From my bedroom window I could see the roofs of a row of houses, with curtains of varying colours and sizes; tall buildings standing like needles and the branches of what looked like a plum tree. It was by now mid-October, the leaves were falling urgently, it was quite cold and I was extremely comfortable. I could see familiar roads. Old haunts. I remembered my favourite bookshop. I really can’t remember when I first went into the book shop which looked like a squashed little cottage. I only know that it was years ago. I used to wander in from time to time looking, usually, for something which was out of print or which no other bookseller had come around to stocking. I also went there when I had only the vaguest knowledge of what I wanted. 'It’s got Earth in the title, it’s not about hunting but there is a fox, and I can’t remember the publisher.' That sort of idiocy. I believe that the shop in those days belonged to a Mr. Chatto, who was youngish and obliging and who seemed permanently to be pushing through an avalanche of books. I remember first seeing the shop. I was ambling down a calm King’s Road to my bus stop outside Peter Jones, almost opposite the flat where I would live for a few years, and bought a packet of five Player’s cigarettes from what was then a seedy little newsagent and tobacconist.
Later, much later, I first really took notice of what was soon to become a singular bookshop, as opposed to just a bookseller. There is, as we know today, a marked difference between them.
I made only rare visits to the crammed and cramped little shop, and sought, as always, something that was out of print, lost, or published the year before. Something, anyway, difficult to get. The shop catered for those oddities wonderfully well, with undiminished fervour and flair.
The absolute love of books which this shop engenders is hugely joyous. One feels that two hours spent in one or other of the jammed little rooms, there were four as far as I could remember at this instance: two down, one up, and one in the cellar, will be rewarding, refreshing and never questioned by the owners. Indeed, they will often join you in your quest, because, frankly, up in the paperback room the wealth of works, the sliding panels concealing book upon book, the spinning towers stacked with glossy pocket editions bewilder the most ardent browser.
A bookshop should be a familiar place, somewhere one goes for the sheer love of books, for the smell and the feel of them, for the companionship of others who share the joy of touching, holding, reading and learning. In the supermarket booksellers with their dizzying
displays, their pyramids of bestsellers, one is intimidated, constantly lost in the wealth of glittering titles, bemused by a request answered by a computer which indicates the number of copies held of the title one has asked for, the price, position on the shelf, shelf position in the shop. Tills ring, green lights flash, and buying a book becomes as simple and as uninvolved as buying a packet of envelopes. But this little bookshop was not like this at all. Peering from my hospital window. I remembered starting out to learn how to cook, after years of inertia, and asking for help. The assistant instantly strode across the shop and took a book from among thousands and assured me that it contained all I would ever need to know about cooking for ever. She was right. I have used it until it has powdered. She knew instantly, among the bewildering wall of cookery books, the precise one for me. I was allowed to watch television, my only means of seeing what the outside world was like. People began to find out where I was and flooded me with postcards, which Martin stuck all over the walls. One of these he had bought himself, cut into a circular shape and positioned in the place of honour, above my bed. It was of his mother. She had arrived unannounced one day, sat down on the edge of the bed, took off her gloves and said she had come to pay homage.
Being by nature a lazy fellow, I found this enforced idleness rather enjoyable. I loved the nurses, and they were equally kindly disposed towards me. The one thing I did not like was being on a sloppy diet, which had been essential until it was established whether or not I could swallow. So far, so good. The dribbling gradually stopped and my speech returned more fully. I pleaded for a whisky and was told that once I had taken the nauseating vitamins, or whatever they were, I would be allowed a glass of whisky which I could drink through a straw. This was an agonizing procedure, but I managed. I have not touched a drop of whisky since.
Every week or two, all the consultants met in a small room next to Matron’s office to discuss my situation. Martin was asked to attend, and one day I was invited too. I was wheeled down in my chair, to find them all standing around like penguins. I asked about my progress. Each one said I was doing very well, but it was a tortuous business. It would take a long time, and I would have to be patient. I had realized by this stage that my left leg, arm and hand were incapable of movement. It didn’t matter so much in bed, but it did everywhere else. I asked
how long this would continue but no one could give me an answer.
I asked nervously if it meant that I would never be able to walk again and that I would be wheelchair-bound for the rest of my days. They all looked uneasily at each other or at their fingernails. I was told it depended on how determined I was, that it would take time, that you can’t rush health. So I became faintly absurd and said I wished somebody would tell me the truth. There was more shifting about, and I could see that Fiona, my adorable nurse, was ashen-faced and willing me to shut up. But I pressed on and pleaded to be told the facts. 'If I’m going to be paralysed and in a wheelchair for the rest of my life, I’d much rather be given something and be put to sleep. I want euthanasia.'
