Well, we talked that day on and off till late afternoon. He got me jumping now and then as I have indicated. Worse still… but I will come to that presently. By and large and in spite of everything, I must admit he was a surprisingly amiable witness.
So here we go. Having established the reason for my visit, I invited the Wolf to give his version of events. He was willing to do so, though what he had to say was hardly convincing. Here is a sample of our talk:
‘Mr Wolf… recently you had occasion to travel in a cart from the McFirkins' place in the company of a Boy, a Sheep and a Lettuce.’
‘If you say so.’
‘What was the purpose of your journey?’
‘I had some business in the town. A couple of lunches, that sort of thing.’
‘Did you usually travel in this way, in a woodcutter's cart?’
‘Sometimes. If it suited me.’
‘But how did it suit them? I mean, the McFirkins? Their little boy and, er, you'll excuse me, a wolf.’
‘I was considered trustworthy. Tame.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Raised from a cub by a forest ranger. Noble savage, faithful guardian, that sort of thing, especially of the children.’
‘And were you?’
‘Not really. They had me confused with some other wolf. He was the tame one. I was, er…
NOT!’
‘I see. Must you do that? So, you were in the cart on your way to town.’
‘Yes. Made myself comfortable on some sacks or cushions in the back. Read the paper.’
‘What else do you remember?’
‘Not much. Just the usual trip through the forest. The odd bear or robber. The Boy was a bit of a whistler, I recall. Or was it the Sheep? I may have dozed off.’
‘Till you came TO THE RIVER.’
‘Yes, the river. There was this teeny-weeny little row boat, I remember. Hardly room enough for its own oars. We hung around for an age while the woodcutter's lad cudgelled his brain how to get us across. Y'see –’
‘According to Percy –’
‘Was that his name?’
‘Yes. According to him, he made a raft.’
‘Not while I was there, he didn't.’
‘According to the Sheep –’
‘Forget the Sheep. She will only pull the wool over your eyes. Where was I? Yes, y'see, this lad was unwilling for some reason to leave me alone with the Sheep, or the Sheep alone with the Lettuce.’
‘I understand that. What happened?’
‘It was a puzzle, wasn't it? I solved it.’
‘How?’
‘Just logic, really. Tiny boat – too many passengers – it's obvious. Any self-respecting wolf would have done the same.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I reduced the numbers.’
‘Oh, dear.’
*
‘Yes. Ate the Sheep, ate the Boy and rowed the boat.’ The Wolf gave me a knowing, leery smile. ‘Spoilt my appetite for lunch. Rowed over anyway.’
* * *
It was pleasant in the garden. Beds of white and yellow flowers bent and wavered in the breeze. There was the sound of a mower and the smell of cut grass from the other side of the wall. A small pig, I noticed, was watching me from behind a barrel.
I got to my feet, stretched my legs and began to consider this the latest and easily most ludicrous version of events. It was as full of holes as a… hole. Yet somehow when I challenged the Wolf, the absurdities he had described seemed, how can I explain it, to just MELT AWAY.
‘So, Mr Wolf, if you ate the Sheep, how come she's still alive?’
‘Different sheep. There are flocks of 'em.’
‘And the Boy?’
‘Twins.’
‘And the Lettuce?’
‘Ha! Never said I ate a lettuce. That really is ridiculous.’
Then, after I had demolished these defences, he changed tack again, firing off all manner of alibis and excuses, like a Catherine wheel.
1 All right then, they're alive. I made a little mistake.
2 I am old. I am retired. I am reformed.
3 My memory is going. I get mixed up with the good, er, bad old days.
4 Did you never make a mistake?
5 I have ate lots of… people (wry smile). I cannot be expected to remember all my meals.
Somehow, unusually for me, I kept my temper in this situation and my eye on the ball.
‘Mr Wolf,’ I persisted, ‘Mr Wolf, surely even you must see that all this simply doesn't make sense.’
Whereupon, the Wolf shrugged and smiled again. ‘You're right,’ he said, and flicked his little-pigs mobile with an outstretched paw. ‘I withdraw it all. Unreservedly.’
