by Stephen Fry
Now, to explain the disaster.
How much do you know about computers? A great deal more than me, I should imagine. The machine I’m using at the moment is the first I have ever touched. I think of it really as no more than a socially ambitious type-writer. It belongs to Simon and has been transported to my room together with its printer and a simply baroque quantity of cabling. It lives on the writing-desk and hums irritably like the engine-room of a submarine. When I haven’t used it for a while the monitor succumbs to a fit and gaudily coloured fish swim quietly to and fro across the screen, which eccentric mannerism I find strangely endearing. The computer has a device attached to it called a MOUSE, on account of the squeaking noise it makes when it is grabbed and rubbed along a hard surface.
All I know about the use of the thing is that I have to SAVE all the time. This soterial requirement has no evangelical basis, but is said to keep me from accidentally erasing the things that I am typing. You give the work you are saving a FILENAME. My letters to you are stored by the computer in a little envelope on the screen. The envelope is called TED’S FOLDER and the letters are called JANE.1 and JANE.2. I may call them letters, but the computer calls them FILES. This is something of a misnomer as they are nothing like a file, but that is neither here, there nor anywhere. Be patient. This is getting somewhere.
When I sat down at the computer this morning to write this I decided first to reread my last letter to you so as to remind myself of its contents. The procedure for this is relatively simple. I point my mouse at the FILE I need to look at, then twice in rapid succession I depress a button on the mouse’s head and, as if by technology, the text of the letter appears on the screen.
As I was preparing for this operation, I noticed for the first time that on the screen, inside TED’S FOLDER, next to the FILENAME of every document, there is printed a lot of incidental information of a wearisome technical nature: SIZE, KIND, LABEL, things of this kind, followed by numbers and abstruse acronyms. There are another two columns which say “CREATED” and “LAST MODIFIED.” I realised that these descriptions refer to DATES. In other words, just by looking at a file you can see when it was first written and when you last made alterations to it.
Well, blow me down if I didn’t discover that JANE.2, my last letter to you, claimed that it was “Modified on 27/07/92 at 20:04”—or five past eight yesterday evening. Now, I know for a fact that I was sucking down pre-dinner cocktails in the library with Rebecca, Oliver and Max at five past eight yesterday evening. I also know for a fact that I haven’t so much as looked at the computer since my marathon session on Friday and Saturday, the 24th and 25th.
I looked through the text to see if it had indeed been “modified.” I couldn’t find any alterations, but then you see, anybody could have accidentally pressed the space-bar while reading the letter through and this would have counted as modification enough to change the ascription under the FILENAME heading.
Well, next I thought I was being absurdly paranoid. How could I be sure that the computer knows the date anyway? For all I know it believes that this is a cold December night in Heidelberg at the height of the Holy Roman Empire. To test this (as I could find no way of instructing the computer to divulge to me its idea of the day of the week) I wrote a brand-new letter and then looked to see what date it was stamped with. There is no doubt about it, the computer is accurate to the minute.
This can only mean that SOMEBODY has read my last letter to you. This would never have happened if you’d allowed me to communicate in MANUSCRIPT (that’s English for handwriting).
I don’t know who the culprit can be. This machine belongs to Simon and he certainly knows how to work it . . . he has some ridiculous program stored here which lists the Swafford estate’s game-chick population and records the progress of the shooting season. His familiarity with computers might be said to count in his favour perhaps, since he is unlikely to have been so dumb as to have made an alteration to the text of my letter and then saved it in such a way that I, a complete novice, can tell that it has been tampered with. On the other hand, we do know that Simon is not one of nature’s brightest specimens.
David perhaps? Perfectly possible, except that he is so obsessively honest and “good” and strait-laced that I imagine he would pluck out his eyes rather than catch himself reading another man’s letters. The bottom-bitingly horrible thought that occurs to me, if it turns out that it was Davey, however, is that he has therefore read my less than complimentary remarks about his fucking poem. Ooya.
