NGLND XPX

by Ian Hutson

  ‘...My god Sir – “we” – you surely don’t mean... you can’t mean... mixed dancing?’ interjected Goreblood Nouveauriche Senior with a touch of porter apoplexy about his temples. ‘Rich with, with, with ... poor? The light-of-purse cavorting with those of more ample liquid means? The itinerant sharing toe-space with the multi-acreage enabled?’

  ‘I do so mean, Sir. There are others in this town less fortunate than ourselves who...’

  ‘No! Don’t say it out loud! I forbid it! To even think of it – my son with... other classes. Dancing on the face of social propriety! Do we even know these ... others? Have you placed your own dear mother and me in danger of nodding socially with folk who are aware of your podiatric and perambulatory perversions?’

  ‘I must say it Sir, I simply must. There are others in this town Sir who dance, aye and most of ’em are necessarily in our employ Sir. Weft-digglers, mule-spinners, dye-room stirrers and fluff-reclamation runners. I’ve danced with them all. Sometimes leading, sometimes led, it depends upon the dance. The art of expressive movement must know no social bounds Sir. It is an egalitarian movement if it is anything at all. We demand liberty for and equality from our fraternity.’

  [At this point a French poodle, misled by its own clumsy translation from the Northern English language, leapt to its feet, thus revealing itself as a cinquieme columnist caniche. A “dirty dog” in waiting.]

  ‘No! No!’ Franklin Goreblood Nouveauriche pressed his fists to his ears as if to squeeze out the news, to crush the nonsense of it all from his head. He staggered and found that he could do no more than sit heavily at the piano-forte stool in careful emotional juxtaposition to a large fern in a Ming dynasty two-handled planter. ‘No! Tell me it isn’t so! With commoners? You have danced, with commoners?’

  ‘Aye, Father – of a Saturday night we gathers oursen in t’old pumpin’ station oop on t’moor an’ we dances, dances as though there i’n’t a thing the great and the good of this town can do abart it. Aye an’ I defy any man t’out do us on a fair fight o’er a candlelit Tango Canyengue. Oh Father, tis such a sight as you ever did see – carriages from all around the county - and the young folk do bring porter wines and fine fatty muttons. It’s so much more than just the dance, Father, if only tha would see! Tis a way of life Father, a way of life! Tis not just the dance, your son is part of a proud greater community, a community such as is based upon shared love of the bounce in our step and the shared Hortensia or saut-de-chat in the style of the Checchetti school.’

  Mother issued a small hysterical whimper and rang for the slapping-maid. Father simply toyed with the base notes, his head hung low. ‘Son, you will leave this house’ he croaked.

  Mother continued wringing and twisting her favourite lap-Chihuahua. For a few seconds the Chihuahua was pretty pissed off as Chihuahuas go, but then it departed this mortal canine coil, assumed basket-temperature, shuffled into a wooden doggy-coat, turned its paws to the air for good and endeavoured to kick the bucket, so to speak. The French poodle – seated once more – snickered and sensed that he had flown under the damned rôti de boeuf radar yet again, and he resolved to vomit in her ladyship’s slippers later that day and to blame it une fois de plus on the unfortunate house chat-de-mouse de upstairs. Vive le revolution et prompte mort du roi!

  ‘Father?’

  ‘I said tha’ mun leave this house!’

  ‘But Father...’

  ‘Son, if tha’d only been a nancy poet or an abstract or modern artist or even, Heaven forfend, if tha’d been an academic or even an invert of some sort we could have got thee treatment, sent thee away to Switzerland for cold baths and - pardon me Mother - electrificated treatments of the male testicle, but – dancing? Nay lad, tis the work of the Devil ’issen. The thought of my own flesh and blood pas de wobbling ashby de la ruddy clog-hop zouche-ing across some backlit smoky steam-crank gantry in the company of back-flipping hair-flailing mill-head hem-stitchers and packing room letter-pickers and brace welders from me own factories? Nay, I’ll not have it. Tha’s brought shame upon tha family and laughed in the face of t’English Industrial Mill-Owner’s God.’

