England, England

by Julian Barnes

  They had their logo, which contained both the here and the magic; it was Techno-Development who supplied the now. Their initial, logical proposal was that Betsy’s jump be replicated, when the wind was in the right quarter, by a stuntman in Victorian drag. A drop-zone west of Ventnor was earmarked; if trials were successful, the beach could be reclaimed and enlarged to provide a safe landing area; while Visitors might watch either from grandstands or from small boats anchored offshore. A series of experiments was undertaken to establish the optimum fall-height, wind-force, umbrella-spread, and crinoline capacity. Twenty drops with dummy figures led to the day when Sir Jack, binoculars ironing his eyebrows, and legs spread against the gentle swell, witnessed the first live-action test. Three-quarters of the way down, the heavily built ‘Betsy’ seemed to lose crinoline-control, eggs cascaded from his basket, and he landed on the beach beside an impromptu omelette, breaking an ankle in three places.

  ‘Dunderhead,’ commented Sir Jack.

  A few days later, a second jumper – the lightest stuntman they could find, in an attempt to counterfeit womanhood – kept his eggs intact but cracked his pelvis. It was concluded that Betsy’s original fall must have been aided by freak weather conditions. Her feat had been either miraculous or apocryphal.

  The next idea was the Heavens-to-Betsy Bunjee Experience, whose advantage was that it allowed Visitor participation. There followed a series of uniformly safe practice leaps from the modified clifftop by egg-bearing jumpers of both sexes and all sizes. But there was something unconvincing, and decidedly unmagical, and somehow altogether too now about the sight of a jumper pinging up and down in a harness before being slowly lowered to the beach.

  Techno-Development, after several personal interventions from Sir Jack, eventually came up with a solution. The props and jumper’s harness would remain the same, but instead of a bunjee cord there would be the controlled unravelling of a camouflaged cable, while hidden windjet sources would simulate rising air-currents. The result would be guest-safe and all-weather. Marketing provided the clinching refinement: the Heavens-to-Betsy Bunjee Experience would become the Island Breakfast Experience. At the top of the cliff would be a free-range hen facility aswagger with plumed and coiffed birds; fresh eggs would be flown in daily; and the Visitor would descend to the beach with a clip-on Betsy Basket. Then he or she would be led by a mob-capped waitress to Betsy’s All-Day Breakfast Bar, where the eggs would be taken from the Basket and fried, boiled, scrambled, or poached, according to choice, before the jumper’s very eyes. With the bill would come an engraved Certificate of Descent stamped with Sir Jack’s signature and the date.

  AS BULLDOZERS SCURRIED and cranes teetered, as the dull landscape became a pop-up book of hotels and harbours, airports and golf courses, as sweeteners were given to the inconveniently housed and smiling promises offered to grim environmentalists about the chalk downs and the red squirrels and any number of bloody butterflies, Sir Jack Pitman concentrated on the Island councillors. Westminster and Brussels could wait: first he had to get the locals on board and onside.

  Mark would be in charge. If they saw Sir Jack they might come over all chippy and defensive, as if he were a corporate invader rather than a massive benefactor. Much better to leave it to the blue eyes and blond curls of Marco Polo.

  ‘What will I need?’ the Project Manager had asked at the outset.

  ‘Native wit, a sack of carrots, and a bundle of sticks,’ Sir Jack had replied.

  There were two sets of negotiations. The official consultative meetings between Pitco and the Island Council were held at the Guildhall in Newport. The public was admitted and all proper democratic procedures followed: which meant, as Sir Jack privately observed, that tokenism, special interests, and minority groupings ran the show, the lawyers made a bundle, and you spent your time on all fours with your arsehole getting sunburnt. In parallel, however, there was a secret colloquium attended by key Island councillors and the small Pitco team led by Mark. These latter talks were by their nature exploratory and non-committal; they were also unminuted, so that imaginative ideas could if necessary be forcefully expressed, so that, as one tame councillor had been invited to put it, the dream could flow. Sir Jack’s instructions to Mark were that the dream should flow like a canal, in a straight line to a named destination. When he outlined it, even Mark was taken aback.

