The first portrait that sprang from his throat threw me. Not that I was supposed to be thrown, my job was just to keep the tape-machine running, put in new spools, thread them through the recording head, and start again. Sometimes I missed some of the stuff that came from him, because he wouldn’t stop. He was in a trance after the operation, and he wouldn’t stop, nor could he be shaken from it. Lady Macbeth, sleep-talking. So I tried to remember that stuff, some of it no doubt lost for ever. You have a life, maybe momentous, maybe not. Yet if the moments go, you might as well not have gone to the trouble of living them. Without a proper connected story you start to decline to a kind of newspaper, each day new, that never gets a second reading. The ecstasy of your soul and all its troubles start to fade, like so much drawer-liner or scrunched absorbent for wet shoes. I exaggerate, but you get my drift.
Well, the first portrait threw me, because it wasn’t his father. No doubt his father made a huge impression on him, a huge depression too, but it was of his father’s friend Ludwig that he spoke most at first. Ludwig had lost a hand, that was probably what made his portrait stick, Ludwig had lost a hand in an industrial accident. He nearly bled to death, after his wrist was shorn by the whirling blades at the top of a fertiliser hopper. The bleeding stump they stuck in superphosphate. His ex-hand they plonked in a Time-and-Motion inspector’s briefcase, before they rushed both to Casualty. It was easy to see how this would stick in a young Jim’s mind. Not that he was a witness, but he heard about it at table, after meat, and he marvelled at Ludwig’s hook.
The next portrait threw me too, because it wasn’t his mother. His mother was dead. Jim’s mother died when he was not much more than a lad. He remembered releasing her ashes out of a glider window, as they overflew a mountain. Was that a flight of fancy, as some might say? I don’t think so. It seemed, as I taped it, remarkably real. But it wasn’t his mother he spoke about at first, but of two other women, Amande and Lucy. Amande could be fairly intense, which seemed to embarrass Jim. She was an older woman who had come across from Brittany in the war, married a whitefish skipper, then been bereaved, a shocker of an accident at the mouth of Aberdeen harbour. For which she was not consoled. Yet isolation and consolation became her themes, and it emerged she and Jim had been mighty close, mighty close in some lifesaving sense.
Then there was Lucy, the portrait of Lucy. To say she was the love of his life is to understate. But love is the home of all extremes, I think, and this love was so full of truth, for so short a time, so full of imposture and needless harming, that even extremes became beggared.
Jesus, thought Lucy. Is that where we’re going.
With Lucy he seemed to want her so much, he was able to imagine her inner life, though how accurately we can never know. He would be running along with his own story, and then there would be something like At her window, gazing or Meanwhile, in bed and it would be about Lucy. But then men are notorious projectors, as my wife Iris is never slow to point out. (Whereas she is so rooted in circumstance, locality and practicality, it makes your eyes water at times. And a complete anarchist.)
Then again, with his long-time nemesis, Spermy McClung, a similar thing applied. Not that there was inner life to imagine where Spermy was concerned, Jim didn’t spend a whole barrel of time looking for that. But where Spermy was, what he was doing, who he was bawling out, how many million of which marine species he was currently murdering, that he did have a knack for. Envy of man-of-action by full-time wimp, I suppose, simple as that. Spermy had pained him before, and would be instrumental in savaging him again. No doubt you do well to develop a sixth sense for the swerves and shifts of a man like that. (Did it verge on hero-worship? Because that’s dangerous ground, as the moth finds out every time it shuns moon and worships incandescence. Though are moths drawn by moonlight? I have to admit I’m guessing here.)
The third of those to get seriously under Jim’s skin, so to speak, was Julie. Julie Swink. Only the Lord Provost’s daughter, so help me. Scientist, toughhead. About as sentimental as a barnacle. (Mind you, apparently Charles Darwin, I nearly said Dickens, Charles Darwin spent about eight years studying them. Nora Barnacle, who was that again? Sometimes I wish I had more time for research, instead of wandering around sticking microphones under chins. Transcribing? It takes so long! No way you can skate it: it’s all in real time.) As I say, Julie got under Jim’s skin. But whether it was empathy or something less exotic, it sure turned out a stormy time. Hang on to your hats, gentle readers. Julie Swink was either a scientist fallen amongst rogues, or she was a diver and she took him down. For the moment let us leave it at that.
