Grinny

by Nicholas Fisk

  His father, surely, would have seen that something was very wrong. ‘Dad,’ Timothy began. But his father waved him to silence. He too was absorbed in the television programme. ‘Got to admit that that woman sometimes talks a lot of sense,’ he said mildly, as Lisa Treadgold, smiling, gave her views on conscription for young people. She was in favour of it.

  Timothy wanted to stand up and shout – to wave his arms and yell, ‘Look! Listen! Something’s happening, Beth says so, I think she’s right!’ He felt a great need rising inside him like a bubble, a need to straighten things out, to solve a mystery, to make a decision –

  Lisa Treadgold smiled at him from the TV screen. Lisa Treadgold’s pleasing, reasonable voice was warm and soothing in his ears. The bubble inside him shrank and softened and subsided. The great need died away. Timothy, too, slumped back in his chair. His face, like his parents’ faces, became mild, accepting, docile, vaguely pleased.

  Lisa Treadgold gave her opinions on corporal punishment in schools. She was in favour of it. Bring back the cane.

  Timothy nodded agreement.

  TUG-OF-WAR

  Yet, in the night, he lay awake, wide awake, his brain playing a tug-of-war that he could not control.

  He had timidly entered Beth’s room to say goodnight to her. ‘Oh, go away, leave me alone!’ she moaned. She lay across her bed, her face in her pillow.

  ‘But, Beth, I only –’

  ‘Get out, you’re stupid, you’re awful, get out!’

  Timid Timothy got out and went to bed.

  As soon as he turned the light out, his brain started on him. The tug-of-war. Lisa seemed to be pulling one way, Beth another. He could not understand what either of them wanted. He wished they’d go away, leave him alone (no, that was Beth talking). He wished Lisa would stop smiling at him: but her smile was lovely, warming, reassuring, a perfect smile, not too little, not too much, just right. Yet all wrong.

  Downstairs, the little clock on the mantelpiece went ‘Ding, ding, ding’. Three o’clock in the morning. Timothy grunted, sat up in bed and said out loud, ‘I’ll write to Mr Fisk. This time, I’ll actually do it.’ Just writing to him might help Tim sort things out in his mind – might cut through the fog that kept rolling over his brain whenever it tried to concentrate on certain questions. Questions about Lisa, and someone else, someone the fog wouldn’t let him remember. Someone belonging to the past.

  Yes, he’d write to Mr Fisk; and get back a helpful, lively, amusing, practical letter. From one writer to another.

  Yet Timothy did not get out of bed. His eyes itched with tiredness. He could not use his typewriter, the noise would wake people. And his bed was warm.

  He sighed and pulled the bedclothes over him. He began to compose a letter in his mind, an amusing letter, a bit cheeky here and there yet still straight to the point –

  But what was the point?

  Timothy swore, switched on his bedside light, wrote a letter, put it in an envelope, stamped it and left it ready for posting. The letter was short and sweet. It gave news of all the family, then said, in effect, ‘I don’t know what is happening to me – to the family – to the people I work with. I’m confused. It all stems from Lisa Treadgold. Is something happening to us all? Is something happening to you? What?’

  Once he had finished the letter, the tug-of-war stopped. He slept. Next day he posted the letter.

  The answer came by return post.

  Mr Fisk’s letter was not so much a surprise as an astonishment. Normally, his letters had a flavour to them – even a texture, loose and friendly and familiar, like a favourite old coat. But this letter! …

  Dear Timothy,

  Many thanks for your letter. I am very pleased to hear from you that you are applying yourself seriously to your journalistic work.

  I am afraid, Timothy, that you will have to work even harder! Your writing still exhibits a carelessness and looseness that does you little credit. It does not do to begin a letter, even to so old and understanding a friend as myself, with the words, ‘Well, nothing much has happened since I last wrote.’ And ‘Father is fine, Mother likewise’ is not a happy choice of words.

  In your penultimate paragraph, you write – ‘Beth is making us all RATHER anxious, she seems RATHER hysterical’, etc. You are prone to such repetitions and must strive to avoid them, even in friendly correspondence.

