The Old Devils

by Kingsley Amis

  After five minutes or so he began to relax his rigid bomb-disposal posture. From time to time as he went on he winced sharply and made a correction, screwed up his face in pain or goggled in disbelief, but several times gave a provisional nod and even laughed once or twice without mirth. At the end of an hour Rhiannon came back and found him at the typewriter with four lines and a bit along the top of the paper. When he looked up she spoke.

  'How did it go?'

  He scowled ferociously at her and held his hands in the air with the fingers crossed. 'It may be remotely conceivable,' he stage-whispered with precise delivery, 'that not every single syllable is absolutely beyond all hope of redemption. '

  'Oh, good.'

  'No no no, not good, nothing more than a bare possibility. It needs a lot doing to it. But I thought I'd better press on while I felt like it, rather than go back and start tinkering. No, keep your distance, girl,' he said as she seemed about to close in and deal him a congratulatory hug. 'Later, if ever.'

  'All right, though, isn't it?' She went on standing near the foot of the stairs. 'There's just... '

  'What?' he asked ill naturedly.

  She made a crying face. 'Dorothy rang while you were taking Nelly to Ingrid's... and she asked us over for tonight... and I couldn't not tell her why we couldn't go... and then she asked if she and Percy could drive down tomorrow evening... and I couldn't tell her they mustn't... sorry... '

  Having filled all the gaps in Rhiannon's speech with strong language or wordless howls, Alun waited till it was a theatrical certainty that there was no more to come and said, 'Is there more to come? Sian or Garth or old Owen Thomas or bloody fishface Eirwen Spurling or... Because if there is... '

  'I couldn't help it, honest.'

  'No, of course you couldn't, dull,' he said, embracing her. 'You'd need a tank division with close air support to fend off the bag in question. No, we'll manage. Think yourself lucky the work of words went all right this morning, mind. Now drink - gin and tonic coming up. Go on, _myn__, you're on holiday.'

  He finished his paragraph in the few minutes it took her to put the lunch out in the kitchen. When they had eaten and, quite freely in his case, drunk, Rhiannon declared she would never have thought getting shut of the puppy would be so much like getting shut of the girls years ago and disappeared for a rest. Alun found on Dai's shelves a book of short stories about Cardiganshire life in the 1930s by a Welshman whose name he barely recognized - right up his street, especially at this stage- and an old Alistair McAlpine paperback about a raid on a Gestapo HQ in Holland, now a feature film, it said, and by the time he fell asleep in Dai's beaten-up armchair by the midget fireplace the colonel (Richard Burton) and the wing-commander (Trevor Howard) were already synchronizing their watches for the drop. On awakening he fell asleep again with no trouble at all, but on reawakening took Rhiannon a cup of tea. Then he wrote a dozen lines of dialogue while she Pottered about overhead, and then they went out for a stroll.

  The land and sea were quite boringly normal to look at, mousey grey at any sort of distance, but there were some yellow and slate-blue patches of sky that might once have meant something to the locals. They went along Brydan's Walk to the far end where it petered out among scruffy bushes and long pale grass, down a cliff path to the beach and back along the foreshore. A part of this was in the process of being flattened for something to be built on it. Half a dozen birds were wandering about near the water's edge, herons or oystercatchers; Brydan would have known which, or would have said. A few sailing dinghies heaved sluggishly in the harbour. At its corner they took a shallow flight of steps up to the main level and walked up the High Street with the· name Birdarthur to be seen on shops, offices, posters, postcards wherever they looked. At the beginning of the narrow part, opposite what had been a bakery on their last visit, stood the pub, almost unchanged since longer than that except that it looked somehow newer. The sign, White's Hotel, was brilliant gold on navy-blue.

