Still

by Adam Thorpe

  I don’t know why I’m behaving so like a recently-retired person. Anyone’d think I miss the place. Over to you, Nancy. I rather liked Clive, wrote Batty-Fangs. He was a shepherd really. Then he discovered bricks. Bricks with Olde English written on them. My sheepdog eats Weetabix but doesn’t speak. Clive does. He’s not a bit like a sheepdog.

  Oh, I’ve forgotten the rest. But you get the drift, mate. You get the drift. (This is me now, by the by.) Oi, stop fiddling with that meter! What’s wrong with the scenery? It’s coming, it’s coming!

  No one else reviewed it, not properly. Some old wanker in The Times used it as a handle for an article about the abuse of Great Composers (Vivaldi, in case you didn’t see it and you’re too blubber-headed to work it out) on film’n TV as if I’d made a bloody commercial, and the South-West of North Swindon Journal, or something, called it a fairly interesting programme on a burning local issue and spelt my name wrong twice (Throneby and Tornby, sic). Jeremy was smiling. He sold it to various nations including the Russians. I’ve not received so much as a blackmarket dwarf tomato from these. He won’t answer my calls. I think he might have knocked himself out on a winch. Good bloody riddance.

  I’m starving. Toast: cold. Butter: slush. The lime marmalade awaits my attentions. Wait a little longer, my love. (Opening song from Honky Tonk, in case you etc.) I bought a Mars Bar at Heathrow, for old times’ sake. You can’t eat Mars Bars for breakfast, not in England. Slippery slope. You gotta start as you mean to go on. Go on.

  Didn’t you just now say that this guy Jeremy was your benefactor in some way, sir? I did indeed, my man. And didn’t you just hope he had somehow hurt himself badly, perhaps even fatally, Mr Thornby sir? I did indeed, Marcus Aurelius Samsonite the First Jr. But that doesn’t quite figure as logical to my personal way of thinking, Mr Thornby our teacher at HCDVA sir. Of course not, because you are thick. Sorry, sir? No need to apologise, Yank dickhead, it’s not your fault. Is that an insult towards me, sir? No, no, only joking. Put away your AK-47 and listen to me.

  This is the nub, at last.

  Loaded Magnum pause.

  Where did my mother come from?

  From the union of my grandmother with my grandfather. Unless I am Jesus.

  Sir?

  Skip it. Who was my grandmother?

  No, leave that too. Advance the portaprompt. Watch my lips.

  Who was my grandfather?

  My grandfather was a toff. That was my father’s term, by the way, for anyone who was not born within snotshot of Shadwell. But my grandfather was more than a toff. He was a proper toff. That was my father’s term for anyone who owned a reasonably large motor car and didn’t swear. There were gradations of proper toffs, of course, and my grandfather came reasonably high. Somewhere between a right proper bleedin’ toff and a bloomin’ right proper bleedin’ toff. The Queen was the Queen. Immediately below the Queen were the fuckin’ parasites. Immediately below the fuckin’ parasites were the bloomin’ right proper bleedin’ toffs. Geddit?

  I say, my man, have you got it? I hope I am not addressing an empty classroom.

  I thought we were at the movies, sir. I’ve ate all of my popcorn.

  My man, the fact that you have consumed all your provender is neither here nor there. The house lights are up. They will remain up until this discourse is finished. Bach plays his cantatas. Nurse Luscious ticks beside you. Zelda hums at the side showing an absence of panties in the lotus position. Tongues pass melting Maltesers to each other in the last row. What more can you want?

  I want to see the movie, sir. We haven’t even had the commercials.

  There are no commercials. This is an art house.

  Wow.

  Nurse Luscious is showing you the time to the millisecond. Be content.

  Yes, sir. Wow.

  You’ve heard of trails? This is the trail. Or trailer. Take your pick. You know my fondness for lecturing without the moving image. Be content. The feature will shortly follow. Drinks will be served in the bar. My books will be on sale at reasonable rates. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Autographed stills of Julie Andrews in Clockwork Orange will be subject to all the usual availabilities. OK?

  Yes, siree.

  And, as this is a picture-house of more than equal opportunities – how’re y’all, gals?

  Jes fine, sir. Jes fine.