Marilyn knocked and came straight up to her desk.
– Bundle of stuff for signing-off. UbSpec want a meeting tomorrow, they’re open as regards time. Are you okay?
– Oh, fine, she said. I think so, yes fine. She had been careful not to bundle up the papers guiltily when the Admin Sec came in. When did you say?
– The time’s not decided yet. Marilyn looked over the typescript briskly and back at Lucy.
– Research, said Lucy. The Civil War. I understand we might do it after all.
– Never heard that, said Marilyn. I think they want something far, far bigger. Do you want coffee bringing? You’ve been in here a while.
– No, no, I’m awake. It’s fine.
– Suit yourself. We can check timetables for tomorrow later. Come past my desk.
Well it was a draughty hall the wind blew through, rocking the portraits. Ludwig, Amande, Lucy, Spermy, Julie. The way I’ve set it out in the final text, they’re hung in that order. There were, of course, quite a few more.
His father, Andy. Andy was upstanding, integrity carried to an annoying degree, that nobody (not Jim for sure) could hope to live up to. Sober, practical, pretty selfless (not that Jim thought so), Andy was one of those Communists who resigned on principle after the Russians invaded Hungary. Jim’s sister Annie, a bright spark, was briefly present, but if there were other siblings, brothers perhaps, they didn’t appear in the audio record. (Mind you, it was Hogmanay, they might just have been out, carousing the night away, in other houses.) Then a professor from Crete, Zander Petrakis, and a caterer from Shanghai, Bing Qing, that he bumped into. Though the longer I go in this game, the less I believe in random coincidence. Then Iris, I’ve mentioned already, my second wife Iris. Jim and her went back a long way, in the school chum sense. Iris knew Jim’s real name, of course, though by the time I met her, I’d just about finished typing this. Thanks, Iris, I said. It was just after she came out of prison, I wanted to do an audio-feature on her, but she refused. Then, in the course of our increasingly warm discussions, Jim came up in some context or other. They both wrote plays at school. Such a detail by this stage was not even ironic.
Anyway, let’s gather this. All the time, as Jim spewed out his trance on tape, and as I transcribed it, then shaped it up in the way you’ll soon read, I had been trying to piece together who this piece of wind, this part-time harp, this draughty portrait hall could be. By could be I didn’t mean just his name. Names are a bagatelle: Jim, Shem, Hamish, Hamlet, what can it possibly matter? No, it wasn’t his name but who he really was that I was after. That was the core of my project, long after the cheques from the NHS were gone. There was even that other quest he’d fondly flirt with: Who he could have been, given luck and a fair wind. We can all indulge ourselves in that sort of thing. But it can also throw some interesting beams. Well, I had to be frank with Iris. My typescript was as good as finished. No, I said, your information has come too late, get your tank off my lawn. Not the way you want to speak to a recently-freed anarchist, let me tell you. I said to her, I’ve done the best I can, it would weary me past conscience to reorder all my stuff.
You might ask what it is, this best that I’ve done. Well, I’ve done the basics. I’ve turned all first person into third, in order to turn Jim into someone more distanced. No-one wants to hear I, I, I, hammering on. I’ve moved some recordings around to where I t
hink they belong in the original chronological sequence. Nobody’s that keen on reading jumble. And I’ve edited out most of the repetition, I hope. Because sometimes Jim moved via trance to a strange kind of incantation. A dream to listen to, but if you ever try setting incantation down, a thorough bore to read.
That’s about it really. I’ve added interior decoration, a few descriptions of the city from my own knowledge, and some sketchy topography so you can keep a hold of the journeys. But it’s the feeling that’s most important, and that’s what was there on the tape. What it felt like to be this man. If you don’t sense that, then it is my fault: he blew me plenty, I shaped too much. Does it in any way touch on the novel? Perhaps all biography must. This I attest above all: I fleshed out scenes only where that seemed vital, and in ways I thought consistent and reasonable.
