Francis Meyrick

Jeremy’s War: Prologue

March 1, 2008 in Jeremy’s War, My Books

(Jeremy’s War: “Prologue “. A cinematic ‘trailer’ introducing a novel, set in World War 1…)

A PROMISE

The expression on his face was pure terror.
The black leather flying helmet and the flying goggles could not hide the mouth that grimaced in a strange manner. At times the lips moved as if in silent prayer, or futile introspective commentary on the evil that stalked him.
At other times his bottom jaw would hang slack, and then move as if wracked by tetanus. Compulsive spasms and uncontrolled chewing movements revealed some of the mind destroying fear that gripped his whole being. But more revealing than anything else was the way he hunched over the controls, peering through the tiny oil spattered windscreen, only to jerk his head around to fling a despairing look over his shoulder.
Behind him, a red Fokker monoplane weaved back and forwards, dancing in his slipstream, with ominous flashing sparks erupting from two places behind the propeller.
Still the game continued. The hunted; twisting, weaving, dodging, whipping his head around frantically after each wild manoeuvre, embryonic hope aborted ruthlessly each time.
The Hunter: cool and deadly, teeth bared in a snarling smile, the pleasure of a kill imminent arousing deep and primitive blood lust…

* * *

With terror in her eyes, she backed towards the bed.
Her left hand clung fiercely to the bath towel, knotted together above her breasts. In the shadowy half light, the figure that moved towards her, came on steadily and purposefully, determined without rushing.
Still she backed away, her blood red lips parting as if in silent supplication, but no sound came. The back of her legs contacted the mattress, and she sat down suddenly and unintentionally. What little light the fire threw, caused shadows to jump and play around the room.
It threw light on the back of the man who now stood over her, fully dressed, in the uniform of the Royal Flying Corps. His head inclined slightly towards her, and a hand reached down, gently, slowly, and removed her grip from the knot in the bath towel. Her face turned up towards him. She could only stare, powerless to resist what she dreaded most.
Slowly, he undid the knot, and the towel fell away, revealing her smooth soft breasts, her nipples hard and protruding.
Somehow, she found the power of speech. A soft, sighing, pleading question, answered only by the crackling of the firewood.
“Non… je ne veux pas… ”
There was a pause, and a forefinger lifted her chin, inclining her head up to him even more.
Her doe-like eyes stared wide, and then shut slowly.
Her hand came up to his, and, eyes still closed, she rested her face in his palm, kissing his wrist gently and passionately.
He moved his head slightly, and the light caught the unsmiling features of Lieutenant William McAllister, R.F.C.

* * *

He taxied up to the hangars, his terrified expression still showing. He cut the mixture, and the engine ran down. He leaned back, closing his eyes, his face covered in an oily grime. He remained like that for a minute, immobile. Then his eyelids wearily dragged themselves open again, and he stared at the sky. Around him, his aircraft showed the signs of astonishing devastation. Great rips had been torn in the fabric, one interplane strut hung smashed, and part of the wing center section was exposed to view.
With trembling hands, he slowly removed his flying helmet. He gazed in wonder at a tear that ran the whole side of it, and poked his fingers through in bewilderment. The same hand slowly traveled the distance up to his sweat soaked head, and came away with blood on his finger tips. He stared at the blood, his face ashen.

A voice cut in to his reverie.
“Are you all right, Sir? ”
Slowly, he focussed on the speaker. The question was repeated, urgently.
“Lieutenant McAllister, Sir, are you all right? ”
He looked at the helmet, and willed himself to throw it overboard. Then he climbed out stiffly. He stood beside the machine, taking in the devastation. The two mechanics stared at him.
He looked away, to the distant horizon, and made a huge effort.
“Never better! ”
He stepped out towards the distant buildings, but stumbled badly after two or three steps. Both mechanics moved quickly to support him, but before they reached him, he caught himself on the lower wingtip, and regained his balance. Then he strode on, without looking back.
The two mechanics, joined by a third, stared from the retreating figure to the aircraft and back again.
One of them slowly removed his cap, and scratched the back of his head…

* * *

He stood at the window, gazing out into the night, a bathrobe, too short and small for a man, wrapped tightly around him. The girl still sat in bed, only half under the eiderdown. Her naked breasts were large and full, and her black hair curled invitingly over her shoulders.
Her eyes were sad and caring.

He sounded bitter, and spoke as much to himself as her.
“They have a chateau, in the woods. ‘Group Headquarters’.
About forty miles from the nearest fighting. From there they issue the orders. In between the five course meals, the Beaujolais, the roast duck… ”
He almost spat out the words ‘roast’ and ‘duck’, individually and with acidity, contriving to make them sound almost obscene.
“…and the Creme de Menthe. The red wine is warmed to room temperature, the Champagne is chilled… whilst casually, in between courses, almost as an afterthought, thousands upon thousands of men are condemned to die in the mud… ”
He paused, and she made to go to him, and then thought better of it. She knew he needed to… offload what was in his heart. He continued more lightly, almost airily:
“They entertained me most lavishly. Told me I was a hero.
An ace. I, William McAllister, having shot down five little airplanes in flames, I was an ace… ”
He laughed dryly, but it was an unpleasant laugh.
“Go forth, brave airman, and shoot down some more Huns. Your King and Country salute you… ”
He paced across the room, as if debating within himself.
“Today… I nearly bought it. I should have died.
It was a miracle I got down alive… One bullet grazed my skull… And next time? Will I be so lucky again? Can that sort of luck last? And what is it all for? To perpetuate a myth, a deep and stinking hypocrisy… ”
He turned to face her. Something in his eyes made her flinch.
“I’m not going to die for that. It’s not worth dying for. No, I’m going to join the hypocrisy. I’m going to play the system. I’m going to stay alive. And let other people shoot down some Huns… I’m going to learn to smile the two faced smile. I’m going to learn to be charming to the fat generals at ‘Group Headquarters’. Wildly applaud every lunatic half-baked scheme they come up with. I’m going to learn to creep, and toady up to the great fat… bastards… ” He put a lot of emphasis on the last word, and clenched his fists.
He stopped at the window again, and peered out once more at the long, silent night.
“And then, eventually… I’ll get promoted. I’ll be able to sit behind a desk all day long. One day, I’ll go home. A war hero. Everybody will cheer me… ”
He sighed, and was silent for a long time.
“It’s hard for folk to cheer the dead… ”

She made a noise, and he turned. She stretched out an arm, and he went to her.

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 5, 2008, 12:17 pm

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Kentucky Fried God-in-a-Box (part 2)

March 1, 2008 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)

Following popular appeal from my regular readers, (all three of you, Jimmy is on holiday) I am continuing the experiment. I tell myself: “Fools rush in, where angels fear… to be read. “

KENTUCKY FRIED GOD-IN-A-BOX (part 2)

I try to wander through this vale of… of…. flowers, with a balanced, good humored, tolerant, and reasonably compassionate outlook on my fellow man. I rarely punch anybody out anymore, I’ve stopped deliberately running over kittens, and it’s a long time since I’ve used lethal force. What I’m saying is…I try not to be ‘judgmental’. You know, one of those superior bastards who looks down upon the world, and passes judgment on the lower classes, with the benefit of his or her exalted philosophical wisdom and insight. (You see them on CNN all the time.)

Having said all that… some things just make me shake my head in disbelief.
What…is this strange tendency people have to stick God in a box? Is he… some kind of Kentucky Fried God you can stick in a little cardboard box, eat him when you’re hungry, and then dump him in the trash can when you’re finished? Can you do that? Is that how it works?
Oh, no!
I hear you thinking it… now he’s going to write about HIS God. He’s going to lecture us from the lofty moral heights of HIS biased, pre-judiced, sanctimonious, moralising pre- suppositions. He’s a bible-basher in disguise! He’s got an agenda! He’s going to…
Ah-hah..
Relax….
No, I’m bloody well not.

I’m not going to lecture anybody. I know from my own experiences what a ‘gigantic turn-off’ that is. I’ve had enough people come in, determined to ‘save my soul’… Who know better, and decide it’s time to reach down and pluck a sinner from the fires of hell.
You know. That sinner…. me….!

No, what I had in mind, when I humbly and a little nervously offered “Kentucky Fried God-in-a-Box (1) ” in this exalted forum, (wondering if anybody was going to take the slightest bit of interest), was something else. I was wondering more if people would like a good-humoured, mischievous, almost whimsical tour through my confuddled little life, and join me in taking quiet little potshots at humanity. Join me quietly chuckling at the self-important nonsense people spout. Including myself, of course…
To be sure…

So, to put it another way. Kentucky Fried God-in-a-box, could be an opportunity for you, dear reader and listener, to join with me, through your reviews and feedback, and make merry of humanity. Poke fun at people. Laugh at their expense. Not forgetting of course, that we too, are… the people. After all, in the words of a great Irish philosopher, who died a hundred years ago, whose name… temporarily escapes me…. in his words:

“Humanity is a great source of merriment to me. And that includes myself. “

So having said all that, and hopefully still having a listener or two left…
we shall now proceed with… with…. a philosophical treatise, covering metaphysics, theology, astronomy, speleology, and last but not least, the exalted doctrine of ‘Floatism’. We shall call this treatise by the somewhat technical name:

“Kentucky Fried God-in-a-box. “

So here we go, and let me start by suggesting this:
Ask… a hundred people to define ‘God’.
Who is he, what is he, IS he…??
With those responses alone, you should be able to fill a library or two. Thousand.
The pictures people will conjure up will range from a toweringly angry Old Testament Biblical God (hell, fire and brimstone), at one extreme. Then, somewhere in the middle perhaps,will be a gentle, compassionate, Jesus meek-and-mild God. Picking daisies with little children in a nice grassy meadow, with the sweetest little lambs percolating through the picture. And, further along the spectrum, will be a sophisticated non-God, a lip service God, a find-God-in-Truth-and-your-self God. Who, some would say, is just a feature of Man’s imagination and need for solace and comfort. Not a real God at all. Then again, many people would say that of the first two Gods as well…

So, my point is this: for us Writers’ Harbor pseudo artistic types, somewhat rebellious perhaps, quite used to doing our own thing and kicking at the traces, what… are we to make of this God fellow? Whoops! Pre-supposition already! Okay, okay, I accept… he could be a “she “. Or an “it “. I’m sorry…
Start again. What are we to make of… God? Whoops! I’m sorry! Okay, okay, I accept… I should have said:
“What are we to make of God/Allah/Jehovah/Buddha/etcetera/etcetera… “
Happy now? No?? Well, tough!…., because we are NEVER going to get out of the starting gates if we don’t ramrod roughly over SOME people!
(Sheez….)

* * * * * *

I left you at the end of chapter (1) with a vague over view of…. well, that depends on your point of view. If you’re an average Christian, then you would perhaps be inclined to say it’s a vague overview of my development from Atheism through Agnosticism into some kind of belief system. If you’re a Bible basher, a screaming Evangelical, a Holy Roller, then you’ll probably want to shout at the top of your lungs:
“IT’S A WONDERFUL SIGN OF THE HOLY SPIRIT AT WORK IN YOUR LIFE! “
(Oh, shut the f…k up…!)
And, on the other hand, if you’re an Atheist, you’ll probably want to hit the ‘escape’ button, thinking more that said overview is just another sad record of decline. The decline of a reasonably independent, reasonably educated fellow into the clutches of superstition and false, quasi-spiritual gobbledygook. Stay with me for a while.
Don’t give up just yet…

Let’s rewind to my story “Going to Confession “. A small, snapshot-in-time of innocence at age nine or ten. If you haven’t already perused it, I have now put it on ‘Evoca’. It’s an easy read. It is a story with no delusions of literary grandeur.

Those were happy days in many ways. There were stressors, such as parents who were totally at loggerheads with each other, and sometimes called on the children to take sides. Another story maybe… But spiritually, I was pretty well at peace. I had it all figgered out. I was a Roman Catholic, but at that age I didn’t think of myself that way. It was just me and God. And he was okay. He was like Father Petrus, the big, bearded, genial, always smiling, broken-toothed monk-priest at our local church.
It wasn’t until age sixteen that this picture of reflected bliss in the calm, unruffled waters of my inner lake finally… was lost to sight. Under the impact of rocks lobbed in ruthlessly from all directions.

A lot of the trouble… was school.
I got sent to the ‘Gymnasium Augustinianum’. No, not a place full of trapeze artists and treadmills. (Well, sort of. In a different sense.) It was supposed to be a school for really bright kids. The really clever ones. There was only about three of them in Holland. You may well ask: “Well, what were YOU doing there then? ” And that would be a valid question. I don’t know… I think it was a mistake, and I stupidly got on the wrong bus myself. Whatever…
There I was, and my fellow school mates were…little Atheists. All of them. Without exception. It was technically a Dutch Roman Catholic school, run by a holy order known as the ‘Augustinians’. Unfortunately, (well! depending on your point of view) due to declining numbers of candidates for the priesthood, retiring teachers were more and more
being replaced by lay teachers. We only had two or three of the Holy Fathers left trying to teach us rebellious brats. I remember one poor old dude was trying to teach us Biology, (we gave him absolute hell), and the other one had pulled the short straw, and he was forced to struggle through the mixed blessing of teaching us “religion “. He was, as I remember an unhappy man. I spent five years at this seconday school, and during that time I remember him becoming more and more withdrawn and dispirited. Whereas in the first year we had usually one period a day for “religious studies “, in my fifth year we only had two sessions a week. Similarly, whereas at the start I recall we actually discussed ‘Religion’, usually heatedly, I remember well that towards my fourth and fifth years, this subject had become taboo. The class was more of a social occasion , with talk of football, politics, television, other teachers….anything except religion. And our religious “teacher “, well, he would just sit there and say nothing. He was content to be there in body, if not in mind. So, after an hour of this, the bell would ring, and we would all troop off. Another religious class was now officially over. I think… the poor man had simply given up. I know he had given up with his students, but I also suspect he had given up in himself. A few years later, I was to see him, still in a priest’s black robes, walking down the pavement, leading a small, distinctly scruffy little dog by a lead. The Holy Order of the Augustinians had apparently given him permission to have a little puppy. An unusual but no doubt faithful companion for a forlorn, unhappy priest.
It was a small wonder then, that in this distinctly Atheist environment, I had a rough time.
There was a time I would argue furiously in the class room, totally outnumbered. A case of twenty five against one. Then, once I realized that I was the odd one out, it started me doubting my simple faith in God. After six months or so of this, as already related, my despairing Irish mother sent for the Parish priest. Alas, to no avail. I was now an Atheist.
I knew… that there was no God.

