England, England

by Julian Barnes

  ‘Now, in considering the historical evidence for same-sex orientation, the case of Maid Marian is fundamental. According to such imperfect narratives as have survived, Marian, originally Matilda Fitzwater, went through a ceremony of marriage to Hood performed by Friar Tuck – which presumably made it of dubious ecclesiastical validity. However, she declined to consummate the marriage until the ban of outlawry had been lifted from her spouse. In the meanwhile, she took the name Maid Marian, lived in chastity, assumed male attire, and hunted alongside the “Men.” Any hypotheses, gentlemen, Miss Cochrane?’

  But they were all too intent, both on Dr Max’s narrative, or at least pictorial capacity, and on his audacity, not to say recklessness, vis-à-vis the owner of family newspapers. Sir Jack himself was ruminatively silent. ‘Three possibilities spring to mind,’ Dr Max went on smoothly, ’at least to my own imperfect cerebral instrument. First the neutral, non-interpretative possibility –though no true historian believes neutral non-interpretation to be possible – that Maid Marian was obeying the chivalric code of the times as she understood it. Second, that it was a marital ploy to avoid penetrative sex. Whether or not a vow of chastity would also relate to non-penetrative sex isn’t clear from the historical record. Marian might have been trying, as it were, to have her cake and eat it. Third, that Matilda Fitzwater, while legally and baptismally female, was perhaps biologically male, and was employing a technical loophole in the law of chivalry in order to escape detection.

  ‘You doubtless await my conclusions to all these matters with bated breath. My conclusions are these: that personally I could not give a toss; that in assembling this report I have rarely felt so insulted in my professional life; and that my resignation is in the post. Thank you, gentlemen, Miss Cochrane, Chairman.’

  With that, Dr Max rose and tripped nattily from the room. Everyone waited for Sir Jack to pronounce judgment. But the Chairman, untypically, declined to offer a lead. Eventually, Jeff said, ‘Shot himself in the foot there, I’d say.’

  Sir Jack shrugged and stirred. ‘You’d say that, would you, Jeff?’ The Concept Developer realized that his assumption had been too easy. ‘I myself would say that Dr Max’s contribution was most positive. Provocative, of course, and at times bordering on the offensive. But I did not get where I am by employing Yes-men, did I, Marco?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or do you mean Yes on this occasion? Whatever.’

  Business continued. Sir Jack indicated the direction in which they should be going. Jeff sulked. Martha felt a pang for Dr Max. Mark, who sniffed every wind, seconded the proposal that there should be active recruitment among gays and ethnic minorities. He also agreed that further investigation was required into how conditions of outlawry might equip the differently-abled to make a fuller contribution than that permitted in today’s marginalizing society. For who could have a stronger sense of smell than the visually impaired? Who could be more resolute under torture than the deaf mute?

  A final suggestion was recorded in the minutes. Might there not be two separate ‘Bands’ in Sherwood Forest, ideologically linked yet autonomous: the traditional all-male, though minority-oriented organization led by Robin Hood; and a separatist femme group led by Maid Marian? These matters were adjourned for further discussion.

  As they were breaking up, Sir Jack crooked a finger at the Concept Developer. ‘Jeff, by the way, you realize that I am making you personally responsible?’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Jack.’

  ‘Good.’ The Chairman turned back to the latest Susie.

  ‘Er. Excuse me, Sir Jack. What for?’

  ‘What for what?’

  ‘What exactly am I personally responsible for?’

  ‘For ensuring that Dr Max’s pertinent contributions to our ideas forum continue. Get after him, dunderhead.’

  ‘VICTOR,’ said Auntie May. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’ She opened the front door of ‘Ardoch’ wider to let him pass. Some nephews wanted a maid – usually a very specific maid – to greet them. But nephew Victor liked doing things properly: this was Auntie May’s house, so Auntie May answered the door.

  ‘I’ve brought you a bottle of sherry,’ said Sir Jack.

  ‘Always a most considerate nephew.’ Today she was an elegant, tweed-suited woman with a silver-blue rinse; respectable, affectionate yet firm. Tomorrow she would be a different Auntie. ‘I’ll open it later.’ She knew the brown bag would also contain the correct number of thousand-euro notes. ‘I feel so much better after your visits.’ That was true. Some of the girls complained it wasn’t worth the extra, and why was Victor allowed to when some of the others weren’t? Well, they wouldn’t have to bother much longer; and she wouldn’t have to worry about finding a new Heidi every few months.