  You think I was merely wagging just now, about my books? You mean you haven’t perused my monograph on Douglas Sirk in which I claim him to be the greatest thing since unspliced Carl Theodor Dreyer? My frame-by-frame analysis of Written on the Wind published in the highly prestigious Buff series from Auteur Books? Don’t you know anything?

  Evidently not, my dears.

  Tlic tlic. Time passes, Mizoguchi style. I am eating my toast. Ghosts swarm. I had not thought death had undone so many flies. I am being niggled at by my conscience. I told a lie, earlier. A lie is too strong. A fib, then. I fibbed about Cambridge. I did not do English. I did Danish. I did Danish because otherwise I would not have gone up as the bishop said to the Copenhagen porn queen bom bom. Nobody had gone up from the school in centuries, my English master assured me. You are bright, but not brilliant, Thornby. (How true, how woundingly true!) Nobody else in the country wants to do Danish. The Danish don feels lonely, undesired. It is the secret door covered in ivy, Thornby my boy. Every year, it works. It worked. The Danish don was so lonely he put his hand on my crotch in the second supers. I rapped him over the helmet with my Basic Old Danish. Til døden! I cried. I sidled into English seminars and no one cared, no one noticed. Eventually, at some indistinct but deep point mid-stream, I changed horses. The Danish don was lonely again. I can hardly be blamed for his suicide. No one blames Miller for Monroe. No one blames Thornby for Thierkegaard swinging from his napkin off High Table. I learnt sufficient Danish to swagger about pretending I was Carl Theodor Dreyer. Thus my quirky interest in Sirk. I am eating Pure Danish Butter, apparently. Ah, these smuler! These smuler til døden!

  Weren’t you talkin’ about your grandfather or supp’n, sir?

  I was, I was. The great, grand old days were leading me astray once more. Turn left here. That’s it. Here’s the scenery. Now for my grandmother. The grandmother at the top of the stairs by the stuffed lemur, wild and angry. My grandmother, not the lemur. Very angry. Take no notisss. Sneak preview. Trail. Follow it, they who dare, etc.

  It was like this: my grandmother had a certain connection with Fawholt. So did my grandfather. Going west out of Fawholt there is a little lane to the left. A small bungalow has been erected on the corner. It surpasses in hideousness almost all the small bungalows I have ever seen—

  Sir?

  You interrupted me, Marcus Aurelius—

  Pardon me sir but I just wanted to know why you were talkin’ so funny.

  Was I?

  Yessir.

  How was I talking, exactly?

  Like you’re talkin’ now, sir. Like John Gielgud in Arthur, sir.

  General giggle, of course, presents arms. Marcus Aurelius Samsonite the First Jr is the college wag. His waggishness is legendary. When he is not being waggish he is a born-again Christian. He appears to wear hair oil, though his hair is very short. His shirts have collars and are white. His skin is pink. I look at him and I feel, sometimes, I am looking at the image of God. Only then do I fear death. Harrumph.

  So what do I normally sound like, funnyman?

  Like Cary Grant on speed, sir.

  Ha ha. Very droll. I know exactly what he means. Neither here nor there nor there nor here. Jack of a thousand voices, master of none. Dangling off Rockall, screaming into the spume. Now I’ll show ’em.

  Don’t you mean Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, arse-hole?

  General consternation marches past. Our scrubbed wag assigns me with his clear blue eyes to the seventh circle. I go there. I sit on my big throne, spitting fire. Right. No murders, no tongues, no interruptions. Not yet.

