John McPake and the Sea Beggars

by Stuart Campbell

  Not now, Academic. This is the climax of the story, don’t spoil the celebrations with a parade of facts.

  ‘But, the source is impeccable. If I remember rightly, the Trevelyans in their translation of Fruin’s seminal work describe how a small boy keeping watch from the walls of Leyden had noticed flares coming from Lammen. The exhausted and emaciated elders promised him a couple of guilders if he would investigate. Accordingly the boy ran along the path from Kronestein towards Lammen from where he waved his cap to indicate that the Spanish had fled.’

  Fine, but I’ve two stories to tell if you haven’t noticed.

  ‘Yes but the other thing is that, according to legend, one of the beggars, a man called Cornelis Joppensz entered the abandoned Spanish encampment and returned with a pot of “hutspot” or hotchpotch. Later that day, the sea beggars crossed the Vliet and entered the city and distributed the food. That’s why on October 3rd each year the citizens of Leyden celebrate the relief of their city with a traditional meal of herring and white bread. You couldn’t make it up!’

  You think?

  SIXTY-ONE

  Mick acknowledged John’s return to the hostel with a nod of his head. Paul refused to look up from his book; just when he thought that chapter 21 had been completely committed to memory, he got muddled.

  ‘The lord and master returns,’ said Kevin, with an exaggerated bow from the waist. ‘Just when we were enjoying the extra space.’ Janet gave him a hug and suggested he should take a bath. ‘Ay, ay,’ said Kevin with a leer. ‘Get her to scrub your back, John, and then your front, your lower front, mind.’

  ‘Shut it!’ snapped Janet.

  As John stepped out of his clothes and into the bath he knew that something significant had changed, a shift had occurred. Although the Voices had not followed him into the bathroom he knew they were somewhere, biding their time. Nevertheless, for a wonderful moment he felt the intimation of a long-forgotten sensation. He was reluctant to probe either its nature or its origins lest such scrutiny should dispel something that was undeniably pleasant.

  While the bath was running Beverley entered and emptied a packet of coloured salts into the water. ‘Just this once,’ she said, ‘and don’t you go telling anyone. We’ve just had our boundaries training.’ He ran his hand across the top of the foam that was hiding all of his body apart from his toes. By stroking the bubbles carefully he could sculpt them into smooth contours; his palm felt cool where he had punctured the topmost layer of foam. The glass shower screen that ran half way down the length of the bath was clouded with steam. Using his forefinger he etched the silhouette of a castellated building such as a small child might draw. Beneath it he traced the outline of a small boat and by dabbing at the screen made tiny circles for the heads of the crew. Surprised, he sank further into the water and admired his handiwork.

  On Platform 4 at Haymarket station he had grasped the hands offered to him. The train announcements had become indistinguishable from the excited hubbub of Dutch voices grateful beyond imagining that their ordeal was over. The siege had been lifted. The coat placed round his shoulders by the British Rail transport policeman was an embroidered cloak of great beauty.

  Wrapped in a towel he carried his clothes back to his room and sat on the bed, feeling sweat pricking his forehead. The bath had perhaps been too hot. Despite knowing that the inquest was about to be convened he felt unusually calm.

  ‘All rise for the Voices,’ instructed the unseen clerk to the court.

  ‘John McPake,’ said the Academic with as much authority as he could summon. ‘You are charged with abject cowardice and having knowingly chosen not to do the world a favour by committing suicide. How do you plead?’

  After a moment’s silence he tutted loudly and instructed the clerk of the court to record that no plea had been entered. He then invited the Prosecutor to speak.

