Iain Sinclair
DINING ON STONES
(Or, The Middle Ground)
Contents
BOOK ONE: Estuarial Lives
Coast
Hackney Road
The Missing Kodak
Rainham Marshes
Coast
Eyes
Hackney
Wife/Wives
Brick Lane
Aldgate Pump
Hackney
The White Stone
The Literate Jukebox
Nightsweats
Marina Fountain
The Highland Forest
East Ham
Beckton Alp
Coast
Night
Fenchurch Street
Rainham
Coast
White Queen Theatre
Ibis Hotel
BOOK TWO: Allegories of Insomnia & Continuous Sky
Cunard Court
Beach
Bo-Peep Inn
Pevensey Bay
Marina Fountain
Hackney
Travelodge
Barking
Ibis Hotel
BOOK THREE: The Middle Ground
Mr Mocatta
Fairlight
Cunard Court
The Ridge
Royal Victoria Hotel
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Iain Sinclair is the author of Downriver (winner of the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and the Encore Award); Landor’s Tower; White Chappell, Scarlet Tracings; Lights Out for the Territory; Lud Heat; Radinsky’s Room (with Rachel Lichtenstein); Radon Daughters; London Orbital; and Dining on Stones. He lives in Hackney, East London.
i.m. Joseph Conrad & Arthur Sinclair
PENGUIN BOOKS
DINING ON STONES
‘Sinclair’s prose is in a class of its own … it’s hard to imagine there’ll be a novel out this year more deserving of the Booker’ Nicholas Royle, Zembla
‘Brilliant’ The Times
‘Sinclair (painfully, brilliantly, fancifully) knows everything’ Time Out
‘Hypnotic, unnerving … Sinclair knows how to spin a good yarn’ Sunday Telegraph
‘Vivid and sardonic, describing a world as idiosyncratic and recognizable as Greene’s or Ballard’s’ Guardian
‘Energising and exhausting … anyone who cares about the possibilities of English language cannot afford to pass him by’ List
Andrew Norton
ESTUARIAL LIVES
GRANITA BOOKS
LONDON
The eyes are hammers.
– Ceri Richards
Coast
Three flies, they might have been there all winter, exhibiting themselves on my kitchen window. Doing what they do, trying to get inside. Stuck to stickiness, salt. A low-level irritation, between my headache and the view of the roofs and brightly painted terraces, that drove me, almost immediately, into the other room. Where I pressed, in perverse imitation of my tiny, blood-sucking cousins, against the cool panel of the sliding door. If I was inside anything, it was glass.
So much experience, I thought, and so little of it experienced, lived through, understood. The sea, early light on grey water, does that, makes us melancholy in the morning, dissatisfied with our satisfaction. So many years on the clock, despite surreptitious winding back, the reinventions, the lies. Obliged to go over the details of a dull history, for a man sprawled in a chair, whisky glass in hand, you invent. A journalist worried about train times, his dinner. You smooth over unforgiven betrayals, hide shame. Jealousy. Impotence. Or boast of it. Bad reviews, which I pretend not to read, are quoted verbatim. The mike isn’t picking up my whisper. The journalist booms and cackles.
‘Tell me about the auditory hallucinations.’
I was waiting for something. And it was slow in coming. I’d done the walks, bought the local newspapers, sat in afternoon bars with an empty notebook. Pass sixty, sixty-five, and you can’t sustain an erection beyond eight and a half minutes. So I read. Is that a promise? Eight and a half minutes, of the right intensity, sounds good. Novelists have managed books on less. Eight and a half minutes is epic to a minimalist (no flashbacks permitted). There were no women on my stretch of the coast, not for me. No car, few clothes. Finite resources and small knowledge of the set on which I found myself: no more excuses.
Joseph Conrad managed three hundred words on a good day. There weren’t many of those. The atrocious misery of writing,’ he moaned. A few miles to the east of here in a rented farmhouse. Labouring over Nostromo. The manuscript had elephantiasis. He was sick, sweating, characters mumbled in his ear, stalked him on afternoon walks.
Light is all memory, but it’s not my memory. Nothing personal. A concrete shelf above the busy coast road. Furniture from an Essex warehouse. Fresh paint. Screaming gulls. Shingle shore. The English Channel.
