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The Time Before This

Page 9

by Nicholas Monsarrat


  ‘Why did you never go back?’

  ‘I tried …’ His voice was intensely weary. ‘But first there was the war … Then I tried for a long time to persuade people to believe my story … I had very little money, and I was getting older … Bone Lake was as near as I could come to it.’

  ‘Was it you who was in jail in America?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ A wraith of a smile hung round his bloodless lips. ‘A man should go to jail for his beliefs at least once.’

  ‘But where is the ice mountain, exactly? Did you make a map of the area?’ He did not answer me, but shook his head as if in doubt, and remained staring into space. He was silent for so long that I prompted him: ‘Surely you remember a thing like that?’

  Mary turned to frown at me, and whispered fiercely: ‘Don’t ask questions! You must believe him!’

  ‘You know that I do. It’s just that I want–’

  The old man himself interrupted me. ‘Yes, I made a map. I was trying to recall what happened to it … I lost it during the war, with all else that I owned … My clothes … In a tanker – torpedoed …’

  He stopped again, and I urged him on, gently. ‘What about the other things, then?’

  ‘Other things?’

  ‘You said that you made up a parcel of food from the refrigerator, and brought it back.’

  He nodded feebly. ‘Yes, that was so … There was some meat, but it rotted to nothing as soon as it met the sun … All the other things were lost – it was a very hard journey back – I had to leave so much behind, on the way … I tried, but it was my life … Of all I brought back, only one thing remained … But I have it still.’

  I was conscious of an enormous, consuming excitement as I heard his last words; I could feel my very scalp prickling. If he had actual proof … I waited, while Mary wiped his forehead and neck, which were drenched with a sudden feverish sweat. Then I could no longer bear the silence, and asked: ‘What was it? What did you bring back?’

  ‘Some of the concentrate,’ he answered readily, as if he had divined my overwhelming impatience. ‘I have kept it by me always, but I have never looked at it, nor shown it to anyone until now.’ He raised a trembling hand, and pointed. ‘In the pocket of the rucksack.’

  My own hands were shaking so much that, after I reached up to the rucksack, I could scarcely undo the strap which secured the pocket flap. There was a hard square object inside, and I drew it out carefully. It was a box of some kind, wrapped round and round with oiled silk which was frayed and cracked, as if it had lasted many years and been handled many times. I brought the package back to the light, and looked towards the old man. When he nodded, I slipped off a loop of tarred twine, and started to unwind the wrapping.

  Some of the layers had stuck to the ones beneath them, and gave way grudgingly. But soon the roll of oiled silk fell to the floor, with a dry rustling sound. What I now held in my hands was an old tobacco tin, flat and hinged; the familiar face of the bearded sailor and the lifebelt were just visible on the scratched lid. I drew a deep breath, steadying my heart, and prised the lid open.

  The tin was half full of a fronded green substance, loosely packed in strands; like a kind of long-fibred peat, but pale, the colour of the ocean at dawn. When I bent down to it, a faint – a very faint – whiff of the sea reached me, a faraway echo of childhood beachcombing. Then, even as I stared in fascination, the packed strands began to lose their outline, and to crumble away into ancient nothingness.

  I wanted to shout: ‘I saw it! I saw it!’ but already I could not be sure of what I had seen. Had it really been fronded seaweed? Had there really been tiny stems and buds and ferns, and the momentary scent of an ocean unspeakably old? What I was looking at now was a tin box with some loose green odourless dust at the bottom. It might have been anything. It might have been nothing. It might just have needed cleaning.

  I said, foolishly: ‘It’s gone,’ and looked towards the old man. His jaw had dropped, matching my own, and on that note of ancient dissolution, he himself began to go.

  He had sunk back on the pillow, deathly pale; his breathing grew hoarse. It seemed that he might slip into limbo at any moment, just as the fronded ‘concentrate’ had disappeared before my eyes.

  Though close to mourning him already, I wished with all my heart that he could slip away as easily.