  The Bastard rose and walked slowly across the court. After making eye contact with each and every member of the jury he turned to face the judge. ‘Your honour, quite simply this sad apology of a man standing in the dock before you is not deserving of the court’s sympathy. Having been given the opportunity to attend one of this country’s finest universities, having been entrusted with the instruction and nurturing of young minds, he chose instead a self-indulgent life of illness. At one point, if you will pardon the cliché, Your Honour, the world was his oyster. A beautiful and loving wife, a job and home, he, as the song says, “had it all”. Instead of thanking God for his good fortune he chose instead to embrace a fantasy world where he could live vicariously. He abdicated all responsibility, abandoned his spouse, failed his charges, disappointed his trusting employers and retreated into a world of delusion where he has wallowed self-indulgently for over a decade. During that time he has contributed nothing to society, becoming what I believe is termed, in common parlance, a scrounger, living off the State, seeking out the company of equally deluded failures. To compound matters he has frequently incurred the displeasure of this country’s hard-working constabulary thereby distracting them from the more important task of catching criminals. On one occasion, Your Honour, and it is with a degree of reluctance that I mention such matters, John McPake was arrested for importuning prostitutes in the vicinity of Leith Docks. There can be no excuse, Your Honour, no defence against these most serious of charges, the most heinous of crimes. Although we live in an enlightened country, and are all essentially compassionate people, in this instance we must be mindful of the malignant influence that such people can have on the common weal. We all have a duty to protect young impressionable minds from the human cancer standing, no, slouching, before us today. We have a God-given duty to decourager les autres, and indeed to punish the wicked. And make no mistake John McPake falls hook, line and sinker into that category. He is quite simply, a wicked, wicked man and as such is deserving of the highest penalty that this court can impose. In short, Your Honour the prosecution is seeking the death sentence. Justice will only be served when your honour dons the black cap and decrees that this pathetic travesty of a human being be taken from the court to another place and hanged by the neck until he is dead. I rest my case.’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Uproar. Mayhem. Several jury members put their hands to their faces. The court imploded. The Academic and the Bastard removed their wigs and gowns. They looked round at the Jester, who shrugged, and the Tempter who was equally dumfounded.

  ‘Who said that?’ asked the Bastard.

  ‘I can only assume it was John,’ said the Academic, genuinely shocked.

  ‘But he never speaks; he’s given up since we took over his head.’

  ‘Yes, it was me.’ said John. ‘Can you hear me well enough? I’ve been silent too long. Your bullying is over. Are you following me?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t understand,’ said the Bastard, confused, ‘we live here.’

  ‘Tenants by default,’ echoed the Academic. ‘Squatters, if you prefer, though it’s a term I don’t particularly like … ’

  ‘Tell me,’ said John, ‘which bit of “fuck off” causes you difficulty? It’s simple; I want you all out of my head and out of my life. Pack your metaphorical bags and go. I’m reclaiming the space.’

  ‘Can I say a few words first?’ pleaded the Bastard.

  ‘Only if I choose to let you,’ said John. ‘I think on balance I might quite enjoy hearing you squirm. Go ahead. You’ve got three minutes.’

  ‘Well firstly, we’ve known each other a long time now haven’t we? Fifteen years perhaps. All right, it’s been something of a love-hate relationship … ’

  John snorted.

  ‘All right then, mainly hate, but sometimes we all need to listen to unpalatable truths. We might not always enjoy what we hear but an alternative, perhaps corrective and counter view is necessary if objectivity is to be maintained. You’ve heard the staff talking at the hostel about notions of “critical friendship”, a term that evidently encapsulates the ideal therapeutic relationship between supp
ort worker and service user, or resident in this case. Well, I represent the ”critical” part of the equation. I said what I said for your own good, John, I did. Apart from anything else I put up with all that delusional shite about the sea beggars. Sorry, but it was nonsense, you must see that for yourself. All that stuff about your brother, it wasn’t good for you, there was no point in colluding with the delusion that you might find him one day. It was maudlin, dangerous stuff. It was making you unhappy. I was just trying to help … ’

  ‘One minute … ’ said John.

  ‘Be fair. I may not always have been as tactful as I could have been, and I’m sorry for that. It’s just that sometimes, you’ve got to call things the way they are. Any psychiatrist worth his salt would have done the same. Believe me, it hasn’t been easy living all these years in your head. It’s not a good place, you know that, but I’ve always liked you, John. You know that too don’t you.’

  ‘Fuck … off!’ said John.

