by Stephen Fry
“I need David, that’s what I need.”
“And what do you think he can give you?”
“Hope,” she said. “A sense of worth.”
There you have the modern Briton. It drives me to a frothing frenzy when politicians return from inner cities saying, “What the people of this town need is Hope,” as if we could all respond with a glad cry of “No sooner said than done, old sport,” as we gather up a handful of Hope from the sideboard, stuff it into a Jiffy-bag and send it off to Liverpool 8 by the First Class post. What these bleeding hearts mean is Money, but they’re too greasy to say so. Hope may spring eternal in the human breast, but you can’t suck it off another’s tits, it has to lactate in your own. Not the kind of message to give a girl in Patricia’s state, I supposed. As for a sense of worth . . .
“The best way to mend your spirits,” I offered instead, “is to do something for someone else.”
“Meaning?” she asked coldly.
“Meaning, why not do me a favour?”
“Such as?”
“Such as, when this strange little holiday is over and we’re back in London, why not oblige me by allowing yourself to be taken out to dinner? Le Caprice is an olive-stone’s throw from my flat. We could eat a good dinner and then you could let me lie you on a litter and lick you like a lolly.”
She stared at me. “I’m young enough to be your daughter.”
“I’m not fussy.”
“This is your idea of grief therapy, is it, Ted? Coming on like a randy goat?”
“I’ll leave you to think it over. My evenings get pretty booked up, so you’ll have to be quick.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she said, stopping me with a hand, which I took in mine.
“I’m a fat old man, Patricia. It’s hard enough to find women of my own age who aren’t prostitutes, but a young thing like you . . . well, it would be a rare treat. Possibly my last ever. Thighs unpitted by cellulite, breasts that stand up like begging dogs. How often do you think I am granted such pleasures these days?”
“And what makes you think I would consent to being slobbered over by you?” she asked, withdrawing her hand.
“Your innate kindness,” I said, going over to pour myself a large glass of sherry. “The knowledge that you would be making me quite cretinously happy.”
“It’s a hell of a thing to ask.”
“Ha ha!” I said triumphantly. “And just why is it such a hell of a thing to ask?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that it was a hell of a thing to ask. Why should you think that?”
“Well, for your information, my body is not something I offer around like a tray of canapés.”
“And why not?”
“Why not? Why not? Because I happen to set some store by it.”
“So,” I trumpeted, “why do you need Davey to give you a sense of worth if you already have one?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Of all the cheap . . .”
“You’ve made it extremely plain that my offer of love and companionship is a far lower offer than you consider you have the right to expect. You value your body and your favours far above mine.”
“There’s a big difference between valuing my body and valuing myself. You didn’t offer me love and companionship, you asked me to lie out and be licked.”
“Which is a man’s clumsy way of asking for love, as well you must know. If I had said that you were the most beautiful woman I had laid eyes on for years and that I most desperately wanted you near me, you’d think I was taking pity on you. Thursdays are pretty good for me,” I said and buggered off, leaving her to stew.
I headed for the Villa Rotunda, notebook and pencil in one hand, sherry-glass in the other. Clouds were gathering on the sky-line and the long-promised bad weather looked to be approaching at last. Clouds boiled in me too and rumbles of thunder sounded in my head.
It was dark and cool inside the summerhouse. I sat on the wooden box of croquet mallets and fired up a Rothie. The last two days, I make no bones about it, had left me feeling bewildered and isolated. On the first page of the notebook I began to write down a list of the contradictions that were driving such hard nails into my mind.
They say writing lists is anal, the mark of an “anal retentive.” I am almost certain no one who uses that moronic phrase has the least idea what it means. The critic Edward Wilson once described Charles Dickens as an “anal dandy.” I don’t suppose he knew what the fuck he was talking about either. Listing things, as I do with words when preparing a poem for instance, seems to me to be a far cry from a compulsion to store objects in my bottom. Only the other day Oliver and I had been admiring the new Swafford Hall writing-paper that Michael had ordered from Smythson’s in Bond Street and which Podmore had distributed on bureaux and tables in the bedrooms, book rooms and drawing rooms of the house.
“Ooh, I just think stationery is so delightfully anal!” he had squeaked. Oliver that is, not Podmore.
“Why anal ?” I had asked testily. “Why not renal or cranial or pulmonary or nasal or testicular? I mean, what on earth has it got to do with arses? It makes no sense.”
“Don’t be difficult, dear. Everyone knows that stationery is anal. It’s an established fact.”
We go through phases in infancy of wanting to lodge things either in our mouths or in our bottoms, we are told. We develop into orally or anally retentive types. As a smoker, drinker, guzzler and biter of biro ends, I might be considered oral. I can understand that: the above-stated itemries are all taken by mouth. Apparently, however, as a drawer-up of lists and a lover of good-quality paper, I am also anal. Does that make sense? Of course not. What possible use do such categorisations have, beyond providing people like Oliver with an opportunity to make flip dinner-party remarks?
Anal, my arse. I like my lists. This particular list was very important. Compiling a list for me is like laying out a formal garden in the rubbishy wilderness of my mind. Anal. Pah.
