#whereas the baudelaires had no one but each other and had to fight for their lives | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thecloserkin · 6 years

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fic rec: Dante’s Stars by Pretani

fandom: A Series of Unfortunate Events

pairing: Violet Baudelaire/Klaus Baudelaire

word count: 94k, complete

Is it canon: Yes

Is it explicit: Yes

Is it endgame: Yes

Is it shippable: I’m fucking crying it’s so beautiful

Bottom line: The one and only Violet/Klaus epic, read it and bawl your eyes out (def read the warnings first tho)

It’s a canon-divergence AU where the Baudelaires stage their own deaths to escape Count Olaf. In canon the three Baudelaire orphans—inventor Violet, bookworm Klaus, and baby Sunny—are hounded from guardian to guardian by cartoonish villain Olaf, who will stop at nothing to get his hands on their fortune. Olaf murders or incapacitates every single adult who spares two seconds of sympathy for these kids, leaving a wide swathe of destruction in his wake. In this fic the Baudelaires have decided to wipe the slate clean and assume new identities.

I have mentioned in the past how salty I am about the Baudelaires’ characters being sidelined for Snicket the narrator, Olaf the villain, and/or sundry other bit-players (in the Netflix show the Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender p much steals every scene they’re in). In canon we’re not really privy to the kids’ inner lives. This fic avoids that pitfall by sticking with tightly focused third-person Violet and Klaus POVs.

The thing this fic does really well is instill a pervasive sense of dread/paranoia which is remarkable because for the first 25% absolutely nothing ominous happens. The orphans get taken in by a slightly addled, very nice old lady and they just … live in her house. For free. While she cooks for them. And every morning Violet and Klaus hook up in her barn.

Ok back up so the ship they’re passengers on goes down in a storm, all hands lost, the Baudelaires are presumed drowned with the rest. Which is positively providential. The first event of any import to occur is that Klaus swipes some cash from a dead man’s wallet. Violet has ethical qualms but Klaus quashes them by pointing out that Sunny’s starving:

”I’d do anything for her,” he said. “Even become a thief or a murderer.”

Then his dark eyes found Violet’s. “I’d do it for you, too.”

So on the one hand I think this is rather extra. I mean, what possible use could a dead man have had for that money? Money that could put actual food in Sunny’s stomach. The Baudelaires are keenly aware that justice does not equal unquestioning obedience to authority and I think their exposure to a raft of tyrannical and unjust authority figures has hammered that home. They’re down with bending the rules because they know the rules are never even-handedly applied anyway (ie. the show trial at Hotel Denouement, the farcical final exam at Prufrock Academy). On the other hand I remember how uneasy they felt about stealing Hal’s keys in Hostile Hospital, and that was barely a misdemeanor! A friend of mine astutely pointed out how Violet is always trying to behave in any given situation the way their parents would have wished, whereas Klaus takes a pragmatic approach: do whatever keeps his sisters safe. And that is a very interesting contrast and one I want to see explored further.

They get on a train. Things that happen: Klaus notices when Violet is down in the dumps or angry or upset or in this case, wistfully jealous of other people who lead “normal” lives, bustling all around them. He’s not in love with her yet but noticing is the first step. Violet atm is super focused on being the elder sister, the adult in the room, the One In Charge. They get off the train and as soon as they blow into town Violet gets catcalled and propositioned. One of the themes of this fic is the horrendous baseline level of violence against women, some of it normalized and casual like the catcalling. The Big Bad Villain of the piece is literally a guy who’s murdered multiple girlfriends on account of them fridging his ass, since he appears to think that women owe him sex. And this man’s driving ambition is to add Violet to his list of conquests.

So often, men treated her as little more than an object … Klaus was different. He saw her, the woman she was inside.

HOW COULD SHE NOT FALL FOR HIM?? Is there another man she could learn to trust enough to fall in love with? However I’m getting ahead of the story. Klaus is still in the phase where he’s awakening to his attraction to Violet:

She was mother and sister, soft skin and tender strength, and he hid his face in her neck. Like a child, she rocked him gently, cradling his head.

I have to protect her, even if it’s from myself.

He couldn’t take this, his brave, beautiful sister, so near … the knowledge of what those men wanted to do to her. I”ll kill them … And what he wanted …

God but it kills me, Klaus thinking that his attraction to Violet is as noxious as those vile men and their rapacious stares. Klaus himself otoh is president of the Violet Baudelaire Fan Club. The contrast could not be more marked. Look at him building her up when she’s about ready to to give up on picking a lock because she’s lost her hair ribbon:

”I’m done, Klaus. I don’t have anything else to give”. ”Vi … “ he was pleading, willing her to believe in herself again, because he did. “You’re a brilliant inventor,” he told her. “It’s who you are. Nothing can take that away. You don’t need your ribbon.”

The unwarranted parallel that he draws between himself and a bunch of sexual predators is the source of so much angst and pining:

Is that what I am? A pervert?

She’ll blame herself for this

Well, well, well, if it isn’t ye olde I’m-Leaving-Her-For-Her-Own-Good-Lest-My-Perverted-Attraction-To-Her-Despoil-Her-Innocence. I am absolute trash for it every time, film at 11.

”I love you, Vi … I’m in love with you.” He said it like he was confessing to a crime, and she wanted to scream, to laugh and cry all at once.

THEIR LOVE IS A CRIME!!! Could these babies be more pure??

They’d always had an extraordinary connection. It was the reason for their seamless partnership, their ability to support one another … But now, the bond that had kept them alive was killing him. How could anything ever be right again?

