by Alan Coren
I turned into Baker Street, the iron in my soul, another Raskolnikov with guilt for an old lady red on his hands. No doubt she had been missed at the store for eighteen months; rumours would be seething in the staff canteen, and, finally, half-apologetically, looking down into his tea-cup, someone would bring up the issue of her outstanding debt. At first, it would be excused, laughed off; but before long fifty years of graciousness would be swept away, and she would be written off as just another lousy customer, at one with the welshers and the shoplifters and the people who knocked things off shelves in the china department.
It was when I decided to make amends that the real horror of the things struck, in true Dostoievskian fashion; actions are irreversible, sin cannot be structurally altered. There was no way in which I could straighten the mess out; if I wrote to the store, explaining that their debtor was in no shape to square the account, they would wonder why I had taken nearly two years to contact them. It was even on the cards that I’d find myself opening the door to a couple of characters in fawn raincoats demanding to know what I’d done with the body. Similarly, were I able to trace her descendants, what could I say? (‘Look, I hate to stir old memories, but your dear mother/aunt/sister owes Selfridge’s 12/6’). How would they react to the stain imprinted by me on their loved one’s reputation? I was the one who’d made her, post-mortally, a rotten financial risk, and dragged the good name of X through the mire. For all I knew, they might take it out on me by having me sent down for tampering with the mails, or something, and I understand they’re handing out thirty years for that these days.
Last week, another demand-note turned up. The tone had shifted slightly to one of gentlemanly bewilderment; I knew the omens of old. I had to forestall the ultimatum; like Macbeth, I was in blood stepp’d in so far, that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er. Only one course of action lay open; I put a ten-bob note and a half-crown in an envelope, together with a note explaining that I had been laid up for two years with a wasting disease and only now was I beginning to pull through, and I hoped they would understand, theirs, with every apology, Mrs. X.
That ought to hold them for a bit. But you can never be sure about these things, and if they decide to have a whip round in the Soft Furnishings and send me a Get Well card and a jar of crystallised ginger, I may yet have to go on the run.
‘The Funniest Writer In
Britain Today’
1970–1979
VICTORIA WOOD
Introduction
I was thirteen. I couldn’t manage my breasts. I couldn’t manage my eating. I never did my homework. I lived in a misbuttoned guilt-ridden fog most of the time. I had two consolations. One was food – which can, as we know, prove a false friend, but at thirteen one doesn’t realise the many tedious years that lie ahead, as one tries to unpick the knotted relationship between comfort, joy and American hard gums.
My other consolation – and this remains a true pal – was comedy. Not television comedy, which for the most part in the mid 1960s was twee, leaden and over-reliant on canned laughter, but written comedy.
My house, which was an ex-anti-aircraft base on a windswept hill in Lancashire, had been made into an approximation of a family home by my mother, who had put up plywood partitions, not exactly at random but not in any way William Morris might have salivated over either. Having by this method formed about twenty rooms, she then proceeded to fill them all with books. Second-hand books. Sometimes she would chuck in the odd rogue item, like the costumes from a production of The Quaker Girl, or a sack of shoe lasts, but mainly it was books.
And because there was eff-all going on in my home, and because I was a compulsive person, and I didn’t have enough money to eat all day long, and the telly didn’t come on till four, I read. In the bath, while playing the piano, while watching Magpie and The Man from UNCLE – I read. And though I would read anything rather than nothing, what I really wanted to read was comedy.
I had a tattered paperback, I should think from the 1930s, called Modern Masters of Wit and Humour and this was my introduction to the comic essay, the funny piece. It didn’t matter to me that these particular pieces were all by men, that there didn’t seem to be any modern mistresses of wit and humour – I just loved the detail, the angle, the taking of some prosaic domestic situation and skewing it through a prism, so that something that presumably in life had been irritating or boring became something quite life-enhancing in print.
I went to the library every day after school – I had to wait an hour for my father to pick me up from the bottom of our lane. I wasn’t supposed to walk home in case I got molested, though I think even a sexual nutcase might have thought twice about approaching my solid trudging figure with its flapping satchel of homework arrears and its trail of wine gums. Oh, get to the point, Wood. Yes: the library. Bury Library. Like a big old municipal crack house just sitting there full of my drug of choice. And what they had in the Reference section was Punch. Not the old bound volumes with their unhilarious yokels, cooks and curates, but the current magazine. Modern Masters of Wit and Humour thirty years on.
And that was where I first read Alan Coren. You might not think a thirteen-year-old girl with collapsing socks and a pocket full of chocolate with a street value of ninepence would have been his ideal reader. But I was. He made me laugh. It wasn’t my world, but it was no less funny for that. For those two pages, I lived in his universe. I wasn’t in Bury with a dull evening ahead of me – luncheon meat, beetroot and The Forsyte Saga – I was in Cricklewood wondering what was up with the central heating, or trying to get my raincoat back from the dry cleaner’s.