It cannot have been Oliver, Max or Rebecca, that we can say with certainty. They were with me from seven fifty-five until the end of dinner. The rest of the house-party, Simon, David, Clara, Michael, Anne, Mary and Patricia, were all downstairs by twenty past I reckon, so unless I can prove that the Butler Did It we may have to send for Poirot.
But that’s not the point really, is it? The worry is not who, but what next? It was a damnably long letter and besides being stuffed with the indiscreetest of gossip, it would reveal to anyone that I am being paid by you to sniff around: hence my fear that I may be about to be shown the door. For the moment I am brazening the thing out. Damn technology. Damn you. Damn me and damn whoever is responsible.
Next we come to the Seven Proclamations of Onslow Terrace which you nailed up in your last communication.
1. Stop using Latin
We’ve dealt with that one.
2. Enquire about the twins
Hum. The twins have been staying, in answer to your question, with Anne’s sister Diana, who lives, as I’m sure you recall, near Inverness. Edward suffers from asthma and the air in Scotland is believed, at this time of year, to be less harmful than the air in Norfolk. James and Edward are inconsolable if parted: therefore they have gone together. But you’ll hear more on that subject under Proclamation Four.
3. Find out how Oliver is and what brings him here
I really didn’t know at first what you meant by “find out how he is.” He is . . . Oliver, I thought. As to what brought him here: his exact explanation last Saturday was “R&R,” which perhaps you didn’t understand. It is eighties-speak and means Rest and Recreation or possibly Rest and Recuperation, at a pinch Rest and Relaxation. Not Rock and Roll, nor Rhyme and Reason, nor Rough and Ready, nor Radicals and Revolutionaries, nor Rum ’n’ Raisin: not any other damned thing, just plain Rest and Recreation.
There is a pleasing American saying: “If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck then it probably is a duck.” Oliver looks like a man in need of R&R and walks like a man in need of R&R, I reasoned. Therefore he probably is in need of R&R. I couldn’t imagine why you wanted me to find out more.
Ever your obedient, however, I bearded him yesterday morning after breakfast. He sat in the library, filling a shaft of light with cigarette smoke and emptying the newspapers of gossip.
“Morning, heartsworth. Guess which little play at the Nash is sold out to the end of its run?”
He was referring of course to Michael Lake’s Demiparadise, the cause of my fall, currently wowing them at the National Theatre.
“It would hardly have been worth my making a fuss about it,” I said, defending my attack on the piece, “if I thought it was going to fold in a fortnight. It was because I knew, absolutely knew, that the public would eat it whole. That’s the point.”
“If there’s one thing Teddy can’t bear, it’s a successful left-winger who’s stayed left-wing. Every time you think of Michael Lake and his kind, Gertie Guilt scampers up and swings her handbag right into your solar plexus, doesn’t she?”
“Oh, Oliver, not this conversation.” I sank into a chair opposite him, the slant of sunlight falling between us.
Oliver and I had been on an Aldermaston march together, had joined the same Labour club (West Chelsea, naturally . . . nothing too hairy or tattooed) and contributed to the same periodicals, which
in those days were so left-leaning they needed the support of Moscow to keep them from falling over. I couldn’t have been happier than to seize upon the Prague Spring in 1967 as a perfect excuse to leave, in every sense, the party. Oliver always pretends that I betrayed him, betrayed my principles and betrayed that nonexistent heap of prejudice and ignorance, the “people.” Of course we all know that the real traitor, Oliver’s necessary Judas, was none other than his beloved History. He has got to the age now when he considers it worth foisting on the world lamentably evasive and heavily edited editions of his journal, or “Daisy Diary” as he refers to the work privately. The years 1955 to 1970 have just been published, lots of sanctimonious ordure heaped on my head, but very little about his disgusting basement-nightclub activities, naturally. Just a few mealy-mouthed phrases about the “awakening of the gay identity” and arse-wash of that nature. Most of “Daisy” consists of media gossip and his usual monocular interpretation of politics. “Them” are callous and shiftless, “Us” are heroes of the people.
