September Castle

by Simon Raven

  Copyright & Information

  September Castle

  First published in 1983

  © Estate of Simon Raven; House of Stratus 1983-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Simon Raven to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842322087 9781842322086 Print

  0755129865 9780755129867 Kindle

  0755130022 9780755130023 Epub

  0755153979 9780755153978 Epdf

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born in 1927 into a middle class household, Simon Raven became both an outrageous figure and an acclaimed writer and novelist. His father inherited a hosiery business and did not have to work, his mother was an internationally successful athlete. The young Simon, however, viewed the household as ‘respectable, prying, puritanical, penny-pinching, and joyless’.

  Initial education was through attending Cordwalles Preparatory School, near Camberley, Surrey, where he later claimed to have been ‘deftly and very agreeably’ seduced by the games master. From there he went on to Charterhouse, but was eventually expelled in 1945 for serial homosexuality. Nonetheless, he still managed to wangle his way into King’s College, Cambridge, to read classics, after a two year gap to complete his national service in the Parachute Regiment.

  Raven had loved classics from an early age and read daily in the original, often translating from Latin to Greek to English, or any combination thereof.

  At Cambridge, he probably felt completely at home for the first time in his life. In his own words, ‘nobody minded what you did in bed, or what you said about God’. This was civilised to his mind and he was also later to write, in a somewhat fatalistic manner: ‘we aren’t here for long, and when we do go, that’s that. Finish. So, for God’s sake, enjoy yourself now - and sod anyone who tries to stop you.’ Despite revelling in Cambridge life, or perhaps because of it, Raven fell heavily into debt for the first time whilst there and also faced his first real responsibility. Susan Kilner, a fellow undergraduate was expecting his child and in 1951 they married. He took little interest in the marriage, however, and they were divorced some six years later.

  He also failed to submit a thesis needed to support an offered fellowship, so fled both Cambridge and his marriage for the army, where he was commissioned into the King’s Own Shropshire Light Infantry. After service in Germany and Kenya, during which time he set up a brothel for his men to use, he was posted to regimental headquarters in Shropshire. It was here that debt once again forced a change in direction after he lost considerable sums at the local racetrack.

  Resigning his commission so as to avoid being court-martialled, he turned to writing having won over a publisher who agreed to pay him weekly in cash, and also pick up bills for sustenance and drink. Moving to Deal in Kent he embarked upon producing a prodigious array of works which over the years included novels, essays, reviews; film scripts, radio and television plays and the scripts for television series, notably The Pallisers and Edward and Mrs Simpson. He lived in modest surroundings within rented accommodation and confined many of his excesses to London visits where his earning were dissipated quickly on food, drink and gambling – not forgetting sex which continued to feature as a major indulgence. He once wrote that the major advantage of belonging to the Reform Club in London was the presence opposite of a first class massage parlour.

  In all, Simon Raven produced over twenty five novels and hundreds of other pieces, his finest achievements being reckoned to be a ten volume saga of English upper-class life, entitled Alms for Oblivion, from 1959-76 and the First Born of Egypt Series from 1984-92.

  He was a conundrum; being both sophisticated and reckless; talented in the extreme yet regarding himself as not being particularly creative; but not applying this modesty (if that’s what it was) to his general behaviour, which was sometimes immodest beyond all reasonable bounds. He was exceedingly generous towards his friends; yet didn’t think twice about the position of creditors when getting into debt; was jovial, loyal and good company, but was unable to sustain a family life. He would drink like an advanced alcoholic in the evenings, but was ready to resume work promptly the following morning. He was sexually indiscriminate, but generally preferred the company of men. As a youth he possessed good looks, but a general abuse of his body in adulthood soon saw that wain.

  Simon Raven died in 2001, his legacy being his writing which during his lifetime received high praise from critics and readers alike. He was a ‘one-off’, whose works will continue to delight readers for generations to come.

  ‘September Castle is fine and tall,

  And many a league is spread out for me;

  But where is the fairest sight of all,

  O where is the never-resting sea?’

  Henri Martel, Sire de Longueil,

  The Ballad of the Lady Xanthippe

  PART ONE

  The Road from Ilyssos

  Once upon a time there was an English gentleman called Ivan Barraclough, who lived in a half-ruined tower house some two miles south of Vatheia in the Peninsula of the Mani. On a day in early autumn he received an unsigned telegram which he had long been expecting. It said: TIME TO GO.

  Now, the Mani is the central prong of three which claw down from the base of the Peloponnese and into the Mediterranean Sea; and Vatheia is the last village which a man comes to in the Mani if he is travelling south by the main, the only, road. Although Vatheia is quite a large village, you will never see anyone in it. This is because the houses go down into the earth further than they rise above it, and underneath the visible buildings is an extensive network of cellars in several layers, at which levels the villagers like to live, preferring the darkness of the earth to the light of the sky.

