The coastline at this point was not spectacular in its beauty, but it had for me the merits of wildness and ruggedness. The only sign of habitation, provided I did not look back towards the village, was the coastguard’s look-out post, still flying its warning flag for the storm of the day before.
The loneliness suited me; I had come on an impulse to this village for a week’s winter holiday, responding to an overwhelming desire to get away from London long enough to remind myself that there were still parts of England that weren’t overcrowded. The summer tourist season was still several weeks away, and as far as I knew I was the only visitor at the moment.
The village was one I had discovered the previous summer. It was situated at the southernmost end of a rea—one of those uniquely Cornish river-mouths that are half-way between inlet and estuary—and was sheltered from the south-westerly winds by the bulk of cliff that lay between it and the sea.
On the opposite bank of the river was a small town; both communities were supported by a china-clay port a mile or two up-river. In London we would have referred to the village as a dormitory suburb of the town, for there was virtually nothing there apart from the houses, two pubs and a tiny hotel. All the usual services—banks, shops, post-office, a cinema—were in the town across the water. The only means of transport between the two was a small passenger-ferry which, weather permitting, crossed at twenty-minute intervals all through the day. Further up the river, near the china-clay depot, there was a car-ferry, but to reach it from the village entailed, because of the many inlets and hills around, a drive across-country of some four or five miles.
I enjoyed living in the village, if only temporarily. It was genuinely isolated, and although it was in no way picturesque or Cornish-cute, it had a distinctly amenable atmosphere. Furthermore, unlike other parts of the West Country it was a thriving community in its own right; the port was always busy, and people lived and worked here.
Done with my literary posturing for the day, I walked back over the crest of the hill, and went down through the narrow streets towards the pub by the quay.
As I reached the bottom of the hill, where there is a steep, curving approach to the quayside, a man of about my own age came down the hill from the opposite direction. I guessed immediately that he was not a local man; his clothes and his hair were as out of place as mine. As he walked towards me our glances met briefly, and for a moment there was that indefinable sense of recognition that occasionally passes between strangers. We both turned towards the quay, and I surmized that we had seen in each other’s appearance the ineradicable mark of London living, and only that.
However, after a few more seconds he came over to me.
‘I know you,’ he said. ‘We’ve met before.’
I stared at him for a moment. His face was not unfamiliar.
‘You’re... in television, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘That’s it. Frank. Frank Mattinson.’ He extended his hand, and we shook warmly. His name still meant nothing to me, and clearly he did not know mine. ‘You’re ... let me see. Don’t tell me. Science fiction ... something to do with that?’
That’s right. I’m a writer.’
‘Clive! Clive ...’
‘Chris Priest,’ I said.
‘Chris! Of course. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Just a holiday,’ I said.
‘Perfect!’
We walked on down towards the quay.
As we spoke, my memory had placed him. About three years before, Frank Mattinson had telephoned me. He had obtained my phone number from my publishers, and was trying to put together an item about SF for one of the late-night current-affairs programmes. As I was the only person he could locate, he wanted me to ring round to everyone I could think of and muster support and provide him with a studioful of SF-writers debating something or other. This I’d done—there’d been a small research-fee offered—and eventually an interview had been taped. It was never broadcast as far as I know, and that had been an end to it. I’d met Frank just once at that time, and the only thing I could now remember about him was that he had bought me a salad in the studio canteen at Hammersmith.
‘I was just going for a drink,’ I said, nodding towards The Lugger.
‘Let me get you one.’
Inside it was warm and stuffy. I found an empty table near the fire, and in a moment Frank came over with two pints of bitter and two pasties.
‘Stroke of luck meeting you here,’ he said. ‘You’re just the man we want.’
‘How’s that?’I said.
‘Never forgotten that science fiction programme. Good value. One of the best we ever did. Like to do some more of that. Listen, I read one of your books recently.’
‘Oh yes?’ I said, having followed the cause-and-effect of his words with considerable interest. Dramatization offer coming up?
‘Always have been a sci-fi fan myself. Can’t get enough of it. You say you’re on holiday down here?’
‘Just a short break,’ I said, disappointed with the way the conversation had suddenly changed direction again. ‘I needed some fresh air.’
‘You wouldn’t give us a few minutes of your time, and let us film you?’
‘Doing what?’ I said.
‘Just answering a few questions. We’re filming in the town. Stroke of luck meeting you.’
‘I’ve never been on television,’ I said uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure I’d have anything to say. Is the programme about SF?’
‘About what?’
‘Science fiction.’
‘Oh ... of course not. It’s a documentary about tourism.’