[7] A CLEARING in the Forest
E = mc2
Einstein
Oh, botheration, here we go again. Back to square one. Three versions now: the Boy says this, the Sheep says that, the Wolf says the other (and withdraws it, unreservedly). But do they JOIN FORCES? Do they weave together into a
*
CARPET OF TRUTH? Do they ADD UP? They do not. If anything, they cancel each other out. I am left with less truth now than when I started. I sometimes think I would be better off writing an opera. Get all three of them – Boy, Sheep, Wolf – on stage together. Let 'em sing it out, a trio, simultaneously. Loudest wins.
This business of the truth poleaxes me at times, that's the truth of it. I read somewhere (George Henry Knott, I think) that ‘The little knowledge we have is like a clearing in a forest’, a forest which represents the unknown. The more knowledge or truth we acquire, the bigger the clearing, the greater our contact (i.e. perimeter – see diagram p.44) with the unknown. In other words, the more we know we don't know, or if you like, the less we know. It's a puzzle. There again, as the Sheep was later to observe, ‘E = mc2, that's a puzzle.’
I don't know… Where was I? Oh, yes, Grandma Pumfrey's garden.
The sun was slanting down behind the house. The invisible ducks were silent on the invisible pond. The traffic, still. The aroma of cut grass mingled delightfully with a baked-bread smell issuing from Grandma Pumfrey's kitchen window. And I had finished with the Wolf. And the Wolf – Oh, dear, oh, dear! – had not finished with me.
I have no notes for what happened next, you will appreciate why. My memory too is unreliable. My embarrassment though is total.
How he did it, I really cannot fathom. How I was taken in, to let him OUT, beggars belief. But he charmed me, I suppose, that's it in a nutshell. I can appreciate now how smoothly he must have insinuated himself into the McFirkins' cart. And Mrs McFirkin's embarrassment. He charmed her too.
And what did he use? A smile? A confiding tone of voice? A modest request (or so it seemed) ? Just to step outside for a moment. Feel the grass on his ageing feet, the breeze in his fur. A fleeting freedom. Ridiculous: yes. Preposterous: absolutely. I opened the pen (or cage).
And the door flew out to meet me – smack! And I was hurtling backwards, tumbling over, bouncing against the barrel, cracking my shin on the downspout, cracking my head on… who knows what?
I was down and nearly out. The Wolf was out and above me. His ‘smile' expanding now to something else. His hot and pizza-flavoured breath… his teeth. (p.s. His name, by the way, I nearly forgot to mention, was Wayne Duane ‘Trustworthy' McBane, though I doubt you'll believe it.)
And then… from nowhere, an IMMENSE NOISE and FLASH OF LIGHT and CONCUSSION OF AIR. I was half deaf, three-quarters blind and my wits had been fairly well scattered beforehand. The looming Wolf, I sensed, was gone. And then… another face, pale and frowning. Oh, Grandma, what big eyes you've got! Another face, pale and…
There was a smell of sulphur, gunpowder perhaps… and bread. My nose was all there was of me still working. There was a smell of… roses? It was a puzzle all right. I could not work it out. Gave up. And fainted.
[8] Invisible Stars
Just when you least expect it,
the unexpected alwa
ys happens.
Joe Orton
Where was I? Where am I? A darkened room. A bed. A bed that moves… up and down like the sea. Oh, my poorly head… I feel so dizzy. So… sleepy.
What's this – a bandage? What's that – the moon? Who's that? (A blurry figure at the window.) Soft rain at the window… I can hear it. And the curtains stirring. This is my own room… and bed. I am IN MY PYJAMAS.
I sleep and dream. I dream I am out in my garden pruning the roses, chopping down trees. And all the McFirkins are there with Mr McFirkin up on his ladder… cleaning the windows. There's a picnic.
* * *
I wake in the night with a throbbing head and a terrible thirst. There's a glass of water beside my bed. I hobble across to the window, gaze out and up at the starry sky. The stars, perhaps you know (the Sheep told me), are always with us, daytime, night-time. It's only the jealous sun that drowns or dazzles them out. I return to my bed… and sleep… and dream.
