The Further Adventures of Charles Maxwell-House Esq.
Sir Charles gets out of the wrong side of bed
It certainly BEGAN as a quiet week. Due to the oppressive humidity which cloaked all London town like a rasping boarding-school-issue blanket (and which aggravated my rheumatism most disagreeably) I had even considered giving myself some little respite from my exhaustative investigations. Ah! but the dear fates had something quite, quite other in store for me ... It is most perplexing to even try to imagine myself as I was before the afternoon I will describe forthwith; the deep ignorance in which I shuffled, as if in pitch darkness!
It all started when I was at my, of late, regular Thursday morning post – on a bench in Portland Place, keeping a close watch on Broadcasting House. Sitting with my transistor radio pressed firmly to my ear I noted that Sir Melvyn’s morning culture show had just finished and I eagerly anticipated his exit through the portals before me. (Having written dozens of letters to Sir M and receiving no reply, I had decided to try and intercept him in person.) I desired to know why I had been notable by my absence on one programme where they were discussing the semiotics of seafarers, a subject in which I am a particular expert. I was particularly distressed to note that my arch-enemy, Professor Tubbins-Mephisto of The Metaphorical College of Linguistics, Bucks, was on the panel, and took a sadistic delight in decrying one of my most extensive and important surveys. (To confess a little further, I did manage to meet Sir M out here once – and quite frightened him, I believe. It was a most curious rendezvous as the subject of naval semiotics, on which he had seemed such an expert but weeks before, seemed to mean absolutely nothing to him; in fact he looked utterly perplexed.
Dear Reader! I confess that I may have perceived the sharp tangy odour of alcohol on his breath.) I now only desired to catch him at a more convenient moment when we could more freely discuss my future appearances on his excellent programme.
The security guard on the door was, as usual, eyeing me most suspiciously and talking sideways into the walkie-talkie secured to his lapel, when a young man sat down next to me on the bench and began tapping a message into his portable telephone. To my deepest astonishment he was smugly wearing a BBC visitors pass. I interrogated him immediately … had he really been on the hallowed airwaves? This CHILD? He nodded in the affirmative. I swiftly asked him if he had seen Sir M. He claimed that he hadn’t. Greatly disgruntled, I managed at last to overcome my unseemly jealousy when I learnt that this young fellow ran a magazine devoted to the art of non-fiction storytelling, in other words, as the lurid penny weeklies would have it, true-life stories. He handed me a copy and I engrossed myself in some of the tales whilst he merrily tapped away. After a while he turned to me and said, ‘It’s Bad Idea*, by the way’. I guffawed politely. But no, he repeated it with special emphasis, ‘It’s BAD IDEA’ and this time he even motioned to the publication itself with one finger. I politely but firmly begged to differ: false modesty is never becoming in one so young. Seemingly exasperated, he plucked the copy from my palms and waved it in my face, pointing. ‘The magazine is CALLED Bad Idea!’ Well, this really was too much. I jumped to my feet and wasted no breath in telling him I thought it was an excellent idea, which I might well – and he would be foolhardy to underestimate the importance of this point – factor into my extensive literary and linguistic investigations. Quite spent with my frustrating morning I stormed off, only stopping to momentarily curse my luck as I glimpsed Sir M climbing
hastily into the back of a black cab (somewhat unsteadily, I fancied?).
Despite clearly having rolled off entirely the wrong side of my couch that morning, I was cheered by this quaint idea of real-life storytelling, and began to muse on it. Was not the process of putting pen to paper one of muddying the truth? Had it not already become a form of fiction once processed by the brain and then willingly scratched on to the page? And, of course, does anybody especially want to know the truth, even if one could set it down? I decided, therefore, that I would make it my business, even if this headstrong young man was so irrefutably opposed to the idea, to seek the truth out and attempt to convey it to my loyal readership, as a sort of experiment.
And so, as I approached the devilish bustle of Oxford Street I stopped many who passed me in this manner:
‘Excuse me my dear sir/madam [delete as appropriate], would you care to tell me a true story from your life?’ Most brushed me aside, whilst others merely stared. One worried looking lady even thrust a pound coin into my hand and was lost in the throng before I could return it. What insufferable foolishness! Does she really think a beggar would wear gaiters from Jones & Millingtons of Mayfair?
However, I had to concede that my initial approach was frightening the public, and so, on a brilliant whim, I hailed a taxicab, feeling sure that I would find a professional yarn spinner within its confines.
‘A story, guv’nor?’
‘Indeed,’ I replied. ‘It doesn’t have to be interesting. Just anything true, as accurately as you can remember it.’
‘Ooh. All right then. You’ll never guess who got into my cab just now?’
‘Ah yes. Who?’
‘Well if it wasn’t that Sir Melvyn off of the telly.’
‘What?’ I gripped the seat and lunged forward towards the Perspex barrier that separated us.
‘You know, that show with the music,’ and with that he launched into a hideously tuneless dirge he claimed was the theme tune to said ‘show’. Interrupting him a little too sharply, I gasped:
‘And where, my good man, did you drop him off? At what address?’