  ‘But how do you do it? I mean, this is the third millennium. There’s Westminster, there’s Brussels, there’s – I don’t know, Washington, the United Nations?’

  ‘How do you do it?’ Sir Jack beamed. The banal question had been exquisitely put. ‘Mark, I am going to let you into the greatest secret I know. Are you ready?’ Mark didn’t need to force a show of interest. Sir Jack, for his part, wanted to temporize but couldn’t resist the moment. ‘Many, many years ago, when I was as young as you are today, I asked the same question of a great man for whom I worked. The great man – Sir Matthew Smeaton – quite forgotten, now, alas – sic transit – was planning a coup of spectacular audacity. I asked him how he did it, and you know what he replied? He said, “Jacky” – I was called Jacky in those days – “Jacky, you ask of me how you do it. My answer is this: You do it by doing it.” I have never forgotten these words of advice. To this day they inspire me.’ Sir Jack’s voice had become almost hoarse with reverence. ‘Now let them inspire you.’

  Mark’s exploratory dialogue began with an attempt to put the current Island development into an historical perspective, and to address a few preliminary questions. Not that he would have the impertinence to suggest answers. For instance, given the formidable amount of investment proposed by Pitco, the jobs already created, and the jobs to come, and given the assurance of longterm prosperity, might this not be an appropriate time to reconsider the exact nature of the Island’s links with the mainland? It was, surely, the case that the Island’s requests for help from Westminster over the decades and centuries had always been grudgingly received, that levels of unemployment had traditionally been high. Why then should Westminster and the taxman be the beneficiaries of the present and forthcoming upturn?

  Dr Max’s historical evaluation – given stylistic refreshment and bullet points by Mark’s department – had already been circulated. In addition, the routine searches which corporate lawyers naturally undertook during such large commercial ventures had already thrown up various documents and opinions which Mark felt it his duty to share with those present. In strictest confidence, of course. And without prejudice. But nonetheless he had to report that in the opinion of both contract lawyers and constitutional experts the original purchase of the Island in 1293, by Edward I from Isabella de Fortuibus, for the sum of six thousand marks, was manifestly dubious and quite possibly illegal. Six thousand marks was chickenfeed. It had clearly not been an arm’s-length deal. Duress was still duress, even if it had taken place at the end of the thirteenth century.

  At the next meeting, Mark suggested that, since they were not bound by conventional procedure, they boldly move the agenda forward. If indeed it was the case – which no-one seemed to contradict – that the Island had been unlawfully acquired by the British Crown, what might be the consequences of this in the current situation? For there was, whether they liked it or not, an historical, constitutional, and economic dilemma facing the Island Council. Were they to brush it under the carpet or seize it by the throat? If those Council members present would forgive him for letting the dream flow, Mark would like to propose that any logical, objective analysis of the present crisis might suggest a three-pronged attack which he would summarize as follows.

  First, a formal challenge in the European courts to the Fortuibus contract of 1293; such challenge naturally to be funded by Pitco. Secondly, the elevation of the Island Council to the full status of a parliament, with appropriate premises, funding, salaries, expenses, and powers. Thirdly, a simultaneous application for entry to the European Union as a full member nation.

  Mark waited. He was particularly pleased to have
introduced the idea of crisis. Of course there wasn’t one, at least not for the moment. But no legislator, from tinpot Island councillor to President of the United States, could be seen denying that there was a crisis if someone said there was one. It looked like idleness or incompetence. So now, officially, on the Island, there was a crisis.

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting a breach with the Crown?’ The question was a plant, of course. There would be objections from sentimentalists and conservatives; it was best at this stage for them to assume they were in the majority.

  ‘On the contrary,’ replied Mark. ‘The royal link is in my view of paramount importance to the Island. Any breach the present crisis might force upon us would be with Westminster, not the Crown. If anything, we should seek to strengthen the royal link.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the plant.