And now it's morning, late morning. I am sitting up in bed: coffee, Marmite toast, newspaper. My head still aches but I am on the mend. Up and ready (almost) for the fray, and with some explaining to do. So enough of all this dreaming, dreary invalid stuff. It was only a bang on the head/shin/elbow etc. after all. Just a bit of the rough and tumble which any self-respecting investigative writer must come to expect (when he least expects) on the trail, on the spoor of, er… in his fearless quest for the, er… Where was I?
Yes, clarity, simplicity… What was the other one? Hm… let's sort things out, let's make a list, shall we? Let's make a few lists.
The Wolf
1 Yes, he attacked me. Sort of. Though now I suspect it was more exuberance than anything else. He leapt at the door – in case I changed my mind! – and the door did the damage. Really.
2 You see, I have developed this theory about the Wolf. He is too full of jokes and trickery. (Have you heard, they've recently removed the word ‘gullible' from the dictionary? That's one of his.) He is rarely serious for two sentences together. It's my belief that his quirky and playful mind has held him back in his chosen career, i.e. as a wolf. You cannot very well have fun with a fellow creature you're simultaneously taking BITES OUT OF.
3 So, the Wolf: says much, does little. All the same, he is back under lock and key, you may be glad to hear.
P.S. He's also right there in the morning paper, front page, with his ‘who-me?’ smile and his six alibis.
Grandma Pumfrey
1 It was ‘Grandma Pumfrey' back there in the garden with ‘Attar of Roses' perfume PLUS SHOTGUN. That wolf, I understand, reversed into his pen or cage faster ever than he came out of it. Yes, like a bullet – Ha!
2 It was Grandma Pumfrey brought me home in her van, got me to bed, came back this morning and made my breakfast. She has left now.
3 Only well, there again in a manner of speaking, it wasn't. You see, it – NO, STOP! I WILL NOT DO THIS. I have never approved of those authors – numerous and famous, some of 'em – who deliberately set out to mystify their readers. No sir, if a man (boy, dog, chicken) has something to say, let him say it. For instance, let's fast-forward a little, shall we? I have a chapter half planned for later, entitled: The Mystery of Professor Bodley. Well, I can reveal to you now it will be short. The mystery remains. I never saw him. There's clarity for you.
4 As for Grandma, this is how it is: there was a Grandma Pumfrey, famed as vet and midwife, only she died and left the business to her daughter. The daughter, reaching middle age and fed up with putting thermometers up cats' bottoms, took early retirement and handed over to her daughter. But, and this is the point, somehow the business retained its name, like Marks and Spencer. (Where's ‘Marks’, where's ‘Spencer’?)
5 The present ‘Grandma Pumfrey' is a youngish woman, mid 30s, I'd say, named, er… Lucy Frobisher.
What Next?
1 Good Question. Hm. It occurs to me that in some ways writing a book is like driving a car. You can only see so far down the road. Even when you know your destination – the ending! – or think you do; hills and hollows, twists and turns lie in between and obscure the view. There again, you could run out of petrol, I suppose, suffer a puncture, get stopped for speeding – hijacked! No, not those. I am getting carried away. Messing up the metaphor. Where was I?
2 Yes, well, what's needed, it's obvious really, is an ACTION plan. Thus:
i. I will draw a MAP.
ii. I will make a LIST of things to DO.
iii. I will PHONE people.
iv. I will visit PERCY again.
v. I will TALK to Auntie Joyce.
vi. I will… hm… have a sip of this COFFEE.
vii. I will shut my EYES for a little, er… while.
viii. Zzzz.
[9] The Lettuce's Version
Cheer up! 'Tis no use to be glum boys –
‘Tis written since fighting begun
That sometimes we fight and we conquer
And sometimes we fight and we run.
Thackeray
Later the same day. Here I sit in my garden reading through what I have thus far written. Oh, dear, and my moods are up and down again, like a yo-yo and all that, like the weather. (The forecast for the next twenty-four hours is preposterous; wait and see.) But for now the sky is clear, the sun is going down behind the trees, the air, warm and still. A team of bees is working the flower beds. A sparrow's in the bird bath. I am reading.