  In your last paragraph, you use the word (if it is a word – I hope it is not) ‘telly’. This is slang of the most degraded kind.

  I was about to warn you of the dangers of overenthusiastic use of the exclamation mark, but I see that I have used the mark myself. So I will spare your blushes – and my own – and take the rebuke no further. The last thing I want is to chill the warmth of our friendship.

  I note that your real concern in writing to me is to elicit my opinions regarding Lisa Treadgold. I am not in the least surprised that you find her impact disturbing: so are the reactions experienced after being inoculated against smallpox and other unpleasant diseases. One must endure discomfort in order to achieve a long-term protection, a future benefit. You are passing through the discomforting stage. I passed through it some time ago.

  My first opinion of Miss Treadgold was that she was yet another artificially created Television Personality – a woman of no importance.

  I now consider her to be a wholly admirable phenomenon. All the more so since I have had the privilege of reading her written words (my publishers are to produce her forthcoming book and I was consulted in the capacity of publisher’s reader). She is astonishingly clear and frank about the implications of the three Ds. We must strive, she writes, to restore Decency to our personal, local and national lives; Discipline ourselves to accept various restrictions (but these restrictions are, as she points out, really our ‘freeways to a greater liberty’); and above all we must Dedicate ourselves to a concept of Obedience – which means that we must act.

  She admits that some of the actions we must take will leave a bitter taste, at first. People living in what they think to be a democracy do not like the idea of reporting on the activities of their neighbours; or of physically enforcing law and order. But these and many other surrenders must be made if the greater good is to be attained. You, my dear boy, must prepare your mind for some considerable changes. As for Beth! – well, I do not think we need bother ourselves unduly about such juvenile and hysterical outpourings. However, please extend to her my usual good wishes.

  With cordial regards to yourself and the family,

  Yours sincerely,

  Nicholas Fisk

  When he first read this letter, Timothy thought, ‘This is some sort of spoof. It isn’t Mr Fisk writing. Or if it is, he is playing a game with me …’

  He read the letter again, and again; and it seemed to come into focus. The words he had at first thought stuffy and pompous – words that had bored him, numbed him – began to make some sort of sense.

  He read the letter yet again and seemed to see Lisa’s face behind the paper, nodding and smiling at him, approving, giving her blessing.

  He read the letter for the last time and suddenly shouted ‘Bosh and twaddle and drivel!’ at the top of his voice and flung the piece of paper from him.

  The letter was the first of many confusing, contradictory experiences …

  PEOPLE CHANGE …

  ‘Kindly switch it off,’ Mr Carpenter said, pointing his finger at the TV set. ‘It is quite disgusting.’

  ‘But it’s your favourite programme!’ Beth said. ‘You love Lenny Mount!’

  ‘Kindly switch it off!’ Mr Carpenter said.

  Beth was still too surprised to obey. She had reason to be surprised. Lenny Mount had a whole season of fifty-minute peak-period shows. They were naughty, clever, fast-moving and filled with sketches of the kind in which pretty girls’ skirts get blown over their heads. Lenny Mount himself made rude jokes with an innocent look on his face. It was the sort of programme that, done badly, makes you feel depressed; but do
ne well, as Lenny Mount did it, it was silly and cheerful and very often witty. To Mr Carpenter, the show was a sort of release. He was a considering, conscientious man: Lenny Mount’s show was a holiday from himself and his work.

  Yet now his face showed only anger and disgust.

  ‘Switch it OFF!’ he barked.

  Beth obeyed. Lenny Mount’s face and a cluster of girls in underclothes suddenly shrank to a bright dot – then vanished.

  ‘Disgusting!’ said Mr Carpenter.

  Beth turned to look at Timothy. He always watched the Lenny Mount shows. Beth knew that, though he pretended not to, he liked the pretty girls. Yet his face, too, was set in an expression of lofty disgust. ‘That sort of thing,’ he said loudly, ‘is exactly what we don’t need.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Mr Carpenter.

  ‘But why?’ Beth demanded, ‘Only last week, you were saying, “Come on, hurry up and finish dinner, I don’t want to miss –”’

  ‘I do not enjoy watching the sort of entertainment,’ Mr Carpenter began, ‘that deliberately degrades the values by which our society should try to live.’

