The incident repeated itself two afternoons later, and again I ignored that disturbing summons. But this time there was a new element in the situation – or, rather, there was something new obscurely surfacing in myself. And now I hesitate, since here are fugitive sensations fished up after more than fifty years. Am I dramatising them if I suggest that a kind of dark excitement was getting hold of me? Certainly I no longer felt that it would be my bicycle that might be at risk if I obeyed that beckoning finger – the very gesture (my later self imagines) with which Goethe’s Mephistopheles utters to Faust his final dire command: Her zu mir! The temptation – for it certainly now had that dimension – was alive in me. Prudent teachers, apprehensive parents are aware of such dark possibilities when they counsel children never to accept sweets from strangers. Still, I once more got safely home.
Some days went by, and again there was a practice. (It was the term in which we played rugger.) As I changed after the game and knotted my foot ball-boots round my neck and wheeled out my bicycle, I knew that I ought to take the longer route home. But I didn’t.
And there, yet again, she was: the filthy old hag – and not a soul else in sight. This time, however, she not only beckoned to me. She called out as well. In a cracked, wheedling voice she called out from before that shabby doorway: ‘Maister, sweet wee maister, will ye no come ben?’
Donald, you do know that there is such a thing as vice in this world?
My mother’s former words may, or may not, have been in my ears. I can’t in the least tell. But I think I almost felt I knew, despite my innocence, what the reader (who isn’t innocent) feels he knows: that some small, squalid, yet essentially evil thing confronted me were I to take a single forward step. But I took it. I wanted to know. Perhaps it was just that.
Here I must return for a moment to the theme of that insulated society within which I was growing up. I had heard my father speak of something he called ‘the submerged tenth’, and of an outrageous person named Lloyd George, who had made some minatory reference to ‘the masses far down below’. But I had never glimpsed the inside of even a normal working-class dwelling, let alone of a slum interior of any sort. Occasionally I had been sent with a message to our jobbing gardener, and delivered it on the doorstep of what could be termed, I suppose, his hovel. But conscious that this could afford me a direct view of what must be its only living-room, I would keep my eyes as I spoke firmly directed on my own shoes. If at a pantomime or a play there was a scene set in what purported to be a cottage room, it would in fact be something like thirty feet from back to front and side to side. Television, which now renders the most nicely brought up children comfortably familiar with squalour in confined spaces and jostlings before a kitchen sink, still lay in the future. And now three forward steps had taken me into a totally alien world.
In front of me was a dusty stone staircase, protected by wooden banisters and a handrail of which only fragments remained. On my right was a door roughly boarded up – perhaps to discourage homeless persons from seeking shelter for the night in whatever small and abandoned dwelling-spaces lay beyond. On my left, but open, was the door of the still-beckoning old woman’s own domain. Retreat remained perfectly possible to me, but I was as incapable of turning back as a mouse lured into a trap by a whiff of cheese. The room I thus found myself in wasn’t, in fact, minute, but appeared so because everywhere encumbered with the forlorn detritus of utterly disordered living. It seemed that wherever I looked there was some broken or tattered object that ought to have been thrown away: a rusty mangle, pans without handles and pots without lids, piles of rags. The least battered piece of furniture was a bed, but even this was propped up at one corner on a wooden box. There was a horsehair mattress on it, with a triangular tear in its soiled covering so that the stuff showed through, and with a couple of tumbled blankets at its foot. I had never seen a bed on which it was impossible to imagine sheets, and as I looked at this one I suddenly felt very sick. Managing to avert my gaze, I saw that the room had a single window, facing the road and kerb on which my bicycle was presumably still leaning. Before the window was a chair, which seemed somehow to be perched on wheels. And on the chair sat a boy of about my own age.
For a moment I thought him much older, and then I saw that this appearance resulted from his features being pinched and drawn. I saw, too, that he was awkwardly slumped in his chair, so that his body in its almost ragged clothing showed like a partly emptied sack. And he was powerless to right or relieve this posture in any way. I had heard of paralysis. This was it.
The old woman had taken me by the arm, as if to lead me, all-reluctant, up to the invalid. But now, seeing his discomfort, she let go. Almost, she had forgotten me.
