by Brian Aldiss
One of Verity’s many virtues in your eyes was the way in which she so rarely quizzed you about your past life; you lived now in the present, for preference. But at this relaxed moment, perhaps under the influence of that final Metaxa and the sense of a cosy ending to a mainly sad day, she asked you about your trial.
You had no wish to go into detail, or indeed to open the question. ‘The scene was electrifying,’ you said, flatly.
She caught the implication as well as the intonation.
‘I wonder how people described scenes before electricity was invented,’ she murmured. ‘Gaseous?’
You admired her for her ability to combine tact with wit. You turned and kissed her. She inserted a Greek-flavoured tongue in your mouth.
14
The Known Unknowns
That October, you gave a talk in the Castle Museum in Norwich. Your subject concerned the site known as Grimes Graves, in the heart of Norfolk, where the subterranean chalk beds had been tunnelled into by miners seeking a stratum of flint.
You concluded by saying, ‘The flints mined in the forests of Thetford were the subject of international trade. They were traded all over Europe. So Neolithic people would have had no problems with joining the European Union, or the European Monetary Union.’
Subdued booing emerged from the crowd of listeners. You had expected as much, and added crisply, ‘As you know – or as you should know – Spain has just adopted the euro as its official currency. We should do the same, at least if we wish to trade freely, as did the miners of Grimes Graves.’
You sat down to scattered applause. Norfolk had always been an insular part of the nation. Your podiatrist came to mind. She was an intelligent, middle-aged woman, a single mother with two kids to look after. As a confirmed Tory, she was also against the European Union. ‘We don’t want to be like the French and the Germans, Dr Fielding, do we now?’
‘But we are like them, Ursula. Our traditions are much the same, we all share the same rather soft culture nowadays. It makes sense to unify.’
‘I for one don’t wish to be ruled by Brussels.’
You smiled down at the woman. ‘You dare tell me that while you’re kneeling at my feet!’
Verity was with you in Norwich, as was May, now a sixteen-year-old, by turns flighty and morose. She had been allowed to roam the city while you and Verity attended a dinner given in your honour.
After the dinner, you both sat in the lounge of your hotel to await the return of your daughter. Verity started to chat to a local couple who were drinking Patel’s Shabash beer nearby. When Verity admitted that she did not know this part of the country, the man, who introduced himself as a Mr Jim Whiteside, proved himself keen to describe the beauties of Norfolk. He had a strong, musical local accent.
‘As for the coast,’ he said, ‘as got a perticler booty. You want to goo up and see for yooeself. There’s some pretty lettle ould places up there th’ he’n’t changed since I were a booy.’
You asked if he knew Walcot.
‘Walcot? Corse I knoows Walcot. I bin fish’n’ orf of that beach many a time, ketch’n’ mack’rel.’
You turned to your wife. ‘Let’s go and have a look at the coast in the morning,’ you said.
You rose from your seats and were starting to leave the lounge when Mr Jim Whiteside called out, ‘None of them furriners up there eether.’
Turning, Verity said, ‘Enjoy your beer, Mr Whiteside.’
Contrary to Mr Jim Whiteside’s claims, even Walcot had changed since your boyhood. You had revisited that stretch of coast once, after you’d been forced to quit Blackall Square. That was many years ago. You had travelled in low spirits, hoping for a release from melancholy.
Come unto these yellow sands
And there take hands
Such music crept by you on the waters; but the well-remembered spot was disappointing, its inhabitants sunk in poverty.
Gone were the beautiful wheatfields of your extreme youth, where cornflowers and poppies once punctuated with their blue and crimson blossoms the thickets of wheat. Instead, caravans clustered as far as the eye could see: caravans that intended never to move again, caravans up on bricks, caravans with little privies like sentry boxes by their doors, caravans with clematis climbing on trellis nailed against them, caravans with water butts, green or black. And by those caravans were old people, mooching in and out of their doorways; old men in shirt sleeves, their trousers suspended by braces; old women in flimsy dresses with curlers in their hair; younger men sitting on what served as their doorsteps, reading racing papers; younger women gripping plastic pegs between their teeth, pegging out clothes to dry; kids playing with plastic soldiers in the dirt. Old dogs and ageless cats, a canary in a cage, singing its heart out.
You exclaimed with displeasure.
‘Omega’ still stood at that time. Archibald Lane had become a real road, paved and straight, but the bungalow looked as it had looked all those years ago, except for the veranda, which had been demolished. A cheap corrugated square of plastic now hung over the door.
You parked the car on a patch of grass and locked the doors. As you walked along the road to the sea, you remembered the North family who lived in the railway carriages on top of the dunes. A longing possessed you to see them again, but not as they might be now, rather as they were then – the boys in their grey shorts, with their freckles and honest brown faces, their mother in the old frock pale from many washes, watching for you from the dunes to see if you were safe. A fruitless longing.
And with that longing came a longing for the innocent happiness of childhood, and bathing costumes and wooden spades, and the smell of salty towels, the sun forever at zenith, burning you benevolently, before you knew anything of evil, when a day seemed to last for ever and there were shrimps for tea, and strawberries and cream too, if you were lucky.
