Issue 8

M A G A Z I N E

SUMMER 2010 / ISSUE 8 £3.50

NEW WRITINGby Edward Behrens, Soumya Bhattacharya and Rohan Kriwaczek

BOWLED OVERMihir Bose on cricket books and his passionfor libraries

WRITING INTONGUESStephen McCarty on Asian literatureand its impact in the West

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THE LONDON LIBRARY MAGAZINE / ISSUE 8

THE LONDON LIBRARY MAGAZINE 3

CONTENTS

5 EDITORIAL LETTER

6 CONTRIBUTORS

9 OVER MY SHOULDERNovelist Patrick Ness on displacementactivities, quiet time and his Library habits

10 READING LISTHistorian and novelist Philippa Gregoryselects the titles that have been useful whileresearching her new book

14 WRITING IN TONGUESStephen McCarty on the invasion of Asianliterature on Western literary sensibilities

16 CONFIDENCEA previously unpublished story by Edward Behrens

18 SOMETHING OF NOTHINGA new short story by Soumya Bhattacharya

19 NEW POETRYPoems by Sam Riviere, Clare Pollard andPhilip Bentall

20 A FOOL WILL STAY A FOOLA short story by Rohan Kriwaczek

22 SHORT CUTSHelen Simpson on the versatility of the short story form

24 HIDDEN CORNERSMihir Bose explores the Library’s diverseselection of cricket books

28 RESTAURANT LISTINGS

29 MEMBERS’ NEWS

31 DIARY

Stephen McCarty attempts adefinition of Asian literature – anamorphous term that embracesseveral continents and a multitudeof nationalities – and assesses theimpact of the globalisation of theEnglish language on Asian writers

14

A Fool Will Stay a Fool, a previously unpublished shortstory by Rohan Kriwaczek

20

In a conversation with EricaWagner, Helen Simpson describesher preference for the short storyover the novel, the challengespresented by her latest collectionon climate change, and recountsher first trips to the Library

22

Mihir Bose on two of his abidingpassions: cricket and libraries, andhow he discovered some raretreasures in the London Library’squirky but fine collection

24

© Eamonn McCabe/Guardian News & Media Ltd 2007.

Yehuda Pen, The Clockmaker, 1924.Collection Vitebsk Regional Museum, Vitebsk.

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EDITORIAL LETTER

Once again, our summer issue of the magazine introduces somefiction and poetry into the mix, including contributions from newand emerging writers. The London Library has long nurtured theambitions of writers from the earliest stages of their careers so itseems apt that we turn our attention to lesser-known names fromtime to time.

We are delighted to announce that the Asia Literary Review isproviding joint sponsorship with The Times newspaper of ourcelebrations to mark the completion of Phase 2 of ourredevelopment project later this month. Though well established at its base in Hong Kong, theAsia Literary Review is as yet a relative newcomer to news-stands here. We welcome it with afeature article on Asian literature from its Editor-in-Chief, Stephen McCarty, who provides someinsight into writers whose work can attract too little recognition in Britain.

Members’ News on page 29 introduces our new Deputy Librarian, Jane Oldfield, and counts justsome of the challenges of running a library on a building site.

And finally, did you notice the letter from our Chairman that accompanies this magazine? Do pleasetake up his offer of £50 off your next annual subscription for every new member you introduce whotakes out full membership. In this way, you can help the Library recoup the income lost by HMRC’srecent decision to withdraw Gift Aid relief from our subscriptions at a cost to us of about £300,000 ayear, and also help keep down the cost of your own membership.

DATE FOR YOUR DIARY: the Library’s AGM will take place on Thursday 4 November 2010.

Inez T.P.A. LynnLibrarian

FROM THE L IBRARIAN

Published on behalf of The London Library byRoyal Academy Enterprises Ltd. Colourreproduction by adtec. Printed by TradewindsLondon. Published 30 June 2010 © 2010 TheLondon Library. The opinions in this particularpublication do not necessarily reflect the views ofThe London Library. All reasonable attempts havebeen made to clear copyright before publication.

Cover ImageAtelier VII by

Arturo Di Stefano, 2000.© the Artist, courtesy

Purdy Hicks Gallery, London.

EditorialPublishersJane Grylls and Kim JennerEditor Mary ScottDesign Joyce MasonProduction Jessica CashResearcher Emily Pierce

Editorial CommitteeDavid BreuerHarry MountPeter ParkerErica Wagner

AdvertisingJane Grylls 020 7300 5661Kim Jenner 020 7300 5658Emily Pierce 020 7300 5675Development Office, The London LibraryLottie Cole 020 7766 4716Aimee Heuzenroeder 020 7766 4734

Magazine feedback and editorial enquiries should be addressed to [email protected]

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CONTRIBUTORS

6 THE LONDON LIBRARY MAGAZINE

Patrick Ness JOINED THE LIBRARY IN 2003

Patrick Ness is the author of four novels and ashort story collection. His ‘Chaos Walking’ trilogywon the Costa Children’s Book Award and theGuardian Children’s Fiction Prize, and was short-listed for the Carnegie Medal. The final volume,Monsters of Men, was published last month.

Helen Simpson JOINED THE LIBRARY IN 1986

Helen Simpson is the author of Four Bare Legs ina Bed, Dear George, Hey Yeah Right Get a Lifeand Constitutional. In 1991 she was the SundayTimes Young Writer of the Year. In 1993 she waschosen as one of Granta's 20 Best of YoungBritish Novelists. She lives in London.

Philippa Gregory JOINED THE LIBRARY IN 2003

Philippa Gregory is a historian and writer. Hernovel, The Other Boleyn Girl (2002), was madeinto a TV drama and a major film. Six novels later,she is working on a book on the Plantaganets.Philippa also reviews for UK newspapers, and is a TV and radio broadcaster.

Mihir Bose JOINED THE LIBRARY IN 1982

Mihir Bose is an award-winning journalist andauthor. He was the chief sports news correspondentfor the Daily Telegraph for 12 years, and was untilrecently the BBC’s first sports editor. He has written23 books including the first history of Bollywood.Mihir lives in west London.

Stephen McCartyStephen McCarty is Editor-in-Chief of the AsiaLiterary Review, based in Hong Kong. He wasformerly Literary Editor of the South ChinaMorning Post, and Associate Editor of PostMagazine. He has moderated at the Man HongKong International Literary Festival, among others.

Edward Behrens Edward Behrens was an editor for Channel 4’stwenty-fifth anniversary book, 25 x 4. He worked onSomerset House: A History, as well as Vanities, ahistory of powder compacts told through onecollection. He is currently an editor on the artmagazine Private View.

Soumya BhattacharyaSoumya Bhattacharya’s internationally acclaimedmemoir, You Must Like Cricket? (2006), wasnominated for India's biggest book award. Hisnovel, If I Could Tell You (2009), was a bestsellerin India. Bhattacharya's writing has appeared inthe Guardian and Granta. He is the editor of theMumbai edition of Hindustan Times.

Rohan KriwaczekRohan Kriwaczek is a writer, composer, musicianand Acting President of the Guild of FuneraryViolinists. His second book, On the Many Deathsof Amanda Palmer, is to be published byDuckworth/Overlook next month.

Sam RiviereSam Riviere began to write poetry while at theNorwich School of Art and Design. His poemshave appeared in various publications since 2005.He co-edits the anthology series Stop SharpeningYour Knives. He was the recipient of a 2009 EricGregory Award.

Philip BentallPhilip Bentall was born in West Sussex. His pastincludes six years as a gamekeeper on the SussexDowns. He is currently teaching courses in academicEnglish while studying for an MA in AppliedLinguistics. He is bilingual in Japanese. Philip hasjust finished his first novel.

Clare PollardClare Pollard has published three collections ofpoetry, the most recent of which is Look, Clare!Look! (2005). Her first play, The Weather (2004),premiered at the Royal Court Theatre. Clare hasco-edited an anthology for Bloodaxe, VoiceRecognition: 21 Poets for the 21st Century (2009).

© Derek Thomson

© Debbie Smyth

© Anthony Mason AssociatesJames Stewart Photography

© Alice Lee

Erica Wagner JOINED THE LIBRARY IN 1993

Erica Wagner’s latest book is Seizure, a novel(Faber). Her other books are Ariel’s Gift: TedHughes, Sylvia Plath and the Story of BirthdayLetters (Faber) and Gravity, a book of stories(Granta). She is the Literary Editor of The Times,and lives in London.

© Stephen McCarty

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Do you generally use books on yourparticular subject from the Library, or doyou explore other subject areas? Do youborrow books for pleasure as well asresearch?Books on a shelf are about as close as I

come to any sort of feeling of universal

wellbeing. Writers are either drunks or

highly strung cat-ladies, or sometimes both.

I’m more at the highly strung cat-lady end

of the spectrum, and walking through a

floor of bookshelves, regardless of subject

matter, is one of life’s great cures for anxiety.

What do you think is special about theLibrary? What does it mean to you?The comment book is reason enough to

come on its own. I doubt there’s another

one like it in the world. Imagine if the

Académie française had a high-school

blog. Extreme erudition applied to the


How frequently do you use the Library?Once or twice a week. I live just outside

London, so it’s a good excuse to come into

town and do my displacement activities

here rather than just at home on my own.

What distracts you from your work?The internet has ruined my attention

span just like it has everyone else under

the age of 40 and, hey, is that a ball … ?

How do you use the Library? Do youstudy books there or take them home?What is your routine when you visitthe Library? I’m that certain type of member who uses

the Library almost exclusively as a writing

space. I’ve used the Library’s materials, of

course but, for the most part, I tend to make

sure my writing requires as little research

as humanly possible. The Library for me

is mainly a great place to have quiet time

to write and, most importantly, meet up

with other writers.

Do you have any favourite parts of theLibrary that you tend to go to? I used to love being up by the owl, though

that played havoc with the wireless

connection, and then deep in the concrete

bowels of the temporary Eliot reading room.

Now, though, I’ve settled comfortably in

the very pretty new laptop room to work,

where there always seems to be a pigeon

cooing soothingly just out of sight.

problem of the temperature of toilet seats

in the men’s loo. Wonderful stuff.

Do you think there is a typical LondonLibrary person? Are you that person? No, thank goodness, much in the way that

there’s no such thing as a typical teenager.

Everyone here is atypical, often even

anthropologically.

Is there a Library neighbour you dread?Grunters, coughers? (No names!)I only really dread those neighbours who

somehow think their magnum opus

requires the workspace of three people.

Every other irritating thing I’ve

probably done myself and have no room

to complain.

Have you made friends or useful contactsthrough the Library?Yes, quite a few. It’s been an invaluable

place to meet other writers in the process

of writing, which is rarer than you think.

And all different kinds, too: screenwriters,

other novelists, historians, students

working on dissertations. Lunch

conversations still somehow tend to be

about gossip and television, though.

Has the London Library had anyparticular influence on your work? No, but then I do tend to write about

alternate realities populated by odd

creatures with strange habits and … Oh.

OVER MYSHOULDERNovelist Patrick Ness, whose young adult book Monstersof Men, the final volume in the multiple award-winning‘Chaos Walking’ trilogy, was published last month, revealshis favourite London Library quirks

The comment book is

reason enough to come

on its own. Extreme

erudition applied to

the problem of the

temperature of toilet

seats in the men’s loo.