I chewed the end of my pencil, orally retaining several cedarwood splinters, and then I began to write.
Edward,Jane, Lilac and now, possibly, Oliver have apparently been cured by David’s placing his hands upon them.
A hot hand placed on a human body is, surely, no different to a hot compress, a hot flannel or, come to that, a hot buttered tea-cake placed on a human body. If heat alone could treat cancer and asthma and heart disease, then the medical world would have told us about it.
Therefore David’s hands are transmitting some power other than heat.
My understanding is that electricity, magnetism and gravity are the only physical fields of force in the universe. A molecule or an atom, or whatever they are called, cannot be moved by any other power. Well, there are a couple of others, but they only exist on paper.
The only other force worth considering, I have always held, is the creative force in man, such as might write a poem or right a wrong.
There is such a thing as the power of suggestion, however. One human mind is capable of being hypnotised or persuaded by another. We have faith, we have Hitler, we have advertising. But faith healing? Come off it. Pain may be mental illusion, but tumours and clotted arteries are not. Besides, there’s the vet and, it would seem, Jane’s doctors.
If all this is true: if David is capable of changing molecular structure—for this is what we are discussing—then the world should know about it.
I am David’s godfather. What do I think of the morality of allowing him to be (a) splashed all over the newspapers, (b) pushed back and forth between scientists and fanatics determined either to prove him a fraud or to overblow his gifts?
What do I mean “gifts”? Gifts are things that are given. That necessitates a giver. Why should God waste his time giving the power to heal? What happened to free will and the duty of ma
n to get on with life without the impertinent interference of his creator? And what about the millions who will die every year never having been given a chance to be healed by David? Children in Africa with eaten-away faces? Paraplegics in Peru? Lepers in Libya? The blind in Bali and the deaf in Delhi? It’s senseless, senseless, absolutely senseless. Even the flawed and spiteful God we have wouldn’t be cruel enough to give his children just a handful of healers to go around four billion.
And if God did give us a healer he’d be damned sure that the one chosen would do more than heal. They’d preach abstinence and salvation and hellfire or some such damned thing to go along with it. Whereas all David does is witter on about half-arsed namby-pamby Green crap and dribble a load of maundering pantheistic bollocks about Nature and Purity.
There again. Music is a gift. Painting is a gift. Even poetry is a gift. Palpable talents and charisms enough exist which improve man’s fate on earth, why not one of healing? It may be that the giver is not God, but genetics and evolution. After all, there is evidence that David’s power is congenital, inherited indeed, as are the gifts of many musicians.
But. But, but, but. To be a great musician the gift alone is not enough. You must live amongst men and suffer and understand. Above all you must WORK. Nothing of any value that I’ve ever seen man achieve on this earth has ever been accomplished without work.
Oh yeah? Why are you fighting it so hard, Ted? What’s your problem? Face the evidence of your own eyes.
Evidence of my eyes? What have I actually seen?
Oh, come on. Evidence of your own ears, then.
Hearsay.
It’s “hearsay” to you that Mexico exists. Do you really doubt it?
All right. All right. But that still leaves the problem of David. I swore an oath at the font. His father, my friend, looks to me for guidance. For once in his life he doesn’t know what to do. I can help.
That’s right, you can help. You can . . .
I broke off. The sound of voices was approaching. Two people, deep in conversation. They stopped under the open window of the Villa, the rear window that gave out on to the lake.
“This, I think, is a quiet spot.” The voice of Max Clifford.
“Very quiet.” The voice of Davey.
I locked myself into a kind of gaping immobility, like an uncoordinated child playing musical statues. They were only yards from where I sat and the smallest sound from inside the summerhouse would be as audible to them as their speech was to me.
“Now then. I’ll get right down to it, David. I’ve seen Oliver this morning.”
No reply.
“He wouldn’t say what had happened, but it’s clear that something has. Something of a similar nature to the extraordinary recovery that Mary and I witnessed in your cousin Jane earlier this year.”
“It’s quite true. Oliver’s heart is mended now.”
Clifford gave an admiring laugh.
“Amazing. Quite amazing.”
“It’s not really amazing, you know. Not to me.”
“I suppose these activities take something out of you?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact they do take something out of me.”
“It’s merely . . . I feel rather absurd making this request. I appreciate it’s not like asking someone to lend you a book or to baby-sit for the evening.”
“You can ask me anything you like, Max.”
“My daughter Clara has . . . certain things wrong with her.”
“I’m sure I can help her, Max.”
“She’s not ill exactly, but she is, well, odd. She’s so awkward and clumsy and . . .”
“And unhappy.”
“Very difficult to take her out anywhere. People stare, you know. The strabismus and the buck-teeth are bad enough. But she makes absolutely no effort to be graceful or . . .”
“Yes, I know. I would be very happy to see her and do what I can.”
“I don’t know exactly what your technique is. If Mary and I could help in any way?”
“Well, the thing is, Max. You have to trust me, you see. I would rather that you weren’t present when I am with her.”
“Of course, of course. Whatever you say. But you are fully up to strength? I mean, you’re not an especially strong boy by the looks of you. We don’t want to exhaust you.”
