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Authors: Keith Roberts

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BOOK: The Chalk Giants
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I didn’t tell Maggie. Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t. It was just that... I didn’t want anything to spoil it. Not even a little thing.

Another night there was some gunfire. It sounded close. We sat up all night listening, but nobody came near.

She said I always had to take a gun with me. Everywhere I went, even if it was only a step.

I should have done. I should have listened. But nobody ever came. Apart from just that once. It was as if people didn’t exist any more, we’d have the place to ourselves for ever.

I’d come down to the shore, to go out to the pots. She was still asleep, I didn’t want to wake her. I forgot, I honestly did. I remembered when I was going across the yard. But I was only going to be gone a little while, it only took a few minutes to row out. It wasn’t worth going back.

The mist was bad. I don’t think it will ever clear. I’d pushed the boat off, I was getting in. Then I heard this pebble scrape.

I looked up. I could just see him. I thought for a minute it was Stan Potts again. But he was too tall.

I suppose I panicked. If I’d just got into the boat, he’d never have followed me. I could have landed anywhere, run back to the house ...

I backed away instead. Up the beach. I didn’t say anything. All I could think of was, I hadn’t got a gun.

He said, ‘It’s all right. Don’t run away. . .’ But I ran anyway. I heard him following.

He was between me and the house. I couldn’t get past him. Then I caught my foot, landed in some bushes. I thought he’d get me; but I got away just in time.

He was still following. I couldn’t scream, it wouldn’t be any good. She wouldn’t have heard me, she was too far away.

I didn’t know what he wanted. He kept on calling but I wouldn’t answer. I was climbing as quietly as I could. But he still knew where I was.

There’s another path up by the pillbox. It crosses a stream, goes up where the cliffs are lower. Like big steps, all grass and clay. I think he’d lost me; but I slipped and he heard me again. I thought perhaps the bombs had sent him mad. I was sure he was mad, I don’t know why. I kept thinking how upset she was going to be. I was crying, I hated to think of her that upset. It was all my fault because I hadn’t taken the gun.

He shouted up to me. ‘I own this place. Who are you?’ But I didn’t believe him.

There was a place where the path went up between two mounds of rock. I’d climbed one before I thought, I lay there panting. There was a big piece of stone, I picked it up. I knew he wouldn’t see me, against the rock.

The light was brighter. Almost as if the sun was bursting through. I waited. When he came, I was going to hit him with the rock. Then I heard his feet below me on the path. He was closer than I’d thought.

 

RICHARD

 

Remembering afternoons at bungalow. Lawn bald under cypress tree, stretching to rockery. Purple and yellow bedding plants, sunken lane beyond. Birdbath, stone rabbit patched with lichen. Shadow of pedestal stretches across grass. In my painting I would solve such an equation.

Remember doing series that was nothing but the lichen. Orange scumble over olive green, old faces from hills peering through.

Castle visible from lounge windows. Stone shell set above valley, open to air and light. Wild sun’s nest. View framed by white glazing bars. White house, smelling of nineteen-thirty-five. Made me feel nearer to him. Middle phase before Junkers, rolling suns.

Pity about Maggie. She didn’t live there. Don’t know if she ever lived anywhere. Talked a lot about the school. Angry image, wasp-hive. Gone now. One-second slum clearance plan.

Glad castle still there. Wonder how long it will last. Can’t imagine dissolution. But can’t imagine dissolution of anything. Playing music the last day. Reger, Buxtehude. Read spec, on record sleeve. Tierce and blockflute, quintflute.
Rohr Gedacht.,
Take a book to describe death of one church organ.

Remembering rest of room. Fleecy half-moon rug in front of grate, slip mats on wood-block floor, leather-covered Spanish chest in corner. Silver on sideboard, white china swan. Framed pastel, head of saluki. Whisky in side cupboard, as aid to concentration. Carved Swiss hat-rack outside door, family of climbing bears.

Remember her lying on bed. Afternoon sun on blinds. Drenching light, green-gold. Remember tumbled blankets, lovely planes of body. Thrust of hip, knotted sheet pulled between thighs. Lorelei, or Jennifer. Should have painted her. But am not Picasso. Can’t paint tears.

Could have had her. But take her once and spatial relationships destroyed. Vital to preserve image of castle, china swan. Sooner flog bishop.

