The Brightfount Diaries

Rather to our amazement, Rexine agreed it was worth a try. Next thing we knew, great parcels arrived containing Conquest of Space, Man on the Moon, Flying Saucers from Outer Space, Flying Saucers Are Real, Flying Saucers Have Landed, Flying Saucers on the Moon, and so on. Dave was, to coin a phrase, shattered; but to-day – clearly having recovered – he virtually insisted on ‘a Saucer window’, as he calls it.

‘It would be a waste of display space,’ said Rexine grumpily.

Whereupon Dave showed us a letter in the Journal and Advertiser from someone claiming to have seen a saucer flying low over Bagger’s Dune, a hill about four miles out of town. Dave said he thought it would be an incentive to sales.

So the saucers are in the window. Two sold during the day, so Dave may be right.

TUESDAY

Gudgeon is back from his summer holiday. He and a friend of his have been on the Broads – ‘and in,’ he said; ‘we both fell in in turn.’ We told him how brown he looked, but he said it was wind not sun. Wonder what he and his friend talked about, if they talked at all? We spend hours here in his company without ever feeling we really know him.

The great news to-day is another letter in the local paper about flying saucers from a man who writes, ‘I was driving over the top of Bagger’s Dune when the saucer came over, veered sharply south and looked as if it was going to land the other side of Dune Wood. Unfortunately I lost sight of it then.’

Dave elated. Sold more space books during day.

Did orders first thing, then spent rest of time clearing out Slaughterhouse. Mr B. is thinking of converting this shabby little den into what he ambitiously calls ‘a print showroom’. First the outside wall will have to be rebuilt because the damp pours in. That will mean another invasion of workmen!

WEDNESDAY

Made fool of myself this morning. Customers don’t always pronounce titles clearly and I suppose I had my mind on interplanetary visitors, etc. Anyhow, when I was asked for Vivisection of the Universe, I echoed the title in shocked amazement.

‘I didn’t say that at all,’ the customer replied sharply. ‘I asked for Visual Perception of the Universe.’

This slurring of words is misleading. Professor Carter asked Mrs Callow for a text of Beowulf once, and after a moment’s thought she said, ‘We’ve got Br’er Rabbit.’

Half-day. Went long cycle ride with Jack and Piggy Dexter. Kept one eye open for saucers. Had tea at charming place called ‘The Red Jacket’ (d/w to Stalin’s works, perhaps?). Discovered terrific hornets’ nest in rotten tree on way home.

Piggy said, ‘Suppose the Martians or whoever they are landed just here. If they had never had to cope with insects before, the hornets would be quite invincible and the Martians would have to hop back to base and report that this planet was uninhabitable.’ Hopeful thought.

THURSDAY

Thinking of changing digs; toast burnt again. Opened bed-room door to find landing thick with smoke. Tackled Mrs Yell about it and was told burning was due to poor quality of present-day bread: ‘It don’t stand up to flame like it used to.’

Arrived at shop feeling a little peevish.

Dull day. Gudgeon has got post-holidayitis and Dave pre-holidayitis – he is off for a fortnight on Saturday. I had mine over Easter – too early. Continued in the Slaughterhouse, which is quite amusing, but after lunch had to sit and catalogue old Bohn editions of the classics; Mr B. wants to get out a special ‘Cheap Only’ stereotyped list by the end of next month. Shall these dry Bohns sell?

Heartily glad to slip out at five o’clock, pull off my tie and go round to meet Avril Dodd at the club. Played doubles with her against her brother Charles and old flame Helen. Good game. Went for a walk with her after; she’s a bit solid but agreeable to talk to. Going to meet her again next Wednesday.

FRIDAY

Pay-day.

Forgot to say yesterday that space books are still selling. Dave and Rexine elated. To-day there was a third letter, anonymous, in the local paper at midday. The writer had actually seen ‘two disc-shaped objects such as Adamski described in his book’ floating over the Town Hall. They disappeared with an eerie whistling noise behind the Tastiped Shoe Factory.

‘It’s really getting quite alarming,’ Peggy Ellis said nervously.

‘I don’t care if there’s an entire Martian invasion,’ Dave told her, ‘provided we sell the books.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ said Mr B., overhearing. He called down the cellar to Rexine, who was helping old Mr Parsons unpack parcels, ‘You’d better order some more of those space books.’