Let’s jump forward nearly forty years. Leapfrogging Dana, loonpants, perestroika, ‘The Birdie Song’ and red pesto. My homework’s still not done, but my behaviour around Creme Eggs is slightly more under control, and there I was in my kitchen in London with the radio on and I was listening to one of those mad programmes you could only get on the wireless – it was Alan Coren and a friend going round London on buses, just maundering on about things and getting on and off when they felt like it, and just acting like boys, really – oldish boys. And I heard a bus number I recognised: it was the bus that goes up Our Hill and stops outside Our House. And I can’t really explain what a thrill it was to hear that master of wit and humour, Mr Alan Coren – to hear him get off the bus at the top of Our Hill and actually hear the crunch of his humorous feet on Our Gravel. And if it had been live, and if I had been gawping out of my bedroom window, I would have been able to see him. And I meant, were I ever to meet him, to say: ‘Hello, Alan, we’ve never been introduced, but you got off the bus onto my gravel, and you’ve made me laugh from when I was thirteen. Thank you.’ But I didn’t get that opportunity, so writing this is the next best thing.
12
Boom, What Makes My House Go Boom?
One of the effects of the house-price spiral and the rush to buy has been that estate agents no longer find it necessary to disguise the truth about their properties.
The Observer
I met him at the gate, as arranged. We looked up at the house together. He glanced at his watch, not unobviously.
‘It’s rather nice,’ I said. ‘I’ve always wanted to live in St. Johns Wood.’
‘No point going in, then,’ said the agent, taking a cigarette from his packet and deftly avoiding my reaching hand. ‘This is Kilburn.’
‘Oh, surely not! I understood that this area was traditionally described as, well, as St. Johns Wood borders?’
He sucked his teeth. He shook his head.
‘Not even Swiss Cottage,’ he said. ‘Not even West Swiss Cottage.’
‘Swiss Cottage borders?’ I begged.
‘Kilburn.’ He put the watch to his ear. ‘If that.’
‘Oh.’
‘What do you expect,’ he muttered, ‘for twenty-three-nine-fifty?’
‘Twenty-two-five,’ I corrected. I showed him the specification sheet.
He tapped
it with a finger.
‘Got yesterday’s date on,’ he said.
‘I received it this morning,’ I said, ‘and surely—’
‘Lucky we sent it express,’ he said. ‘Might be out of your range tomorrow.’
‘Could we go in?’ I enquired. ‘It’s rather chilly here.’
‘What do you think it is inside?’ he said. ‘Bermuda?’
‘The central heating must make a—’
‘Part central heating,’ he said. ‘Plus small boiler, totally inadequate to the job. Especially bearing in mind the lack of double-glazing. The only way to tell if the radiators are on is to put your cheek up against them and wait for a minute or two. Still, at twenty-four-two-fifty, you can’t really complain, can you?’
‘I suppose not,’ I said, ‘these town houses are at a premium these days.’
‘Terraced houses.’
‘I always thought—’
‘Call a spade a spade, that’s our motto. When you’ve got a long line of nondescript jerry-built bogus-regency items leaning on one another to keep from falling down, they’re known as terraced houses. Or, in some cases, back-to-backs. If the gardens are as tiny as this one is.’ He opened the front door. ‘Don’t rush in,’ he said, ‘or you’ll miss it, ha-ha-ha!’
‘Ha-ha-ha!’
‘See that crack in the hall ceiling? You’d think they’d take a bit more care with a twenty-six-grand property, wouldn’t you?’
‘It doesn’t look too bad,’ I said, ‘probably just a fault in the plastering. A good workman could fill that in in two shakes of—’
‘That’s what the previous owner thought,’ said the agent, stubbing his cigarette out on the wallpaper. ‘His dog fell through it and broke its neck. Treacherous, these stone floors.’
‘But sound,’ I said. ‘No chance of warp, dry rot, that sort of—’
‘You wait till your plumbing packs up,’ he said. ‘Main conduit’s under there: one day your bath’s cold, the next you’ve got six blokes and a pneumatic drill poking about in your foundations. Want to see the kitchenette?’
‘Thank you.’
‘’Course,’ he said over his shoulder as he forced the door, ‘when I say foundations, that’s only my little joke. Three inches of builders’ rubbish and a couple of two-by-fours, and that’s it. I wouldn’t like to be here when the motorway goes through – one articulated truck, and you’re liable to find yourself with half the roof in the downstairs lav.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise there was a downstairs lavatory,’ I said. ‘That’s rather encourag—’
‘I wouldn’t show it to you,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t even talk about it. Not so soon after breakfast. This is the kitchenette.’
‘Kitchenette?’ I said. ‘Mind you, I suppose it is a bit on the small side, but—’
‘Small? It’s lucky there’s no mice here, otherwise you’d have to take turns going to the larder.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t expect mice in a modern house, would you?’
‘Right. Rats yes, mice no.’
‘Oh. Well, we’ve got a cat, so—’
‘That’s one bedroom out for a start, then,’ he said. ‘Big cat, is it?’
‘Neutered tom,’ I said.