Nothing seemed to be as it used to be, except for the lulling sound of waves on the shore, tirelessly, ceaselessly, casting themselves up on the shingle and withdrawing, to come again and then again withdraw, the sea breathing like a living thing.
It was high tide at Walcot at the time of your earlier visit. The beach was covered by grey and languid waves, laced with white foam. Directly at your feet was a red metal wall stretching away in both directions, a hideous fortification against further coastal erosion – an inevitable and unwelcome reminder of wartime fortifications, rather than weather.
A little old man in a shabby grey suit was standing on the dunes, looking out to sea.
You asked him if he lived nearby. When he said that he did, you asked him how he liked Walcot.
He shook his head. ‘Mustn’t complain,’ he said.
You thought of Caleb with all his grumbles against the English.
You stared out to sea, shielding your eyes with your hand, in the manner of mariners, trying to recover something you could not name.
That visit had been all but twenty years ago. But how past and present became entangled as you grew older. Now Verity, your beloved wife, was with you, and your daughter, May. You were ageing but more happy and established than you had ever been. And once more Walcot had changed.
Archibald Lane seemed very short. On either side were modest new bungalows, tidy and prim. Sand still blew everywhere. Where the caravans had been, a small village had appeared, neat and organized. Its bungalows were surrounded by tidy gardens. A lawnmower’s roar could be heard. The picture was one of modest prosperity.
May raced you to the edge of the dunes.
Verity clutched your arm. ‘So this is where you played as a little boy. Has it changed much?’
You gave a laugh that held joy in it. ‘Not as much as I.’
Something else came back to your remembrance, floating up from the past. You told them of the iconic thing that had appeared to you one day, a golden figure like a small man. Putting the incident into words made it sound preposterous.
‘But the uselessness of trying to put anything of the past into words
–’
‘But if words are all that remain …’
The golden visitant had asked you various religious questions. You could not remember precisely what the questions had been: something about your soul? Perhaps that was a modern interpretation.
‘I bet it was the vicar,’ said May. ‘Or a bishop – bishops sometimes dress in gold. On special occasions.’
‘No, it was much more heavenly than that. I think I believed it was God. Oh, it’s so long ago, I hadn’t thought about it for years …’ You lapsed into silence. ‘It must have been a vision.’
Verity asked gently, ‘And do you believe your parents realized how dangerous it was to leave you alone to play all day on the beach?’
You hesitated before saying that your mother was rather lazy.
May was silent, looking up at her parents’ faces, trying to interpret your expressions.
As she found nothing there relevant to her, the girl began to search about at her feet for pretty stones. Stones were fairly scarce here among the tough marram grass. May came up to you with a pure white stone in the palm of her hand. ‘Look at this! Just like a gull’s egg.’
On your previous visit, all those years ago, ugly red metal sea defences had been erected, very much cheap and post-war. Now there were imposing concrete ramps, studded with pebble, to resist the erosion of the sea, and not unattractive in their massive stability. Certainly there had been great change over the years. Now the country had reached a period of stability, too. Much as you had. Only global warming threatened a greater change to come.
The tide was retreating, revealing a skirt of golden sand.
‘I want a swim,’ said May. ‘Can we have a skinny dip?’
‘I think the wow factor might be too heavily involved,’ you said, using one of your daughter’s phrases.
‘But it would be cool,’ May said, with the hint of a whine.
‘And the sea would be cold.’
‘Oh, why not let her if she wants to?’ Verity said. ‘Go on, May. We’ll keep an eye on you.’
You all climbed down the steps onto the beach. Gulls rose up screeching. May slipped out of her clothes and waded into the water, with many a shriek at how freezing it was.
After some consideration, Verity said that inevitably there were things we knew, and things we did not know, but it was a gain if we recognized that we did not know them. They were labelled ‘the known unknowns’. She said she considered that most people held in their minds unknowns; the more educated had ‘known unknowns’. Unknowns were like a knot they couldn’t untie.
It was not comfortable to have such locked areas in the mind, or rather, it was more uncomfortable to know they were there, she presumed, than not to know. One of the penalties of intellect was that one understood one had known unknowns locked in the mind, impossible of resolution. Knowing they were there, one naturally wanted access to them. It was in general impossible to open these unknowns, she said.
‘You will always have this particular unknown to worry about,’ she said, giving your arm an affectionate tug. ‘There’s this peculiar quality in the human brain.’ She gave a chuckle. ‘Perhaps it’s a, well, a sort of design fault.’
It is remarkable how ordinary humans frequently touch on a para-universal truth.
As Verity said, we have committed design faults. Yet some of you manage to remain sane, or to attain sanity of a kind.
Of a kind? I suppose you have every right to be condescending.
Every right, certainly.
All the while a mild wind blew off the sea, and the sea continued to sound. May was swimming strongly, breasting the waves. ‘It’s lovely and warm,’ she called.
Your answer to Verity was that your particular unknown covered a vital area. If it was opened, then you would know whether your parents had loved you or not.
Verity shook her head. ‘Surely you know the answer to that one. For whatever reason, their ability to love, even to love one another, was not particularly strong. So give up on it. You and I love one another intensely, let that suffice.’