‘

’

The author, 2009. © Debbie Smyth.

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READING LIST

BEHIND THE

Philippa Gregory, whose books include the bestselling The Other Boleyn Girl, chooses the titles she has foundmost inspiring while researching her book The Red Queen(due to be published this August)

My new novel, The Red Queen, is one of a series that I am writing about the Plantagenet family, the dynamic,ambitious and ultimately doomed line that preceded the Tudors. The ‘Red Queen’ of the title is Margaret Beaufort,mother of the first Tudor, Henry VII, whose determination, ambition and active conspiring put her son on thethrone. The personal history of this woman is scanty – she has been neglected or reviled, as have so manypowerful female historical characters.

Memoir of Margaret, Countess ofRichmond and Derby by C.H. Cooper(Cambridge 1874). Biog. Margaret.This is an overall view of Margaret’s lifewith good general historical background.It stands out for the lovely details of clothes,such as Margaret’s ten yards of crimsonvelvet for the coronation of Queen Anne;but it is fatally indecisive about Margaret’sdate of birth, which matters so much to anovelist, offering the reader either 1441 or1443, which does not sound like muchbut is pretty major when one considersthat she was married at 15 or 12.

Richard III: The Great Debate. More’sHistory of King Richard III, Walpole’sHistoric Doubts, ed. P.M. Kendall (London1965). H. England, Kings&c., Richard III.It is the great debate: was Richard III ahunchback monster or was he the last trueYork king? Thomas More takes the Tudorline, that a bloodstained tyrant (and cripple)was thrown down by the true heir.Walpole wondered … and thus started theonly society formed to defend the reputationof an English king: the Richard III Society.

The Usurpation of Richard III byDominicus Mancinus, trans. C.A.J.Armstrong (2nd edn, Oxford 1969). H. England, Kings&c., Richard III.An eye-witness account of this event froman Italian visitor to London. If only he hadstayed one month longer, perhaps we wouldknow more about the fate of the Princes in

the Tower. However, it is Mancini who givesus the haunting picture of the boys playing atarchery on the green and then disappearinginto the Tower, never to be seen again.

The Tudors: Personalities and PracticalPolitics in Sixteenth-Century England byConyers Read (Oxford 1936). H. England.This thoughtful history shows Henry VIIas a pretender to the throne but does himjustice in considering how innovative hewas when he achieved it.

The Mysterious Mistress: The Life andLegend of Jane Shore by Margaret Crosland(Stroud 2006). Biog. Shore. A bit of a treasure: the only biography Ihave been able to find of the mistress ofEdward IV. She was the heroine of a play byNicholas Rowe and a character inShakespeare’s history plays, and so is bestknown as a created character. This bookdescribes the real person: a mercer’sdaughter who was married off to WilliamShore, but whose marriage wasannulled by the Pope, probably to obligeEdward IV, who seems to have loved her somuch that he made her his only mistressand gave up womanising. Jane was noteven her name; the playwrights named herJane as they could not be troubled todiscover her true name: Elizabeth.

Elizabeth of York, Tudor Queen byNancy Lenz Harvey (London 1973). H. England, Kings&c., Elizabeth [of York],c. of Henry VII.

This is an odd history book, in style ratherlike a novel, with lots of unreliablemotivation and emotions but with somewonderful, suggestive details and colour.

Bosworth Field and the Wars of theRoses by A.L. Rowse (London 1966). H. England. A classic: a thoughtful, consideredexamination of the period and the keybattle from a hugely opinionated butbeloved master.

Richard III: England’s Black Legend byDesmond Seward (London 1983). H. England, Kings&c., Richard III. This detailed look at the times givesRichard credit for his spiritual and publicinterests, and shows his promise as a king.

The Year of Three Kings, 1483 by GilesSt Aubyn (London 1983). H. England,Kings&c., Richard III. A great title encapsulates this extraordinaryyear, which saw the death of Edward IV,the inheritance of his son Edward V, andthe usurpation of his uncle Richard III.

The Life and Times of Henry VII byNeville Williams (London 1973). H. England, Kings&c., Henry VII. This cites relatively rare and interestingmaterial about Henry’s youth in exile andhis consolidation of power, especially inhis creation of a Tudor court. Thisfounder of the most English line was bornin Wales, raised in Britanny and based hiscourt on European models.

BOOK


© Anthony Mason AssociatesJames Stewart Photography

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Photograph © Paul Raftery





sian literature, it appears to us at the Asia Literary

Review in Hong Kong, came to a new peak of Western

awareness in 2000, when Gao Xingjian received the

Nobel Prize in Literature. In the decade since Gao

hit his jackpot, what ‘trends’, if any, have we discerned

in Asian literature? If there has been an invasion of Western

literary sensibilities, has it been achieved by stealth? And is any

attempt, from a Westernised perspective, to categorise Asian

literature necessarily a patronising act of pomposity?

After all, while English might be the language that unlocks a

thousand deals for books published in it and sold at London or

Frankfurt, indigenous cultures across Asia continue to enjoy booming

literary scenes of their own design and may well be happy to

remain ‘undiscovered’ by a mostly monolingual Western readership

whose assistance is not required for their literature to survive.

To try to make sense of this amorphous term ‘Asian literature’:

what is it? Who is it? Does it even have to be written by Asians?

Englishman David Mitchell’s novel The Thousand Autumns of

Jacob de Zoet (2010) is set in Nagasaki. Does that count? What

connects an Alevi Kurdish poet and an East Timorese narrative

non-fiction writer; or a Kashmiri novelist and a Japanese

playwright; or contemporary Japanese authors such as Haruki

Murakami and the new Malaysian star of letters, Tash Aw? Not

much, probably, beyond the slip of a cartographer’s pen and

invitations to the same south-east Asian literary festivals.

Perhaps any discussion of Asian literature should in fact be a

discussion of ‘literature’, with no awkward pigeonholing. Wena

Poon, a 30-something prize-winning American novelist

originally from Singapore, believes: ‘Whenever someone tries to

say something broad about Asian literature they find themselves

unhappily making a bunch of meaningless assumptions and

categorisations about, in effect, several continents filled with

people who often hate each other.’

Beijing-based novelist Lijia Zhang, author of Socialism is

Great! (2008) believes that, until now, ‘the rest of Asia, apart from

what was the British Empire, has had no literary voice. Miguel

Syjuco was published only because of the Man Asian Literary

Prize.’ (Syjuco, from the Philippines, won in 2008 with the novel

Ilustrado, entered, under the terms of the competition then, as

an unpublished manuscript; more on that later.)

Now there is another question that demands attention: what

effect might the People’s Republic have on our reading habits?

‘China’s rising position in the world has made publishers and

readers turn east,’ says Zhang. ‘There are plenty of works to

satisfy such curiosity, works that reflect the sweeping changes as

well as the conflict caused by those changes. Consider Wolf Totem

[2007] by Jiang Rong and Yu Hua’s book, Brothers [2006].’

Zhang wonders if readers’ tastes in literature from and about

Asia are shifting and finds an echo in the opinions of Xu Xi,

Writer-in-Residence and leader of the Master of Fine Arts in

Creative Writing programme at the City University of Hong

Kong, who appeared as an expert adviser at this year’s

Philippines National Writers Workshop. ‘One thing I am seeing,’

says Xu Xi, ‘in the batch of manuscripts for the workshop, and in

the work from younger Hong Kong writers for the anthology Fifty-

Fifty [2008], is a lesser engagement with what has traditionally

been commercially successful, and more with what I would call

the modern world in Asia. Literary prizes and publishing favour,

for example, historical works like Ilustrado, Wolf Totem or The

Piano Teacher [2009], but what younger Asian writers seem to

want to write has more to do with life as it is now, which is the

instinct of literature through the ages anyway, in every culture.’

One imagines, then, that the ‘misery memoir’ genre

exemplified by Wild Swans (1992) and Falling Leaves (1997) has

run its course, although Xu Xi believes that’s not necessarily the

case. ‘Wild Swans may be passé only because history has moved

beyond the Cultural Revolution, but narratives of that era are still

dominant,’ she says. ‘What’s different now is that there are so

many more narratives, plus the fact that historical study is

catching up and we don’t always take what the few witnesses of

the past had to say at face value.’

The City University of Hong Kong’s MFA in Creative Writing

will prove to be, Xu Xi believes, ‘a shift away from the known

centres of the universe of English-language creative writing’. It is

the only such programme in the world focused specifically on

Asian writing, according to the degree’s website, although the

medium of instruction is English. This again leaves us pondering

the mastery exercised by English over reading and writing across

A

WRITING IN TONGUESThe shelves of your favourite bookshop may testify to a continuing Asianinvasion – but not, perhaps, in a language of its own choosing. When isAsian literature not Asian literature? When it’s in English? Stephen McCarty,Editor-in-Chief of the Asia Literary Review, offers his views on the subject

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much of the world. Furthermore,

those whose original output is

not in English have, since about

the mid-2000s, been able to avail

themselves of the services of

experts in a burgeoning

industry: translation.

Su Tong, now represented

by Hong Kong’s Peony Literary

Agency, is the author of Raise the

Red Lantern (1990) and was the

winner of the 2009 Man Asian

Literary Prize for his novel The

Boat to Redemption. Su writes in

Chinese, his native script.

Millions of readers in China are

unlikely to be wrong, but wider

appreciation of Su now comes

thanks to the talents of Howard

Goldblatt, doyen of translators

from Chinese. Not that Su seems

perturbed by any notions of

‘impurity’ or fears that

something may be ‘lost in

translation’ when his novels

appear in an alien alphabet.

And, with a much wider

readership than of old to assess

his work, why should he?

‘A writer has a lot of fantasies, among them one about his

readers,’ says Su. ‘When he has readers in other countries in other

languages, this fantasy is wonderful and magical.’ Asked if he

feels a translated work remains his or becomes the translator’s,

he replies: ‘A translated work is the product of a collaboration.

You may lose something, but also gain something. When two

languages interact there may be some chemical reaction – and

that perhaps is the mystery of literature.’

The world’s blossoming fascination with China has recently

seen Penguin set up shop in Beijing and Shanghai, publishing

Chinese-themed books of all genres, in English. Beijing-based

Jo Lusby, Managing Director, Penguin China, and General

Manager, North Asia, believes that while ‘English-language

readers are ready to read about other experiences and stories

from other times and places’ in China, the default subject matter

(personal, true stories of triumph over adversity) may remain

unchanged for a considerable time. ‘There were many reasons

why the Cultural Revolution memoir endured for so long on

publishing lists,’ she says. ‘Well-written stories from that era will

continue to be published and read, because the 1960s and 1970s

in China are fascinating.’ And, as China gradually relaxes certain

ideological controls, what of the cachet that used to come with a

‘Banned in China’ sticker on a book’s front cover? ‘There is no

cachet as such, but for publishers in the West it remains a

convenient hook on which to

hang the context of a book, a

marketing tag. Now you will

typically see one of two tags:

one about being banned in

China, the other, million-copy

bestseller. Publishers need

something to say to readers

that will explain what’s going

on in the book.’