  The inside looked much newer still and was not at all unchanged, so little so that Alun could have sworn he had never been in there in his life, but he was used to that by now and took comfort from the forbearance of the music, generic sleepy-lagoon muck full of swirls and tinkles. On a window-sill next to a fat potted plant there rested an object. without a name in his vocabulary, a kind of video-screen on which streams of sparkling coloured light flowed through clouds and bands of steadier illumination. In some equally undefined but still horrible way a connection with the music seemed to be suggested. He would make a note of the phenomenon for putting into the _In Search of Wales__ file, but first he sat Rhiannon down in a kind of medieval pew against the opposite wall and went to the bar. Here the order of white wine produced a glass of white wine instead of the stare of gloomy triumph that could once have been counted on in these parts, and he was asked which whisky he preferred instead of settling for what was planked in front of him, as fond memory would have it.

  Rejoining Rhiannon he found an old man had settled himself on a padded stool facing her and was going on as if he was a great friend of them both by all means short of speech. Seen from in front he looked a really very old man, fit to give Alun himself a good four to five years, the precise model of the kind of sturdy, self-reliant Welshman who bad tilled the neighbouring acres and fished the waters since time immemorial, and also one of the kinds of bloody _lossin__ and berk he would dearly have liked to hit in the eye straight off with a jet of soda-water in the days before syphons went out. On his white head the fellow wore a white bat, though it was not obvious what this signified or how it had arisen.

  Seating himself next to Rhiannon in the pew, Alun conversed with her for a few moments about the place and the people until he was sure that this was no previously undeclared uncle of hers. Then, telling himself he was buggered if he was going to be diverted, he brought out his ring-spine notebook and started on a pen-picture of the sparkling-light facility as intended.

  If the white-hatted sod had missed anything that had taken place in front of him in the last couple of minutes it could not have been by much. He said now, in a bass voice that sounded to Alun like a close imitation of a dance-hall proprietor he used to know, 'Yes, well, you're a writer, aren't you?'

  'Yes,' said Alun when Rhiannon had banged him in the ribs..

  'Yes. Here after Brydan, are you?'

  'What? Well no, not exactly!

  'A lot of them comes after Brydan. Brydan was a famous poet used to live here in Birdarthur. He used to come into this pub quite frequent, with Americans. He used to call.. it White's Club. Because it was like a club, he said. He was a Welshman, Brydan, but he wrote in English, see.'

  'Yes, I know! Alun's life was coming to consist more and more exclusively of being told at dictation speed what he knew.

  'Brydan was a Welshman himself, but he wrote... his poetry... in the English language.'

  'Indeed he did, in fact - '

  'But he was a Welshman through and through. Don't you go thinking you can understand Brydan,' boomed the old sod, rocking back and forth slightly on his stool and smiling, but making it three parts plain he meant Alun rather than the world in general, 'that's _understand__ Brydan, eh? - not being Welsh yourself.'

  'For your information I am Welsh myself. I was born and brought up not twenty miles from here.'

  'No, no, I say _not__ being Welsh yourself you can't understand Brydan. It's Welsh people can, right? Appreciate. Appreciate is better. Yes, appreciate. Fully appreciate.'

  'But... ' Alun could think of nothing to say. His awareness that Rhiannon was sending him furtive hushing looks did nothing to loosen his tongue. Actually of course he could think of an enormous number of things to say, though none at all that would not make him seem to have lost some argument or other. 'But... '

  'A writer, you say. For a paper, is it?'

  'No. Yes. Sometimes.'

  The sod seemed to think this a full and satisfactory answer, or at least one worth thinking over before moving on. He ha
d got as far as stretching out a finger in Alun's direction when a young man with very short, almost colourless hair hurried in from the street and came over. As well as having pale hair he had a large face and was slightly moist about the nose and eyes. Looking at Alun and Rhiannon he lifted his head sidelong in consternation or apology.

  'You're late, Grandad,' he said loudly. 'Tea'll be on the table now. On your way, Winston Churchill.' Without lowering his voice much he added, 'I hope he hasn't been too much of a pest.'

  Alun could only think of saying, at the cost of some damage to his sense of justice, that he had had a most pleasant chat.

  'No kidding?' The youngster looked more closely at him and his large face broke into a smile. 'Hey, I know you. Seen you on television, haven't I? What IS it, the Welsh something, the Welsh side of things? Tell me now, that, what's he called, Bleddyn Edwards, is he a great mate of yours?'