Standing, nose against that cold surface, was the extent of my attempt to break down conventional distinctions between dream life and real life – if such distinctions could be said to exist outside London, beyond the hoop of the motorway. On the south coast. Do we have free will? Is it our choice to give up choice, to ape our grandfathers? The same retreat, getting away from debt, from creditors and family. Aberdeen in his case, Hackney in mine. The compulsion to write.
I came here in pursuit of a Greek woman, a photographer who only worked at night. It was a commission. Which I couldn’t fulfil. I lost myself in the prints. She was an extraordinary storyteller and then she took the narrative out. Her photographs were the residue: colour, texture, neutralised gravity. So that specifics become universal. The tenderness she had for the world shocked me. Love letters that always said the same thing: ‘Goodbye’. When you spend time somewhere with an artist (a thief) of her quality, you can’t go home. I didn’t think of it that way, at the beginning, but the task I’d given myself was to put the fiction back into Efiie’s documents. To pick up the stories that she abandoned. Her theatre of the coast was perfect. Deserted. A place of heavy drapes, shapes beneath tarpaulin, lit windows of empty rooms. Clubland calligraphy turning puddles of piss into blood.
Effie wasn’t part of the story. That much was clear. She introduced me to a location she had a thing about once; she’ll return as a friend, a tripper.
‘So the first time I ever came here,’ she said, ‘it was by train, at night. I walked from the station to the main part of the town. Everything was deserted, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I kept walking, hardly anyone to be seen. The restaurants were getting ready for the night. But who are they preparing these tables for? The ghosts? The dead? At night everything is transformed. Anything can happen. Nobody will blink, nobody will hear you.’
I was ready to audition. I could become one of those ghosts. I saw Effie to her train and I stayed put. The next morning I walked into an estate agent’s office in the Old Town: the woman was preoccupied, servicing the thick tongue of a rubber plant with a Slavic thoroughness. You could hear the rubber squeak. The man, jacketless, tilted heavily onto one elbow, was giving handshakes on the telephone. Amused eyes weigh me up: timewaster. They know I don’t have the equity, but they slide, without breaking away from plant or phone, through the motions.
‘What are you looking for – exactly? Low forties? Sixty ceiling? We specialise in cheeky offers. Never know your luck.’
‘A second chance,’ I wanted to reply. New birth certificate, clean passport. Less pressure around the skull, fewer bills. And I’d like to meet the woman described to me by another woman. A writer, artist of sorts, whose name is mentioned, with awe and affection, in an off-highway shack, a breakfast bar in West Thurrock. Red and green sign – THE LOG CABIN – reflected
in rainwater on the indented lid of a blue tin drum. Oily beads plipping from hanging basket, the bar had style: rusticated Americana. Estuary ambiguous: the flavour of the times. Perfume from the soap factory infiltrated our damp coats. We felt – as a consequence of walking, through successive rain curtains, along the riverbank in the direction of the bridge – as if we’d taken a warm shower in a gay bathhouse. I watched bright prisms in the bubbles that formed along the seam of the shorter girl’s shiny black jacket. Her smooth cheeks, pink from the hike, were sticky with curls of dark wet hair.
Jimmy Seed brought us out here, two of his girls, mature students with charm (and, I guessed, private or undisclosed sources of income) and myself. He was grafting his way down the A13, from Aldgate to Southend – like those old-time economic escapees from the Whitechapel ghetto. You know the sort, two sweatshops, bit of property, revised stationery. The move I would make, a couple of years later, trading in one brand of dereliction for another. Drug-dealers in fancy cars for drug users in hooded sweatshirts. Dead grass for dead sea. The same desperate survivalists with bricks in their bags. The same ambulances and sirens.
