Ten Tales Tall and True Read online

  “I enjoyed university because I believed I was becoming better – better than him. I took Divinity and was preparing for the ministry …

  “Wait a minute! You were studying to be a Church of Scotland minister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when has the Church of Scotland allowed women ministers?”

  “Since the sixties. A woman applied for ordination and there was no law against it.”

  “Though not a churchgoer or a strict Christian I have strong Protestant sympathies, and women ministers just don’t seem right.”

  “Then leave me alone.”

  “No no! I’m sorry! I mean go on and tell me what is wrong with your marriage. My own marriage is not what it should be. I will regard it as a great favour if you ignore my interruption and spill the beans.”

  “All right. At university I joined a lot of societies – The Students’ Christian Union, The Iona Community and Christians Against the Bomb. I had lots of friends who knew the world should and could be improved, and worked at it. But I began to feel something essential was missing from our lives – God. When I prayed I never felt closer to anyone. When I asked my religious friends how it felt to have God beside them they got embarrassed and changed the subject. Why are you grinning?”

  “I know a bloke who feels God is with him all the time. The two of them go along Dumbarton Road together having frantic arguments, though we only hear what poor Jimmy says. ‘I refuse to do it!’ he shouts. ‘You have no right to order me to do it! You’ll get me the jail!’ It seems God keeps telling him to smash the windows of Catholic bookshops.”

  “Yes, anybody who hears the voice of God nowadays is deluded. God said everything we need to know through the words of Jesus. But many sane people have felt God’s presence since Jesus died. I used to read their autobiographies, they made me envious – and angry too. Some were saintly junkies, hooked on the Holy Ghost like cocaine addicts to their dealer, passing miserable weeks waiting for the next visitation. I was not so greedy. One wee visit would have satisfied me – I could have lived on the memory ever after. But if I became a minister of God without once feeling God loved and wanted me I knew I would end up a fraud like my father. The nearest I could get to God was in books, which were not enough. I lost interest in Christianity, fell in love with a healthy agnostic and married instead. It was easy.”

  “Do you know what I’m going to tell you?”

  “Yes – that it was the best thing which could have happened to me. If you shut your mouth and listen as you promised I’ll explain why it was not.

  “I’ve always found it easy to give the people nearest me what they want. As a student I worked perfectly with busy, excitable, eccentric Christian Socialists. After marriage I perfectly suited someone who wanted a wife to give him polite well-dressed children and a home where he could entertain his friends and colleagues and their wives. So marriage completely changed my character and maybe destroyed part of it. Nowadays I want to hear people talk about the soul, and God, and how to build bridges between them. I can meet these people in books – nowhere else – but my friends and children and husband give me no peace to read. They can’t stop telling me news and discussing problems which strike me as increasingly trivial. I can’t help listening and smiling and answering with an automatic sympathy I no longer feel. They cannot believe my reading matters. If I locked myself for an hour in the bedroom with a book and a can of lager they would keep knocking on the door and asking what was wrong. Now you know why I come here to read.”

  Some have founded hospitals for the poor because they wanted popularity or fame or felt guilty about their wealth. That is why Paul says ‘Though I bestow all my goods to feed …’

  “Wait a minute. Have you tried going to church?”

  “Often. It was what I usually did on Sundays but the prayers now sound meaningless to me, the hymns like bad community singing, the sermons as dull as my father’s. Two weeks ago, without telling my family, I came here instead. Nobody I know will ever come to this pub, and it doesn’t play loud music. And I like the company, you were right about that.”

  “Eh?”

  “Yes. I feel less lonely among people who are quietly talking and drinking – as long as they don’t talk to me or lay their hand on my thigh.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “Enjoying a pint and a read here is my Sunday service. Can I go on with it?”

  “Aye. Sure. Of course. I meant no offence.”

  That is why Paul says ‘Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and have not Love, it profiteth me nothing.’ Peter says the same: ‘Above all things have fervent love among yourselves.’ John goes further: ‘God is love.’ And Jesus gave us a commandment which makes all laws needless for those who obey it: ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your mind and all your soul, and your neighbour as yourself.’ Remembering this, let us return to Paul.

  Love suffereth long, and is kind; Love envieth not, and isnotpuffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked …

  “Excuse me for butting in again but I’ve been giving some thought to your problem.”

  is not easily provoked …

  “I think I see where the solution lies.”

  is not easily provoked …

  “I know as well as you do that sex is not the reason for everything but…”

  “YAAAAEEEE HELP BARMAN HELP!!!!”

  “For Christ’s sake …”

  “Right, what’s happening here?”

  “Barman, this man nipped me.”

