Hanney, Smiley, or Carruthers. He might return some day, but with dwindling hope of a meeting or bringing a smile to our man below stairs.

  HUSH FOR THE DAY.

  Why do we crave sound? Why are televisions and radios switched on and left to chatter in full or empty rooms? Why do car radios play throughout journeys, and why is restaurant food served to music? Are the noises just ear-fillers to keep minds blank and comfortably distracted from the problems of the day? Is “Thought for the Day” more ear-filling wallpaper? Yet silence can be golden. All the major faiths value silence, contemplation and even solitude.

  One still June evening Bridget and I sat on the brick bridge spanning the little river Frome between Dormington and Weston Beggard. The current runs eight feet or more below the arch between steep overgrown banks, so the parapet edge is a good vantage-point for watching fish and the life of the riverside.

  For once we were totally silent, and simply sat and watched. After a few minutes a kingfisher flew upstream below our feet, perched on a twig and ate a young crayfish. After a satisfied pause, it flashed away.

  Ten minutes later as the dusk deepened, a large bird flew low and silently along the river. As it neared the bridge it gained height to clear the brickwork, coming straight towards us. At the last moment it noticed strangers in its flight path, and spread wings fully to make an emergency stop. Barn owls always appear mildly surprised, but this one looked astounded. Then it went over our heads.

  These two lovely sights were rewards for stillness and silence. Switch off the Musak! Even switch off “Thought for the Day”! Be prepared to be quiet, and then listen and watch for interesting things outside, or even a quiet voice within.

  THE CHICK OF GLEN CORUISK

  Sunday, 3rd July, 1988. Loch Nevis to Loch Scavaig on Skye.

  Our first full day sailing the yacht was clear and windless with crisp mountain reflections in Loch Nevis. Barbara and Daniel swam bravely. We raised anchor off Glashoille House at 08.15, and motored west across Sleet Sound and once round the Point of Sleet we turned north-north-west . At 14.00 at the very head of Loch Scavaig we passed through a narrow rocky entrance into a small pool . It could just hold a single yacht. Seals, baby seals, and gulls watched us anchor.

  A stream from Loch Coruisk flowed down over boulders to our circular tidal pool. Remote and deserted Glen Coruisk was surrounded by the Black Cuillins, the wildest mountain range in Scotland which towers over the scooped-out valley. Golden Eagles nest and hunt along this glen. A mountaineer may descend with difficulty from the peaks and pinnacles, but the only normal access is by sea or a long rough track from Camasunary around Sgurr na Stri.

  A small path, no larger than a sheep walk, led from our pool into the glen and divided to each side of Loch Coruisk. We walked up the left bank for four miles, around the head of the loch, and back along the other side. In the mud there were a few prints of sheep or deer. Sea birds clustered on a rocky islet in the loch.

  When we had almost reached the mouth of the glen, our path through rocks and heather was blocked by a young gull. We stopped. It examined us, head first to one side and then on the other side. Clearly puzzled and interested, it walked towards us.

  Out of the sky dropped an adult gull. It squawked angrily, pecked at the young bird and swept it into flight back towards the islet. The ornithological body language was transparent and simple “You stupid naughty chick! Those are bad news - enemies! Take that and come home immediately.”

  Back by the shore, the wind had risen. The gusts strengthened, and at supper in the yacht cabin we looked up the open companionway to see the mountain tops race across our field of vision, first one way and then the other as the winds whirled the peaks around our little yacht. Following a hand of Scrabble we heard a gale warning for the Hebrides, checked the anchor, and turned in.

  A SUMMER DAY ON THE MID-WALES LINE

  Some railway buffs long for the Trans-Siberian Express or to cross the Rockies. A wild and strange Celtic country lies not far from here, and the Heart of Wales Line tiptoes from Craven Arms through the Welsh empty centre. Recently a summer day called.

  Hereford Station, tall, and solidly Victorian was engineered by Isambard Kingdom Brunel and a Mr. Robinson. Leominster, Ludlow and Craven Arms Stations were small and dull by comparison, but Ludlow redeemed itself with a glowing yellow embankment covered with Evening Primroses while the top of Clee Hill was lost in morning cloud.

  At Craven Arms a single Arriva carriage set off towards Knighton through a tight green single-track tunnel of bushes and trees. The rails gave off comforting old-fashioned clicks and clatters. At Broome, Hopton Heath and Bucknell the driver slowed to walking speed until he was sure that no-one wished to board. Beyond Bucknell the young River Teme accompanied us to Knighton as the hills closed in around. This station is another classical Victorian pile, with next door a gloomy 20th century tractor graveyard.

