Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
WINTER, 1957
It was a dislocated unfriendly old house with Victorian additions and plenty of empty rooms. There was a constant smell of meat cooking. On any day you could open the Aga and there was always one in there, meat was continual, and when it wasn't a joint it might be a tongue or a gut. Plus, there was the enormous ancillary vessel of dog meat, stewing without specification, and cooling through long winter afternoons into ultimate paralysis under two inches of yellow fat.
The history of its meat clung about this house like a climate. Like oil-vapour in a garage. Perhaps the only room immune was an upstairs back bathroom, facing north. Someone once said, 'Let's stop this bathroom being green?' But they ran out of interest, it was green and old yellow. In here were the six toothbrushes of the residents and an egg-coloured carpet with a known verruca. But there was hygiene in here. A smell of cloths provided antidote to the dinners and hours abandoned to them in this apartment of ruined tiles.
It was in this area that his grandfather liked to lurk about, not necessarily in the bathroom, not necessarily excluding it. He rode the toilet like a horse, facing the wall, and crept around in the attic with his penis out. The boy knew this because he was always creeping around too. Sometimes they inadvertently spied on each other. On one occasion he was concealed behind a bedroom door, staring up the hall, and he saw an eye behind the crack in another door, staring back at him. The boy and his grandfather shared more than they might have imagined. Both liked secrets and were interested in the secrets of others. Both thought a lot about nudes.
His grandfather carried pictures of nude women and quite often sent away for brassiere catalogues. Anyone prepared to scale a fifteen-foot wall could lie on the roof and watch him in his 'office'. Inside were a pair of wooden filing cabinets, a desk with an ancient Olivetti, and two twelve-volt lead-zinc batteries wired into a Morse key. Unfortunately, the only way to observe him in here was by hanging over the gutter and cautiously lowering your head. This meant everything was upside-down, but it was the only way to watch him with his sleeves rolled up and a cigar in his mouth, working on his nudes with a razorblade and pot of gum arabic.
Walter was extremely old and full of cancer, although they hadn't diagnosed it yet. On the day the first cell divided the boy got his first pubic hair. The hair was unimpressive and the cancer just a few miscreant spores in the old man's gut. No one knew anything about either. Except Walter had lost weight. He was two holes up on his watch-strap and his coat hung off him like a coat on the back of a chair.
On summer evenings yellow light bored into the cigar smoke and the part of his head that was chromium-plated shone. Sometimes you could see your face in it, like a hubcap.
'What are you looking at?'
'Nothing.'
He was careful how he combed his hair, manipulating specially grown long bits over the top and securing them with a wad of grease. This wasn't always successful. During sultry weather his plate warmed up, melting the Brylcreem, and his dome would emerge like part of a small bollard. I have to tell you when you were looking at this you were looking at something. That's why he wore a hat.
'What are you looking at?'
'Nothing.'
'You're a liar.'
He was right. The boy was a liar. They were both expert liars. In 1914 his grandfather had lied to get into the army. He signed up, lying about his age, and they rigged him out in big boots and gave him a ride to France. He was the best Morse-code operator on the line, he could think in fucking Morse. He didn't know it then, but Morse was the only thing he was ever going to be any good at.
They took them by train to a little town in Belgium a few miles behind the fighting. The Germans had been here for a year or more and junked the place up somewhat. Even the school was full of bullet holes. Did they shoot the children? Who knows, there are no children here to tell. They got billeted in some of the downstairs classrooms and for a month or two this is where the Morse came in. Fifteen words a minute if you were good. Walter could send thirty. He could look across the dead-zone towards the collapsed church where they blew up their own God and hear it in a series of electrical discharges – dit – dit – dah – dah – dit – hits in his head like organised flies. But what about the pretty evenings when the weather was pink? What about the girl he fucked in the meadow? Can Morse ever be beautiful? I can't think so. Surely this kind of language is only good for ugly things, like horse blood, and maggots in the horse's head? Kissing tits sounds just about the same as your arse blown off.
* * *
Rain all over the town and it felt like the 35th of January. That's what he wrote home to his sweetheart, Ethel, although he didn't write that much. Then the message came, and he was the first to transcribe it: 'We're out of here, and going on some kind of offensive in a place called Passchendaele.' The officer was a new boy, never heard of it, and looked it up on a map. As it turned out it wasn't too far away.
Walter had never seen a tank before and laughed when he did. It was like an elephant in an idiot's dream. Diesel pouring out of its head, like an elephant breathing like a whale.
But it was big and made him feel so little and realise he was still a boy.
That's why he laughed.
At twenty minutes past two that afternoon half a kilo of shrapnel took the top of his head off like it was opening it for breakfast. Another element of the same shell hit him in the gut.
He heard it in Morse.
* * *
I'm dead.
Twenty thousand went into the toilet that day but Walter wasn't one of them. For seventeen days he lay where he fell, buried under a heap of horses and rotten Scottish dead. When the Germans picked him up his eyes opened and they stuffed his brain back in as an experiment.
