Guernica and The Black Paintings (I)

I am in Madrid with my eldest daughter, Daisy, who is fifteen and a half. It is early August, around six weeks after the disastrous Brexit vote, and it's very hot. The heat assaults us every time we step out of the hotel lobby. We haven't been here long, but we're already feeling a little aggrieved by the Metro system. Every time we arrive on a platform a train is just leaving, it seems, and there is invariably a wait of around five minutes for the next one. One of the lines which serves our nearest station is closed for the summer, so it's already a little harder to get around than it ought to be. But the city has charmed us, proving to be cleaner and quieter than we were warned we might expect it to be. This afternoon we're following my itinerary, which will place us in front of Guernica and some of the highlights of the Prado.

We emerge at street level in the neighbourhood of Lavapiés, where the streets seem to smell of last night's barbecue, and walk down towards the Museo Reina Sofia. Closer to the museum locals and tourists are lunching in great numbers on shaded pavements, and I am baffled again by the instinct of so many of my countrymen, which urges them to be more remote from civilisation (exemplified here by the cosmopolitan mix of diners talking at sensible volume over food and drink consumed in a spirit of leisure) rather than closer to it. No-one at the ticket booth is in any rush to assist us, and it becomes clear, eventually, that this is not to do with any native indolence, but rather because admission is free after 1.00pm. Now, I was aware that the Prado offers free admission after five, but this is a bonus. At least I think it is.

Guernica is hemmed in by smaller galleries displaying Picasso's preparatory sketches and the room in which the painting itself is hung is long but reasonably shallow. It is also extremely crowded, so you feel a little like you're at the back of a crowd waiting for a parade to pass, rather than experiencing one of the Twentieth Century's great expressions of artistic energy. The painting itself is huge, but not surprisingly so, as some pieces already familiar in reproduction are when you first see them. It is as if the reputation of Guernica has outstripped even its expansive dimensions. Perhaps one's impression of the painting suffers as a result of its overfamiliarity (though I did not find this to be the case with Las Meninas, an earlier masterpiece which I saw later in the day and found immensely moving, in spite of my still greater familiarity with the image.) Perhaps it is necessary to imagine seeing the work during or in the immediate aftermath of the war whose effects it seems to depict, although I had just flown to Madrid from a nation which seemed to be turning against itself, informed by a wider reinvigoration of fascism that threatens to poison the whole continent. Anyway I found myself focusing more on what troubled me about the painting rather than enjoying what Picasso had achieved.

I have an idea about what Picasso was trying to accomplish in making the surface of the canvas so resolutely matt (apparently he commissioned special oil paint in order to create this effect). It seems that the painting is in some way supposed to resemble a black and white photo reproduced in a newspaper. To me though, this flatness deprived the picture of some energy, as if he hadn't really progressed from the drawings through to the finished work. The contrast between flat blacks, greys and whites is not as dramatic as it would have been had conventional oils been used. The components of the image are more harmoniously placed than they appear in the claustrophobic reproductions I was used to seeing, so that what I had expected to be chaotic seemed overly ordered. At the same time I found that the execution of the painting was almost sloppy, though I am also aware that this may be part of an intended aesthetic, that Picasso may have been attempting to create a tension between composition and realisation, that the canvas, in parts, was supposed to appear scruffy and unfinished. Nevertheless I felt a sense of wavering conviction, as if the artist had understood, too late, that the finished work would not live up to what was originally conceived.

What bothered me most about Guernica, I think, was its very consideredness. The tortured figures were too neatly balanced, the cartoonish limbs and digits too mannered. It is of course possible, laudable even, to investigate the insanity of war in a calm and measured fashion, but this is not what Picasso was at, if I understand his masterpiece correctly. He wanted Guernica to be a vast, mad yelp of a painting, a cry from the heart echoing the pain and horror of conflict, but for me, standing in front of it with a hundred or so other people, it seemed a bit too sane, too self-conscious and too public. I would only have to wait a couple of hours to find a more convincing and intimate argument about the senselessness of violence. One which wouldn't seem sane at all.

Minus the Shooting

Younis loved his country, all of it that he had seen anyway, and he had seen more than everybody he knew. He was a commercial traveller, buying fabric mostly, and some leather goods. Business took him south to the edge of the desert, where low, white villages were dwarfed by sand dunes, and all along the Mediterranean coast. Some mornings he would pull up beside the coast road, get out of the car, and stand in the play of wind between the land and the sea, would throw his suit jacket on to the back seat and stand there in his shirt, arms slightly away from his body, his tie flapping around his shoulders. He loved the people of his country too, a humorous nation, excitable, generous though largely underfed, speaking a rich creole of French and Arabic with countless oaths borrowed and often spliced from both. A good-looking people. More handsome than those from either side, at any rate. Younis himself was much admired, though unmarried. His moustache was broad and his hair still thick. The Lexus belonged to the company, in truth, but the apartment, in a good part of town, was his.