  'No, I don't think I've even - '

  'Well, I'm no expert but it's perfectly obvious to me he's not up to the job - you are. All the difference in the world,' said the young sod with an authority his alleged ancestor would have had to acknowledge. 'No comparison.'

  'That's very nice of you.'

  'Get away, marvellous to have met you. Good luck, and thanks for putting up with old buggerlugs here.'

  'Well, that was all right,' said Alun as he and Rhiannon came out of the pub a little while later. 'Not like life at all.'

  She squeezed his arm against her. 'Good boy for not going for that old fart.'

  Whit with one thing and another he felt quite pleased with life for the rest of the evening. Pre-eminent among the things there featured prominently and foreseeably the provisional clearance, or seven out of ten, he had awarded the existing portion of _Coming Home__ - the sterling anti-trendy title for the complete work he had somehow captured over the last hours. The elevated mood lasted long enough to prompt him to make love to Rhiannon when in due course they got into the surprisingly cosy little bed.

  They stayed lying there for a few minutes with the light on uttering contented mild animal sounds as they had done at such times for thirty-four years. Something about the bedside lamp was setting up a bit of a hoarse sort of screaming noise, but it was quiet enough in general to hear the waves breaking on the beach, not all that far away because by now the tide had come in again nearly to the full.

  'Lovely day it's been,' said Alun. 'I'd forgotten how nice it was here. '

  'Jolly good about your work.'

  He shushed her and made disclaiming faces but with less conviction than earlier. 'They haven't managed to bugger the place up totally yet.'

  'You must be tremendously relieved, or a bit relieved rather. It must be all right to say that.'

  'What? Oh yes, I'll have another look at it in the morning.'

  'Do you good to stay in one place and put your feet up for a couple of days. '

  'Yeah, well... '

  'I thought you were looking a tiny bit peaky, you know, just one per cent. There's nothing worrying you, is there?'

  'No.' He was not going to let on about bloody Gwen, not now, not with no exterior limit on the discussion. He would have to see if he could pick a spot like three minutes before the arrival of a television team. 'No, not a thing. Bar wondering how long they'll go on making Scotch the way that suits me.'

  '... Good,' she said without much sense of relaxation. After more silence, he said, 'What time are they due tomorrow?'

  'Twelvish. Evidently Charlie doesn't want to start drinking too early. '

  'Oh I see. Well I'd better get some shut-eye if I'm to do any good before they turn up.'

  The thought of television had set going something he had left unexamined in the meantime: the identity of Bleddyn Edwards, said by the young sod in the pub to be inferior to him, Alun, but still mentionable in the same breath. The name was not unfamiliar, the face and everything else stayed out of view. What a pissy poser to be stuck with at this time of night. He fell asleep before he had got anywhere with it.

  2

  Alun went out early the next morning and got newspapers. On his return he stood facing the bay in pale sunlight, took some deep breaths and thought to himself, if a waft of industrial pollution had ever been perceptible here there was no question of any now. When other thoughts, to do with time and age and all that, started to occur to him he rather consciously went indoors to breakfast, a scheduled fatty's flare-up presenting two boiled eggs turned out on to fried bread and fried potatoes as well as bacon and tomatoes. While he ate it he worked animatedly at the _Times__ crossword. 'You _fiend__,' he said, writing in a solution. 'Oh, you... you _swine__.'

  At the typewriter afterwards he got through another half-page of dialogue, very rough, almost token. It had turned out hard for him to concentrate: he felt fit, the sun was shining on the water and Sophie and Charlie were on their way. Several times he glanced up from his table, fancying lie heard or saw them. When they finally appeared he ran out on to the path with whoops of welcome, snatched their suitcases from them, chivvied them indoors. Some who knew him used to say that Alun never came nearer convincing you he meant it than when he was being glad to see you.