  Mark appeared unready for this question. He seemed flustered. He looked to other members of his team, who offered no help. He mentioned, unconvincingly, the notion that the King might become Official Visitor to the Island. Then he felt compelled, given the candour and openness of the current talks, and the assurances of secrecy, to mention that the Palace was at this very moment seriously considering a relocation proposal. No! Why not? Nothing was set in concrete: that was the nature of History. There was a very fine royal palace on the Island currently undergoing renovation. Of course, not a word of this should be breathed to anybody. Which resulted in hot words being breathed to all the necessary people.

  At the next meeting, sentimental conservatives and ungrateful churls expressed fears of intervention from the mainland. What about sanctions, blockade, even invasion? Pitco and its advisers took the view, first, that such responses were unlikely; second, that they would provide incomparable worldwide publicity; and third, that since the Island would be following all proper legal and constitutional channels, Westminster would be far too apprehensive of European and even UN reprisals. Instead, it would probably come back to the negotiating table and ask for a decent price. Council members might like to share in another little secret: Sir Jack’s opening offer, of half a billion pounds for sovereignty, had now been revised downwards to six thousand marks plus one euro. Which would leave a lot more in the kitty for upgrading Island facilities.

  Why should Pitman House be any better masters than Westminster? A fair question, Mark conceded, grateful for the aggression. And yet, he smiled, also an unfair question. We are bound together by mutual self-interest in a manner which does not apply between central government and distant region. In the modern world, stability and longterm economic prosperity are provided more effectively by the transnational corporation than by the old-style nation state. You only had to look at the difference between Pitco and the mainland: which was expanding, and which contracting?

  What’s in it for you? Continued mutual benefit, as aforementioned. Putting our cards on the table, we shall probably request the revoking of certain minor items of antique planning legislation, most of which have their source in the contemptible Palace of Westminster. And what official or unofficial connection would you expect to have with our new Island parliament? None whatsoever. In the opinion of Pitman House, the separation of powers between economic driving-force and elected body was essential to the health of any modern democracy. Of course, you might find it appropriate to offer Sir Jack Pitman some nominal position, some paper title.

  ‘Like President for Life?’ suggested one churl.

  Mark couldn’t have been more amused. The coughing fit and the tears might even have been real. No, he’d only mentioned it on the spur of the moment, given the exploratory and non-committal nature of these exchanges. Rest assured, the matter hadn’t been mentioned to Sir Jack, or by him. Indeed, probably the only way to get him to accept such a role would be by giving him no chance to refuse. Just make an Order in Council, or whatever you might choose to call it.

  ‘An Order in Council making him President for Life?’

  Oh dear, he did seem to have started a hare. But – purely off the top of his head – there might be some ceremonial title not inappropriate to whatever constitution they decided to frame. What did those old counties of England have? Fellow with the sword and plumed helmet? Lord Lieutenant. No, that probably smacked too much of the mainland. Mark pretended to flick through Dr Max’s historical résumé. That’s right, you had captains and governors, did you not? One or the other would do, though Captain did have rather a junior sound to it nowadays. And as long as everyone understood that Sir Jack’s powers, however theoretically enunciated in slopey script on ivory vellum, would never actually be invoked. Of course, he would provide his own carriage. And uniform. Not that such matters had been discussed with him.

  Meanwhile, the future Governor was surfing his vision. You always had to push the envelope. Play short but think long. Let lesser men dream nickel-and-dime stuff; Sir Jack dreamed top dollar. Boldness, and more boldness; the true creative mind played by a separate rule-book; success bred its own legitimacy. Pitco’s transnational standing had persuaded the banks and the funds to pour in capital; but it had been a moment of inspiration – at times, how the financial imagination resembled that of the artist! – to secretly loan such monies (the word always sounded luscious to Sir Jack in its plural form) to one of his own subsidiaries in the Bahamas. Naturally, this meant that the first charge on any revenue would be Pitco’s management fees back home. Sir Jack shook his head in mock sympathy. They were regrettably heavy nowadays, management fees; regrettably heavy.