  “She’s a liar, I never touched her!”

  “Yes you touched me. I asked you again and again not to, but for twenty minutes you’ve sat here nip nip nipping my head like, like a bloody husband. Please get him off me, barman.”

  “Right you – outside. This is not the first time I’ve seen you at this game. Out you go.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m leaving. But let me tell you something: that woman is a nut case – a religious nut case.”

  “Shut your mouth and clear out.”

  is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Love never faileth; but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away.

  “The old man who was pestering you has gone, Missus. You won’t even see him in the street outside – he’s slipped into the pub next door.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I troubled you but he insisted on pestering me.”

  “I understand that Missus, and I’m very sorry that now I must ask you to leave also.”

  “Why? Why?”

  “Solitary women are liable to stir up trouble as you have just noticed. This is not your sort of pub. Try one nearer the top of the road.”

  “Will you allow me to finish my drink?”

  “Certainly. Of course. Don’t rush it, take your time. It’s the last you’ll be served here.”

  For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope, Love, these three; but the greatest of these is Love.

  “I’m sorry Missus but you have to leave now, at once, whether you’ve finished your pint or not. We cannot have a woman weeping in the corner of the bar. It spoils people’s pleasure.”

  The Marriage Feast

  I met Jesus Christ only once, in Cana, at some sort of marriage feast. I say “feast” because that word was distinctly printed on the invitation card, though it aroused expectations which were not fulfilled, for the parents of the bride had
either pretentions beyond their incomes or were downright stingy. The waiters’ tardiness in refilling our glasses suggested the booze was in short supply, and long before we finished the unappetizing main course there was none to be had. The person most obviously upset about this was a little old Jewish lady who had already (I seem to remember) consumed more than her fair share of the available alcohol.

  “They have no wine!” she hissed in a stage whisper which was heard throughout the room and embarrassed everyone except (apparently) our hosts. I was compelled to admire their equanimity in the face of so audible a hint. The little lady was addressing a man who looked like – and actually was – both her son and a carpenter wearing his best suit. Like many mothers she was blaming her offspring for other people’s faults, but his reaction surprised me.

  “Woman!” he declared, “My time is not yet come!”

  This struck us all as a meaningless remark, though I later realized it was advance publicity for his brief, disastrous career as a faith healer. However, a moment afterwards he beckoned the head of the catering staff, and whispered something which resulted in more wine being served.

  At the time I assumed Christ had himself paid for extra booze so was almost inclined to feel grateful, but Freddie Tattersal (who is also Jewish) told me, “Remember that Christ belonged to the self-employed tradesman class, and that sort don’t lash out money in acts of reckless generosity. There must still have been a lot of wine at that feast, but the waiters were saving it for themselves and the guests at the main table. Christ put the fear of God into the caterers by threatening to make a stink if they did not serve everyone equally, especially him – and he would have done it! They probably watered the plonk to make it go round.” I still find this hard to believe. The plonk they served later was nothing to boast of but it was genuine plonk. I now believe I met Christ in one of his better moods. He was an unpleasant person who went about persuading very ordinary fishmongers and petty civil servants to abandon their jobs and wives and children and go about imitating him! There were a great many such self-appointed gurus in the sixties. Who cares about them nowadays?

  Fictional Exits

  Because of a mistake (though I do not know whose) someone was shut in a windowless room with nothing to look at but a door which could only be opened from outside, a lavatory pan and a wall poster showing the face of the nation’s ruler. After imagining a great many dealings with this official the prisoner tried to find pleasure in a landscape behind the face. This first soothed by its suggestion of spaciousness, then annoyed by its completely tame nature. On one side well-cultivated farms receded to a distant line of blue hills, on the other was a seat of government, a cathedral, university, and very clean factory and workers’ residential block. There were no clumps of forest or winding rivers to explore; the bland distant hills clearly contained no ravines, torrents, cliffs, caverns or mountain passes, they were a mere frontier, shutting off the horizon. Though designed to advertise a sunnier world than the electrically lit cell, the poster showed the inside of a larger jail.

  On the brink of melancholy madness the prisoner found a pencil on the floor behind the lavatory pan. When this had been carefully nibbled to a sharp point it might have been used to draw anything on the whitewashed walls: faces of friends, bodies of lovers, the scenery of great adventures. Not able to draw these convincingly the prisoner carefully drew a full-size copy of the room’s unopenable door, with one difference. The drawn door had a key in the lock, and it could be turned. Then the prisoner turned the lock, opened the door and walked out. Though describing how fantasy works this is a realistic story. Free will being the essence of mind, everyone who feels trapped must imagine escapes, and some of them work. New arts and sciences, new religions and nations are created this way. But the story of the door can be told with a less happy ending.

