by Adam Thorpe
They think they’ve reached the top, on the wireless. That’d be fitting.
oh Violet what is it now
Tues. June 2nd 1953
BURIAL DAY (I stick with tradition)
Watched Coronation with him in living room. He was holding forth unfortunately so missed the Queen Is Crowned shout. Wiped away a tear during National Anthem. All those crowds in the pouring rain. Wd have liked to have hummed along but he was at his peak. Suddenly stopped & said I looked bleached with a piercing stare. Bleached, Mr B.? Tea in village hall after. Miss W. doing her bit. Parish pageant. Sweets tossed. Buckets of rain, freezing wind for June. Didn’t have umbrella, understandably. Axe from Charles I’s Execution float fell off & nearly took little Peter Jefferies’ head with it. Tug-of-war between Bursop men & Ulv. men won by Bursop, like most yrs. Came out of river sopping, poor things, though land workers are used to it I spose. 7.30 p.m.: Home Service, ‘The Kingdom Dances’. The Jolly Waggoners wired up off wireless. Loudspeakers howling in the square & everyone tripping up & giggling. Whirling about. Squealing, giggling. Beacons to be lit foll. Queen’s Broadcast, Ulv. will await signal from Bursop. Jeers. We won’t wait for them sloppies etc. Then whirling about again. Squealing & giggling. Avoided the drink then. I know what I have to do. Someone sick outside ‘The New Inn’. Little boys up in oak tree whistling & throwing streamers. Howling stops in middle: groans. Crackle crackle. Big voice, ever so familiar. Historic day. Seed for the future. A record of our times. Planting to be at 10.30 p.m. following Lighting of Beacon. Grounds of Orchard Hse. Champagne served. I wanted to weep, but didn’t. Contrition, Violet. Contrition’s a car part. Minx. Cheers & claps. Miss W.’s face suddenly: aren’t you thrilled, Violet? I didn’t say anything. Howling again. Rose from my canvas stool & retired swiftly to the garden. Peace. Fetch wheelbarrow out of shed. Howling in distance, like wolves. Almost dark. Rain stopped, at least. Rooks. Bump (that’s the word with its wobbly wheel) barrow over grass to my entrance. Place the suitcases in. Put door to. Bump off suitcases to bonfire. Bleached, feeling very bleached. Wait. Bandage slipped a bit. Tuck it up. Moon pops out, makes it gleam all white like ribbon round present. Shirley Leatherbarrow’s cake. Those times. That’s pretty, Miss Nightingale! Snorts, titters. People looming up from bridge. Wait. More people looming up, torches, lights, a lantern. Everyone present & correct for Sovereign’s Broadcast. All over Empire they wait, I think. In the hot places, the cold. Everyone in big circle round big dark lump like dormant volcano I spose. Splendidly combustible. All of a sudden Queen’s nice tone. Hush. Heart thumping. Queasy. Shd have placed cases on before but wanted to be sure. No one’s asked me yet. Can’t see him or Miss W. Broadcast gives pop & dies in middle. Groan, like wounded animal. Father groaned in his last hours like that, like he was only being jocular. Starts up again. God bless you all. Cheers. Wipe away little tear. Well, it can’t be helped. Big man empties can of paraffin onto pile & whips away his foot from last few drops. Bit of ballet, really. Laughs. Speech. New Eliz. era etc. On & on. Donald Jefferies on stool. Tipsy. Loses paper. Biggest beacon of them all etc. Light new from old (like Father’s chain-smoking) then suddenly feel urge & push barrow forward like in a dream, Rev. Appleton starting long thing on world hunger & world hope, defender of our faith etc. & reach pile with barrow & look up. Feel giddy. Light way to better world etc. Big wheel just in front of me. Shouts from behind of course. What’s in those then Miss Nightingale? Eh Violet? Got yr knickers in those eh – sssshh Norman really! Clapping. Wait. I’m not going to rush things. Bleached. Moon pops out again & makes me giddy watching it rush past thru clouds. Mr Barr as Parish C. Chairman picks mediaeval-looking torch up. Come on, Burslops! Flare goes up, cheers. Big torch ignited, Mr Barr holds it out in front of him, whiffs of paraffin, Mr Jefferies recites little poem but Mr Barr already there prodding flaming torch in & looking serious. Nothing. Whiffs of smoke. Mr Barr laughs & says something then flames. Big flames. Mr Barr steps back & everyone’s face looks like Hallowe’en. Waggon name starts to bubble. Watch out there! Turn around & like oven on my ear. Miss W.’s face leaping up & down, with him, next to him, his face leaping up & down, whole crowd’s face moving up & down as one, mouths open, big dark mouths going up & down just like those foundry men at Hulme Steel Works where I did that dull book-keeping for a month, turn back to it, ERNEST M. BARR (grandfather?) settling with a whoosh & sparks bit of hair-singe, watch out Miss! Retreat, pick up first suitcase hear him behind with a what’s in there Violet but I don’t answer just throw it on.