  A horrible emotional pause came upon them during which time young Charlotte Goreblood Nouveauriche (girl, legitimate, fully acknowledged within the marriage) could hide outside the room no longer and she burst forth and held Samuel’s elbow with the desperation only the young and the dance-music enabled can muster. Father and Mother both took comfort in the obvious and somewhat bovine deportment issues that – at the very least – indicated that their beloved daughter was no “dancer” like her benighted brother. No, a kissable face-cheek and good child-bearing hips were the gifts of her Mother’s side of the family. Strong shoulders, workmanlike knees and a certain Mediterranean fuzz about the chin the gifts of her Father. Charlotte was fine Northern stock designed by the Industrious Almighty to be perfectly suited to the age of steam and coal and respectable heavy industry both inside and out of the home.

  Charlotte’s voice though was cold and low this day, belying her nervous tension and fears. ‘You must tell them all, Samuel, you must tell them all.’

  Franklin Nouveauriche, finding that he was running out of dramatic cliches to strike on the piano stool, looked at his pocket-watch and wondered absently if the afternoon canal-barges had left for the currently volatile markets of Liverpool. His daughter’s voice summoned his mind from business and back to the room. ‘What fresh devilment is this? All? Is it not enough that my own son... dances? That he furthermore dances in the company of my own workers? With fine muttons and porter wines, probably purloined from my own kitchens? By the light of my own carriage and horses? Wick and tallow from the sweat of my industry? I shall have to sack the entire workforce. There can be no more “all” to be told. I shall issue the notices directly the current order-books are fulfilled and not a moment later and send word to the workhouses for replacements.’

  ‘I shall tell you all, Father. We... well we do not dance in silence.’

  ‘Eh? What can you mean by that remark Sir? I pray you explain. Silence is the universal and wondrous music of profitable Godliness and of respect for one’s entrepreneurial parents. What can you mean by saying that you do not dance in silence? Explain, Sir, explain...’

  ‘Simply that when we dance we do not do so in silence Sir. There are... sounds, Sir ... sounds.’

  ‘How so, Sir? A little humming of tunes from the hymnal or mayhap a tap of the fingers? Even a little manly whistling serves but to enhance a beautiful Heavenly silence if done properly and modestly. Import you a small dedicated church organ or a fine military drum Sir? How break you your silence when... when undertaking this filthy dancing, Sir?’

  ‘We... Sir we have a small orchestra.’

  ‘Good God. I hardly know what to say.’ He slammed the lid on the pianoforte keys, rather upsetting a small potted fern and also tragically trapping a sleeping sewing-room cat that, within just some several summertime weeks, would prove beyond all scientific doubt that music actually did little for one’s corporeal state of grace if delivered in isolation from food, water and fresh air. In the days following had the unfortunate cat not persisted in squirming tunelessly on the keys things may have turned out differently, for the servants might not have thought the piano haunted by some composer of the German school, and may have opened the lid to dust. The more the cat had moved about in its attempts to escape confinement, the less likely anyone had become to approach the discordant instrument – and yet they still say that cats are intelligent creatures!

  Samuel continued, without reference to confined companion mammals. ‘Charlotte...’

  ‘Yes, yes, what more of Charlotte, lovely sweet innocent child that she is? What of Charlotte, beautiful virginal trunion of my family treadle-beam, light of my life who knows nothing of the world of men and music and dancing and other bestial pleasures? Sweet, sweet Charlotte who presses meadow flowers and enhances my extensive orangeries and pineapple houses with raindrops on noses and
whiskers on kittens and packages tied up with string, with wonderful childish things?’ demanded Franklin.

  ‘Charlotte, Sir, Charlotte... plays the cello.’

  Mother screamed. Father farted in shock and then ran to Mother’s side, partly so that he might breathe again more easily. A small dry-maid rushed in at the commotion, carrying emergency antimacassars and it was demanded of her that a Parson or other blessed person of solid morals and some spirituality be fetched immediately by fast carriage and sturdy stable-lad. ‘Fly, lass, fly like the wind for this house is in mortal peril! Then pack your bags and leave immediately with a day’s severance pay for I fear you may have heard too much of matters above your station.’ The young maid toyed tearfully just one last time with a feather duster near the fanciful stuffed coypu display cabinets, bit a dramatic knuckle and then fled below stairs to begin a thorough panic in the second Boot-cleaning Room.