Seed had the eye, no question. Native intelligence and the steady hand of a good painter, painter and decorator. Like Hitler: without the compulsion to have women shit on him, the urge to invade Poland. Jimmy let Poland come to him, by way of Rainham Marshes: Europe’s last great apocalyptic highway, rumbling trucks, discontinued firing ranges, spoilt docks, poisoned irrigation ditches, mounds of smoking landfill and predatory seagulls. Property and prophecy, that was Jimmy’s game. Nosing into territory with the vagrants who are about to be moved on. So paint the vagrants, the canal bank lovers. The drinking schools. Whores. Night footballers. Dogs on chains. Sell a painting, buy a share in a slum. Sell the renovated flat and option a burnt-out pub. Photograph the pub, copy the photo. Sell the painting to the hustler who risks a wine bar on the same site. Sell heritage as something to hang in the Gents.
Jimmy flitted from Glasgow in short trousers. He chased his old man’s unemployment as far south as Derby. But when, like Charles Edward Stuart (the Young Pretender), the easily discouraged boilermaker lost his nerve and turned for home, brave little Jimmy stayed put: a job in a garage, flattening oil cans with a hand-cranked device that left him knackered. One arm, like a Limehouse barmaid, thicker than the other. Young Seed saw art as a way of accessing women who had expectations of property. His third wife (second launderette conversion) carried him as far west as Roman Road. Social life tracked the flight of the sun (Clerkenwell, Soho, Bond Street), while his art travelled in the opposite direction; greater savagery, blanker canvases. By the time his scouting expeditions reached the Queen Elizabeth II Suspension Bridge, between Purfleet and Dartford, content was a shimmering zero. He laboured like a Whistler franchise: project image (outline of bridge) onto screen, bucket of whitewash, slap in a few lorries with fine badger brush and leave the rest misty and impressionistic. Let the buggers see what they want to see in a tribute to absence.
Jimmy ran a beat-up Volvo with tinted windscreen. The A13 looked much better that way, schizophrenic, two thirds grey and the rest tropical sunset. Grungy Brit realism invaded by Florida noir, plastic palm trees in Basildon Festival Leisure Park. Hanging an arm out of the window that wouldn’t shut, Jimmy snapped away: snooker halls, cinemas, drinking clubs with Mafia lettering on necrotic plaster. Tough weeds splitting tarmac. His roadside portfolio, the scale of it, played well in New York. The venerable critic Manny Farber, deaf but still feisty, himself a painter now, visiting England to check out the Turners, said that the only place he recognised, in a couple of weeks being schlepped around the culture, was the A13 beyond Dagenham. ‘Let down the window, kid,’ he growled, ‘I wanna smell it: New Jersey.’
Jimmy’s new style (degraded Highways Agency promo) was taken up by a gallery in Dover Street, one of those plush operations where immaculate young women find ways to pass the day on the telephone, sitting, stretching, smiling by appointment. Further in, desks are not quite so large, but they’re covered with a better class of green leather; gentlemen of a certain age, florid, drop in for an hour before lunch, without removing their overcoats. Upstairs, in private suites, the real players are as still as papal portraits (and twice as oily): sharp enough to freeze gin by looking at it.
For a season, wild man Jimmy enjoyed the status of a recommended window-cleaner. The small change he earned – around £40,000 a pop – barely covered his expenses: catalogues, private views, coke and champers for collectors. A new Dubliner, brickdust on his brogues, came over, two or three times a year (Cheltenham was one of them), tieless, white-shirted, to make a purchase against tax liabilities: another monster A13 canvas. Art with muddy footprints.
‘Takes Paddy back to the years he spent with a shovel in his hand,’ one of the grandees sneered – making sure that the brown envelope, stuffed with readies, that he slid away into his inside pocket, didn’t spoil the hang of a loose-fitting jacket. ‘Black bag merchant from Dagenham Docks. Tarmac-layer to landfill magnate in two generations.’
I was supposed to shadow Jimmy, write him up. The gallery slipped me a couple of hundred for expenses. The germ of my A13 book, Estuarial Lives, started there. The usual accident. Jimmy belonged in the first chapter, a Virgil with no staying power. A run in the Volvo and it was over. I took the decision that the road would have to be walked. Every yard of it, Aldgate to the sea: through memory, mess, corruption, dying industries, political scams, satellite shopping cities buried in chalk quarries. Defoe, Bram Stoker, Joseph Conrad. Elements were predictable, I was working from a very familiar script; elements were unexpected (the Plotlands of Basildon, the ruins of Barking Abbey surrounded by furniture warehouses and windowless blocks that peddled carpets). I wrote at pace, struggling to keep up with Jimmy Seed’s production line, working to repopulate his programmatic emptiness, those huge blank canvases.