‘Jamie, ween,’ she said as she hurried to him, ‘I’ll gie ye a lift.’ And in a moment she was struggling with the almost inert weight of the boy.
With difficulty, he raised both arms a little, and stroked the old woman’s grimy face. I saw with amazement that his hands, at least, were still wholly within his command; that it was with deft and tender fingers that he was conveying devotion, love.
‘Gran,’ he said. ‘Gran.’
‘I’ve brocht ye a veesitor, Jamie,’ she said. ‘A laddie o’ the same age as yoursel.’ And she turned to me, and in an imploring whisper that would have moved a tougher child than I asked: ‘Ye’ll bide a wee, young maister? He’s that lonesome, my Jamie – and whiles he sees a laddie wi’ legs to him gang by.’
‘Yes,’ I said awkwardly. And I brought myself to come close to Jamie and kneel beside him.
Again with difficulty, Jamie raised his arms, and with the same deft tenderness I had just witnessed he stroked the football boots hanging from my neck. ‘Ye play foot-ba?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’ve been playing this afternoon, Jamie.’ I was about to add that I was no good at the game, and didn’t much care for it. But I realised in time that this would be the wrong thing to say, and fell silent.
‘D’ye pick up the ba and rin wi’ it?’
‘Yes – it’s that sort of football.’
‘It’s an unco queer way wi’ a foot-ba.’ Jamie laughed softly. ‘But ane way or anither, I’d like fine to play foot-ba.’
‘Perhaps you will one day, Jamie. When you’re better, you will.’
After that, conversation was difficult. But I kept it up for a time, chiefly conscious of shame at the nebulous and mysterious and nasty fears that I had nursed about Jamie’s grandmother. Then I felt it was time to go. Had I known beforehand what I was to encounter – I told myself – I would have brought Jamie a present. As it was, I had nothing. Or almost nothing. I felt in the pocket of my shorts, and what my hand came on was a coin. I brought it out. It was a shilling. My intention betrayed itself before I knew its ghastly inadequacy, inappropriateness. What my father called a ‘tip’ would be utterly wrong. I glanced at the shilling, and suddenly felt a vast relief. On the face of it was not George V, but Queen Victoria. The thing was as good as an antique.
‘Jamie,’ I said, ‘take this. Please take this. It’s very old. It would do in a collection. Like a medal.’
Back home, I tumbled it all out. My mother was apprehensive lest I had ‘caught’ something. But my father was very angry. I supposed he was furious with me for having entered such a house; furious with Jamie’s grandmother for having wheedled me into it. But it wasn’t at all like that.
‘It’s appalling!’ my father thundered. ‘It’s a disgrace to the medical and sanitary service of the city.’ (‘Social services’ had not then been thought of.) ‘A senile old woman and a helpless child unregarded in such conditions! Paraplegia, as the popular expression has it. Muscular dystrophy, quite plainly. I’ll have it out with them! With that damned Town Clerk, or with the Lord Provost himself! Your Jamie and his grandmother will be properly looked after, Donald. That I promise you.’
And so it came about. My father was proud of being an Edinburgh man. Nisi Dominus frustra, our civic motto said. Except the Lord ke
ep the City, they labour in vain that build it. The conditions I encountered ought to be held intolerable in any Christian community. My father’s indignation and standing were irresistible. Jamie’s grandmother was removed to what is now called an Old Folk’s Home, and Jamie to some sort of orphanage. I don’t suppose that either of them, thus sundered, survived for long.