Everyone, including Martin, turned bright red, which for some reason made me angry. Then the doctors repeated that I had to understand: health could not be hurried. I was getting a bit fed up with this. No one seemed to want to be honest with me.
In a very bad mood, I was wheeled back to my room by Fiona. She said nothing, but Martin did when he arrived a few minutes later. He was boiling with anger at my childishness. 'Look,' he said. 'This is your situation. You will be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. You probably won’t be able to move your left hand. You are, in fact, paralysed on your left side after a colossal stroke. A fine way of thanking them for all their kindness and help in trying to get you better, to ask for euthanasia when you’re not even in pain!' I looked at him in shock.
'What do I do?' I asked. He said, 'Go and have physio, and work really hard. See what they can do for you and what you can do for them.'
At least I had the truth, flatly and unsparingly told. I now knew that I would not walk again, or do anything with my left arm, unless I tried to help myself, which meant going to the gym every day and doing all the exercises which I loathed. However, I realized I had to give it serious thought. I asked Fiona if she could alert the physiotherapy team and say that I was coming down for a full assessment. That evening, staring at the television, I came to terms with my predicament. There was no alternative.
Down I went to the gym, to be met by two hearty young ladies. They were welcoming and warm, but, by their expressions, doubtful about what they could do for me. However, we persevered. The first thing I was taught was how to transfer myself from my wheelchair to the bed in the gym, not as easy as it looked, but after a couple of days I began to crack it.
On about the fourth morning, while being wheeled to the gym, I had another attack. Again the floor disappeared and I was in my corridor, choking and screaming. The black door at the end was open. I fought like mad. At one point I decided to give up. There wasn’t much future for me, as far as I could see. I might as well simply go through that door. But I didn’t. I battled on. And I found myself back in intensive care. Apparently I had had an embolism, due no doubt to the exertion I had been putting into the physiotherapy.
Despite the setback, things steadily improved. After a week, I was returned to my room and stared out of the window. I was taken off the sloppy diet and allowed to eat a bit of toast, which I did nervously but successfully. Once back on proper food, I began to perk up. I had seen my face while trying to shave and thought I looked like a saint. I was told to put on weight before I could do any real exercises. So I ate porridge, toast, butter and egg-andbacon sandwiches, which I made with one hand, very proudly.
The week before Christmas, I was allowed to come back home having been passed fit to cope, which was, to say the least, optimistic. Anyway, I was pleased to be rid of my hospital window view and the plum tree.
I started to miss the usual things. Like walking to the shops, as so many people used to say. Or just walking. My favourite stroll. Taking in the scents and sights. Along the pavement which ran beside private gardens, an ill-parked line of cars, looking for all the world like a scattered desert convoy. Mercedes, Jaguars, here and there a modest Volvo, two or three dashing Range Rovers, a Rolls or two. Beside the cars, scatters of women in little groups, chattering. All the significant signs of moderate and immodest wealth were there. The Hermès scarf, the Chanel bag with chain, Armani pants (these women were waiting for their delights to emerge from the junior school) and sunglasses, heavy gold jangling on wrists, cockatoo-cries of recognition.
'Jessica! All well?’'
The only ones silent would be the raven-locked Lebanese ladies, hair flowing, magenta lips, haze of heavy scent, high heels, leather minis, arms a percussion of crashing gold and platinum. Under the tree, where the crows nested, the paving stones were marbled with their evil black droppings. Things I used to notice and retain. A boy of perhaps eight dragging enormous feet through the muck, satchel slipping from hock-bottle shoulders, tie awry. A woman, possibly pretty although anger had soured her face, dug about in her Chanel bag by a meter.
'Jonathan! Don’t do that! What did Miss Jessop say? Tell me?'
The child remained sullenly silent, sniggered only when his mother’s car keys fell to the pavement. She cursed, I bent to retrieve them, she took them absently, concerned with Miss Jessop, I began to move off into the starling-chitter of the waiting mothers. 'What did she say?' and then calling to me: 'Oh. Thank you. Jonathan! For the last time...' 'Said I was a rotten little bugger.'
The strangled cry of 'Jonathan!' reached me at the same time almost as her follow-up cry of 'I say! Do you have change for the meter? I’m absolutely done for.'
She looked distraught, bag hanging open. Jonathan, scraping his shoes thoughtfully, said: 'I’m a disgrace to the school, she said.' There was a gleam of malice on his pinched face. I smiled. The boy and I shared the same name. Could have been twins. He was me. Then.