I said: ‘I can’t honestly think I’d have anything to say about that...’
‘You’ll think of something. You’ve got opinions, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘You’re ideal. Lots of personality, a solid reputation, local figure.’
‘Frank, I don’t live here.’
‘Never mind. You’re here and we can use you. Good value, sci-fi. All bloody locals down here, don’t speak a word of English. Drink up. We’re shooting this afternoon.’
My pasty was going cold, so I diverted my attention to this instead. Meanwhile, Frank continued with his appraisal of my abilities.
‘We need someone articulate,’ he said. ‘Can’t do much with the locals. Anyway, they all live here. We want the opinion of someone who can see the place objectively. A typical tourist, if you like. We were planning to stop one of the grockle cars coming off the car-ferry, but you’re much better. Famous sci-fi writer, and all that.’
‘I’ve had a couple of books published. That doesn’t make me famous.’
‘Yes it does. Look, come on over and meet the others. Then you can make your mind up.’
Frank took a large mouthful of pasty, and washed it down with beer.
‘By the way,’ I said. ‘What’s a grockle?’
‘Local word for a tourist.’
‘So you have spoken to local people?’
‘One or two.’
* * * *
Much as I dislike boats—especially small ones in rough water—I had grown very fond of the ferry. Its tireless chugging from one side of the river to the other was a prosaic journey, and yet each trip I took seemed different from all the others. Perhaps to the locals it was as humdrum as London Transport was to me; I enjoyed, though, the mild sensation of adventure. After all, Underground trains rarely seem in much danger of capsizing in a hundred feet of cold water.
As Frank and I boarded the tiny cabin-cruiser, his flow of chatter ceased for a moment. Then, when the boat was in mid-river, he said: ‘By the way, how do you feel about sex on television?’
‘Not much room for it,’ I said. ‘Not for two, anyway.’
He laughed uproariously at my feeble joke, and I concluded that a few days in the West Country must have softened his wit.
‘Very good. But seriously CI... I mean, Chris, do you find sex on television offensive?’
‘I don’t watch much television,’ I admitted. ‘I sent the set back last year when the government prohibited colour transmissions.’
‘Yes, we lost a lot of viewers then. But you must see it occasionally. Suppose there’s a play on, and someone appears in the nude ... would you feel like ringing up to complain?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’m against any form of censorship.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. But wouldn’t you agree that excessive sex is offensive?’
‘Almost anything taken to excess is offensive,’ I said, painfully aware of the fact that the other passengers on the ferry must have been overhearing our conversation.
‘That’s fine. I’m glad we agree. How about politics? Never mind about television ... do you think the government is doing a good job?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘I didn’t vote for them.’
He looked at me with renewed interest. ‘Then you would describe yourself as being against the government?’
I said: ‘At the last election I didn’t know what to do, so I voted Liberal. Or at least I think I did. I got the names mixed up.’
‘But that book of yours I read was politically committed. The one advocating racialism.’
I winced, and hoped no one on the boat had heard that.
‘If it’s the one I think you mean, it didn’t exactly advocate it,’ I said, but not confidently.
‘Yes it did. It was a fine call to arms for all right-thinking men. At least,’ and he lowered his voice unexpectedly, ‘it would be as well, when you meet Patrick, to bear that in mind.’
‘Who’s Patrick?’
‘The producer of the documentary.’
As the ferry bumped against the town jetty, I said: ‘Are you sure this film’s about tourism, Frank?’
‘Of course ... what else goes on in this Godforsaken hole?’
‘You’ve made me wonder,’ I said.
* * * *
Tourism, I reflected as we walked along the street from the jetty, was not a subject I had given much thought to. I wondered if, when put to the test in front of Frank’s camera, I’d have anything at all to say.
I suddenly remembered a notion I had once had for a short story. It concerned an observation I had made that, almost without exception, foreign tourists were exceedingly ugly. I had never written the story, mainly because having made that observation—one which, incidentally, can be borne out by random sampling—I couldn’t see a plot developing from it. And I didn’t think Frank would be much interested in this either.
‘Down here,’ Frank said, leading the way along a narrow alley which went back down the hill in the direction of the river.
It opened out after a few yards into a small and pleasant square, against one side of which was the back of a building I recognized as the town hall, and on the opposite side of which was a pub. The far side of the square abutted on to the waterfront; here there was a narrow road, and beyond this a concrete pedestrian promenade, stretching in one direction towards the jetty, and in the other towards the pier where in the summer months, motor-boats could be hired.
