He stumbles on into the Final Departure Lounge. He has one last chance to phone Papagena and try to explain what has happened before the use of Mobile Phones is forbidden during the heavenward Ascent. His fingers form the familiar jaunty pattern on the buttons. But, in a musical masterstroke of heart-breaking poignancy, all we hear is silence. There are no buttons for him to play upon, because he has left the Mobile Phone lying on the table at Security Control.
Only now is he sufficiently chastened to enter the winding narrow corridor that leads to the ultimate Goal of his Ordeal. He bows his head abjectly to pass through the last low doorway – and when he raises it again he is in a new and better world, with heavenly Muzak playing, and the Cabin Crew welcoming him in the joyous finale, ‘Thank you for choosing’. They hope he has a pleasant flight, they sing, as the triumphant clunking of Seat-Belts is heard and the curtain falls.
So now all our victorious hero has to face is Act Three, and Disenlightenment at the other end.
(1994)
The mails must go through
Dear Joyce,
Just a line to say thank you for your letter. Lots of news to tell you, but must rush, so excuse scrawl.
I hope you and Howard are keeping well, and that Nicholas and Simonetta are in ‘rude health’. Dominic and Nicolette are both ‘blooming’. They’ve got through the summer with no coughs or sneezes so far, though I suppose there’s plenty of time yet, so we’re ‘keeping our fingers crossed!’ John sends his love. Had a letter from Ida on Monday – she and Ralph are both well. She asks to be remembered to you, and says Simon and Nicola are both ‘blooming.’ Ralph sends his love.
Well, I must stop rambling on like this or I will go on all night. Must rush to catch the post.
All my love,
Eileen
Dear Eileen,
I expect you will almost faint with surprise to find your ever-loving sister-in-law replying already! Wonders will never cease. The trouble is you’re such a virtuous correspondent you make a girl feel the still, small voice pricking away like mad! Wild horses couldn’t drag me to take up pen and paper normally, but Duty calls!
Glad to hear Dominic and Nicolette are blossoming. Nicholas and Simonetta are disgustingly healthy, needless to say. Also had a letter from Ida (not usually the world’s greatest correspondent, so you see the age of miracles is not past!), and she says Simon and Nicola are flourishing like the proverbial green bay tree. She and Ralph send you their love. Howard sends his love too of course.
Forgive the horrible scrawl. Lots more to tell, but must stop now or shall have to go over on to new page, and it’s not worth it just for a line or two.
All my love,
Joyce
Dear Joyce,
Just a line to thank you for your letter. Been meaning to write ever since it arrived last Wednesday (first post), but I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, you know how it is. I feel very guilty for not ‘doing my duty’ more promptly, but I always was a poor correspondent. Somehow I never seem to have the time – I expect you find it much the same. How you manage to keep it up I simply do not know. I suppose some people are just ‘born’ letter-writers! Not me, worse luck, it’s a terrible chore.
Dominic and Nicolette are very well – no coughs or sneezes so far, touch wood. Ralph and Ida were over with Simon and Nicola – all in the ‘pink’. They send their love. How are Nicholas and Simonetta?
Well, I mustn’t go on, I’m just indulging myself. I must rush, or you won’t get this first post. Please excuse scrawl.
All my love,
Eileen
Dear Eileen,
Don’t faint with surprise, but it really is a letter from me. Wonders will never cease. Give the girl a prize. Believe it or not, I feel the stern call of Duly sometimes! I’m quite the little model correspondent – I must be shamed into it by your sterling example! I feel sorry for you having to decipher yet another dollop of my famous horrible scrawl, but on your own head be it – don’t say I didn’t warn you!
First and foremost, I had a letter from Ida (yes, you did hear right!). Ralph sends his love, and apparently Simon and Nicola are both A1 at Lloyd’s. I trust Dominic and Nicolette are likewise and ditto. Nicholas and Simonetta I am glad to inform you are their usual sweet (ha, ha!) selves. Howard sends his love.
Well, the bottom of the page is already raising its ugly head, so I must restrain what Howard calls my boundless gift for gossip, and dash to catch the post.