Icarus ’68 opens at the outset of a year. That may seem daunting. Courage, reader: it is over by the end of the first day. This is one of the swiftest accounts of a fall you will ever meet.
Let me begin.
In the moment the year started, Jim slipped through the warped door and started
Icarus, thought Lucy. Always keen to get out of the old house.
In the moment the year started, Jim slipped through the warped door and started running through fresh, powdery snow, unfree, yet with the momentum of freedom. He wore a zipped top, blue cotton shorts, and lightweight Japanese road shoes, Tiger Cubs. They made a shima-shima noise through snow as he drew to his pace. A voice sounded at his back, for indeed the warped door still stood open. A voice came. Back and nae be sae damned selfish! But Jim kept running. Shima-shima, his shoes repeated. Then that voice again. Back and tak in the New Year properly!
Properly? thought Lucy. A while since she’d heard that one. Why they had to have the Sixties. Properly indeed!
Jim turned around. There stood his councillor father, framed in the brick council house with the cold iron windows. He did look trapped, he looked tired and, though Jim didn’t like to acknowledge this, there were elements of despairing. There was something between them that was invisible. Slanting between them lay the ghost of snow, his mother’s ash, falling on the mountain top, released from the glider window. It was time to get away from all that.
Time indeed, thought Lucy. The world is full of dead mothers.
But something in him made him go back. Something in him made him go back and try to contend with the whole procession. He was no sooner back in the hall, getting a row for melting, than the bell went and it was Ludwig. Come in, come in, said his father. Ye’re ma first foot, Ludwig man, Happy New Year! Happy New Year, Andy, said Ludwig, who was attempting to stamp crimps of hardpacked snow out of his black oxhide motorbike boots. But these prints also, said Ludwig, pointing down with his hook, there is someone before me? Oh, just the loon, said Andy. He was awa oot runnin but I grabbed him back. Eh, loon? Shak hauns wi Ludwig.
Jim seethed. He wished the earth would open and swallow his father up. Common feelings in a lost young man. He shook left hands with Ludwig, awkwardly, and watched him struggle out of his leathers. Good tae see ye, Ludwig, said Andy. How’ve ye been? Still doon at the bloomin Fertile? Yes, big promotion now, said Ludwig. I clean out the boss’s office, not just the canteen. I am suitable for paper clips, look. His father inspected Ludwig’s hook. That’s a fair fancy rig ye’ve gotten, said Andy. Battery magnetic, switch on, switch off, replied Ludwig. They want me soon for the Scottish play. Fit, Macbeth? said Andy. No, Peter Pan, said Ludwig. Doon the Pan, mairlike, said Andy. That Royston and his bloody stopwatch. Yes, said Ludwig. I never forget the Time-and-Motion men, Andy, you know that. But I try to, even the War, forgive. The importance is to analyse, prevent recurring. So, still in the CP? said Andy, as he ushered Ludwig through. He motioned Ludwig over to the cut moquette Cintique armchair, with the Dunlopillo cushions and light teak arms.
Fuck me, moquette! The real moquette. Now it was all coming back.
Yes, still in the Communist Party, twelve years, said Ludwig. The Cintique had the best view of the TV, which had its volume turned down and exhibited the formal bows and silent leaps of the White Heather Dancers. There was a pause in the conversation while the room’s occupants caught up with this. And how is being a councillor? said Ludwig eventually. Just trying tae warsle awa, dae what I can, that’s aa a Labour councillor can dae, said Andy. You always do your best, Andy, said Ludwig. That is the metal they make you from. But being Labour is always struggling through heavy sludge, no? Aye, weel, said Andy.
The doorbell went again, this time a double tinkle. Jim was on hand to open the door. It was Amande. She moved forward to give him a hug, but again he felt awkward. She had once rescued him from being trapped in a butcher’s freezer, and she had used her body chastely to warm him up. Now she managed no more than to press cold cheeks together. He lifted the camel coat from her shoulders, and then, as she turned around, hoping to look in his eyes no doubt, he nodded towards the living-room.