‘Calm down, granddad. I definitely ain’t going to tell you that.’
I managed to compose myself sufficiently, ‘No. Quite right.’
I think I may have put him off, as he was remarkably quiet for the rest of the trip, bar a ‘Good luck then’ as I stepped out, and proffered no further tales.
Well, it appeared it was far harder to get people to talk than I had anticipated, and I had to admit to myself that I was not at my charming best. Feeling rather downcast I set off on an aimless stroll. Turning off into a secluded adjoining alleyway just off W____ St, I spied a hooded figure slumped down against the wall of a building. As I drew near I noticed that he was counting his takings, presumably from begging in the bustling streets beyond. Now surely this fellow can tell me something about real life, I thought, and approaching him, I pushed a crisp five pound note into his vision.
I saw he was very young as he drew back his hood to stare at me, both curious and afraid. The deep bruised ridge of his cheekbones gave way to unnaturally hollow cheeks suggesting someone who didn’t eat nearly enough. (I began to feel guilty for the juicy Bath Chaps that Mrs B was at that moment busy rustling up at M-H Towers.) His nothing-coloured hair, though short, was matted with dirt, and his face covered in pimples and small boils; a smattering of downy hair sat on his chin a little defiantly. His eyes were eagle-like and a piercing blue.
‘Are you a sicko? Cos you’ll need to a lot more than that, gramps.’
Confused, I assured him that I just wanted to hear a story. He was clearly puzzled by this, but having perfectly amicably unburdened me of the fiver (and slipped it on his person by sleight of hand, which made me rather worry for my gold watch and chain) he cleared his throat and with a polite cough, began thus:
‘Well I’m not from round ‘ere. Everyone back home in Chester said to come down to London, so that’s just what I did. I got on a coach and when I got here I had nothing, nothing at all. My mum, well she don’t care about me, like, cos she has this new bloke and he used to beat me, black and blue, he did. With a belt, mostly. That’s why I left. And he used to burn me, and my mum would watch, and she’d just be laughing, like.’
I was utterly shocked, and too moved to do anything but nod as a sign for him to continue:
‘And me Dad, I never even seen him. A rotten drunk according to me mum, but then she could be lying couldn’t she. I don’t even know his name, why would I, if I never even seen him? And when I was growing up, back in Chiswick, I often dreamt I’d meet him. [then very sadly] But now I don’t even care. I’ve forgotten all about him. What’s it matter?’
I was yet more troubled after this second paragraph of woe.
‘Aren’t you from Chester?’
The boy, who had seemed to be in a reverie of deepest reflection snapped to attention,
‘Chester, Chiswick – same difference.’
‘Well, if you’re not familiar with the travel writings of Henry James, then I suppose it is!’ I exclaimed. ‘Your story isn’t true, is it boy?’
He shook his head, rather apologetically. Flabbergasted, I stomped off down the alley. I heard his thin voice calling behind me,
‘It’s half true you know, I thought you wanted a good sob story. I’ll tell you any story you like!’
Well, it’s a sad day when not even a beggar can tell you a decent real-life tale! I don’t remember dear Mr Pickwick having this problem. But maybe they were making it all up, too?
Lost in thought I found myself at one of my old favourite spots, the G___ I___ gardens. The rose bushes planted on either side had exploded into peachy loveliness, and the afternoon sun, earlier so relentless, was now a pleasant caress. I began to feel a little better, and, dear Reader, I feel I can be completely honest with you these days, I confess I do believe that I may have dozed off for a moment.
I was awoken by a sweet voice singing in an undertone. Opening my sleep-sticky eyes I saw a very elegant lady of about my age with pure white hair busy inspecting the jubilant array of roses.
‘The roses are quite beautiful, are they not?’
What dulcet tones! What a sweet, unprepossessing manner! Readers, I confess, I was enchanted! She sat down beside me without asking and almost at once launched into a story, most entirely incoherent, about how she had worked for the government in her twenties and had a very important report to deliver one day that went terribly wrong. How she was late. How she was tested in that task. Her job was on the line. Then she said she had also been a civil servant for someone or other else, it slips my mind. It was marvellously boring and horribly true, and quite as muddled as real life. And issuing from her lips it was quite beautiful! Prosaic, so matter-of-fact, she poured forth a story of such circular repetition it was a breathtaking, nay audacious display of anti-rhetoric. On her pausing for breath, I managed to finally ask for her name.
‘Violet,’ came the reply.
Violet. Ah, dear Violet! [This is most unlike the old fellow. I think someone may have slipped something into his First Flush Darjeeling – Ed]
After telling me another mind-bogglingly tedious tale in her sweet tones – I think it was about a work tribunal in which she was, eventually, cleared – she stood up abruptly and told me she had to be off. I begged her to make an appointment to meet me for the very next day, in the same paradisal spot. She seemed uninterested, but agreed all the same. Oh sweet delights! I shall glimpse my dear Violet tomorrow …
[Enough! This column is pulled until further notice – Ed]
*Bad Idea is a quarterly magazine of non-fiction storytelling, journalism, photostories and artwork. Investigate it at: www.badidea.co.uk