  ‘The... cello?’ whispered Mother. As she whispered she indicated the very evil width of the full-sized instrument with her gloved hands while clinging, forlornly, to the wild hope that this new season’s fashion was to play cello on a soft chamois draped over the collar bone and under the chin. Father’s terrible envisionings were more pragmatic and rooted in his under-graduate music hall adventures and experience of... bared ankles.

  ‘Tell me at least that you play the cello side-saddle, Charlotte, at least tell that much!’ Franklin, tears welling to his eyes, struggled for the words to comprehend this fresh teenage horror. ‘The knees, the knees – please for the love of God I pray you tell me what Charlotte does with her crural trocho-ginglymi!’

  ‘Father – as you know, the cello is played, well – it’s played with the knees apart, Father’ answered Samuel, for none other of the company could bring sound to their lips to meet the awful parental entreaty.

  ‘Charlotte’s knees? Apart you say?’ wheezed Father.

  ‘That is, Sir the only practical way to play the cello.’

  Franklin made as if to strike his son on the cheek and Mother could take no more and stood, flinging caution and reserve to one side like an unsuitable evening gown choice presented in the dressing room by a clumsy maid. She discarded another damp and over-used Chihuahua with all of the aplomb of a trained household bombardier and pointed a long-gloved bony finger, drawing back her eyes until the single, annoying, fast-growing ginger hair on the tip of her nose was simply a blur. She took a long, deep breath in spite of her corsets and let all of the hurt and betrayal of the past few minutes have free reign with her bitter, bitter tongue as she pointed at Charlotte, hitherto-beloved feminine fruit of her own, now inconsolable loins.

  ‘You wanton harlot, Charlotte. You Jezebel with a fiddler’s bow!’ Mother’s pearls rattled at the latter vile accusation and all briefly feared for the integrity of the oriental-style catch on the string.

  Father recovered himself quickly, as industrious men with copious facility for water-power close to their factories often do.

  ‘There’s nowt for it, you’ll both have to be married off. Probably abroad.’

  ‘Married? Abroad?’

  ‘Aye – married. We’ll find something quick and dumpy and grateful on the London circuit this Autumn season for you Samuel, something to weigh you down permanently. Charlotte, you shall enter the closed convent order at Mablethorpe St Helens and be wed to God. It’s the only way and I’ll brook no discussion, the matter is closed. Arrangements will be made.’

  Charlotte spoke first. ‘No Daddy, I won’t do it. I shan’t marry God – I’m... well, I’m holding out for a hero.’ She threw herself at the foot of our stairs, figuratively speaking, by throwing herself on a blue buttoned-velvet porter’s chair. ‘Oh Daddy, it’s my wildest fantasy and he’s out there somewhere. On a Saturday night, maybe after midnight – no, I’m holding out for a hero, someone larger than life. Like Mr Brunel or the magnificent Mr Smeaton with his rediscovery of concrete based upon hydraulic lime mortar. A real hero! I shan’t be fobbed off with God!’

  ‘Well, it would take a really super man to sweep you off your feet!’ joked Samuel inappropriately, his nerves overtaking the last of his strength and making him babble like a backstreet flower-seller in Springtime.

  Charlotte kicked Samuel disapprovingly on the ankle and then lapsed into a wild hormonal giggle. ‘I suppose he would have to be larger than life. If not an industrial man then mayhap a fiery knight upon a white steed, or Herculean and versed in the ways of the world.’

  Standing and temporarily refreshed by her emotional release, Charlotte involuntarily performed a side break followed by a wheel and a loop turn, leaving the fringe of the rug quite distressed. She ended with a mimed roll of drums on an imaginary full kit.

  Mother, as counterpoint to Charlotte’s butterfly-steps, collapsed full-length and this time she collapsed rather neatly into a decanter of neat brandy. Mother hadn’t been born yesterday. She promptly set about passing out with all of her remaining decorum and with a fresh wringing-chihuahua. The Chihuahuaii in the orderly petting-queue were becoming reticent about stepping forward when called. Mother came to not some little time later, just as the new Duty Parson was limbering up to begin an emergency Class III Exorcism. The window blinds had been drawn and outdoor staff had nailed boards across the frames to prevent ungodly or impish egress. Parson McCormack had a hand each on Samuel and Charlotte’s head as they knelt before him, trembling.