And I suppose I could have stayed an Atheist for the rest of my life. Many people do. I’d almost say it’s quite the fashion these days. It’s kind of trendy to be an Atheist. Whereas to be an Agnostic, who says “Well, I don’t know…? ” is to taint oneself a little with the suspicion of an inability to make up one’s mind. It’s almost like ordering a Rose wine with your meal. It’s neither a red or a white, and it’s a wine perhaps for political hacks and fence sitters. But, as so often in life, the winds of happenstance were about to blow. And blow they did. Severely affecting my small vessel, floating on the seas of Life. Fate was about to shuffle the cards. As it happened, my father was getting close to retirement. And my parents were planning to retire to Ireland. As I was rather unhappy at the Dutch school anyway, my mother decided that it would be wise if I was to start the new school year in Ireland. The family would follow along soon after. At any rate within a year or so. When she floated the idea to me I was more than happy at the prospect of escaping that awful Dutch school I had really grown to hate. I readily agreed. The thought never crossed my innocent Atheist mind that she might have an ulterior motive…

Thus at the start of the next schoolyear, it came to pass that I, the Atheist, found myself being driven in through the gates of Rockwell College, Cashel, County Tipperary, Ireland. Aye, Tipperary. Where the song comes from. ( “It’s a long, long way from Tipperary… “)
(Okay,okay, I promise I won’t give up my day job)
I was accompanied by my parents, and wondering, what… I had let myself in for. It was a boarding school, and I had never attended one of those. And it was presumably going to be full of little Irishmen, and I was more of a little Dutchman.

Little did I know what an eye opener lay ahead of me…
In chapter (3) we might return to the adventures of a fine young Dutch spawned Atheist now arrived in holy Catholic Ireland.

And may the saints be praised…

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 9:02 am

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Kentucky Fried God-in-a-Box (part 1)

March 1, 2008 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)

KENTUCKY FRIED GOD-IN-A-BOX

Part 1: The Butterfly

Do you remember when you were at junior school?
Wasn’t there always some kid who brought a prized possession to school, such as a spider in a box? Or a beetle? Or, maybe a butterfly? The latter, usually stone dead from fright anyway, was sometimes stuck through with a pin, and nailed in a fixed position, to prevent – heaven forbid!- the white sepulchral wings from being damaged in the box.
This unhappy skewered corpse would then be shown off to the rest of us plebeians as some kind of seventh wonder of the world. If you were part of the in crowd, one of the initiates as it were, you too were allowed a breathless look in the box.
I remember it at times being a solemn affair.
This particular kid brought in a shoe box one day, with a small snake he had caught. He sneaked it into the class room, and we acolytes who were in on the plot, thought this was the finest piece of mischief we had gotten up to for a long time. Until of course the wretched creature, ungrateful beyond words, escaped from the box, and piled injury upon ingratitude by biting his abductor firmly on the shin. The teacher, upon recognizing it as an adder, a poisonous beastie, promptly evacuated the classroom. An ambulance was called, and the Police, and there was a major hullabaloo, and we were all convinced our hero was going to die. So caught up were we in the drama of this magnificent epic, that we regarded it as jolly unsporting when he returned the next day, chastened but – so boringly – alive.
Some time after that, I remember that our Catechism teacher, (he who made us learn by rote questions and answers about God), (which explained everything), told us of a very big exciting event that was about to take place. Some priest was going to come around and show us a real splinter from the cross of the crucifixion of Jesus. In due course, this happened, and I got a precious few seconds to gaze in awe at this minuscule splinter of wood under a glass cover.
In a box of course.
Perhaps, I admit it, these childhood reminiscences stayed with me more vividly than they would have done with a normal child. For I, the little Anglo-Irish child at an all Dutch school, sticking out like a sore thumb, was a sensitive, feeling kid. Or so I am told.
In my story “Going to Confession “ I have been able to capture in cold prose some faint memory of those innocent times. For myself, at any rate…

In later life, it was to this image, the staked and very dead butterfly-in-the-box, and, occasionally the tiny splinter-in-the-box, that my thoughts would stray when I listened to people tell me, with straight faces, the way God worked and thought. The way God did things. The way he judged people. Some people could give you the whole skinny, the entire she-bang, in about five minutes flat.
After which, there was nothing left to explain.
Just like the Catechism. The little book. Which gave you the questions. And the answers. All you had to do was learn them off! It was so easy, a kid could do it.
And was supposed to!
I thought it was pretty amazing. Here were these folk, who were just average at their humble professions. Be they tinker or taylor, housewife or parson. However, when the subject of ‘God’ came up, it was astounding how they were transported into a new body in an instant. They would stand up straighter, a fire would come into their eyes, and they would hold forth with an authority that was nothing short of remarkable.
Trouble was, I didn’t believe a word of it.

For I, sinner, (the saints have mercy upon his soul…) had lost my faith at sixteen years of age, despite my desperate Irish mother calling in the parish priest. Who duly came around to the house, and tried to save my soul. Looking back, it was nice of him to try. In this noble pursuit he was, alas, unsuccesful, for I remember standing up firmly to both him and my heart broken ‘devoutly Irish’ mother. To me, with the confident wisdom of youth, it was all baloney, nothing more than a holy hoo-lah, and I was not going to waste my time with it. It was all mirrors and smoke, and I had no more faith in God than I had in that dumb unfortunate butterfly that got skewered in the name of schoolboy science. Therefore, I was no longer going to Mass on Sundays!

I had, I was only to realize this later, quite happily placed God in a box entirely of my own making. And shut the lid. Tight. The box was put away in a seldom visited and dusty place, and I was entirely satisfied with that. Or maybe it wasn’t even a box. More like a folder. With a gray sticky label: “irrelevant “.

This happy condition, in which I felt little need for….who?…(God? God who?) … was to last for quite a few years. The definitive interruption to this relative state of innocent philosophical bliss came unexpectedly, and will be the subject, perhaps, (if anybody is remotely interested) of future chapters in the life and times of a fine young Anglo-Irish Atheist…

Suffice it for now to say, I was to drift, strangely, from
1) a simple child’s acceptance of the Catechism,
(The Catholics’ book which explains in a few minutes in words of not more than two syllables how everything works), to
2) Atheism, ( “I know that there is no God “) via
3) Agnosticism ( “I don’t know if there is a God or not “),
to a seriously thought out but distinctly
4) muddled bi-polar belief system,
symbolized perhaps by a strange and recurrent dream.
This dream I have written up ( “Floater Me “).
Since I’m doing so mightily well on the “-isms “, I have decided to call my muddled system by a fancier name. I need to give it some philosophical backbone.
I shall call it “Floatism “. That has a nice ring to it.

Hopefully, nobody is in the slightest bit interested in ‘Floatism’.
Then I won’t have to sit down and laboriously write it all up.
So, here’s hoping for not a single view, and no reviews.
Anyway, I seem to remember being an Atheist was lots of fun. But then I was young and single then, and I liked lots of pretty girls. And motorbikes. And skydiving. And beer.
Especially Guinness. With a chaser or two or four of Whiskey or Brandy.
Doubles, of course.
And a ninety mile-an-hour blatter home on my old Triumph seven-fifty.
Like the time with the Teddybear. ( “The Teddybear “) Or that time visiting Mrs Bird.
( “Visiting Mrs Bird “)
I also got to poke fun at Catholics, Protestants, and Jehova’s Witnesses.
And de-flower an ex-Nun.
Life was good…
Maybe I should just have stayed an Atheist.

(sigh)

Bummer…

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 4, 2013, 9:37 pm

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Facing the Devil

March 1, 2008 in article about writing

(It never ceases to amaze me how much time is gobbled up when you write. It becomes alarming. Even though the ideas are vividly at the forefront of your mind, you can only translate them onto paper by investing quite absurd amounts of time. It’s true what they say: 1 per cent inspiration, 99 per cent perspiration. I know what Brian Lecomber meant when he said to an interviewer: “I hope I don’t get any more ideas for books, because then I’ll have to go and write the bloody thing. “
Time and time again, a whole day’s work would reveal only 3 or 4 pages. Occasionally I got 6. That was a REALLY good day. Some days would end up with a zero. When you’re writing a 500 page novel, months start skidding past awfully quickly.
Scary.
That’s when the Devil raises his head. You can hear him sneer, slyly:
“Ah, sure, why do you even bother? “
(This Devil is slightly Irish)
“Sure nobody’s going to read it anyway… you’re better off giving up. Only one book in two hundred gets anywhere at all, y’know… “)

FACING THE DEVIL

He made himself a cup of coffee, and tried hard to shake off the mood of maudlin depression. He talked to himself, not unkindly, as an older brother might to a confused youngster.
Cheer up, lad! It’s not ALL bad, you know… “

It was probably true. Not ALL his work had to be rubbish.
On that slightly more positive note, he treated himself to a chocolate biscuit. He liked chocolate biscuits.
The humor of the situation struck him. There he was, examining his Inner Soul, Life, Death, and the Universe, and coming to the conclusion that the Answer lay in…
a chokkie bikkie.
Oh, well. It was a variant on the old saying…
“Life is but a cup of tea
it’s how you make it. “

The mischievous side of his brain, the bit facing East, decided he could add to that.

“Make it hot and make it strong,
that’s the way to get along;
add a dash of Irish Mist,
then face the Devil completely pisht. ”

He giggled. It was hardly very poetic. But it served to brighten the moment a bit. Vaguely, it reminded him of some poetry he had penned years before. It was lying in the same plastic bag that he had rescued from oblivion from the damp garage of one of his ex- ladies. She had tossed all his poetry and writing there, in disgust presumably, and it was only by chance he had found it.

“Wot!? Me?
I makes no claim to fame!
The only reason that I write
is just to TRY and strike a light;
I seek… the Meaning to this strife,
a PURPOSE to a crazy life,
the Father(?) to my tiny flame.
The One they claim… hides behind
the whirring of my restless mind. ”

It was true. He wanted to write. The way a painter wanted to paint. A composer wanted to compose. A sculptor wanted to enthusiastically chip bits of marble or clay off a shapeless lump called Life, that only he or she recognized as wonderful and precious.
I’m an artist. No getting away from it, I’m an artist.

He smiled ruefully. Doubtless many would disagree.
It was a strange desire, this obsession to write, to try and express one self in words. If only he could paint, like Harry Berry. Write, and back it up with painting. Superb. He couldn’t paint to save his life. What was it the teacher had said at school, quite seriously, when he had proudly displayed his ‘still life study of a cat’?

Nice effort, Francis! Look children! Look at the nice rabbit little Francis has drawn!

He had refused to talk to her for a week…
Oh, well. You just had to try and express yourself.
If nobody liked it… sad.
However, that still didn’t make it a bad cat. It was a good cat. A brilliant cat. Because little Francis poured his heart and soul into it. It was my cat.
The fact that she thought it was a rabbit, and that somebody else thought it was a mean looking rat…
Life is tough. Anyway, most of them didn’t even try…

Memories… there was that funny old bloke who turned up at University one day.
(I think somebody said he was a council laborer).
He set up a little stand, and tried to sell his poetry.
He was convinced he was a Poet, and that people should read him. I never saw him, but my then amour, Dympna did.
She felt sorry for him. (Dympna felt sorry for everybody,
I have to admit, although what that says for our relationship I don’t know…)
Anyway, because absolutely nobody was buying, and the poor Poet was sitting there, all alone and ignored, she… yes, you guessed it, she went over and bought a little book. The Poet nearly cried. He was so happy somebody was interested in his Life’s Work.
And did she read it?
That’s what I asked. No, she said. She tried, but it was really simple stuff. Meter was all to cock. Not very interesting at all.
He gave up at the end of the day, having sold probably only one book of his collected poems, and enjoyed probably only one human contact, and went home, never to be seen again.
A failed Poet?
In the eyes of the world, yes. A simpleton, daring to raise his uncultured mind. People poked fun at him.
Laughed about him.
But to himself?
The very fact that he thought sufficiently about his life to write about it, express it on paper…
Terrific…

* * *

He gazed at the computer screen, and tried to focus on his first novel. ‘Jeremy’s War’. He was struggling with it.
Oh, well, piffle then… Let’s try a short story.
But it was no good. The nagging thought kept recurring.
I’ve spent months and months on this novel! What if nobody likes it? How do you justify the time, effort, and energy you’ve poured in?
I’ve got so many other ideas, and notes, and bits of chapters, and scenes from plays… If I try and do justice to all those ideas to the same degree of effort as I am trying to invest in “Jeremy’s War “, I am going to spend YEARS just building on my present ideas.
YEARS, G…. Gordon Bennet!

How do you justify that?