  Like other enthusiastic hosts he had definite ideas about how the party was to be organized. Coffee and drinks went round in the front room while the Norrises' offerings - a fresh sewin picked up in Hatchery Road that morning, a 57% Islay malt whisky - were brought out and admired. The women were not hindered from going off on their own, for - the moment only as far as the kitchen. Alun refilled Charlie's glass and said, 'I want you to do something special for me if you would.' 'I'll have you know I'm a respectable girl and never touch kinky stuff.'

  'No, it's... ' Alun had rehearsed this part but he still had to squeeze it out. 'The thing is, I've started a sort of novel, it's supposed to be a serious novel, a proper one, you know, with no ham or balls or flannel about it, look you to goodness boy _bach__, but it's hard for me to tell. So if you could just sort of glance through the first pages of the thing, not bothering about merit or the plenteous lack of it, but just seeing if... '

  'If I can give it a free-from-bullshit certificate.'

  'Exactly.'

  'Well... ' Charlie's glance was uneasy. His familiar battered look seemed intensified without actual bruising or laceration, as though he had been perseveringly beaten with padded cudgels. 'Unless I give you my honest - '

  'I'm not asking for a bloody bunch of roses - of course you must speak as you find. Please, Charlie. Go on, you old bugger, you're the only one.'

  'As long as you... All right. Where is it?'

  'Here, but don't look at it now. In a few minutes I'll herd the females into the village, where booths and bazaars of hideous aspect and degraded purpose display wares of varied and arresting squalor. But - they are useless, and they are for sale. What merit more demands the female heart? I'll go up to White's and see you in about half an hour or three-quarters. If you run out of water there's plenty in the tap.'

  Wearing among other things the new cashmere pullover Alun did much of what he had promised, but before making for White's he looked in at Brydan Books. He told himself that it could do no harm and that he had never much cared for sitting about in pubs on his tod. But as soon as he was fairly inside the shop he was recognized and plurally shaken hands with. Customers were introduced and all asked for his autograph, a copy of his old _Celtic Attitudes__ miraculously appeared and received his uninhibited inscription, and an elderly lady in a Brydan Books, Birdarthur, Wales apron who had no other obvious connection with the trade was brought from the back of the premises simply in order to have sight of him. He left bearing a newish book on the Rebecca riots that nobody would take his money for and telling himself now that the whole concern was a lot of bloody nonsense.

  The bar at White's Hotel was filling up, but he achieved the same seat as the previous evening. He looked round quite eagerly but in vain for the white-hatted sod, whom in his· present mood he would have thoroughly enjoye
d seeing off, doing so with a minimum of exertion, furthermore, like a whatever-it-was Black Belt. Just as he was starting to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to shut Charlie away like that with a bottle of whisky, in he came. His face seemed to have smoothed out slightly in the past hour or less, no doubt through assisted abatement of hangover. Nothing was to be read from his expression.

  'Well, fire away,' said Alun briskly when, they were settled with their drinks. 'Let's have it.'

  'You did ask for my honest opinion... '

  Alun's glance fell. 'Which you have now made clear enough. How much did you manage to struggle through?'

  'I read twenty pages carefully, then skipped to the end.' Charlie spoke with a hesitancy unusual in him. 'I must emphasize that this is just my personal - '

  'Spare me that if you will.'

  'Sorry. Well now. I can see here and there what you're trying to do, and I think it's worth doing, and you've probably made the best attempt at it you can, but I'm not sure if it can be done at all, very likely it can't in the 1980s I don't know. But you haven't done it, that's to say you weren't doing it in what I read.'

  'What about the bullshit?'

  'The whole tone of voice, the whole attitude is one that compels bullshit. If I say it's too much like Brydan I mean not just Brydan himself but a whole way of writing, and I suppose thinking, that concentrates on the writer and draws attention to the chap, towards him and away from the subject. Which I suppose needn't be Wales in a way except that it always _is__, and somehow or other it's impossible to be honest in it. Now I'm sure you've tried your hardest not to put in anything you didn't mean or you thought was playing to the gallery, but it all gets swallowed up and turns into the same thing.'