“Not this conversation?” he said. “What would you rather speak about? The smelliness of the working man and his ingratitude in refusing to have heard of you?”
“My breakfast is just digesting,” I said. “I refuse to have it brought to the surface by a man lecturing me on political morals from the comfort of a rich leather chair in a millionaire’s country-house library.”
“A political truth is a political truth whether spoken from a working man’s pub or a gentleman’s club, dearest, and well you know it. But,” he added sweetly, sensing that I was ready to confound him with a reply, “you’re right. Let’s talk of cabbages, not kings. Simon tells me that without rain, the winter barley is going to be looking pretty jolly silly soon. What’s more, Hetty the Hose-Pipe Ban will shortly be paying a visit unless Clara Cloud can be pinched and made to cry.”
“Talking of Clara,” I said, wondering whether there was some accidental significance in Oliver’s choice of that Christian name. “What’s going on with the Clifford product? Is she . . . I mean . . .”
“If you mean, is she two faggots short of a corps de ballet, then no, darling. She’s fourteen, she’s got a little bit of a squint, her teeth stick out, she has no friends and no bust and nothing can make her happy. You could hardly expect her to be the life and soul of the party, now, could you?”
“What about you? Everything up to snuff?”
“Oh lor, we’re about to be quizzed on Safety, I can tell. Mother’s very safe, thank you, baby, and very sound. Socialism is still her only communicable disease.”
“You’ve lost a bit of weight, though.”
“In the days when I grew up, when Fitzrovia was the heartland of the civilised world and Quentin was still Crisp, losing weight was held to be rather desirable. Nowadays it would appear to be a flag of shame. Just because we like to take it up the Gary Glitter, darling, it doesn’t mean we have to grow fat to satisfy the fears of our friends.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake will you stop expecting me to tread everywhere with precious little tippy-toes of political correctness.”
“Darling, the real political correctness in this country, as you very well know, is to stuff the minorities and howl ‘Sanctimony, sanctimony’ at anyone who dares suggest different.”
We just can’t help it, Oliver and I. We wouldn’t be able to discuss prospects in the Danish football league without bickering.
“Well, it’s wonderful to see you looking so fit, then,” I offered.
“Ha, well, that’s where you’re wrong, you fat Ted. The real reason I’m losing weight is because my Dennis won’t let me eat anything worth eating. I may have a cute figure, but I’ve also got acute angina.”
“Oh, my dear Oliver, I’m very sorry.”
“It’s only chest pains, not the real thing. But my sweet Dennis chooses to interpret it as a Warning.”
“So you’ve come here to escape his eagle eye and stuff yourself as full of good food as you can?”
“Something like that, Ted, yes.”
So. There you have it, Jane. That answers Proclamation 3, I hope.
4. More information about Aunt Anne
Later that same morning Davey dragged me off round to the stables to say hello to the horses and hounds. Annie came clattering into the yard on her return from the morning gallop.
“This is a first,” she said, dismounting. “Are we about to see you ride, Ted?”
“Given our respective weights, it would probably be fairer if the horse got on my back and rode me,” I said.
A groom came to take Annie’s mount.
“Could I have a word, Lady Anne?” he asked.
“What is it, Mr. Tubby?”
“That’s Lilac. Simon reckon she’s sick.”
We clustered round the stable door of the horse in question. Lilac is a large bay mare belonging to Michael. She stood at an angle, her head pressed against the side wall, a forlorn attitude that may or may not have betokened illness, and certainly seemed to indicate a rather depressed outlook on life. Horses strike me as being so perpetually dull of eye and stupid of demeanour that it is never easy to determine, as it might be with dogs, what state of health they are in.
“Simon was here for the morning rounds and noticed she want taking her feed and she was circling round and round and there was blood in her spittle,” said Tubby.