  The main road south skirts Vatheia on the eastern side and then becomes a track; a track along which you can continue to drive a car for about two miles. When you have driven this distance, the track rounds a corner and runs into a little circus which provides ample space to turn round or to park. One or the other you must do, as thereafter the track becomes a mere footpath and in this form continues to the sea at the tip of the Peninsula, which is called Cape Taenaros and houses (so they say) one of the gates to the Kingdom of the Dead.

  Drivers who reach the little circus would be well advised not to turn round immediately but to park their cars and admire the view to the south. Although they will not be able to see Cape Taenaros (let alone the gate to the Kingdom of the Dead), they will be able to follow the path, with their gaze, over hills and through valleys, up re-entrants, down spurs and along ridges, until it vanishes on the far side of a plateau on either side of which lies the never-resting sea. To east and west of the path the panorama is scattered with rough-hewn grey houses, each of which has a tower at one end, usually the end that overlooks the path. All the towers have had
their tops lopped off, or to speak more technically, have been deprived of their platforms and battlements. This dismantlement was carried out on the command of King Otho of the Hellenes after an anti-monarchical rebellion by the Maniots, who were savagely suppressed by Spanish mercenary troops. By a curious irony the region is now celebrated for its loyalty to the deposed King Constantine, and almost every house between Vatheia and Cape Taenaros is decorated with a crude depiction of the Greek royal crown. One of the largest and most colourful of these crowns adorns the north wall of the house nearest the circus, a house about fifty yards down the footpath and twenty yards to the right of it, ‘half-ruined’ in the sense that, like all the others, its tower has been chopped, that same house in which, though it is empty now, Ivan Barraclough was living at the time my tale begins, having been happily engaged for something over two years in the study of the history, geography, demography, social custom, religious belief, sexual habit and superstitious practice of the southern Maniots, that is to say all such as dwelt below the town of Areopolis.

  These were very few, and of them the Vatheians at least, as I have explained, apparently preferred to live underground; but Ivan enjoyed some acquaintance with them through the intermediacy of his body servant, or, more properly, his esquire, an eighteen-year-old Greek orphan called Nicos Pandouros, who came from Areopolis and did not share his master’s bed. It was Nicos who had brought the telegram, for he knew, as Ivan did not, where to go in Vatheia in order to transact postal business, and had duly been there, this day early in September, on his weekly visit for the dispatch and collection of Ivan’s mail. There were three letters of no interest or importance from learned but prosaic correspondents; and there was this telegram, unsigned, which Ivan had been expecting any time these six months and which said: TIME TO GO.

  ‘That is final then. Can I not go with you?’ Nicos said.

  ‘No. I have always warned you that the message would arrive and that I would have to leave you. But you shall have plenty of money until I return.’

  ‘What should I do for it? I cannot take such money with honour.’

  ‘Yes, you can. You will take it in return for your service. You will secure this house, you will maintain it, you will repair it, when necessary, all this against my return.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘I cannot tell. I shall send you word. Meanwhile, although you may go often to Areopolis, or even to Kalamata if you wish, you will live in this house and keep it sweet and free from the damp and despair which come to houses where none lives. This will be your service for which I shall pay you.’

  ‘It will be a lonely service.’

  ‘And mine will be lonely business. But both are necessary. You may have a friend here, if you wish. Or a girl, if there be any hereabouts whose brother or father would not kill you.’

  ‘I shall have my friend. From Limenaion. We can play trictrac and make fantasies about young widows.’

  ‘Good.’ Ivan handed Nicos a thick pile of 1,000 Drachmae notes and instructed him that more would be telegraphed if he was not back within three months.

  ‘What is this business, Kyrie, that takes you so long from this house?’

  ‘I cannot tell you until it is done.’

  ‘Why can you not take me with you?’

  ‘Because one man travels swifter than two. And is more likely to return safely.’

  ‘Why is this business “necessary”?’

  ‘Because there is to be a rich reward which I shall need if I am to continue here making my studies. Such work feeds the mind but not the mouth.’

  ‘Then go well, Kyrios Ivan.’

  ‘Stay well, my Nicos.’

  Nicos bent to kiss Ivan’s hand. Ivan let him do this, then raised him, embraced him, and kissed his cheek. Then he walked alone (but watched all the time by Nicos) to the circus, climbed into his Land Rover and churned his way along the track towards Vatheia.

  Ivan’s first stop was for luncheon at Gerolimen, some miles north of Vatheia. Had he been strictly practical, he would have had an early luncheon at home and thus avoided the need to stop. The reason why he had not done this was that he could not bear to remain a minute longer than necessary in the company of Nicos. The sullen and reproachful look in the boy’s face, the accusations of treachery and desertion that emanated in waves from his moist and blinking eyes, saddened and irritated Ivan almost beyond endurance. He had warned Nicos, very clearly, on the very first day that he had brought him down from Areopolis to Vatheia, that the time would come, must come, when he (Ivan) would have to go away for a period of weeks, possibly months. He had repeated this warning at frequent intervals and had been given to believe that it had been well understood. And then, when at last the long expected telegram arrived, what had happened? Nicos had gone into a black sulk, had behaved as if the possibility of Ivan’s going away had never been mooted for a single instant at any time whatever, and had packed Ivan’s kit so crossly and jerkily that he had broken the sole remaining bottle of Eau de Portugal.