“I am quite strong really. My spirit is very quickly replenished. So long as I don’t waste it.”
“Splendid.”
They fell into a silence. I stretched a cramped leg out as noiselessly as I could. Perhaps they had walked away. I contemplated rising and going over to the window to peep down. Then I heard the sound of a pebble splashing into the lake and decided that they were still there. Another couple of pebbles were thrown before David spoke.
“What have you said to Clara about me?”
“Well, we did mention that it was a possibility that you would like to help her.”
“And how does she feel about that?”
“Clara is fourteen years old and will do as she is told,” Max said sharply. He must have realised how callous this sounded, for he quickly added, “Not that she needs to be told, I should say. No, she’s very keen. Her squint and her teeth and her bloody uncoordinated gawking. They are a great trial to her. To all of us.”
“Where is she now?”
“With Simon somewhere, according to her mother. Mucking around in the stables. Mucking out in the stables, more likely. Would you like me to send her to you?”
“This afternoon if that would be all right. After lunch.”
“Yes. Yes, you should eat first, I expect. Er, where exactly will you do it?”
“I’m not sure, Max. Perhaps we might go for a walk. But it really has to be private. We must be absolutely alone.”
“As you say, as you say . . . I’m very grateful. Mary and I are both very . . .”
Max’s voice faded and I was left, once more, to myself.
I turned back to my notebook and completed, for the time being, my list.
20.I may have the evidence of my own eyes soon. Best, I think, to suspend judgement until then.
I looked in on Michael before lunch. He was dictating a letter. Smoother and more assured he looked than when last we had talked. His business face, I supposed. He appeared to be pleased to see me. There again, he had appeared to be pleased to see me the week before when, as I now knew, he had in fact been excessively vexed by my presence. For all I know, no one in the world has ever been pleased to see me, but some have been better at hiding it than others.
“Ahoy, Tedward! And how goes the morning?”
“Just wanted a word, Michael.”
“Thank you, Valerie. I’ll talk to Mr. Wallace now.”
“Yes, Lord Logan.”
Valerie slipped out, closing the door behind her.
“So, what do you hear, what do you say?”
I sat down in the chair opposite the desk. “You’ve heard about Oliver?”
Michael sighed and drummed his fingers against the side of his head.
“Annie was in here. Very upset. She said she had told Davey yesterday not to see anyone without telling her first. She is furious that he disobeyed. ‘Of course he disobeyed!’ I said to her. ‘If my Uncles had told me, when I was his age, “Don’t do any more work on the shop, Michael. Sit and listen to the wireless or read a book, but no more thinking about business and customers and money,” do you think I would have taken any notice? Never on your life.’ But Annie was not satisfied.” Michael sighed again and unzipped a fresh cigar. “So tell me, Tedward, what do you think now?”
“What do I think? I don’t know. However . . .” I smiled a conspiratorial smile, “I may know later today.”
He frowned. “Later today? So what happens later today?”
“Michael
, do you mind if I don’t tell you? I won’t let anything occur which shouldn’t occur, you have my word.”
“And do I have your word that your word is worth anything?”
“I like to think it’s worth at least the air it’s spoken with.”
Logan grunted his assent.
“You’re going to talk to Davey, then?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I said. “I’ll let you know this evening.”
“Jane will be here by then. She comes down this afternoon.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “We shall have a full house: queens and knaves.”
Logan rose and we repaired for a pre-lunch sip in the library, where Oliver’s friskiness and excessive show of good health quite put me off my schooner of fino.
IV
Meals at Swafford gather in formality during the day. This is common in the grander houses of the kingdom. I expect Lévi-Strauss or Margaret Mead, were they living, could explain this phenomenon by stripping away the lacquer of smart country-house tradition to reveal a solid anthropological teak of tribal taboo beneath—as it is we shall no doubt have to look to arse-witted Sunday-paper style-writers for explanation. Breakfast, to the delight of my traditionalist self, is, as it should be, a more or less servantless affair, Podmore only coming in with fresh coffee and toast when summoned by screams or bells. The sideboard is topped with a row of gleaming tureenery containing, in addition to the bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms and wrinkly fried tomatoes we might expect, the three great K’s of English breakfast lore—Kedgeree, Kippers and Kidneys (keenly devilled); the length of the dining-table is rhythmically dotted with dishes of marmalade, with pots of coffee and tea, with silver toast-racks and jugs slopping to their crystal brims with the juice of orange, tomato and grapefruit. A Hepplewhite satinwood side table is matutinally spread by Podmore into a fan of national and local newspapers. Periodicals are provided too, The Spectator, Private Eye, The Oldie, Country Life, The Field, Norfolk Fair, The Illustrated London News, The Economist, Investors Chronicle and Beano for the twins. It is my custom, as I have said, to contrive to come down last and have the room to myself. I stay there for an hour or so, until the first easings of mid-morning flatulence push me to the lavatory. If St. Peter were to ask in what time or place I should like eternally to be suspended for the infinite length of my heavenly career, I could certainly choose half past ten on a summer’s morning in the dining room of Swafford Hall.