Come awa, come ben, Amande, said his father. He was always a bit too ready with the joyous welcomes, thought Jim. For those outside the family. A Good New Year, ma dear, said Andy. Happy New Year, Amande, said Ludwig. Happy New Year, said Amande. Sae, what’s it to be, aabody? said Andy. Ye’ll tak a snifter? I have my bike also, said Ludwig. A bike is not ideal for schniftering. Just the one, said Andy, a wee one surely? Ach, only if others, said Ludwig. Amande doesna drink these days, said Andy, and I’m nae bothered. I am very good, said Amande, these days. Three lemonades it is, then, said Andy, that’s easily poured. Loon? he said to his son. Nothing, said Jim, I’m out again in five minutes. Four lemonades, said Andy. I’ll give Annie a shout. Annie! She’ll probably handle a small sherry. Annie! Jim felt the pressure begin to build.
Andy poured a very small sherry into the bottom of a conical glass, and four lemonades into engraved tumblers. The lemonades fizzed over the top. Fit’s a few draps? said Andy. Here’s a toast, fit’ll be, qu’estce que c’est, Amande? Nouvelle année! said the unremarried widow from Britanny. A very frohliche ’68! said the bereaved ex-prisoner-of-war. Come on in, Annie, ye’re just in time, Andy said to his arriving daughter. Aabody got their glass? Here’s tae it, then. Here’s tae these days. Here’s tae absent friens. Spermy, far’s Spermy? At his fish, said Amande. Here’s til that loon o yirs, then, said Andy. They tried to sip the fizz as it pringled their nostrils. It would be bad luck not to. Jim didn’t touch it.
These days, thought Lucy, these days. Social history, yes, she was into that, but not family blethers. Eager for larger patterns, she preferred to skim-read.
Oh, my sainted Jesus! She had just glanced ahead.
Lucy stood at the mirror of night’s window,
She slammed the paper face-down on the desk, waited ten seconds, and then flipped it back.
brushing up and combing through the gold in her hair. She contrived a hollow hive, live and crackling. But where was the buzz?
Her guts. They were going tight, turning to water. She gripped the desk and tried to stand up.
She should be in Prague, where it was happening. Like magma, the Plastic People of the Universe, their music, molten, desirous, bursting free.
Scared to hell of the truth to the point of sickness, she gripped the desk harder. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! The door opened. Alison stood there. All Lucy saw was her mouth moving. Alison was giving her hell for something. Otto. Lack o support. Bust-up. Say something—
– Sorry, love, said Lucy.
– Sorry, love! said Alison. Sorry, love doesna come near. Come on, fit are ye at?
– Sorry, said Lucy, thought I’d just, you know, work on through. You don’t know how bad things are.
– They’re shite, said Alison.
– Being away. Stuff, you know. Need to catch up, make it noon?
– Mak it midnicht if ye like, said Alison. I’ve just stuck the heid on Otto. What a sickener that bloke is. He’s like that daftie pup on His Maister’s Voice.
– Noo
n, then? said Lucy. Can it wait till noon? Then we can concentrate—
Alison looked at her, saw weakness for the very first time, said nothing, and went out.
my life life
Coiffure piled, Lucy pressed on the window-sill. Below in the blanched garden, that humpy sculpture of his. Theo, her widower dad.
Pressed on the windowsill—! No, no, Tam, too near the bone, too near entirely! She needed to fly to the station, interrogate Tam. She read on, flushed, riveted.
Lucy couldn’t abide Theo’s sculpture. Theo didn’t officially belong, yet he belonged, as Stalinists always did in this society. He was Head of Sculpture at the College, well-named Gray’s. She spun and flung the brush on the bed. It bounced to crack the fluted lamp. One shard rocked on the polished table like a psychotic scallop. One moment everybody else seemed mad, the next, you were. A bare bulb glowed on.
She scribbled a yellow Post-it for her screen, flew down the stairs past a startled Marilyn, grabbed a taxi outside ReCSoc, and hit the station concourse at a rare old speed. She slewed to the left, past the soft porn and choc shop, the turnstile toilets, and brought to a halt at Left Luggage.
Strip the Willow Page 7