  ‘May I go and play, Auntie?’ Of all her nephews, Victor was the one who got down to business the quickest. He knew what he wanted, when, and how. She’d miss that. Sometimes it took an age getting new nephews to articulate their desires. You’d try to help them along and then make the wrong guess. ‘Now you’ve gone and spoiled it,’ they’d whine.

  ‘Go and play, Victor dear. I’ll just put my legs up for a bit. It’s been such a tiring day.’

  Sir Jack’s gait changed as he walked to the staircase. He became more bottom-heavy and soft-kneed; his feet pointed outwards. He went downstairs with a sideways, rolling motion, as if he might topple over at any moment. But he kept his balance; he was a big boy now, and big boys knew where to go. The first time Auntie May had tried accompanying him, but he’d soon put a stop to that.

  The nursery was twelve metres by seven, brightly lit, with cheery posters on its yellow walls. It was dominated by two items: a wooden playpen one and a half metres high and three metres square; and a pram two and a half metres long, with thick-spoked wheels and hefty axles. The pram’s hood was fringed with Union Jack bunting. Baby Victor adjusted the knee-level dimmer switches and the hiss on the gas-fire. He hung up his suit, then threw his shirt and underclothes over the rocking-horse. When he was bigger he would ride the horse, but he wasn’t big enough yet.

  Naked, he undid the big brass catch on the playpen and stepped inside. On a plastic tea-tray sat a wobbly green jelly, fresh out of its mould, half a metre high. Sometimes he liked to drop it down his tummy. Sometimes he liked to pick it up and throw it against the wall; then he would get told off and smacked. Today it didn’t tempt him. He lay down on his front and burrowed into the plush pink rug, knees splayed like a frog. Then he half-turned and goggled up at the dresser. The vast pile of nappies, the metre-high bottle of baby oil, the matching powder can. Auntie May certainly knew how to do things. She’d taken some finding but it was worth every euro.

  Just at the right moment, the nursery door opened.

  ‘Baby! Baby Victor!’

  ‘Goo-goo-goo-goo!’

  ‘Baby botty. Baby botty need nappy.’

  ‘Naaaapy,’ purred Sir Jack, ‘Naaaaapy.’

  ‘Nice nappy,’ said Lucy. She wore a freshly-pressed mid-brown nurse’s uniform and her real name was Heather; unknown to Auntie May, she was preparing her doctorate in psycho-sexual studies at Reading University. But here she was called Lucy and was paid in cash. She took the giant powder can from the dresser and balanced it on the top rail of the playpen. Scented powder rained down from holes the size of teapot spouts; Victor gurgled and jiggled his pleasure. Nursie paused, then with a camel-hair mop attached to a broomstick she rubbed the powder into Baby’s skin. He turned on his back, and she powdered his other side. Then she fetched a towelling nappy the size of a bath-sheet from the dresser. Sir Jack concealed the assistance he provided, and Lucy the amount of physical strength required, as she manoeuvred him around on the springy cloth. He parted and unparted his legs most authentically as she tucked the nappy round him and finished it off with a 50-centimetre brass safety-pin. Most babies went for ready-made padded plastic nappies with Velcro fasteners; and the mere sound of Velcro being pulled apart had an instant effect on some of th
em. But Baby Victor preferred terry-towelling and a safety-pin. Heather reflected on the infancy the two of them were replicating: had his parents been green, old-fashioned – or perhaps merely poor?

  ‘Baby hungry?’ asked Lucy. This one also liked old-fashioned baby talk. Others needed grown-up sentences, which perhaps denoted an infancy in which they had been treated as adults from the start, and thus denied the authentic nurturee’s experiences they now sought; or it might indicate a desire for adult control over the fantasy; or again, an inability to regress further. ‘Perhaps Baby would like to have his nappy changed now?’ you said in all grammatical seriousness. But this Baby claimed complete Babying. Cloth nappies, naturalistic vocalization, and … all the rest, which she avoided thinking about for the moment. Instead she repeated, ‘Baby hungry?’

  ‘Titty,’ he murmured. An advanced communicator for a three-month-old, it was true; but faithful inarticulacy would have made the job difficult.