All my love,
Joyce
PS. Must go over on to a new page to tell you – so funny. Had an extraordinary epistle from Our Mutual Mum-in-law – rambling on about everything under the sun from French history to politics. Yes, politics, for heaven’s sake, in a letter! I didn’t read it all, of course, but the general gist of it seemed to be that she was well and sent her love.
Dear Joyce,
Just a line ‘in haste’ to apologise for not writing before, so excuse the scrawl. Keep promising myself I’ll sit down and write you a really good long letter one of these days, but never seem to get the chance. You’re such a good letter-writer it makes me feel ashamed of my own poor efforts. I suppose it’s the way you ‘put’ things. I always feel ‘I wish I’d thought of that’ – but then you’ve got the gift, haven’t you? When I sit down to write it all flies out of my head. But one of these days I really will sit down and write a good long letter.
Well, sorry to have ‘gone on’ so long – I never ‘know when to stop,’ that’s my trouble. Must rush to catch post, so I’m afraid I’ll have to close.
All my love,
Eileen
PS. Knew there was something I meant to say – everyone is well and sends their love.
(1963)
Major minor
1 The press pack concerning the vision of Zebediah, the son of Ud.
2 Like unto rotten medlar fruits are the harlotries of Ashkelon, and the whoredoms of Moab cry unto heaven as the howling of wolves in the wilderness of Geshur. And the day shall come when the sons and daughters of Ashkelon are devoured by the cankerworm. In that day shall the fire of the Lord fall upon the husbandmen of Moab, and fry them like the potatoes of Shechem.
3 This urgent warning to the world is the message of the Book of Zebediah, the forthcoming major prophetic work from the publishers of the Book of Obadiah and the Book of Habbakuk. (Publication date: 6 June 635 BC. Price: 14.99 shekels.)
4 Controversial prophet Zebediah’s raunchy study of lust and decadence in the sunbaked desert settlements of Judah and Gilead is certain to be the big headline-grabber of the season. Already a major religion is bidding for biblical rights.
5 Leading prophets who have seen the Book of Zebediah prior to publication predict that it could repeat the huge popular success of the Book of Jonah. Zebediah, says Hosea, will do for cankerworms what Jonah did for whales.
6 Often regarded by critics as a member of the so-called Minor Prophets group, Zebediah himself prefers not to be labelled. ‘Woe unto the pigeonholers and them that cry minor,’ he says, ‘for their inkhorns shall run dry and their retainers shall be cut off.’
7 Although he respects the great classical prophets of the past such as Isaiah and Jeremiah, he believes the whole prophecy scene has changed. ‘The six and sixty chapters of Isaiah, yea, and the two and fifty chapters of Jeremiah also, are as great oaks that darken the sun,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘But this generation is a generation of grasshoppers. Their attention flareth like dry grass in the fire, and dieth as quickly away. Under two and fifty chapters they sink as an over-laden she-ass, and six and sixty shall be drowned by the snoring of fools.’
8 The modern prophet, he believes, has to adapt to the audience’s taste. ‘Let him tarry not in his task. Let him jump nimbly from the striking of thunderbolts upon the mountains of Ziph to the opening of graves in Dothan, let him haste from the depredations of locusts in Ataroth to the roaring of lions in Aphek, as the bee passeth quickly from the lily to the asphodel, n
or lingereth long upon any blossom.
9 ‘And he that crieth Oh, how are the prophets of this generation become short of breath, how they have become minor, let him beware, for the day shall surely come when the twain do meet, and then woe unto him that hath raised his voice against us, for strong drink shall be thrown in his face, and backs most markedly turned.’
10 Zebediah will be doing a seventeen-city author tour of the Holy Land, from Dan to Beersheba, featuring readings and author signings. Beth-shemesh shall hear his words, and woe shall it be unto Beth-shemesh in that day! (12 June). Beth-horon shall be read the full horrific details of what it’s like to be devoured by cankerworms, even as a dead sheep is devoured among the thorn-bushes of Gezer, and the prophecy-lovers of Beth-horon shall be as sick as the dogs of Tishbe.