”Vi, I’m sorry … I want to be your brother, but I can’t … I want to be more than that … I don’t know what to do.” ”Kiss me,” she said, “and be both.”

THATS IT THATS A WRAP I CAN NOW DIE HAPPY. That “kiss me and be both” is PERFECTION.

And she knew she’d never willingly give herself to anyone but him.

she’d loved him even then. Who could tell when they had crossed the line? It was already too late.

cross the line what line??? they were made for each other.

”You know, we missed the sunrise,” he said, nose to nose with his sister.

Violet and Klaus carve an extra hour out of their morning to go make out in the barn. I shit you not these kids spend a whole month without progressing past first base because Klaus doesn’t want to “pressure” Violet into anything she’s not ready for. Violet, for her part, is beginning to suspect there’s something wrong with her person; why hasn’t he even tried to take her top off? Thank you #Patriarchy for teaching us that desirability is the measure of a woman’s worth. God they are so thirsty. This bitch almost fell over the first time he touched her tits:

“Vi,” he spoke into her hair, voice breaking. “Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me to —“ But she only titled her head, to meet his mouth in a feverish kiss.

So Klaus and Sunny are having a snow fight and Violet tugs her glove off to tousle his hair and it’s THE SEXIEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN BYE. True story after I read this fic I legitimately thought that “Vi” was a pet name Klaus called her by in canon, and when I finally finished the books much much later and realized that it wasn’t—well, it should have been.

There is a fairy tale about a princess who disguises herself in the skin of a donkey to escape the attentions of her lecherous father the king. Violet and Sunny discuss it. Violet points out that rape is wrong because rape is rape, because it is coercive, not because it’s incest. I love it when fic highlights the fairytale parallels to the Baudelaires’ situation, and I feel like Donkeyskin was such a spot-on choice because it’s all about surviving sexual assault and learning to make oneself vulnerable again afterwards? Klaus is the prince who sees through her disguise and falls head over heels in love with her CHANGE MY MIND. On the subject of happily ever after:

”Is that what you think I want? A fairytale? A walk down the aisle in a white dress?" He felt a lump forming in his throat. "Most girls think about those things, don't they?" "I don't," she told him. "I prefer not to. And as for children…well…I love them. That's why I don't want any of my own … how selfish would I be, to bring another little life into this? Another hostage they could use against us. Imagine how awful it would be if…" She shook her head. "No children… not ever. I couldn't protect them." And she turned to him with a soft look. "It's no sacrifice, Klaus. Not for me. I've already been through a… a wedding, you know." He felt her shudder, and she averted her eyes. "I won't be sorry if I never see another wedding dress again."

My dudes, when you have children each and every one of them is a hostage to fortune because of course they are. Also, Violet’s traumatized by the whole idea of being a bride, after going through the wringer of her fake wedding to Olaf. Olaf put Sunny in a cage to compel her compliance, and that’s what the Big Bad in this fic does too. He says things like “You’re a sick little bitch, aren’t you? Spreading your legs for your own brother” which turns their beautiful relationship into this ugly depraved thing to be ashamed of. I mean, this guy was literally a voyeur who would watch them from his hidey-hole while they were being intimate?? My god I would feel so unclean. And the worst part is, he overheard them calling each other by their real names not their aliases, so now he knows who they are and since the Baudelaires are still on the lamb this is bad. It gets pretty dark pretty fast.

“He won't want you anymore! No one's gonna want you when we're done!"

So he kidnaps and rapes Violet. Klaus and Sunny rescue her, dispatch the villain (Klaus’s earlier “I’d do anything” for his sisters, including becoming “a thief or a murderer,” acquires sudden resonance), and that’s when fucking Count Olaf shows up!!!! These kids just cannot catch a break. Turns out the Big Bad was actually working for Count Olaf all along. Olaf’s plan is still the same plan from The Bad Beginning where he plotted to steal the Baudelaire fortune by marrying Violet. Since Count Olaf has never in his life paid a henchman a salary, he was keeping the Big Bad sweet by promising to let him ravish Violet first. Let the full enormity of that sink in. Oh wait a minute Olaf isalso bent on knocking Violet up asap so the union can’t be dissolved on non-consummation grounds, or somesuch:

"You look at me as if I were a usurper, boy, about to steal something of yours. Tell me…" He gestured at Violet. "Is she yours?"

Why would you do this to me??????? This is so, so painful. Olaf uses an electric cattle prod on Klaus and makes Violet watch??? It’s ok though the Baudelaires prevail in the end, and emerge from the bloodstained ordeal as the family they are. My kink will forever be Violet and Klaus praising each other’s bravery and resourcefulness. They! Are! So! Proud! and! Supportive! Of! Each! Other! This line from earlier in the fic gets me every time:

I’ve failed them. This was his greatest fear, worse than death or any torment fate could devise. In his head, he imagined the struggle, saw his girls beaten and shot, felt each blow and bullet as if his own body were the target instead.

Klaus Baudelaire laying down his own body between the world and his sisters is really the only thing I care about:

And then her gaze fell to the marred canvas of his body.

I bet his back is a mess of burn marks ugh. Four weeks after Violet’s discharged from the hospital (practical Violet made sure to get the green light from the medical professionals) they finally have sex again, which is a relief—after the rape they were both hesitant to initiate sex because she thought she was damaged goods and he thought she wanted space? Silly kids. Oh and and here they are being mistaken by strangers for a pair of lovebirds:

One of the women sighed dreamily. "Did you ever see a more likely pair of turtledoves?" "Of course not," Mr. Poe sputtered, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. "The very idea!" And he excused himself hurriedly, to make some phone calls. "Don't be silly," said the other. "They're siblings. Haven't you heard? … They're the Baudelaire orphans." "Well, I daresay," the first one went on, "anyone would've taken them for sweethearts."