He might have called himself a patriot, but here, as in certain other countries, the word had assumed some negative overtones. It had come to connote a kind of small-mindedness, and a parochial, or at least less than cosmopolitan attitude to non-Arabs. Younis regretted but understood the recent upswell in patriotic feeling amongst the lower classes. Though he was a businessman he thought of himself as being essentially of the left. He bought a socialist newspaper two or three times a week and always on a Thursday. He dressed in western clothes but maintained some local habits. What bound him to the masses, to the young men in the squares who veered between political discontent and nationalist fervour, was his passion for the national football team. This passion created a literal queasiness in him. He was so invested in the fortunes of the team that watching them made him sick. He would heave with nerves if the opposition crossed the halfway line. So he couldn't watch. Or could only watch the game's neutralities. The national anthems. The ball being shuffled across the back four. The pundits at half-time (though he would have, occasionally, to avert his eyes from the screen as attempts on goal at either end were analysed in slow motion).

Later on this particular September day the Desert Falcons were to play a World Cup qualifier against Senegal, in Dakar. Younis was not optimistic about the result, nor indeed his chances of avoiding the match. If he stayed in his hand would drift towards the television remote like some disembodied horror, and he would curl and cringe on the sofa until the rout was complete. Every café in the city would be showing the game, every laundrette and takeaway. Market stalls and taxis would have the radio tuned to a sports channel. He thought about driving out of the city, but again foresaw a twitching hand, one that could almost be identified as his own, fiddling furiously with the dial of a car stereo. He would have to go out on foot, he realised. Younis decided to reacquaint himself with the stuffed fauna in the Musée National. He would set out just before six, walk directly to the museum, sit in front of some paintings, be transported back to an idealised childhood amongst the tatty taxidermy in the basement, then make his way back. He estimated that the whole adventure would take up to two hours, long enough for the match to reach its unhappy conclusion.

The afternoon had begun to cool as he put on a linen jacket and skipped down the stone staircase of his building, a free man. On the corner of his street a workman and a gendarme were arguing over a flag, which the labourer had tied to a barrier. Younis listened as he waited for the lights to change. It seemed that the cop had told the workman to remove the flag because, as he pointed out (and not unreasonably, Younis thought) it considerably reduced visibility for anyone turning left on a filter light. The labourer, who seemed to be in a less reasonable frame of mind, kept repeating that the flag was 'symbolic', and it emerged besides that the flag was a permanent fixture on the barrier, had been tied to it, in fact, since the Desert Falcons had last made it to the World Cup, seven years previously, and was therefore, in all likelihood, irremovable. The gendarme then enquired if the navvy had an alternative barrier at his disposal, which enquiry was duly answered, somewhat insolently, in the negative. Younis imagined retelling the story at some later point, of The Flag and the Hole in the Road, perhaps as an amusing antidote to the disappointing reversal about to visited upon his beloved national team by the Senegalese. The lights changed and he let them, patting down his jacket for an imaginary billfold, or pack of cigarettes, a charade performed so that the two interlocutors would not think he was merely loitering in the hope that they would come to blows. He made an effort to record their continuing dialogue in his mind, more or less as it happened.

“I can't just leave the hole unprotected.”

“Well cut it off then,” replied the constable.

“I can't and I won't. The flag is a symbol.”

“So you've said. May I ask what the flag symbolises, and how?”

“It symbolises our nation. Our struggle.”

The policeman nodded.

“I'm still struggling to understand how, exactly, this dirty bit of cloth symbolises the whole nation. Isn't it just a flag? And a flag in the wrong place? Tell me.”

The lights changed again. Younis let them.

“So the white band,” the workman began, “represents the peace we have achieved.” The cop surveyed the noisome junction.

“I suppose we're not actually at war, just at the moment.”

“The red is the blood shed by those martyrs, our fathers and brothers, with which peace, and our freedom, were bought.”

“Did you read that in a pamphlet?” The workman lit a cigarette and smiled but did not answer. Younis sensed that the situation was moving towards detente. Tempers cooling like the day, energy dispersing towards the end of the universe.

“And the green?” The workman wasn't sure.

“I guess it represents the country. The green land.”

Islam, thought Younis, crossing the road, finally. Green is for Islam, spine of the nation, its laws, sacraments and customs. There was a lot of desert, yes, but even here in the north it wasn't particularly green. A strange conclusion to reach. He imagined an alternate flag, with a beige stripe at the bottom. That might best represent the country's topography, was that the word? And yet it was a beautiful country, and no greener now, after the revolutions of his lifetime, than when the French were in charge, nor the Spanish before them. So the green represented a national religion, an established faith. Younis could have done without it. People needed to forget about the next world and focus on their desires in the here and now. Want something, buy it. Don't worry too much about what you can never possibly know. At the western end of the harbour the land rose up a thousand feet. There was a Moorish fort there, and a Spanish chapel beneath it. Less close to God. Tourists were driven up in coaches to see the battlements and the icons. Once a year, on Ascension Day, some pilgrims from the city walked up there. For what? There was a café and some souvenir stalls and a view over the port. Nothing special.

The boulevard was empty. Younis strode along it at a military pace. He imagined himself as the sole survivor of some biological outrage. The whole world at his disposal but no-one to share it with. He shivered and fell out of rhythm for a moment, becoming conscious of each footstep. Ahead, four hundred metres on the left, loomed the museum. Richly coloured friezes running in a band around the building. White stucco, black railings with an occasional soft drink can impaled upon them. A border of coarse grass. Palm trees every twenty yards or so. It was, Younis reflected, a modest, colonial sort of affair. Not the Louvre, nor the Prado, but something out at the edge of things. And perhaps all the better for it. A uniformed man stood on the steps and addressed Younis as he approached the gates.