  But there was to be one more interruption, perhaps the last of his life. A heavy knock on the door made me turn from where I had been standing, the dusty tobacco tin in my hand. I thought it was Mrs Cross back again, and, between grief and wild disappointment, I was well prepared for her. But this time it was Sergeant Labelle.

  Credo

  He advanced into the room like a heavy-stepping jailer, odiously confident, treading ground which became his own as soon as he set foot on it. Everything about him – the gun holster, the badged fur cap, the ruddy face and beefy torso – was immediately intolerable. He burst with crude life into a room already given over to death. I found it unbearable that he should trouble this pool at such a moment. Behind him was Mrs Cross, backing up the invasion with her own brand of obscene interference.

  Labelle took his time, looking at each one of us with a steady glare which might have been laid down in some secret-police manual. Only the glance he turned on the old man was brief, as if he knew enough about him already. Then he gave a hitch to his belt, and said: ‘What’s going on?’

  I was very ready to be the spokesman. ‘You can see, can’t you?’ I said. I had never yet spoken to a policeman in such a way, nor ever wanted to; in the circumstances, it was a duty and a pleasure. ‘He’s ill, and he doesn’t want any visitors.’

  ‘Never mind what he wants,’ said Labelle, reacting predictably to my tone. ‘There’s been a complaint.’ He jerked his head backwards towards Mrs Cross. ‘He may be sick, but he doesn’t have to be sick here. It disturbs the other tenants.’

  I pictured, swiftly enough, the other tenants, whom I had never seen. They did nothing to alter my resolve.

  ‘He’s not disturbing anyone,’ I answered, as roughly as I could. ‘You are disturbing him.’

  ‘Now just hold it there!’ said Labelle, with equal roughness. ‘There’s been a complaint, I’ve got to investigate it. If he’s sick, he should be in hospital.’

  ‘He can’t be moved.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I did not answer immediately, but nodded towards the bed, compelling Labelle to follow my look. The old man’s eyes were still closed, and his breathing was feather-light; it was the breathing which is the same for a baby or a dying man, the same for all humans at their beginning or their end. Then I said: ‘You can see why not.’

  But Labelle was not tied to the protocol of the sickroom. ‘You mean he’s dying?’

  I said, as quietly as I could: ‘Yes, he’s dying.’

  Mrs Cross now joined the enemy advance. ‘That’s what I told you,’ she said, with a kind of venomous satisfaction. ‘The hospital is the place for him! I want the room!’

  ‘He can’t be moved.’

  ‘He can be moved any time I say so. I know my rights!’

  Amazingly the old man stirred, and opened his eyes. ‘We have no rights,’ he whispered. ‘Only responsibilities.’ But he was not answering Mrs Cross; he was speaking to me, continuing what had gone before. ‘You saw it?’ he went on anxiously. He was begging me to remember all that he had said and shown. ‘The seaweed concentrate?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it.’

  ‘What’s he talking about now?’ said Labelle impatiently.

  Mrs Cross came nearer to the bed. ‘Oh, he’s always that way. I’ve had more trouble with this one … Don’t pay him any mind.’

  It was as if the old man were being forced out of life by its cruel pressures, its most sordid inhabitants. ‘For God’s sake stop it!’ I said, in a furious whisper. ‘Can’t you see …’

  I pushed her away from the bed, and sat down on it, opposite Mary. I was in agony lest Shepherd should die before he had sa
id all that he could; now I wanted and willed him to stay alive. I knew that the wish was questionable, perhaps base; if the brutal people were killing him off, then I was not less brutal in delaying his death, at no cost to myself. But who could have resisted trying to keep him talking? What man would not have kept Nelson talking in Victory’s shadowy cockpit, Lincoln mumbling amid bloodstained sheets, Christ alive on the cross?

  My weight upon the bed had recalled the old man to the world. He opened his eyes wide, and looked directly at me. Though his voice was a deathly croak, it was clear enough for the living.

  ‘Blessed are the meek,’ he whispered. ‘You know how that ends?’

  ‘For they shall inherit the earth.’ It was incredibly moving to be able to make this response.