  You take this lane past the bungaloid and keep goin
g for about a quarter mile, right? You hit some trees, big trees. You go under them and look to your left. There are two houses. One is a receptacle, the other is a residence. The receptacle is of a lipstick-carmine brick and the residence is of a peeling paintwork that might once have been cream. The receptacle has a 1988 Vauxhall Cavalier on its gravel and this is 1988. The residence has a bicycle on its lawn with a wicker basket at the front of it and it might be 1888 but it isn’t. You get the feeling that the size of the houses has nothing to do with the owners’ incomes, because remember this is England and we’re into class. We’re into accents. We’re into the real thing and it’s not Coca-Cola. The receptacle, a little voice tells you, was built in 1984 on the former old walled vegetable garden of the residence because the residents were skint and needed to mend a leak or twenty. You look at the receptacle and because you’ve been filming around here a touch you recognise the hand of Mr Clive Walters in the cottage-style porch made out of dowelling rods and the lovingly individualised crooked chimney. You know by now that if you switch on the fan in the Victorian-style conservatory the thing’ll take off and do a Bleriot in the Jemima Puddleduck-style pond with the Yorkshire priory-look paving stones ready to be grouted by the owner of the receptacle if he ever finds the bloody time, Josephine. You think, given the choice, and because you’re temporarily English, you’d really rather go to tea with the owner of the bicycle. There’ll be better biscuits, for a start. Out of an old tin. Just for a start. In fact, you don’t give the receptacle owners a chance. You go up to the front door of the residence and take hold of the dog’s paw and knock, thrice. Geraniums spurt out of broken pots. Ivy sports through the sides of the porch. Spiders spin and bees slumber. An ash-bin squats to the side of the door, full of ash the colour of rain. You could stand here forever and not grow cold. You seem to. Because no one answers. Only then do you notice the convolvulus woven through the bicycle’s spokes, the bird’s nest in its wicker basket, the capless bell, the grass waving in the drive and on the lintel of the cracked window. Ha, you think. Abandoned, abandoned and echoing, dust’s footfall, the scatter of phantoms and mice, perfect location for that Vauxhall Cavalier commercial, must tell Jerry—

  When the door opens.

  Hallo?

  Hallo, sorry to bother you. You made me jump. I thought there was no one here.

  Well, there is. It’s sold. We bought it. We’ve exchanged. Sorry.

  No, no. I don’t want to buy it. I just wanted a look.

  Really, these agents. You’re the third person today. It’s this multi-agent thing, you see. We’re in so many windows. Word’ll get round, I suppose.

  I suppose it will.

  Sir?

  Ye-es, Marcus Aurelius—

  Who’s this other guy, sir?

  How do you know it’s a guy? And stop interrupting.

  I didn’t. You paused. You looked up at the ceiling.

  It was a dramatic pause. A Pinter pause. What we call a beat. Do you turn to your partner and natter in the middle of a film? A film by, say, Andrei Tarkovsky? Or Carl Theodor Dreyer? Or Robert Bresson for Christ’s sake? Just because no one’s talking?

  Who are they, sir?

  Never mind. Module Two. In the Mirror: Illusion and Reality in World Cinema. Or: My Favourites So Shuddup and Listen.

  But that’s when you have pictures to look at, sir.

  And don’t you have pictures now, dope?

  Aw, no sir. Nope, I don’t.

  You mean my laborious efforts to paint the scenery for you have come to naught?

  Pardon me, sir?

  Never mind. He never watched his rushes.

  Whassat, sir?

  Enough, Marcus Aurelius etc Jr. You have dived into your kidney-shaped pool one too many times. You are beyond redemption—

  Sir, I regard that as a deeply insulting personal remark against—

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I forgot. You’ve flicked hair oil in your neighbour’s eye. You are a true believer. You will be ejected without pause into a heaven of moving images and choo-choo trains and final causes where the films of Robert Bresson are banned. Well done. Now shuddup and listen.

  OK. But be careful. Sir.

  I will, I will.

  Christ! – the phone again. The bloody phone.