For the better part of

readers around the world,

understanding what’s going

on generally means reading in

English. As Xu Xi puts it: ‘The

problem for Asian writers in

English has been this

dichotomy between culture

and language (even though

English is often the primary

language for many such

writers and not necessarily a

second language). However,

the globalisation of the English

language in literature by Asians

has meant that younger writers

feel emboldened to tell their

own stories, regardless of the

commercial marketplace.’

Which means, in effect, that Australian short-story writer

Nam Le, who began life as one of Vietnam’s ‘boat people’, Korean-

American novelist Chang-rae Lee, Vietnamese Midwestern

American novelist Bich Minh Nguyen, and Malaysian-Chinese-

Canadian novelist Madeleine Thien, all of whom might be

considered Asian exiles, probably couldn’t give two hoots for

any mother-tongue related identity crises when it comes to

communicating through the written word.

And where does that leave ‘Asian literature’? A clue might be

found in the selection criteria for the Man Asian Literary Prize,

junior partner of the Man Booker. The fact that the honour, first

bestowed on Jiang Rong for Wolf Totem in 2007, exists proves

that the (Western) organisers believe Asian fiction is deserving of

such an award. In its first three editions the prize carried a purse

of US$10,000 and went to ‘the best Asian novel not yet published

in English’. This year the money has trebled and the competition

is open ‘to all novels by Asian writers published in English’. The

official website continues: ‘The Man Asian Literary Prize will now

be awarded to the best novel by an Asian writer, either written in

English or translated into English … With this new format, the

prize will be the first of its kind to recognise the best English

works each year by Asian authors and aims to raise significantly

international awareness and appreciation of Asian literature.’

English, it seems, is an Asian language.


Above, clockwise from top left: Covers of the Asia Literary Review, from spring 2010;winter 2009; summer 2009; and autumn 2009.

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e peeled off his face; scraped away the work paint. Hismake-up had been thick, making something up over thewreckage of years, pasting over the cracks of hisperformance. It covered his face over to confidence, tided

over any crisis. The act of painting, that of masking, was his ritual: anaction acquired in his youth locking him into the atavistic movements ofthe stage: the icing on his performance before curtain up. He hadnot, unlike his younger colleagues, trained – he did not trust the railsinto which training might lock his career; they were too confining.

Charles, not unnaturally, considered his own talent expansive,not to be fooled into confinement. His learning, fitful, had takenplace at a time when craft and skill had combined with tradition toreach what he considered its apogee. He had stood in the shadowswatching the Greats, winging it when asked, himself, to perform;sometimes he felt he soared.

The mirror, in front of which the indelicate scraping away of anartifice was performed, flickered between the stuttering light from bulbs.Its smoky colour, a glib reminder of a previous fashion now fumedinto kitsch, obscured the protruding fact of his boldly haggard features.He had liked this glass; floor to ceiling, it lined his own bathroom.Stripped, he was strung with a vivid net of broken capillaries knottinghis face closer to demise; he wore them boldly: he believed in them.

On stage, Charles had won; had won them over – so he felt. Hisperformance had blazed; he had employed the secrets only he, he couldconfidently say, knew, in order to reveal to the audience somethingreal. He exposed the mere pyrotechnics of contemporary acting style,fiercely. It might have been – he dared not think about this – a trick.

Backstage, away from the glare of his perceived success, the threatof discovery thickened like smoke; Charles tried to clear this, often withthe purifying fuel from a hip flask. Such a top note flattered Charlesinto permitting himself moments of relaxation within his mind,connections to calm. Such calm was, rather than nurturing, desired.Outside, the corridor shuffled: it must be the technicians. These werenot, to his mind, all that technically proficient. Hadn’t the follow spotfailed to follow him tonight? What spots of commonness allowed suchbehaviour? Supported by tradition, such a form should not slip slant.He could not stand for it. There was much that Charles underwentfor which, in the truer light of day, he ought not to have stood.

Tonight he was sipping only water. He would pin his success onto something other; he would dismantle the character he had justacquired in performing rather than working at it. He would not bolsterit into stiff immobility through permanent adoption. He would stayunfixed. He would need to be sharp when he went to greet his fans,themselves fanning the flames of his success. He hoped his newlywatery state would not dampen their spirits. Falling to the spirit insidehis flask might inflame any excitement outside, though he could notbe confident things would move in the right direction. Borrowingattributes from his characters loaned him a sense of strength, theself-possession to get by; his problem, he knew, came when he feltthe possession of that self slipping away from him. There had been nobroker to fully delineate the terms of this mortgage – reaching the endof his script ran him out to homelessness. His character became worn,the tattered edges sometimes snagging on things smoother individuals,just as untrustworthy in their elusive, slippery way as this frayedfigure, would avoid. They caught on the minutest of infringements;the scenario unwound. The split was the price he paid for assuming

others’ selves – it was a price paid with interest; the interest of others,an audience, some of them, even, his audience, watching closelyfrom afar with the toxic pleasure disintegration accrues. It was notbalance to which he enjoyed attending; he preferred the slants.

There was a knock at the door.‘We’ll need to be out in five, Charles.’ The voice was cheerful, young,

going about its business. To whom it belonged Charles could not say.‘No problem, darling,’ he richly replied. It was impossible to cut

away from the thickness of his voice the fat of the period in which itsaccent was reared. He did not expect to be ready in five minutes.Nor did he expect that they would lock him in; he was safe in hisdressing room.

The sponge continued over his face; his hand shook. It mighthave been a pulse, a beat, of over-stretched stage excitement, thefinal coursing of confidence aroused by the rush of applause. It mightbe a flicker, a synaptic shudder, of old age, a movement that remainedveiled even from the body that owned it, a stutter not owned up to.The make-up’s rainbows of grease glittered over the grey water used todampen the sponge. Drops of water drizzled down his face, smudgingpatches, catching on the ledge of a wrinkle. This was not his favouritepart of the job; he wanted it to be over. When his face came out fromthis hiding he was unsure how it would present itself, what blur ofimprecision it would deploy. Throughout the process he practisedthe beaming smile he would wear, to wear away any criticism.

In his youth he had not worried. He had been sure of his physicalprowess, his beauty, unaware of its fragility; he had walked withincomfort of himself. His hips had swung, his legs darting out, pullingaway from one another, away from his body; they claimed more landthan they were owed. His wrists had flicked with each step, beating outthe rhythm of his silent soundtrack, marching out the tempi of his brightclaim to superiority, he glinted in the sunlit world in which he walked.He had not, filled with lusty energy, relied upon his smile to win himpraise. Sitting now, in the meanly appointed dressing room, hisshaking hand poised above his cheek, his heavy eyelid hovering toclosure, he chuckled to remember this shadow, this player. His facesinking to a form of aged femininity he chose not to recognise, heplayed like this no more. Swagger had been seduced away; ripenesshad rotted; physicality shifted.

It was an illusion, playing the game. Not the part on stage, that washis craft: that, he knew. The rest came about through belief. He knewthat success’s support was invisible, untenable. He hoped he might bethe one to catch it, thought he deserved success. Now in the shadows ofhis playful youth, he tried to do this, to make matter of airy nothings. Hisattempts were not unlike the games he played in the wings: eyes closed,world shut out, breathing. To focus on the breathing appeared toresuscitate his chances, invigorated luck, he hoped. Offstage, unseen,the breath changed: it became the breath of the world he wished toinhabit; it grew into the breath of the person he wished to become.The calm rhythm of breathing – in through the nose, out through themouth, the internal column of air supporting the actor’s work –supplanted the syncopated mess of lived experience. He had foundedhis self on that strong column: in his youth it had borne him up.Today it was almost the same but had somehow slipped by a notch.

Outside the theatre, at its back, was ranged a drab colonnade ofashen smokers, men, evenly lining an uneven ground, a territory ofhope upon which they looked eagerly. They waited, watching. Theirs

CONFIDENCE Edward Behrens

H

In the tradition of the London Library Magazine, this summer issue features a selection of unpublishedwriting, by both emerging and established writers

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had not been the privileged position of the audience inside. Theirattentions, giving off an appearance of hopelessness in spite of theirexpectations, were held by the empty space before them. Those whomthey waited for cleaved to, out of sight, the shadows. The men clungto the prospect of filling in this emptiness with their story, fervid.Their loose bodies hung. They waited for the electrifying contact ofanother, the exchange of felt worth for something material, firm;soon to be, like their cigarettes, gone. Before reaching this stage theyhad shrugged off their costumes of the day to take up the roleappropriate for this, the working girl’s arena. Few of the ladies wereabout. In this town, the marketplace kept the supply restricted toladies. It was a position for which, no matter how young, men neednot apply. Though there had been one who hoped, throughmeticulous application, to slip through this restriction. It had notended well: upon discovery he had suffered certain restrictions.

In overcoats, navy for use, two women, programmes in hand,walked round the oddly jutting corners of the theatre. They were notat work. They approached the stage door. A single bulb hung overthe metal door illuminating the ungentle encroachment of rust. Thebulb was cased in glass, a wire cage holding it in place. One of thewomen put her hand to her hat to hold it against the wind. The otherhad no hat to protect: her scarf would have to double its effort. Thesewere the fans, preparing to puff up the confidence of their star. Theirminds raced, wonderfully.

‘Two minutes, Charles.’ The voice trailed down the corridor. Hedid not like this: it was too contemporary, too pressing. He felt hungry.The decision not to have taken a drink demanded his stomach be filledwith something. He opened the drawers in his dressing table; thecasually chipped plastic of the table offended his taste for the ratificationof his grander sense of self when at work. Charles was at work themoment he arrived at the theatre: deference was demanded when hissilhouette obscured the doorway. This formica-faced suite, the sicklyochre of plaque, appeared to lack reverence. Nestling at the back of adrawer was a chocolate muffin sealed in a cellophane wrapper. He pulledit apart and picked some crumbs off it. This would do. He savoured thetaste of artificial cocoa. He had not liked sweets as a boy, this particulartooth had come only as the position of his others looked precarious.The sugar comforted him against a sense of descent. Its overwhelmingsolidity, its obliterating any sense of taste, seemed to firm up his spirit.It was a quick boost, a soon-to-be-extinguished flare of certainty.

He became aware of uncertainty. He was unsure. He looked forhis script; it was not apparent. He could not recall where he had left it;he could not recall his lines. He realised, crumbs falling upon hiscostume, that in performance he had tripped. A line had been forgotten,lost. He had held the stage so well, had played the character so well, noone would have noticed, he felt certain. The fact of omission, however,suspended pleasure; introduced a tremor in confidence he did notappreciate. The smell, warm, heavy, comforting, sickly, of old stages,of wood and work and sweat, was his security. He worked best here.To be submerged in this world to a point of anaesthesia, of not knowing,seemed, to Charles, disturbingly unsafe. Trust had betrayed him.

‘Oh, it was so good, so strong, I must say.’ Moira, holding on toher hat, was effervescent at the prospect of meeting her hero, herlove. She had brought Betty because Betty knew about the stage.