The agent pursed his lips.
‘Probably have to give him the master suite, in that case,’ he said. ‘At least he can shove open the bathroom door and stick his tail in if he starts feeling claustrophobic. Lucky it’s on the first floor, really.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘If the cat’s on the first floor, you and the family can sleep above it. On the second. You don’t want a bloody great moggy stamping around overhead all night, do you? Let alone watching you and the missus through the gaps in the floorboards. Lying on your back listening to the tubes rumbling underneath, with a bloody great green eye staring down at you.’
We left the kitchen, and came back into the hall. He opened another door.
‘I imagine that’s the dining-room?’ I said.
‘That’s what you want to do, squire,’ he said. ‘Imagine. Mind you, it’d do for buffet suppers, provided the four of you all had small plates. The other door leads to the integral garage, by the way, if you were wondering what the smell of petrol was. You’ve got a car, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t forget to leave it outside, then. Bloke two doors down made the mistake of changing his Fiat 500 in for a Mini. Brought it home from the showroom, drove straight in, had to spend the night there. Wife fed him through the quarter-light. I suppose you could always have a sunshine-roof fitted, though.’
‘We’ll leave ours out,’ I said. ‘It’s more convenient, what with taking the kids to school every morn—’
‘Oh, you won’t need the motor for that, squire! School’s only a stone’s throw away.’
‘Really? Well, that’s a load off—’
‘Very good glazier up the road, though. Mind you, you have to take the day off to let him in. He won’t come out at night.’
‘That’s surprising.’
‘In this neighbourhood? After dark even the police cars cruise in pairs.’
‘Do you think we might go upstairs?’
‘And that’s only if there’s a full moon.’
‘Four bedrooms, I think you said?’
‘Well, three really. The third one’s been split into two with a party wall, but you could easily convert it back. Just slam the front door, and bob’s your uncle.’
I started up the staircase, and it wasn’t until I’d reached the first landing that I realised I was alone. The agent called up.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes,’ I shouted.
He joined me.
‘Hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Never tell with these stairs. I reckoned you were about my weight.’ He patted the banister lovingly. ‘See that workmanship? They don’t make ’em like that any more!’
‘It’s certainly an attrac—’
‘Not after Rex v. Newsomes Natty Fittings Ltd., they don’t. Christ!’ he exclaimed, looking at his watch again. ‘It’s never twelve o’clock already!’
‘Two minutes past, actually.’
‘That’s another half-hour off the lease, then.’ He turned, and started down the stairs again, gingerly. ‘I trust you have the requisite used notes in the motor, squire?’
I followed him down.
‘I’d like a little time to think about it,’ I said, ‘and then, of course, my solicitor will have to make the necessary searches and—’
He laid a kindly claw on my arm.
‘Do yourself a favour, son,’ he said gently. ‘Forget about searches. Tatty old drum like this, you can never tell what they might find. Now, look, am I going to be able to unload this or not?’
‘Well, I’m not entirely certain, but—’
The agent wrenched open the front door. A queue stretched down the path, and into the street. Mute supplication blinked in their watery eyes.
‘Says he’s not certain!’ cried the agent.
Instantly, the queue dismembered itself into a shrieking mob.
‘One at a time!’ yelled the agent, tearing a brassette carriage-lamp from the wall and beating a clearing among the grabbing throng. ‘Let’s do this proper! Now, I am not asking twenty-nine-five for this mouldering pile! I am not asking thirty-two-and-a-half, all I’m asking is—’
I edged through the pitiful clamour, and out into the road, and bent my steps towards the YMCA. It’s warm there, and there’s a nice peg for your anorak and a shelf for your clock, and it’ll be weeks before the developers start bidding for the site.
With luck.
13
Suffer Little Children
According to a new publishing company, Enfance Publishing, ‘every leading author has at least one children’s book in him.’ Every leading author?
From THE GOLLIES KARAMAZOV
by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
On a bitterly cold morning towards the e
nd of November, 18—a pale young man left his little room at the top of a toadstool in one of the meaner tree-roots of the province of Toyland, and began to descend the dark and freezing stairs.
He was praying that he would not meet his landlady. Her burrow gave directly onto the corridor, and he had to pass it every time he went in or out. The door was usually open, and he would have to run past to avoid seeing Mrs. Rabbitoyeva, and when he did so he would experience a sensation of terror which left him shaking and sick to his stomach. Sometimes he would be physically sick. Other times, he would become possessed of a hacking and terrible cough, and his thin little body would grow luminous with sweat.
It was not merely that he was behind with his rent, living as he did in wretched poverty: it was simply that he had of late a horrible fear of meeting anybody, of engaging them in the lightest of conversations, of remarking upon the weather. This fear had itself become a sickness. Mrs. Rabbitoyeva, if she saw him, would wipe her paws on her apron (an action which itself brought an uncontrollable trembling to the young man’s emaciated limbs, and set the pattern on his threadbare herringbone overcoat twitching like a nest of spiders), and smile, and nod, and say: