TESSA'S COCKTAIL.

The hotel stood a hundred yards up from the bank of the river. Ivy gripped and sucked at the flight of steps, down which with such a deceptive wildness it seemed to be flowing like a cascade. Lily, the caretaker’s daughter, was literally run off her feet. The famous group of writers were taking cocktails in “The Literary Bar”. It was what the hotel liked to call “Happy hour”, often a misnomer for both words.

“Isn’t it a piece of fiction short enough to be read at one sitting?” said Nadine in her clipped matter of fact South African accent.

“I think it’s probably more than that,” said Elizabeth plumb in mouth sherry in gloved hand.

“One needs to have been seduced as the sun set its light; slowly melted the landscape, till everything was made of fire and glass.” She paused for dramatic effect. “ One needs ..…. Irishness.”

“I’ll drink to that Miss Bowen,” said Joyce raising his glass of Guinness. “Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!” he uttered in corrupt Gaelic as a toast, the white froth sticking to his top lip.

“Chin chin.” Kipling tilted his London gin and let the exciting Indian tonic bubbles dance beneath his moustache.

“Novellas, a frenzy of writing, French language and a first-person narrative. They clothed me and gave me money. I knew what the money was for, it was to get me started. When it was gone I would have to get more, if I wanted to go on.” Beckett was being obscure.

“True words.” Borges cut in. “ If I had written in French they’d all be reading me enthusiastically in bad translations.” The Argentinean paused like a mathematician working out a problem and then re-emerged from his thought labyrinths. “ On page 278 of his book La Poesia , Bari, 1942, Croce, abbreviating a Latin text of the historian Peter the Deacon, narrates the destiny and cites the epitaph of Droctulft; both these moved me singularly; later I understood why.”

“London in the blitz did it for me of course and Boar’s Hill.” Elizabeth cut in. She was slipping back to memories of Oxford. Kipling nearly choked on his drink.

“Please reassure me my good woman that you are not alluding in any way to my stories from the Civil and Military Gazette, Plain Tales from the Hills.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“Why certainly not my dear Mr Kipling or may I call you Rudyard?” Kipling waved his arm with approval and Elizabeth continued. “ Far from boring. A colourful collection of stories in deed.”

“I tried. One of the many curses of our life in India is the want of atmosphere in the painter’s sense.” Kipling sipped at his gin.

“If I’m not mistaken” said Elizabeth “your collection is dedicated to the wittiest woman in India.”

“Argh yes madam. All things considered, she was under an obligation, but not exactly as she meant.”

“Mr Kipling makes exceedingly good fakes if you ask me.” No one in the room was but Nadine gave her opinion anyway.

“Nobel of you my dear” said Kipling generously.

“Nobel for us both” said Nadine.

“Snap!” said Beckett. The others laughed politely with the trio of winners.

James Joyce cradled his nearly empty beer glass and held it up to the light and studied the remnants of the black brew as it swirled under its white top. He spoke through his glass almost suggesting another toast.

“Gazing up in to the darkness” he took the final swig “I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger. I’ll have another Guinness.”

“Shall I fetch you another Joyce?” Beckett got up and headed for the bar a small gold coin shone in the palm.

Nadine lent across the table and grabbed a handful of nuts. She knew that Kipling had been to Africa and she was in name-dropping mode.

“The party was an unusual one for Johannesburg. A young man called Derek Ross had white friends and black friends, Indian friends and friends of mixed blood, and sometimes he liked to invite them all to his flat at once.”

Kipling tutted gravely.

“A man should, whatever happens, keep to his own caste, race and breed.”

“I agree Rudyard.” Elizabeth was trying to flirt. “Why not pick on some place where you know someone?” She aimed at Kipling with Nadine as the target.

“We were living in the Congo at the time, I was nineteen.” Nadine replied through a mouthful of nuts. She seemed to slip into a trance. “It is another world, that dream, where no wind blows colder than the warm breath of two who are mouth to mouth.” Nadine looked close to tears. The group fell silent for a moment and then Elizabeth struck.

“He was the password, but not the answer: it was to coarse finality that she turned.” Elizabeth was perhaps jealous of the way that Nadine had managed her sexuality. Politics too. Like the ivy on the steps one clung to the other with inseparability in Nadine’s plot.