He scratched his head. Worried. He was forty one. Critical time of Life to make decisions like that. What if you felt you’d dropped a clanger at age forty six?
No going back… the years would have been spent.
A horrendous thought.

He sighed again. Mama Mia! What a decision.
Write? Results uncertain, future uncertain…
Or: Pursue career in commerce, aviation, whatever.
You can’t do both. Not really. Not to the intensity required.
Oh, boy…

He made himself a cup of tea. Strong. Hot. Giggled. Pulled the box of ammunition out.

The room was quiet.
A marauding cloud had temporarily blocked out the Sun over Scotland, and the tiny island cosmos of Flotta was shadowy and uncertain.
On the southern shore, the Flotta Church – baptismal entrance and funereal finish for countless generations of quiet spoken Orcadians – seemed to loom rather large and dark.
Foreboding almost, with the heads of tombstones peeping out curiously over the stone dyke. The Dead have to be walled in securely of course, lest they escape.
Just like a bunch of roguish school children, at their studies, but nonetheless curious at the goings on in the outside world.

However, in the distance…
Beyond the Flotta Church and cemetery, far beyond where the Shadows reached, the island of Switha lay soaked in light, and beyond that again the Swona gulls soared, squawking playfully.
The sea was tirelessly sending up millions of tiny searchlights, pyrotechnic beacons to guide any traveler willing to lift up his gaze.

The computer hummed quietly, waiting patiently.
There was one more sound. An irreverent one. Down-to-earth. Homely.

The scrunching… of another chokkie bikkie.

It was his way...

He was getting ready to face the Devil…

F.M.

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The Master’s Return

March 1, 2008 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)

(I find it very interesting how differently people relate to the next story, and how they interpret it. This is a story I wrote a long time ago.It goes back to dark days, during a long, long hopelessly corrupt court case, which lasted for years, and about which I was trying to write a book. The depth of perjury, which the other side elevated to almost an art form, and the cynical, hopelessly inefficient UK legal system, with the rules seemingly designed to thwart the righteous and reward the brazen liars, took a toll on me. The writing was hard going, because it was painful to re-live events…
Those days were hard going as well.
Full of doubt.)

THE MASTER’S RETURN

Padair used to lie awake at night.
The same questions would haunt his mind. Over and over again. Tortuously. Agonizingly. He would toss and turn, and try and go to sleep.
Try and switch his brain off. But his mind would go on whirring wildly.
He would gaze around the room, and the shadows seemed to move at times. He would shut his eyes, and will himself to go to sleep.
But always, always, one question in particular would drift back and haunt him.

When would the Master return home?

Sometimes he worked himself into a frenzy over it.
Then he would lie there and wonder why he fretted so over it. Did the other servants lie awake at night too?
He thought the Cook might. She was always talking about the Master. The other servants were unkind to her, and scoffed at her reminiscences of the Master. They all thought her simple, and teased her. Behind her back they mocked her. But Padair used to love listening to her.
There was something so pure and simple about Cook’s faith in the Master, that Padair would gaze into her eyes, and see there something he did not fully understand, but that he was attracted to nonetheless. Something… inspiring?
Something… touching. Cook’s confidence in the Master’s judgment was absolute. The Master knew exactly what he was doing, even though his ways were mysterious at times.
And he was a Good man. The earnest way in which Cook would affirm that to Padair never failed to impress him.

If only the Master would return to his house!

Padair longed for that day with all his heart, although he feared it as well. For there would be trouble…
Some of the servants… Padair and they did not hit it off. In fact, a state of almost war existed. It was sad, but true.

Time and time again, Padair would lie awake, and listen out. He couldn’t help it. He would strain his ears for the sound of a coach and horses, that would herald the return of the Master.

If only he would return!

Padair feared the consequences, yet desperately sought…
what? The knowledge of Right and Wrong?
He wasn’t sure. He was a simple man. There were those who thought him clever, like Clara, the chambermaid. But Padair doubted it. He had not done very well for himself. He was only a relatively low ranking servant in the house. There were a great many servants far senior to him. They had far better rooms, and wore expensive costumes, and elaborate wigs.
Padair wasn’t sure that he cared that much. The costumes and the wigs left him cold. Occasionally he wished he had a nicer room. His was small, and cold.
It was right up at the top of the house, in the attic, and heated with one small open fire. It was damp, and Padair suffered frequently from respiratory illnesses.
But apart from the occasional envious longing for one of the big servants rooms on a lower floor, Padair couldn’t get that worked up about it. He loved the view from his room. When he was off duty, he would often sit at the window, staring into the distance, hoping against hope for a glimpse of the Master’s carriage.

If only the Master would return!

Padair felt sure things would get sorted out then.
Although… there would be trouble. That was for sure.
Big trouble. And Padair would lie awake, and mull over the extraordinary events in his mind. What would the Master say? He would be angry, Padair thought. The fighting and bitterness amongst the servants had reached epidemic proportions. It was high time the Master returned and sorted it out…

Padair worried about his own role. He felt he had not been a bad servant. He had made mistakes, certainly, and at times his volatile nature had got the better of him. He was the first to admit that. He would admit that much to the Master as well. He had decided a long time before to be quite truthful on that, when the time came.
But the rest of the accusations…
Padair was adamant that he was NOT a bad servant. He meant well, in his own way. The other servants were quite wrong to treat him the way they did…
Padair felt they treated him appallingly at times. Some of their actions just seemed downright cruel and vindictive. It destroyed the atmosphere in the house. It had become a place full of strife.
The bitterness was horrible, and it saddened Padair greatly.

If only the Master would return!

Padair, lying awake and fretting, felt sure the Master would listen to him, although he was only a low ranking servant. He was convinced the Master would agree he had not been a BAD servant. Not perfect, sure. He had made mistakes. But not out and out bad…
But some nights were long and ominous. Padair’s imagination would play tricks, and small transgressions would loom larger and larger. Until in the end, Padair would lie there, feeling guilty and fearful, worrying dreadfully that the Master would be furious with him.
Sometimes it took the chambermaid, or Cook, to reassure him, and tell him to snap out of it and not be so introspective.

Time wore on. Padair’s relationship with some of the servants was good, but with others it was far from good.
He tried not to be bitter. Something told him that was wrong. He had to leave certain things up to the Master. They were not down to him.

If only the Master would return!

Padair wondered at some of the servants. They thought the Master would never return. And they behaved accordingly. Padair was suspicious of the way they seemed remarkably fat and well dressed, and wondered amongst other things about the Master’s wine stocks.
Padair wondered what would happen when the Master returned…
Then again, the nights were often long and ominous, and there were frequently times Padair too wondered if the Master would ever return. Even though he too had serious doubts at times, he could not bring himself to disregard the rules of the house. The Master’s rules…
They were good, and… he had faith in the Master.
And he continued to agonize about the Right and Wrong of all his actions, suffering good old fashioned guilt whenever he considered with hindsight that he had fallen short of the Master’s expectations…

A stormy night came.
A fearful night, during which the thunder crackled, the lightning split the sky, and storm force winds lashed rain at Padair’s shutters.
He was getting old now, and although he was tired, he found sleep hard to come by. His longing for the Master’s return was ever stronger…

When he first heard the sound, he dismissed it as his imagination. But suddenly the unmistakable crunch of coach wheels on gravel had propelled him out of bed as if he had been bitten. Eyes wide, he had listened for a few seconds. A horse had whinnied, and Padair had nearly fainted. He had snatched his dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door, fumbled for his slippers, and found himself almost falling head first out the door and down the first stairs.

“The Master is coming! The Master is coming! “, he had screamed exultantly, nearly tripping over himself as he rounded the first landing at break neck speed. He had galloped down the second stairs, heart pounding, soul ablaze, still shouting:
“Wake up, wake up! The Master is coming! “
Rounding the second landing in record time, he had been vaguely surprised by the fact that elsewhere in the house, nothing stirred. The house was deathly quiet, waiting, listening breathlessly.
Down the third stairs he plunged, frustration creeping into his voice.
“Wake up everybody! Wake up! Wake up! “
He thought he heard stirring in Cook’s room, as he swept past, but elsewhere was uncannily silent.

When he got to the hall, he practically threw himself at the door, frantic fingers hauling back the seven large bolts as fast as he could. As he pulled the last bolt, he glanced around, and horrified, saw only Cook and two or three other servants appearing.

“Wake the others! The Master’s here… “
Then the great door had swung open, and in the light of the candles, He had stood…

Padair had just managed a breathless: “Master, welcome home! “, and then fallen silent. His thoughts had raced, crashing from an ecstasy of delight to fear back to hope again. His mouth open, he had stared at the Master…

The Master had said nothing. The soft wise eyes had studied Padair quietly for a second, and the look had been enough to reduce Padair to helplessness. Stammering, he had started to apologize for some of his errors, and then, aware that this was not the time, he had fallen silent. Behind him he had heard movement, and looking around he had realized that the other servants were turning up now, bedecked in finery and wigs, whilst Padair stood there holding the door in dressing gown and slippers.

Fearfully Padair had stared first at the head servants, and then back to the Master.Looking up into the Master’s face, he had desperately sought for signs of forgiveness.
The Master’s eyes met his, and, in an instant, seemed to pierce through to his very soul…

Then his Master had entered the hall, and quietly gazed around at all who were assembled there…

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2009, 9:11 pm

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The Modelmaker

February 29, 2008 in Auto-biographical (youth and childhood)

(It’s always interested me how many people didn’t like the Modelmaker.

He first appeared mixed in with the aviation stories in ‘Castles in the Sky’. Many were the folk who said it didn’t belong there.
A prosperous young lady told me she felt the Modelmaker was a pompous ass, but added that ‘at least he admitted it himself’.

The Modelmaker doesn’t seem to sit well with folk. His efforts are admittedly confused and almost irrelevant in our big wide world.
Working for ONE positive little result doesn’t appear to be considered worth it.
I’ve learned not to be too hard on the Modelmaker.
Yes, he’s a twit. But a well-meaning twit.
Warm heart.
Yes? No?
And at least he’s GOT a heart.
There’s more than a bit of symbolism in this story.)


Photo by Woodleywonderworks

“THE MODELMAKER “

Ireland in the early nineteen seventies…

The youth club was in a tough area of Dublin.
Very tough. It was full of bleak run down tenement buildings, council owned, dirty and squalid.

Nice people lived there. Not-so-nice people. And pretty horrible people.Often they would have children. The children came to the youth club. They varied a lot. Nice. Not-so-nice. Pretty horrible.
A horrible child I hear you say indignantly? No such thing. Only horrible parents. It’s an argument. Then again, at some stage a child loses its innocence, becomes an adult… What then?

Some were pretty rough.
I was warned about Josey. Josey was twelve, and would steal anything if it wasn’t nailed down, cast in concrete, or guarded by a Dobermann. Even then you risked him stealing the Dobermann. He was in trouble with the law. Mind, a lot of them were. So that was nothing unusual. His crime had been to break into a house one night belonging to two old dears. He had bust open the gas meter to rob the coins. Then scarpered, leaving gas pouring into the house. It was lucky the two old women didn’t die. As it was they had been badly gassed. Josey had been caught, and the case was running through the legal system. Not that this worried Josey. It was happening in his family all the time. His father was a drunkard, in and out of prison all the time. His mother was poor of intelligence, drank, got picked up frequently for begging, disorderly conduct, harassing tourists in O’Connell Street, and picking fights. They had twelve children. All had convictions. Josey was the youngest.
It seemed that all the family vented their rage on Josey, and he commonly turned up at the club covered in bruises and ugly welts. Many youth workers, especially female idealists, had tried taking pity on young Josey. But the attempts seemed to always fail. He would steal anything from anybody, including a bicycle from a girl who thought she was getting somewhere with him, break things in the club, fight, and was widely suspected of having tried to burn the club down several times.
Yet he still came, sullen, defiant, hard eyed…

Amon, the chief youth leader used to sigh when he saw Josey. “Ah, sure, Francis, if we’re not open for the likes of Josey, who are we open for? ” I couldn’t refute the logic. Poor Amon. A bus conductor with a heart of gold, he had tried to get a salaried post as a social worker or youth leader several times. He lived in the area, and understood its folk. But he was always turned down in favor of some middle class college kid, bright-eyed and innocent, but with a degree in Social Science or something… Some lousy piece of paper anyway.

I had been present at one of the interviews, and had watched him being torn apart by a prim, very important lady. Who wielded a lot of clout. She was the one who made most of the appointments in youth clubs and social clubs, without ever working in those places, and often without even visiting them. We had gone for this interview to a plush building, air conditioned, and it took place in her office.
Amon, as a salaried worker, would have done more good than twenty five newly qualified ex University social workers, but convincing the powers of that was hopeless. So he carried on as best he could, collecting fares on buses during the day, and, at night, working caringly with people; be they young, old, infirm, mad or lonely.
I met him one night, nursing a black eye and horrible bruising. He had been to see Josey’s Dad, trying to arrange legal defense for young Josey. His reward had been a telling not to meddle in other people’s affairs, and a hiding that culminated in being kicked down the stairs. He wouldn’t, of course, go to the police, the ‘Garda’ as they were called. Even if he had, it is likely they would have just rolled their eyes to heaven. They knew that family only too well…

I was angry. I was also bigger. I went up to Josey’s dad. He came to the door dead drunk. The flat stank of urine and dog excrement. His body odor would make a corpse gag. His little eyes were mean and hard. He listened to what I had to say. He didn’t invite me in. Thank goodness. Did fourteen people really live there? Minus the ones taking turns in prison? Minus Josey of course, who preferred the coal cellar at the bottom of the building, where he didn’t get beaten up so much?
Had this man once been a child? It was difficult to imagine. At any rate, he didn’t care about me. I was too big to thump, but he contented himself with a throat rasping cough, gathering a mouthful of ammunition. For one second I reckoned he was debating firing the missile at me, but at the last second he turned his head slightly, and a vile yellow sticky glob of spittle fired out the door past my elbow. I didn’t flinch. I wanted an answer on the subject of Josey’s defense. I didn’t get one. All I got was the spittle. The door was closed with a bang, and I could hear him fart loudly as he walked off. He simply couldn’t care less.
As Amon would say, “If we’re not open for the likes of Josey, Francis, who are we open for? “

A year went by. Josey at times drove me up the wall. He was so destructive, and was guaranteed to cause chaos and anarchy the moment your back was turned. He particularly hated some of the ‘nicer’ boys, none of whom could match Josey in street fighting skills. Any opportunity for a quick sock in the gob of some harmless lad enjoying himself doing no harm, was taken up by Josey. He seemed to relish inflicting pain. The times I wanted him banned permanently were legion, but somehow he always escaped that fate.

Was I getting anywhere? Probably not. I was realistic enough to know that. Sloppy sentimentalism and wide eyed idealism had long since been knocked out of me. I had little illusions of ever doing anything for Josey.

Then came the day.
I was standing in the hall, behind the big more or less vandal proof front door. I was talking to some other kids. We were laughing. Josey came up.
In a flash, he had whisked off my glasses, and punched me with all his force smack on the nose. My vision disappeared behind a sea of tears, and I coughed and spluttered as blood poured down my nose. It was some while before I could wipe the tears from my eyes and see again. The sudden ferocity of the attack had completely overwhelmed me. I could see again, and there was Josey, holding out my (undamaged) glasses to me, with a look of almost apology on his dirty face. I was staggered. Resisting an irresistible urge to forthwith beat the living daylights out of the little tinker, I accepted my glasses back. There was an awkward silence. The other kids were dumbstruck. I put my glasses on, and tried to recover my composure.

“What did you do that for? “.

He shrugged his shoulders. For once, an almost childlike innocence on his face.

“Dunno, just felt like it. “

There was another pause. The urge to break his dirty little neck had somehow gone.
“It hurt “, seemed a more sensible thing to say. And for once, he almost seemed sorry.
Josey SORRY about something? Unbelievable.
Maybe I was getting somewhere…

After that, there was a subtle change in my relationship with Josey. We could talk. Play.
Nothing dramatic. But… somehow it was a more normal relationship.
What had happened?
I shall never know. Had he been jealous of the attention I was giving the others?
One thing was sure, I felt. I had been right to keep my (ruffled) cool. Right not to shout when he hit me. Right not to be angry.
He had not really MEANT to hurt me…

* * * * *

I was working voluntarily during the summer in a French institute near Bourges.
It was a strange place. It housed several hundred children, ranging in age from four or five up to seventeen. All were handicapped in some way. Some were severely handicapped, both mentally and physically. Some were mentally retarded, but physically fine. And some were mentally bright as buttons, but physically impaired in some way.
To this last group belonged Jean-Paul.

He was seventeen, remarkably good looking.
Tall, attractive features. The girls all agreed he had the makings of a stunner. His trouble was a deformed right arm. From the elbow down, things were not right.
His mind, though, appeared intellectually razor sharp. Listening to his conversation, he was very bright, sharply witty, but with a tendency towards verbal cruelty. I would spar words with him in my imperfect French, and he would make fun of me. I wasn’t that bad on the old repartee myself, and on more than one occasion I too brought the house down – on my side.
Then the joke was on Jean-Paul.

He seemed to cope with this well enough for a while. Enjoying it when he won the war of words, suffering it when the laughter was perhaps a little against him.
Or so I thought. Maybe I was not experienced or mature enough to recognize the warning signs…
I liked him. Went out of my way to say ‘hello’. Chatted to him about his family. Got the impression there was a huge bitterness in him about his family. Noticing his expensive clothes and proud bearing I was not surprised to learn from the institute’s wonderfully caring Director that Jean Paul came from a wealthy background. Yes, they had money. Did they visit him often? The Director looked sad. I knew enough.
Jean Paul felt abandoned because he was not as beautiful as the rest of his family…

I liked him. I thought he liked me.
Until the day at mealtime he smacked me as hard as he could (very hard) over the back of the head with a hammer.

The excruciating pain on my face before I slumped over the table and my gasp of hurt brought staff running from all directions. I was vaguely aware of a fluent French telling off going on behind me. I was too hurt to care.
It was some while before the pain eased. The concern of all was written deep in others eyes. But I was all right.
Shaken, sore, but no broken skull.

From then on, things were rather different.
It was NOT an isolated incident. He would try and sneak up behind me with all sorts of weapons. One day he nearly got in position with a vicious looking screwdriver. A timely yell from a French staff member saved me from a fate worse than I had already experienced.

This guy made me nervous. Although he bullied some of the other children, there was no violence or malice there of the sort that was directed at me. I seemed to be the odd man out he hated. I grew very wary. If I came into a room I checked first to see if by any chance my little friend was waiting for me behind the curtains. I talked it over with the Director, who was as surprised as I was.
Not normal behavior…

Time went by, and Jean-Paul and I existed in a state of perpetual siege. I tried to act normally, and not to show he was bugging me. Not quite easy. The staff members were worried, and if ever they saw him coming up behind me, there would be an immediate warning:

“Regardez! Regardez! Jean-Paul vient! Derriere-toi! “

Great fun…

My time drew to an end. I was going to go back to Ireland. There was a farewell meal, and I said goodbye to several of the staff I had really befriended. I was a young man, and some of the French ladies had quite captured me. In many ways I was sorry to be leaving.

The bus had arrived. A group of us were chatting.

“Regardez! Regardez! Jean-Paul vient! “

I too had seen him coming. I watched him approach our little group nervously. Was this a farewell party piece? I looked for signs of a concealed hammer or screwdriver. A knife maybe? What was he up to?
Our little group fell silent.

Could he have a word with me alone? I was REALLY suspicious now. But…
I looked at the others. They looked at me. Mystified.
I went with him. We walked about twenty yards away.
The group looked on. I was VERY WARY.

What is it, Jean-Paul?

He looked at me. I couldn’t read anything from his expression. He wanted to know if I was coming back.
No, I said, I had to return to Ireland, where I was at university. It was a long way to travel.

He looked at me. I waited. Not unkindly. Just wondering.

Suddenly…

“Il me fait mal au coeur que tu pars! “
(it breaks my heart that you are leaving!)

And he burst into tears, threw his arms around me, and sobbed his heart out!

Gobsmacked! I cuddled him closely, trying to comfort him, and looked across at the group standing twenty yards away.
Helpless, I think my expression must have been a combination of:
1) “I’ll be… What do you think of THAT! “
2) Grief probably. Grief for such a hurt little human being…

I would never forget those words.
And the group… every man and woman had their jaw hanging open!

Stunning.

* * * * *

Dublin once more.
Trouble in the youth club – again.
All sorts of trouble.
The Parish priest and I. We didn’t hit it off. He wanted to close the place down because of all the complaints. Everybody else was terrified of him. I wasn’t. Told him exactly what I thought of him.
Didn’t go down well…
I did not want to see the place closed down. Nor did the Garda. “Keep them off the streets, Francis “, was the plea of the hard pressed forces of Law and Order.
And the Parish priest, who only visited once a year when there was more trouble than usual, could go and…

But there was always trouble.
One day, a neighbor came banging furiously on the club door. Elderly man. Screaming his head off. Can’t understand him. Slow down man, what ARE you on about?

“Your kids are stoning my chickens at the back! “

What? How can they? The door to the back garden is locked!
The man, demented with rage, is jumping up and down from one leg to the other:

“They’re standing on the roof! “

The ROOF??
This is a big building. Which roof?
THE GYMNASIUM???
That’s about sixty feet high. How… They’ll kill themselves!

I scramble frantically upstairs, out the top window, ignore the horrible drop to the concrete pavement below… Up the slate roof, peer over the edge… and, sure enough, there they stand, our dearly beloved children, our nice kids, our little angels, four of them, on top of the gymnasium, stoning our neighbors’ chickens…

Instant loss, I regret to say, of my formidable temper…
Oh, how the fully trained social worker might have said:

“Now, now, boys, stop that, please. Really now…etc! “

Yes, that’s the way I should have handled it.

“PADDY, JIMMY, BOBBY, SEAMUS COME HERE THIS INSTANT OR I’LL BREAK ALL YOUR LEGS AND ARMS NOT TO MENTION YOUR SCRAWNY LITTLE NECKS YOU STUPID LITTLE …etc “

All I need…

There was always trouble. I really believed in youth clubs. Still do. But there was always trouble. Like when the modeling competition was announced.
My idea of course. Trust all the trouble to stem from my bright ideas…

As a kid I loved making plastic Airfix models. I had all sorts of World War 1 and World War 2 aircraft suspended with threads from the ceiling, where they would whirl around in gigantic dogfights. I remember I had a Sopwith Camel, and one day I was hooking it back to its threads. I had taken it down for a routine dusting off.
I somehow dropped it, and watched aghast as it fell to the ground and shattered into pieces. Undaunted, I soon rebuilt it, and it was almost a prize possession, as it was the only model to have really flown, crashed, and been rebuilt.
I had learned lots of tricks, and I resolved to teach some of those skills at the youth club.
One thing that is very difficult to teach is patience. You need an abundance of it when building models. As for TEACHING a roomful of unruly horrors the skills…
Well…

A casual listener outside the door would have been entertained. The tumult from within consists of whoops and cheers and wails and clattering. Occasional roars and pleas from Francis to the over enthusiastic but equally quickly despondent troops within:

‘wait’, ‘hang on’, ‘just a moment’, ‘PLEASE’.

The chatter of many simultaneous conversations…

“Hang on Jimmy, wait until the glue’s dry. Try and find the next thing to do. “
“Bobby, you’ve got to paint the wheels first before you stick them on. “
“Eddy, break the pieces off very gently, use a knife or a scissors. “
“Mind the paint pot, Tommy… “

(wail from Jimmy. whirl around)

“Jimmy, I told you to not to try and glue the wings on until the fuselage is dry. “

(wail from Eddy)

“Now you’ve broken it. You’ve got to be careful. Don’t rush it. Come here, I’ll fix it. Don’t worry, it’s not spoiled… “

(wail from Bobby)

“That’s because you’ve not stirred the paint properly. That’s why it’s runny… “

(wail from Tommy)

“Oh, you clot! Now you’ve done it. Grab a clean rag. “

Etc, etc, etc.
Nerve wracking.
Dismal failures and unexpected successes.
They all tended to start too enthusiastically. It was obvious that ninety five per cent had never seen a model kit. They would look at the picture on the box or the packet.

“Wow! Look at that! I’ll have THAT one! “

Sometimes they would open the box with a look that signaled the discovery of the crown jewels.
Somehow many expected that inside there lay a nearly complete model of what they saw painted on the lid. That a few minutes would put it all together, as spectacular and colorful as the artist’s drawing…

When realization set in that this was going to be a hard slog, requiring much finickety work, some quickly became disillusioned. I had a cupboard full of half finished models, which I kept to cannibalize for spares.
You had to watch the ones who were giving up, starting to just ham around and smash up what work they had achieved.
For in next to no time they would focus attention on their neighbor’s labors, and smash up his airplane with relish. That sort of trouble makers had to be dealt with quickly and firmly, and booted out of the modelling room if necessary, or Armageddon quickly threatened. Josey of course… was an early casualty.

At night I would lock the partially built models away, well aware that otherwise they would never survive the journey home. Once built, I usually had the lads driven home, for the same reason. The kids who failed to produce their own models were, of course, insanely jealous of those who did.
Time went by, and we made progress. I learned a lot about teaching the skills. Never take on a class of more than four to five. Even then you run about as if you’ve got ants in your pants. Take your eye off the ball for ONE SECOND, and disaster strikes, and somebody’s hard work of the previous thirty minutes is nullified.
Many an evening I spent afterwards quietly correcting the worst messes, so that our little junior had a clean base from which to start again the next week. Otherwise there was a risk they would give up. They never noticed, and it was gratifying to see somebody’s courage rekindled, when he was about to give up.

I had been cooking up a crazy idea for some time. (Yet another). Once there were plenty of models finished, and plenty more being built, I announced a competition.
For the best three models. To be judged by… a real pilot. First three prizes: a thirty minute flying trip in a REAL aeroplane, a Cessna 172, over their homes.
I had gone along to the ‘Iona Flying Club’ at Dublin airport, and procured the services of a friendly flying instructor.
He had smilingly agreed to turn up on the appointed night, wearing as much gold as he could lay his hands on, and look as ‘pilotish’ as possible. He would then judge the three winners, talk a bit about airplanes, and then inform the three winners where and when they would be flying.
None of the lads had EVER flown, and it is hard to describe the excitement the news brought about.
Those who had failed to build a model split into two camps. Those who now wanted to have another go. And those who were determined to wreck the models already built.
I was more than worried about the last group. After one or two red Indian style war raids on the modelling room, I took to locking the door when classes were in progress.
In the days before the competition, I started taking the completed models home with me. I dreaded the consequences for some of the lads if their hard work of many a week ended up in a maliciously smashed up wreck. Some of them had put in a fierce amount of effort. Probably for many the biggest single constructive effort of their entire lives so far…

The evening of the competition arrived. All the models were proudly displayed in the modelling room, along with the names of their builders. The pilot was due any minute. I was warned by one of the girls that a nasty mob was gathering in the hall. I went to investigate. Sure enough, a mob of those who had failed to produce a thing. Jealous. Ugly mood. Ten, twelve, fourteen year olds hell bent on destruction. Destruction of the display.
The leader was apparent to me. Demagogue. As I arrived at the top of the stairs, he was trying to jostle, push, bully them into launching another red Indian style war raid. Suddenly, with a yell, he launched himself up the stairs at me, at the head of his troops. They followed, with delighted whooping. I saw red.
Completely over reacted. Belted him one. Over the top. Sent him flying back down the stairs. End of red Indian raid.
Ashamed of myself. Spoiled the evening for me.
I didn’t even attend the prize giving. Stayed in the kitchen. Miserable. Why the hell did I take things so seriously? Why so fiercely protective about a bunch of crummy models? Wise up, Francis.
My girlfriend was there. Dympna. She seemed to understand. A real lady.
The prizes were awarded. And in due course the three delighted prize winners went flying over Dublin. Talk of the town. Good. I suppose.

I was getting depressed again. I guess I just got too involved. And being only just twenty or so, I guess I wasn’t mature enough to cope with powerful images and feelings. I was living Life, that was for sure. But what the hell did I think of it all? What was the purpose of it all? There were lots of laughs and fun. Sure. But some of the images I have retained, and was busy gathering then, of the downside of Dublin life, were haunting.
Colossal injustices. Daughters being married off by greedy parents to much older wealthy cruel men.
What do you say in reply to certain questions?
Tearful sweet little girl. Barely seventeen. Not stupid, not bright. Biggest asset is also her biggest liability:
big boobs and nice figure. Parents want her to marry middle aged shopkeeper.

“Francis, what should I do? ” Answer THAT one. Depressing.

Alcoholics. The Irish drink too much. Fundamentally, by nature, a warm and kind hearted people. Welcoming. Good old Celtic tradition. Much warmer than the Anglo Saxons.
Approach a complete stranger in Ireland. Try a typical Irish ” Hello there, lovely day! “
Chances are within fifteen minutes you’re chatting away ten to the dozen. Best of pals.
Approach a complete stranger in England. Try a typical Irish “Hello there, lovely day! “
Chances are within fifteen seconds you’re on your own. Having received a VERY funny look. After all, you haven’t been introduced...
I know. Believe me. I’ve been there.

Yes, the Celts are friendly. Don’t mean any harm. Loud, but innocent. But, boy, do they drink. Too much. And the sights I saw were depressing. Very sad. And it all seemed so pointless. And then there would be Moyra, poor little barely seventeen year old, now barely twenty. Pushing a pram with two kids in it, and heavily pregnant with a third… And rumors going around to the effect that the perverted old bastard beats her up every night. She suddenly looks forty. And all because the Pope has decreed…

The troubles went on. Trouble AT the youth club. Trouble ABOUT the youth club. I wanted to strangle one or two people. Moaners.
Patience, never my strongest point, occasionally failed completely, and my ferocious tongue could instill fury in my victims.
Call a dumb ass a donkey. And to hell if he doesn’t like carrots…
Yup. I could be a real diplomat.

More trouble. A message that a couple wanted to see me at the door. Oh, now what? Went down. A middle aged couple. Short. Dad and Mum of one of our lads. How do you do?
Thinks: “Now what am I supposed to have done wrong? “
I’m wary. They want me to come around to their corporation flat afterwards. What for? They won’t say.
What’s going on? I get the impression they’re secretly pleased about something. I don’t know.

Later, ten p.m.
Club locked up. I walk around to the address they have given me. Streets are nearly empty. Full of rubbish. I aim a vicious kick at an empty tin can. It flies satisfyingly through the air, and impacts off a wall with a loud clatter.
Scrawny cats. Dogs.
Some drunkard arguing with a woman in a doorway. Clutching his blessed bottle. Pathetic. Do you know how sordid and depressing you look, man? If only you could see yourself. Pathetic. Cop on to yourself.
I’ll NEVER end up like that.
I hope.

I arrive at the right tenement building. Up the stone stairs. As usual, the smell of urine. Somewhere, somebody is yelling. Somebody else yelling back. Dog barking. Baby crying. God, what a crummy place.

You’re a snob, Mister Meyrick… An arrogant overbearing snob. Bloody do-gooder. Come and do your little social work ‘thing’, and then disappear back off to your comfortable flat in Rathgar. Think you’re wonderful, huh? Bet you shine your halo every morning, huh?
Where did you get the God-given right to be so damn judgemental, eh? You may not like the place. But it’s still ‘home’ for a lot of people. Remember that.

Yeah, sure. Okay, I’m doing nothing. I’m wasting my time. I’m arrogant. I’ll give up the youth club, and forget about social work. Yeah. Go and make money, and work for a ‘career’ like everybody else. Sure…

I arrived at the door of the flat. Right number? Yes. Rang the bell. Plump little lady opens the door, smiling.
The smile of the executioner? Plump little husband is there as well. Smiling. Malicious smile?
Takes my coat? What’s this all about? Yes, I’d like a cup of tea, but please tell me what I’ve done wrong.

They show me through the hall. Place is really clean, tidy, pleasant. Very homely. What goes on?
They open a bedroom door. Invite me in.
I glimpse one of my lads sitting there, smiling sheepishly. Proudly, but a bit coy.

“WHAT THE…???… INCREDIBLE!!!! “

From the ceiling hangs suspended a vast squadron of World War 1 and World War 2 aircraft. Fighters and bombers. All whirling and screaming round each other. All beautifully and lovingly finished, and correctly painted. Not easy.
Superb…
I examine it all closely. Excellent workmanship. And the display… just as I had it at home when I was a kid his age. Well. What a surprise!

Everybody’s grinning. I get royally treated to tea and biscuits. Told by proud parents how much their boy has changed… for the better.
They just wanted to say…

” thank you… “

* * *

I walked cheerfully back to the youth club, going out of my way to kick every empty can in sight.
The drunkard was still arguing with the woman. I bid them both the heartiest of goodnights.
-Merry Kwissmasz to you too-, the drunkard slurred, thickly. But I couldn’t care less.

“I’ve made a modelmaker “, I thought to myself.

It sounded good.

“I’ve made a modelmaker “, I said out loud.

I thought it was hilariously funny.
For some reason I was deliriously pleased with myself.

“I’ve made a modelmaker “.

Another thought struck me.

“That makes me a maker of a modelmaker. I’m a modelmaker’s maker.
In fact, I’m a modelmaker-maker. “

And I sauntered along, with a swagger, for once absolutely delighted with my little self…

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 24, 2009, 3:33 pm

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The Gogglebox

February 29, 2008 in Auto-biographical (youth and childhood)

The next story, written a long while ago, whistles back over half a century in time.
Before you read it, sit back, close your eyes, and ask yourself some questions. Then answer them honestly.

1) how many hours a week do YOU watch the telly?

2) how many hours a week do you read books?

3) Is this a good thing, a bad thing, or an ‘in’ thing?

THE GOGGLEBOX

Holland – 1955?

Holland.
Flowers, windmills, fingers in dykes, and… me!
Nineteen fifty something. I was three? four? Five? Something like that.

I was heavily into Dinky Toys. Die-cast toy model cars. Which I confess I mostly thieved from my brother, while he was away at boarding school. (and then I crashed ’em, knocking chips off, an’ he’d freak out on his return, an’, an’, but I digress…)
Dinky Toys. The world revolved around Dinky Toys, and my Mother. Mine, you know, MY mother.
We hadn’t got a Telly. As far as I can remember, none of my friends had either.
Anyway. One day (written in infamy) this big brown box arrived. Huge thing. Five foot high. Two struggling workmen. My Dad was there. Big excitement! I knew straight away what was in it. I had this immediate mental picture. To this day, I can recall vividly the glorious vision that burned itself into my imagination.
Dinky Toys!
A whole big box full of Dinky Toys for little moi!
I remember the picture I had was of little cars and trucks packed in loose. Not in individual boxes, but just piled in -helter skelter- on top of each other. With a gap at the top.
Dinky Toys!
I was so utterly cocksure that it was all for me, that I tried to direct the workmen.
That’s okay, boys, just put it there. I’ll look after it from here…
I remember strutting around in some self importance, reveling in the fact that all this commotion and excitement was -naturally- all for my benefit.

In the event, the unwrapping was a shocking disappointment. Very slowly, there appeared this… box, sort of. A big, wooden box. Stained dark red, I remember.
With a sort of window in it. Mirror. Thing.
I walked all around it.
What in hell am I supposed to do with THAT?

There was only one vaguely interesting thing: at the back there was this transparent bowl gizmo sticking out six or eight inches, with some interesting looking gubbins inside it.
Could that be a space gun?
I rather liked a cartoon space hero named Dan Dare…

A little while later, when the workmen did something, the gubbins inside the bowl lit up with a dull orange glow.
Definitely a space gun. But why the hell is it at the back? Most interesting bit, and they stick it where nobody can see it!

From then on in, I regularly, for years, would creep around the back to study this dull, interesting, orange glow. Somebody once droned on about cathodes or something, valves, vacuum tubes, God knows. I wasn’t really listening. I found that glow much more appealing.

So the Telly came to our household. Little was I to know that I was to be stuck with that monster for years. Sometimes I really resented it, I know.
I was heavily into games. Mostly played with my Dad, who was my playmate. Ludo. Tiddlywinks. Snakes and ladders.
‘Snap’. (I hated ‘snap’; I always lost; I’d end up throwing the cards all over the place)
The new ‘thing’ was a bit above my level, and I couldn’t really relate to it. But my Dad could. And he did. I was not impressed.
Bloody thing. Interloper.
Soon however, I started watching it. I must have been very young though, because for a long, long time, my favorite programme was the Dot.
The Dot…?
Yeah, well, you know on those early sets, because they were all valves I think, (none of your transistor rubbish), (integrated circuits? – you must be joking!)a funny thing happened when you switched off.
First the picture would go. Phut!
Hurrah!
Then, after a few seconds, everything would head towards the middle of the screen, until you got this little white Dot. The effect was that this little white dot was chasing away from you at some horrendous speed, and that fascinated me. I think I tried to catch it a few times, which didn’t go down well with the parents.
Keep your sticky fingers off the screen, dear!

So I don’t think I was massively attracted to the programs at first. Still, I always had the dull orange glow to fascinate me if I took the trouble to walk round the back.
In this manner I was introduced to Television.
To be fair, my Dad still played with me a lot, but I always maintained a certain resentment for the blasted thing.

I grew older. Finished primary school in Holland. Went to secondary school. The ‘Gymnasium Augustinianum’. Latin, Greek, all that stuff. Didn’t like it. Lost my religious innocence. Flirted with atheism, agnosticism, communism, and cynicism. It was while a disciple of the latter outlook on Life, that a certain vicar appeared on our screens. A Reverend, associated by everybody immediately with Northern Ireland and all that.

We were watching the ol’ gogglebox. You know, all hypnotised, letting it all wash over us, (99 per cent brain dead), utterly convinced that we were all taking it in, and that this ‘goggling’ was a most worthwhile pursuit. Funny business, really. I suspect we go into suspended animation, y’ know. ‘Permafreeze’ sort of thing. All these ‘living dead’ hunched around this box of tricks. For hours. Although most folk wouldn’t know what I was on about. Eh?
Well, ask yourself these questions. One:
Have you ever been three quarters of the way through a film, and some other body slumped nearby awakes sufficiently from its stupor (one brain cell slowly clicks into gear) and makes a shattering announcement:
“I think I’ve seen this before… “
(feeble ripple of interest around the room)
silence.
“Yes, I have seen this. This is where he kisses her… “
silence.
Passion oozes like used treacle across the T.V.screen.
“Yes! And now she belts him one… “
Smack!
Your companion is now quite chuffed with himself. After sitting through this riveting drama for an hour, he has finally remembered he’s seen it before.

I think it’s bloody tragic, but then I’m a renegade…
(You put the first page of a book under my nose I’ve read before, and I’ll tell you all about it after three lines)
Two:
Be honest. Do you ever wake up realizing that the adverts are on, and that you’re half way through being psychologically indoctrinated, (i.e. hoodwinked), that ‘Heineken refreshes parts other beers cannot reach?’
Or that ‘Daz really washes whiter because Daz washes biologically’?
Gawd!
I’ve caught myself at it. Like some half witted zombie, I’ve woken up and realized I’ve been watching the commercial tripe, with the same mooning, wide open cow’s eyes that I’ve being watching some cowboy film with.
Gawd!
Suspended animation…
But I exaggerate of course. Of course. It’s not really that bad…!
I think.
The gogglebox does occasionally have its up side. News. Documentaries. Audience participation.
Audience participation?
Oh, yes!
I was telling you about the Northern Irish Reverend. Ian Paisley, of course. There we were, goggling away, and the News came on. The Reverend Ian Paisley, full face, close up, the powerful mouth speaking as if he would not just beat his opponents with the force of his arguments, but flail ’em, roast them, mince them up.
Put ’em on the rack!
Powerful roar: “If the Pope comes to Northern Ireland… “
I gather he did not exactly approve.
EXPLOSION (Bang! there’s goes the ceiling!) from the other corner of the room. Interesting. My Dad’s just gone and blown a fuse!
Tirade at the T.V. screen. One adult yelling at another adult yelling on the Telly. The little boy in me kept stumm and enjoyed the show. I loved audience participation. Who are the real little boys?

“He’s not even a REAL Reverend! He wrote to some correspondence course in America and they sent him a dog collar through the Post! That man… “

He was away. No, he did not like Paisley. The little boy lapped it all up.
Why does my Dad hate Mr.Paisley so much?
Later in Life I was to meet people who really admired Paisley. Businessmen in his constituency who reckoned he was the best thing since sliced bread. But that’s another story. My Dad would not have agreed. Poor ol’ Paisley’s features had only to appear on the box, and, you know, I’d have paid for a ticket just to sit there and snigger in a corner. The heat of it!

Audience Participation in Television is interesting. At boarding school we had a T.V. room, and every Saturday Night we watched the ‘Late, Late Show’. This show has become a Western Culture thing. God knows why. I don’t think anybody was more surprised than the presenter, Gay Byrne. Happy memories for me, of a room packed to capacity of raucous sixth formers, late at night, cheering, clapping, hooting, gesticulating (no teachers present) in spontaneous emotion at a Telly screen.
Looked forward to it every week. Odd. Mass hysteria.
Good, though. I’ll score the old Gogglebox on that.

In common with a few other folk, I watched Neil Armstrong plonk his size tens on the Moon. A-may-zing…
Just before I peg it, and move on to happier spheres, I hope somebody asks me what were the greatest moments in my life. I can then pretend to look awfully wise, and pontificate noisily, and lie through my teeth.
How can you say: my first bonk? Wouldn’t do, would it?
(A-hem).
I think… I would certainly mention watching Neil Armstrong.
You got a bunch of guys here about to turn blue…

Too true, chum! I nearly died. Spectacular.

Most people would agree that there are two sides to Telly: the Good and the Bad. No surprise.
The Bad?
1) Sends people brain dead. Superficial attention only.
Zombie state. Trance. Square-eyes. Ga-ga.
2) Reduces family Life. Letting the kids watch the box to shut them up. Destroys games.
3) Knackers conversation.
Have you ever walked into somebody’s house by appointment, and they leave the ruddy telly on? How insulting can you get?
“How nice to see you, Francis! How ARE you? “
Thank you, very well, I…
(his/her face turns back to screen)
(Francis’ voice peters out…)
“Nice day, isn’t it? “
Yes, I…
(his/her face staring at screen)
“Would you like a coffee? “
Yes, I…
(his/her face staring at screen)
“Help yourself, kettle’s over there, coffee’s on the shelf! “
(his/her face… etc.)

You end up kind of desperate. What do you do to get attention? Let your pants down?

4) Definitely reduces people’s ‘shockability’.

Murder, viciousness, Terry Wogan, torture, sadism…
…and there we are, munching our crisps, slurping our coffee, belching contentedly, whilst some atrocity takes place in stereo and colour! (pass the biscuits, dearest!)
The copycat crimes are the menace. After “Clockwork Orange ” (I didn’t see it), there were apparently legions of sickos who went and did the same sort of thing.
I read an article about the results of the work of a ‘panel of experts’ who decided that the link between TV and increased violence was not definitely proven.
What proof do you need, beloved experts? Some freak with a chainsaw shouting:
‘Chainsaw Massacre rules okay!’
…whilst removing your favorite limbs?

(Not a leg to stand on…?)

The Good?
1) The News.
Look at the impact T.V. has had with events in the D.D.R., Romania, Poland, Yuogoslavia…
My guess is that the presence of Western camera men went a long way to deter brute military suppression/clampdown on supporters of democracy.
Would China have gotten away as easily with its rape of Tibet, and the destruction of an ancient culture – of inestimable value to the world – if there had been more Television back in those days? If public opinion had been more… powerful? Maybe not. I suspect we have little idea of the true degree of barbarism and primitive savagery unleashed on the poor Muslims in eastern Bosnia.
Things (world reaction) might just have been different if the Serb extremists had allowed in T.V. crews and journalists. But of course they didn’t. Not stupid, those boys. The scenes from the T.V. station in Rumania during the revolution that toppled Ceaucescu, had me riveted to the Box. Remember the army guy pushing his way forwards through the crowd?
Please Sir, can I say something?
Yes?
Well, I’m an Army officer, and I don’t think us soldiers should shoot our own people…
Really?

We might be tempted to be sarcastic. Ah, but we live in the West! How many Rumanian soldiers were watching the Box in amazement, and were grateful to take a cue from this hero? An excuse to sit still, and see what way the cat jumped? I could be wrong, but I suspect that those of us who witnessed one Army officer pushing his way forwards, one finger raised, just like school (Please, Sir, can I say something?), may have witnessed ‘true life’ High Drama, there in front of us, right on our T.V. screens, staring us in the face.
A novelist would have been proud to dream up a plot like that…
2) Documentaries
David Attenborough’s nature programmes fascinate me.
Can’t beat T.V. for that.
A picture is often worth a thousand words…
I can’t deny that. At the same time…
How can I put it?

A thousand pictures often boggle the mind?

Yes! That’s it! Terrible un-poetic, but sums it up.

3) Films of books

To read a book, and build up a picture, and then see a good film made about the book, is fascinating.
One finds oneself comparing one’s own views with those of the director of the movie. Sometimes, you disagree.
More often, you agree, and the director by showing you HIS vision has enriched and complemented your own.
An example is Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles.
I didn’t like all the book, in the same way I didn’t like all the film. Put the two together, remember vividly your favorite bits, and you’re left with a real treat.
Well, I think so, anyway…

Overall though, where Television is concerned, I suspect I’m biased as hell. For three reasons.

A) Pure jealousy.
I’m a reactionary. It’s not difficult to see why. As a struggling writer, I have to compete against the omni-present all-powerful Box.
Me: Have you read my book yet?
Them: Oh, no, sorry, I’ve been REALLY busy this last two weeks. But I’ll definitely get down to it next weekend.
Me: (thinks) (…and how many hours have you spent watching the Box this last fortnight? An average of four hours a day? Times fourteen = 56 hours? More? How long does it take to read my soddin’ book? Twelve hours? Fifteen?
Eh? And you haven’t even STARTED it yet!)
Me: (says) “Oh,well, be interesting to hear how you get on with it… ” (smiles with a little deprecating wave of the hand, which implies that it doesn’t really matter a damn)
Me: (fantasizes) (If you don’t read my book, what took me three months work, I’m personally going to wrap your sodding Box round your scrawny neck)
(KILL! KILL! KILL!)

B) I also have strong memories of two years spent in a single flat at Rathgar Avenue, Dublin. Two years of lots of diary writing, scribbling, reading, listening to music, and ‘thunking’. I was in my early twenties, I didn’t have a Telly, I don’t ever recall missing it, and in a funny way I was very much my own companion. No Box. Good times, in many ways.

C) And going back to my time in Holland…
I never did forgive that bloody box from taking up all the room where much more important things SHOULD have been…

You know what I mean.

My Dinky toys…

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 19, 2016, 7:53 am

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The Ducks of Finchingfield

February 29, 2008 in Short Story (symbolism)


Photo: cmiper

In the ‘Ducks of Finchingfield’, if the symbolism annoys or confuses you, the thing to remember is very simple:

it’s NOT a story about ducks. It is more a story about false appearances, and the latent hypocrisy of the super rich and predatory Freemasons who inhabit said village.

Several people have asked me if the car incident really happened: yes, just as described.

Others want to know: do mallards really behave that way?

Yes, they do.

THE DUCKS OF FINCHINGFIELD

There lies in Essex, England, an idyllic village. It is old and traditional. With a duck pond. Timber framed houses. Oldie world architecture. Thatched cottages.
Very nice…

At the heart of this village you will find a pleasant village green. Beside the duck pond.
Often the tourists come. Sometimes, in bus loads. On a warm, sunny weekend, you may find the place packed solid with a teeming mass of humanity. You may even, oh great horrors!, have difficulty in parking your car.

Why do they come?
To get away from their shapeless mass produced residential boxes? Just that? To ogle at a style of architecture that is beyond the skills of today’s space age apostles of design? All crooked and lop sided?

Maybe it is more. Maybe they come to catch a glimpse of something they feel is gone or going forever. A happier time. When little villages and village life dotted the landscape, with their close ties and communal caring.
The tranquil, pastoral life, the passing of which moved Thomas Hardy so much. Come back the days of ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles’, when high rise tower blocks were unheard of, not even hinted at.
An idyllic time…
Oh, Lost Innocence, if but we could recapture the Golden Age of village life! When people cared for one another. When there wasn’t so much pressure, and materialism, and greed and ENVY. Those were happier, better times…
(shut up, Charles Dickens!)

Yes, maybe that is why all those day trippers come to watch the Finchingfield ducks. They seek a glimpse of an almost forgotten era, when village folk loved village folk, and all lived happily together.
Maybe they believe that one has a better chance of being happy living in a place like Finchingfield. Such a tranquil atmosphere! Oh, but to be able to afford a cottage in Finchingfield…

The ducks. The society of ducks. Who are fed so enthusiastically by children of all ages. Who paddle about so peacefully. Surrounded by plenty. Theirs is the ideal, caring society, is it not? A society at peace. With but the odd disturbance. Perhaps the mallards getting a bit carried away in the mating season.
Five suitors pursuing a single lady perhaps a shade too rapaciously. Jumping on her, pecking viciously at her, having their wicked way regardless of the lady’s unhappy squawking…
Regardless of her feelings…
Pretty rough, those unsuccessful suitors.
But that, surely, is about the only minor blemish on the character of the ducks of Finchingfield, is it not? Apart from that, all live happily together, Mummy ducks, successful Daddies, and frustrated suitors. All happy. No ENVY in duck society, is there? No green-eyed monster? No trying to keep up with the Jones ducks on the other side of the pond, is there?
A happy society. Surrounded by bountiful nature that provides these funny tall featherless ducks that never stop making funny noises (yak-yak-yak) and throwing goodies into the water.
But, as long as they throw the goodies. The ducks don’t care. They’re happy. A society without pressures.

Perhaps some of the tourists draw parallels between the tranquillity of duck society and that of Finchingfield village life. How could the village NOT be affected by the sweet living example of the Finchingfield ducks?
Such peace. Such tolerance. Nice.

Nearby is the tea house called ‘Jemimah’.
Nice. Good old Jemimah Puddle Duck. So appropriate. That lovely good natured (if slightly innocent) cartoon character, so beloved by children.
How appropriate. Sums up Finchingfield village life. Traditional. A haven of peace and quiet refuge. An image from the past.
Inspiring.

Folk cannot fail to be caught up in the Finchingfield Effect. People are kinder there. More patient and tolerant of fellow man. All are affected. In a positive way. Even the traffic passing through. Cars slow down, when they come to the narrow stone bridge that crosses the duck pond. There are two reasons. There is only room for one car across the old bridge. And the ducks. Who frequently cross the road. Touching.

Mummy Duck. Proud of her brood. Followed by six or eight fluffy balls in a row. New recruits. Stepping out. Trying to march after Mummy. Sweet.

The traffic stops. Always. The Finchingfield Effect.
Let the ducks pass. And no matter how long the delay, the drivers all sit there, patient.
Gotta let the ducks pass…

Amazing how the Effect works. Perhaps it is true that the village affects folk in a good way. Everybody always stops for the ducks…

Well. Nearly everybody. Except the driver of the bright red Ford XR 3 that is.
Who accelerated. Deliberately. Crossed the white line. Deliberately.
Mowed down five of the six little fluffy soldiers strung out in the usual line behind Mummy. Roared off.
Bull’s eye!

Behind him, a frantic Mummy who has made the safety of the opposite kerb, distraught, all aflutter.
One little fluffy soldier, who has just witnessed carnage, running round and round in a little twelve inch diameter circle, rendered temporarily mindless with fright…
One furious lady driver, a two legged featherless Mummy, who was following our great and noble human being in the bright red Ford XR 3.
She has jumped out, tears pouring down her face, and shouts at the retreating Homo Sapiens:

“You BASTARD! “

But he can’t hear. If he did, he wouldn’t care less anyway.

She picks up the sole surviving soldier, who is still running around in his twelve inch diameter circle, and restores the only child to Mummy Duck.

Exceptional behavior, you say? People are not normally THAT callous, you say?
You’re probably right. Village life isn’t like that. The driver was obviously just a stranger passing through… There is far less ENVY and bickering and jealousy and greed in a nice village like Finchingfield.
Their society is more like the ducks. At peace. Only minor incidents. Generous.

Yes, the day tripper leaving after a hard day spent philosophizing about Man, and the meaning of Life, can cast a last lingering look at the ducks of Finchingfield.
If only all men could live at peace with one another, without the destructive viciousness of the politics of ENVY, and follow the example of the ducks at Finchingfield.

* * *

Evening has come. Most of the buses and tourist cars have pulled away. The teahouse is about to close.
The village is at peace.
Tranquility rules in the duck pond.

The mallards swim along, silently…

And the dark frustrated thoughts of the unsuccessful suitors…
who will pass by a solitary youngster, struggling to make progress with his early paddling lessons, on his own, venturing, perhaps for the first time, a smidgeon further away from Mummy…
an almost helpless bundle of fluff, in the first stages of the discovery of Life…
in an instant seized by the neck from behind…
so sudden, so deftly, that barely a squeak escapes the tiny beak before…
the youngster is held under water, for just a few seconds…

until he drowns.

Mummy, frantic, speeds across too late… arrives just in time to witness the upturned body of her offspring floating away downstream, lifeless…

And the cruel mallard, still brooding on jealous thoughts, glides away, darkly, silently.

Quiet satisfaction…

He arrives at the other side of the pond, where new human arrivals, who have not witnessed the cold blooded murder, exclaim in delight, and throw bread enthusiastically.

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 30, 2009, 8:46 pm

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The Knocking

February 29, 2008 in Auto-biographical (spiritual quest)

(The next story is based on a remarkable dream I had.
It is truthfully described, and has many elements of that peculiar symbolism, that dreams tend to be so full of.