Mrs Callow suggested – but sotto voce – that by the trend of things we might be wiser to stock up on the ‘County Books’ and guide books in case some Venusians materialize. Could not help visualizing what a revolution in the book trade, as in other spheres, a peaceful interplanetary invasion would cause. We should have a spate of Venus in Pictures, and there would be Teach Yourself Venusian, Masterpieces of Venusian Art, and as for travel books … The imagination – what’s the exact word? – boggles.

Despite this excitement, I still sat in the back of the shop cataloguing Bohns. Emergency or not, what Mr B. says goes. Our dumb office wench, Edith, came downstairs about four to collect Rexine’s post and said, ‘Cheer up, things aren’t as bad as you look.’

Several American tourists about; most of them are interested in buying prints – to compare with the photos they take, I suppose. Last year we had a Baltimore man in who told us what a lovely old town we had; Gudgeon, flattered beneath a stolid exterior, embarked on a description of the local antiquities.

‘And one wall of St Mary’s church dates back to about 1570,’ he said proudly.

‘Gosh, is that really so?’ the visitor exclaimed. ‘A.D. or B.C.?’

SATURDAY

Swim before breakfast. Very cold.

Always get odd people in shop on Saturday. Our ‘thief’ came in to-day – at least, we’ve suspected him for weeks but have never actually caught him. Everyone brightens up perceptibly when he comes in!

Dave very cheerful, last day at work and his saucer books going briskly. As we closed, Rexine said to him, ‘You know I’ve ordered some more saucer books, don’t you?’

‘I know,’ Dave said, ‘but don’t forget I shall be away next week. You’ll have to carry on the job of writing fake letters to the Press or the sales may fall off.’

Takes his job seriously, does Dave – when it suits him.

SUNDAY

Found self quite looking forward to seeing Cousin Derek and wife. Odd of me really, because relations are never very exciting.

Got over to Graves St Giles earlier than usual. Derek and Myra were out in the car with Uncle Leo; apparently they are looking out for a house hereabouts, and Derek wants to motor to London every day.

Asked what Myra’s sister was like.

‘I thought you’d ask that!’ says Aunt Anne coyly. ‘Sheila is a very charming girl, and about your age. She left here on Friday to stay with some friends in Kent, but she may be back here next Sunday when you come.’

Inquired, not that I wanted to change the subject, after Uncle Leo.

‘He seems to have been a little steadier since Derek arrived. But I fear he is undergoing a very odd phase just at present, very odd. You know my dear, I’m forced to say it, your uncle’s not at all an easy person to live with.’

She looked rather tearful, so I hurriedly asked what effect Lawrence had had on him.

‘Lawrence met your uncle when he was still at a very impressionable age. I’m sure he had a very profound effect on your uncle’s ego. Now I am very far from being anything in the nature of a psychoanalyst, and heaven knows I could hardly be said to be even connected with the world of literature – not as much, even, as you are, Peter. The only thing I have ever had published – and this detail may amuse you (even if you have heard it before) – was a knitting pattern. There used in my young days to be a monthly magazine called Lady and Domicile, defunct now, and they had this competition one Christmas … However, that was not what I was going to tell you.’

Aunt Anne has great strength of mind. She looks searchingly over the rose garden, as if to collect the lost thread of her narrative, and says, ‘Lawrence had certain definite ideas about the human character, some of which were – and I say it without wishing to appear a prude – very unorthodox. He believed that every man should be an individual, and this deeply impressed your uncle. He is now trying to be an individual in the only way he knows: by being an eccentric.’

Had curious sensation of revelation listening to this. Aunt is quiet little woman, rather like one of Smollett’s women, efficient, lively enough and without much depth. Now, sitting on the rustic seat listening to her, suddenly realized that all these years she had been watching Uncle Leo with acumen. Began, in fact, to feel nervous for Uncle, particularly if she had diagnosed wrongly.

At this point the car came up the drive. Uncle introduced me to Derek and Myra. Myra was very elegant and pleasant; Derek seemed a bit hearty. I can just remember him as very small boy running round pretending he had swallowed a balloon, to the consternation of Aunt Anne.

They drove me back here after tea.

MONDAY

Continued clearing out the Slaughterhouse. Miss Ellis and Gudgeon looked after the shop, but trade pretty slack; according to Gudgeon, only customer before eleven o’clock was a woman whose little girl required the nearest lavatory.

Main object of attack in the Slaughterh. to-day was Mr B.’s so-called ‘reserve’ desk – so-called because its drawers are so crammed with rubbish it is no longer usable; he abandoned it long ago for the one upstairs. He had to supervise the turning out; we filled a sack with waste. Every drawer bung-full with old correspondence and catalogues. No system, of course. One drawer contained nothing but empty envelopes, addressed to ‘Gaspin’s’ or ‘Gaspin and Brightfount’, which dates them a bit!