  ‘But last week, and the week before, you were laughing away like anything –’

  ‘We live in serious times, Beth,’ Mr Carpenter continued, deliberately not hearing her. ‘The nation must put its mind to the higher things of life.’

  ‘Decency,’ said Timothy. ‘Discipline. Dedication.’

  Mr Carpenter nodded his head. ‘Timothy is right, Beth,’ he said. ‘You are, perhaps, too young to understand; but not too young to obey! In this house, there can be no time for foul-mouthed, slack-minded, frivolous exhibitions. We must dedicate ourselves to higher purposes, Beth!’

  ‘Decency,’ said Timothy. ‘Discipline. Dedication.’

  Father and son nodded their heads, slowly and solemnly.

  Beth looked from the one to the other. Her lips parted as if she were about to speak. But then she thought better of it. She left the room, her eyes glowing like coals.

  ‘My gawd, I don’t believe it!’ said the director of the Lenny Mount show, two days later. He waved the viewing figures for the Lenny Mount show under the research girl’s nose. ‘Ratings down sixty-seven per cent! Sixty-seven per cent!’

  ‘I wish you would not use that expression,’ she said.

  ‘What expression?’

  ‘“My gawd”. I find it offensive.’

  ‘You find that offensive?’ he said, amazed. The research girl, Wilma, could be a bit of a raver. The director stared at her. As he stared, his expression changed. His face became clouded and uncertain. ‘These figures,’ he said. ‘They’re impossible! I mean, we’ve dropped through the floor! I mean, they’re glued to the box when Lenny’s on! People never switch off on Lenny!’

  ‘People change,’ said Wilma quietly.

  ‘Not by sixty-seven per cent,’ the director said.

  ‘People change,’ Wilma repeated. ‘I know I’ve changed. Have you?’ She returned his stare.

  The director was confused. ‘What do you mean, have I changed?’ he said. He thought about it for several seconds and then said, almost to himself, ‘Well … Have I?’

  He had, of course. Beth could have told him. But Wilma could not.

  Letter from Mr Fisk, five days later

  Dear Timothy,

  I am glad to hear from you that you observe in yourself, and in those around you, the evidence of change.

  In your last letter, for instance, you wrote of a new spirit in the conduct of affairs at the office of the Gazette. To me, this seems yet another example of a widespread and very important change: a change of heart; a change of purpose; a change of direction.

  We, as a nation, are ripe for this change, as I am sure you will agree, Timothy. There is a new spirit abroad. A spirit which, if carried by every one of us as a brightly burning torch is carried, may – no, shall! – lead us onwards to a great and worthy goal.

  But first we must, each and everyone, as did the knights of old, dedicate ourselves anew. We must forget the darkness of the past and turn our faces to that brightly burning torch of the future.

  Do you agree with me, Timothy? Will you, like me, renounce the darkness and seek the light? Will you, too, join the Crusade?

  I hope and trust you will. I have made a start by pledging my service – and one third of my income, present and future – to the R.O.L. I trust you will make a similar act of dedication: and endeavour to persuade all those around you, within and without the circle of the family, to act as you act – to support, in whatever way she asks, the purposes of the R.O.L. and Lisa Treadgold.

  And Timothy: let there be no delay!

  Yours,

  Nicholas Fisk

  Dear Mr Fisk,

  I have, as you knew I would, taken the steps you suggest. Both I and Mac have joined the R.J.L., the newly formed Rollers Junior League. All the older boys have done so. We are proud to wear our R.J.L. badges and pleased to see so many other young people wearing the buttons, badges and armbands. Lisa Treadgold herself found time to drop in briefly on our R.J.L. Recruiting Rally in the Parish Hall two days ago and said a few words. There was total silence while she spoke and three rousing cheers at the end of her address, which I will always remember. As you say, there is a new spirit abroad.

  I wish that Beth (and the young children in the village) could experience and share in it! She is sullen and silent except when the Rollers and Lisa Treadgold are mentioned. Then she says insulting and wicked things, often ending her outburst with tears. It makes me, Mother and Father very sad, for we are all completely loyal to the Cause. It is the same at the Gazette offices. There is no more larking about, just steady work – much of it in support of the Rollers!