‘The thing about it was, it was so confident, wasn’t it? You don’tget that any more, really. They just don’t have the training.’ For Betty,who herself had missed out on training of any sort, it was all in thetraining. Styles had changed; Moira and Betty had not. It had been aslow process discovering this pleasure. It had grown steadilythroughout the summer when Moira had first noticed the leaflet inthe theatre: she was a regular, always liked a little outing somewherespecial, you know. Once this first connection was spotted she hadnurtured it through phone calls, arrangements, conjectures, bookings,until it had come to a head with the arrival of the tickets through her

letter box, sent out at least a week before the show, ready to flower onarrival in the red-velvet stalls of this quite marvellous little theatre. Ithad, as planned, come out with a radiant display. Its meeting ofexpectations confirmed to the pair how right they were in theirknowledge of the performing arts, how good was their taste, howsweet their success.

‘Do you think he’ll be out soon?’‘Oh I do hope so, it’s a bit nippy now, isn’t it? And we might

miss the table, we don’t want to do that.’Moira would not mind missing the table.He stood, slowly. His legs shifting to find balance. Planted in the

dressing room, his feet found the ground less steady than the stage.Without the rakish charm of a set, he found the flatness unstable. Hisstreaked face wore its character well, strips of previous inhabitantshanging off its fabricated features. He breathed deeply in, searching forsupport from that internal column of air. There was a knock at the door.

‘Is everything all right?’ The owner of the unidentified voicesparingly opened the door. There, before him, stood Charles, his fullexchange of selves apparent, the trade of playing visibly scraped bothinto and out of his tired flesh.

‘Fine, darling, everything is splendidly fine.’‘Let me lend you an arm.’‘Thank you.’‘Where’s your stick, Charles?’‘What stick, darling?’‘You know, the stick you came in with this morning, your stick.’For a moment, Charles thought he was being spoken to as though

he might really be a dog. It happened, recently, that his form wasmistaken entirely. He had assumed it was the havoc of changingidentity so often, a kind of vestigial chaos, that permitted others towitness in him shiftings from man to baby, why not to animal? Thenhe remembered.

‘Oh, darling, you mean my cane, my cane, darling – it must behere somewhere. It’s around. But never mind that now, I must getout to my fans.’ He wobbled against the arm that propped him.

The young man manoeuvred him to the door and caught sightof that stick. He scooped it up and scooped Charles out.

‘Here you go, Charles.’ It was space to wriggle away. Charlesmanaged the hint.

‘Thank you, dear.’ He loosed his arm and braced himself againstthe stick. He was ready.

Watched, he worked his way down the corridor. The wobbleloosened into swagger. Each step he took exchanged expectation forconfidence. He breathed in the heady fumes, ready to be bellowed,of praise. Unsure of how bright this fire would burn, he had no doubt,however, it would be warming, even in this cool night. The corridorwas narrow. Lined with the photographs of previous productions, allin black and white, it observed the strict hierarchies of self-inflatedpride. Charles bruised up against the glass of the frames, hitting hisown reflection, facing up to the precarious point upon which thesefrozen representations of artistic success hung. As he walked to thedoor, his shoulders settled, his legs relaxed; he grew into his height;he appeared, walking into his part, to have reassembled thatatomised scent of success.

Testing the spell, he turned to the kind young man at the end of thecorridor. Upheld by his cane, the figure of venerable understanding, oflost years, stood, his face blooming pleasure. He was in the wings,waiting, holding off the charms he knew would come. He did nothide the vanity of his position; that his hopes were vain was invisibleto him. In the confidence of obscurity he gathered his strength,summoned a self. Lingering, he pulled himself up to meet themastering weight of his past; readied himself for exposure; he prepared.

‘Good night, Charles.’‘Night,’ he breathed out, ‘darling.’


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akesh winced as the car lurched into a pothole. A tremorof annoyance radiated through the hand that he rested onthe steering wheel. He had taken his eyes off the road again.Again, he had been looking at the mannequin in the

Benetton shop window. It reminded him of Madam.For months he had wanted to go inside that shop. He would, for

the first time, later today. Madam had asked him to collect a pair ofjeans – her jeans! – that she had sent to be altered. He checked hisreflection in the rear-view mirror. His face was swarthy, clean-shaven,not unattractive; its skin was stretched taut over a strong jaw. If henarrowed his eyes and knitted his brows, he managed a look of broodingmachismo. When he looked at his own face, Rakesh fancied what he saw.

His hair, oiled and gelled into a quiff early in the morning, wasnot maintaining the required degree of rigidity. Rakesh noticed thisin the mirror, and swore. He raised and patted and mussed his hairtill he was satisfied. As he righted his hair, his biceps – the impressiveresult of a lot of unremitting work – tensed. The short sleeve of hisclose-fitting T-shirt rode up. Rakesh smiled.

He had first turned up at the Chaudhuris’ home ten months ago,after someone who knew someone he knew had tipped him off thatMr Samrat Chaudhuri was looking for a driver. ‘Arrey, the family is good,’his acquaintance had told Rakesh. The smoke from the open fire overwhich dinner was being cooked on the pavement stung their eyes. Onthe filthy beach in front, the fishing nets lay in a jumble of confusedcobwebs. ‘Look, Rakesh, you have no experience. To train, you’ll needa job such as the one they have to offer. School, office, home. Nothingelse.’ He winked and patted Rakesh on the back. ‘See if you get lucky.’

Rakesh had rung the bell at the Chaudhuri’s Bandra flat onemorning in the middle of a rainy spell. No one could recall the rainhaving let up in the past three days. Under a cloud-bloated sky,colour seemed to have leached from the city; trees and buildingshad lost their definitions. It was hard to remember what everythinglooked like when it wasn’t raining.

It was a Saturday. Mr Chaudhuri, his hairless legs protrudingfrom his shorts and at odds with his flabby upper body, opened thedoor, a beer in his hand. Learning that he was the driver who hadcome looking for a job, he called out, ‘Malini, that fellow has come,’and shuffled off down the hallway, leaving the door a little ajar. Hisvoice was friendly. Rakesh was touched that Mr Chaudhuri had notshut the door in his face. Through the chink, he saw bits of blondwood cabinets, swirls of colours from paintings on the wall and, in aphotograph, the face of a child with floppy hair.

Mrs Malini Chaudhuri emerged from one of the bedrooms, callingout to the maid to put on the rice. She was shaking her hair dry. Standingthere at the entrance to the apartment, Rakesh saw how beads ofwater scattered and flew from her hair and, somehow managing togleam even in that nothing light, landed at her feet. His trousers,dripping, were rolled up to his knees. He held his umbrella in his lefthand, fearful that it would muck up the marble floor if he put it down.He glanced, guilty, at the spreading puddle at his feet.

It was settled in a few minutes. Rakesh admitted that he had hadno real experience (at the Bombay port, he drove imported cars thathad arrived from the gangway to a shed a couple of hundred metresaway), and agreed to a salary of 4,000 rupees. He promised to becareful with the car and always be polite. He started the following day.

Mr Chaudhuri was the creative head of an advertising firm. Hespoke to Rakesh mostly in abstracted grunts and single words that

indicated the destination he wanted to be driven to (‘Worli’, ‘Parel’,‘Juhu’), as though the effort of speaking in complete sentences wastoo monumental an undertaking. All the way to and from his office inColaba at Bombay’s southernmost tip, he read or worked on hislaptop, or else he listened to music on his iPod – something thatRakesh had first mistaken for a fancy mobile phone. ‘Sir, your phone,’he had called out, running after Mr Chaudhuri one day when he hadleft his iPod behind in the car, his arm outstretched as if he wereholding out a votive offering, no more than the merest tips of histhumb and index fingers on the gadget. Mr Chaudhuri had taken itfrom him and smiled – a smile made up in equal parts of thanks,amusement and almost imperceptible pity.

As he got to know him, Rakesh began to grow fond of the littleboy, making sure that he was never late to drive him to school, andalways vigilant in traffic when he was squirming around on the backseat with his mother. He carried his heavy school bag for him, andenjoyed having him hang on to his finger when they crossed thebusy road in front of the school gate. He took care of the boy’s petpoodle when the family went on holiday. He offered him a singlerose, a red ribbon round its dethorned stem, on his birthday.

And Mrs Chaudhuri? He dared not explain or attempt to articulate –even to himself, especially to himself – how he saw her. Mrs Chaudhuriwas the one who made all the decisions that Rakesh saw asimportant; she it was who steered the course of his – and her family’s– day. She had come to trust him, asking him often these days abouthow they should do things – ‘Shall we go to the petrol pump now oron our way back?’; ‘Do you think we might be better off going viaTulsi Pipe Road?’ – and, more and more, adhering to his advice.

There were nights – lying on his thin mattress on the floor of hiseight-foot-by-ten-foot room, very drunk on pay day, the edges of thingsblurring, the small stove at the foot of his bed spinning, and he, it seemed,in orbit around it – that Rakesh had visions of Mrs Chaudhuri as shemight have been in the bathroom, before she had attired herself andcome to meet him on that first day, shaking the water from her hair.

Rakesh could never tell whether he had willed these visions intoexistence, or whether they had appeared to him unbidden as he laydrunk. He held them to himself and banished them, both with equalferocity. He felt as guilty as he did envious; as ashamed of himself asbold. The following morning, his head clear after he had rinsed himselfbeneath the thick rope of water from the communal tap at the cornerof the road, he had no clear recollection of the visions of the nightbefore. There remained only an unidentifiable sense of queasy unease.

Four months after he was hired, drivers at the office told him that hewas getting ripped off, that they would find him a better-paying job, nowthat he had learnt to drive well, and insisted that he ask for a raise.

Sleepless, Rakesh thought of it for two nights. The increasedmoney was a great temptation. For starters, he could buy the pair ofjeans that he had been eyeing at a pavement stall on Linking Road.But what if the Chaudhuris refused? What if they thought he was toogreedy and ungrateful, and said they wanted to get rid of him? Wouldhe find another job? Was it as certain as the drivers in the office saidit was? Or were they simply having him on?

Finally, having seen one of the drivers wearing a pair of jeansnearly identical to the ones he wished to have, he realised that hewould never be able to buy a pair like that if he didn’t have moremoney. He wouldn’t be able to get hair gel, which he now wanted. Inthe four months at the Chaudhuris’, he had begun to observe thingshe hadn’t before; he had begun to covet them too. He wanted new

Soumya Bhattacharya

SOMETHING OF NOTHING

R



clothes, and a tiny mobile phone that would fit into his palm. Heneeded T-shirts that at least looked like the ones Mr Chaudhuri wore.

One evening, as he was giving her back the car keys at the end ofthe day’s work, Rakesh asked Mrs Chaudhuri if his salary could beraised to 6,000 rupees. ‘Of course, of course,’ she said, without a blink.The little boy hugged her knees. ‘We were thinking of it in any case.You have come along well. We’ll do it right away.’

As he walked home that evening, he paused to look at the bigstores on Linking Road: Lacoste, Tommy Hilfiger, Esprit, Mango. Hedared not walk in. They sold the same clothes as the pavement stallsdid nearby. But these stores seemed to enclose and epitomise a worldutterly removed from the one represented by the stalls. How couldthe same thing, well almost the same thing, such as, say, a T-shirt,command such different prices and respect? He wanted to see whatthose items were like, to run his fingers under the collar of one ofthose T-shirts, caress the instep of one of those pairs of shoes.

Rakesh was thrilled that his salary had been raised by exactly asmuch as he’d wanted. At the same time, he felt angry and bitter becausethe amount meant nothing to the Chaudhuris. It was 50 per cent of whattill a moment ago had been his month’s pay, and to them it was a trifle;it was worth not even a moment’s consideration before they said yes.

