Walcot by Brian Aldiss - Prospectus

BrianAldiss Walcot

your school tuckbox: an old pullover, an old pair of swimming trunks, a wooden monkey that could climb a stick, a paperback edition of Darkness at Noon, some once-loved magazines, including copies of Modern Boy containing the adventures of Castern of the South Seas. ‘He go big sky blong Jesus.’

You were almost at the bottom of the box.

You pulled out some school exercise books, smiled at them, deciding they might as well go. Below them lay a spade. Sighing, you lifted it from its resting place. It was a child’s wooden seaside spade, dark in colour, the grain standing out from use, mak-ing it look almost like fur. You ran your fingers down from the loop of handle to the blade. As you did so, that primitive sense of touch carried you back in time. Again you heard the ripple of tiny transparent waves on sand, the splash of your own footsteps in warm shallow pools. Again you felt – if only for a moment – the intensity of living free in the sun, totally alone on Walcot beach. Before you had learnt about loneliness.

But there were other things at the bottom of that tuckbox.

I have forgotten.

Nothing is forgotten here. There were fifty-two pencils lying there, unused.

Oh yes. I left them in there when I went to London.

What was remarkable about those pencils?

It was when I was in my adolescence – when I was what later was called a teenager. I went through a period of depression. I developed kleptomania. It lasted only for a few months but I could not stop myself. It was just pencils I nicked. As you can see, they’re all unused.

You knew what you were doing.

I felt ghastly. I couldn’t stop myself. I haunted stationers’ shops. I was terrified of being arrested: my parents would have thrown me out of the house. And I felt guilty. But I just couldn’t stop myself. I was humiliated to think I was a 246

common thief.

What else do you notice about these pencils?

I never had any use for them. I kept them to remind me of that bad period.

Oh, they all have little round rubbers at the top, all fifty-two of them; for rubbing out.

Exactly.

Then you were alone in your room again. The enveloping voice had faded. You were putting the spade aside, preparing to leave home, your usual self again, self-contained.

part t wo

[vii] Our Children The art class at Shirley Warren Grammar was in full swing.

Heads were bent over paper, water and watercolours splashed everywhere, broken wax crayons lay on the floor, uncrushed or crushed, spilling little patches of colour on the dull boards.

The arts mistress walked among the desks, prompting or encouraging here and there. She paused by the bent shoulders of Joyce Wilberforce to watch as Joyce worked almost in a fury, now whirling a red crayon, now a black. She asked the child what she was drawing.

Joyce replied with one word, without looking up: ‘God.’ She seized a yellow crayon and began making strong verticals.

Not without a hint of reproach, the mistress ventured that no one knew what God looked like.

247

Pages shown smaller than actual size

On the glorious sands of the North Norfolk coast, Steve, the youngest member of the Fielding family, plays alone. But are these halcyon days?

The great events of the Twentieth Century are about to sweep Steve and his sister Sonia into deep waters. Chance is all. The fortunes of the Fielding family continue through the storms of world events marking the outrageous years of the Twentieth Century.

“Walcot” reveals Aldiss at his formidable and all-embracing best.

Brian Aldiss has described this novel as his magnum opus.

Available in two versions: Standard Hardback  pages, size  x  mm, edition of  Clothbound with dustjacket, printed on specially milled paper Price £ + p&p Collectors Hardback  pages, size  x  mm, edition of  Casebound, signed and numbered, housed in a slipcase Price £ + p&p To order: Buy online at www.goldmarkbooks.com Telephone   Email info@goldmarkart.com Write to Goldmark Books at the address below

Goldmark Books  Orange Street, Uppingham, Rutland, LE SQ