AND ANOTHER THING
Oh to be in misery, now that autumn's here!
PAUL JOHNSON
Autumn has always been a time of reckoning. The harvest is in, we know Where we stand. The waning of the sun, the Short days, the thickening of the air which renders all things indistinct tell us that good times will not last, that fortune cannot be trusted, that we are mortal. At the weekend I gathered in some beautiful pears and apples: solid, luscious fruit, each a miracle of nature. But the birds had been pecking at some of them, creating destructive holes Whose edges were turning black, and in oth- ers the worm was within. As I threw one away, it made a brittle noise on the fallen leaves, another reminder of decay and tran- sience. The very birds seemed uneasy, never at rest for a moment, congregating, Wheeling, circling, forming and re-forming, gathering and scattering, as though Impelled by contradictory urges or avian Commands in defiance of the old military adage, 'Order — counter-order — disor- der'. The door of the year was about to move on its creaking hinges and they felt dispossessed, alienated, refugees, asylum- seekers. Their tiny hearts beat anxiously, their cries had a hysterical note.
Everywhere, people are considering the future, doubtfully, nervously. Schoolchil- dren are not creeping unwillingly to school; they are already there, trapped in another academic year, the future with all its fears looming interminably before them: a fresh, unfriendly classroom; new, menacing text- books; unknown problems to solve. The seats are hard and slippery, polished by the anxious bottoms of past worriers, the desks veneered with the invisible despair of gen- erations of squirming, nail-biting pupils seeking (as Kingsley Anus had it) 'pseudo- solutions to non-problems'. The teachers glare and the classes glare back, all impris- oned in the same equations of rule and rebellion, magisterial knowledge — of a sort — and defiant ignorance, mutually submitting to inexorable decrees laying down compulsory schooling for the young and the need for their elders to earn a liv- ing. The clock ticks, bells ring, feet echo in carpetless corridors, doors slam, the autumn closes in relentlessly.
Men look in their shaving mirrors for signs of mortality. The hairline — Christ! Has it edged up a visible fraction in the last Week? The thinness, the fragility, the sparse scantiness of it all. And look at that man Hague, forced to make jokes about his
calamity. Is that grey? No. Can it be white? Yes. Where will it all end? In polished noth- ingness? What about the teeth? Behind that rictus grin, those yellowing ramparts, lies — more decay. That brutal-looking incisor wobbles. This molar hurts a bit: trouble ahead. And those big, ugly ears: not per- forming as well as they did, are they? Miss- ing things at dinner parties, puzzled by remarks that make everyone else laugh, forcing you to interject, 'What did you say?' rather often these days. The memory, too. Slow, like an old, mainframe computer. Or registering nothing on the screen. Just a blank. Names, always names. Why are there so many people to remember? Then there was that missed appointment. Not your fault. Or was it? My God, he was angry, so it must have been. Get a bigger diary, a better one. Write it down. Write it down! It's Alzheimer's, of course. Must be. Can't get it at such an early age? People do — every- thing's earlier now. Hands trembling, too, hardly hold the razor. That's Parkinson's. Can't get both? Oh, yes you can. Or maybe it's drink? Must give it up. And you can give it up, as you gave up smoking. Fat lot of good that did, though. Cough, cough. The trouble is, you gave it up too late, after the damage was done, after the tiny microdot of cancer moved in. Everything's too late. It's autumn.
The lady at her dressing-table switches on all the lights, then switches them off, then on again. 'Put out the light, and then put out the light.' Light intensifies that autumnal feeling. It brings out the craters on the moon face, the line of Mars canals. Of whom was it said, 'He had a face like the map of the Polish railway system?' Kitchener? Hindenburg? Some horrible man anyway. Mine is not a railway system, more a field of ripe corn across which the chance winds achieve a rip- pling effect, which is quickly smoothed over by skilful hands and lotions. But then it comes back again, doesn't it, that damned wind? What is a line? The shortest distance between two points. But these lines are not short. They twist and turn and meander and corrugate. They merge into each other and then duplicate and multiply themselves. In some lights they are almost imperceptible. In others they look as if they have been gouged out of the unresisting flesh by facial bulldoz- ers, driven by Hieronymus Bosch devils, or by chisels wielded by imps. They crowd round the eyes deliberately, to make the worst possible impression, as if impelled by some misogynistic conspiracy against women, directed by St Jerome, that disgust- ing old man in the desert who wanted all women to be ugly so that he would not be tempted. Are there more than yesterday? Than last week? Is the time coming when you must seriously — yes, seriously — con- template having a little nip or tuck, or maybe something more drastic, when you must defi- nitely consider doing something you have always ruled out as quite inconceivable? Well, other women do it, don't they? More and more. Soon they will all be having them. Routine, normal, nothing to it. But, oh! the pain, the going into hiding, the remarks when you emerge, the sharp, curious looks, the guileless inquiries of children, 'Mummy, what have you done to your face?' Who would be a woman, especially now that autumn's here?
Autumn is when Parliament meets again and politicians congregate to note who's gone up or fallen down, made a catastrophic speech at conference, had a bad summer, dropped a brick in Tuscany, featured in that telltale incident at Athens airport, aged rather more than you'd expect, passed a sell- by date. Definitely not worn well, has he? No: and there was not all that much to wear in the first place. Autumn ought to be a time for fresh starts, slates wiped clean, new pages turned. But it's not. It's a time when grudges are lovingly nurtured and broken promises remembered and spiteful remarks circulated and embellished. It's a time of knives and claws and revenges which have been maturing all summer. In the City, chairmen look over trembling shoulders for a venomous takeover bid, and the envious, bitter and ambitious rejoice at the mighty fallen. Don't you feel sorry for NatWest?
No, not a bit, old boy, deserve anything they get — and will they get it! Don't feel sorry for M&S either, or Sainsbury's. In showbiz, reputations crash, shows fold or never open, television schedules are abruptly changed, and solid, 13-parters, lovingly nourished and approved in August, are suddenly cancelled. Sorry, but he's too old. Not up to it. Past it.
And she's too old, too. It breaks my heart to tell you — or rather, it doesn't break my heart, it gives me a distinct spasm of
schadenfreude, because I'm all right, Jack, still. Or am I? Give me that mirror you're holding. Oh, autumn, season of mellow fruitfulness, my foot.
Previous page