  She went to the door, opened it, and called ‘Baby hun-gry’ in a specified voice, cooing yet naughty. Two metres above her head, Gary Desmond gave himself a joyous thumbs-up about the sound quality. He watched the monitor as Lucy closed the door and Sir Jack got to his feet in the playpen. On awkward heels, he moved with his low-bottomed waddle to the dresser, wrenched open the bottom drawer, and pulled out a blue checked mobcap. He knotted its strings beneath his chin, then purposefully climbed the reinforced steps of the pram and swung himself aboard. The pram rocked on its springs like an ocean liner but otherwise did not move. Auntie May had made sure it was truly bolted to the floor.

  Sitting up beneath the raised pram-hood with its Union Jack bunting, Sir Jack began to mewl and show his teeth. After a while the grizzling stopped and in a near-boardroom voice he bawled, ‘TITTY!’

  At this signal, Heidi came tripping in. All the lactating mothers used by Auntie May were called Heidi; it was a house tradition. This one was getting near the end of her milk, or perhaps was simply getting fed up with having her breasts sucked on by middle-aged Babies; either way, she’d have to be replaced in a week or two. This was always a most difficult part of Auntie May’s profession. Once, in desperation, she’d signed up a Caribbean Heidi. What a tantrum Baby Victor had thrown that day! It had been quite the wrong idea.

  Victor also insisted on a proper feeding bra. Some Babies went for the topless-dancer look; but Baby Victor took being a Baby seriously. Heidi, who wore her highlighted hair in a French pleat, loosened her blouse a little from her dirndl skirt, climbed up to the pram’s side, unbuttoned herself and then unsnapped her nipple cover. Sir Jack gurgled ‘Titty’ again, pulled his lips over his teeth to make a gummy mouth, and accepted the exposed nipple. Heidi gently squeezed her breast; Victor reached up a vole-like paw and rested it against the underwired bra; then closed his eyes in deep content. After a few eternal minutes, Heidi withdrew her nipple, allowing milk to splash on his cheeks, and gave him her other breast. She squeezed, he sucked again with his baby-mouth, and swallowed gurglingly. Heidi had more trouble reaching over to him with this breast, and concentrated hard on exact delivery. Finally, he opened his eyes from a deep drowse, and gently pushed her away. She dribbled some more milk on to him, and judged him almost ready. She knew he preferred to let Lucy wipe the milk off. Heidi snapped back her nipple-pouches, buttoned her blouse, and casually let her hand drift down the front of his bulging nappy. Yes, Baby Victor was well and ready.

  She left the nursery. Sir Jack began to grizzle to himself, first quietly, then louder. Finally, he boomed out, ‘NAPPY!’ and Lucy, waiting behind the door with her hands in a bowl of iced water, came running.

  ‘Nappy wet?’ she asked worriedly. ‘Baby’s nappy wet? Let Nursie look.’ She tickled Baby Victor’s tummy, and slowly, carefully, teasingly undid his safety-pin. Sir Jack’s erection was in full swing, and with cool hands Lucy felt all round it.

  ‘Nappy not wet,’ she said in a puzzled tone. ‘Baby Victor not wet.’ Sir Jack grizzled away again, prompting her to search for other causes. She wiped Heidi’s milk from his ox-cheeks, then played gently with his balls. Finally, as it seemed, a thought came to her. ‘Baby itchy?’ she wondered aloud.

  ‘Tchy,’ Victor repeated. ‘Tchy.’

  Lucy fetched the double-magnum of baby oil. ‘Itchy,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘Poor Baby. Nursie make evvything better.’ Upending the bottle, she squirted the oil on to Baby Victor’s mountainous tummy, his elephantine thighs, and what they were both pretending was his little willy. Then she started to rub away Baby Victor’s itches.

  ‘Baby Victor like rubbing?’ she asked.

  ‘Uh … uh … uh,’ murmured Sir Jack, dictating the required rhythm. From now on Lucy avoided eye-contact. She had tried being objective: she was, after all, Heather, and this was useful, well-paid field-work. But she found that, in a strange way, she could only become fully detached by increased involvement, by persuading herself that she was indeed Lucy, and this was indeed Baby Victor, nappy adrift, naked except for a blue mobcap, who lay sprawled beneath her.

  ‘Uh … uh,’ he went as she ploshed more oil around his corona. ‘Uh … uh,’ as he raised his hips to tell her to slicken up his balls some more. ‘Uh … uh,’ in a quieter, growlier tone to indicate that she was doing it exactly right. Then, with a bigger, riper growl, he whispered, ‘Poo.’