  ‘But I’ve nowhere to go, you can’t ask me to live in Mick’s head, I couldn’t stand it, and apart from anything else, there’s no room. I’ve always liked you, John, honest … ’

  After a long silence the Academic cleared his throat and spoke, ‘You and I, John, are university people. We understand each other. We know that the devil is in the detail. We know that knowledge and critical reasoning are the key. Indeed to quote Erasmus … ’

  ‘If you must, but be quick,’ said John.

  ‘Well, as I was saying … in my defence I have consistently cast light into dark corners; I have provided a theoretical framework for both of your lives. All right, I might get carried away a bit sometimes but it was important not to let the Bastard always get his own way. We both know that he wasn’t a man of intellectual rigour or insight. Correct me if I’m wrong but you’ve always been someone with a thirst for both accuracy and knowledge. I may have got a bit carried away some times but you understand don’t you? Knowledge is power, isn’t that what they say? Surely I enhanced the quality of your Dutch delusion by proving the overview, ensuring continuity, protecting the truth. I appreciate that you and I never finished our discussion about the relationship between the perhaps forgotten knowledge lodged somewhere in your consciousness and my apparent ability to provide a patina of historic accuracy … ’

  For some while John had been trying to get a word in edgeways. Sensing the inevitable the Academic gallantly conceded defeat.’ All right’ he said ‘I know, I know … two words, Fuck and off.’

  After a short interval spent rehearsing his defence the Tempter stepped forward.

  ‘John, I freely admit that recently I’ve got it wrong. I was powerless to stand up to the Bastard, he made me do it, and you know what he was like. I didn’t want you to walk out in front of that train. You know that. In many ways I was the direct opposite of the Academic. You and I know full well that the key to recovery is having and holding hope, in whatever form that might take. Well, that was my function, don’t you see? Without me you would have given up ages ago, just thrown in the towel. I kept the hope alive in you. I made you believe that you would find your brother. And let’s face it, he’s out there somewhere. He’s looking for you as well. Think of your joyful reunion, feel the tears and hear the laughter. Who knows, even as I speak he may be making his way to the hostel. It’s going to happen, John, believe me … The last few days have been an aberration. I wasn’t feeling well, it won’t happen again, I promise, keep the faith, John, keep the faith … ’

  ‘This man went into a bar … an Englishman, a Scotsman and an Irishman … did you hear the one about the old woman on the escalator … ’

  The hint of a smile crossed John’s face. He had frequently found the Jester genuinely amusing. Even when his jokes were far from funny he had appreciated his capacity to defuse or redirect conversations. The Jester was not a bad Voice, at worst he could be inappropriate but even the concept of appropriateness or otherwise was barely relevant given the mental turbulence he had endured through the years.

  John thought … Sorry, what are you attempting to say on my behalf?

  ‘But I’m the Narrator. I’m the voice who has consistently maintained detachment and objectivity despite the grievous provocations I have endured from the others. It’s good to hear you, John, but remember you surrendered all rights to this story ages ago … and why have you given me quotation marks?’

  Because things have changed. It’s my story, it’s my life, it’s my head.

  ‘Yes, fair play but I’m not like the others. It is not easy for a sick man to simultaneously conduct his life and comment on it as well.’

  Sorry, a sick man?

  ‘You know what I mean’

  Not really.

  ‘I don’t mean to cause offence but with the diagnosis and all that. Anyway, think of all the times the other Voices wanted to take over the narrative and I stood up to them. All right, for most of the time apart from when I was exhausted. Did you really want to live through the Bastard’s view of the world? He was poisonous, John, you know that. I kept him at bay as much as any human being, well Voice, could. There again did you want your life to be reduced to a dry academic account, its significance lost in a fog of detail and trivia? I was the umpire in your head, remember that. It wasn’t always easy keeping the peace, maintaining a degree of order. Who do you think rationed the contribution from the Tempter? You don’t know the half of it. He was always coming up with half-baked suggestions about your brother’s whereabouts. He was all right in small doses but I rationed his contribution.’