  They were trembling because Father had summoned the Butler to stand over them with the tradesman’s Purdey, a weapon more usually directed at the unsolicited or the below-par attempting to engage in business at the rear of the household. The wait for the Parson had been a nervous one without the benefit of safety catch between Samuel and Charlotte and the Butler’s frayed nerves.

  Father looked reassuringly at Mother. ‘Now, now we’ll get to the crux of the matter and sanity will prevail. God is on England’s side and as we own a sizeable portion of England we therefore may call with some confidence upon His services. There’ll be no more talk of dancing and streetwise Herculean heroes.’ He caught the eye of the Parson. ‘Begin, begin as you surely must and let us get this tragedy done and dusted and off-stage, for I have the evening shifts to rotate and tomorrow’s sackings to be thrashed. Then I mun dynamite the old Pumping Station and lay steel spring-traps in the immediate environs thereabouts to protect the town youth from the dangers of free-form physical expression to the accompaniment of unlicensed and roving orchestra. We have placed our faith in the church, and there is no more sure footing than the unchanging and thus totally reliable Church of the parish of St Vitus of Tottering on the Wold, our cornerstone and our succour in these fast-paced times of widespread godlessness.’

  The Parson, a fine young figure in deep clerical black and with his gold crucifix glinting in the dusty blades of late afternoon sunlight filtering through the window-planks, began the most efficacious chant, the most modern chant that the church knew, to expel the Devil and any and all of his many minions from the hearts and souls of youth. He began the chant that strikes gusset-dampening, sports-kit flinging, lost property plastic-sandal wearing fear into the hearts of an entire generation who were educated in England under an early comprehensive banner.

  ‘Nunc ergo dance, ubicumque estis, ego enim sum Dominus of the Dance said He, and He needs you all, wherever you may be, He needs you all in the dance said He ...’

  Mother’s eye grew wide, but not yet so wide as Father’s. The whistle on the roof of Father’s mill blew. At least, everyone’s hope was that it was the whistle on Father’s factory.

  The Chihuahuaii ran as one from the room, stumbling over the Parson’s scuffed evangelical sneakers as they fled. It seemed that it was not only Franklin Goreblood Nouveauriche who had sought out and embraced the new and the innovative in order to grow and maintain an industry, the The Lord had begun to change a few working practises and processes too. Dance then, wherever ye may be.

  Father blamed the Luddites and the Socialists of c
ourse. Mother’s immediate reaction was to condemn the workhouse charities for introducing a half-day shift in place of second church attendance on Sundays, thereby introducing clerical insecurities regarding overall attendance levels leading to desperate and ill-judged procedural measures. Samuel and Charlotte, being as all children are, at the forefront of social development, simply gave each other a knowing glance and stifled giggles at the rather gauche and flat-footed steps of establishment evolution.

  No-one in the withdrawing room even heard the poor trapped cat’s Teutonic and dramatic endeavours on the low notes of the piano. Progress through the fourth dimension is such a peculiarly personal thing, and quite disordered, considering.

  * * * * *

  iG-Zero-D

  [back to table of contents]

  Tata-Honda iG-Zero-D was not, in truth, a top-flight model even in his own estimation. There were others on the survey ship with faster processors and with more dexterity, some that could handle a thousand times the mass that he could manipulate, and some that spoke a thousand languages and could recite Shakespeare in Klingon or Chaucer in Welsh (not dissimilar skills) or order haddock and chips twice with scraps please - in Vogon haiku format with a Klendathu suburbs accent.

  Still, G knew what he knew, and what he knew was enough to find and catalogue plants and to explain his findings and samples to the fancier robots on the survey ship. He was used to working in splendid isolation and he loved pottering about with alien plants from dawn until dusk in his splendid isolation. G did the very best job that he could do, whatever the task – so long as it was plants. To that end he had made his own little trowel, trug and watering can, and he kept them all almost as safely and securely as he kept his teddy-bear.

  This planet was the fifty-second planet that G had been deposited on by the Survey Ship 21-ZNA-9 and there were literally a thousand other robots very similar to him working simultaneously on the globe. I mean they weren’t working in synchronised formation or anything, it wasn’t a Pan’s People dance. They all worked independently, but they were all on the same planetary survey, feeding data into the same report in the belly of the survey ship.