I enjoy symbolism as a literary concept, and of course the parables in the Bible are examples of some of the most successful symbolism.

Interestingly, a lot of people cannot relate to this style of writing/thinking at all.
The reactions tend to be polarized.
Some people really liked this story; others were utterly confused, and ‘lost’.)

THE KNOCKING

They were living their lives in a fine old castle. It was huge. With turrets, winding stone staircases, and large old oak lined rooms.
Big. Old. Dusty. Creaking at the seams.
Full of modern things as well. Color T.V., video recorders, satellite dishes, microwaves.
All the glitter and pizzaz of the twentieth century.
But it was still basically the same Life as their forefathers had lived in the very same old castle. Although they didn’t always fully appreciate this fact.

What history had those rooms seen? What souls, long since departed, had strutted and fretted their hour upon the stage here?

He wandered around with his friends.
Staring, wondering.
They were young, in their early twenties. Idealistic. Hopeful. Naive. Friends.

The knocking confused them. It was a regular occurrence, and puzzled them all. Always it seemed to come from upstairs. But no matter how fast they tried to locate the source of the sound, it was always gone before they could.

Who was knocking? Why?

The girls were a bit scared. The lads however professed to be just curious. He especially was fascinated. He would talk about the knocking incessantly, even if it had ceased for some time. The others would listen to him, but at times there was an impatience. They wanted to get on with more important things, such as courting, being beautiful, making money, or playing sophisticated games.
The odd knocking from above did not hold the same fascination for them as it did for him; but he was not quite aware of that fact.
Did this at times isolate him a little from the group? Perhaps. Vaguely, he was aware at times that he was causing annoyance. Then he would try and shut up. But then, when next time the knocking was heard, he would sit bolt upright, and call out excitedly to the others:
“There it is again! Come quick, let’s find it! “
And they, like it or not, would be swept along by him, and they would all run out of the large old banqueting hall, down the long corridor, up the stone stairs, stopping to listen, then running faster, then stopping again, with him at the front, excited, his eyes wide.
But always, the knocking would fade. And they would lose their way amongst the many rooms. They would try and follow the sound, but it would eventually disappear.
He would be disappointed. And the gruff comments from some of his friends would sometimes make him feel guilty. Had he brought them on a wild goose chase again?
But it seemed so desperately important to him. A matter of Life and Death. Their other pursuits to him paled in comparison. He wanted to know who was knocking. And he found it hard to understand that the others perhaps did not share his enthusiasm.
One of the girls voiced it one day: “Let’s give up. This is horrible. I don’t want to think about it any more.It gives me the creeps. ” And she had shuddered.
Some of the others had agreed. But he had demurred. Spoken out.

“Come on! You don’t want to live your whole lives in this place without inquiring into what’s going on,surely? Just ignore what you don’t understand? Because maybe it frightens you? It’s fascinating!
I want to know if there’s somebody there! And if there is, what sort of person he is. And why he’s knocking. And why he’s hiding from us. I think it’s brilliant. And I’ve got a feeling it’s ever so important… “

Did they agree? Certainly, they were loath to disagree. Publicly. Out loud. But… at times it was as if they preferred the easier option. To simply ‘not think about it’. To him, that was a source of puzzlement.

And there came the day they were all walking along together in a strange part of the castle, which was only infrequently visited. Their minds were on other things, and when the knocking came, everybody was taken aback. He had been the first to recover. The noise had come from above and behind. He whirled around, and there stood a huge old oak door, with a big old fashioned bolt drawn across. He had leaped forward, and almost hurled himself at the big old fashioned door. Ignoring warning shouts from the others, his fingers had slipped and fumbled as he heaved at the bolt with all his might. In his mind’s eye, behind the door, he saw a stone flight of stairs, winding their way up to the attic, from where the knocking had come. Suddenly, the bolt yielded, and with an age old creaking, the door swung open just a fraction, revealing the first few dusty spiraling stone steps. His heart beat with excitement, and then…

He froze to the spot.

Rooted, unable to move a muscle.

Vaguely, as if at the back of his mind, he was aware of screams behind him, and the sound of running footsteps.

Running… running… away.
His friends… were running away in terror…

But he… was powerless, rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle. His eyes were helplessly glued on the open door. The weight on his entire being was massive. Beyond verbal description was the feeling of IMMINENCE. Thoughts raced feverishly through his startled mind. Was he to be made to pay for his rash behavior, and his lack of respectful humility? Had he offended? Had he…
He knew a ‘Being’ was approaching. Slowly, purposefully, towards the partly open door. Still out of his field of view, but coming on, steadily…
Terror clutched at his mind. Tried to invade him. Take over his whole body. He knew he was on the point of the most complete and utter terror he had ever experienced in his whole Life…

Slowly, he sank to his knees, and the posture and his heart spelled out a wordless prayer. Still the feeling of IMMINENCE lasted, whilst he found his entire reliance on self draining away. Draining away… and then he was aware that he was placing his complete trust in some great Being outside himself. A complete and whole hearted trusting that he was not alone, and that he had but to reach out and cry for help. And it would be given…

Then, the IMMINENCE was no more, and slowly, he rose to his feet. He looked around, and realized his friends were creeping back slowly, fearfully. He went to meet them, feeling a quiet calm that he knew showed very clearly, but was incomprehensible to them. They were overjoyed to see him, a circumstance that impressed upon him how deep an impact the strange and mysterious force had made on all of them.

* * *

He woke up slowly…
A gradual surfacing, in the peace of his bed, the morning light shining through the curtains.
A new day…
He felt quietly satisfied, as if he had done a good day’s work, and achieved a great goal.
As he propped himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowed in thought, and he tried to marshal his thoughts.

What an extraordinary dream…
And what an extraordinary peace he felt. It could have been a nightmare. It could have been a frenzied awakening, kicking and thrashing, perspiring, fighting with the bedclothes…
He had experienced plenty of those.
But no, this had been peaceful, quietly satisfied. A great thing achieved.

What great thing?

He puzzled.

Two things were clear: he had felt an immediate and great consolation the moment he had placed his complete and utter trust in a Being outside of himself, about whom (or which) he knew nothing.

And also, this ‘Being’ that had saved his mind from terror, and maybe more, was NOT the same ‘Presence’ or ‘Imminence’ that had been approaching that door from the other side…

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2009, 9:12 pm

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Free Ice cream!

February 29, 2008 in Auto-biographical (youth and childhood)

(this is another -true!- golden oldie, I wrote many years ago, about a summer job I had, driving an ice cream truck around Dublin…)

FREE ICE CREAM!

It went wrong of course, right from day one.
Well, quicker than that even. I was only there twenty minutes or so, before I committed a classic clanger.
Which was walking into the transport manager’s office, where the other drivers were sitting, and asking, innocently:
“Where’s the engine oil kept? “

He had asked: “Oil? Does it need it? “
And I of course (Muggins) had replied, perfectly innocently:

“Rather. It’s nearly off the dipstick! “

I can still remember the ripple that traveled around the room. The slight frisson, the distinct lowering of the temperature. If I had thought, before I opened my mouth, I might have realized that the oil being nearly off the dipstick on an expensive heavy truck engine, was no joking matter. That the previous driver, sitting in that same office, was now seriously embarrassed in front of his mates and his boss. That he didn’t like me very much. Then again, he was already hacked off with me, ‘cos I’d been in looking for a dustpan and brush, to clean up the cab before I drove it…
(it was a pigsty).
Not a good start. No way was I going to be voted ‘driver of the month’ by my new work mates…

* * *

It had all started by me wanting to earn some money during the summer vacation. I was a student, twenty one years old, naive and idealistic. Not living in the real world, you know the type.
I had achieved my Heavy Goods Vehicle driving License at some expense, at the O’Connell Bridge school of Motoring in Dublin. Driving an articulated lorry. A Japanese thing called a ‘Hino’. Quite good fun. It had its moments.
Thus one day I had been confidently thundering down a busy road in a built up area, with cars parked bumper to bumper on both sides. I remember I thought at the time I was doing all right. Not bad at all. Brilliant even.
I remember I was quite enjoying it. Then he (my friendly instructor) did something funny.
He sort of… crouched in his seat.
Hands went together. Then he leaned forward, staring hard in the nearside mirror. Sort of a fixed stare.
I guess we were doing about forty miles an hour or so.
Then, after a few seconds, he sank back. Exhaled. Breathed out. Peculiarly. Sort of a sigh.

“What’s up, doc? “, I asked in my usual cheerful, careless way. I can still remember his sad little look. (He was a nice man). The sad little look that said:
“My nerves. Please. “

He actually said:
“Two inches “.
Very quietly.
“From that blue Rolls Royce, sticking out. ”
“Oh? “, I said, naively.
It took some time for me to realize that at forty miles an hour, I would have ripped the side out of the car if I’d hit it, and that there was nothing he could have done about it. What a job he had, teaching gorms like me to drive a 32 ton truck.

Reversing an artic is the fun bit. Dynamite. We started practicing on this football pitch size car park. There were hardly any cars there, which was just as well. I kept nearly crunching his plastic cones. He was very nice. Just kept putting them further apart. Eventually it clicked, and suddenly I could reverse in anywhere, any time.
I passed my test (another story), and went off in search of a job. My first ever real job. I looked in the paper, and went to employment agents.
After a week of trudging in and out of every employment agent in Dublin, I was getting well demoralized. Certain friends had been telling me I was wasting my money taking HGV driving lessons, and although I was determined to prove them wrong, it was beginning to look as if they might be right.
Then one day, I had been into stacks of agents, and to two interviews, where I had been turned down. Not enough experience. Morale real low. Megga low. It was going towards five p.m., and I decided one more agent.
In I went, really posh place, plush carpets, plush ladies, all dolled up to the eyeballs. I could have guessed.
I received a horrified look. Wondered if maybe my fly was undone.
A job as a truck driver?!!!?

She was aghast. Horrified.
They didn’t cater for those trades. They specialized in high tec, skilled, ooh-la-la umpkins qualified, professional, career vacancies.
They never got enquiries for truck drivers.
Oh, sorry.
It was obviously a dirty word. I might as well have asked for a job as an assistant in a flea circus. Or brothel porter. I was out on the street in record time. In case I got the carpets dirty, I suppose. Something like under a minute. She did take my name and phone number, probably only to get rid of me, and that was it.
Oh well. Off to jolly old home we go.
I was getting depressed. All that money to get my HGV, and now that I had it, no b… wanted to know.
I had barely walked in the door, when the phone rang.
It was old posh ooh-la-la umpkins Madame on the blower.
Her of the plush carpets and the face under sixteen inches of rouge, lipstick and assorted condiments.

Guess what?
You’re right…
“Well, we normally NEVER EVER get enquiries for truck drivers… “
(of course not, madam, your place is far too upmarket. I know that)
“…but we’ve literally just had this phone call. A company wanting a driver to start straight away… “
(how stupid can some people get? Fancy phoning her exalted cuisine looking for a lorry driver… like striding into the Hilton Hotel and ordering ‘bangers and mash’).
Here’s the number to phone…
It appeared that whatever the establishment’s reluctance to sully itself with the likes of working class professions, it was not amiss to sullying itself with working class loot when the opportunity arose.
So I got my first job.
Funny really, I phoned up, and this guy said: “Got a license? ” ( “yes! ” – proudly). “Can you start tomorrow? “
( “Yes? “). That was the end of the interview.

So….
There I was, first day at work.
Minor faux pas first: cleaning out filthy cab.
Megga faux pas shortly afterwards:
“Where’s the oil kept? “

I loaded up with boxes and boxes of ice creams, and received directions to deliver wholesale to shops and supermarkets on a list. I would be driving a Bedford, with three separate refrigerated compartments.
Ice creams? Yummy…
We tanked diesel at a garage just outside the gates of the industrial estate, where the company I shall call ‘Shady Glen Ice Cream’ had an account.

Oh, the innocence of youth!

I was glad to trundle out of the gates, and be on my way at last. I wonder how many relieved looks followed me out.
So next thing I arrived at the garage.
“Fill ‘er up, please! “
Makes you feel great, spending other people’s money. Sounds much better than: “Ten bob’s worth, please, mister! ”
He topped up some enormous amount ( “Phew! Glad I’m not footing that bill “), and picked up a pad.
Addressing me carelessly, he asked:
“What will I make it out for? “
“Pardon? “
“How much will I put on the bill? “
“Sorry, I don’t understand. “
He pursed his lips.
“How – much – will – I – put – on – the – bill?!? “
I still didn’t understand.
“Why.. whatever’s on the pump “, I said, pointing rather weakly at the metered display on the installation.
(you know, just in case he hadn’t figgered out yet that the meter tells you how much money the diesel has cost).
He lowered the pad slowly, and looked at me pityingly.
“You’re new here, aren’t you? “
“Uh-huh, first day. “
“Well, the boys have an… uh, arrangement with us. “

(an arrangement??)

Slowly, very slowly, the penny started to drop. With one of those dull, clanking, hollow sounds.
“Oh “, I said.
He tried to be helpful.
“Will I make it out the usual? “

(the usual?)