I CANNOT WITH THESE TWO

The Baudelaires finally, finally come into their fortune free and clear. They put on their parents’ wedding rings and move to Canada. A cat (!!!) leaves baby Beatrice II in a basket outside their front door, and that completes their family. Nobody deserves good things more than these kids, and this fic ends exactly where it ought, describing “a rural life of moral simplicity.”

I read this fic years ago and it was w i l d rereading it again, thanks for coming along for the ride. If anyone wants to scream/cry about this fic in particular, or Violet and Klaus in general, feel free to send me an ask or message me ANYTIME

#fic rec #asoue #violet x klaus #Baudelairecest

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davidastbury · 8 years

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December 2016

Man at Piccadilly Station, Manchester He has a tongue like a razor – you have to be careful what you say to him! Once upon a time he was brilliant; in those days he expressed his superiority in devastating sarcasm – putting his victim down, and doing it in such a way that the chorus of laughter ruled out any response. He let it be known that he was going to the top in journalism or media – he had the required charming malice and knew the ‘right people’. He was a frequent dinner guest at the Dimbleby household and mixed with other luminaries. I have a picture of him from the brilliant days – droopy eyelids mocking the photographer – held tilted back, smoke curling down his nostrils, Pall Mall haircut, elbow cupped in palm, shapeless Donegal tweed suit, hand-made shoes. And now he’s a haggard old man clutching a carrier bag loaded with cans of beer. He’s swaying on his feet, looking up at the electronic notice board for his time of departure.

On the Train I’m fascinated by the glances exchanged between man and adult son. Not having a son myself I am at a disadvantage in this area – or perhaps I am not. There is a way that a man looks at his grown up son – and a way that the son looks back at the father – they are involved, and have their respective viewpoints - whereas I am seeing with the calm eyes of an outsider – they are ‘mono’ to my ‘stereo’. What they see doesn’t have room for a question – but all that I see are questions! And the main question I want to ask, cannot be asked – perhaps I know the dad too well, or not well enough - or if I asked it, it might be misunderstood, or be viewed as ‘inappropriate’ (hateful word!) or might solicit a untrue answer which is worse than not knowing at all. So I don’t know and never will. A Rolling Stones Fan... Manchester 1964 She was crazy about Mick Jagger, and spent most of her money following the Rolling Stones tours. The performances were usually in theatres in provincial cities across the UK – very noisy and very crowded, and although often far from the stage she would fight through the frenzy and get scribbled autographs from Jagger and the boys. She loved Jagger for his narcissism – his magnificent conceit – his disjointed grace – his hermaphrodite beauty. Her boyfriend was tolerant about her absences and her fixation, saying that most of us have a peculiarity others do not understand – which I suppose was quite nice of him. Occasionally I would see the two of them in a basement club. Whenever a Rolling Stones number was played she’d be on her feet (bare feet!) dancing and strutting. He boyfriend would sit and play it cool – smoking and drinking, slouched in a chair, taking it all in. Soon everyone around would be watching her too – her miniskirt and striped turtle-neck – her head back and shampoo- ad hair swinging – and most thrilling of all, her eyes tightly shut with the sheer bliss of a true exhibitionist. When it was over she padded across to her boyfriend - riding the wave of our attention - then leaned across the cluttered table and kissed him on the mouth.

Noel Coward once asked John Osborne what percent queer he was. Osborne was startled at the question and replied: ‘I’ve no idea, maybe fifteen percent.’ Coward tapped his chest and replied proudly: ‘I am One Hundred Percent Queer!’

HE and SHE As we all know attraction can occur in the most unpromising of environments - and my office was certainly an unpromising environment. The HE and SHE – both high-flyers in the firm – took a shine to each other, and the rest of us became conscious that love was in the air. They were an unlikely couple – SHE was sharp and very ambitious, a strident voice, eyes that missed nothing and a tireless, aggressive energy that removed all softness and humour. HE was unattractively bulky – deeply sarcastic and supercilious. I wished them all the best. But somewhere along the line things went wrong. There had been a scene (shouting) in the pub where we used to go after work, and they were no longer speaking to each other. We all carried on as usual, but the atmosphere was as constricting as it had been before, when they were ‘as one’. Occasionally we tried to engineer situations where they would have to speak to each other – but it didn’t work with either of them. It was a bad situation and I was afraid that it might come to the notice of the directors upstairs. At this point I must mention Paul – he was the firm’s driver. The lowest paid and the nicest man in the company. He had the honest open face of someone who would see no harm in anything – a good warm-hearted family man. His job was to deliver parcels and important documents; he also chauffeured the bosses in the company Jag. Paul told me that he and SHE had gone up to Birmingham, along with a van load of exhibition equipment. They were caught in a terrible traffic snarl up, and during the wait, as they inched along the motorway, they chatted about this and that. And then he asked her how life was treating her. She was silent for a few seconds and tried to speak but found she couldn’t.

Literary Reception There are some high achievers in here tonight. Half familiar faces – it is amusing to see that anyone who has been on telly a few times develops that downward glance, as if they find being recognised unpleasant, but hoping that you stare at them anyway! Men of science and letters – women too of course – in fact a quite a few women writers putting on the agony. I ask myself: ‘What on earth are you doing here...what do you want?’ And I reply: ‘A cup of tea.’

Vision Every man I know has the same look. All their faces have the same expression. It is as if they were once standing in the street and a beautiful naked woman had walked by – and they turned round to see her again – and she was gone. And they carry on looking - looking all the time – trying to see her again.