  I understand what you are saying.

  ‘If I had given in to the Jester you would have gone mad. Well, you know what I mean.’

  I know what you mean.

  ‘And let’s not forget my artistic contribution. Apart from being over-wordy on occasions, I haven’t done a bad job. Admittedly I’ve struggled with the continuity a bit. Even I found it difficult to work out which world you were living in. It hasn’t been easy finding language appropriate to 16th-century Holland. Your figurative language is buggered for a kick off. You can’t just drop in a simile which depends on the 21st century for its point of reference. It was quite restricting at times.’

  Narrator, you’ve done very well, although I think you’ll be struggling to find a publisher. Basically it is time to move on. There are many stories out there waiting to be told by someone with your talent.

  ‘Thanks. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a sequel?’

  I’m afraid not.

  SIXTY-TWO:

  John’s Tale

  I remember waking in the morning to the extraordinary experience of having space in my head. The curtains in my room remained unclosed. This in itself was unusual. A cherubic cloud moved between the chimneystacks on the tenements opposite. There was nothing metaphoric about the cloud. It was just a cloud. I listened to the silence in my head which made itself manifest like an echo of the white noise associated with tinnitus. Nothing stirred in there. No one spoke. I waited unless the Voices, led astray by the Jester, were playing a macabre game of hide and seek, and would suddenly burst into my consciousness with a loud ‘Boo!’ If they were hiding they had gone very deep. I waited, reluctant to embrace prematurely the possibility that they had indeed fled. Eventually I spoke out loud. ‘OK, where are you? I’ve slept well, come out and do your worst.’ The half door swung on the saloon bar, the tumbleweed bowled down the deserted street but no one stepped out.

  In the dining room I nodded at my fellow residents as they went through their daily breakfast ritual. As usual, Paul spilt milk down his cardigan. He had finally got one over on the gerunds and did not want to lose the momentum. Kevin put the toast back on his plate and stared at me. ‘You’re different,’ he said, with a tone that hovered somewhere between a smirk and derision.

  ‘The voices have left him,’ said Paul, without glancing up from page 314.

  ‘Something like that,’ I said.

  ‘Are you going to talk all
through my breakfast?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘You’ve been lulled,’ said Mick, tapping the side of his nose, ‘into a false sense of security. Mark my words, son, they’ll be back soon enough. I ken their tricks. You can’t outwit them. Christ, I’ve tried!’

  My mood at that point was somewhere between ecstasy and unadulterated elation. My heart was, quite simply, bursting with joy. I had experienced manic episodes in the past but this felt different somehow. In that moment, holding my cup with a shaking hand, I was paralysed with happiness. If I moved too suddenly I feared that I would shatter the porcelain-thin bubble that had enveloped me. If I stood up from the table the world would go dark again.

  ‘Are you all right, John?’ asked Janet.

  ‘Never better,’ I replied truthfully. ‘I think I’ll go for a walk, it’s a fine day.’

  Mick glanced up from under his beanie as if hoping for an invitation, but I wanted my own company.

  As I walked down Broughton Street towards Canonmills I was aware of the complete absence of commentary from the Narrator. My every move was not being tapped out on someone else’s laptop. My thoughts were my own; no one was questioning them, casting scorn or making mischief.

  I paused at the noticeboard at the entrance to the Botanic Gardens and smiled at the invitation to Celebrate Life at the Botanics. Worth a try I thought. Become a member. I could if I wanted, no problem. Study Practical Horticulture at St Andrews. I don’t think so, thanks very much. I was very conscious that these thoughts remained my own spontaneous internalised reactions, for the first time in a very long while they did not belong to uninvited parasites lodging in my head.

  Despite the early hour couples were wandering fondly trying to make sense of the Latin names on plaques at the foot of every exotic tree. I knew what the Bastard would have said had he been there. Something along the lines of ‘No loving relationship for you, loser.’

  What mattered as I wandered through the gardens, past the ornamental bridge spanning the lily clad pond was the sheer novelty of being liberated, and being happy.