  A blind man living alone in a municipal housing scheme heard people breaking through his front door, so phoned the local police station. While he was asking for help the housebreakers got to him and knocked him down. They were policemen who had mistaken his door for the door of someone they suspected of selling dangerous drugs without a licence. The mistake was discovered when one of the housebreakers lifted the telephone receiver and found he was talking to a colleague. He told the colleague in the police station not to worry, because the blind householder would be stitched up. So the blind man was summoned to a court of law and charged with assaulting the police while they were trying to do their duty.

  In Britain all emergency phonecalls to police stations are recorded twice: once by the police stations for the use of the police: once by the British telecommunication company for the use of the caller. The blind man’s defence lawyer played the Telecom recording to prove that his client was innocent, pointing out that stitched up was slang for arrested on false evidence. The police witness agreed that stitched up meant that in criminal slang, but explained that in police slang it meant properly arrested with no hint of falsehood or perjury in the procedure. The sheriff on the bench (magistrates are called sheriffs in Scotland) believed the police witness, since our nation will sink into anarchy if magistrates distrust the police. So the blind man was fined, but not imprisoned, as would almost certainly have happened in an old-fashioned fascist or communist nation.

  Like the sheriff on the bench my sympathy is mainly with the police. Opening a door with the big key (which is police slang for sledgehammer) is a desperate deed, even if you think someone behind the door is wicked, and that if you grab them fast enough you may find proof of this. Nearly all our experience and education, besides the natural law of do-as-you-would-be-done-by, teaches us to handle doors gently. They are usually quiet, unthreatening, protective creatures. Some of our dearest joys and most regular functions have been made easier by them, so smashing one MUST feel like punching a face, or bombing pedestrians from an aeroplane in broad daylight. We may earn a wage by doing it, we may believe we are defending decency and justice by it, but we cannot help feeling abnormally excited, so mistakes are inevitable. I also sympathize slightly with the blind man, for I am not one of those who think everyone in a municipal housing scheme deserves what is done to them. The man’s blindness may not have been his own fault, and may have stopped him seeing he ought to live in a better part of the city. But he should certainly have used his imagination, which would have let him see in the dark.

  The big key unlocked the blind man’s door in 1990 when Glasgow was the official Culture Capital of Europe. The story was not reported by the press. I give it here because the police, like the prisoner in my first story, found themselves in a terrible situation but imagined a way out. They created a fictional exit which worked.

  A New World

  Millions of people lived in rooms joined by long windowless corridors. The work which kept their world going (or seemed to, because they were taught that it did, and nobody can ever be taught the exact truth) their work was done on machines in the rooms where they lived, and the machines rewarded them by telling them how much they earned. Big earners could borrow money which got them better rooms. The machines, the money-lending and most of the rooms belonged to three or four organizations. There was also a government and a method of choosing it which allowed everyone, every five years, to press a button marked STAY or CHANGE. This kept or altered the faces of the politicians. The politicians paid themselves for governing, and also drew incomes from the organizations which owned everything, but governing and owning were regarded as separate activities, so the personal links between them were dismissed as coincidences or accepted as inevitable. Yet many folk – even big earners in comfortable rooms – felt enclosed without knowing exactly what enclosed them. When the government announced that it now governed a wholly new world many people were greatly excited, because their history associated new worlds with freedom and wide spaces.

  I imagine a man, not young or especially talented, but intelligent and hopeful, who pays for the privilege of emigrating to the new world. This costs near
ly all he has, but on the new world he can win back four times as much in a few years if he works extra hard. He goes to a room full of people like himself. Eventually a door slides open and they filter down a passage to the interior of their transport. It resembles a small cinema. The émigrés sit watching a screen on which appears deep blackness spotted with little lights, the universe they are told they are travelling through. One of the lights grows so big that it is recognizable as a blue and white cloud-swept globe whose surface is mainly sun-reflecting ocean, then all lights are extinguished and, without alarm, our man falls asleep. He has been told that a spell of unconsciousness will ease his arrival in the new world.

  He wakens on his feet, facing a clerk across a counter. The clerk hands him a numbered disc, points to a corridor, and tells him to walk down it and wait outside a door with the same number. These instructions are easy to follow. Our man is so stupefied by his recent sleep that he walks a long way before remembering he is supposed to be in a new world. It may be a different world, for the corridor is narrower than the corridors he is used to, and coloured matt brown instead of shiny green, but it has the same lack of windows. The only new thing he notices is a strong smell of fresh paint.