You only have to ask her – and she will tell you. But she’s unpredictable and so you must catch her when she’s in a good mood or best of all when she’s had a drink or two. Make it casual – as if asking about what she’s doing next week, or if she is going to buy that coat she liked in South Molton Street. Keep it nice and reasonable. You only have to ask her – and she will tell you.

We’ve done our song and dance – kept up the concern and amusement, and now the show continues without our participation – I can sit back and feign concern myself, something which I never expected to do. What no one knows is that I couldn’t care less anymore.

After Donald Wolfit was knighted one of his troupe of actors immediately called him ‘Sir Donald’. Wolfit beamed at him and said :- ‘Oh come now...you and I have known each other for years – just “Sir” will do’.

On the Train Young couple. Married. She’s taking things out of a bag and looking at them. They have been shopping for craft items – coloured blocks, stencils, brushes on a card, things like that. She looks at them carefully, examining them and turning them over; feeling the texture with her long, clever fingers. I see her looking at some tubes – they are various adhesives, perhaps different adhesives for different items. Her husband glances out of the window and then looks back at her. They are very young. He fell in love with her because she can glue things together.

The Christmas Bumper Book of Memories 2016 January. It was a cold, grey day when the two cold, grey men met. I was one of them and the other was a long standing friend – I hadn’t seen him for years. He had a pained expression and a weak smile, so I guessed he knew. We shook hands –me struggling to take off my gloves; he offering me his icy paw – and worst of all, he kept hold of me. There is nothing worse than that. He asked me how I was and I rattled off my up-beat routine – ‘Everything’s fine, I’ve been given the name of a brilliant homeopath’... things like that. His weak smile became weaker – I think he has always considered me frivolous, and it was irritating to see that I hadn’t changed. Still holding my hand he looked at me searchingly and said ‘But how are you really? Would you like to talk about it?’ In that moment I felt the chill of what Baudelaire called ‘the wind of the wing of the angel of death’. Corfu It wasn’t the type of holiday she had expected. The taverna was down a bumpy road out in the middle of nowhere – accommodation was basic – erratic hot water - meals served on a terrace beneath a wooden trellis, which was rather nice except for the rats that ran along the beams. The swimming pool was small, and there was nowhere for her to wear the evening dresses she had brought. She was single and most of the guests were young couples – spending all day and most of the night shouting and laughing and pouring ouzo down their throats. There was only one bus to the village and on the second day she missed it. The proprietor smiled and said that his brother Hypatos would take her. She coldly thanked him and waited for Hypatos to appear. The brother finally came out of the lavatory and beamed at her - he would be happy to take her to town. He was a fat man, all the more noticeable because he was only wearing cropped cargo pants and when he got astride his small motorcycle she didn’t know what to do. People were watching – including the proprietor who was grinning and showing his brown teeth. She had no choice but to get astride the machine – Hypatos shouted something and the bike roared away. There was nothing for her to hold onto – no handles of any sort, so she had to lean forward and stretch her bare arms around Hypatos’ bare belly – struggling to get a firm grip the yielding wobbly flesh – and then the ordeal of being bounced up and down on the hard pillion seat. She came to loathe the proprietor – he didn’t do any work at all, instead he bullied his staff and played the great man of property. He would smile at her and make expansive gestures, as if inviting her to enjoy his kingdom. He was impervious to her scowls – he presumed that all women adored him. And this was the story that went around the taverna...to the hilarity of the young couples. Apparently, the proprietor had gone across to her table with two large glasses of milky ouzo and with his widest smile said to her: ‘Tonight, me and you shag?’

When she was gone the family broke up – we all went our different ways – we just broke up – yet one beat of her heart would have brought us back together.

Eventually all our desires and compulsions change their forms and become a soulful yearning that hides itself in melancholy.

The other day I was chatting with a friend’s ten-year-old daughter. I asked her if she was still learning the trumpet; she replied; ‘Oh yes - I can play lots of tunes’. I asked her what she liked most about the trumpet. She answered; ‘Well, you can play a trumpet really loud and it stops everyone from talking’.

The Photographer on the Train He’s was no Cartier-Bresson – no snap on the sly – this chap was loaded with the gear – he even had a photographers’ jacket - a sort of sleeveless affair with multiple pockets, as worn by our Royal family when ‘orf’ for a nice day blasting the life out of Highland stags. Anyway....working on the principle that people are pleased when you take an interest in their activities, I started up a conversation. We talked about cameras. But he wasn’t responsive as you or I may have been - and then I began to understand. He viewed my interest as perfectly normal; in fact he expected it from other people. His ego caused him to assume that other people’s thoughts will always be centred around him - and that whatever we wish to say isn’t worth the effort of listening.

From the Window A young family walking past – going dark - pavement shiny with rain – car lights flashing – but what a grouping! There was no chance of getting the big Nikon cranked up in time; and then they were gone, out of sight. Just a man and a woman, arms linked, with a small girl on one side and a smaller boy, trotting to keep up, on the other. The girl was trying to control her pet dog, which had the rubbery legs of a puppy and was pulling his lead across their path, and looking up as if he deserved praise. The little boy was carrying a parcel, or a box, which was nearly as big as himself – probably an unopened Christmas gift. The mother kept reaching to help him but he jerked his shoulders and turned away, hugging the box. And so they continued up the road. I wonder if they know how happy they are?

Victoria Station She’s going to dump him tonight. If you look you can see it in her face – it’s all there. She will pick her moment to tell him – and that will be the end of their relationship – they are at different universities and they probably will never see each other again, and that’s all for the good. But I’ve a feeling there is more to it; behind her determination there is something else - something important to her – she wants promises from him - a promise that he will take care of himself – and a promise not to ‘let himself go.’

K She used to get up at six to take her little boy to the childminder – then a bus and a train and another bus to her college. Her husband, a good-looking piss artist, wouldn’t get out of bed until around noon; a quick bite to eat then off to the pub. In the afternoons he would try to read the set books on DH Lawrence but usually he fell asleep or had long, rambling telephone chats with old friends. Around seven in the evening he would be hungry and looking forward to his wife getting home and sorting the meal out. On Saturday nights they would go out together to the pubs near the university. They would join groups and her husband would amuse everyone with his wild opinions – his voice loud and theatrical, causing people to wonder who he was. And the drinks kept appearing, as if from nowhere. Later he would heavily on her, his free arm windmilling for a taxi. Looking back, she told me that this was the happiest time of her life.

Young couple – on the train He’s Asian; probably Afghan. She’s European, perhaps English, but you don’t see many English girls with hair that shade of yellow – it is as yellow as butter and falls across the sides of her face with a single ripple of a wave near her chin. Perhaps she’s northern European – superb skin and soft lapis lazuli eyes – a Scandinavian beauty! Each time he looks at her he reacts with pleasure. Maybe one day he will take her home to meet his parents. His mother will rush away to the kitchen and make her feelings known in Dari, or Pashto or Hazarangi. Dad will walk slowly to the mosque – to the familiar green lights and red carpets and books filled with picturesque Quranic promises of bliss – knowing that the paradise his son has found beats them all.

Mary Notnice and Henry James Henry James sometimes referred to his ‘obscure hurt’, without ever going into details as to the nature of the hurt, what it was, and when it was inflicted upon him. Most of his biographers/scholars mention the ‘obscure hurt’ and speculate how this might have affected his writing. The greatest of his biographers , Leon Edel devotes pages exploring the source and concludes it refers to something that happened in 1861 when James was eighteen. His father took him to Boston ‘for consultation of a great surgeon, the head of his profession there.’ The surgeon found nothing wrong and dismissed the young man with hardly a word – which James took as an insult. From here onwards (such are the labyrinths and cadences of James’s mind) we do not know if the phrase ‘obscure hurt’ refers to the physical injury or the resentment he felt because of what the doctor had said. Mary Notnice, at the age of eighteen (the same age as Henry James!) held onto and nourished her ‘obscure hurt’. I and others were charmed by her peevishness and smouldering resentments. Of course I never knew what it was all about because details were hard to come by – dad long gone – mum a bit crazy – behaviour so bad at school that she was actually expelled in the last year – it was all part of a package. But what struck me most was her way of looking back at you. In that glance you could see her ‘obscure hurt’, and although she looked at you with anger, there was also sadness and reproach – as if you had harmed her in some way.

A Christmas Carol #1 I asked a young friend for a story of something that had happened to him – not something that he had achieved but something that was out of his control and which he now views as very important. He must have trusted me, because this is what I got. ‘I sneaked off work and went to the office bash on a lower floor. I knew one or two people there, but it was open to clients and so on, so I was okay. It was a great party, massive tree all lit up, loads of booze, loud jingle-bells type music, balloons banging and some serious kissing going on – not pecks under the mistletoe twig, but the real thing. And I saw a girl standing by herself and I came over all weird – like shivery – and I knew I had to go to her. I’m normally slow, but I wasn’t this time; I had to speak to her and the first thing I said was; ‘Are you with anyone?’ and she laughed. So we started talking and this feeling of destiny got stronger and stronger. You know when people say that as soon as they saw a certain person they just knew that they had to marry them? It was like that – that is how I felt. And then my phone rang and it was my boss. I didn’t want him to hear the noise of the party going on, so I said to the girl; ‘I won’t be a minute, please wait here.’ Then I rushed out to the corridor, next to the lift, and listened as the boss droned on. Then I rushed back and she was gone – and I never saw her again. I didn’t know her name, what could I do?’

On the Train She used to save him the seat next to her – she probably got on at Leeds, he got on at my station. They snuggled up together, glad of the press and squeeze of the tight seating and would chat cheerfully throughout the journey. But then their little head-to-heads ended and she no longer looked up as we all piled in, there was no longer the shy smile, instead she kept her head down over her laptop, head down, fingers skipping over the keyboard. The following day I looked out for him on the platform – and there he was, but not in his usual place, and he got onto the train lower down. Naturally I am curious! All kinds of scenarios are fluttering in my mind – the strongest are comparisons with our antics on Facebook – a hurtful omission - a disrespectful comment – an indiscreet posting - a misunderstood remark!

A Christmas Carol #2 Some of his very earliest memories were about his local church. It was Victorian Gothic and was called Saint Stephen the Martyr, which as a little boy he called ‘Saint Stephen the Tomato’. It was Anglican, but very near to Roman Catholicism in ritual. And then he found himself in the choir – in fact he was allowed to join far below the normal age, and they had to shorten a cassock for him and his white surplice, which his mother had to wash and iron every week, reached below his knees. The choir practiced twice a week and by the time he was approaching eleven, he was the leader of the trebles and did solos. Mr Birchall, the choirmaster, privately trained him, teaching him how to sing ‘open-throat’ and would press his hand on the boy’s diaphragm. The highlight of the church year was the Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. The church was lit by hundreds of candles, mostly around the choir stalls and chancel, leaving the worshipers in semi darkness. The choir led the procession with a Server at the front holding up a massive brass crucifix. They walked the length of the church from the vestry, between the aisles and into the nave, passing the plaques in memory of eminent founders and the shredded and stained flags from overseas battles. The opening carol was sung softly and the boy could hear the squeaking of his shoes on the stone floor. But it was at the end of the service that his singing became sublime. Mr Birchall was conducting with his eyes closed – the choir, all male, was at full force – the organ at full volume – the tenors and basses building a solid structure and the boy trebles soared above it, and out of that wave of joy a single choirboy began to rise even higher. It was the boy’s great moment and he reached the note that seemed impossible, and then he reached an even higher note! The church was flooded with the sustained brilliance of his pitch – it went on for so long and the other voices meekly faded and the organ too gave up. No one could tell when his voice ended and the echo began.