“But she was all right yesterday, was she?”
“She was ever so well yisty, Lady Anne.” (Forgive the attempts at rendering the dialogue, Jane dear. It’s rather a challenge.) “She come in from pasture full of spirit.”
“Oh dear, have you any idea what it might be?”
“Simon want certain, he’s afraid that might be ragwort poisoning or maybe grass fever.”
“Oh dear, I do hope he’s wrong. Surely we would have noticed if it was ragwort? It takes time, doesn’t it?”
“That can come sudden, Lady Anne, so Simon say.”
Who was supposed to be the expert, I wondered, Simon or this paid professional? A case of passing the buck, I supposed. If the horse suddenly went mad and bit everybody, it would be Master Simon’s fault not the groom’s.
Davey stroked the horse’s muzzle and blew gently up its nose. “I wonder,” he said, starting to open the stable door, “if . . .”
“NO, Davey! No!” Annie screamed. “Come away from there at once!”
David leapt back from the gate as if it had been surging with high-voltage electricity. Tubby looked discreetly away, but I felt free to goggle.
“I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to shout.” Anne’s breath, like the mare’s, was snorting from her nostrils as she wound down from her peculiar outburst. “Ill horses can be very dangerous. Very temperamental.”
David was scarlet with bafflement or embarrassment or fear or rage or frustration. “Lilac knows me as well as anyone . . .” he managed to say.
Anne gained full command of herself, anxious to preserve a front before Tubby and myself. “I know, darling, I know. But until we know what’s wrong with her, there’s always the danger of infection. There are a number of things horses can get which humans can catch, you see.”
“When did I last catch anything?” asked David.
Annie turned to me brightly. “I’m popping into Norwich to see my dentist in half an hour,” she said. “Why don’t you both come along? David can show you the sights.”
I sat in the front of the Range Rover next to Anne, with a subdued, if not sulky, David in the back.
“The twins will be coming home tomorrow,” she said. “Angus and Diana are off on their hols.”
“And Edward?”
“He’s been taking a new treatment out of his asthma season, all through the winter and spring. So far there’s been no trouble, so we do feel we can risk him coming hom
e. If it starts up again we may have to rethink. There’s a place in Switzerland Margot was telling me about. I miss them dreadfully.”
She had surprised the world and herself when, at the age of forty-eight, she had waxed pregnant with twins. I remembered them as eighteen-month-old blobs at Christmas ’88 when last I had visited Swafford.
“They’ll be on their way to being five soon, I suppose?”
“That’s another reason to have them back. Their birthday comes in another fortnight.”
David perked up after Anne had dropped us off somewhere near the centre of town and driven off to keep her appointment.
“Do you know an interesting thing about Norwich?” he asked as we stood about on the pavement.
I doubted there was one, unless he was referring to its distance from London, but expressed the required ignorance.
“There are exactly fifty-two churches in Norwich and three hundred and sixty-five pubs.”
“Is that right?”
“So they say. That means you can get drunk in a different bar every night of the year, and repent at a different altar every week of the year.”
The odds, then, were a pleasant six-to-one on that we would stumble across a pub before we encountered a church. Probability took a powder that day, however, and I found myself being marched by Davey into the close and asked to admire the flying buttresses and exquisitely proportioned apsidal east end of the great cathedral. The flying buttresses and exquisitely proportioned apse of a great barmaid would have exerted infinitely more powerful a pull, but I allowed myself to be led. I mused that it had in all probability been twenty years since I had last stood inside a cathedral. The smell of the stone and the particular perfection of temperature and atmosphere, neither warm nor cool, neither dry nor humid, is common to all Norman and Gothic ecclesiastical interiors and contributes much to the mystery and grandeur of such creations. He says.
David took me outside to the cloisters where he showed me the armorial bearings of his mother’s family.
“And where do you think your father’s ancestors might be recorded?” I asked.