11 Zebediah will be at Prophetic Writing Week in Jezreel in July, taking part in a brains-trust with fellow-prophets Nabum and Micah on ‘Whither Prophecy?’. At the Ashdod Festival in August he will give a seminar with Amos on Prophecy as a Career Option.
12 Like all prophets, Zebediah is often asked whether he prophesies regularly, or only when he feels inspired. ‘The wise prophet,’ he says sagely, ‘sitteth down to prophesy directly he hath broken his fast, nor shall he first answer letters from them that have heard his words, nor linger to read reports of new abominations. But when the sun standeth high in the heavens, and the signs and portents visit him less readily, then is it pleasant to go to the well, and drink a stoop or two with others that labour in the same vineyard.’
13 Haggai and Malachi are among the fellow-prophets he often sees. Sometimes, he says, they talk about the semiotics of eschatology. ‘But more often,’ he admits laughingly, ‘we raise our voices against the exactions of agents, and the faint-heartedness of publishers.’
14 In fact Zebediah has something of a reputation as a hell-raiser, which some people find surprising. ‘Yet if the prophets go not among winebibbers and harlots,’ he demands reasonably, ‘how shall the transgressions of these be known?
15 ‘And he that passeth the night in this manner, when he awaketh, the light of the sun shall be heavy upon his eyelids. And there shall be a rolling of great rocks inside his head, and his mouth shall be as the dust of the wilderness. Then shall he know more fully the fruits of wickedness, and cry out more perspicaciously for repentance.’
16 He admits, like most prophets, to occasional depression and bad patches. ‘There cometh haply a morning when the prophet riseth up, and his head is as clear as the fishpools in Heshbon,’ he says wryly. ‘And, lo, the evil things he saw have receded away like melting snow, the harlotries of the people seem not so much harlotries as formerly; and their whoredoms understandable. Then murmureth the prophet unto himself. It may yet come to pass that the cankerworm will cease from his devourings, and the anger of the Lord will be turned aside. It may hap that we are entering upon a time of prosperity and sustained growth without concomitant inflation.’
17 In fact the horrifying consequences of this scenario for the whole future of prophetic writing are the subject of the sequel he is working on now, 2 Zebediah, extracts from which be will be performing from September onwards as work in progress. In leading wildernesses everywhere.
(1995)
Making a name for yourself
Writing a novel, as any novelist will tell you, is hard. Writing a short story, as any short story writer will be eager to add, is harder still. The shorter the form the harder it gets. Poems are hell. Haiku are hell concentrated into seventeen syllables.
Until finally you get down to the shortest literary form of all, which is the title of whatever it is you’re writing. Long-distance novelists who can happily write several thousand words a day for months on end then go into creative agonies when the time comes to compose the two or three words that will go on the spine. Battle-hardened samurai of the haiku take instruction from Zen masters before they attempt to extract an odd syllable out of their hard-won seventeen to go in the index.
This year, for various reasons, four different works of mine have reached the point where they need titles, and I’ve reached the point where I need hospitalisation. It’s not that I can’t write titles. I’ve written far more titles than anything else in my life. For one of these four projects I have 107 titles. For another – 74. For the third – 134. 134 titles! For one short book! 134 pretty good titles, though I say so myself. The trouble is you don’t want 134 pretty good titles. You want one perfect title.
No titles at all so far for the fourth project, but this is because I haven’t written the thing yet. Though after the agonies I’ve had with the other three I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t write the title of this one first, then dash down a few thousand words to fit it.
The curious thing is that you usually do have a title first. You have the working title, that you put on the front of the file when you begin, just so that you know which file’s which. The working title, as its name suggests, works. That’s to say, it actually succeeds in telling you which file’s which, and it does it without being pretentious, or facetious, or unintentionally obscene. But the publisher, or the producer, or whoever it is, doesn’t like it. Your agent doesn’t like it – your partner doesn’t like it. No one likes it. This may be because they don’t know about it – you haven’t told them. You know you can’t use the working title. Life has to be harder than that.