A Christmas Carol....... #3 There was a girl in my class and I bet every male teacher in the school was in love with her. Let me quickly add that I do not mean that this had any element of carnality or pervishness – they simply loved her. When teaching me they may have doubted the wisdom of their choice of profession, but I think they would have taught her for free. I’ll just say that she was lovely – even her name was lovely – Tina Pomfret! Anyway – it was time for the upper form’s Christmas dance and I asked (via a friend) if she would be my partner, which meant that I would go to her house to pick her up, get more dances with her than anyone else, then see her home afterwards. The answer came back: – Yes! Ricky Nelson, Connie Francis, Buddy Holly, Paul Anka , Neil Sedaka – love you forever! School Inexplicably, he had not been selected for the athletics team. The inter-schools event was just a few weeks away and his name was not included in the list. Yet he was one of the best at medium/distance running, but his name was not on the board. At first he wanted to go and ask questions, but a sort of dread came into his mind, an insight into the future. He felt that - ‘not being selected’ - despite being competent, might characterise his life. He didn’t know how to shake off the gloom of his thoughts – that feeling of dread - it actually hurt - hurt as much as the time someone banged a desk lid down on his fingers.

Happy Families Can there ever be reconciliation when a father has called his son’s girlfriend a ‘whore’?

Henry James grew up in a house that had an open door to the great and the good. Leading figures in literature, science and the arts were regular guests. A frequent visitor was William Makepeace Thackeray, who was venerated by James Snr and the entire household. Thackeray would hold court throughout the day, dominating all conversation, setting the content and tone about what the subjects should be, and giving prolonged summaries which no one ever interrupted. The story goes that Henry’s elder sister Alice – I think fourteen years old at the time – questioned the great man’s thinking when he was in mid flow. The people round the dinner table gasped. Thackeray turned to her with a look like a ‘ferocious lion’ – and said - ‘Are you suggesting that I am wrong?’ Alice met his gaze and smiling slightly replied – ‘Indeed I am not saying you are wrong. I am merely asking you to consider the possibility that you may not be right.’

At the recent Kurdish Wedding I was sitting behind a family – mum and dad wearing Kurdish national costume with their two young boys, the youngest sitting on his mother’s knee. Suddenly, before he could be grabbed, the boy slid off his mother’s knee and landed face down on the wooden floor. Screams and blood and people slapping their pockets for something to put to his nose to hold back the bleeding. Being an old fashioned gent I was able to produce – with the speed of a conjurer – a huge, crisply ironed, white linen handkerchief. The boy slowly recovered from the shock, both parents crouching over him – when his big brother, about five years old, turned to me and gave me the nicest smile I’ve ever received.

The Queen’s Elm, Chelsea George used to join us on Sunday lunchtimes, when the Queen’s Elm was crowded to the doors. He was older than the rest of us, perhaps seven or eight years which is a lot when you are nineteen; and we were all northerners, but he was a Londoner. He didn’t say much - a man of few words, but he was flatteringly interested in all of us, as individuals – something we welcomed but couldn’t understand. He was newly divorced but still occupied the marital home – a flat in Tite Street, Chelsea – while his ex was living with her new chap somewhere in France. She was quite big deal in the fine-arts world and it looked as if she had made the money - George worked in a betting-shop somewhere in the West End. He never showed any spontaneity when he was with us – never made any jokes or wild comments – he was genial and modest, and when his turn came he would push through the crowd to get his round of drinks. He was genial and modest. I sometimes saw in his eyes an embarrassment, or a guilt, or perhaps the torment of a wincing sensitivity, but never discovered what was going on behind his mask. He used to dress in expensive suits and one Sunday I admired his dark blue overcoat. He smiled and turned it back to show the label - Crombie & Co. He asked me if I would like one and I replied that there was no way that I could afford a Crombie – it would have cost about a month’s salary. George said that he had contacts – he ‘knew’ people and he felt my shoulders and said that a ‘forty regular’ should fit. Incredibly, the following Sunday in the Queen’s Elm, George appeared with my coat over his arm – he carried like a butler! Nor would he take a penny for it. The coat lasted years and years – in fact, properly taken care of it would still be around today – and if someone had properly taken care of George he might too.

On the Train I will put my safety first like all the other sensible liberal cowards. He isn’t someone to mess with because he’s had enough of the whole lot of us – the schools that let him down, the kids with their prizes who told him he was thick - the laughter at the suggestion of higher education when he hadn’t even got a primary one - little in the way of love at home and little in the way of friendships - the employers who exploit him, viewing him as not much more than an animal, and he takes his revenge by stealing from them – no prospects - no girlfriends - everything a failure. So we all look away and pretend he doesn’t exist and my heart aches and I don’t know what to do.