‘Yaar, the rich have their own problems,’ one of the drivers at theoffice told Rakesh when he narrated to him how the Chaudhurishadn’t thought twice before raising his salary. ‘We have nothing.We have nothing to lose.’

Rakesh did not resent the Chaudhuris’ affluence, their suddentrips to the five-star hotels near the airport or to the city’s downtown.He did not mind Madam’s frequent forays to those stores (especiallythe Benetton one), and her emergence from them, laden with huge,bursting paper bags, progressing towards the car like a stately shiptowards its harbour, her purchases like billowing sails, her face stilldistracted from the present moment by the concentration she hadbrought to bear on buying all that stuff in the store.

The Chaudhuris were good people, Rakesh believed. He wasgrateful to them. They had given him a job when no one else wouldhave. They had given him a raise as soon as he had asked for one.They were unfailingly civil. They had bought him medicines on theoccasion that he had fallen ill, and paid for his visit to the doctor.

And yet, sometimes, when Madam and Sir bickered in low, tautvoices that carried over to him in the hermetically sealed, air-conditioned, upholstered pod of the car, he wanted to turn aroundand scream: ‘Don’t you know how lucky you are?’

In the heat of an afternoon undisturbed by even the suggestion of abreeze, Rakesh manoeuvred the car into the lane alongside theBenetton showroom. He had on his favourite pair of jeans – mossyblue-green with a serpent stitched in orange coiling its way up fromhis knee to his thigh. His floral-patterned shirt was not tucked in –just as he had seen Shah Rukh Khan wearing his shirt in the movie,Don – but in the brief walk from the car to the store, the shirt hadbegun to exhibit spreading patches of damp under his arms and onhis chest. Rakesh wiped his face with a handkerchief, and thenshoved his hand beneath his shirt and dabbed at his perspiring chestand armpits. Curious, anxious, afraid and confident, he stepped intothe store, the chilly environs of which no summer could touch.

He had the piece of paper that he would have to hand over at thecounter to get back Madam’s pair of jeans. He kept it in his hand incase someone asked him why he was here. But no one did. Peopledid not look at him. The ground floor housed the women’s sectionand Rakesh saw – as though it was too much, all this for the first time,all of this at one go – women emerging from the changing room,pirouetting in dresses that had no proper sleeves, in dresses that werenot much bigger than his handkerchief. He had involuntarily squeezedthe paper in his hand into a tight ball. Smoothing it out again, he

climbed the curving stairway to the first floor, the men’s department.Standing there, in the pressed, folded, hung glut of shirts, T-shirts,

jackets, trousers and jeans, Rakesh’s head began to swim. There wasa pleasant and unfamiliar smell around him; he couldn’t tell wherethe up-tempo music was coming from.

He reached out and picked up a white T-shirt. ‘Sir?’ the attendantwas immediately beside him. ‘Can I try this on?’ Rakesh asked inHindi. The attendant shrugged, did not smile, and pointed towardsthe changing room. Rakesh slipped on the T-shirt, raised its collar,lowered it, and examined himself from several angles in the full-length mirror. Peeling it off, he looked at the price tag: 2,500 rupees,more than one-third of what he earned in a month.

He hurried downstairs, handed over the paper at the counter,cradled the wrapped package containing Madam’s jeans as one wouldan infant, and walked out. Linking Road was empty, the pavementstalls dulled into torpor by the heat. Rakesh swung the car around,spinning the steering wheel with unwarranted force. From the lane inwhich he had parked, he bulleted on to the main road and turned lefttowards his employers’ home.

Through the windshield blazing with the afternoon light, he sawthe cat – mottled grey-brown and not very large – begin itsscamper-slink across the road. A cat crossing your path was a bad omen.All drivers waited for the cat to cross, and then waited some more forthe residue of that feline-induced bad luck to pass before driving on.

Rakesh revved his engine. He wouldn’t let the cat get away. Thecat’s tail tensed, but it didn’t look up. It scurried, but was exactly inRakesh’s path as he closed in on it. With a yard between them, Rakeshhit the brake. The cat darted across, still not looking up. A car washonking behind him. ‘Next time, the next time you cross my path,chutiya, see what I do,’ Rakesh mumbled. Unhurriedly, he drove on.

Paris Sam Riviere

In the middle of that storm-run summeryou met a blind girl in a bookstore.Her fingers smoothed the patternson the spines, as you reached outand touched her unkempt curls.

In a nearby park, her kisses were preciseas pinches. When you placed a handon her hip, or rib, or ankle, her eyesflickered, forgetful as the fountains,and each quick motion was your measure.

For a whole week you dreamedthrough falling bells and passing birdsof a tall building overlooking churches,so high your stomach lurchedand the ground reached up with its dumb wish.

Just once she stayed. Outside, cars sighedand shades of rain contained the roomwhere her restless gaze reread the ceiling,each saccade stopped short and repeated,catching on what, you’d never understand.

NEW POETRYThe Faber New Poets programme, organised by Faberand Faber and funded by Arts Council England, aims tosupport and promote new poets. Sam Riviere is one ofthis year’s awarded poets.

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osef was stunned, though the businessman in him ensured hedidn’t show it. He turned the pocket-watch over in his hand andopened the back. ‘Compensateur et parachute – Breguet no.2654.’Unbelievable! Just three numbers off. It was obviously stolen, no

question, and normally he wouldn’t even consider buying stolen goods.But he had to have this watch. It was fate; God’s will. He opened the innercase to examine the mechanism, making a show of adjusting his magnifier,and peering most intently. It was clear why it didn’t work; a simple caseof a loose spring: it had been over-wound. The rest of the mechanismlooked in near perfect condition. It was wonderful craftsmanship; avery fine piece of work. But most of all, it was just what he needed,what he’d almost given up hope of ever finding. And it had been broughtto him! To his workshop! And at what would no doubt be a bargainprice! Silently he said a short prayer to thank the Lord for grantinghim this moment, then looked up at the young man across the counter.He was fairly tall, lanky, with short, cropped hair and rather large ears.There was something slightly stupid about his face, possibly a littlethuggish. He wore a black hoody with a skull printed in white on thefront. He obviously had no idea what he had in his possession.

‘So mate, what do you reckon?’Josef closed the watch and placed it on the counter. ‘Well, the

mechanism is completely jammed; one of the screws may have comeloose. But I suspect worse. I won’t know until I take it apart, but …Have you taken it to anyone else?’

‘No.’‘Well, it looks like someone has made a hash of trying to repair it,

and there may even be a couple of wheels missing. As I say, I won’tknow for sure until I examine it properly.’

‘So, how much do you reckon?’ The young man was shifting hisweight from one leg to the other.

‘What do you say I give you two hundred for it?’‘Come on, mate, that’s gold, and it’s pretty old. It’s gotta be worth

more than that.’‘If it were working, sure. But as it is? Can I sell a broken watch? I may

have to make new parts for it, by hand, and that is time-consumingwork, very fiddly, and my eyes are not what they were. Maybe for meit is not worth it. Now if you leave it with me, then I could take aproper look, then I could tell you for sure. But as it is … ?’ This was agamble, but he had a hunch the young man would want a quick andeasy sale. He twisted the tip of his beard in a masquerade of deepconsideration. ‘Ok, and God knows I’m a fool, say, two hundred andfifty? And I’m doing you a favour.’

‘All right, it’s a deal. Cash, mind?’‘But of course.’ He reached down behind the counter for a metal

box, which he opened with a key and counted out five £50 notes.Then he took out his ledger and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket.

‘Two hundred and fifty pounds.’ He spoke the words out loud as hewrote. ‘Breguet gold-cased pocket watch. Broken. And your name is?’

‘Call me Jonny.’‘And your address?’‘I’m not giving you my fucking address, mate. Make something

up …’ He took the money from the counter and walked to the door,then turned back to Josef and pointed at him, raising his eyebrows ina mildly threatening manner. ‘Seeing ya …’

Well, £250 for an 1811 Bregeut quarter pump repeater, and in nearperfect condition. It’s got to be worth at least ten grand, a real museum

Rohan Kriwaczek

A FOOL WILLSTAY A FOOL

Lines Written on the Norfolk Broads Clare Pollard

We drifted through warm currents. Our hull chuggedpast windmills – sails as useless as fishbones –as Mallards raped, as Egyptian Geese shrugged,and flocks of plastic bottles caught in reeds.And then a glimpse of Kingfisher, it zagged –sky-backed, sun-bellied, rainbowed – out of green.Illumination in the margin inked with lapis lazuli. Tiny machine!

And in that blurred half-second how I missedthe bird already – already the pang!My mouth hadn’t the speed to shape the word ‘Kingfisher’, before it squeaked like the hinge of a door shutting; pierced the water’s chest.We churn on, through a world too slow, too fast.

Where cows are metPhilip Bentall

Downland. A chalky emulsion Of trodden plantain and jutting flint Makes up its ridgeway track. Overhead, skylarks’ faint Invisible chirrup follows In a dry verge hiss of wind Wire-strummed.

An hour could be a year, No one is seen. Then, where the ground levels and falls away,Cows are met – Sleepy heads dip and dark eyes peer, As if the last passer-by Wore skins and carried a flint-headed axe.

Time steams And swirls off their mud-splattered hindsNostrils flare and sniff Legs bend and brace.

Then the skittish backward lurch The startled-eyed retreat The avalanche of fears

And the field explodes with hooves As if mallets of stone age fists Were set hammering in barrows under chalk.

Cosmo Davenport-Hines, who was the youngest life

member of the London Library, died on 9 June 2008,

aged 21. The Cosmo Davenport-Hines Prize for Poetry

was set up last year at King’s College London in his

memory. Philip Bentall’s poem is this year’s winner.

J



piece. But that wasn’t the point. He went into the back office, openedthe safe, and removed a small black leather pouch. Once back at thecounter he took from it a gold pocket watch, his family pocket watchpassed down through at least six generations. He placed it next to hisnew acquisition. They were identical. He turned them over, openedthem up and examined the mechanisms under the magnifier. Yes, aperfect match, numbers 2654 and 2651, the exact same model, madeat the same time in the same workshop. He leant back in his chair,stroking his beard. He finally had it, in his hands; he had given uphope years ago, stopped even looking. But here it was. A gift.

He had told the story a thousand times; why he became awatchmaker: ‘You see my father; he was this great engineer, a boygenius, no less. And so it happened that, at the age of ten, when leftalone one evening, he took the family pocket watch and dismantledit, piece by piece, to see how it worked, you understand. When hewas discovered there was nothing but a pile of cogs and springs andwheels. Now after the customary beating he insisted he could put itback together. And that he did. If anything it kept time better thanbefore. So I, at the age of ten, I wanted to be like my father, so oneevening, when I was left alone, I took the pocket watch and myfather’s tools, and I took it apart, completely apart, but all I could seewas a pile of cogs and springs and wheels that made no sense at all.And then nobody could put it back together, not even my father, noteven the finest craftsman in London. And so I became awatchmaker. Perhaps I am still seeking my father’s approval, Godforgive him.’ But now, now he had the parts, original parts, the cogsand screws that had been lost, the ruby cylinder escapement, all inperfect working condition. It had to be God’s will.

At that moment the workshop came alive with a cacophony ofchimes announcing three o’clock. The Shabbos was calling. Hegathered up the two watches and placed them both carefully in thesafe. Just as he was locking up a lone cuckoo clock announced its owninaccuracy. Hmm … so it was still running slow. One day, he thought,one day they would all come alive at the very same moment. Andone day the Moshiach will come and the sick will all be healed … Ah,but a fool will stay a fool. And he smiled to himself.

That evening he told his wife with great enthusiasm all about thewatch, how it must be a gift from God, and she nodded dutifully,whilst preparing the cholent, and wondering which scarf she shouldwear to schul. Clocks and watches. It was all he ever talked about.For 30 years she’d heard nothing but clocks and watches. And, indeed, itwas all he could think about: throughout the Sabbath meal; listeningto his wife go on at length about Mrs Levine’s new conservatory; ashe sat in the synagogue; even talking to Rabbi Feldman about hiscousin’s business: in his mind all he saw was the gold pocket watch,and he rehearsed over and over what he was to do to make it wholeagain. Never had he been so impatient for the Shabbos to end.

As soon as the Havdalah candle was extinguished he put on hiscoat, made an excuse to his wife, who smiled but barely noticed, andreturned, at last, to his workshop. As he turned on the lights the manyclocks, cluttering on every surface and wall space, chimed into life, asif to greet him. It was nine o’clock. He probably had a couple of hoursleft in his old eyes. He retrieved the two watches and placed them onhis workbench. It was a shame in a way; such a beautiful piece, andin near perfect condition. But it had to be. It was meant to be. Justthen the cuckoo clock whirred as the little bird ventured forth. Threemore minutes in only twenty-four hours. That was more than just asimple adjustment to the nut. He would probably have to shorten thesuspension arm by another two millimetres. But that was not for now.

He pulled the magnifier into place and began the meticuloustask of dismantling the watch, piece by piece, carefully checkingeach part for wear before dropping it into an old tobacco tin. He hadno need to take the usual notes regarding order and placement; heknew the workings of this model intimately, even the parts he had

never knowingly seen before, the parts that had been missing sincehe was a boy. Many times over the years he had planned to makereplacements himself, studying the published drawings, even makinga few dummies in cheap brass, but something had always preventedhim from completing the task. In the end he had decided he neededoriginal parts, made in the Breguet workshop, parts like these. Threetimes his many clocks announced the hour before the final piece wasdropped into the tin and the gold case lay empty on his workbench.

By the time he got home his wife’s snores were rattling china inthe kitchen, and so he chose to sleep on the sofa, at the opposite endof the house. That night he dreamt that he had died, and his wholelife had flashed before him. He woke up, strangely jarred, to thesound of women gossiping in the hallway. Then the front door closedbehind them, and silence, except for the gentle ticking of a numberof clocks about the house. His wife insisted that the bells were allswitched off. They disturbed her peace. In truth, Josef suspected thatshe didn’t really like clocks. To her they were just a means ofmeasuring time; a digital watch would do just as well, and far morequietly. He lay there, on the sofa, for a surprising amount of time,listening to the ticking, thinking about his dream, about the pocket-watch, about the stiffness in his neck from lying crooked all night.

He arrived back at the workshop just after eleven. As he looked inthe tin there was a touch of regret at what he had done, but it soonpassed as he turned his thoughts to the other watch, his family watch;a watch that would soon tick again for the first time in over 50 years.This was much more fiddly work. It was always easier to take thingsapart than put them back together. Slowly, carefully, he set about thetask: first removing the verge and the main ratchet ensemble; fittingthe new ratchet wheel; replacing the cracked cylinder escapement,the click-spring and the missing second wheel; then painstakinglyreassembling the various parts to make the mechanism whole onceagain. Lastly he realigned and pinned the fusee in preparation forfitting the spring, the final piece, the heart that would bring it life. Hepicked it up with his crooked tweezers and held it under the magnifier.Along the side he could read the name, ‘Breguet’. And then it struck him:this was an important moment, a culmination, and not something tobe undertaken lightly. He dropped the spring in the tin and leantback in his chair, deep in thought, remembering his dream. Had nothis whole life been defined by the breaking of this watch? His choiceof profession; all the people he had met; his wife, his children. Andyet every time he had thought to fix it, something had stopped him.But now, now it was real, a two-minute job and it would all be over.The watch would be ticking once again, chiming every quarter, as hisfather had known it. Maybe he would wait a little; maybe he wasn’tyet quite ready for that. And really, it was time he headed home. Heplaced the spring carefully in a small brown envelope and slipped itinto his waistcoat pocket.

The following Shabbos Josef arrived home as usual; idly chatted tohis wife as she prepared the food, as usual; said the many blessings,ate and drank, all as usual. Then, after dinner, as they settled downin the front room to read he unexpectedly broke the silence.

‘I have a gift for you.’ He took from his pocket a blue velvetpresentation box and handed it to her. She opened it to find a smallgold brooch, with golden leaves around the edge and, at its centre,behind glass, a small blue spiral watch spring. As he explained to herwhat it was, its importance, why he hadn’t fitted it, and how he hadgot his cousin, a jeweller, to mount it in crystal and gold, she noddeddutifully, all the while thinking that she had nothing it would go with,and in any case it wasn’t very pretty. She would have preferred a cameo,like her mother used to wear. She had dropped the hint enough times.But nonetheless she was touched. It obviously meant something tohim. And he had clearly gone to some trouble. So she kissed himgently on the cheek, and he blushed, just a little.

NEW

WR

ITING


Helen Simpson’s first collection of short stories, Four Bare Legs

in a Bed and Other Stories (1990), won the Sunday Times Young

Writer of the Year Award and a Somerset Maugham Award; three

years later she was chosen as one of Granta’s Best of Young British

Novelists, despite not being a novelist: it’s her devotion to the

short story form that marks her out. A collection entitled Dear

George was published in 1995; and Hey Yeah Right Get a Life, a

collection of loosely linked stories about modern women and

motherhood appeared in 2000 and won the Hawthornden Prize.

She was awarded the E.M.Forster Award in 2002 by the American

Academy of Arts and Letters. Helen wrote the libretto for the jazz

opera, Good Friday, 1663, screened on Channel 4 television, and

the lyrics for Kate and Mike Westbrook’s jazz suite Bar Utopia.

Her latest collections of short stories are Constitutional (2005)

and In-Flight Entertainment, published last month by Jonathan

Cape. She lives in London and writes with a fountain pen.

Erica Wagner: As a fiction writer, are you ever tempted by the

longer form?

Helen Simpson: I’ve never written a novel or even part of one,

I’m afraid, though I did once write a novella – Flesh and Grass, a

vegetarian stomach-churner – which was published in 1990

along with Ruth Rendell’s The Strawberry Tree under the general

title Unguarded Hours. Until now I haven’t really felt the need to

range beyond the short story form, such is its

versatility. One thing the novel can do that

the short story can’t, however, is to show

character changing in time. For me, that

would be the main temptation offered by the

longer form.

EW: I ask the previous question because, well,

you ‘have’ to ask that, don’t you? We live in

a ‘novel’ culture, much more so than in the

United States, where a volume of short stories

can, for example, win the Pulitzer Prize for

Fiction. Here stories are excluded from the

main prizes: why do you think the British

appear to be more resistant to short stories?

HS: You’re right, I hadn’t really thought about

it, but at some point the Brits must have

decided that size matters when it comes to

giving prizes. Give us our money’s worth! There is a basic

confusion here, though, surely. Just as short need not mean

small or slight, so long need not mean big or profound.

A short-story writer is not merely a lazy would-be novelist

who’s run out of puff. A.E. Coppard, under pressure from his

publisher to turn from short stories to writing a novel, was under

no such illusion, describing how he ‘cringed from the awful job of

hacking out mere episodes into epic stature, draping the holes in

them with bogus mysticism, factitious psychology, and the

backchat of a paperhanger’. I’m sure you can think of various

prize-winning novels that fit this description perfectly, and

which might have been better from an artistic point of view had

they been condensed into short stories.

EW: What makes short stories special?

HS: In the short story a writer can do something powerful but

with a light touch. It’s direct and intimate and it doesn’t waste

time. The challenge is, maximum power for minimum length.

Also, it’s technically demanding and tests the writer’s mastery

of form; every story has its own shape, and finding that shape

is a major part of the challenge and pleasure of writing it.

EW: What tipped you toward writing about climate change in

In-Flight Entertainment? Has writing about it led you to alter

your own life in any way?

HS: It’s always fun when you’re writing to zoom in on what’s

currently uncomfortable – on what causes a

silence to fall – and one such touchy subject

now is, whether we ought to cut back on air

travel for the sake of the future. This

suggestion never fails to annoy. Anyway, I

wanted to see if I could make interesting

fiction from climate change. It’s an undeniably

important subject – it’s the elephant on the

horizon – but it’s also undeniably difficult,

boring (for the non-scientists among us) and

horrifying to contemplate. I’d heard someone

at the BBC lamenting how unsuccessful their

invitations to ‘creatives’ had been in eliciting

any good fiction on the subject, and I thought,

yes, that would be really difficult to do, make

climate change interesting. Well, I like a

challenge. I went at it from different angles,


In a conversation with Erica Wagner, Helen Simpson emphasises thepower and intimacy of the short story, and describes her response, asa member and writer, to the London Library

SHORT CUTS

Helen Simpson’s new collection of shortstories, In-Flight Entertainment (2010).

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treating it as a love story, a dramatic monologue, a satirical comedy,

a sales pitch and a dystopian diary. They’re all here in this collection.

I ought to make it clear that I’m not interested in writing

polemic. As a reader I resent fiction that has designs on me, and

as a writer I feel it’s my duty to resist writing about what I think I

ought to write about. The rule is, write only about what stimulates

your imagination. Oddly, this did. I sensed rich comic pickings.

We travel because it’s fun, however much we moan about it. We

can’t really take a morally righteous tone about air travel being

good for us, or essential. There is nothing intrinsically virtuous

about getting on a plane.

Has it altered my own habits, writing on this subject? Yes.

Once you do the research and know more, it does tend to

moderate your behaviour. I didn’t give up meat when I’d written

my vegetarian novella but, ever since, I have eaten less of it and

tried to make sure it’s from humanely reared sources. Similarly,

having done all the reading for In-Flight Entertainment, I haven’t

stopped flying altogether but I do now take the train rather

than the plane wherever possible. This change of habit was

unexpectedly rewarded in April this year – I was in Amsterdam

for a short story festival when the Icelandic volcano grounded

Europe, but I managed to get home without too much trouble

as (feeling mildly eccentric at the time) I had in advance asked

the festival organisers if I could travel by train rather than plane.

EW: How did you become a member of the London Library?

HS: On the day I joined the London Library, I see that I scribbled

in my notebook of that time, ‘What I need – a bolt-hole.’ (I had

just left the security of a staff job on a magazine for the supposed

freedom of freelancing, and was hoping to concentrate on fiction.)

The entry continues, ‘I’m not sure I can write stories in this Reading

Room, with its stealthy library noises, creaks and smothered

sneezes. But I did notice a few tables scattered in dusty corners

in biography etc when I was shown round, so I’ll explore.’

A couple of pages on, having investigated further, I note, ‘Quiet

chair – Top, Foreign Lit, in window; Biog A–L, small card table at

window; Religion (octavo) – wooden table at window (nr lift).’

EW: How do you like to use the Library? What's so special about

it, to you?

HS: I had been using the British Library before I joined the London

Library, going on there in the evenings after work to finish my

thesis on Restoration farce. (This was some 20 years ago, when it

was still housed in the British Museum.) Anyway, I wanted more

freedom, a break from academic study, and to be able to borrow

books too. My notebook approvingly records, ‘Carlyle founded

the LL, dissatisfied with the B.M. – 1840, urged his listeners to help

found the Library – “A collection of good books contains all the

nobleness and wisdom of the world before us. Every heroic and

victorious soul has left his stamp upon it. A collection of good

books is the best of all Universities; for the University only

teaches us how to read the book: you must go to the book itself

for what it is.”’ It’s this spirit I like about the London Library, this

and its benign atmosphere. I have used it over the years as (yes)

a bolt-hole, an occasional place to write, and also for borrowing

books. The last time was last week, when I was supposed to

produce an article about Colette but couldn't find my copy of

Judith Thurman’s indispensable biography, Secrets of the Flesh:

A Life of Colette. I rang the London Library and within seconds

one of its three copies had been put aside for me to collect.

Having just checked inside the cover, I find this copy (one of

three, remember) has been date-stamped thirty-five times since

its arrival in 2000.

EW: Tell me a story about the London Library.

HS: The Reading Room’s spacious armchairs have always been

dangerously inviting. Twenty years ago, they used to fill up in the

early afternoon with an assortment of regulars, mostly elderly

gents who treated the Library as another of their clubs. It would

seem to me, indeed, after my sandwich on a bench in St James’s

Square, that these old boys had elected it as their top favourite

After-Lunch Club, ideal for a post-prandial snooze. Quite often the

Library calm was enlivened in the early afternoon by a concert

of whistles and snoring. More than once I witnessed a librarian

leave his desk when the noise reached a crescendo and gingerly

approach its source, using a ruler to prod the slumberer into

snorting wakefulness. I used to laugh at this in rather a superior

way until one afternoon, in the irresistible drowsiness of pregnancy,

I found myself drawn to the deepest armchair; the next thing I

knew was a whispered ‘Wakey wakey!’ in my ear and a Cheshire-

cat grin from my neighbour, the stoutest of the stout fellows into

whose ranks, unconscious or not, I had just been enlisted.

EW: Have you ever found a book there that’s helped you in some

unexpected way? What I love about the Library is its serendipitous

nature. I wonder if something you've discovered there has set you

off in a different direction than the one you thought you were

going in …

HS: You’re right about the serendipity factor. Like every new

member of the Library, I was incredulous at the random

surrealism of the classifications listed on certain shelf columns.

‘Sugar Suicide Sundials’, I recorded in my notebook early on,

and the manual on sundials was one of the first books I borrowed.

This led me on to a peculiar little volume about mottoes and those

who have adopted them – Non Recuso Laborem – I do not refuse

labour (Dover College, Kent); Non Ignobiliter Ancillari – To serve

not ignobly as a handmaid (Dental Training Establishment, RAF);

Non Moritur Cuius Fama Vivit – He dies not whose fame lives

(Congreve of Walton). I copied these into my library notes. They

have all come in useful at various times since then, as it happens.

A short-story writer is notmerely a lazy would-benovelist who’s run out of puff

‘’

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HIDDEN CORNERS

BOWLEDOVER

ibraries have always fascinatedme. Part of the fascination liesin the fact that, when I wasgrowing up in Bombay, as Ishall always call the city, the

library that I, and all my friends, reallywanted to belong to was out of reach. Wewere made to wait before we were allowedin as members. It was not a case of walkingin and borrowing a book; you had to earnthe right to do so.

Unlike this country, India is not a landdotted with local libraries where everylocality has a library to which all residentscan belong. There were, of course, librarieslike the mighty Asiatic, appropriately notfar from the Reserve Bank of India, but thiswas for scholars, not snotty nosed school-boys like me. Then there were travellinglibraries like the one that brought booksto our home for my mother to read, butthese were in Bengali, the language of myancestors but foreign to me.

The library I wanted to belong to wasthe British Council library. This had thebooks I craved: the biographies and auto-biographies of the English cricketers andfootballers I wished to emulate. But suchwas the demand for this library thatnobody could become a member untilthey had reached the age of 16.

Fortunately for me, as I waited forthat birthday, I discovered, just oppositemy home, the office of the British DeputyHigh Commissioner, which had a library.True, it was not a lending library, and hadno books on cricket I could borrow, but Icould read reports of cricket matches inBritish newspapers. To add to the pleasure,

none of my schoolfriends knew of thelibrary. This made me feel that going to alibrary was like a journey to the source ofa river; that this is where it all began, andthis is where you began to understand themeaning of life.

I have always felt the same way aboutthe London Library, having been a memberfor nearly 30 years. But recently, what hasheightened the pleasure is the discoverythat this mighty river of books has afascinating tributary, one that is not verywell known but is full of magical surprises,twists and turns, waiting to be explored.

This tributary is the Library’s collectionof cricket books. The discovery is all thesweeter because, in all my years of beinga member, sport, let alone cricket, has notbeen a subject I have associated with theLondon Library. How wrong I was. Itpossesses a fine selection and, while thecollection is somewhat eccentric, it is alsounique. It was while researching this articlethat I discovered a book that I never knewexisted, and that has always been thehallmark of a great library.

The eccentricity lies in the fact thatthere is not one particular place whereall cricket books are gathered; a singlecricket-related book may be found in Art,for example, while the lives of key playersare, of course, in Biography. The first portof call for cricket lovers, though, is inScience and Miscellaneous, just after thesection on cremation. The cricket fan mayjoke that placing cricket after cremation isappropriate. After all, is not the Ashes seriesbetween England and Australia the oldestinternational contest and the pinnacle of

Mihir Bose considers the magical surprises to be found inlibraries, and describes his discoveries in the London Library’ssmall but distinctive cricket collection

Fred Leist’s ‘The Wicket-keeper’, c.1905, from CricketCartoons and Caricatures (1989) by George Plumptre.

L

the game? But it does suggest to me thatthere is a certain Library disdain for thegame, as if it is not quite sure what to dowith literary writing on a sport.

I am all the more inclined to take thisview because of cricket being housed inScience and Miscellaneous. It reflects ahistorical divide in English society betweenarts and sports. We in this country may likeour arts to be delicate, and our humour tobe ironic rather than slapstick; other nationsmay fall about when the banana-skin skitis played, but we prefer the many layeredMonty Python dead-parrot sketch, stillthe epitome of classic English humour.But when it comes to sport most Britishfans inevitably distrust the artist andprefer the artisan.

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Britain has always had a huge gulfseparating sports and the arts. In Americamen of letters made no apologies forwriting about sport. Many of that country’sbest writers started off as sports writers.True, Neville Cardus, the doyen of ourcricket writers, was also music critic of theManchester Guardian. But while he usedmusical analogies to describe cricketers,he never invoked cricketers to describe aMozart or Beethoven concert.

The collection here is a rich mixtureof books that any decent cricket libraryshould have. So there are Cardus’s manyvolumes, books by evocative writers likeAlan Ross and R.C. Robertson-Glasgow,P.G. Wodehouse’s Wodehouse at the Wicket,edited by Murray Hedgcock (1997), andsome, like Clem Seecharan’s MuscularLearning: Cricket and Education in theMaking of the British West Indies to theEnd of the 19th Century (2006), which

should appeal to many beyond cricket. The several volumes of Robertson-

Glasgow include Crusoe on Cricket: TheCricket Writings of R.C. Robertson-Glasgow(1966) and The Brighter Side of Cricket (1950).Robertson-Glasgow got his nickname whenplaying for Somerset against Essex. TheEssex batsman Charlie McGahey, asked byhis captain how he had got out, replied:‘I wasbowled by an old **** I thought was dead2,000 years ago, called Robinson Crusoe.’

These books are nicely supplementedby a couple of works by Alan Ross, arguablythe finest poet and essayist ever to be acricket correspondent of a nationalnewspaper (he was also a long-servingeditor of the London Magazine, of whichthe Library has a complete run). Rosswho, like me, was born in Calcutta, wroteon many subjects, and his collectedjournalism published in Green FadingInto Blue: Writings on Cricket and Other

Sports (1999) is well worth a dip, as is hisbiography Ranji: Prince of Cricketers (1983).

As you would expect, no cricketcollection can miss out W.G. Grace, theman who invented the modern game. Oneof these, ‘WG’: Cricketing Reminiscencesand Personal Recollections (1891), is notsurprisingly stored in the Library’s safe.Another famous cricketer, Donald Bradman,is represented with his classic Farewell toCricket (1950). Perhaps the most unusualbook featuring Bradman is the 1950 edition,to which he contributed a foreword, ofAllahakbarries C.C. (1890; revised 1899).This is a book on the eponymous amateurcricket team founded by J.M. Barrie, whichwas active from 1890 to 1913 and includedseveral literary figures, among them ArthurConan Doyle, H.G. Wells, G.K. Chesterton,A.A. Milne and P.G. Wodehouse. For goodmeasure the Library also has David RayvernAllen’s Peter Pan and Cricket (1988),which discusses Barrie’s love for the game.

For those interested in cricket classicsthere is James Pycroft’s 1854 book TheCricket Field, or, The History and theScience of Cricket, which has a descriptionof cricket on ice and a match involving theone-armed and one-legged pensioners ofGreenwich and Chelsea. It is right to movefrom Pycroft to J. Nyren, whose 1833 bookThe Young Cricketer’s Tutor warns that‘A man who is essentially stupid will notmake a fine cricketer.’

However, in keeping with the Library’ssomewhat eccentric cricket collectionstyle, the 150-odd titles in Science and

‘Bats – Old style and the new’, from Cricket (1891)by W.G. Grace.

Above Cricket (1891) by W.G. Grace.

Right ‘Hammond plays a forcing backstroke’, from Cricket (1936) by D.R. Jardine.

1 2 3



Miscellaneous do not include a singlevolume of Wisden’s Cricketer’s Almanack.If there is one book I would take to adesert island it would be a Wisden. As achild, even more than wanting to becomea member of the British Council library, Iwanted to buy a copy of Wisden. My senseof fulfilment when I finally managed to dothat – it was almost my first act when I gotto London – cannot be described. Thoseyellow covered books that chronicle theseason just gone present this most unique ofgames in a manner no other sport can match.

The Library has Wisdens, but findingthem requires a hike up to the 7th floor ofthe Back Stacks. The collection of yellowmasters is far from complete. There arevolumes from 1864 to 1878, not in yellowbut in facsimile editions. Then a singlevolume for 1914 and, as if to mark themomentous nature of the start of the FirstWorld War, the next Wisden is the 1962edition. The Library has a Wisden forevery year since 1962, and maybe thelibrarian is telling us that, just as the year1914 has great significance for the world,so has the date 1962 for cricket. It markeda historic moment in the English game. A

year later English cricket finally abolishedthe distinction between Gentlemen andPlayers. This was hitherto such a sharpdistinction that gentlemen, who supposedlyplayed for the love of the game, had theirown dressing rooms and often their ownentrance on to the field. The players mayhave been more gifted as cricketers but,because they accepted money to play,they could never captain a side. Even whenin 1952 England made Len Hutton theirfirst professional captain, he did not captainhis native Yorkshire team, which carried onwith the amateur tradition until the 1960s.