Borges fingered his wine glass like a detective and put it down on the glass-topped table. He spoke like an educated Spaniard, his rich soothing tone a tonic for Nadine’s emotion.

“True also was the outrage she had suffered: only the circumstances were false, the time and one or two proper names.”

“Not Orphee.” It was the first time Alice Munro had spoken for a while. She pulled up a chair and joined the others placing her tumbler of Canadian Club on the glass tabletop.

“No. Never him” she reflected almost to herself. Borges seemed to consider the interruption but then carried on.

“Perhaps the stories I have related are one single story. The obverse and the reverse of this coin are, for God, the same.”

Beckett returned with two refilled glasses. “Always the poet Jorge Luis, always the poet. But then dear fellow I could not imagine sharing a prize with any one so worthy.”

“I can hear you Samuel but I’m damned if I can see you. Perhaps that’s the way you want it?” Borges eyes were not as sharp as his wit.

“Oui, C’est vrai.” Beckett started in French, then ran on in English. “The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on. Here’s your ale Joyce.”

Alice Munro took some nuts. She had some other “big” names of her own.

“Dear R.” she looked at Kipling in an all too intimate way. “My father and I watched Kennedy debate Nixon.” Kipling looked as though he couldn’t have cared less.

“It was like the crowing of the cock.” Elizabeth laughed and her earrings wobbled in appreciation.


“Words, displaced and mutilated words, words of others, were the poor pittance left him by the hours and centuries. Nixon sucks.” Borges didn’t like American politics. Kipling was less direct.

“To rear a boy under what parents call the ‘sheltered life system’ is, if the boy must go into the world and fend for himself, not wise.”

Nadine agreed and nodded furiously. She didn’t often agree with Kipling’s view of separate development.

“It is not generally known – and it is never mentioned in the official biographies – that the Prime Minster spent the first eleven years of his life, as soon as he could be trusted not to get under a car, leading his uncle about the streets.”

Joyce was moved and in moving spilt some white foam from the top of his pint glass. It spewed down on to the glass-topped table and ran off on to the page with the typing on it. Joyce dipped his finger in the liquid trail and brought it up to his lips. He then uttered these words like an old soldier standing at a war memorial or as some dear friend might eulogise at a funeral.

“His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”

Joyce’s beer had made the words distort on the white page.

“I do not know which of us has written this page,” said Borges picking it up and waving it dry.

But had they looked carefully they would all have understood that each of them had had their part in Tessa’s cocktail.

WRONG DIRECTION

The must have gift for Christmas that year was an in-car navigation system. Cynth gave Sid one. She bought it from Halfords, the biggish one out on the edge of town next to the new ASDA. Sid was thrilled to bits. He sort of knew that Cynth would go for it and get him the sat-nav he wanted. He’d given enough hints.

“You’re the worst bloody map reader in the world.” He’d told Cynth on many outings even though she wasn’t that bad.

“What we need is one of those in-car satellite navigation systems. They’re really affordable now and would save us a bundle on petrol.”

“How do you work that one out?” asked Cynth.

“Well it figures doesn’t it? The system will show us the shortest route to take so we’ll save on fuel.”

“Hmm,” said Cynth making a mental note to look out for one for Sid’s Christmas present.

Under the tinsel tree on its plastic stand Sid knew that the box wrapped in funny reindeer paper contained the sat-nav he wanted.

“You may as well let me have it now,” he pinned to Cynth.

“You can jolly well wait until Christmas morning.” came the reply. So Sid waited.

When Cynth and Sid emerged on Christmas morning feeling very much the worse for wares because of the Christmas Eve session at the Rose and Crown it didn't take them them long to open the few presents under the tree.

Sure enough Sid found the sat-nav he had wanted and he gave Cynth a big hug and a squeeze.

“Thanks honey,” he said and Cynth could see that her man was happy.

“We'll try it out when we go to Sal and Graham's for lunch.” Sid was keen.

“But we know the way to Sal and Graham's stupid,” said Cynth.

“Well we'll test it out all the same, see if it works OK.” Sid went back upstairs to have his Christmas morning shower and get dressed while Cynth put the best of “TakeThat” on the CD player and tucked into her bacon sandwich.

The mid morning journey to Sal and Graham's wasn't that far. As the crow flies it was about fifteen miles and Sid's Ford Focus knew the route off by heart.