Resolution was setting in. You know, better late than never.
“Just what’s on the pump “, I said, distinctly cooler now.
He looked at me shrewdly.
“The boys are going to love you… “
I was on the point of telling him I couldn’t give a … what the boys thought, but then I remembered that I was already in trouble. Wisely I kept my mouth shut.
From then on in, every time I filled up at that garage, the atmosphere was, well… sub-zero.
And he was, of course, quite right, the boys loved me

The fiddle didn’t come out immediately, of course. I debated telling the transport manager. I didn’t. I think I should have. But. First day there… I felt… embarrassed. However, as the weeks went by, it registered in the transport manager’s brain, that one and the same truck was suddenly running considerably cheaper.
He started asking questions. Pointedly. To me. Did I have a super light foot? I shrugged my shoulders. My face told him probably all he wanted to know.
Certain guys got into a lot of trouble, although none were fired. I was not – in ice cream parlance – flavor of the month.
I learned one thing. It was truly astonishing how often you would be asked the same question: “How much will I put on the bill? ” I found it insulting. The implied question is: “How much are you going to fiddle? “
The assumption is: “You fiddle “.
Widespread. Even driving a car, I have filled up and been asked: “Company car? ”
“Yes? “
“How much will I put on the bill? “
Or else: “What will I make it out for? “
If you buy groceries as well as petrol: “Will I put it all down as petrol? “
This from people who don’t even know you…

I compared notes on my first day at work with a friend of mine. He was an ex monk, who was now reading ‘religious studies’ somewhere. Nice chap. Absolutely hopelessly confused about the ways of the world.

He was a petrol pump attendant.
He told me how nervous he had been on HIS first day.
The manager had shown him how to operate the pumps, the till, and where the price lists were. Then he had left the small filling station to the cares of my nervous friend. He had waited with trembling knees and fluttering heart for his first customer.
Eventually… in she came. Old dear. In a Morris Minor.
As ancient a car as its fragile old owner.
Petrified he had walked out.
“Good morning, madam? Would you like some petrol? “
The old dear had smiled, lovingly.
(imagine the toughened old taxi driver, or the laconic tradesman: “No mate, don’t want no petrol. Pound of mince and three radishes! What do you think I’ve driven in here for, you big pudding! “)
Luckily, his first customer was just a dear, sweet old lady. Who smiled, and asked him to fill ‘er up.

My friend took out the fuel nozzle, turned the handle…
Whirrr…. clunk….
opened the bonnet,
removed the filler cap…
…and filled her up!
Good boy. Real pro.

After about twenty seconds, the tank overflowed.
My friend withdrew his head from under the bonnet.
The lovely old dear was still smiling broadly at him.
He smiled back, nervously, and stated the obvious:
“It’s full up now, Madam, but it doesn’t seem to have taken much? “
About twenty seven pence worth, to be precise.
(this was about twenty years ago)
She smiled serenely on.
“That’s funny “, she said.
“The gauge says nearly empty. “
She thought for a second.
“Mind you, the other man usually puts it in the back…? “
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.
My friend ambled around and discovered another petrol cap. How odd. Two petrol tanks!
Ping!?!?
It was left to another customer, to point out gently that he had in fact neatly topped up the radiator with petrol.
Yes. Well.
We compared notes, my friend and I, and we agreed his first day’s performance was even worse than mine.

My job soon proved to have its up and down sides.
And insights.
For instance, we were encouraged to canvas shops to get them to stock our product. One of the things we were allowed to promise was a free freezer. That led to all sorts of things. Sometimes, unscrupulous shopkeepers would agree to stock our product, get a free freezer, and promptly stock it with the barest minimum of ice cream, and fill the rest with vegetables, fish, et cetera.
Not really part of the game. Occasionally a fridge had to be re-possessed. What fun.
Placing fridges was an art form. We were paid a good wage, plus commission. So you tried hard.
One of the standing jokes was a dear little old lady, who ran a tiny corner shop in a rather poor area of North West Dublin. The joke was that she had three fridges in her shop, from three different frozen food companies, all of which she honourably stocked exclusively with the appropriate brand. One of them was ours, and it was on my round.
Poor thing! It was only a tiny shop, you could hardly get in for the blessed fridges, and there she was, honestly and faithfully adhering to the rules that everybody else partly or mostly ignored. She didn’t sell enough to warrant filling three frozen food fridges, so she usually carried three fridges which were each two-thirds empty.
“Hey, Maggie, why don’t you kick back a fridge and make some more room? You can stick your Findus stuff in our fridge. I don’t mind. “
“Oh, no, Frank. I’m not allowed. “
Poor dear! They joked about her back at base.
It rankled with me. I liked Maggie. Nice lady. Always made me feel welcome.

Unlike the staff at a very large super market, which I shall call ‘Grumbelows’.
Now, there was a dreaded visit.
This particular supermarket was part of a chain. They were always in the paper. They paid the lowest wages in Dublin, and constantly hired and fired. There was a lot of bad feeling from the unions towards them.
Enter Frank.
I didn’t mind. I was a tolerant sort of guy. Took a lot to rub me up the wrong way. It didn’t take them long.
Their security men were also in charge of checking in deliveries. This task they performed with zero good humour, and an astonishing inclination towards abuse, pettiness, and sheer bloodymindedness.
Two of the guards especially would have been eminently at home goose stepping around ‘Stalag Luft’. I’m convinced they were Ireland’s answer to the Gestapo.
They wore green uniforms, peaked caps, lots of gold braid, and permanent scowls.
The thin one was nicknamed ‘Hitler’ by the delivery drivers, and the fat one was ‘Goering’.

If you tried to crack a joke, this was regarded as a personal insult. You would end up straight back at the end of the queue. There would always be a dozen odd lorries there at the same time, and the system was farcical. They would want you there at eleven o’clock.
If you were NOT there, all hell broke loose when you did finally make it. If you WERE there on the dot of the appointed hour, only one thing was certain: you would not be unloaded until several hours later.
I arrived there one day, to be met by furious drivers. They were all refusing to deliver, because some of them had been abused by the guards! It must have been quite a ‘how do you do’, because one of the guys actually had tears in his eyes. The security men were simply used to going way over the top. Power corrupts, and all that.

The standard way they checked me in was by counting the boxes. Each cardboard box contained a fixed amount of ice lollies, or choc ices, or whatever. For instance, there were 26 choc ices to a box.
I would have to deliver maybe 40 or 50 boxes, which I would stack on a trolley. Push the trolley up to Herr Hitler, who would count them three times, aggressively, just to make sure I knew he was watching, you know.
Then I’d be invariably told to ‘hurry up!’, and occasionally you’d get a jab in the ribs to move you on your way.
You… you…

I soon joined the rest of the delivery drivers in hating the place. “Worst delivery in Dublin “, somebody said. The super market chain had so screwed down the price they paid suppliers such as ‘Shady Glen’, that these in turn were forced to seek economies. Thus it came about that it was the only place where I got nil commission on delivery.
That hurt! Endless delays, abuse, unpleasantness, and no money at the end of the day, other than my basic pay.
Snarl…
It was perhaps inevitable that I should seek a way of getting even. It was one of the other drivers who showed me a way of opening the boxes without breaking the seal.
If you were careful, you could open and close the box without trace of damage, and hey presto!, instead of 26 choc ices there were now only 24…
Ahaaa!
Soon, I was dining exclusively on ex Grumbelows choc ices. It was all quite marvellous. I could crawl past the security guards, with an abject, sullen look of humility, endure the counting of the boxes, the abuse and the bullying with servile pacifism, make my delivery, and roar off, contentedly making up the delay, the suffering, the lack of commission and the frustration by munching choc ices or whatever for the next three days. It was a long, hot summer, and I was driving my very own supply of
ice cream. Paradise!
Soon it wasn’t just two choc ices that were disappearing out of a box of 26. It was four. Or five. Out of forty boxes… potentially that was quite something!
Without realising it, I was on the slippery slope.

Time went by, and I got away with it all the time.
I never sold them on, as that would have been blatant fraud and theft. No, I just munched them happily.
Soon there was more than I could eat.
Grumbelows insisted that I arrange the display in the store. (saved them money). I also had to remove the empty boxes off the premises! (saved them money) These were then frequently methodically checked by a grim faced security guard as I left the premises, in case I was carrying off any of the stock I had just delivered! Of course, I had my own system, and no need to resort to such a clumsy method. There were times I had a job keeping my face straight, as old Hermann Goering bellowed: “YOU!!! Come here! YOU!! Put those boxes down. “
(he would ascertain laboriously that they were all empty)
Then: “YOU!!! Get a move on, you’re holding everybody up!! “
I kept a discarded box in the lorry, and it was always well stocked.
It was a short step to more romantic notions. The plight of Maggie, struggling in her little corner shop, with three two-thirds empty fridges (placed there by unscrupulous salesmen) rose before me.

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, galloping through the glen
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, and his merry men…

Soon Maggie was doing very well out of ‘Shady Glen’.
For some strange reason, the production line kept being over-generous where she was concerned, and her boxes of choc ices typically contained rather more than the standard 26 items…
I thought this was great fun.
The slippery slope…

The weeks passed by, and I got more generous with Grumbelows’ property. Whereas at the start, Grumbelows were getting 24 choccies instead of 26, and Maggie was getting 28, 29,30… well, you know, human weakness and all that… never satisfied… after a while the ratio had altered to the detriment of Grumbelows.
I had some other Maggie-types I felt deserved a bit of help, and Grumbelows were the unwitting benefactor.
If the guards had been unusually snotty to me, the next delivery might have only 17 choccies instead of 24 in a box. Times forty boxes…
The slippery slope…
Disaster had to strike in the end, or try to, and it was
(phew) hellish close…
It came at me from both sides.
First of all, honest, dear little Maggie.

“Frank “, she said to me one day.
“I’m ever so worried “.
“What’s wrong, Maggie? “, I asked, all concerned.
“Well, you know there’s only supposed to be 26 choc ices in a box? And 32 Ice lollies? And 20 Truffle trumps? And, and… ” She carried on in similar vein.
I indicated I was aware of the correct ratios.
“Well “, she said, completely innocently.
“I’ve noticed something funny. That last box of choc ices had 40 stuffed in it, and I got 39 Ice lollies, and 27 Truffle Trumps. Isn’t that odd? I think I’d better phone up about it… “

Argh! Ah-hah! Ummm…

“Oh, don’t do that Maggie, I’ll sort it out. It happens once in a blue moon. Machine goes doo-lally. I’ll keep an eye on it for you… ”
She was all reassured, poor thing.
I walked out, quaking.
Boy!
Still, I couldn’t resist it. Summer was hot. Days long. Maggie was doing great business in ice cream. So were the other Maggie-types.
I arrived at Grumbelows again. It was hot. Boiling. I loaded my trolley with about twenty boxes. Got in the queue. Waited. Eventually arrived at a hot, flustered, perspiring Herr Goering.
First thing he said: “What’s happening there!? “
I followed his outstretched pencil. The bottom boxes, although beautifully sealed up, were in fact well denuded of product. 14 choccies instead of 24, and so on. The weight of the boxes above were causing the empty top half of the bottom boxes to cave in!
Argh!!! AAAAAARRGHHH!!!
I think I have rarely thought so fast in my life.
Putting on my most agonised expression, I said:
“They’re beginning to melt! ” And before he could say anything, I pushed the trolley forward and legged it as hard as I could into the supermarket, and over to the fridges. He never followed.
It was a work of seconds to empty the boxes into the fridges, on top of the existing stock, just making it impossible to count how many items I had actually delivered just then. I had covered my tracks.
I needn’t have worried. No suspicions had been aroused.
Herr Goering had fallen for my story. On the way out he didn’t even look at me.
I couldn’t resist it. I walked out to the truck, and collected a choc ice. Walking back in, I presented it to him:
“Here, suck that! ”
I felt like adding: “Sucker! “, but I didn’t.
He accepted gratefully, bemused no doubt that a delivery man should be pleasant to him.

The relief was enormous, and I now only had another week or so before I returned to college. It would be the end of my job. The heady feeling of having escaped death narrowly, and the imminent end of a good summer, made me reckless.
I passed a large cycling party of French school children on holiday. Knapsacks, teachers, French flags…
As I passed them, I could hear them singing ‘Alouette’.
That did it. A scheme crossed my mind.

I braked, and climbed out, flagging down the lead cyclists. Obediently, they all slowed to a halt.
My French then was quite fluent, and I told them:
“Free Ice cream! “
I don’t think the ‘free’ registered, but when I opened the heavy lorry door, and pulled out boxes of lovely stuff, they were all very excited. The eyes all lit up with delight, and out came the money.

“No, no “, I said. “It’s free! “.
“Free?!? “
“Oh, yes, the Irish Government pay for ice cream for tourists. It’s a promotional thing. I just drive around and give the stuff away to foreigners. “
“C’est incroyable! “
“C’est pas possible! “

A teacher came forward, and I told him the same story, in French, straight faced. He looked perplexed. Two other teachers came over. Patiently, I explained the same story again. Still in French. They were dumbfounded.
One of them broke into English. Smart fellow. Maybe he could get an answer in a foreign language he couldn’t understand in French.
“Do you… work for the Tourist Board? “
Yes, of course, I decided. More or less.
“Well, not quite. We are subcontracted to the Irish Tourist Board. We work for them… “
They were satisfied. A promotional publicity campaign on behalf of Irish Tourism, sponsored by the Tourist Board.
And a French speaking lorry driver dishing it out. Perfect sense! We all nodded happily at each other.
“Oui, oui! “
Banzai!
No, Francis, that’s Japanese…

Somewhere, in a district or village of France, there are lots of families who have a brilliant souvenir of their Irish holiday. A photo showing sixty school children, seven teachers, all standing around a grinning, happy, Irish lorry driver who worked for the Irish Tourist Board and handed out free Ice Cream to foreigners.
Such NICE people, those Irish, dear! Fancy thinking of handing out free Ice Cream! Such a quaint idea!

In my dreamier moments, I fantasize about the same photo, blown up to poster size, proudly displayed on the wall of some French classroom.

Remember our nice holiday, children?

Sure we do!

Good old Grumbelows…

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on May 23, 2009, 12:30 pm

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