My name is
Might-have-
been . . .
Andrew Barrow
THE LITTLE BOOK by David Hughes Hutchinson, £9.99, pp. 186 This handy, pocket-sized autobiograph- ical novel begins with the author peeing blood and being rushed to St Thomas's Hospital for an emergency operation on an aggressively cancerous kidney. The rest of the story is just as gripping but depends more on the subtlety and sweetness of the author's character than on any further medical or personal dramas.
It is written partly in the form of a love letter to his wife: she is addressed as 'dear- est' and 'darling' but otherwise remains hidden, present only in the background. The narrative takes place in the summer of 1991 and is set on the Isle of Wight, where the author is slowly recovering after his ill- ness, enjoying 'the measured pleasures' of a `sensuous invalidity'. He has a stick to lean on. He enjoys delicious fare and surprising quantities of locally produced white wine. The weather beats all records. There are pleasant outings to former haunts of Priest- ley, Dickens and Tennyson and a satisfying picture emerges both of the maritime mysteries of the island and of the self- consciously convalescent author, variously described as 'a clownish Lazarus giving a demonstration of the difficulty of motion', a middling middle-class muddle' and 'a fel- low who is alive because still debating how to live'.
Between excursions and local festivities, our hero occupies his active mind by jug- gling with 'the saharas of the past' and dreaming up a book, confusingly also called The Little Book and also priced at £9.99 `the price of almost half a minute in bed with a good class tart'. We are told almost nothing about the contents of this volume, only that it is 'a ravening wolf, too hot to handle, a book that bites and hurts and kicks and will crack the fabric of society, cause fish and meat to lie rotting at Billingsgate and Smithfield and army officers to throw themselves under trains.
The more he dreams about this 'book to end all books', the more fact and fiction come together. The characters who flit in and out of the story and even appear occa- sionally on the Isle of Wight are claimed as unfocused fragments of the author's own personality, the people he might have been, occupying positions he might have filled. Among them are the lofty, gesticulating Professor House, Ca scholar given to self- promotion'), an alarmingly familiar literary editor named Hugh Dickinson Ca hand- some chap enjoying his middle age') and a stylish, wealthy empty-headed baronet, Sir Davis Fielden, who is found hard at work fucking a maid in his gun room — 'That'll be all, for the moment'.
The author also sees bits of himself in the drink-disabled Dave Higgs — 'his bank account in Swansea, his penis in recoil' who steals a copy of The Little Book at the `cavalcade of arrogance' that passes for its launch party. He even identifies with the real life convict who escapes that summer from Parkhurst — 'a man like me on the run from something': I trust the poor chap gets to see a copy of this uplifting book and gains some sustenance from its beautiful pages.
The publishers claim that readers will be lured by The Little Book into making up their own story. Reflecting on the time and energy wasted 'pursuing aims and ambi- tions that in no way reflected the people we were or wanted to be' is certainly a game we can all play, especially as we approach, or pass, middle-age and our gait becomes more and more downbeat — 'as if no longer on the make and increasingly on the gin'.
At the end of the story, a storm hits the island. The author has by now killed off or rid himself of most of the 'gawky agents' of his growing up and finally learnt who he is. The 'faraway throb of happiness' has come much closer. He has also regained his health and written a masterpiece.
Better get some frozen peas, you never know when you're going to sever a hand.'
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