“The car knows the way without that,” said Cynth as Sid plugged in the sat-nav to the hole for the cigarette lighter. He pressed the buttons and with Cynth's help from the instruction booklet the couple were soon being spoken to through the sat-nav.

“Oh err,” giggled Cythn. “She's got a funny voice.”

Sid rather liked her tone.

“She sounds a bit like Carol Vorderman off of Countdown.”

“Don't be daft Sid. She don't sound anything like that,” said Cynth as Sid slipped the car into first gear and headed off, actually “proceeded” , in the direction he'd been told to.

The instructions came thick and fast and Sid obeyed even though he wouldn't normally have taken that route.

“We don't normally go this way,” said Cynth.

“I know luv. That's sat-nav for you. It'll be taking us the quickest way, you'll see.” Sid was rather enjoying being told where to go by another woman.

“Aye luv.” He nudged Cynth in the ribs.”It makes a change from having you telling me where to go.” They both laughed.

“Take the next available turning on the left, “ said Carol Vorderman and when the next available left turn appeared Sid swung the Ford Focus round the corner.

“This can't be right.” Cynth sounded more than a note of caution. “Are you sure you've set the sat-nav up right?”

Sid was sure.

“I did everything the book told me to,” he said.

After nearly an hour of driving and following precisely the instructions from the sat-nav Sid and Cynth were getting more and more tetchy with each other.

“All I said was why don't we stop and look at the map.” Cynth was trying to be helpful.

“We don't need a friggin' map.” Sid wasn't in the mood for Cynth's helpfulness.

“We're normally there in forty minutes at the most.” Cynth was looking at her watch.

“I know we are,” shouted Sid drowning out the latest instruction from Carol Vorderman. “Now you've made me miss the bloody turn.” Sid had missed the turning and was asked to do a U-turn as soon as possible by the unflustered guide.

“There's no need to shout at me like that,” Cynth was beginning to get very upset.

“Well you bought the bloody thing,” said Sid firmly passing all the blame on to his wife.

“You were the one who had to have the bloody gadget in the first place. I want it . I want it I want it.” Cynth mimicked the pleading of a spoilt child.

“Don't be such a pratt.”

“Pratt's are useful.”

“WELL YOU'RE FUCKING NOT.” Sid screamed at Cynth with such rage that the car swerved in sympathy.

“WATCH YOUR FUCKING DRIVING.” Cynth screamed back.

“IF YOU DON'T FUCKING LIKE IT YOU CAN FUCKING WELL WALK.”

“RIGHT.” Cynth screamed.”I FUCKING WILL.”

Sid brought the car to a sudden halt and even before the tyres had finished their squealing Cynth had leapt out and slammed the door with the sort of force that could be heard several streets away.

Sid sped off not really giving the Ford Focus any time to think about being stationary at all.

“Take the next turning on the right” said the sat-nav and Sid did as he was told at speed.

“In two hundred yards you will have reached your destination.” Sid didn't recognise where he was. His blood pressure was as high as his engine's revs and he was very angry.

“You have arrived at your destination.” The sat-nav was quite clear as once again Sid applied the brakes with force slidding along side a covered bus shelter. The car behind only just managed to avoid running into the Ford Focus and hooted past as Sid jumped out.

“Where the fuck are we?” Sid asked out aloud to no one but himself.

There was a well dressed woman waiting for the bus and Sid decided that he would ask where he was.

“Excuse me luv,” he said. “I'm lost.”

“No you're not,” said Carol Vorderman in her unmistakable Countdown voice.

“You've found me. Happy Christmas.”

GUN DOG

There is something rather reassuring about an obedient gun dog. Each owner will tell you that he has the very best of the breed because as we all know, dogs take after their masters and in some cases vice versa.

John's new Labrador was something else. Sitting tethered by the side of its shooting owner, whenever a bird flew over, the dog would offer up advice, tips on how to deal with the shot.

“If that one was flying backwards you'd knock its beak off,” was how it started.

“What!” said John with so much surprise that he missed at the next attempt as well.

“Why don't you take up tennis?” said the dog under his breath.

“You cheeky bugger!” shouted John and he kicked the black dog at his feet.

The Labrador learnt not to be critical just for the hell of it and because the wrath of his owner would only invite unwelcome retribution. He decided that constructive comment would be a better course of action and so began a relationship between dog and gun that made a perfect combination in the sporting field.