  I must close now as I am attending a Roller meeting this evening to discuss the adoption of a suitable R.J.L. uniform. The Mayor is to be one of the speakers.

  Yours sincerely,

  Timothy Carpenter

  MAD, MAD, MAD!

  Beth’s diary of that same day

  … everyone has gone mad, mad, MAD, that is the only explanation. Lisa this, Lisa that, and Rollers for breakfast, dinner and tea, they are stupid all of them, why can’t they see? And nobody will listen to me, oh of course not! I am just a stupid infant, nothing I say counts.

  I shouted it out last evening at the top of my voice, I said, LOOK! DON’T YOU SEE, LISA T. IS GETTING AT YOU, IT IS LIKE GRINNY ALL OVER AGAIN, THE ONLY DIFFERENCE IS THAT THIS TIME IT IS LISA T. AND THE ROLLERS! But they just look at me as if I am mad and Mum said, ‘Would you lay the table, dear,’ as if I had not spoken. Yet I was yelling.

  It is the same all over the village & everywhere else I dare say, everybody has gone Rollers MAD & going around looking like ghastly stupid SHEEP rolling their eyes all pious and goody-goody & moaning on about Decency Discipline & Dedication, that is the 3 Ds, fancy my own brother (and Mac too) believing such rot but then they are the right age, it is the same as it was with Grinny, everyone over 13 or 15 or so goes MAD and worships Lisa Treadgold. There is nothing on the telly but Lisa Lisa Lisa even our stupid old local rag the Gazette is all Lisa Lisa Lisa. To think my own brother works for it, it is dreadful.

  What Lisa does, she hypnotizes everyone whenever she says ‘You remember me’ then they all sort of shake their heads for a split sec then say ‘Oh yes’ & from then on they are TRAPPED, they just do whatever she wants them to do. She said it on that telly programme, OPINION, just those three words and everyone looked like sheep all of a sudden, it started then. The same words Grinny used!

  YOU REMEMBER ME

  you remember me

  There, I’ve written it down and stared at it for hours, it does not work on me at all however long I look at it, I don’t feel anything or get hypnotized. It’s only grown-ups and teenagers and they get hypnotized. I thought Tim would see through Lisa’s trick and remember Grinny and everything by himself, but no, he’s too deeply hypnotized, I’ve had to spell it out for him: LISA IS GRINNY. Bu
t he won’t hear me.

  There are animals called Lemmings they follow their leader Lemming and if the leader runs towards the edge of a cliff all the Lemmings follow & they all go over every one & are killed dead. That is what is going to happen to the HUMAN RACE if Lisa T. is not stopped.

  I am not just hysterical I really mean it, we will all go over the edge of the cliff and that will be the end.

  So I am writing my Secret Thoughts and Plan of Action in this diary I have never kept a diary before what a time to start (!!!) But I must get my thoughts clear & besides when everyone is dead someone may find this Diary and understand. At least they will know that there was one Sane person left on Earth & that is me, Beth Carpenter age eleven.

  I know what I will do, I will start a Secret Society it will be called the Anti Lisa Society. Anti Rollers. Antiroll. Sanity Legion.

  That one is best, ANTIROLL. ANTIROLL is secret enough the other names give it all away.

  I will now list the founder members:

  Mona Ratcliffe

  Darren Nisbett

  Fi and Peter Mathews (but NOT Alec)

  Matthew and Melinda H

  Asha & Ram Patel

  President and Founder,

  Beth Carpenter.

  Now I will write letters to these founder members telling them to join the Society and we will swear secrecy and go into ACTION.

  That man Mr Nicholas Fisk what a FOOL he must be I thought writers were supposed to be so clever Ha ha but he is just the same as the rest, Tim has been showing his stupid priggish grotty letters to everyone & saying ‘There you are, my friend Mr Fisk is on Lisa’s side too.’ But he is just another Cleverstick. Never mind, wait until ANTIROLL gets going we will see who is clever then.

  That is enough for now I must start on all the Society letters using carbon paper and so I will close my Diary now.