oh Violet. oh
just throw it on then the other two
you need a rap over the knuckles my girl
oh Mother she’s only little
have another glass Violet smuggled down a bottle go on you’ve a right
then the other two Violet what’s in those look at his face spasms all over his face or is it the firelight big wheel rolls down on fire screams settles in the grass burning like that Catherine wheel that time Father took us to the Municipal do look Gordon & violet look whizz whizz & Guy Fawkes with those bangers in his mouth exploding into flaming straw his face was all spasms I’ll say that oh Violet
white bits falling down into our hair I cd see the firelight in his eyes when I looked & that terrible face that man who burned over Germany & limped back Gordon knew him vaguely knew Kenneth he did oh they do remarkable things now what if he’d lived our Kenneth they’ve put the wheel out a bit of a danger always goes down well what’s in those then my dear tugging & tugging at my sleeve he must have guessed but he wdn’t have believed preferred not to know I spose just bury it what’s in those then my dear old letters dead past yes I know the feeling! guffaws & turns to the fire oh his big nose sweaty & gleaming & the cases they’ve gone now no there’s the last one buckling & burning oh I hope it doesn’t open
oh it does the heat or something.
It did.
bang & the lid’s up & look a bit of paper curling up shoots out & up & up
tiny little white thing above the flames.
he hasn’t seen, arm round Miss Walwyn mouth open like little boy
up it goes tiny little white thing drawing maybe up & up into the night & over those lovely poplars gusting away because there’s quite a gust tonight Violet away from all the fire & tiny white thing like that seagull at Cleethorpes
that last time with Kenneth
I cd have stayed
little white thing over the sea
sitting on the cliff
over all that sea
too much champagne
putting it in at last & stamping down earth I thought the crane wd topple over
oh it’s so demeaning being sick
Philis P-W swore she heard a long-eared didn’t tell her of the stone curlew why shd I don’t have the stomach it’s the bubbles
clapping wolf-whistling from Manor School dormitories that’s what I mean about sitting on the lavatory the type little Ivor Gilchrist used to do better than any wolf-whistles I mean & little speech from him clapping in it goes stone pulled over by big burly men stamping down earth stamping
I’m off tomorrow Mr B. Here’s yr cocoa. You are a funny old stick, Violet my dear
oh fuck off
Violet my dear?
Miss W. pulling him away
oh fuck off as Father wd not ever say no
oh fuck off
oh Violet
1 (five seconds lost due to electrical interference)
12
Here
1988
Acknowledgements
Among the numerous books and articles that have been of invaluable help and inspiration to me, I would especially like to mention the following: Edward Lisle’s Observations in Husbandry (London, 1757), Major B. Lowsley’s A Glossary of Berkshire Words & Phrases (London, 1888), and the Treasury Solicitors’ briefs concerning the labourers’ rising of 1830 (Public Record Office), certain phrases of which I have incorporated in ‘Deposition’.
Among
the many people who have wittingly or unwittingly contributed to the making of this book, I am particularly indebted to the following for their help and advice, for which I thank them: Ray Bulpit, William and Dorothy Pierpoint, Jean and Mauricette Robard, Eric Shinwell, Sheila and Barney Thorpe, and my editor, Robin Robertson. I would also like to thank my wife, Jo, for her unstinting support and unerring judgement. ‘Treasure’ is dedicated to the late Tom Iremonger, whose story it was.
Version 1.0
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Published by Vintage 1998
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Copyright © Adam Thorpe 1992
The right of Adam Thorpe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
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First published in Great Britain by
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 7493 9704 7