Works of J.I.M. Stewart
‘Staircase in Surrey’ Quintet
These titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
The Gaudy (1974)
Young Pattullo (1975)
Memorial Service (1976)
The Madonna of the Astrolabe (1977)
Full Term (1978)
Other Works
Published or to be published by House of Stratus
A. Novels
Mark Lambert’s Supper (1954)
The Guardians (1955)
A Use of Riches (1957)
The Man Who Won the Pools (1961)
The Last Tresilians (1963)
An Acre of Grass (1965)
The Aylwins (1966)
Vanderlyn’s Kingdom (1967)
Avery’s Mission (1971)
A Palace of Art (1972)
Mungo’s Dream (1973)
Andrew and Tobias (1980)
A Villa in France (1982)
An Open Prison (1984)
The Naylors (1985)
B. Short Story Collections
The Man Who Wrote Detective Stories (1959)
Cucumber Sandwiches (1969)
Our England Is a Garden (1979)
The Bridge at Arta (1981)
My Aunt Christina (1983)
Parlour Four (1984)
C. Non-fiction
Educating the Emotions (1944)
Character and Motive in Shakespeare (1949)
James Joyce (1957)
Eight Modern Writers (1963)
Thomas Love Peacock (1963)
Rudyard Kipling (1966)
Joseph Conrad (1968)
Shakespeare’s Lofty Scene (1971)
Thomas Hardy: A Critical Biography (1971)
Plus a further 48 Titles published under the pseudonym ‘Michael Innes’
Select Synopses
Staircase in Surrey
The Gaudy
The first volume in J.I.M. Stewart’s acclaimed ‘A Staircase in Surrey’ quintet, (but the second in time), ‘The Gaudy’ opens in Oxford at the eponymous annual dinner laid on by the Fellows for past members. Distinguished guests, including the Chancellor (a former Prime Minister) are present and Duncan Pattullo, now also qualified to attend, gets to meet some of his friends and enemies from undergraduate days. As the evening wears on, Duncan finds himself embroiled in many of the difficulties and problems faced by some of them, including Lord Marchpayne, now a Cabinet Minister; another Don, Ranald McKenechnie; and Gavin Mogridge who is famous for an account he wrote of his adventures in a South American jungle. But it doesn’t stop there, as Pattullo acquires a few problems of his own and throughout the evening and the next day various odd developments just add to his difficulties, leading him to take stock of both his past and future.
Young Pattullo
This is the second of the ‘A Staircase in Surrey’ quintet, and the first in chronological order. Duncan Pattullo arrives in Oxford, destined to be housed off the quadrangle his father has chosen simply for its architectural and visual appeal. On the staircase in Surrey, Duncan meets those who are to become his new friends and companions, and there occurs all of the usual student antics and digressions, described by Stewart with his characteristic wit, to amuse and enthral the reader. After a punting accident, however, the girl who is in love with Duncan suffers as a result of his self-sacrificing actions. His cousin, Anna, is also involved in an affair, but she withholds the name of her lover, despite being pregnant. This particular twist reaches an ironical conclusion towards the end of the novel, in another of Stewart’s favourite locations; Italy. Indeed, Young Pattullo covers all of the writer’s favourite subjects and places; the arts, learning, mystery and intrigue, whilst ranging from his much loved Oxford, through Scotland and the inevitable Italian venue. This second volume of the acclaimed series can be read in order, or as a standalone novel.
Memorial Service
This is the third novel in the Oxford quintet entitled ‘Staircase in Surrey’. Duncan Pattullo returns in middle age to his old college. The Provost is heavily engaged in trying to secure a benefaction from a charitable trust which the old and outrageous Cedric Mumford influences. One significant complication is the presence in college of Ivo Mumford, Cedric’s grandson. He is badly behaved and far from a credit to the college. His magazine, ‘Priapus’ proves to be wholly objectionable. Stewart explores the nature of the complicated relationships between the characters with his usual wit, literary style and intellectual precision and turns what might otherwise be a very common and ordinary situation into something that will grip the reader from cover to cover.
The Madonna of the Astrolabe
In the fourth of J.I.M. Stewart’s acclaimed ‘Staircase in Surrey’ quintet the gravity of a surveyor’s report given to the Governing Body is the initial focus. The document is alarming. The Governing Body, an assembly of which Pattullo was in awe, was equally awed by the dimensions of the crisis revealed. It would seem that the consideration was whether there would literally be a roof over their heads for much longer. The first rumblings from the college tower brings the thought well and truly home to Pattullo. ‘Professor Sanctuary,’ the Provost said evenly, ‘favours the immediate launching of an appeal . . .’ And so it begins . . . In J.I.M. Stewart’s superbly melding of wit, mystery, observation and literary prowess a gripping novel develops that will enthral the reader from cover to cover. This can be read as part of the series, or as a standalone novel.
