the road to nowhere

Shiva Naipaul

'Vhen the Arts Council asked me if I would 'hike to go on one of their Writers' Tours to rnimberside, I was a little doubtful — for a start, I could not say with certainty where numberside was. More importantly, it seemed such a strange place for me to Parade myself and my work. Port of Spain, Yes. Bombay, yes. London, yes. I could kink of a dozen locations where such a kanifestation might make sense. But Humberside? I stared perplexedly at my atlas. could there be any real point of contact between Humberside and myself? I reproached myself for a timidity that verged ('n cowardice. Art, I reminded myself, Not to be universal in its appeal. Why kake an exception of Humberside? Then, t,00, I thought of the financial help the Arts `-nuncil had given me in the past. To accept their invitation would, I 'felt, be one way of repaying their touching faith in me. Also, exposure to Humberside, whatever we kade of each other, would be an 'experience% even, perhaps, an interesting one.

I decided I would go.

in the middle of winter, is a sobering Place. Chill winds, blowing off the North Sea, sweep unhindered through the town. A Persistent drizzle nags. The Humber, its unfinished suspension bridge rearing into the mist, is a steely blur. Lymphatic faces Peer from under dripping umbrellas. By seven in the evening, the town is largely deserted, abandoned to the wind and rain. Roaming in bands of three or four, platformed heels echoing through the emptiness, the young hurry along the glistening streets in search of diversion. In the bars of the Centre Hotel commercial travellers neeupy the mock-leather armchairs, warming themselves with Scotch.

Until recently, the girls of Hull wore tliniskirts — fashions come late and change slowly in this part of the world. The town, stuck out on a limb, is on the way to nowhere. It lends itself to being by-passed. 0.11ce, though, Hull did get in the way —with disastrous consequences. It was bombed

ith particular severity during the last war. his (I was told) happened not because Hull "as an important target, but was due to the unfortunate fact that it lay directly below the flight path of the German bombers. It Was a convenient spot for the enemy aircraft to lighten their load before heading back

across the North Sea. Being bombed is bad enough; but to be bombed for a reason like

this is to heap insult on injury:, The few

Other facts I managed to pick up were equally disheartening. I learnt that the Population is declining; that the fishing industry is languishing; that the region

boasts one of the highest rates of unemployment in the country; that enormous quantities of potatoes are grown in the bleak, table-flat countryside; that it is a good place to buy second-hand furniture; that it manufactures caravans by the score. Hull, as it has always done, looks to the sea for rescue — to its oil and its gas. Nevertheless, by the standards of the region, Hull is a big city, unpredictable and dangerous. In a village like Snaith it is held in reverential terror. They talk with awe of its street violence, of its motor-cycle gangs.

• Cultural life has ground to a kind of standstill. To find a decent bookshop you have to travel up the motorway to York. The Humberside Theatre, which receives only the most grudging support from the city fathers, struggles to make ends meet. Now and then, the museum mounts an exhibition. In an alley of the old town the local branch of the Arts Council runs a tasteful, whitewashed showroom. They sell modernistic postcards, collections of indigenous verse, monographs on local history and cups of good coffee in pretty, earthenware cups. Its tiny, dedicated staff behave like a beleaguered garrison. Hull, astonishingly enough, does have a university. But it makes no impact at all on the life of the town. The students, immured in their halls of residence, are rarely seen. It is one of the quietest, most self-effacing institutions of its kind in the country. Compared to the University of Hull, a Buddhist monastery would be a model of social involvement.

Four of us had come to Hull to promote the cause of Culture. We were two poets and two novelists. The two poets were Patricia Beer and Edwin Brock; the two novelists, Gabriel Josipovici and myself. Only Patricia Beer had had any previous experience of these Writers' Tours — indeed, she was something of a veteran campaigner. The Arts Council provided us with a kindly shepherd and a charming shepherdess. One cold, drizzling Sunday evening, towards the end of January, we all came together in one of Hull's Italian restaurants. Our week's labours were set forth by our shepherdess: during the day we would go (usually separately) to schools; in the evenings we would give (usually together) public readings of our work. Over dinner I listened to spine-chilling tales of other Writers' Tours. I spent an apprehensive night, waking every hour or so and listening to the rain against the window.

Monday: To Snaith School in the morning. I share a car with Patricia and Edwin. Patricia can hardly wait to get to her assignment.