One of the troubles with a list of 134 titles is that it offers odds of at least 133 to 1 against getting it right. I’ve got it wrong many times in the past. There’s only one novel of mine that anyone ever remembers – and for all practical purposes it’s called The One About Fleet Street, because even the people who remember the book can’t remember the title I gave it. I wrote another book called Constructions. I think I realised even before publication that I’d picked a dud here, when my own agent referred to it in the course of the same conversation once as Conceptions and once as Contractions.
I suppose it must be even worse being ennobled, and having to find a title to give yourself. You’re not going to go out of print and be pulped. You’re going to be stuck with being Lord Conceptions, or Baroness Contractions, for the rest of your life. The thought of the torments that new peers must go through makes me look at the House of Lords with a fresh respect.
As with a book, of course, you start with a perfectly good little working title. When the Prime Minister’s office writes with the good news you’re G. E. Bodd, of The Moorings, Oakdene Avenue, Carshalton Beeches. You could perfectly well become Lord Bodd of somewhere. Lord Bodd of Carshalton, why not? Lord Bodd of The Moorings? Or Lord Moorings of the Beeches, perhaps? You never consider any of them for a moment. You’d be ashamed to mention them to the College of Arms.
You let your imagination take flight a little. You want something that celebrates the rise of the Bodds of Carshalton with some suitable panache – something that brings a touch of good old-fashioned romance to the world – something that your friends can remember. Lord Mountfitchet of Compton Pauncefoot? The future Lady Mountfitchet doesn’t like it. Lord Lafite-Rothschild of Sampford Peverell? Too many syllables, says Garter King of Arms – toastmasters will never be able to say it. So how about something nice and Scottish? That always sounds attractively baronial. Lord McDrumlin of Dundreggan? Rouge Dragon says there’s a superstition in the business that Scottish titles bring bad luck.
You play with the idea of something extravagantly modest and self-deprecating. Lord Dymm of Dull. Lord Little of Mere. But Rouge Croix says that in the highly competitive peerage of today you are liable to be overlooked if you don’t sell yourself hard. You go to the opposite extreme. For the whole of one afternoon you have absolutely decided that you will be Lord Magnificence of Belgravia. One of the Pursuivants – Portcullis, probably – says this is too abstract. You wake up in the middle of the night knowing with absolute conviction that you want to be Lord Lashings of Styal. Portcullis quite likes it, but it doesn’t really speak to Bluemantle.
You decide to forget grandeur, and be entirely up-to-date and straightforwardly commercial. You flirt with Lord Brookside of Coronation Street. Then you think, no, if we’re going down into the marketplace, let’s get right down there and quite frankly sell ourselves. You submit a shortlist to the Heralds that includes Lord Knight of Passion and Lord Stirrings of Lust. There is no reply from the Heralds.
You’d really like to find something absolutely plain and straightforward that reflected your character in some way. Lord Baggs of Enthusiasm, perhaps? The Heralds say there is already a Lord Baggs of Foulness. Then you go through a whimsical phase, when you fancy spending the rest of your life as Lord Much of Amuchness. The Chester Herald loves it, but the Windsor Herald can’t find Amuchness, even on the large-scale Ordnance Survey. He can find Sale and Hay, it’s true, but there’s already a Lord Conditions and the Lancaster Herald for some reason hates Lord Bundles. You feel that Lord Fax of Uckfield has a certain ring, or alternatively Lord Hunt of Cuckfield. The Heralds turn them both down. They will not explain why.
By the time you have gone through 134 permutations you are ready to grasp at anything. Anything! Yes, why not? Lord Anything of Interest. Lord Anything of Anywhere …
In the end you go back to your working title. Lord Bodd. It has the advantage of saying what it means. Bodd is who you are, after all. You still jib at Carshalton, though. Then you remember you have a great-aunt living in Budleigh Salterton. At the eleventh hour you settle blindly for your 135th effort – Lord Bodd of Budleigh. As soon as you’ve sent it in you realise it’s a disaster, but it’s too late for 136th thoughts.
No one’s going to remember, anyway. The first time you go to the House, Lord Doss of Liss introduces you to Lord Loss of Diss as Lord Budd of Dudley, whereupon Lord Loss of Diss introduces you to Lord Ladd of Lydd as Lord Dudd of Didley.
Collected Columns Page 21