Remembering flat in Cheltenham. Tried to work there but was stifled. Relationship between creativity and fucking. Vicky understood latter but couldn’t follow former any farther than the rest. Perhaps procreation a major art form. In which case all painting frustrated sex.

Definition of philosophy. Pastime unfitted for grown men.

Remember rage at refusal to seek divorce. Think she used to go up to Town to meet hubby. Handsome allowance; her reluctance understandable. Her coming down here bad luck on both of us. But also understandable. Was bound to be Army or Church. For aye to be in shady cloister mew’d.

Tried to develop philosophy of shallowness. Greed, indifference, etc., wholly admirable, integrity the only crime. But new order would develop own integrity, therefore fail. Could never understand partial involvements. As Vicky. Emotion in cast iron frame. Passion can be trained like fruit tree.

Potts a great creative artist. Firing of gun a major Surreal act. Quieter and cheaper to have simply pushed him off cliff.

Have seen gun. Luger. Keeps it in sleeping bag. Spends hours cleaning, etc. Distinctive smell of miscible oil. Wonder what Leader said to make poor bastard flip. Can’t get up much feeling for Jones. One shitbag so much like the next.

Can’t get up much feeling for anything. Remember discussion with Maggie. Overstocked attics, etc. Maybe right.

Maggie an interesting woman. Life failed socially, had to fall back on intelligence. Liked her ideas on moral sense. Unfortunately only applicable at low culture levels. Table of Affinities end result of need to regulate birthrate, Holy Matrimony handy for generating virgins. Will maybe have her chance in next hundred years.

No primary objection to lesbianism. Act only disgusting when participants ugly or fat. Coition between consenting beauty queens. Hold similar views on pederasty but don’t think I was believed. Hope she made Martine. Would like to have been fly on ceiling, shouting yippee.

Martine a very moreish girl. Wouldn’t have minded conventional rummage myself. But didn’t try for her. From him that hath not, shall be taken away.

Must be something in sea air. Remember identifying castle as lingam-yoni motif. Male pillar upholding sun-drenched cup. Had been reading programme notes on
Parsifal.
Tried a painting but didn’t think it worked out. Gave to Maggie for lounge. She liked it.

Am no Symbolist. Also, Miro and Munch an infertile cross.

Missing those afternoons. Would welcome views on current relationship with Vicky. Three times round a bit of a bloody joke.

Quiet week, after bombs. Fished, brought up wood from beach. Pity he had to ditch the truck as well. Heard plane once, above mist. Droned round half the day. Wondered what reconnaissance was for. Found out later.

Woke to noise of engines, grinding of tracks. Whole place shaking, wondered what in hell was going on.

Debarking took three hours. Fog dense, could barely see lights of landing craft. Heavy tanks, one-twenty-millimetre turrets. Markings were a surprise. Each made thunderous turn on beach below farmhouse, shouldered off up into mist. Strange primal movement of tracked vehicles. Must have seen house; but fortunately has preserved deserted appearance.

Seemed to have no infantry support. Lucky for us, unlucky for them.

Firing started just before dawn. Cannonade sporadic at first then continuous, thundering through mist. Cliffs of amphitheatre ringing in dark. Last weird battle in the west.

Don’t know where Potts took off to. Think he went to earth. Walked to where I could see small-arms flashes, orange points sparkling in fog. Our people deployed before high ground, where lane joins old range road. One tank burning. Remember foundry chimney seen at dusk. Open hatch looked like it.

Four tanks in paddock below lane, presenting low profile. Others moving through spinney to left, trying to outflank. Watched for a bit. Stink of cordite, shaking of ground to noise of cannon, Then rounds started slapping into grass beside me, with a zip and whick. Got down, and stayed that way. Got out as soon as I could, went back to house.

Voices on beach during day. But nobody came near. Been cursing fog. Blessed it. After midday no more firing from hill. Heard guns farther west. Sounded to be down on heath.

Walked up again in evening. One tank slewed through wire in front of old manor house. Track poking up like looper caterpillar, something on turret side looking like dark red rag. Didn’t examine too closely. Others still in field. Iron exoskeletons, like old shelled beasts. But silent now. All dead. Look’d up for heaven, and only saw the mist.

Would like to have been War Artist. But little point this time. No sale for results.

Poetic for there to be survivor. Just one. But not Medraut.