Several tall arc-lamps had been erected in the square, and a young man stood by the opened rear doors of a van, connecting up a complicated piece of switching gear. Inside the van I could see several pieces of equipment, and a diesel generator.
Frank led me towards the door to the saloon-bar, on which someone had pinned a printed notice saying: Television Personnel Only.
A girl was sitting by herself at a table near the door. While Frank spoke to her, I appraised her quickly. She looked nice.
‘Is Pat here?’ said Frank.
‘Round the corner in the other bar.’ She glanced briefly at me. ‘Who’s this?’
‘This is...’
‘Chris,’ I said.
‘Chris. He’s a famous author. He wants to take part in the film. Chris... meet Tina.’
We shook hands, and she gave me a pleasant smile; indeed, it was the sunniest part of the day so far. Before I could say anything to her, Frank moved off. I let go of Tina’s hand and followed him with a reluctance tempered by curiosity.
‘Pat,’ said Frank, when we reached the other bar. ‘Look who I’ve found. Chris Priest. He writes sci-fi.’
Patrick was a balding, red-faced man in his middle years. He sat awkwardly on a bar-stool, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter, but with his feet resting on one of the rungs of the stool so that his large buttocks bulged over the back edge of the seat. He had a glass of scotch on the counter in front of him, and as we arrived he had been talking to a man sitting beside him. As Frank spoke to him, he looked up in my direction, and I saw that his eyes were bloodshot and watery. He was clearly rather drunk.
‘Hi, Chris,’ he said. ‘What are you drinking?’
‘I’ll have a small scotch, please.’
‘Double scotch for my guest,’ Patrick said to the barmaid, then turned back to me. ‘Frank’s briefed you, I suppose. We want good, hard-hitting stuff. Don’t pull any punches ... go over the top if you like. We can always take it out later if it’s too strong.’
‘Chris has written a book about racialism,’ said Frank.
‘Pro or anti?’
I opened my mouth. Frank said quickly: ‘Pro.’
‘Good man. Just the stuff. Don’t overdo it, just keep hinting at it. You can play up the anti-promiscuity message for all you’re worth, though.’
‘Promiscuity?’
‘Yeah ... you know. Girl tourists sleeping around, nude swimming. That kind of disgusting behaviour.’
I found mention of the word ‘tourists’ reassuring; I was by now convinced that I had, after all, misheard Frank in the first place.
‘You want me to talk about promiscuous tourists?’ I said.
‘I want you to attack promiscuous tourists!’ said Patrick. He swallowed the dregs of his drink, and banged the glass on the counter to attract the barmaid’s attention. ‘No ... correct that. I’m not supposed to tell you what to say. Free speech, and all that. I’ll leave it to you.’
‘We could let Chris see the transcripts of yesterday’s interviews,’ said Frank.
There was a pile of notes on the bar, somewhat sodden with spilt drink, and Patrick riffled clumsily through them.
‘They’re here somewhere,’ he said. ‘Never mind. We had the woman who runs the local watch-committee. Good value. She came down heavily on drug-pushers, how they infest the West Country during the summer. Said how she formed a local vigilante squad to keep them out of the town. That tied in nicely with some library footage we’ve got, of hippies on the beach at Torquay. A few years back, mind, but no one will ever know. Then we asked her about her views on unmarried couples who take holidays together. Might have to cut some of her answer, but we’ve got enough. Good strong stuff about pre-marital sex causing VD. Tell you what, Chris ... how do you feel about foreigners invading our native shores?’
‘Foreign tourists?’ I said.
‘That’s it. They come swarming over here in the summer. The locals don’t like them ... all the French kids getting drunk on wine and smoking those strong cigarettes. Not British... you with me?’
‘I rather like the French,’ I said.
‘OK ... say what you like. We can always add emphasis with a few cut-aways while you’re talking.’
Abruptly, he seemed to lose interest, and turned back to the man sitting beside him.
‘Another drink?’ Frank said to me.
‘No thanks. I haven’t finished this one yet.’
Frank said in a confidential voice: ‘If I were you, Chris, I’d stick to what I know best. You’re good on racialism, talk about that.’
‘I think I’d rather not.’ I finished my scotch, and put the glass down on the counter. ‘Let’s face it, Frank, I can’t offer you much. I’m not sure I’d say what you want to hear. Thanks for the drink.’
I edged towards the door, but Frank followed quickly.
‘Hey, you c
an’t run out on us. You’re the very man we want for this.’
‘It’s not my thing,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be seen on television talking about pre-marital sex with French drug-peddlers. I thought the film was about tourism.’
New Writings in SF 26 - [Anthology] Page 3