“No admission after five forty-five.”

“Since when?”

“Since I've worked here,” said the man.

“Was it your decision, then, to change the opening hours?”

“What? No, I just work here.” The two men stood regarding each other for a moment, then the security guard lifted his chin and looked back towards the port. “Go home and watch the match,” he said. “That's what I'll be doing.”

Younis offered the man a limp salute and turned around. He was disappointed, but the walk had killed some time and kept his mind off the game. He walked north, staying on the shaded side of the boulevard. Ten minutes later he turned right towards the centre of town. He had decided to take refuge in the shop of Murad, his barber, who was a Christian and possibly a homosexual. Anyway, Younis remembered, Murad took no interest at all in football, and the television in the salon was invariably tuned to an entertainment channel. He skirted the bazaar, walking through the jewellery district. This was the oldest part of the city, the blackened buildings crowding closer, gutters almost touching overhead. Most of the shops were open. Old men hunched behind heavy glass cabinets. Men who had lived through everything but had seen nothing, hidden away in this dark corridor, insulated by diamonds. They beckoned to him. “Buy or sell,” he heard repeatedly, muffled by closed doors and old velvet. Six forty-five. Half time. He sat outside a small café and ordered a coffee. He sugared and sipped it. Very good, like the coffee in Spain, he thought. A moment later his stomach seemed somehow to violently rotate within him as, looking away from the café, he saw the match score reflected in the darkened window of a shop across the street. Any other score might have taken a moment to absorb, to reverse the characters and to recall which was the home team. It was nil – nil. Gloriously and unambiguously scoreless. Younis allowed himself a brief moment of hope. Perhaps they could pull it off. But hope was almost immediately overwhelmed by memories of past failures. The team defending a narrow lead, dropping deeper and deeper into their own half, throwing themselves in the way of every shot and cross, until tired legs can no longer perform. A low drive deflected twice in a crowded box. A foot withdrawn just too late from the path of the overlapping left back. All that effort for nothing.

Younis pulled a note from his wallet and tucked it under his saucer. There was a photograph in there, sandwiched between two business cards. His niece aged about four. He had always been fond of the girl, grown up and living in America now, but the reason he kept the photo was because of an unusual quality he felt it possessed. Her hair is long and uncovered. She wears a knee length brown dress which he remembers being stitched from a heavy fabric, corduroy perhaps. She is leaning forward at the waist, her arms stretched down in front of her, her hands half a metre apart. There is a red ball in mid-air. This was the thing about the photograph. It seemed to capture not only a moment, but also what preceded and followed this moment. You could see that the girl had just bounced the ball, but also, from its position slightly beyond her reach, you could see that she would not catch it and that the ball would skip away from her over the hard ground. He had taken the photo himself, and did not remember if this had happened, but looking at the image it was impossible to conceive that it hadn't. That the girl hadn't shrieked slightly, and skipped along after the ball. He wasn't sure what significance this had, really, but he felt that it must have something to do with how humans experience time and space. This was the kind of thinking he tried to avoid, particularly when it was late, and he was alone. But his mind was generally unquiet. The little girl in the brown dress provoked another question, as he rose and put on his jacket. How, he wondered, did we get from that innate instinct to play, to the present moment, where nation was staked against nation, across the globe, where the kicking of a ball could not be an unpolitical act, if only because of the great numbers of souls, his included, who were invested in the trajectory of that act? He heard the whistle blow for the start of the second half.

There was a red sign above the barber shop window with Murad's name and line of business hand-painted upon it in Arabic, French and English. This last, lowest set of letters was smaller than those above, as if added as an optimistic afterthought. The town attracted few tourists, and those who made to these narrow streets were usually looking for hashish rather than a haircut. A tricolour was pinned up in a corner of the window, just big enough to reassure nationalists that their custom was welcomed (Younis thought of the roaddigger) and not so big as to prove distasteful to everyone else. 

Murad was not busy. He sat alone on the vinyl banquette where, during the week, his customers would wait their turn in the chair. Younis watched him for a while before entering the shop. His attention, it seemed, was divided between the large tropical fish tank at the back of the shop and the television in the corner. Nothing was happening in the fish tank, nothing that Younis could perceive, anyway. Meanwhile on the flatscreen young men and women threw themselves about in silence. Murad rose as he entered and greeted him warmly. The barber's own hair was thinning somewhat, and was unnaturally black, and as he spoke to Younis he repeatedly scraped his palm over his scalp from front to back. Funny, Younis thought, that you never saw a dentist with bad teeth.

“I was just thinking about closing up for the day.” Younis stepped backwards, smiling.

“I can come back, if you prefer. I've already been turned away from the Musée National...”

“No, no, sit down.” The barber was flustered. “Not a soul for two hours. On a Sunday.”

“There's a football match going on,” Younis explained. “An important one.”

“Not important to me.”

“Well, important in the sense that it has robbed you of your usual customers.”

“But their hair will still need cutting, whoever wins.”