And so, of course, are you.* How curious. I would offer you a cup of tea, if I could, or a biscuit. Hm. My headache, you may be pleased to hear, has gone. The bandage has loosened a little and slides down piratically over my left eye. I must keep pushing it up. Hm.
It seems to me sometimes that I am my own worst enemy. I cannot keep this narrative of mine going in a straight line for two paragraphs together, but am forever veering off (in that car again) down some inviting country lane, ending up often as not in a ditch. There again, cheer up, as the poet says. We are what we are. A rose is a rose is a rose. Win some, lose some. His name, by the way, this poet (novelist, actually), his full name was William Makepeace Thackeray. There you go; no one has a monopoly on the ludicrous.
Later the same night. I sit now at the kitchen table; glass of wine, cheese and biscuits, notebook, pen. Outside fat moths thump up against the window. Frost, yes frost, sparkles on the illuminated grass. Thin AUGUST ICE, I do believe, is forming on the bird bath… and I am feeling somewhat foolish and fairly well pleased with myself. I have just written The Lettuce's Version.
No research. No journeys through the Forest. No interviews. Only for the fun of it. After all, we have heard from the others – Boy, Sheep, Wolf – so, I think to myself… hm, this wine's good… why not the Lettuce? Could things get any more absurd than they are? Story writers, so we are told (by story writers), get inside their ‘characters' all the time. Pirates and witches, dark lords, elves and pixies, horses, rabbits. But who ever did a lettuce? Nobody, I'll bet.
I know, I know, this is supposed to be an investigation not a story, truth not fiction. There are no characters here, only real people, sheep and so on. All the same… Where's that bottle?… it's done now. Yes, the Lettuce's Version.
Would you care to see it? Really? Are you sure? Not just being polite? Hm… very well then:
God in His eternal wisdom has deprived all lettuces of the power of speech. No legs either. A lettuce may not run from life's dangers, or towards life's pleasures, come to that, but must for the duration of its vegetable existence merely, er, sit there.
The Lettuce which concerns us here may well be the only really innocent party in this whole sorry tangle. The youngest too, a mere three and a half weeks. And since it cannot speak for itself, I will speak for it. Thus:
I am a Lettuce (Y'r Honour, dear readers, boys and girls), a humble lettuce, though of prizewinning stock. ‘My story' as the song goes, ‘is much too sad to be told' (Cole Porter), but I will tell it anyway.
On the dawning of the day in question, damp and misty,
I was removed, pulled up, yanked yes, that's the word – YANKED out of my natural element (i.e. soil) in the vegetable patch to the rear of the McFirkins' house. Whereupon, I escaped one fate: rabbits, voles, slugs (ugh!) and so forth, only to meet another.
Well, I did not feel the better for it, no sir. Flying through the air, bouncing along in some splintery box is no fun for a lettuce. I lack, as you will appreciate, any actual sense organs – eyes, ears etc. – but I am a living thing, as much as you, a sentient being. I have leaves and roots. I have a heart. I FEEL.
For instance, I could feel, on that particular morning, the motion of the cart, the atmosphere of the Forest, the flickering heat of the sun. I could feel that Sheep, too, giving me looks. What sort of looks? Sheep looks. Hm.
Worse still I had my premonitions. The situation for a vegetable or salad person on this planet is not good. Those vegetarians – smug's the word for them – have much to answer for. All this fuss they make about chickens and little lambs and never a thought for us. It is our fate, let's face it, to be EATEN. Even worse than that, consider, if you can bear to, the methods used. Baby peas frozen alive! Baby carrots boiled alive! Cabbages chopped up and steamed! It's…
Snow. Snow in August! I just glanced out of the window. Massive feathery flakes drifting down like… like parachutists. It's unheard of, amazing. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt – you and the Lettuce and all that – it's, well… magical. Anyway, please read on, if you care to, that is. No obligation.
The Boy, the Wolf, the Sheep and the Lettuce Page 3