Sons and Lovers..... (a shorter version) There used to be a large academic bookshop in Manchester, where I worked between the time of the Chatterley ban and the Beatle’s first LP. In the cellar was the ‘Goods In – Goods out’ department, with a small cramped office, in which sat a small cramped man called Eric. One sunny morning in the gloom of the cellar, I asked Eric if he was okay. He looked tired and more than usually unhappy. He replied; ‘The wife’s crying all the time.’ I asked why. ‘Our son’s going to Australia; he’s emigrating; got a job and all that and he’s leaving next week.’ ‘I’m sorry to hear that Eric – and your wife is upset about it?’ I said. ‘Yes – she walks around sniffling all the time.’ I struggled to empathise. ‘It must be difficult for her – and you.’ He glared at me. ‘Look – less than twenty years ago I was reporting to Liverpool to get on a troopship for the Far East - to fight the Japanese. She knew where I was going because I told her – although we weren’t supposed to tell anyone. She knew that ships were being torpedoed out of the water like a row of ducks. He knew that the sea was full of sharks. She knew that we were going into jungle fighting. But, bloody hell, she’s worried about him who’s going to get on a jetplane and off to a job at some college or other! She never got this worried about me – she didn’t cry at all!’ No one cried for Eric.

On the Train I recognised him instantly as someone familiar but ‘not to be spoken to’ – he slots into the category of people you know, but not directly. I have seen him on TV being interviewed on science issues – but he is no smiling popularist, more a grumpy boffin resenting intrusion into his laboratory. His subject is spectrometry, as applied to astronomy – checking the chemical structures of stars in the Milky Way. He is part of an international team who send out an electronic pulsing into space which consists of an endless repetition of π r2. The scientists presumed that if there is intelligent life out there, they would pick up this transmitted formula and understand it. So there he sits – the man who sends out π r2 into the universe – looking slightly cross, no doubt sensing the danger of hearing me suggest that Whitney Houston’ s ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ might be a better choice.

Pret a Manger A young couple come in – shutting the door behind them but looking confused. They say something to each other and then go back out. A few seconds later they are back in. I watch as they order whatever it is and the man chooses a table, leaving the young woman to load up the tray. He sits down and then gets up again and tells her that he has changed his mind. She calls the assistant back to change the order, she then she joins him at the table, but she wants to sit near the window, so they pick up their bags and things and move. They have an attractive staccato eagerness, indicating the newness of their relationship – a quickness at smiling – at finding pleasure in what the other is saying or doing. Somehow they have influenced the equilibrium of the place – it isn’t the same as it was before they came in! Very hard to put into words, but there has been sort of displacement, but as I dismissed this as fanciful, a piece of my own imagining, there was a loud bang as a waiter dropped a plate.

Lydia Pasternak Slater – poet, translator and brother of Boris Pasternak. Somewhere in the mid sixties I visited her at her home in Oxford – a visit made possible by a French mutual friend, also called Boris and also Jewish, who had survived the entire Nazi occupation of Paris hidden in a cellar. I was in awe at meeting Lydia and had resolved to tread carefully when speaking of her brother, who had died only four or five years previously. She was lovely and brisk and cheerful and we sat in her work room, which consisted of a tiny kitchen at one end and long tables loaded (neatly) with piles of books. It was like a warehouse and it was easy to see that she took pleasure in the wrapping, tying up with string, weighing, sticking on gummed labels and all the rest of it. Perhaps after hours of intellectual effort she found a relaxation in this side of the book business. I told her that I was a bookseller and she wanted to know all about it, where my shop was, what I sold. It was astonishing that this bright-eyed elderly woman, who had grown up in a home in which Tolstoy and Scriabin and Rachmaninov were regular callers, should be interested in what was going on in my life! As a little girl she had sat on Tolstoy’s knee! She told me that she loved Oxford – her house was off Banbury Road, I think. She loved swimming in the river. She was busy translating a new edition of her brother’s poetry – people say she is the best – and she gave me a signed copy. At one point I rambled on about poets being the best writers of prose and mentioned Hardy, Lampedusa, Plath, Joyce (who always considered himself primarily a poet), Rilke....’and greatest of all, Boris Pasternak!’

Outside M&S A chance meeting – we could have got away with walking on – but no – we simultaneously broke into huge smiles and lots of vigorous hand-shaking. Not seen each other for years! Usual banalities about not looking a day older. I asked about his family and he proudly told me that his youngest, Judy, was an actress. As we chatted away I was conscious that both of us were struggling with the question – does our fragile and neglected friendship merit resuscitation and should one of us offer some sort of invitation? Neither of us did, and eventually he went in one direction and I went in the other. Some while later I Googled his daughter – and there she was! The last time I saw her she was a shy eleven-year-old. The webpage was her agent’s so I clicked on her profile – all grown up and smiling – and a list of her career up to this year. Drama school, theatre appearances, list of plays, list of characters; television work, list of plays, list of characters; adverts and sponsorships and her personal notes – Specialities; ‘very experienced and competent in fight scenes and does her own stunts. Can operate helicopter and light aircraft. Can do rooftop scenes and anything involving heights. Can work with dangerous animals. Can do car crash scenes.’ Good old Judy.

Abraxas spends a lot of time trying to be popular in the Assembly – he’s hoping for elevation; he wants to strut in the Agora and see people stepping back. What a fool! Doesn’t he know that Khronos, who makes these appointments, has been watching him and knows that he has no feelings - has no love in him - no sympathy for the poor nor for animals. Khronos will overlook many character flaws, but never coldness.