It was then agreed that the client's hair would be washed, prior to cutting, and that afterwards a wet shave would be in order. The great black chair was duly lowered and Younis leant over the sink. Murad's voice, sharing some gossip about the mayor and his mistress, was only intermittently audible as water and hands and shampoo and more hands and more water swilled about his client's ears. The effect was not unpleasant. As Murad towelled his hair dry Younis watched a young man approaching in the mirror. A young black with untidy hair. Murad saw him too, and made towards the door. Younis still had water in his ears. Murad explained that he was with his last customer but the young man offered to pay double as he had a job interview in the morning and felt it important that he resemble, at least somewhat, the small square figure in the photo he had attached to his curriculum vitae. Just a trim with clippers, a five minute job. Murad's resistance to the young man's appeals seemed, to Younis at least, distinctly unchristian, and as a representative of at least one minority (almost certainly two) the barber might have been expected to empathise with the plight of a fellow who was similarly marginalised by the random circumstances of his birth, and the conditions which informed themselves upon these circumstances. It was not so apparently. But Younis hectored Murad, without referring to this surmised parallel between the two other men's conditions of life, querying instead if the barber could afford to turn away a paying customer in the current climate, determined in this last afternoon to be a whimsical thing altogether. The young man sat down on the banquette, eventually, and nodded his thanks to the older man in the chair. Almost immediately Younis regretted taking sides. The young African asked if he could watch the end of the match while he waited. Half an hour to go, or thereabouts. Murad tossed him the remote.

Younis clenched each part of himself and tried not to look. The familiar nausea swelled over him as Murad, with exquisite slowness, moved around him with the scissors. Statistics appeared in the lower third of the screen. Senegal could boast eighty-five percent possession, most of it in the Falcon's half. Twelve corners to none. Seventeen attempts on goal (nine on target) to none. The away team hadn't had a shot. The sound was still off but Younis was confident that the commentator would be recycling some variation of “The statistic that really matters is the score”. Younis tried to focus on the blades of the scissors. He saw them moving in the mirror and listened to them clicking. Yick-yick-yick. It was impossible. Eighty minutes. Murad produced the small mirror and showed him the back of his head. It looked, Younis thought, reassuringly similar to the back of his head after the last dozen or so haircuts he'd had. Murad was still brushing cut hair from his neck as he rose to leave. The barber pressed him gently back into the seat. “Let's shave you.” He disappeared into the back of the shop and reappeared with a small pile of steaming towels. The Falcons keeper tipped a forceful header on to the crossbar. As Younis sat with the lower part of his face shrouded in hot towels Murad shaved the African's head. The young man pronounced himself satisfied with the job done, and paid double, as promised. Murad gave him back one of the notes. He stayed in the chair next to Younis who appeared to be ill. The older man, whose skin had taken on a grey tinge, was watching the game closely now, though his head seemed to wobble rather on his neck. He reached for the remote and unmuted the television. Forty thousand people whistling. This was odd, he thought. Did the home crowd want the game to end? Perhaps it was a cultural thing. Were they jeering their team? Murad removed the towels and began lathering his chin.

Three minutes of extra time. The whistling intensifies. Murad is saying something. His two customers urge him to be quiet. Another corner. Senegal leave one on one at the back. The corner is too close to the Falcons keeper who catches it and punts it towards the halfway line. It looks like a training drill. The ball bounces over the Senegalese centre-back and is seized upon by the solitary Falcons forward. He is smaller and quicker and pulls away towards the edge of the penalty area, but shifts the ball too far in front of him. The Senegal goalkeeper sees this and charges out to clear but gets to the ball a quarter of a second after the centre-forward who lifts it over his sliding legs. The forward is flipped, almost and the ball rolls goalward. The Senegalese centre-half recovers and hooks it around the post.

Younis remained in his seat. As the ball rolled towards the line he refused to admit the possibility that it might cross it, that the retreating defender might stumble or fluff the clearance. Three points away in Dakar was simply too much to dream of. A draw seemed certain now. Senegal were down to ten men, and without a goalkeeper, having used their three substitutions. The left-back had taken the gloves and stood behind the wall half-laughing as he directed them into position. A draw was an excellent result. So he would not rue the chance that hadn't quite gone in. The incident had secured the point. Murad peeled a blade from its wrapper and slid it into the razor. It felt odd to experience this calm, Younis thought, to watch as a disinterested observer might. He felt the blade against his cheek. The stand-in goalkeeper gave a thumbs-up to the referee who blew his whistle. Mohamed Shahili, nineteen years old and perhaps sixty-five kilos, took two steps towards the ball and poked it with the outside of his right boot, still on the toes, but kicking slightly across it. Murad began to pull the blade down over his client's left cheek, in short staccato movements. Like a Bernard Herrmann score, thought Younis, listening at the same time to the TV pundit who was explaining that the biggest difficulty from this distance was getting the ball up over the wall and down again in time for it to squeeze beneath the bar, while Shahili's strike seemed to be overcoming this difficulty in the most convincing fashion, leaving the locum keeper flatfooted as it slid down the back of the net and the ball rested there, its energy spent, an object newly weighted with history.

Younis jumped this time and the razor marked a thin red line an inch below his cheekbone. Murad stepped back from the chair and the young African pointed at the older man beside him. The cut was narrow and red and there was still white foam above it. None of the men would swear to it, and they didn't mention it to friends and family in the following weeks and months, but they all saw it. The blood beneath the wound had changed colour entirely and was now bright green, the green of the flag in the window of the small salon.

