Walcot. Brian Aldiss
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It was time to move to safety; but you wanted to watch the destruction of the splendid castle. It was a pity your mother was not there to see and admire it, but the beaches did not interest her.
The castle succumbed slowly. You knew you had better go; it was not so easy. You floundered through a pool now flooded by the new waters, then there was a deep gully to negotiate before you could reach the safe, dry slope of the higher beach. The gully looked deep and menacing now. You waded in. The current was fierce; it carried you sideways. You held pail and spade high. There was an unexpected pool underfoot. You staggered and went under. In your unwanted ducking, the shrimps were reprieved from the pot and the paper flag was washed away. You could see it go, but you were too frightened to do more than struggle for the safety of the shore. The rank water you swallowed in your ducking made you cough and splutter.
Once you were on the dry sand, you were cross with yourself for being frightened. Some way out to sea now, you could see a safe stretch of sand. But it was inaccessible, separated from the shore by a waste of water which heaved and tumbled in a hostile manner.
Would you say that this was the period of your life when you felt yourself to be closest to Nature?
Those sun-drenched, soul-drenched days alone? You believe I was in touch with all that was grand yet transitory. But who can speak for a lad only three years, four years old, when one’s psyche is not yet developed?
What did you think about, there on the sands all day? Did you feel you were being encompassed by a great soul?
I doubt I was even aware of time – only of time as local, affecting the comings and goings of the sea at Walcot, and the possible arrival of teatime.
So you were sent to play on the beach?
I believe that was the case. Yes.
The sea and the time bound to destroy the finest castle you might build?
Of course. It was in the nature of things.
You sat and watched as the tide raced in. Well, you would be back again tomorrow, when that new world, ever fresh, would be revealed once more. Tomorrow, the little pools, the arcane rippling and ribbing of the sand, would be there anew; only you would be there to appreciate them. And there was still a whole week before the holiday had to end.
You looked up at the mackerel sky and it was then that there was a disturbance in the thin cloud, and a golden bird came speeding down. When it stood before you you could see that it was in fact vaguely human in form, seeming youthful, despite its long beard. You observed that it had no genitals.
It spoke. ‘Have you been good today?’
You did not know what exactly to answer. It was obvious to you that opportunities for being ‘bad’ were strictly limited when you were alone on the beaches.
‘Are you a Christian?’ it asked.
You were forced to go to Church every Sunday. You had been given a little book into which you could stick a pretty stamp to mark each attendance. You recited the rhyme printed in the blank spaces.
Every stamp cries Duty done!
Every blank cries Shame!
Finish what you have begun
In the Saviour’s Name.
The golden thing seems satisfied with this response. ‘Do you say your prayers?’
You would have preferred it to have asked if you had enjoyed the day, but it had only tedious questions, such as those the local vicar might ask.
‘Yes,’ you said.
‘Do you wish to get to Heaven?’ it asked.
Again it was difficult to know what to answer. The day had been like heaven, with nobody to order you about, or be miserable at you.
‘Not yet,’ you said. ‘Not while we’re enjoying Walcot.’
The golden thing stood there. It finally said, ‘Your time will come.’ And then it zoomed back into the sky. You watched it until it vanished.
You decided to run home. You told your mother, ‘Mummy, I just saw God.’
Your mummy said you must not tell lies.
‘Perhaps it was just an angel. It was all gold.’
Your mummy frowned and asked if you had caught any shrimps.
‘Does God have a weewee, mummy?’ you asked.
Your mummy threw a Norah Lofts at you. ‘Don’t be so rude, you little so-and-so!’
The Norah Lofts missed you. You silently thanked God that Mummy never had a good aim.
Your mother liked being in Omega. She decorated it according to her own tastes. The living room was fairly dark; it had only one small window which looked towards the cornfields. It had hip-high wooden panelling painted a deep brown, thus adding to the darkness of the room. To offset this, your mother had scattered orange cushions about on the chairs and settee. She also had, stationed at strategic points, a number of gleaming copper jugs which she polished regularly. And there was a fine brass lamp with a frosted white shade and a clear glass chimney which she lit at dusk. The lamp shed its cosy light over part of the room. There was no electricity available within several miles of Omega.
The walls above the wooden panelling were painted white, and here your mother had hung a number of reproductions of paintings of flowers in bowls and vases. The paintings were glazed and bound in passe-partout. They most typically showed pink and white roses in a deep blue bowl, standing on a well-polished table. A petal had fallen and reflected its colour on table and bowl. Always a fallen petal, its hint of imperfection emphasizing the perfection of the picture.
Your mother was more than usually torpid and framed no flower pictures that night. She was a tall woman, heavy of body, heavy of face. She did her pale hair in a bun, bound tightly to the back of her head, like a supplementary brain. She was given to long skirts of woven material. She had within her the seed of a future child who was destined to take your place; but of this impending event you were not told. It was, as yet, your mother’s secret.
She kept news of her early pregnancy, too, from her visitor. She was a secretive woman and did not entirely trust her visitor, whom she considered superficial. This visitor was younger and more vivacious than your mother. You knew her as your Auntie Violet. ‘No shrinking violet, she!’ your mother was apt to exclaim. ‘Comes from Grantham, of all places,’ she said, appalled.
Auntie Violet was sharp and pale of face, with beautiful arched eyebrows and a permanent wave in her hair which, despite its permanence, was frequently renewed. She had a neat upturned little nose, which you mentally labelled pert. She generally wore strings of beads which rattled across a generous bosom. Her flesh was pale and clear. She smelled delicious. Her clothes were bright, worn with belts which drooped over the upper reaches of her behind. Her shoes, at least at this moment, were bright red. You were fascinated by this flitting figure who drove to Omega in her own open-top tourer. Auntie Violet was married to your mother’s younger brother, Bertie Wilberforce.
Auntie Violet smoked cigarettes in a long amber holder. Her lips were red. She had another endearing trait: she liked small boys and, in particular, she liked giving you treats. She had brought you a wooden glider. You ran outside to fly it; it flew well and meant many excursions between the crisp stalks of the cornfield to retrieve it.
While you were flying your glider, your mother and your aunt had a quarrel. Somehow you perceived this as you returned to Omega. Auntie Violet stood smoking on the verandah, looking statuesque.