Not surprisingly John's shooting accuracy improved almost at every outing thanks to the dog's considered instruction. John became a very good shot.

“You were under that by a gnat's cock,” said the dog adding “ You must move your feet. Don't be afraid to move your feet.”

John did move his feet and he swung when swinging was in order and always maintained his lead when following through the bird.

“Bum, belly, beak, bang!” growled the Labrador as John connected with another bird at least sixty yards away.

Now the normal bond between a man and his dog relies on one of them, normally the man, always holding the upper hand. The best relationship's are those where the dog does exactly what his boss wants him to without question and with total devotion. In exchange for obedience the dog receives a daily square meal, the occasional admiring glance and a pat, a rub down with a dirty towel when wet, the chance to run about in the countryside retrieving dead and more often wounded birds and periods of lengthy isolation being locked up in the back of a four by four. There are moments of sheer bliss when the owner's other half or offspring will “make a fuss” of the dog but these are as rare as the scraps from the Christmas dinner table.

When the Labrador talks, familiarity breeds contempt. And so it was with John's dog.

“You missed in front of that,” said the dog on the first drive of the day on a Devon shoot.

“Rubbish!” said John who was feeling more agitated than usual.

“I saw the pattern of the shot leave the gun and believe me you were in front,” said the Labrador in a way that John just knew was the truth.

“All right , all right,” said John and he yanked rather too hard on the choke chain around his Labrador's neck.

“There's no need for that,” said the dog shaking his head.

“Look. You might think you're the dogs bollocks when it comes to shooting but you're just a bloody Labrador when all said and done. Now sit there and shut up!”

Not another word was said and at the end of the drive the dog was let off the lead to go and pick up the dozen or so birds that John had despatched. The woods that ran behind his peg fell away to the valley bottom and the dog bounded off through the trees in search of his master's quarry. He didn't come back. Despite John's high pitch whistling and energetic shouting, the dog was gone.

“Well we can't stay here John.” said the host. “We've got to move on to the next drive. I'm sure we'll find him before the day is out.”

No one was quite sure how it happened. Standing at number eight on the end of the line and hidden from the sight of his neighbour at number seven tucked as he was around the corner along the ride in a wood, John was really out of the shooting. He had a go at something half way through the drive and at the end, after the keeper had sounded his horn to tell everyone that the drive was over, they found John slumped on the brown stained ground where his blood had soaked into the earth and, red on green, where it had congealed on the grass as a result of the dreadful shot that had blown half his face away.

Sitting up next to his master's dead body was the black gun dog.

WARTS AND ALL

Like a crossword puzzle, Filly's face wasn't the sort that jumped out at you in an obvious way. Study provided its features with focus and for example the mouth which at first encounter seemed like something rather unfairly stuck on with haste, did develop a charm all of its own with increased exposure and of course, subdued lighting. Unkindly Filly was referred to as having been built for comfort rather than speed. It was true that she was well upholstered but there again most preferred the deep pile cosiness of several feather cushions to the less yielding basic thin wicker seat.

Filly's looks came into their own at Halloween. Like the stopped watch, her timing was spot on once every twelve hours. Unlike her friends she wouldn't need the help of spooky make up to go out trick or treating.

“You can take the mask off now,” was the unkind shout from her mate Stella who had herself dressed up as Dracula's bride. Filly wasn't bothered and said so.

“Am I bothered,” she said like the TV character played by Catherine Tate. “I am not bothered.”

But she was. Deep , deep down she was. She was the event horizon. Sucked in, she felt normal but she was heading down incapable of ever getting out. It was as though a truck had hit her at three hundred thousand miles an hour and she'd joined Einstein in the centre of his black hole.

Like a falling rain drop on the roof of the world, when F equals O and physics breaks down because gravity is infinite and time stops dead. The singularity is when you don't know what to do. The singularity is warts and all. Nature breaking down.

Ten years before her, he proved a black hole couldn't exist. With extra terrestrial physics the super massive black holes appeared with lots (thousands) of stellar black holes all around. Like ladies in waiting.

It was all about quantum mechanics and how quantum mechanics and gravity could live together.

Filly thought that quantum gravity was God and besides, she could just about see a halo under the shadow, like a crossword puzzle. Warts and all.