‘You’re right, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter any more.’
Verity agreed before, looking hard at your face, she demanded, ‘But why did you never ask your mother why they left you alone all day on the beach, without looking after you?’
Your words had to be forced from you. ‘Because I dreaded to know the truth, I suppose.’
May came shining from the sea and stood shivering, hands clasped together over her chest. Verity towelled her vigorously with her own skirt. ‘Get yourself dressed, you awful child.’ She combed her daughter’s hair, bending a benevolent smile on her. ‘Come on, let’s go somewhere for lunch. Shall we try Mundesley?’
She and May turned to go. You stood for a moment longer, staring down at the tide now uncovering the beach. ‘The known unknown’ indeed! You thought it was not merely the beach that held an unknown; here, poised on the edge of the North Sea, you reflected on how much of your own character was unknown.
And you had gone and married a stranger. What luck that that, at least, had turned out well, just as Verity said.
Then Verity tugged you away. The three of you returned to the car.
You learned that Geraldine had flown out to Ecuador to rejoin her mother and her adopted father. You were moved to write to her.
My dear Geraldine,
Once when I was a boy, I had a vision of a golden creature who visited me on a beach. You were the real golden creature who visited me, and I have always regretted I was unable to share all the golden days of your childhood. Can you believe that I loved you intensely although we were apart?
In those days, I was weak and misled. Only in recent years have I become strong enough to admit to that weakness. I fear it may have injured you. There was a hole where your father should rightfully have been. I can only advise you – and perhaps I have not earned the right to do that – NOT To Be INJURED! Surely we can choose our injuries as we choose our activities. And so I presume to tell you not to brood over any injuries I have caused you, as I once brooded over injuries caused me in extreme youth.
We all get such knocks. To employ an old phrase, ‘If it isn’t one thing, it’s another’. Becoming adult should mean to grow out of those knocks. It is better to look to the future, where the hope of avoiding, or at least of dealing with, further knocks is greatly enhanced.
You will find much to engage your attention in a new country. Forgive your father, if you can, not for his sake, but for your sake, to make you free to grow up and be a happy and contributing citizen of this world. (I don’t speak of other worlds, since I have even less jurisdiction there than I have here.)
Be happy, my dear girl!
Your loving
Father
15
The Sacrifice
A mild and damp day. A Saturday, a special Saturday. This was New Year’s Eve, AD 1999. You were a spry seventy-five, marriage to Verity agreed with you.
Spry, yet not entirely one hundred per cent. You had recently suffered spells of fatigue and dizziness. According to your doctor, you had suffered an ischaemic event. He had prescribed atenolol, without telling you what usually followed from such events.
You rose in the unfamiliar hotel room and padded over in your pyjamas to the electric kettle to make Verity and yourself a cup of Jackson’s tea. As you waited for the kettle to boil, you swallowed down an aspirin and two atenolol capsules with a glass of water.
‘Wonderful,’ said Verity from the bed. ‘I refuse to wake up until you press the mug into my hand.’
‘I was thinking. All that keeps me alive are these bloody pills. Three at night, three in the morning; our human biology is much more ramshackle than was that of the plesiosaur.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘They lived for millions of years. You can’t claim that of us.’
As you took the mugs of tea over to the bed, Verity sat up, lodging a pillow behind her shoulders. She was wearing her sc
arlet silk nightie.
‘Do you wish we had met years earlier than we did?’ she asked. The mischievous expression on her face told you that she was setting a small trap and planning to tease you by contradicting what she expected you to say. You took evasive action.
‘I’m simply glad that good fortune rolled up when it did.’
‘If by good fortune rolling up you are referring to my weight … I may have put on a few pounds, but look at the way we live.’
You snuggled beside her, spilling the merest drop of tea on the sheet.
‘I don’t know how I endure your quibbling.’
You kissed over the cups.
‘What happiness you have brought me, Steve, my darling.’
You told her, ‘To celebrate the end of this century and the beginning of Number Twenty-One, I have written, well, I have extruded, let’s say, a verse. As follows:
I shall think of the woes of the past
Ere I go to my ultimate rest,
How the best love of all is the last,
And the last years of all are the best.
‘This, lady, is my sonnet to your eyes …’
All the church bells in the kingdom were ringing in the new century. The magical quality of three noughts in the year had excited everyone, so much so that you and Verity had booked yourselves a suite in the Savoy Hotel. And not you two alone; this was a time for the gathering of the clans. Your children, Ted and May, had adjoining, but separate rooms; other rooms were occupied by Ronnie and Barbara Nash and Barbara’s sister, Lulu; by Paul and Joyce and their little boy, Sanchi; by Freddie Frost and his partner, Hy Donaldson; by Geraldine Fielding and her girlfriend, Kyle Clifford; by Betsy, Belle Hillman’s daughter; and by old Claude Hillman. Nine rooms or suites in all had been booked for the clan, many of them looking out towards the River Thames.
‘I doubt I’ll see this new century out,’ said Claude, with a gruff, patent laugh. A year earlier, he had undergone a triple heart bypass. ‘Better drink up while we can, eh, Steve?’