The London Library is nothing if notcapable of surprises, and it is the rare orfragile material collection that has one ofthe most remarkable cricket books I haveever seen. The book is Sporting Memories:

“A man who isessentially stupidwill not make afine cricketer”’‘ My Life as Gloucestershire County Cricketer,

Rugby and Hockey Player and Member ofIndian Police Service (1924) by Major W. Troup. This man played cricket withW.G. Grace, hockey in Bombay’sprestigious Aga Khan Tournament andhelped police the Raj. His book displaysclearly the racism that underpinned theRaj. He has hardly a good word to say aboutthe Indians whom, in the Raj style, herefers to as natives. The only good Indians,in his view, are the Maharajahs, some ofwhom he served. But in this view Troupwas merely reflecting the prejudices of hisage. The worth of the book is in the rivetingpicture it paints of sport and society.

The Library may not have found theright place for the Wisdens and it certainlyneeds to have a complete set. But in housingTroup’s book in the rare collection, alongwith books by Grace, the Library has got itabsolutely right. This serves to emphasisethat, while the Library’s cricket collection issmall, it is both rare and distinctive, in keepingwith the nature of the London Library.

www.mihirbose.com twitter.com/mihirbose





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MEMBERS’ NEWSINTRODUCING JANE OLDFIELD, OUR NEW DEPUTY LIBRARIAN

There are not many jobs in librarianshipwhere an ability to read architects’ plansfeatures in the list of required skills, butLibrarian and Deputy Librarian of TheLondon Library are currently amongthem. Fortunately the Librarian grew upin an architect’s practice as it happenedalso to be her family home, and ournew Deputy Librarian, Jane Oldfield,

has spent much of her career in specialist architecture andconstruction libraries in central and local government and theprivate sector. She comes to us after 13 years at the RoyalInstitute of British Architects, where she was first InformationServices Librarian and then Deputy Director of the BritishArchitectural Library.

‘My first visit to the London Library, on a library studies tourwhile a student at Loughborough University, made quite animpression on me and I decided then I would join one day. Severalyears later, a serendipitous discussion with a colleague in the thenDepartment of Education and Science, led me to study art historyat Birkbeck, majoring on the architecture options, followed by an

MA at the Courtauld Institute. During this period I joined theLondon Library and made extensive use of the old Art Room andthe history section for my dissertation, plus the fiction section forlight relief. As I was also working part time, I did not have muchopportunity for browsing, so visits were targeted forays intoparticular sections hoping I would not get lost on the way or toomesmerised by the shelf labels, which were like nothing I hadever encountered. The staff became familiar, friendly, helpful faces.

Now, on the other side of the counter so to speak, the breadthof the collection enthrals me. In my first week trying to orientatemyself I encountered a section on werewolves in Science andMiscellaneous. Where else but the London Library? As rambling(with maps, hopefully not speech) is a hobby, the opportunity towander around a constantly changing building with the architect’splans testing out the new signage has been an enjoyable challenge.And the big bonus – those helpful staff previously encounteredare still here, but no longer anonymous, and I have plenty ofmaterial to read on the train. Not just in the realm of architecture,but more history, biography, landscape design, travel, the classics,plenty of fiction and that book on werewolves.’

Jane Oldfield, Deputy Librarian

Let knowledge growfrom more to more.In Memoriam

– ALFRED, LORD TENNYSONLondon Library President 1885–1892

A UNIQUE LITERARY LEGACYFrom its founding in 1841, members have made bequests,both small and large, to the London Library. This spirit ofgiving continues to be vital to the Library’s developmentin the twenty-first century.

A legacy is a powerful way to acknowledge the scholarship,the literary refuge and the pleasure that the Library hasoffered to so many, and an effective means of ensuringthat this intellectual oasis continues to serve the needsof generations of readers and writers to come.

For further details, please consult the PDF leaflet fromthe Support Us tab of the Library’s website, or call theDevelopment Office on (020) 7766 4704 to discusshow your gift can enhance our current collections andfuture plans.

www.londonlibrary.co.uk



ANOTHER VITAL DONATION TOTHE CAPITAL CAMPAIGNThe Library is delighted to announce that it is the recipient of a £1 million donation fromThe Underwood Trust. This generous contribution to the Library’s Development Appeal hassupported the transformation of the Art Room into the beautiful facility all members arenow able to use and enjoy.

The Library is continuing to seek support from individuals, trusts and foundations for theDevelopment Project, and donations such as this one allow us to maintain crucial momentumas we prepare for subsequent phases. We are immensely grateful to The Underwood Trust andlook forward to being able to highlight other significant Development Appeal contributions infuture issues of the magazine.

JOIN THE LIBRARY ON FACEBOOKMembers who use Facebook are encouraged to sign up to the Library’s newfan page, where information, images and interesting tidbits are posted forthe enjoyment of members and those who are interested in all thingsLondon Library.

The page has already attracted more than 520 fans – we look forward to seeing you online!

The 169th Annual

General Meeting of The

London Library will take

place on Thursday,

4 November 2010 in

the Reading Room at

6 p.m. Drinks will be

served in the Issue Hall

from 5.30 p.m. Do

come along to meet the

trustees and staff.

Diary Date:2010 AGM

One day earlier this year when I was updating a notice in theMembers’ Room about the latest book moves, a membercommented that he didn’t know how the staff kept track of allthe changing routes through the building and constant shuntingof books from one location to another. ‘It must,’ he said, ‘be likeplaying chess in 3D.’

With this stage of the Development Project all but completed,here is a flavour of the Phase 2 game in numbers …

97 different project information notices posted in-houseand on the website to keep members up-to-date with building and book-move changes

9 months with no lift

296 stairs to climb on each return journey from the Issue Hall to T.S. Eliot House Basement to retrieve material for members while there was no lift and no access through the 2nd-floor lobby

228 stairs to climb on a return journey from the Issue Hallto the 6th floor to retrieve material

924 items requested from temporary outstorage at Wickford,delivered and processed for next-day collection

28,007 books retrieved by staff and set aside for members in the Issue Hall to satisfy hold requests placed online, by email or phone

4 Saturday assistants who found that access routes into and around the Library and access to various parts of the collections were different every day they came to work for a year

13.8 km of books moved to make way for building workor to fill new shelving locations afterwards

… and we’re still making the new stack end-boards and shelflabels to go with them! Helen O’Neill, Head of Reader Services

DEVELOPMENT PROJECT PHASE 2: ‘… LIKE PLAYING CHESS IN 3D’



DIARY

THIS SEASON’S LITERARY EVENTS EMILY PIERCE

FESTIVALSJULYLedbury Poetry Festival (2–11 July,poetry-festival.com), Herefordshire.

Buxton Festival (7–25 July,buxtonfestival.co.uk), the Peak District.

Ways With Words festival of words andideas (9–19 July, wayswithwords.co.uk),Dartington Hall, Devon.

Shakespeare Birthplace Trust's PoetryFestival (14 July–1 August, shakespeare.org.uk), Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire.

Port Eliot Festival (23–25 July, porteliotfestival.com), St Germans, Cornwall.

AUGUSTEdinburgh International Book Festival(14–30 August, edbookfest.co.uk).

SEPTEMBER Wordplay Shetland (4–5 September,shetlandarts.org/events/wordplay).

Small Wonder (23–26 September,charleston.org.uk/smallwonder),Charleston, East Sussex, the festivaldedicated exclusively to the short story.

Hampstead and Highgate Festival (24 September–3 October, hamandhighfest.co.uk), London.

Wigtown Book Festival (24 September–3 October, wigtownbookfestival.com),Galloway.

Marlborough LitFest (24–26 September,marlboroughlitfest.org), Wiltshire.

The Appledore Book Festival (25 September–3 October, appledorebookfestival.co.uk),North Devon.

EVENTSJULYThe exhibition The Surreal House, at the Barbican Art Gallery (ongoing to 12 September) features artists, architects

and film makers including Salvador Dalí,Marcel Duchamp, Louise Bourgeois andRebecca Horn. Every Thursday, TheSurreal House stays open until 10pm forperformances, artist films and events.Gain a unique insight into the theory ofSurrealism and the unconscious mind in aseries of talks and discussions, and enjoysurreal drinks at the bar (exhibition andfilm tickets, barbican.org.uk).

Join the Wellcome Collection for a special2-part Skin:posium on 16–17 July toexplore nakedness in all its guises, whichaccompanies the exhibition Skin (10 June–26 September). The price includes literaryreadings and talks, drinks on Fridayevening, and lunch, tea and coffee on

RECENT LITERARY AWARDS

Congratulations to the Library memberswho were nominated for or have wonliterary awards recently

William Fiennes, The Music Room,shortlisted for the 2009 Duff Cooper Prize Tristram Hunt, The Frock-CoatedCommunist: The Revolutionary Life ofFriedrich Engels, winner of the 2010Elizabeth Longford Prize for HistoricalBiography; shortlisted for the 2009 DuffCooper PrizeAamer Hussein, Another Gulmohar Tree,shortlisted for the 2010 CommonwealthWriters' Prize (Eurasia Region, Best Book)

David Kynaston, Family Britain, shortlistedfor the 2009 Duff Cooper PrizeDominic Lieven, Russia Against Napoleon,shortlisted for the 2009 Duff Cooper PrizeIan McEwan, Solar, winner of the 2010Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize forComic FictionPatrick Ness, The Ask and the Answer,shortlisted for the 2010 Carnegie MedalSarah Waters, The Little Stranger, longlistedfor the 2010 Orange Prize for Fiction

The magazine would welcome anyinformation from members who havewon or been nominated for prizes, to beincluded in future issues. Please senddetails to: [email protected]

Saturday (tickets £20/£30 from 020 76112222; wellcomecollection.org).

To hear Michael Palin* regaling fellowdiners with George Harrison’s antics anddiscussing the creation of A Fish CalledWanda, along with his new book Halfwayto Hollywood, Diaries 1980–1988, cometo the atmospheric top British restaurantSt Pancras Grand on 19 July, whereFoyles (foyles.co.uk) will host a literary 3-course supper (tickets £40 fromAmanda Gowing, tel. 0207 870 9900,email [email protected]; for menu,stpancrasgrand.com).

Or why not sneak away from the officeor the Library for an hour at lunch timeon Friday, 30 July, to join Simon Callow*at Foyles, 113–119 Charing Cross Road,who will read from and discuss his newautobiography My Life in Pieces (1pm, free,email [email protected] to reserve a place).

SEPTEMBERThe Byron Society invites you to join themon a visit to Brighton Pavilion on 18September, with a private guided tour ofthe Pavilion, lunch at the Ship Inn and atour of the Theatre Royal, all haunts ofByron (thebyronsociety.com).

* current Library member

Villa Dall’Ava, St Cloud, Paris, designed by OMAarchitects, 1991. © Peter Aaron/Esto © OMA/DACS2010, at the Barbican exhibition The Surreal House.


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Issue 8