I was frightened of the prospect of home, after so long. All was in order, however. A very obliging nurse came back with me to see me over the first hurdle. The wheelchair in my sitting-room was not at all comfortable or easy to manoeuvre with one arm, but Martin and Kim had fitted the flat with all kinds of devices: rails for my bed, so I didn’t fall out; handgrabs all over the place; a commode; and just about every other reminder of indignity you can imagine, plus a mobile phone, which, although detestable, has proved useful. A year or so later, here I still am, unable to do anything for myself. I am nursed day and night, and have to be turned. But there is the television and unlimited reading matter. As of this moment, however, a vague sense of feeling might be returning to my lower limb. We persevere with exercises. Writing is impossible: I can work only through dictation. But at least I can speak.
Before I had my stroke and my speech was impaired, I used to read aloud most of my own books for audio cassette. This is how it worked. The other day a girl with a black velvet hat crammed down to her eyebrows suddenly screamed at me Hey! I’m listening to you! Amazing! Brilliant! There you are and I’m listening to you! Wow! She could have been anyone, so wide with disbelief were her eyes.
I smiled inanely and she ran alongside me, jogging and squealing, wires flying, looking like a
demented spaniel. In desperation, I fled into an antique shop and priced a marble table I could neither afford nor wished to purchase, and she ran on. One hoped, into the river. Audiobooks are here, and to stay, I’m told it aides people to sleep. But instead of reading out loud to people, I rather like the idea that I do not have to be physically present. Folk can just potter about and get into bed without fuss, with my voice to send her off to sleep. That is hugely rewarding to me. The actual process of bringing this delight is different. To read takes me two full days. At the end I am usually wrecked. One sits in a tiny cell, soundproofed, airless, a table, a desk, a chair, the book-rest, the book, a sealed window on to the aquarium of the Control Room. One starts with an eager joy. Then a pleasant voice on the intercom interrupts, very gently: 'Tummy rumble. Sorry. Go again,' or 'page turning' or 'heard you cross your legs/arms/ankles, sleeve touched the desk, go again.' Until you are so frightened that to sit stark naked in cement seems the only way to carry on. It means that with each tiny hiccup you have to go all the way back to the paragraph, line, whatever, and start again. This can take hours. I now insist, if I make a verbal mistake, or cross my arms, or if any other unacceptable sound issues from my person, that I cry: Repeat! and proceed. Appalling work for the poor editor, but at least I get my run clear. It is claustrophobic, tense and exhausting. Some people bash through a reading without a flutter. Others have to be given bottles of water, biscuits, barley sugar, glucose tablets, Kleenex to cope with the extra saliva they generate, or to attend to emotions that have written which have now been stirred, a mattress to lie on. At worst, a calming pill which reduces the hysteria, but equally the performance.
The abridged (or mutilated) version of a two-cassette job is far easier. I can do one in five hours. But the abridging, is brutal, essential and apparently perfectly acceptable to the listener. The plot, the characters, the very essence of the subject somehow remain intact. You junk detail, characters who do not matter and descriptive stuff. It is a marathon task. There is an enormous difference between reading and telling a story. Telling must be much more personal, for your ear only. It must be a quiet complicity between the teller and the listener. Reading is often distanced by great elegance of speech, perfect pronunciation, the beauty of the words and the theatrical self-awareness of the reader. This does not get to the gut and mind of the listener. The intimacy, buttonholing, the imperfections of speech (a slight laugh, a sigh, a caught word, a repeated word) bring him or her much closer.
Anyone can listen to a reader; only one person, or one small group-at-the-knee, can listen to a teller. That is what counts. One has to play the story, bring it to life, totally involve the listener. One alters the voice, a token change rather than a grandiose burst of actorly prowess, an indication only, which is why, very often, actors are better than professional, or habitual, readers. Get the listener in the first three or four lines; hold his interest; do not let it wander from your voice; keep him alert, so he can settle back and think: This is specially for me! I am now being involved, and I can’t prevent it.
So I have my memory.
I have my thoughts.
Therefore, at my Editor’s suggestion, he suggested I just talk. So I started at the beginning and recounted the first seven years of my life. Home. Aunt Kitty. Queenie. Everything. And he listened.
I remembered the smell of coal dust from the open fires the freezing cold outside loo and the slow and peaceful bubble of a ham cooking on the black-leaded kitchen range. Even now, I think of her whenever I see a piece of ham boiling, its fat slowly turning to quivering jelly, the meat puttering away in an aromatic bath of water with onion and carrot, bay leaves and peppercorns. It was a favourite dinner I cook all too rarely, despite every mouthful coming with deep affection and a ladle’s worth of memories. Then I remembered the cottage. The happiest days of my childhood. The world was gradually falling apart all around me, but I was serenely unaware. I was not, alas, the only ostrich.