He lived.
It was a story his grandson liked to hear. He liked hearing about the Germans and magic flies. The hospital in Koblenz was full of both and Walter genuinely never knew which one of them saved him.
His grandson's name was Thomas Christopher Penman, a thirteen-year-old asthmatic short-arse with big ears and an unwholesome characteristic. If you want the picture in more detail, from the age of four he navigated all lavatories and shat himself everywhere else. This was nothing medicinal, there was nothing 'wrong' with him, he wasn't incontinent or anything like that. No, he shat himself because he wanted to, it was wilful, and not a room in the house nor its considerable gardens was beyond his remit. Sometimes they saw him in his workshop, sometimes in the Wolsey, or cross-eyed and ecstatic in the raspberry canes. More often than not he located on the landing, wedged between the wall and piece of furniture called a tallboy. When there was no one around this was his favourite spot. It was a dark, secret place, with bland wallpaper covered in dots. No one else ever got in here. (The only other person who ever got in here was his grandfather who had been known to exploit the isolation to hang his testicles over the banisters.)
When this chosen section was unavailable he set off around the property looking for alternatives. Hypnotics were what he was after and there was a list of them. Moss growing anywhere out of almost anything. Rusting nails and lichen on ancient concrete with weeds scraping a living through the cracks. Mould on fences, and tinsel from slugs, and once, unexpectedly, even the dingle-berries on a broccoli root. (How did that happen, it never happened before?) Holes, he liked too, especially in fucked walls where beetles black as phones eat the bricks. Not that he cared a toss for beetles, or anything animate, as a matter of fact. What he wanted was to imagine he was the size of them and get into their stagnant galleries. Only then in these secret holes of moss and silence could anything begin.
It was a sensation of total security.
When his entrail stirred, an organ under his skull produced a peculiar kind of pickling vinegar that shrank the skin on his brain, and his eyes glazed as a pulse of elation grasped his bowel, like the hand of a ferocious angel. At moments like this his shame was an ecstasy. On the best of days whole afternoons would drift by with him pole-axed in the undergrowth. For as long as it could be held in transit, on remand, so to speak, suffering it to be neither prisoner, nor yet free, then its enchanting authority would maintain.
It was a church in heaven.
There were outlaws of course, sudden rogues that motored into the gusset with inevitable consequences. Once control was lost the reverie was over and a new circumstance had to be coped with. It was called the Saturday Bag. The Saturday Bag was the bag set aside from the rest of the common laundry. It hung on a hook in an out-house and featured only Thomas's underwear. It was the burden of this hamper that drove his mother into guard-duty outside the lavatory door. There was no other way – if she wasn't out there, he wasn't in there. Ultimately she took up crosswords and said it was worth the wait. Thomas's load meant a day in front of a washing machine with the attendant anxiety of not only dealing with them but first finding where they were hidden.
'Where are they?'
'What?'
Short of hauling up lino there was no place left upstairs that wasn't as well known to her as him. But numbers were down and instinctively she knew he'd branched out somewhere else in the house. He was questioned, he was innocent, and forged an asthma attack as the search began. After the initial shock of discovery in his grandmother's sitting room they were almost always located quickly, usually in a drawer, or vase on the mantelpiece, sometimes down the side of a sofa, sometimes on top of another pair as yet unearthed.
Remember Christmas 1955?
1955, when to Thomas's horror, Uncle Horrie pulled out not one, but three pairs driven down the side of an armchair – that dreadful, stained clutch coming out just after he'd mastered the art of Solo. On the days following his mother took more, and by New Year's Eve she had eight. Two on top of the curtain pelmet, one in the wireless, the three that were Horrie's, and one even flattened under the carpet. She also found a sock under her mattress with one in it that he swore was nothing to do with him.
'I've admitted the rest, why would I lie?'
They took him to a doctor who wasn't interested, said he'd grow out of it, bring him back if he didn't. They brought him back and the doctor looked up his arse. There was nothing up there.
'How old is he?'
'Nearly fourteen.'
He wrote a prescription that was never used, and for the wrong reasons he was almost right. By 1958 something happened, and Thomas had all but grown out of it.
One afternoon he was out drowning flies when he realised he was in love with Gwen Hackett. She was at the same school, half a year younger, but already with a well-filled bra. It wasn't until he was in love with her that he realised everybody else was. Gwendolin was beautiful, stone blonde with sexy teeth, lips like the bit after a knot in a balloon. He drew a picture of her in the nude and wrote numbers on her tits, one and two respectively. Plus more pictures with more numbers and explanatory arrows pointing at her quiff. She had blue eyes, harsh as forget-me-nots, and always sort of sneered when he looked at her. Did this mean something? He knew girls had to hide their desires. He wrote her an anonymous letter signed 'Q' and the next day her friend came up and told him to drop dead.
