BERYL BAINBRIDGE
In August I was fortunate enough to front an Arena documentary on the subject of Dr Johnson, dwelling in particular on his friendship with the Thrales of Streatham Park. Henry Thrale was the wealthy owner of a brewery in Deadman's Place, Southwark, and Samuel lived with the Thrale family, on and off, for 17 years. Henry died on the morning of 4 April 1781. Being a prodigious eater, he exploded rather than faded out of life, and was buried in the crypt of St Leonard's Church, Streatham. Arena took me to see his coffin, overlaid with dust and broad enough to house three men. I'm now obsessed by burials and resting places.
Two or three years ago I was regularly woken in the night by a thunderous knocking at the front door. After several months of stumbling downstairs and finding both front step and street deserted, I adapted and merely turned over. Then it stopped. Two weeks ago it started again, at which an intrigued friend urged me to investigate the matter. Discarding his advice that I should sit up all night on the second floor walkway of the flats opposite, I none the less agreed to search for an explanation. Could it be the central-heating pipes expanding under the floorboards? Was it an object falling from bedside table to floor, possibly that key-ring attached to a miniature monkey's paw? Was I in the habit of leaving either the wireless or the telly on all night, possibly both? Might it be an irate neighbour disturbed by the noise? I'm thinking of buying earplugs.
The festive season is fast approaching and I'm more than a little worried about preparations for the Christmas play to be performed in the sitting-room by four actors, two boys and two girls under the age of eight. There is a fifth thespian, aged 18 months, who is keen but lacks concentration. Only last week the same cast presented a delayed theatrical celebration of Hallowe'en, a drama which began with Winston Churchill, replete with cigar and bov, tie, ponderously urging us to fight on the beaches and never surrender, followed by scenes taking place in the trenches of the first world war. The ending, to a standing ovation and barely suppressed sobbing, featured a Blackadder-inspired enactment of our boys going over the top. Fired with the sadness of it all, I bade the actors to be men and gird their loins for battle, at which the six-year-old Baldrick roared fearsomely and scraped the air with his hand. Asked what he was doing, he said he was imitating the Lion King. On Monday I was further reminded of the gap between generations — and countries for that matter — when an American magazine which had commissioned me to write a short article on 'Passions' — things which engaged my enthusiasm — took issue with my contribution and demanded both an explanation and a rewrite. I had — of course forgetting 11 September — chosen to wax lyrical about graveyards, particularly the overgrown sort full of angels with chipped wings. Had something happened to me in a cemetery, I was asked. My agent, faxing back the piece, had scribbled in the margin, 'Serial rape, perhaps!' Fortunately, I then remembered that the previous week I'd spent a morning crouching in the undergrowth of Stoke Newington cemetery. The occasion was the filming of a documentary about William Patrick Hitler, that Liverpool-born son of an Irish girl called Brigid and her husband Alois, half-brother to our Adolf. Brigid decamped to America at the beginning of the last war, where she wrote
a journal in which she claimed that in 1912 Hitler had stayed with them in Liverpool; Alois was there trying to set up a business selling safety razors. She said Adolf was a pest and very lazy, but nice with the baby. I recounted all this seated on a chair amid the brambles, half-hoping they'd tell me William Patrick was buried nearby. They didn't; apparently he lies in a grave on Long Island.
I've thought of what to do for the Christmas production. It shall be a reworking of that wonderful play for radio, The Monkey's Paw, the one about three wishes. As far as I remember, a man arrives at the humble cottage of Mum, Dad and only son. The visitor carries a monkey's paw which he claims grants wishes that inevitably lead to tragedy. Shuddering from some inner turmoil, he leaves the paw on the mantelpiece and warns them not to use it. Actually, it would have been kinder to throw it on the fire, but then the play would have been shorter. Naturally, the old couple disregard his advice and wish for riches. Wealth leads to the death of the son, possibly in a posh car. I can't remember the second wish, but the third is a plea for the son to return from the dead. Unfortunately, he knocks at the cottage door muddy from the grave and in a state of horrible decay. I last listened to it in the dark with my Dad, long gone. He blew his nose a lot, overcome by emotion. The message was obvious: money is filthy lucre and it's better to remain on the breadline. As there are no more than four characters involved, this play will be an ideal project for my theatrical company, although Esme will have to wear a moustache; she may revolt. It could be that the 18-month-old can be persuaded to play the part of the paw and lie down under one of those furry coverlets used in Hilton hotels to protect bums from frostbite; he likes being stroked.
The mind's a funny old thing, isn't it? According to a scholarly contribution to Professor Richard Gregory's Word Companion to the Mind, it's separate from the brain, rather like the soul. How can that be, I ask myself, until I recall the observation made by Schopenhauer that if you want to find out your real opinion of anyone, you should observe the impression made upon you by the sight of his handwriting.
Last night, the door knocker thumped again. I didn't respond. I expect it was that poor lad coming back from the dead — either that or Alois Hitler flogging safety razors.
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