Winning

Her father leaned over her and kissed her forehead, his breath sweetened already by tobacco and instant coffee. She pretended to be asleep but she had heard him on the stairs seconds earlier and had to try hard not to smile.  It was very early.  The sky in the gable window appeared black still. “Time to get up, pickle,” he said.  He turned off the nightlight and turned on her bedside lamp, then left her to dress.

She ate toast in the kitchen, standing up, blonde and nine and a little stout, though quick on her feet.  Her father went to start the car, to warm it up for the short drive to the depot.  He was wearing his glasses now.  Heavy-framed things, like the more serious men on the television wore.  He was not a very serious man, she knew, but that was why she loved being around him, particularly when it was just the two of them.  When the twins weren't climbing over him, and Mum wasn't hanging off his shoulder.  She held his hand only when they were crossing the road.  He would kiss her once each morning, if he didn't have an early start, and once at bedtime.  Sometimes he would mess her hair up.  Otherwise they didn't need the reassurance of actual contact.  Nearness was enough, but nearness was better when only they shared it.  And today was a whole long day of it.

It wasn't very cold but he made her put on a winter coat.  She couldn't see her breath and knew he was being fussy.  She didn't want to moan and spoil things.  They got in the car.  The first part of the journey took one and a half country songs.  I'll see you in my dreams.  There were wide gates at the depot, made of wire and lopsided.  She remembered seeing him here last winter, standing with a gang of other men in donkey jackets.  They were burning wood in an empty oil drum and singing songs to keep warm.  On strike.  Everyone was on strike after that, but she had the feeling that her Dad had started it all.  She and her mother had brought soup and all the mugs from the kitchen.  Mum was very worried, but it had all blown over, just like Dad said it would.  She watched him sign in.  He asked her what the time was, even though the clock was in front of him.  He had been doing this ever since she learned to tell the time.  It was quarter to five.  

His lorry was a Scammell with eight wheels and a tank on the back.  All in bottle green, with the company name in foot-high script on the side.  He piloted the truck between parked cars and darkened houses.  Outside, the empty streets of the town seemed frozen by moonlight, like a painting or a photograph, and made strange and new.  She was reminded of the feeling she got when the family returned from holiday – visiting grandparents in Devon, invariably – and instead of finding home a familiar and reassuring space she sensed that it had undergone some subtle transformation, had become more orderly, or smaller, as if it were the house itself, rather than the perceptions of those who had vacated it, which was altered by their being away.  This was a kind of holiday, she thought.  Getting up early (though never this early) to beat the traffic.  No school.  Her father's face, handsome behind his spectacles, his lips pursed in a silent whistle, or a goodnight kiss.  Seen in full profile now.  Usually she was in the back seat, looking over his shoulder.  She liked looking at him , but if she did it for too long without him looking back a shiver of anxious pleasure would pass through her.  And then he always turned to her, somehow, even if she didn't make a sound.

She had a stuffed tiger called Ted, which she took almost everywhere, but not to school.  She retrieved the thing from her backpack, down in the gritty footwell, and sat him on the sill of the cab door, looking east. “What can you see?” she asked the toy.  Fences beyond the window, heard more than seen.  Invisible playing fields, low silhouettes of homes outlined darker against a blueblack sky.  No stars.  She leaned her head against the velour flank of the tiger, feeling the road and the engine singing against the frame of the truck.  The roads empty and the engine unvarying like the hum of a generator.  A soothing noise once your ears got used to it.  

She woke to daylight and seagulls and long rows of vehicles either side of them.  Her father handed her a Tupperware beaker with a lid.  There was orange squash inside, not too strong, which she gulped at.
“Where are we?”
“Portsmouth,” said her father.  He had a cigarette paper attached to his bottom lip and was massaging loose tobacco between his fingers.  She yawned.
“How long have I been asleep?”
“A couple of hours,” he said.  “Thought you'd wake up when we stopped.”
“I missed the city.”
“Not much to see there, just streetsweepers and fishmongers and none of them singing like in your films.  Hungry?”  She nodded.  “There's sandwiches in your bag.”

She chewed at a cheese sandwich and watched the birds circling over the tarmac.  After about ten minutes a man with a paddle appeared and began waving the lorries and cars onto the ferry.  They bumped forwards one at a time  up a ramp into the bow.  The hold of the ship smelled of oil and seemed unfinished, she thought, as if someone had started painting it and got discouraged.  It did seem like a big job.  They climbed the metal stairways to the passenger deck.  A strong breeze moved the water in the dock, the movement exaggerated as you went up, and the confusion between what you saw and what you felt.  As the ship heaved she grasped her father's hand tighter and smiled up at him.

They were first off at Ryde.  Her father saluted a man on the quayside as they rolled off the ramp and the man saluted back.  The town looked the same.  She was disappointed.  The buildings looked like the buildings everywhere else and once they got beyond the town the fields and trees looked the same.  She mentioned this to her father.  “We're still in England,” he told her.  “Just a bit of it that broke off.  The people here talk the same too, you'll be sorry to hear.”

They were delivering creosote to a timber merchants in the south of the island.  They pulled over once and she handed the road atlas to him.  He pushed his glasses up on to his head.  “Can't see it,” he said.  He put the map on the engine hood between them.  The mill was marked with a red dot, surrounded by a black circle, both in biro.  She tapped the page, “Here.”  He squinted and lifted the atlas up until it was an inch from his face.  “Got it,” he said.  She giggled.  He flicked his glasses down and released the air brake.  “Half a league, half a league, half a league, onwards!”  

