Trovato

When I was a child, I was given a book called Trovato. It was written and illustrated by someone who called herself simply Bettina, which I thought peculiar. I've just looked her up and discovered she was an Austrian, driven out by the Nazis.

I did not much like the way she drew faces, and I found the story her book told disturbing on many levels. It concerned an old single lady, which I found worrying in itself, as she appeared to have no real friends or relatives. I always find the possibility of loneliness disturbing. Then there was the event that triggered the story - an earthquake in Italy. That was really worrying. Surely earthquakes never happened in Europe, I thought.

Alas, Bettina was right on that score. I pulled out the book, following the Umbrian earthquake. It is an odd little tale, but, if you overlook the faces, strangely attractive, I think. Perhaps it is simply that it has been with me for such a long time. Anyway, here it is, (if you want to read the text clearly double click on each picture, if on a tablet, or click once on a computer, and it should come up in its own screen, with much better resolution):

I think Eliza is probably my favourite character in the book.

Waugh Food

I like reading about food in fiction and often include descriptions of meals from novels in, (on? isn't it always the little words that trip you up peskily, whatever language you're in?,) this blog. In this context, I've been listening to Audible's brilliantly read, unabridged audio recording of Evelyn Waugh's Sword of Honour trilogy, and I've noticed that in the second volume food plays a rather prominent role. Perhaps this is because the characters spend quite a lot of time feeling hungry, and therefore it is appropriate that eating should come to the fore, as it is probably dominating their thoughts a great deal of the time. 

Perhaps the most significant culinary moment in the book takes place during the retreat from Crete in May 1941. A character called Major Hound, aka Fido, gives in to hunger, to his eternal cost:

"All round now heads were bobbing up in the bushes but no one moved on the road. The Sergeant swung his pack forward and took out a tin of biscuits and a tin of bully-beef. He hacked the meat open with his bayonet and began carefully dividing it.

Fido watched. He craved. Not Guy nor the ragged, unshaven Sergeant, not Fido himself who was dizzy with hunger and lack of sleep, nor anyone on that fragrant hillside could know that this was the moment of probation. Fido stood at the parting of the ways. Behind him lay a life of blameless professional progress; before him the proverbial alternatives: the steep path of duty and the heady precipice of sensual appetite. It was the first great temptation of Fido's life. He fell.

'I say, Sergeant,' he said in an altered tone, 'have you any of that to spare?'

'Not to spare. Our last tin.'

Then one of the other men spoke, also gently.

'You don't happen to have a smoke on you, sir?'

Fido felt in his pocket, opened his cigarette case and counted.

'I might be able to spare a couple,' he said.

'Make it four and you can have my bully. I'm queer in the stomach.'

'And two biscuits.'

'No, I can eat biscuit. It's bully I never have fancied.'

'One biscuit.'

'Five fags.'

The deal was done. Fido took his price of shame in his hand, the little lump of the flaky, fatty meat and his single biscuit. He did not look at Guy, but went away out of sight to eat. It took a bare minute. Then he returned to the centre of his groups and sat silent with his map and his lost soul."

There are many more meals in the book, but none so fateful. Some - for instance, the "nourishing but economical meal" Virginia orders one evening with "Trimmer" - we are denied any details of, while others come with almost too many details supplied. The meal Dr Glendening-Rees is providing for himself when Guy Crouchback, the trilogy's hero, happens upon him at the edge of the sea falls, I think, into this last category:

"As Guy returned to the hotel, he paused to observe a man with a heavy load on his back who stood on the edge of the sea, bent double among the rocks and clawing at them, it appeared, with both hands. He rose when he saw Guy, and advanced towards him carrying a dripping mass of weed; a tall wild man, hatless and clothed in a suit of roughly dressed leather; his grey beard spread in the wind like a baroque prophet's; the few exposed portions of skin were as worn and leathery as his trousers; he wore gold-rimmed pince-nez and spoke not in the accents of Mugg but in precise academic tones.

'Do I, perhaps, address Colonel Blackhouse?'

'No,' said Guy, 'No, not at all. Colonel Blackhouse is in London.'

'He is expecting me. I arrived this morning. The journey took me longer than I expected. I came North on my bicycle and ran into some very rough weather. I was just getting my lunch before making myself known. Can I offer you some?'

He held out the seaweed.

'Thank you,' said Guy. 'No, I am just going to the hotel. You must be Dr Glendening-Rees!'

'Of course.' He filled his mouth with weed and chewed happily, regarding Guy with fatherly interest. 'Lunch at the hotel?' he said. 'You won't find hotels on the battle-field, you know.'

'I suppose not.'

'Bully beef,' said the doctor. 'Biscuit, stewed tea. Poison. I was in the first war. I know. Nearly ruined my digestion for life. That's why I've devoted myself to my subject.' He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of large limpets. 'Try these. Just picked them. Every bit as agreeable as oysters and much safer. There's everything a man can want here,' he said, gazing fondly at the desolate fore-shore. 'A rare banquet. I can warrant your men will miss it when they get inland. Things aren't made quite so easy for them there, particularly at this time of year. Not much showing above ground. You have to grub for it and know what you're looking for. It's all a matter of having a flair. The young roots of the heather, for instance, are excellent with a little oil and salt, but get a bit of bog myrtle mixed with them and you're done. I don't doubt we can train them.'

He sucked greedily at the limpets."