Her zeal is alarming rather than infectious. We drop her off first. She leaps out of the car, her eyes bright with anticipation. Edwin is subdued; I am plunged in gloom. We arrive half an hour late at Snaith. The headmaster is displeased with us. 'Schools have these funny things called time-tables,' he says. to my shepherdess. She reddens contritely. I find myself faced with, perhaps, fifty fifteenand sixteen-year olds. They stare at me blankly. I introduce myself. 'I was born in Trinidad, in the West Indies. .

'It's not easy to make them talk,' the English teacher whispers. I decide to read something. Even as I read I realise that I have chosen the wrong passage, that it is all going over their heads. However, it is too late to do anything about that. I press onto the bitter end.

'Are there any questions you wish to ask Mr Naipaul?' The teacher smiles hopefully. Feet shuffle. Dull eyes blink evasively.

'Mr Naipaul has come all the way from Trinidad to talk to you. You must have some questions you would like to ask him.' He leans towards me. 'Why don't you talk to them about football?'

'But I don't know anything about football.'

, At last, at last, a hand is raised. The teacher beams at the questioner.

'Do you live in a mud hut?'

Laughter rolls around the classroom. More hands are raised.

'Do you have elephants where you come from?'

'What kind of food do you eat in West India?'

'Do you wear ordinary clothes in West India?'

'Do they play football in West India?'

As I leave, the girls are gathered round a record-player, listening to pop music. My shepherdess awaits me. 'How was it?'

'Fine. Fine. We talked about elephants and football.'

In the evening, a reading at the Humberside Theatre. There are about thirty people present. Martin (our shepherd) and Sandy (our shepherdess) are quite pleased: it is a good turnout. Sandy meticulously sets up a .display of our books. Penguin have been especially lavish with my books. But Edwin is disgruntled. His publishers have sent nothing at all. Someone asks if we enjoy being a circus.

Tuesday: To Hornsea School, some twenty or so miles out of Hull. We are early. Martin and I kill time by strolling along the sea-front. The discoloured North Sea hisses on the pebbly beach; the wind-whipped rain stings. This morning I have about ten students to deal with. They are supposed to be doing 'A' Level English Literature. The teacher, it is clear, knows nothing about me. I introduCe myself. 'I was born in Trinidad, in the West Indies . . .' Afterwards, I read one of my more tragic short stories. They listen solemnly. Any questions? The girls look as if I have made an improper suggestion. Finally, a boy pipes up. His participation gives the occasion an aura of mild

success. Even so, I feel slightly foolish.

In the afternoon I go with Patricia to Kingston High School. The entrance hall' smells like a much-used gym. A plaque; beneath a bust of Amy Johnson, the aviator, proclaims her an ex-pupil of Kingston High., We are greeted with the news that the heatJ ing system has broken down. The English master has also had his own misfortunes — not long before he had climbed up a ladder to replace a light bulb, received an electric shock, fallen off the ladder and broken his leg. Supporting himself on a cane, he hobbles up to welcome us. These are bad omens. We are led into a chilly class-room. Some thirty students confront us. I am becoming inured to the blankness, the. apathy, of these adolescent faces. The English teacher, not too steady on his feet, pushes a chair towards Patricia. Smiling radiantly, she sits down. Suddenly, she is spreadeagled on the floor — the chair has collapsed under her. The students are amused. Patricia lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She rejects all offers of help. `I can manage! I can manage!' With some effort, she manages to haul herself upright. I study with admiration her swift recovery of composure and dignity.

Patricia is truly a veteran campaigner. She reads some short poems; I read an extract from one of my novels. Any questions? None. Not a single flicker of interest. A stray teacher, lurking at the back of the room, wonders why poets don't use rhyme any more. Patricia murmurs for a while about Eliot, Auden, Spender and Macleish. Has anyone heard of them? No one has. The ignorance I have so far encountered — and not simply of cultural matters, but of the world lying beyond the borders of daily experience —has an almost mediaeval quality. I feel I could talk to them of men whose heads grow beneath their shoulders and I would be believed. The darkness of mind is really quite frightening. Only factory fodder is being churned out of these schools. Picture to yourself the homunculus who boarded the London-bound train from Hull. He could have been little older than sixteen. There he was, dressed in cloth-cap, overalls and clogs. A cigarette was clamped between his lips. In front of him was a can of beer. The Sun lay on his lap, open at the sports pages. His embryonic perfection was un-nerving.