The mill was noisy and dusty, so she stayed in the cab, flicking through the map.  Coryton,  Aylesbury, Watlington, Abergavenny.  She would see all these places when she was grown up.  Driving around in a Cortina with a sunroof, with nowhere in particular to be, just crossing names off at the back of the atlas.  Buying burgers in lay-bys and listening to country songs.  Please don't take him just because you can.  Her father popped his head around the driver's door.  “Twenty more minutes, hon, and we'll be off.”  She stuck a thumb up at him.  She leaned over so she could watch him in the large wing mirror, climbing up on to the tank. He banged things with a giant spanner, just to look busy, she suspected, and to let her know he was still there.

Half an hour later they were back on the road.  The wind had gathered and was blowing green leaves and other small debris across their path.  He slowed the truck and reached across the engine hood, palm up.  She put her hand in his and they drove on, north towards the ferry.

There were more vehicles coming than returning, and they were loaded with perhaps twenty cars and one other lorry.  The weather had worsened as they crossed the island and the boat heaved against its moorings and bumped the quay.  They sat on a padded bench near the bar and she drank a small bottle of Pepsi-Cola through a straw.  Her father was struggling not to spill a pint of tawny ale.  She stared at the fruit machines in order to focus on a fixed point, to make herself feel less queasy.  They had taught her this at ballet classes in the Methodist hall.  When you pirouette, you fix your gaze on one point, and snap your head round to it each time you rotate.  Keeps you steady and stops you from feeling sick.

“Are you feeling lucky?”
“I was just...” She stopped.  “Maybe?”  He made a great deal of the excavation, pulling faces and so on,  before eventually removing a fifty pence piece from his left trouser pocket.  He slid it across the table to her.  “Win big,” he said, smiling.  

She stood in front of the machines for a while, studying them.  They were each strapped to the wall with what looked like seat belts.  She chose the rightmost machine, whose lights, she felt, moved in a more comprehensible pattern.  She familiarised herself  with the hierarchies of fruit and imagined what might be purchased with a win.  She had been saving her pocket money towards a badminton racquet, an aluminium Gillian Gilks model, made by Carlton.  Three loganberries (were they loganberries?) would allow her to buy it outright.  She liked Gillian Gilks not just because she was successful, but because she seemed quiet and shy.  As if she too had twin brothers who screamed and climbed things constantly.  

She stretched up to insert the coin then stopped.  She was not a superstitious child, not really, but as this was a game of luck, she reasoned, it was probably a good idea to have your lucky things around you when playing it.  She returned to where her father was sitting and retrieved Ted, the stuffed tiger.  Holding him tightly in her left hand she walked back to the machine and stretched up on tiptoes to put the money in.  Nothing happened.  She turned to her father, who was pretending to read a newspaper.  “Press the button which says 'Spin',” he told her, without lifting his eyes from the story he was not reading.  The wheels settled quickly and heavily into place.  The fruits were misaligned.  She had not won.  “You have nine more goes,” said her father, as she trudged back towards him.  “Ah,” she said, spinning in place.  With ten pence remaining of her initial investment a button with SUPERNUDGE written on it began to flash. She decided to press it to see what happened.  The machine, which of course had a life of its own, began to inhabit this existence more fully.  Its wheels spun in new and opposite directions, more lights flashed, and a deep chugging noise, as of some great apparatus from the age of steam, resounded from deep within its fake wood carcass.  The wheels returned to their original position.  Half a second passed, a long half a second, then the wheels began to shunt, one position, one fruit at a time, into line.  Once a loganberry, if that's what it was, appeared on the first wheel it stopped.  The other wheels continued to tick around until they too showed the yellow and purple fruit.  The machine performed more electro-mechanical gymnastics, then reassumed its resting position.  She pressed the spin button twice more, and was about to press it again when her father stopped her hand.  “I think we should collect what you've won now, pickle, don't you?”  He had appeared very quickly, she thought.  Not like him.  

Her father considered the machine for a moment, its flashes and pulses, then hit a button which said “COLLECT” which was what she was going to do anyway.  Then it began to chug out unfamiliar coins, foreign currency she thought at first.  A voice on the Tannoy announced that they would be held in the dock for half an hour at least, because of high winds.  The money, which was not the colour of any money she had ever seen, continued to be hawked up from deep within the machine, until it spilled onto the sticky deck.  “Tokens,” her father said.  

He collected the money which was not money and took it to the bar.  She went back to her seat.  Her father was talking to a man in a waistcoat, behind the bar.  He was shrugging in an insincere way, like a bad actor.  There were six or seven other men around the bar who soon offered their opinions on what her father and the barman were discussing.  She couldn't hear what anyone was saying, but it seemed as if the other men were taking her father's side, as the barman was now shrugging to each of them in turn.  Her father shrugged too, then, but his shrug was real and familiar.  She had seen the gesture before, usually performed in front of her mother.  It meant that he didn't want to argue any more.  They didn't argue all that much, not in front of her, anyway.  Some of her friends had told her that their fathers would hit their mothers, but in her house it was Mum who did the slapping, but then it was only ever a joke, when her father was teasing.  