Full Term
The final volume in the ‘A Staircase in Surrey’ quintet. Duncan Pattullo is coming to the end of his term as ‘narrator’ and is thinking of re-marrying, although his former wife continues to cause difficulties. His intended is also providing gossip for the college, but that is as nothing compared to the scandal caused by Watershute, an eminent nuclear physicist. His misdemeanours range from abandoning his family and conducting an affair in Venice, to being drunk at High Table. However, things get very serious when he appears to be involved in activities that might amount to treason. An interesting and convoluted plot, which is a fitting end to this acclaimed series, is carried forward with J.I.M. Stewart’s hallmark skill and wit. Full Term can be read in order, or as a standalone novel.
Other Fiction
Bridge At Arta
Lady Cameron and Charles Hornett had been married some fifty years before, but Hornett has now forgotten all about it. Embarrassment is therefore evident when they find themselves as part of a party holidaying in Greece. Meanwhile, the Balmaynes realise they nothing about Roland Redpath, who is about to marry their daughter, but he is in fact the son of their onetime dishonest butler. But that isn’t the end of it, as yet more shocks and surprises are forthcoming as the story unfolds. In other stories in the collection there is a hitherto unknown Wordsworth manuscript and sensational development with regard to Coleridge. We are also taken to Vienna and to a rural location in an effort to reveal the identity of an arsonist. Full of wit, humour and suspense, these stories bear all of the hallmarks of the expected first class Stewart penmanship.
Mungo’s Dream
Mungo Lockhart goes up to Oxford and find himself sharing a room with the Honourable Ian Cardower, who is heir to a rich title and estate. Unimpressed by rank or riches, Mungo is nonetheless wary in his exchanges with Cardower, and this is reciprocated. However, the two do become good friends and Cardower takes Mungo on visits to his parents’ home, to visit the head of the family, Lord Audlearn at Bamberton Court – a stately home in the grand style – and then to Mallachie, the true family seat, where the eldest son Lord Brightmony lives in splendid isolation, save for his compani
on; Leonard Sedley, sometime novelist. All seems well, except for Mungo noticing the interest shown by the family in a young Scots boy of uncertain parentage. The story takes on an obvious twist with the usual suspicions and uncertainties mounting, lawyers being called in, and general acrimony, but the final crisis and confrontation is of a surprising nature and an unusual explanation unfolds. On the way, Stewart of course introduces sub-plots and high comedy in his usual literary style. The novel is thought provoking, teasing, and thoroughly entertaining and fascinatingly descriptive of the various locations; Oxford, Perugia in Italy, and Scotland.
Open Prison
The Head of House at a minor public school, Robin Hayes, has to break the news that his solicitor father has been found guilty of embezzlement and sentenced to two years in an open prison. He now feels he needs to prove himself afresh, but complications arise when another junior pupil turns out to be the grandson of the judge who passed sentence on his father. Nonetheless, the boys do form a relationship. A strange intervention in Robin’s life comes with generous gifts of cash from his uncle, who is also seemingly similarly supporting his father. This, however, is only the background to a typical Stewart mystery. There occurs a double kidnapping, the father suddenly and inexplicably rejects his son, the son goes to pieces and there are sufficient sub-plots to provide enough twists and turns to grip the reader as the final twist in the tale develops.
Palace of Art
Gloria Montacute is in Venice, having temporarily removed herself from England following the death of her mother and inheriting a great collection of art treasures. The monetary value of these is of no consequence to her – she has previously worked in a lowly capacity in a London hospital and possesses a strong sense of social responsibility which outweighs any material wealth. This is in stark contrast to her dead mother who did not really appreciate the ‘art’, but viewed the treasures as rapidly soaring investments. Dealers gather and salivate, and one of them sends a handsome young man to Venice. Jake, Gloria’s cousin, and Henry, a neighbour, also pursue her. Gloria harbours suspicions that this be because of her inheritance. The conclusion is as much a surprise as we have come to expect from Stewart’s novels, on this occasion weaved by Gloria herself in a splendidly romantic manner. With wit and humour, yet with a vein of seriousness running throughout, Stewart manages to bring all of the characters to life and grip the reader right to the end.
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