  That was Gregory. He says hi, Dad. I say hi, son. How’s tricks, Greg? Are you coming? He says I’m working. You’re what, Greg? Working? Tomorrow of all days, tomorrow night, tomorrow night of all nights? Sort of, Dad. We’re having a party at the gallery. My new work’s the centre spread. That’s nice, Greg. What’s your new work? Can I come and see it some time? Can I come and see you sometime? Don’t get like that, Dad. How long are you over? The usual, Greg. High days and holy days. Cut-price ticket. Have to head back within five days, five hours, five minutes and fifty-five seconds of my arrival time or they’ll charge me the cost of the engine fuel plus VAT. Same old dad, Dad. Same old dad, Greg. No, that’s not true. I have a film out. A what? Did I say something, Greg? You said you had a film out, Dad. And what’s so deeply shocking about that, son? Don’t call me son, Dad, it sounds so American. You haven’t made a film in years. What film is it? I’m showing it at the party tonight, Greg. I’d hoped you’d be there. It’s about us. Oh no, Dad. No, Greg, I mean us as in our roots, our genes, our blood, our memory banks and all that. It’s great stuff. It’s kinda revolutionary. In fact, it’s definitely revolutionary. It’s a film without pictures. Are you still there, Greg? I’m here, Dad. A film without pictures, eh? A film without pictures, Greg. Fellini never washed his undies. Dad? Yes, Greg? Have you been drinking again, Dad? What, me? I’m a reformed character, son. Renewed. Reborn. You must come along and see. Hey, Greg, how does it feel? How does what feel, Dad? How does today feel? Today feels OK, Dad. Just OK? The day before the Big One and just OK? Is that all you can say? You sound like your mother. Mum’s not very well, Dad. Oh? She’s got a thing with itis on the end. It makes her limp. I’m sorry to hear that, Greg. No you’re not. Is it life-threatening, Greg? She won’t say, but I think it can be, according to Sally it can be. Hey, what’s this new piece about, Greg? Still carpet squares and the I Ching and the fifty thousand bucks price tag attached? You’re behind, Dad. I’m not into carpets any more. You’ll have to come and see. I think you might like it. What you said about a film with no pictures, that’s amazing. You mean you like the idea, Greg? I do, Dad, I do. Is that because you hate my other films so much, Greg? I do but that’s not why I think it’s amazing. I didn’t have the money, Greg. I didn’t have any choice. Dad? Yes, Greg? Don’t put it like that. Don’t be cynical about it. A film without pictures is beautiful, Dad. Thank you, Greg. Is there just the screen and a blue light on it or something like Jarman’s a few years back, Dad? No, it is nothing like Jarman’s a few years back, Greg. It’s a silent. A silent with no pictures? There are words, Greg, calm yourself, there are lots of words. How are you showing it, Dad? How am I showing it? Yeah. On a screen, Greg. I’ve bought my big screen over – a whole superwidth double, Texan cotton, no stains, start with a clean sheet. Hey, this is great, Dad, but stains would’ve been better. Greg, you’ll just have to come and see mine and I’ll have to come and see yours. There’s nothing to see, Dad. There’s nothing to see? No. It’s the main gallery painted beige. That’s all. It’s called The New Millennium Giggle. At midnight everyone’s going to be in the main gallery and I’m going to take my clothes off and walk out of the door and into the street. I think there’ll be giggling. If there isn’t, I’m up shit creek. Oh, Greg, you’ll catch your death. That’s my new work, Dad. Why beige, Greg? Because beige is beige is beige, Dad. I’m sorry you can’t make it to the film, Greg. So am I, Dad, so am I. You’ll have to do a second screening, just for me. I can’t do that, Greg. Why not, Dad? Because I’m going to chuck the unique and only print into the river, if they let me. Except for the last reel. If I tried to take the last reel as well they’d stop me. But I’m gonna wait till the end, Greg. I’m gonna give them a chance to sc
ream and grab me so it’s exciting, it’ll be a real cliff-hanger, it’ll be like those 4d serial matinées at the Bioscope your grandad used to talk about, Greg, it’ll be like James Stewart at the top of that tower— He’s still alive, Dad. Who, James Stewart? Grandad, Dad. Yeah, but he’s unscramblable these days unless you put in a lot of concentration. Well, that really sounds amazing, Dad. Thank you, Greg, I think it is, too. See you, Dad, and good luck. See you, Greg. Good luck to you, too. I’m sure there’ll be lots of giggles.

  I have to apologise. I’m just feeling the full force of fatherhood all over again. I just need to blow my nose.

  That’s better. Where were we?

  You’re standing on this, aw, porch, sir. Talking to this – this person.

  Thank you, M. A. You’re a pal.

  My pleasure, sir.

  Right.

  Sir?

  Ye-es?

  You got a drip on the end of your nose.

  Oh, Christ. It’s a tear, M. A. It’s not mucus. It’s a tear because I’m feeling very close and very far away from Gregory my son and do you know what?

  What?

  That’s the first phone call in months he hasn’t called me a pig.

  You mean your son calls you a pig, sir?

  He does, M. A., he does. In his own Gregorian way. Softly, like a chant. You’re a bit of a pig sometimes, Dad.

  Sir?

  Ye-es?

  I just want to get one thing clear. First, would you please not take the Lord’s name in vain? Second, where are we exactly, sir?

  That’s two things, M. A. First, I’ll try not to. Second, where the hell do you think we are?

  I’m not sure, sir. It’s kinda dark sometimes and sometimes I think I’m in a kitchen and sometimes I think I’m in a taxi and most of the time I think I’m at the movies with this really nice nurse bending over me, sir.