  ‘Baby do poo?’ she asked encouragingly, as if not entirely convinced that he was capable of the ultimate act of Babyhood. There were some Babies who wanted to be told they couldn’t, and so didn’t. There were others who wanted to be told they couldn’t in order to seek the thrill of transgression. But Baby Victor was a true Baby; there were no complications or ambiguity to his imperious demands. The final one, she recognized, was very close.

  His hips pushed upwards, she squeezed her glistening hands in response, and Sir Jack Pitman, entrepreneur, innovator, ideas man, arts patron, and inner-city revitalizer, Sir Jack Pitman, less a captain of industry than a very admiral, Sir Jack Pitman, visionary, dreamer, man of action, and patriot, began a throaty crescendo which ended in a sforzando bellow of ‘POOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ He let out a string of ploppy farts, came joltingly in Lucy’s joined hands, and shat spectacularly in his nappy.

  Some Babies like to be cleaned up, wiped, dried, and powdered, which all cost a few thousand more euros, and was unpopular with the girls. But Lucy’s duty was now over; Baby Victor preferred at this point to be left alone. The camera’s closing sequence had him springing from the pram, and walking like an emerging adolescent towards the shower-room. Gary Desmond did not bother to document either the tempo, or the narcissism, of Sir Jack Pitman’s dressing.

  Auntie May saw Victor to the door, as she always did, thanking him for the sherry and expressing anticipation of next month’s visit. She wondered if it would happen. She didn’t like losing one of her most regular nephews. Still, if he did have something to do with that dreadful massacre … and Colonel Desmond’s fee had been surprisingly generous … and they wouldn’t have to keep remembering the bunting for the pram … and the girls never really approved of the crappers. They said that was taking Babyhood just a bit too far.

  Sir Jack Pitman piaffed out of ‘Ardoch’ and whistled his way down to the limo. He felt rejuvenated. There was Woodie, cap under arm, holding open the door. Salt of the earth, people like Woodie. Damn fine driver; loyal too. Not like young Harrison, turning up his nose when offered the chance of driving Sir Jack. Wanting to get off home and canoodle with Miss Cochrane. She was a devious one, trying to subvert the Guardian of his Ideas. Yet even the brief contemplation of their squalid coupling could not shift his good humour. Loyalty. Yes, he must give Woodie a generous tip when they got home. And what would it be on the way? The Seventh, perhaps? Kept you cheerful if you were that way inclined, cheered you up if you weren’t. Yes, the Seventh. Damn fine chap, old Ludwig.

  THE KING WAS PILOTING the royal jet from Northolt to Ventnor. At least, he thought he was; and this was more or less the case. But since
the sequence of royal incidents, an override system had been introduced. The official co-pilot – who had proved so inadequate during Prince Rick’s tragic incineration of the day-care centre – was now just for window-dressing. He was strictly hands-off, there to smile and approve, someone to whom the royal pilot could feel superior. Instead, there was a tiny delay between the King’s navigational demands and their endorsement by the Air Commander (Heritage) at Aldershot. Today, with clear skies and a light south-westerly breeze, the King was virtually in control. There was little for Aldershot to do; while the co-pilot could smile at the placid landscape and wait for the rendezvous west of Chichester.

  Here they came, snub-nosed and clattery, two Spitfires and a Hurricane, waggling their roundelled wings, ready to escort the whisperjet to the Island’s official opening. Aldershot briefly overrode the royal instruments and throttled back to match the agreed airspeed. The Spitfires took wing position, as the Hurricane fell in line astern.

  The fighters’ intercom system was the latest model, incorporating period static and crackle. ‘Wing-Commander “Johnnie” Johnson reporting, Sir. On your starboard wing you have Squadron-Leader “Ginger” Baker, and on the port side Flight-Lieutenant “Chalky” White.’

  ‘Welcome aboard, gentlemen,’ said the King. ‘Sit back and enjoy the show, eh? Roger, or what?’

  ‘Roger, Sir.’

  ‘Just out of interest, Wing-Commander, who was Roger?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Worked for a firm called Wilco, I seem to remember.’

  ‘You’ve lost me there, I’m afraid, Sir.’

  ‘Just my joke, Wing-Commander. Over and out.’

  The King looked across at his co-pilot and shook his head in disappointment. There’d been a script meeting at the Palace that morning, and he’d practised his lines with Denise as they were waiting to take off. She’d nearly peed herself. She was a real best mate, Denise. But what was the point in paying good money if the audience didn’t get it?