Country life
What a nightmare
Leanda de Lisle
n the last night of our holiday in Por- tugal I had a terrible nightmare: Peter, the children and I were attacked by pod people who wanted to possess our bodies and destroy our souls. At the last minute we escaped and, as we drove away into the sunset, a wonderful sense of relief flooded over me. Not, you understand, because I knew my beloved family was safe. No, rather, I was thinking, 'Thank God, I've got something decent to write about in The Spectator this week.'
The tyranny of the weekly deadline has encouraged me to think about writing a novel. I long to spend an afternoon picking raspberries and gooseberries in the walled garden and then put on a pink frilly apron and turn them into something from a Delia Smith recipe. If I wrote a book, my time would be my own and I could enjoy the garden whenever I wanted. At least that is my fantasy and I ignore friends who tell me novelists have daily deadlines.
I hoped that all the marvellous books I read on holiday might inspire me, but in fact they almost drained my enthusiasm away. I can no more work out how these novelists created their characters and plots than how rockets get to the moon. Still, I clumsily turned the paperbacks over in my hands and shook them until I felt a few useful ideas had dropped out.
First, writing a novel clearly involves a certain amount of research. As I wish to spend time in the garden, I must keep this to a minimum, so I will set my story in the country, somewhere near the bottom of the drive. Second, I shall put in lots of rude sex. It might help disprove George Mikes's assertion that people in the shires prefer hot-water bottles to physical contact and, in any case, rude sex seems to be a popular feature of the modern novel.
I thought I would use John Updike's
Brazil as a model, for not only is the sex exceedingly rude but it also gives a sense of place. For example, Updike's hero keeps something in his shorts which is variously described as a cashew nut and a yam. Very Brazilian — you certainly wouldn't find anyone carrying such exotic goods around here. I spent half an hour choosing local equivalents for my own hero. The cashew nut was a particular challenge. My husband suggested a peanut, but you get those on aeroplanes for heaven's sake. In the end, I endowed my hero with a pork scratching- cum-carrot and felt well pleased.
I suppose my hero should have a charac- ter as well as a carrot. Mind you, my chil- dren tell me that Japanese emperors used to expect their kitchen staff to marry veg- etables and I suspect that there are women in this village who would envy them their good fortune. Even a bean sprout has more personality than some members of the squirarchy.
In fact, if my hero must have a character I think I'll make it a dull one. Novelists are often attracted to rebellious types, but when I think 'rural rebel' I think of a Hell's Angel with a West Country accent and that's just too depressing. No, my hero will be an ordinary farmer, surly, silent and tor- tured. Tortured by the possibility that one day he will have to choose between voting for Britain to join a federal Europe and voting for us to leave the EU. Naturally, like most of his kind, he is patriotic to the point of xenophobia. He despises the EU bureaucrats — but, on the other hand, he knows he would be a tad reluctant to wave goodbye to all those lovely grants and CAP subsidies.
Unfortunately, the day my hero has long dreaded then arrives. He is torn between greed and principle — or good sense and prejudice if you prefer. What shall he do? Well, greed and good sense win. Britain joins a federal Europe and we start turning into horrible, homogenised pod people without so much as a pork scratching between us. I fear the nightmare continues.
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