  Beyond Knighton the high hills became bare and smooth apart from sheep, gorse and bracken. We climbed steadily and crossed the splendid Knucklas Viaduct defended at each end by turrets, and burrowed through the mountain into a gentler valley running down towards Llandrindod Wells. This station even has a plaque commemorating re-Victorianisation in 1990!

  Llandrindod was the first of four Wells, the second being Builth, followed by little cousins Llangammarch and Llanwrtyd Wells. All these Victorian watering places are tucked into their va
lleys. At Llanwrtyd Wells, where there are two tracks together, a carriage arrived going the opposite way towards Craven Arms. The drivers and conductors changed trains. Two passengers joined us – one of the busiest stations so far.

  We climbed again into attractive high hills and moorland, through another tunnel, and crossed a second viaduct to reach Cynghordy where a lad waited with his bicycle. The valley of the Towy widened, flattened, with banks of balsam flowering by the river. Llanwrda and Llangadog halts produced one passenger between them, but Llandeilo was busier.

  Southwards the line followed the edge of the Black Mountain through anthracite mining country to Ammanford, and by then the train was almost full including a scrummage of cheerful larking teenage lads. Near Pontarddulais we halted beside salt flats and a sandy estuary where horses grazed as in a mini-Camargue, and soon afterwards we saw our first steelworks. The carriage reached Llanelli, stopped, and reversed briskly to reach its destination at Swansea. One pleasure of this journey had been the total absence of any loudspeaker or intrusive announcements.

  Big royal-blue Paddington express trains start at Swansea, and a new First Great Western train waited. It floated smoothly, quickly and almost silently towards Cardiff and London, but the smart buffet could not supply hot water, and when the sun came out the carriage became oppressively hot. High moors with briskly turning blades of a wind farm stood above us on our left. A large party of excited, over-bubbly, and brightly dressed-up young women bound for a wedding offered wine round the carriage. Their celebration promised to be lively. Not wishing to swelter I alighted at Cardiff. Perhaps new trains need running-in as cars used to, and can be expected to show faults for the first few thousand miles.

  The final leg from Cardiff to Hereford provided splendid bright views of the eastern slopes of Mynydd Garnclochdy and the Radnorshire Black Mountains. The old SAS base at Bradbury Lines was almost unrecognisable due to new building.

  So what had the seven-hour journey been like? It had traversed lovely varied countryside, most of it wonderfully empty. At least one of the authors of the old “Shell Guide to Wales” - Wynford Vaughan Thomas or Alun Llewellyn - must have lived near the Heart of Wales Line since their guide contained such a wealth of enthusiastic, affectionate, and scandalous information about the four Wells and the valley of the Towy. On the adventure the only serious discomfort was caused by the hard low seats of the Arriva carriage. I recommend travelling with two or three plump cushions to improve both vision and comfort, and the very best time would be a crisp autumn or winter day when the leaves had fallen. The cost of £16.50 seemed cheap for a long gentle day exploring mid-Wales.

  LETTER TO ARCHIE FROM KAMPALA.

  Our years in Uganda from 1967 to 1969 were full of excitement and new experiences. For more than half of our time in Kampala we lived in an old house on Nakasero Hill. Richard Knight was one of my colleagues in the Department of Medicine at Mulago Hospital and when he and his wife were due to return to England Bridget and I visited them at Makerere University. They had Henry, a fussy cat which did not like people. However something unprecedented happened – Henry jumped onto Bridget’s lap and the Knights took this as a sign that we should take over Henry when they left in a few days.

  So Henry joined the Woods including our dim-witted dog Paddy in our bungalow on Nakasero Hill. The Knights visited Henry each day until they left, after which he promptly vanished only to return about week later, thin, battered and missing fur from his legs which looked as if he had slid down a corrugated iron roof. After that he was less fussy and ate more or less whatever he was given.

  A few of the names in the following letter from Henry refer to Don Marquis’ books which record correspondence between Archie and Mehitabel. Archie was a vers libre poet transmogrified into a cockroach and was handicapped by only being able to type one letter at a time by jumping on it. He could not work the shift key, while Mehitabel was an alley cat with the soul of Cleopatra.

  From Henry to Archie - Kampala, Uganda, 1968

  Dear Archie,

  I have read some of your verse and stories about Mehitabel. Is she still certain that she was Cleopatra? Now that you are in print again I will send you my story. By all means shorten it, remove the punctuation and capitals, give it vers libre shape, or draw any morals you wish.