She saw him gesturing now, to the other men at the bar and realised that he was buying them all a drink.  She didn't really know how she felt about this.  It was nice that her father was being kind, and saying thank you, but at the same time she also thought that the money (which was not really money) was hers, and that she should have some say in how it was spent.  Her father pushed a pile of tokens towards the barman and he pulled on a lever and the drinks appeared.  That's why they called it pulling pints.  Then her father came over with another Pepsi and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps for her.  “Are you okay, Pickle?” he asked.  She nodded.  “Got your book?  And Ted?”  She nodded again, sucking on the straw in her Pepsi.  He went back to the bar and began to talk again with the other men there.  It drove Mum absolutely mad, this habit of his.  He could talk to anyone, and always did.  Mum was a bit of a snob, though, and sometimes she could be funny with people who she thought were a bit beneath her.  Dad didn't care about that sort of thing.  Ten minutes passed, during which she sipped at the straw in her drink, and alternately blew through it to make bubbles.  The Pepsi went flat almost immediately as a result, but she didn't mind.  As she played with her drink she read and re-read the same page of her book, which was written by a talking horse.  This was a bit weird at first, but you came to accept it.  The horse's thoughts were recorded in a slightly old-fashioned way but the thoughts themselves weren't, in fact, too complicated.  The kind of thoughts that you could imagine a horse having, if it was a particularly clever and capable of self-expression.  The boat kept lurching in the water, and it was raining now, the rain making a sound like maracas on the windows.  

Her father was buying another round.  She was certain, suddenly, that he would continue to buy drinks for the other men until all the tokens were gone.  Just to make a point.  It was an expensive point, and he was making it with her money, even if it wasn't really money.  She loved him very much but knowing what he would do, out of stubbornness more than anything, made her very sad.  She had her own plans for the winnings, had made plans even before she put the large silver coin into the machine.  She should have just pocketed it.  Squirrelled it away.  Put it with the other coins in the fragrant wooden box that lived under her bed.   She would have been that bit closer to getting what she wanted.  She felt her face reddening and her eyes getting hot, but she was determined not to cry.  
Her father checked on her every few minutes.  After almost an hour the ferry pulled out of the dock, still rolling from side to side, but it seemed that the worst of the storm had passed, and with it the stacks of misshapen coins that had spread across the bar in front of her father.  One by one he said goodbye to his new friends around the bar, and each of them passed him something and thanked him.  One of the men looked over at her and blew a kiss.  She squirmed in her seat and the men all laughed.  You didn't see women acting like this, she thought.  She couldn't imagine her Mum at a coffee morning engaging in strange transactions of this kind.  Some of her Mum's friends sold Tupperware, but Mum had explained that this was more of an excuse to see your friends, minus the husbands and kids.  The world of men seemed a mysterious and impenetrable place, a forbidding forest, a place where written rules were meant to be broken or circumvented but an entire constitution of unwritten laws were adhered to rigorously.  She had often heard her father explain aspects of this imaginary code to the twins.  They were allowed to wrestle, to be violent to each other essentially, provided there was no hair-pulling or blows to each other's private parts.  Nor were they allowed to fight with their big sister, because fighting with girls was fundamentally wrong, and because she would definitely pulverise them if they tried.  

She knew she was her father's favourite, that perhaps he cared for her even more than he did for Mum.  But this only sharpened the sense of disappointment she felt at him squandering her luck on a bunch of strangers.  He sat with her at last, and tried to make small talk.  She was not unresponsive but she made no attempt to disguise her chagrin.

“Are you tired, poppet?”  She nodded.  “It's been a long day, and an early start for you.”  She gave him the best smile she could possibly manage, given the circumstances and he laughed at the strain involved.  As he laughed she smelled the sourness of beer on his breath, an odour as familiar as roast potatoes, and somehow associated in her mind with this other smell.  As when he would return from the pub on Sunday afternoons, flushed and merry, before eating his dinner with a serviette tucked into his shirt and falling asleep in front of the television.

“Did you spend all the money?” she asked. “Yes and no,” he said, reaching into his trouser pocket once more, with the same mime of effort and ceremony, and showed her a handful of coins with a crumpled note amongst them.  She giggled, guessing at the business that had gone on with the other drivers.    “We negotiated,” he told her.  The word was unfamiliar to her.  “Fifty pence in the pound, but I think some of them were a bit more generous, because I told them the tokens were yours.   There's enough left for a treat.”   He looked very pleased with himself, which made her happy, even though she realised that part of this was due to the beer he had consumed, rather than the craftiness of his plan.  He wasn't supposed to drink when he was driving, she knew.

“D'you fancy an ice cream?”  She shook her head, and once again found herself trying hard not to cry.  This was not the treat she had in mind.  Again she considered the difference between the sexes.  The twins, and Dad with them, wanted everything now.  Sweets, crisps, beer.  Her Mum would buy a pattern from the shop in town, then spend weeks sometimes considering which fabric she would sew it from.  Looking at pictures in magazines in the big newsagents, then finding something she liked and getting the closest thing she could find.  Filling the arm of the sofa with pins as she stitched a dress from lots of bits that didn't look anything like a dress.  Smoking as she leant over the machine, feeding through the material, blowing ash away as it fell.  The whole process took ages, but the clothes she made were always worth the wait.  Her father bought clothes from the army and navy surplus stall in the market, and boiled the tar out of his jeans in a big pot on the hob, prodding at them with a stick, like a witch.  They were so different, the two of them.