  Then there was the question of what should happen immediately after Independence. Suppose that the new Island Parliament – flying in the face, as it had every right to do, of Sir Jack’s public counsel – decided on a policy of nationalization. Bad news indeed for the banks and stockholders: but what could they do? The Island, regrettably, would not yet be a signatory to any international agreements. And then – after letting them run with the ball for a while – Sir Jack might be obliged to exercise his emergency powers as Governor. At which point technically – legally, too – everything would then belong to him. Of course, he would promise to repay creditors. In due course. At some percentage. After a great deal of debt-restructuring. Oh, it made him feel good to contemplate it. Think how they’d be shitting themselves. The lawyers would be pigs in clover. There might be action against him in the big financial centres. Well, the Island wouldn’t have signed any extradition treaties. He could tough it out and wait for a negotiated settlement. Or he could tell them to fuck off and simply hole up at Pitman House (II). After all, his Wanderlust Years were behind him.

  And yet … was that all too complicated, too confrontational? Was he letting his combative nature get the better of his wise old head? Perhaps the nationalization idea was a mistake. The very word played badly among premier tourists nowadays, and quite rightly. He mustn’t take his eye off the ball, he must look at the big picture. What was his game-plan, his bottom line? To get the Island up and running. Quite. And if current forecasts were in the right ball-park, the Project had every chance of roaring success. By nature, Sir Jack always allowed for the possibility of having to disappoint investors. But what if his Last Great Idea really worked? What if they were able to meet interest repayments, even to offer dividends? What if – to reverse the dictum – legitimacy bred its own success? Now that really would be ironic.

  ‘DID YOU MAKE THAT STORY UP, Dr Max?’ Martha asked. They were sharing pita-bread sandwiches on the renewable hardwood decking above the wetlands area. Dr Max had a weekend look to him: V-neck fairisle slipover and yellow paisley bow-tie.

  ‘Which story?’

  ‘The one about the woman and the eggs.’

  ‘M–ake it up? I am an historian. The Official Historian, you forget.’ Dr Max sulked for a moment, but it was only a studio sulk, not a real one. He chewed his pita pocket and gazed at the stretch of water. ‘I’m rather miffed no-one asked me to source it, actually. It’s thoroughly respectable, not to say parsonical.’

&
nbsp; ‘I didn’t mean … I mean the reason I thought you might have done is because it would’ve been so clever.’

  Dr Max sulked again, as if what he’d actually done wasn’t clever, or as if clever wasn’t what you normally got from him, or as if …

  ‘You see, I assumed you made it up because you thought a bogus Project ought to have a bogus logo.’

  ‘M–uch too clever for me, Miss Cochrane. Of course, Kilvert didn’t see the flying woman’s underwear himself, he was only reporting it, but there’s some chance something of the sort happened, to use the vernacular term.’

  Martha sucked at her front teeth, where a rocket leaf had reduced itself to a strand of dental floss. ‘Still, you do think the Project’s bogus?’

  ‘Bo–gus?’ Dr Max came out of his sulk. Any direct question, not obviously insulting, which allowed the possibility of a long answer, put him in a good mood. ‘Bo–gus? No, I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all. Vulgar, yes, certainly, in that it is based on a coarsening simplification of pretty well everything. Staggeringly commercial in a way that a poor little country mouse like myself can scarcely credit. Horrible in many of its incidental manifestations. Manipulative in its central philosophy. All these, but not, I think, bogus.

  ‘Bo–gus implies, to my mind, an authenticity which is being betrayed. But is this, I ask myself, the case in the present instance? Is not the very notion of the authentic somehow, in its own way, bogus? I see my paradox is perhaps a touch too ripe and vivid for you, Miss Cochrane.’

  She smiled at him; there was something touchingly pure about Dr Max’s self-love.

  ‘Let me e–laborate,’ he continued. ‘Take what we see in front of us, this little area of unexpected wetland suspiciously close to the Great Wen. Perhaps, however many centuries ago, there was such a splashdown zone for passing trade here, perhaps not. On the whole probably not. So it is invented. Does that make it bogus? Surely not. Its intention and purpose are merely being supplied by man, rather than by nature. Indeed, you might argue that such intentionality, rather than reliance on the brute hazard of nature, makes this stretch of water superior.’