  My name is Henry and I am a cultured cat. Until recently I was dignified. My pedigree may well go back to ancient Egypt, but I think to a sober Pharaoh rather than madcap Cleopatra. My parents placed me on the main campus at Makerere University with an academic couple. We had a very orderly and quiet upstairs flat, pleasant except for rather dreary music. The couple showed proper appreciation of my appearance and necessary diet, and if I decided to decline a main dish or a snack, then something better was brought. I usually accepted best quality lightly grilled Tilapia. Most days they carried me to parkland and watch over me as I enjoyed the visit. My parents had taught me to conceal feelings, and my natural superiority kept me aloof, except for permitting a very little grooming and touching. At night the female would come and stroke me until I gave the appearance of sleep. Now and then she would drip salty tears.

  Thus I grew sleek and plump in a suitable comfortable academic setting. But one day books, shields, spears, pictures and even some of my small hard playthings began to be packed into boxes. My couple became restless and jumpy, but took extra care of me. This was somewhat disturbing and one day I acted on impulse and did something so out of character that I am still amazed. I sat on the lap of a lady visitor! She was surprised to be so honoured and my university couple were so astonished that they said it must be a sign, whatever that may mean.

  A few days later my life changed for ever. I was taken from the campus to the house of the lady visitor where I was shut in. There I found myself surrounded by muddle, mess, four children, and a shameless vulgar brown dog. His attempts at familiarity and his general brainlessness were absolutely revolting. When the new people approached me I ignored them, and then they showed remarkably poor manners. Instead of tempting me with a special delicacy they went away. Worse followed - at mealtimes I was no longer placed at table but near the dog, and food was appalling. Of course I refused to eat and waited for better fare, but nothing else was brought in this wretched household. Then on the first night I met several of your large black relatives, Archy, and they also were a severe disappointment. I found them illiterate, thick-skinned and totally uninterested in me or culture. I regret that none showed any hint of your poetic soul, nor explain the goings-on in the house.

  Next day my proper female came to visit. She made a fuss of me, and returned next day to bring special delicacies. She showed entirely correct appreciation of my special status, and dropped more salty tears. How I hoped that she would take me home or that, at the very least, her example would shame the new household into better behaviour!

  Alas, I never saw her again. The next two days were miserable, noisy, and hectic, with inedible food. I began to feel a strange unfamiliar and unpleasant gnawing sensation. On the third day the door was left ajar and I slipped out.

  I could see nothing familiar, only trees, shacks, hedges and a road, so I hid. When night came I sat and closed my eyes, breathed deeply and concentrated on thinking about my home and comfort. Eventually I felt my left whiskers twitch. I turned until the twitching stopped, and set off in that direction.

  By dawn I had found the railings around Makerere University, the twitching had become stronger, and I saw our block of flats against the skyline. Overjoyed, I went up the stairs to my door, scratched, and waited. A strange man opened the door so I walked in. I can hardly bear to remember his crude shouts and clumsy attempts at violence. Despite my surprise and by making some rapid maneuvers to avoid his boots I believe I made an orderly departure with self and dignity both intact. But where were my caring couple? How had they allowed such an uncouth person into our flat? Surely they would be return later today or tomorrow?

  I watched the entrance to the flats for th
ree increasingly unpleasant days. The only water was where drains emptied and was foul and disgusting. I met several extremely rough and probably delinquent animals, one of whom bit me. On the second day I found a discarded loaf. Normally I would not dream of eating unprepared and ill-presented comestibles, but on this occasion I made an exception and swallowed it.

  On the fourth day my despair became extreme and I even began to feel slight nostalgia for the noisy, messy, busy house which I had left. At least there was food there, however revolting. Reluctantly I abandoned my post by the flats. But which way was back? When I concentrated hard and thought about the messy house any whisker twitchings were barely perceptible. I set off on a nightmare journey.

  Weak and faint from hunger, I easily slipped through various narrow gaps and railings. Twice I had to run for my life to escape large barking dogs, and once had to climb a tree to drop off a branch over a high fence. I was menaced by a snake - my education had failed to describe how best to respond - and I abandoned dignity and ran away. A huge ugly bird with long legs, quivering jowls and a great stabbing beak stalked me for a time. Then at dawn a man discovered me. He looked as hungry as I felt and he tried to catch me - after eluding him I hid.

  Next night the twitching was stronger so my direction improved, but one black dog with enormous teeth came within inches before I climbed a tree. A woman threw sticks and I had to jump onto a steep rusty corrugated roof, down which I slid scraping skin from all my limbs. At last I recognised the new house and crept to the back door - thin, dirty, dishevelled and bleeding – to find shelter and my first meal for a week.

  Those events took place last month. My legs have improved, and I now feel much stronger. I find it very strange to observe, but now I eat whatever food is provided. I also feel it is expedient to show a little more appreciation for my new extended family - they may not be perfect, dignified or even respectable, but they are better than the jungle outside. From time to time I almost feel faint affection for them.