The Bookshop in the Strand.... ( L’amour toujours ) Roger, the shop manager used to sub-let the basement to a struggling publisher. All day long The Publisher was unseen but heard – he would be either shouting at people over the phone, or having a weep, or singing selections from the musicals. Access to his basement was down a weird, wrought-iron spiral staircase; so ornate and fussy that it puzzled me who might have commissioned it; what had been the buildings previous use – a bridal dress shop perhaps? Anyway The Publisher would be down there and we could tell his moods, and the state of his private life, by the songs he sang. I remember particularly his version of a Marie Lloyd gem (his voice loud and alarmingly clear to us upstairs in the bookshop) as he belted out ‘The Boy I Love is up in the Gallery’. He only sang emotional songs and if the genders didn’t fit his preference he switched them – which used to really amuse me – I was only nineteen and that was the sort of thing I found funny. One afternoon it was clear that he was in love – there had been a steady stream of jolly songs. And suddenly he sprang like a demon from his underground den and grabbed Roger – poor, prim Roger – gripping him fiercely and called out - ‘C’mon you tight-arsed bastard – let’s have a dance!’ The two of them spun around the shop in a fairly decent waltz – The Publisher singing at the top of his voice : – ‘I could have danced all night I could have danced all night! And still have begged for more!.....’

J----- (the model) She spent hours sitting for him - hundreds of drawing before he even started on the clay. At first the idea of having her head ‘done’ by Danny had amused and flattered her, but it soon became tedious. Danny used to tell me how it was coming along – she had a fabulous head and he was inspired – not that he could put his enthusiasm into words – but he’d say things like - ‘serene beauty on the outside – but underneath!’ To which I was supposed to nod my head vigorously as if I understood. When the head was nearly finished he let me see it. He had it covered by a wet cloth and it was mounted on a steel armature on a high wooden trestle. She was so beautiful, timeless, classical – eyes closed; her head was perfection, superb in profile and full on – the jaw coming forward as she is about to speak. I said that it was the best portrait I had ever seen. He said that when it was completed he would take it to a London art school for casting. I never found out what happened after that, the head was no longer on the plinth and he was occupied with a new subject. He wouldn’t say anything. Even years later, even as an old man, he would not answer questions. Those that knew him compared theories. Danny destroyed it – something he frequently did with his work. Danny was in love with the girl and she rejected him – very possible, all his involvements were problematic; in this case the girl had hardly left school, and he was a thirty-two year old who spent a lot of time as a voluntary patient in mental hospitals. Danny had it cast in plaster and simply gave it to the girl, as a tribute to her beauty. I believe the last one.

Manchester Nights They used to meet in a city centre bar – both going straight from their offices – this was during the week but never on a Friday evening – she had to explain to him. He would order a whisky sour and a vodka and they would sit in a banquette away from the door but facing the street. Just a young couple happy together; perhaps in love - nothing very unusual in all this – nothing at all. Manchester was an austere city in the 1960s; not at all like the place it is today. You didn’t go to Manchester to have fun; it was a place of business; of dark warehouses and triumphal banks. No one lived in the centre, no trees, no greenery at all, no break from the heavy orthodoxy of commercialism. But it was nice in the bar where nothing distracted them from each other – except her eyes kept flickering across to the street – to the building facing them in the street. She was mesmerised by the sign in the yellow street light:- J. & E.W. Kegan (Imports) Ltd.

A London Street #2 1967 Some might have said that Anna’s husband wasn’t up to much. His name was Joe and he was an unemployed drummer - American - always on the point of the ‘big break’ that never came. He was out nearly every night in the Earls Court pubs, mixing with the rock and blues crowds and would stumble home, eager to tell his wife about the offer that would soon be his. He also used to bring people back with him – people who had missed their last train, or were too drunk to go home, or had no home to go to. Anna didn’t make a fuss, she conjured up a quick supper, locked the doors, fed the cat, carried bundles of bedding for the guests and set the clock; she had to be up early for her job at St. Thomas’ Hospital. Anna loved Joe’s accent – he was from Chicago but she could catch the Irish origins, which being a Celt herself, sounded very attractive to her. Hearing his voice took her back to another voice – another American voice – a voice from when she was a girl growing up in her Welsh village. A very distinguished writer and his American wife settled in a small terrace house, right on the main street. No one knew why they had chosen to live in a Welsh village, known only for slate mining. The man was really odd but word had it that he had been twice nominated for the Nobel Prize for literature, so that stunned the locals into silence. His output continued, but his major books had already been written and published. And then he became ill and was taken to hospital in Chester, and was quickly discharged and returned home to die. His widow remained in the village – she hardly ever went out and had no visitors. But a friendship developed between Anna and the widow – Anna was sixteen or so and the widow was in her seventies. They sat in the tiny living room and talked endlessly about Anna’s life at school and what she wanted to do in the future. She was happy to chat and tell the frail, bright-eyed lady everything about herself; she told her things that she would never mention to anyone else. She started to love the woman’s voice – it was the voice of Emily Dickenson. One afternoon Anna followed her up the narrow stairs to see the room where her husband had worked. It was small and unfurnished – just a bookcase and a desk and a chair at the window. There wasn’t a carpet and the wooden boards creaked under her school shoes. The desk was plain wood with a sloping top – like clerks used in Victorian times. Sunlight poured through the dusty window, but only on that side of the room. She looked down and saw the river and how the weeds looked like a woman’s long hair being rinsed. The woman was explaining something and her words lost their meaning, it was just the music of her voice – highly educated, soft cadences, summer afternoons, a slight insinuation, love letters so old that the paper melted and crumbled in your fingers. She felt faint and the woman quickly reached out for her – and then the woman said, in her best Boston voice – ‘I think you and I should have a nice glass of whiskey!’

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