Other contents included loose chocolates, sealing-wax, a bottle of Vapex, early copies of Criterion, Blast and London Opinion, a mêlée of pencil stubs, two crushed cigars, an old pair of spectacles, some lino patterns, a photo of the shop, endless prospectusses and a box of pre-war cheese.

‘We really ought to present this lot to the museum,’ Mr B. said. ‘Ah well, fling it out.’

The only things he did keep were some old rubber stamps and a faded photograph of Mrs Brightfount in a large, floppy hat.

Was laughing about the collection later to Mrs Callow. Gudgeon overheard and said, ‘What’s funny about it? A collection of miscellaneous articles is man’s only defence against time.’

He makes some odd remarks occasionally.

TUESDAY

After last week’s intensive campaign, interplanetary books are still selling well. The Green and Red Planet doing particularly nicely. Mrs Callow, leaning nonchalantly against the counter, informed me that she’d seen an announcement of the first book by a Martian pilot, entitled One of Our Saucers is Missing. Almost swallowed it.

Supposing these beings from another world arrived. Imagine them as dry, detached intellects in a sponge-like body; they casually present man with the secret of anti-gravity. In the succeeding outburst of space travel and planetary exploration, what an orgy of – not adventure, as the rocket-writers predict – but learning would follow! The barriers of every science would be broken down: geology, physiology, astronomy, chemistry, biochemistry, agriculture … What oddities of planetary architecture, to take geology, Mercury might yield, its airless plains eroded by lead streams and undermined by lava seas.

And biochemistry … in the great, gravity-less stations wheeling round the earth, white-coated men peer at their captive rats, rats conceived and born free of weight – rats the size of spaniels with brains accordingly enlarged.

There would be work for the publishers then, and of making many books less end than ever. Some Unclassified Ganymedan Trypanosomes, Plutonian Oceanography, Alien Helminthology: with special reference to the parasites of Venusian Vertebrates, would be unpacked at Brightfount’s by some later-day Mr Parsons. A metal Mr Parsons perhaps.

A dream of learning – shattered maybe by the wail of sirens as telescreens announce, ‘Attention earth, attention earth! Four space stations have been seized by the giant mutant rats, who even now prepare to drop H-bombs down on their creators!’

WEDNESDAY

Half-day. Spent the afternoon lazing in the sun, got cleaned up and met Avril at five. After (expensive) tea we watched dull cricket match on Poll’s Meadow till stumps were drawn, when her brother Charles, who was playing, conscripted me for a match in a fortnight’s time. Could not get out of it! Then Avril and I were making for a spot of peace and quiet when we ran into Piggy Dexter, who insisted on taking us into ‘The Boar’s Head’ (dangerous pub name for Dr Spooner!).

Always expect to hear brilliant talk in pubs, perhaps with memories of Boswell at Child’s. Generally disappointed – people have indisputably lost their fluency since Johnson’s day, trained into passivity by radio and cinema. But one fragment charmed by its ambiguity: two men discussing a third as they left the bar, and one said, ‘But the way he laughed! Do you think he was a bit high?’

‘Oh no,’ replied the other. ‘I think he was genuinely amused.’

July nearly over! Ah me, in summer you forget it is not always summer and are consequently apt to forget to appreciate it to the full.

THURSDAY

Dave is having good weather for his holiday. Don’t know where he is going – he didn’t himself when he left on Sat. night. Said he was having a bookseller’s holiday, i.e. could not afford to go away. Seems quiet in the shop without him; he’s a bit rough, but good-hearted and good company. Think Peggy misses him. Mr B. is going to be away to-morrow, has to go into the country to look at a small library.

More remainders arrived to-day.

‘Remainders are to the book trade what the Grand National is to bookies,’ Mr Brightfount sometimes says; he loves a sweeping assertion as much as a gamble. His way of dealing with remainders is to ‘spot a winner’ and buy it all up, letting it sell slowly over the years.

Our cellar is encumbered with these lucky buys, so-called. There is Ages at Bagger’s Dune, which being of local interests sells slowly: we are now down to the last two hundred copies. There is a study of Saxon cooking and table manners which seldom sells, called Sir Gawaine at the Kitchen Door. And there are stacks of copies of two memoirs by a doctor who worked for years in Poland which – most embitteringly when you think of the success of Doctor in the House and Doctor at Sea – never sell at all; these are Fistulas on the Vistula and its sequel, Hand over Fistula.