Great patch of blood across her shoulder and sleeve. Not hers. Face gaunt, walk listless. Didn’t seem to care where she was going. She said, ‘There was nothing we could do.’ Can’t remember any surprise at seeing her.

Stink from burned-out tanks making me puke. Got her away, down track to house. Said Birmingham and Glasgow had gone.

Made her strip off uniform jacket. Her shirt soaked as well. Looked at blood incuriously. As though noticing it for first time.

Queer about blood. Could never stand it. Or earthworms, giant trees. If haemoglobin had been green, wouldn’t have cared. Should have seen shrink while I had the chance.

She was starting to shake. Gave her whisky and hot water. Used to give her whisky at the flat. On bad days. Thank God we brought crates down from pub. Kept me going.

She took toddy when I made it. Sat and held cup. I latched shutters across window, made up fire. She didn’t want to eat. Said to her once, ‘What are you going to do?’ But no answer. Always used to say, was bad at making decisions.

Had kept her hair at old length. Said once she’d never cut it again.

Helped her let it down. Was as I remembered it: strands vari-coloured, gold, brown, red, white. Made her another drink. Said then she wanted to go outside. Didn’t think she’d come back. But she did.

Potts had come in. Didn’t say much. Just looked at her with queer, ashamed little grin. Wondered what he was thinking. If anything. Doesn’t talk a lot. Not any more.

Laid put sleeping bag for her. She sat and looked at it a bit. Wondered if she was thinking about Maggie. But she didn’t ask.

Got in with her, to get her warm. Put my arms round her. Queer to feel her again. But my hands didn’t need her breasts. We’d gone through all that once.

Remembered, used to ache when kept apart. She said it was the same for her. Used to make me promise to sleep on left side. She’d sleep on right and pretend I was there, used to call it Lefts and Rights.

Maybe that was what was wrong. Coming back like that, getting in way of memory.

Used to put one arm under pillow, so I could cradle her and not muss her hair. Did same again. Habit dies hard.

Woke later; She was warm. Slid into her, slowly. She started moving hips. Nearly like good old times.

Asked me in the morning if I’d been painting any more. That was like old times too. Said I’d been getting by. Knew she wouldn’t want details. Always liked my paintings fine, stuck on a wall. It was the rest she wasn’t keen on. But had never had an artist before of course. Was all going to be Parturition without Pain.

Still plenty of fish. We ate them. Nothing else to do. Imagined sometimes running Geiger over them, hearing roar of clicking. Dreamed about it.

Had a lot of dreams. Saw her once combing hair. Was all coming out as she tugged, in chunks and swatches. Yelled at her to stop, but she wouldn’t. Kept saying it would be better when it was gone. Mad with her when I woke up. Somehow seemed the sort of thing she would do.

Like the blood. Didn’t seem to care whether she was soaked in it or not. So she hadn’t changed.

Never knew woman with such an affinity. Remember day in Cheltenham when she dropped Pyrex dish; She’s still got white line across wrist. Standing there when I went through letting blood spurt through open window. Didn’t want to get it on the floor. Said, ‘I shouldn’t have tried to save it. I shall let the next one go.’ Put dressing on when she’d streamed enough. I took her up for stitching. Probationer’s face in Casualty. But seemed to think the whole thing was a laugh.

Wondered if she still had the other haemorrhages. Maybe Army medical not as fundamental as I thought. She used to say it was cancer. Those were the bad days. Doesn’t matter what I thought. Not any more.

Think I’d seen enough of her when I left Cheltenham. She was Goddess of course, we all find one of our own. Even Potts, poor bugger. But mine bled from the backside.

Think it was the inactivity that caused first rows. Sitting day after day in fog, waiting for what was coming next.

Couldn’t get off beach. She said they’d set up a cordon, on the rising ground. Couldn’t cover all the coastline, but anything moving up from sea would be shot. No way of knowing if troops still in position. Didn’t feel like finding out the hard way. Went across to Kimmeridge instead, to little village. Not much good. Only one shop, which had been cleaned out. Proved there were still people about somewhere. But they never came near us.

Nearly sure sometimes there was nothing up there. Dead tanks, dead houses, dead hills. Other times wondered if had been killed myself, the day they took Birmingham out and lit the Channel. And traffic had been heavy so filing clerks were slow, getting me up for Judgment.

BOOK: The Chalk Giants
5.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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