'We know it's you,' she said. 'Gwen loves Dick Gollick.'
Heartbreak was instant and overwhelming. How could anyone love Gollick? He tried to put the pair of them out of his head but Gwendolin wouldn't go. Whatever the thought, it became a thought of her. Her impact however remained positive, and as he progressed through the third year anything in his knickers but a bit of graffiti was scarce. Risk of a contraction was limited to the classes he loathed: literature (a.m.), algebra (p.m.), a duo of stultifying shits in competition for tedium and both on a bastard Friday ...
If m equals x over b what's n?
He shoved eyes back at the blackboard and had another look at m. What was m? What relationship did it bear to n? How could anyone ever get hold of n when they were clueless about x over b and never heard of fucking m? In certain areas nibs were scratching. How did the others know what it meant? Maybe they didn't. Either way he couldn't get a grip on this kind of stuff. Whose fault was that? He'd been sitting here years and nobody told him nothing. He wrote w and blew it out, fuck it, that might be right.
Twenty minutes past three on the clock. G.P. Norris, maths and music, slumped under it, bored beyond endurance. He was a stale little twot with too many pens, lived with his mother on the western promenade and got there on a motor bike with a side-car that he occasionally took her out in. It was an unfulfilling sort of life. Out of hope. Like a used match put back in the box ...
You could hear the mechanics of the clock, minute after minute, one gone and another filling it. Thomas had a look at his book. At the back several pages were set aside for lists of cockney rhyming slang taught to him by his grandfather:
Dog = Phone (Dog and Bone/Phone)
Maria = Sperm (Maria Monk/Spunk)
China = Friend (China Plate/Mate)
Tom = Shit (Tom Tit/Shit)
Sky = Pocket (Sky Rocket/Pocket)
Here comes one, a complicated one, his spelling so bad he could hardly read it himself:
Harris = Arse – Harris derived from Aristotle –
Harris-totle/Bottle (Bottle and Glass/Arse)
Thomas started drawing spokes round the inkwell. His eyes drifted along the desk to a tiny gully filled with pencil leads and bits of India rubber. Winter sunlight cut across them and suddenly they were a shoal of dolphin – they were dolphins plunging in and out of an old and inky sea. Within seconds his eyes slipped focus and his arse was on to it. He could hardly believe it, this was dangerous, he was already carrying a Shakespearian potato and the perils of another if Norris woke up were alarming.
He tried to force his eyes off but couldn't, the dolphins were going a beauty. By now his pupils were so severely dilated any notion of control was fantasy. Suddenly, it half barged out, hot and uncompromising; nobody wanted it, least of all Thomas, and he tore eyes away to check it, and the worst of all worlds was reality. He was staring straight into the eyes of Norris. Now something really unuseful happened, Thomas grinned, grinned like he was sharing something with the cunt. But what else could he do, raised and weeping, staring into the lenses of this myopic prat with something so enormous in his pants it felt like a knee.
The moment was quite awful.
Norris looked away, beating a pen against his teeth, and the next time Thomas looked at him he was on his feet scanning the class for a victim. The question of n was now going to have to be answered. It was Thomas who was going to have to answer it, he knew it, and he was right.
'Pens down.'
Somehow Norris managed to lower his head into the tweed. He was looking amongst them and taking his time. Everything that was wrong with his life was here assembled, a classload of post-war secondary-modern no-hopers – Maurice Potts and Len Gubb, Fanny Shackles and Pauline Pew, plus twenty-seven more assorted thickheads – this was Norris's lot, and this was the end of the line. And there in the middle of them was that foul little oaf with its ears stuck out attempting to look inconspicuous.
Thomas looked back at him, trying to look normal, blend in with the others, so to speak ...
'X over b, then?' said Norris. 'What's n, then?'
A few hands went up, particularly that of Boles, who was obsequious to authority and looked like he was trying to hang from the lamp.
'Penman?'
The hands kept waving but Norris wasn't interested; stood there under raised eyebrows with his cheeks blown out. He did this when he was waiting, leisurely releasing the air like his head had a slow puncture. And he was still waiting, hands thrust in his pockets like a pair of Colts aimed at a girl in the front row.
'What's n? Penman?'
The double question mark was ominous.
'W, sir.'
'W?'
'Yes, sir.'
'W?' he said, his emphasis promoting it to a capital. 'What's it got to do with W?'
Thomas looked at his book like there might be something in it.
'I meant, k, sir.'
'K? Did you say, K?'
'Yes, sir.'
The twat wasn't looking cheerful, stared with magnified eyes and his foolish little moustache.
'Are you trying to be funny?'
'No, sir.'
'No, sir?' he volleyed. 'And n isn't k, is it, sir?'
'No, sir.'
The silence belonged to Norris, he didn't have a lot of use for it.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman"
by .
Copyright © 1998 Bruce Robinson.
Excerpted by permission of Abrams Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