  ‘The earth!’ he repeated. ‘Not heaven. The meek will take over the earth … Remember that … Make it happen in time.’

  His voice was so low that I had to bend to catch it. Mary was weeping; behind us Labelle and Mrs Cross had fallen silent, subdued by the plainest fact on earth. The animals attendant on this wretched crib were docile at last.

  Shepherd said, very slowly and painfully: ‘Don’t forget that the last man left alive … He was not angry … He was not really afraid … He was – astonished.’

  After another long gasping pause, he said: ‘Tell them the story.’ Then his head fell aside on the pillow, and Death bandaged his eyes.

  Neither of us could bear to stay in the room, which for us was already empty. As we went slowly down the stairs, I found that in my terrible hunger for life and hope I was holding Mary’s hand. The death of one derelict had made, for a moment, two more.

  From above us came vague footfalls, diminishing voices.

  First, Labelle’s: ‘Didn’t have much, did he? … I could use that blanket.’

  And Mrs Cross, indignant: ‘What about my rent?’

  And Labelle: ‘What about my trouble? … Tell you what – I’ll toss you for it.’

  Then we were clear of all this, and outside, in the crisp snow and bitter cold of what seemed more than ever God’s fresh air.

  That was three days ago. The poor burial is over, the mourners have fallen back from the graveside. Now it is necessary to believe, or not to believe.

  Often I know that his story is true, and that the old man was left at Bone Lake to tell it to me. For a believer, there were clues all over the place. Yet I cannot always believe. So I must find out for myself.

  It is still possible that I am the most gullible of young men, even for a newspaper reporter, and that this is just another northland legend, to be set alongside the Lost Valley and the vanished El Dorado. It is possible that Shepherd was just a crazed old drunkard who had only this fantasy to live on, and a tin of green dust to back it up. It is possible that the Mad Trapper had snared me, of all people (how easily one says and thinks that), and that, in believing, I am simply taking over from him, as a second generation crackpot.

  Perhaps that is not important. Perhaps the actuality does not matter, either. For, true or false, the idea beneath the story is valid. If it was hallucination, or myth, it is still a good one, the best I ever heard.

  So, during the sad confusion of the last few days, I have believed most of it, and I want to believe all. This burning need is what Shepherd somehow bequeathed to me.

  The ‘somehow’ is still obscure, still a puzzle. They say that one can be stabbed to death without feeling the stroke. Perhaps one can be stabbed to life in the same way. Maybe I will find that out as I go along. But if not, it is no great matter.

  For everyone should have his quest, and I am lucky to have been given mine so early. If I can think of it as not less than a Holy Grail somewhere beneath the ice-cap, I may be luckiest of all.

  In any case, I am off tomorrow, or the next day – as soon as Ed the pilot gets back, and can be talked into taking a very long trip. If he will not, then someone else will. They must. For I have to find the great ice box, and the small dark scaly man. I must put my hand into that – wound in the ice, and believe completely.

  I will try to bring back some proof, so that others may believe too. Then we can spread news of it to all the world, to everyone – and that is you and I – who may be growing too proud or too greedy for the world’s good.

  Before it is too late, for all us brothers.

  Synopses of Nicholas Monsarrat Titles

  Published by House of Stratus

  A Fair Day’s Work

  Liverpool Docks, on Merseyside - a senseless strike threatens to delay the departure of an ocean liner. As the last of the passengers come aboard, including the shipping line’s chairman, the drama increases with the threatened walk-out of the stewards. Below deck, agitation and unrest mount as the tide water rises and the vital hour for sailing approaches.