In the evening, to the Bell Hotel, Driffield. A dozen people, mainly elderly ladies, have come to hear us. Sandy is pleased. By the standards of Driffield this is a good ' audience. She meticulously sets up a display of our books. Halfway through the session, the heating is switched off. It becomes too cold to concentrate. We go to the bar. The poets are extremely popular; no one shows much interest in the novelists. Gabriel and I chat to each other. Edwin is surrounded by a band of ageing groupies. They hang breathlessly on his every word about the nature of poetic inspiration.

Wednesday: To Newland High School. A class of twerity girls. I read another of my tragic short stories. My audience is polite. Two or three girls ask questions. Even so, I am a little disappointed. I had been told that this school was more academically inclined than the others I had visited, but the level of general knowledge is no higher than elsewhere. Somewhere in the school, the rumour runs, there is a girl who might actually go to university. I did not meet her: she was too `shy'.

In the evening we are the guests of the Adult Education Department of Hull University. The novelists and the poets go their separate ways. Having observed the mania for poetry among the cultural elite of Humberside, I wonder if Gabriel and I will attract anyone at all. The devoted Sandy sets up a display of our books. We do quite well — about forty students opt for us. Here there is a different kind of culture death: the students have been ruined by their academic training. Questions about `technique' and 'symbolism' dominate the exchange after the reading. What one writes about, why one writes, seem irrelevancies.

The great excitement in our lives that day is the arrival of Josephine Falk (Literature Officer of the Arts Council) from London.

Thursday: To Market Weighton School, accompanied by Martin and Josephine. The drive is a long one. A heavy mist blots out the landscape. Josephine loses her temper when I tell her that I had bought a one-way rail ticket from London to Hull, instead of the economy return she had recommended. 'What's the point of my writing you all those letters if you don't read what! write?' I stare shamefacedly into the mist. Market Weighton is a country school. It has only about four hundred pupils. 'What can I assume they know?' I ask the English teacher. 'You can assume nothing at all,' he says. Most of the children are related to each other; most will be claimed by the land — it is an area of family-run smallholdings — when they leave school. But the children are nice, slightly more forthcoming than I was led to expect. They respond to the short

story (a light-hearted one) I read. One or two of them even laugh in the right places. This isn't a bad session. If it were all like this, my week in Humberside just might be considered worthwhile.

Alas, even such mild optimism cannot be sustained for long. That evening, Edwin any I go to Hedon, to the Public Library, to give

our reading. Present are two eleven. year-old boys, two eleven-year-old girls, an

old age pensioner sheltering from the rain, a

balding gentleman, our chairman, two eats and a dog. Sandy dutifully sets out the books. It is clear that the chairman knows not the first thing about either Edwin 0; myself. The boys and girls smirk and simper. Eventually, they walk out. The old age pensioner, stares into the rainy night. The evening is a humiliating farce. Later on, I quarrel with Sandy. 'We've got to go on trying,' she says. It sounds like a cri de coeur. But why go on trying? We were achieving nothing. We were really no more than a circus, a collection of curious individuals. Humberside has no need of us. Football satisfied all the tribal desires of its peoPle. The easy fulfilments of advanced industrial society had turned men into barbarians' Why inflict their indifference on us? I went on quarrelling. Diplomatic relations bet' ween Sandy and myself broke down. Friday: To Bransholme High School. request that volunteers alone attend. The teacher here is prepared for my coming. He has even drawn a map to show where Trinidad is. Fifteen students attend. One of, them is actually reading a novel of mine.' am asked the usual questions; I give the usual answers.

The tour ends with a reading at the station Hotel, Goole. About twenty people (most of them, I suspect, friends of the organiser) turn up. So inadequate is the heating, we have to keep our overcoats on. Loud pop music penetrates from the Saloon Bar downstairs. Faithful Sandy — nothing, seems, will deter her — sets out the books.", read a passage that is meant to be funny and fail to raise a laugh. Two toughs burst in, nursing pints of beer. We try not to shoW our nervousness. Someone begins to twang an electric guitar. The toughs, too bored (or, maybe, too cold) to beat the place till depart. Not long after, we too depart, hug' rying along wet streets to the local kebab house where we are to have our farewell dinner.

`Dear Shiva,

Just a brief note to thank you for taking part in the Writers' Tour . . . You'll he, pleased to hear that we sold twelve of yea' books, so there is interest in what you have, to say, despite your fears to the contrail

.1 Yours sincerelY:

sandY

Twelve books! Well, maybe, it was worth it. But I have my doubts, Sandy. When' think of that homunculus, I despair.