The one really tempting meal in the book to my mind is this one, taken in Sidi Bishr one evening by Guy and Tommy, his commanding officer of the moment:

"He and Guy went to the Union Bar. It did not occur to them to ask Major Hound to join them. The restaurant seemed as full as ever, despite the notorious crisis in manpower. They ate lobster pilaff and a great dish of quail cooked with Muscat grapes.

'It may be our last decent meal for some time,' Tommy remarked. 'The BGS heard from someone that fresh food is rather short in Crete.'

They ate six birds and drank a bottle of champagne. Then they had green artichokes and another bottle.

'I dare say in a day or two we shall think of this dinner,' said Tommy gazing fondly at the leaves which littered their plates, 'and wish we were back here.'

'Not really,' said Guy, washing the butter from his fingers."

I suppose I should also mention the one recurring food reference in the volume, (other than bully-beef). It is the repeated description of Corporal-Major Ludovic's eyes. They are, we are told time and again, "the colour of oysters." It is a brilliant, if disturbing touch. But Waugh is brilliant, and not simply about food.

Dream of Watching Tractors Forever

Having only daughters, small boys are an intriguing mystery to me. Years ago, I mentioned the fascination heavy machinery clearly has for many of them. I was reminded of that again recently by similar incidents.

First, my older daughter was accompanying a three-year-old boy cousin on the trampoline at his parents' house. From the trampoline, there is a wide vista of Devon fields. The little boy, who had been jumping up and down enthusiastically, stopped suddenly and pointed, his expression turning from hedonistic pleasure to awed wonder.

"A tractor", he said, almost reverentially, "look, there's a tractor over there."

"Do you like tractors?" my daughter asked, and he nodded vigorously. "Is there anything else you like as much as tractors" my daughter enquired next.

The little boy looked thoughtful as he pondered this question. At last, his small face cleared.

"Combine harvesters", he told her, "I like tractors and combine harvesters."

Not a conversation I believe anyone has ever had with a small girl.

Nor were the conversations I had with two nine-year-old boys I spent yesterday afternoon with. Their minds seemed to run entirely along engineering lines. The questions they asked were all about how things worked and how complicated it would be to destroy things. I think my favourite among their questions was: "Do you think you could chop off someone's head with a very sharp stone?"

The Wrong Question

Walking along the street in Bristol this afternoon, I overheard two women talking as they emerged from a doorway to an office block just ahead.

"How come they're giving her 'better than best'?" one asked the other, "she only walked in the door five minutes ago."

But  that wasn't the right question; the right question was, "How can an organisation run by people with any kind of education come up with the concept of 'better than best'?" I suppose it must be a "very unique" organisation.

Of course, there is also the other broader question of whether anyone has ever considered how vile & demeaning it is to infantilise a workforce with awards that set them striving against each other to catch the boss's eye for ungrammatical favours, but I have to go & find some dinner, so I think I'll leave that one alone for now.

What I Learnt On My Holiday

I think I already mentioned that I went on an excellent holiday this year. Despite its excellence, I dreaded it a bit before I went*.

I always dread holidays, not only for all the obvious reasons - the need to try to focus the mind on what things are essential to your wellbeing and therefore must be taken with you, and then the need to gather those things and to pack them neatly, (neatly! When have I ever succeeded in doing anything neatly?), and ideally to not realise one hour and seventeen minutes after setting out that there was one thing you really ought to have thought of but didn't, (this realisation temporarily interrupting the revolving loop of questions that have been preoccupying you up to this point: "Did I leave the iron on, stove lit, door unlocked?" [I have been known to resolve the first of those concerns by bringing the iron along on the trip, stowed in a supermarket carrier bag, but only when the holiday is by car, as I suspect it would be hard to explain a domestic iron at an airport security check, in these paranoid times.])

Anyway, I've realised now that I mustn't dread holidays in the future, because they serve a very valuable purpose. They remind you of mortality and demonstrate how important it is to make the most of every minute.

"Holidays remind you of mortality", you cry, "So how exactly do they do that?"

Well, I'm so glad you asked me. They do it by being finite: at their start, having finally banished the dread that precedes departure, you set off with a head full of bright images of what you expect from the days or weeks that lie ahead; you are childlike in your approach to the future, you have no thought for anything but the pleasant hours in which you live right now. However, as the days pass, the shadow of the looming end of the holiday and your return to day-to-day humdrum and hours in the office begins to blight your pleasure, stripping away your enjoyment of the holiday time itself.

Having set you down in one or other lovely spot on the planet, holidays, because of their limited nature, keep you aware that you only have a brief time in which to enjoy whichever mini-heaven you have picked. In other words, they provide you with a scale model of life itself. They remind you that all good things must come to an end and that therefore you should make the most of every moment that is handed to you - whether that be a moment of holiday or a moment of its larger cousin, your own, all too short span of years on earth.

I rarely succeed in making the most of any moment, but as I grow older I realise I must try harder as I am entering the phase of life that is the equivalent of a holiday's fag end. I am all too inclined to ruin the last days of any vacation - I've never used that word before, but what a good word it is, now I think about it; a space where you vacate your normal self and occupation - by getting gloomy about leaving and fretting about packing and thinking how dreadful the trip home might be, not to mention imagining that the house might have burned to the ground when you finally reach it again.

What a waste that is, my latest holiday has taught me. I must stop looking ahead immediately and start to pretend that each day is the beginning of an individual 24-hour "mini-break" all of its own. I must try to approach each hour in as carefree manner as I would, were I setting out on holiday, and I must try to do this without feeling the need to carry my iron with me at all times.

*Or was my lack of excited anticipation actually the secret of its success? Hmm, perhaps a topic for another day.