  H.M.S. Marlborough Will Enter Harbour

  In H.M.S. Marlborough Will Enter Harbour, an old sloop, homeward bound, is torpedoed, leaving her guns out of action, more than three-quarters of her crew dead, and radio contact impossible. But her valiant captain steadfastly refuses to surrender his ship… In Leave Cancelled, an army officer and his young wife concentrate their passionate love into twenty-four hours, knowing that it might be their last chance… And in Heavy Rescue, an old soldier, having lived on the scrap heap for more than twenty years, finds that gallantry is once again in demand when he becomes leader of a Heavy Rescue Squad…

  Life Is A Four Letter Word

  Breaking In is the first part of the autobiography of one of the most successful writers of the twentieth century, Nicholas Monsarrat. Monsarrat describes his privileged childhood in Liverpool, where his father was the greatest surgeon of his time, recalling all the small details of a provincial upbringing. The account of his days at public school are acidly described, and in remarkable contrast to his golden days at Cambridge, where he enjoyed good friends, good wine and little work. At twenty-three, Monsarrat turned his back on his comfortable family home, fled from the desk of his uncle’s solicitor’s office, and settled in a single, mildewed room in London, with a typewriter and a half-finished manuscript. Here, he describes the years of learning to write, learning to live and learning to love – invaluable lessons for a future which comprised war, emigration, marital upheaval and the hazards of artistic achievement. The second part, Breaking Out, takes us up to the year in which Monsarrat produced the novel widely acclaimed as his finest, The Tribe That Lost Its Head; the year when he was living in Ottawa as Chief of the British Information Services; the year he calls ‘The Year of the Stupid Ox’. As Monsarrat charts the first half of his life with astonishing frankness, we are given a stunning portrait of this complex character, this brilliant storyteller.

  The Master Mariner

  He will not die. He will wander the wild waters until all the seas run dry.

  A young Devon sailor, Matthew Lawe, is cursed after a spectacular act of cowardice to wander the wild waters till all the seas run dry. In this, Nicholas Monsarrat’s final masterpiece, Lawe represents the spirit of maritime exploration and fortitude; his life is the thread stringing together a long history of nautical adventure. Written in two volumes, the first of which appeared in 1978, the story encompasses the full extent of maritime development, beginning with Sir Francis Drake abandoning a game of bowls to fight the great crescent of the Spanish fleet, to the opening in 1960 of the St Lawrence Seaway, the farthest penetration of land ever made by ocean-going sailors. Nicholas Monsarrat died before he had completed the second volume, but his notes and outlines are included here with an introduction written by Ann Monsarrat, his wife, to provide a satisfying end to Matthew Lawe’s epic wanderings.

  The Nylon Pirates

  Alcestis, a British luxury liner, moored in New York and bound on a cruise to the Caribbean, South America and Africa, awaits her exclusive passengers - businessmen with mid-life crises, large bank balances and unforgiving wives; legacy-laden women looking for love and adventure; and divorcees with settlements to squan
der. But another group of passengers threatens to upset their opulent trip. These are the twentieth-century pirates - suave, elegant, discreet and utterly unscrupulous, with a singular purpose in mind and a collection of ruthless strategies.

  The Pillow Fight

  Passion, conflict and infidelity are vividly depicted in this gripping tale of two people and their marriage. Set against the glittering background of glamorous high life in South Africa, New York and Barbados, an idealistic young writer tastes the corrupting fruits of success, while his beautiful, ambitious wife begins to doubt her former values. A complete reversal of their opposing beliefs forms the bedrock of unremitting conflict. Can their passion survive the coming storm…?

  Richer Than All His Tribe

  The sequel to The Tribe That Lost Its Head is a compelling story which charts the steady drift of a young African nation towards bankruptcy, chaos and barbarism. On the island of Pharamaul, a former British Protectorate, newly installed Prime Minister, Chief Dinamaula, celebrates Independence Day with his people, full of high hopes for the future. But the heady euphoria fades and Dinamaula’s ambitions and ideals start to buckle as his new found wealth corrupts him, leaving his nation to spiral towards hellish upheaval and tribal warfare.

  Smith & Jones

  Within the precarious conditions of the Cold War, diplomats Smith and Jones are not to be trusted. But although their files demonstrate evidence of numerous indiscretions and drunkenness, they have friends in high places who ensure that this doesn’t count against them, and they are sent across the Iron Curtain. However, when they defect, the threat of absolute treachery means that immediate and effective action has to be taken. At all costs and by whatever means, Smith and Jones must be silenced.

 

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