Magazines ran extracts – and then, when every word of the thing had been sold twice over, I delivered the typescript to my publishers. One of those decent, penny-pinching, heart-on-sleeve operations that are hoping to be taken over by the Germans or Japanese. Their reps are borrowed, the chains won’t see them, but they achieve review coverage far beyond their weight (sympathy for the underdog, journalists with uncommercial projects to peddle). My riffs were posthumous but ripe with déjà vu. The culture classes, professionally lazy and ill-informed, are only comfortable when the job has been done for them. Having absorbed, without noticing it, earlier versions of the A13 walk – as art criticism, psychogeography, anthologised fiction – they greeted my book with tempered enthusiasm. Copies didn’t leap from the shelves and nobody copped a hernia unloading stock. Broadsheets echoed each other, leading to radio fillers, talks at recently upgraded polytechnics: the University of Clapton, the Swanley Interchange Arts Festival, a Sunday afternoon recital in an otherwise engaged Finchley Road chainstore.
Estuarial Lives, measured in column inches, was a success; just enough to be a nuisance. Students from Paris and Milan (with bulging folders). Thesis brokers from the Cambridge fringe (stern questions about unread French philosophers). Freelancers on the nod from skateboard magazines. I didn’t make any money, but I felt the burn of scorched time. The loss of anonymity. Locally, my wanderings were interrupted by cyclists eager to tell me about their projects: video surveillance of empty buildings, albums of rephotographed graffiti, underground streams tracked to source. A nervous woman, catching me at a petrol station on Mare Street, where we are all nervous (with good reason), presented me with a padded envelope that contained the evidence of an extraordinary art work. It anticipated, and surpassed, as the author rightly asserted, my crude urban expeditions. The man whose magnum opus the Mare Street woman was promoting, peddling around town, had cultivated a massive brain tumour, which pressed angrily on his optic nerves. He had X-rays of the intruder – which he superimposed over a map of medieval London, the walled City. He walked the shape of his pain, his unlanguaged parasit
e, into the map. His tiny script, pages of it, was harder to read than my own. But I caught the drift. I didn’t want to be suckered into another malign fiction, in which his story became my story, my reading of his cuneiform text. Occultism, at this heat, was too oppressive.
It was time to go.
I pulled in to an empty bay, near the air machine. An Asian man in a big car needed my slot. He was very polite. He didn’t honk. He waited as long as he could, then got out to tap, quite gently, on my window. The walker, the one with the dead foetus in his brain, believed that his pilgrimage would heal the hurt, free his spirit. By carving a mark into an historic landscape, he would exorcise the ancient thing that was devouring him. If I accepted the gift, walked his walk (X-rays in hand), I would activate my own demons. I would cultivate a duplicate tumour, a Smithfield thalamus. Brain-meat wrinkled in an opaque bowl.
‘You staying long, mate?’
I reversed, swerved out of there, into the maelstrom of Hackney traffic. A12, Blackwall Tunnel, A2, M25, A21. Let the car drive itself. As a book-dealer, I made the run to the coast on a regular basis. Retirement colonies, modest shops packed with plunder. Fish supper, stroll on the beach. Home. Suspension groaning. A cloud of filth, shaped like one of M.R. James’s demons, followed me onto the High Weald.
I was never going back. Easy as that. I wasn’t interested in houses, investments, potential. The night walk with Effie the photographer was all the confirmation I required. I snatched at the sheet the estate agent didn’t want to show me, a building that looked like a boat, a Thirties cruise liner. Such a monster would never be allowed again. They’d knocked down a hefty chunk of Regency development, so the man said, an archway and a hotel patronised by royalty. Balconies, windows, walkways. Looking straight out on the sea. One flat, old man taken into hospital, was on the market. But it wasn’t for me, not worth going down there. Wouldn’t waste my time. A mess of art magazines, tubes of paint, pigeon droppings, brown envelopes. Very nice properties in the Old Town. Catherine Cookson lived here for years.
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