One of the most endearing features of book trade is its galaxy of titles, all gallimaufried together. Notice how many facets of human existence lie cheek by jowl in the booksellers’ lists:

Carr, T. H., Power Station Practice

Carriage of Goods by Sea Act

Carroll, L., Alice in Wonderland

Cary, M., A History of Rome

Casanova, J., Memoirs

FRIDAY

Pay-day.

Likewise market-day. We were busy most of the morning with Dave and Mr B. away. Yesterday Arch Rexine put thirty duds from the Slaughterhouse on to our outside shelves; twelve of them sold before I went to lunch. A lot of Ruskins have gone. I’ve noticed before how old and rural-looking men buy Ruskin. These are folk unswayed by fashion. That’s a thought which often worries me: aren’t booksellers as much ruled by fashion as milliners? Inside or outside the head, the way of the world is the only way.

Queue of charabancs in Cross Street after lunch; trippers come specially to view the Castle. Mrs Callow said that once when she was on holiday at Eastbourne with her husband they went on a Mystery Tour and before they knew it were back here looking at the Castle!

‘Hope you bought a guide?’ Miss Ellis said.

‘Not us. We slipped home to get a cup of tea and see if the cat was all right.’

SATURDAY

Dave is pretty illiterate, even for a bookseller’s assistant. Had a card from him saying he was in London staying with a friend ‘who is a bit of a rough daemon’. Conjures up an intriguing, mephistophelean figure. Surprisingly, Dave appeared while we were having tea break. He had had enough of London after looking round Foyle’s and Charing X Road, and cycled home this morning. He cycles everywhere: next week he plans to do Reading, Oxford, Cheltenham, Birmingham. He visits all the bookshops. That’s funny really, because you’d hardly call Dave a keen type.

Puzzle on the till roll this morning. I am a fool. During rush-hour yesterday I entered something that might be taken for either ‘Agamemnon’ or ‘Afghanistan’; to-day I can neither decipher nor remember what it was. Rexine gave me level, evil stare, and said, ‘I wonder if other bookshops have things like you?’

Had supper at Mrs Callow’s; wish I had a landlady like her! Thought it friendly of Dave to come in and see us this morning, but there was an ulterior motive … on way back to digs met him in Park Road with Peggy Ellis, arm in arm. This is odd and no mistake! Wonder what Edith, our dumb office wench, would say? Always used to think she had a sort of rough affection for Dave.

August

SUNDAY

To-morrow is August Bank Holiday. Cannot afford to go home. Yet I do not mind the prospect of two days spent more or less on my own; solitude has pleasures no other state can bring. Generally something interesting arrives out of the blue to think about, or if it does not arrive, boredom which is unbearable in company is good for the soul alone.

Suddenly discover myself at such times, almost like a stranger – had been there all the time, but in the crowd had never noticed me.

Not spectacular day to begin August with, but about what might be expected: warm and cloudy, and the threat of rain. Cycled lazily out to Graves St Giles, taking the longer route through Upper Wickham. A few wild roses still in the tall hedges, but already the green blackberries show.

Ancient car passes me closely, hoots, brakes wildly. Out jumps Derek.

‘Sling your bike in the back, old boy, and jump in. How do you like her, eh? Only bought her on Friday.’

Ask him what it is.

‘A 1925 Cardiac. Sound as a bell. What do you think I gave for her?’

Say £20, which annoys him.

‘Sixty – and that was devil’s cheap. Move over, Myra, and let the blighter in!’

We cut through the village at a smart pace and slither up Uncle’s drive in a cascade of gravel. Derek yells instructions to throw out the anchor, and we stop.

‘How do you find Aunt and Uncle after all these years away from home?’ I ask him as we go into the house.

‘No different – a bit older, of course.’ That is all he has to say; does he know nothing of the Lawrence legend, or is he merely insensitive? But at once Myra slips her arm through mine and says, ‘And what a sweet, old-fashioned question it is for him to ask. And where has he been all his little life?’

Have no answer to this. Besides, she is very smart, has fringe and a pleasingly sharp look, and her arm (even offered in mockery) is not to be disdained. But Derek tells her angrily ‘not to start that sort of stuff’, and we go silently in to lunch. Myra winks at me once over the table.

Did not stay for tea.

Poured with rain before I got all the way back home. Soaked. Mrs Yell rather awkward about drying sports jacket.

AUGUST BANK HOLIDAY

Clouds cleared early. Should have liked day at the sea; the Callows were going to Bismouth on the nine o’clock coach.

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