  True, Nicos had pulled himself together later on and their conversation just before parting had been more or less satisfactory. But even though the money paid and the conditions appointed had been liberal, indeed munificent, Nicos’ face, his posture, his whole body had given off resentment and pique. The truth was, Ivan reflected, that the boy was being left out and knew it; something important was in train and there was no part in it for him and he was most bitterly hurt. Well, looked at like that his demeanour was up to a point excusable; and in any case, of course, he would soon get over it all. His friend from Limenaion would come to stay, they would talk of football and go on the bus to Kalamata or to Sparta, where they would perhaps find a whore or, far better and more likely, a pair of juicy English girls ‘on their way through’. All was really well in that quarter and would end well. For all of that, however, there could be no doubt but that Nicos’ initial behaviour that morning had been tedious and upsetting and puerile to the point of making Ivan froth at the bowels – which only went to show that even if people listened to what they were told (rare enough) they never actually believed it if they didn’t want to.

  Further pabulum for disagreeable reflection was provided by the restaurant in which Ivan was eating, one of three on the quayside. A year ago none of them would have been there, and if any had, the food would have been disgusting. But now, here they were, simple but clean, serving (at least the one which he had chosen) excellent prawns and skilfully dressed salad. This was bad, very bad: it meant that tourists and (far worse) foreign buyers of houses (Germans – ugh) had now penetrated south of Areopolis and down as far as Gerolimen, and would soon be knocking on the gate of Vatheia itself. It was of course quite possible that the inhabitants of Vatheia would be true to the custom of centuries, would stay in their deep dank warrens and ignore the knocking; but it was equally possible that the lure of hard currencies in lorryloads would tempt even the Vatheians from their lair. And if that happened, what followed? What followed was a tarmac road to the circus, which would be enlarged into a park for the coaches that would duly bring, from April to October, thousands of base mechanicals of detestable shapes and accents to gape at the view and snoop round his house and garden. In which case he would have to move on again. But where? One could not keep on running forever.

  Ah well: if he must think of troubles, better think of present ones. The trouble, here and now, was that although he was tolerably well off living the simple life that he did, the rate of inflation had already made it desirable and would soon make it obligatory that he should procure a sum of money of not less than six figures sterling (having a view to monetary hazards of the future) and that in order to get in sight of some such sum he had consented, some two years ago, to consider himself on call to assist in a project, preposterous but just feasible, thought out and got up by an old Cambridge chum of scholarly tastes comparable with his own and of wealth far exceeding. Since he had agreed to be on call he had been receiving a generous m
onthly retainer; he would now be paid a very substantial sum for his services even if the project flopped, through his own fault or another’s; and should it succeed his prize could be princely. On the face of it, then, this morning’s telegram had been not only an unrefusable summons but also exceedingly good news. There were, however, just two snags: firstly, the project was highly dangerous and not a little uncanny; and secondly, it necessitated his departure from a tranquil and decently ordered world into one of greed, stupidity and bustle.

  Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. The sooner he took the plunge, the better. Pay the bill. Drive north to Areopolis and on to Ilyssos. Stop there to do what must be done. Then call on Paddy Leigh Fermor at Kardomele? No, better not. It would take him out of his way for one thing, and for another Paddy was the most hospitable man on earth, who would press him to spend a night, two nights, even more, whereas what Ivan had to do was to get on. From Ilyssos to Sparta and Mistra, from Mistra to Karyteina and Chlemoutsi, thence to Rhion and Naupactos, to Actium and Ioannina and many places more, until at last, knowing all he had to know and having heard all he had to hear, he would come, before the leaves were down, to September Castle.

  The road rolled round and down from Areopolis to the little port of Limenaion and twisted up again into the hills. Then it forked: the left-hand prong would have taken Ivan and his Land Rover along the high coast road to Kardomele and thence to Kalamata; the right-hand prong, which he took now, led into the village of Ilyssos. An old Turkish fort crouched above the village. Old? Not by local standards. Ilyssos had been a flourishing city as early as the Middle Bronze Age, had sent ships and a fine regiment to sail with Agamemnon to Troy. Granted, that had been its high point of prosperity and fame; granted that it had been in decline ever since half the ships and three-quarters of the fine regiment had failed to return; granted that it was now the home, for the most part, of gibbering elders and peevish dogs: nevertheless it preserved a certain air of age-long grandeur, if only because of its site athwart the neck of an unplumbable ravine and the view which it offered of plunging rock and surging sea. Come to that, thought Ivan, it had retained, it had undeniably retained, considerable esteem on account of its privateering princes and admirals well into the thirteenth century and until the Franks left the Peloponnese… which was why, to speak in very broad terms, he had come here now.