Like Mum, she was willing to wait for the thing that she wanted.  Her Grandfather gave her 25p pocket money – five bob, he called it – every week, and she put 20p aside for the badminton racket.    The badminton racket.  With the money in her father's pocket and the savings in the cedarwood box she could still afford it.  She decided to just ask him for the money.  To thank him for being so clever for turning the unreal currency into actual money but then to explain that there was something she needed it for.  But not now.  She thought it was best to let the matter breathe.  To allow her father to consider whose money it was really.  

At Portsmouth the wind blew rubbish across the sloping tarmac, but the rain had stopped and a low afternoon sun appeared and disappeared between the hurrying clouds.  Her father saluted another man as they pulled off the ferry.  A blue Austin Allegro overtook them as they headed away from the dock and the driver sounded his horn.  Her father tooted back.  One of the men from the bar, she guessed.  Oblivious to how his kindness was being misdirected.  She hugged Ted to her and said nothing.  After a while she rested the stuffed thing on the door again and pretended to sleep.  And then she did sleep, waking after forty minutes, hot and slightly panicked.  They were halfway back to London.  

“Daddy,” she began, “I think I should be allowed to spend the money we won from the machine.”
“We didn't win it, darling, you did.”  This seemed like an end to the discussion.  She was very pleased.  “But that's where the problem lies,” he continued.
“What problem?”
“I gave you the 50p to teach you something.  A lesson about life.  But it all went wrong.”
“I don't understand,” she said.
“You weren't supposed to win.  Because no-one wins when they gamble.  Gambling is a way for stupid people to lose money.”
“But we didn't lose.  We won.  So we're not stupid.”
“No, we're not stupid,” he agreed.  “But if we expected to win every time we gambled we would be very stupid indeed.”  She didn't like the way the conversation was going.
“It was fun, though, winning.  And getting those men to give you their money.”   He nodded.  It was getting dark.  The road was busier in the other direction, the vehicles reduced to a stream of headlights curving towards them.  She squinted back tears.  

“The men on the ferry were very kind,” he said.  “So I think it would be nice to do something kind with the money, don't you?”  Her despair was complete, and she began to sob.  “Perhaps we could buy a present for the twins?”  She hated the twins at that moment, more than she had ever done.  With their dirty faces and relentless noise and bad behaviour.  They didn't deserve the slightest kindness.  They deserved to be viciously pinched when her parents weren't looking.  She wanted to scream these thoughts aloud.  She counted to ten, trying to calm herself down.  Then she counted to twenty, and thought about what was making her so angry. Because she was above all a sensible girl she acknowledged that her father was right, despite the agony that it caused her.  She tried to control herself once more.  She was too old for tantrums.  

“We could get them both model cars.  They'd like that.”  She felt her father looking at her as she stared out at the lights shaping down towards them.  Hundreds of people heading home, and not one as miserable as her.  

“I'm very proud of you, poppet,” her father said.  She couldn't reply.  She wiped her nose and eyes on her sleeve and sank into the passenger seat, wishing that she had never left the house that morning.  
She watched the city pass, unmoved by the shops and the lights and the great mass of scuttling humanity.  The few miles north, back to the depot, seemed endless, and the country songs in the car on the way home failed to offer any sense of solidarity or commiseration with her sorry state of being.  It wasn't gambling that ruined your life, she suspected, but rather the people who said that they loved you, and wanted the best for you.  She just wished the day was over.  

She put on her pyjamas and went downstairs again to kiss her parents goodnight.  The twins were already asleep.  It seemed that both her parents held her for longer than usual before sending her up to bed.  Her father looked at her and thanked her for being the best driver's mate ever.  This didn't cheer her up, rather it caused her to experience the disappointments of the day again in a sudden rush, like a film on fast forward, but her mother, perhaps sensing this, hugged her once more and the feeling went away.  

                                                   ____________________

She could tell that her mother had done the wrapping.  The present, which fell off the end of the bed as she woke the next morning, was the shape of a teardrop and was very light for its size.  Her birthday was still three months away, so they had used Christmas paper and an old luggage label.  'To Our Remarkable Daughter', the label said, underlined with a row of kisses.  She opened the paper carefully and established that it was the right model.  She swished it a few times in the narrow, musty air of her bedroom, and considered the wonders that she might perform with it.  Then she ran along the landing to where her parents lay and dived headlong between them, laughing like a girl.

Quoted for Truth

My old economics professor used to tell a story, I don't know whether it's a true story but I suspect that it isn't.  He told me the story in a tutorial but I also heard him telling it at department parties and so on and sometimes I would linger to witness the reaction of whoever he was telling it to, because it's sort of unpleasant.  To watch them sigh or squirm or generally give him a look as if to say “Why the fuck did you just tell me that?”
 
So there's this painter, a post-abstract-expressionist painter who was big in the sixties and seventies but his importance undergoes a reappraisal and he keeps working but his paintings won't shift.  He's a drug user and supports a couple of ex-wives so despite his early success he's broke.  One day he goes to visit the gallery owner who shows his paintings and asks him for an advance against some pieces he's working on and the gallery owner tells him the last thing he needs is any more work because no-one wants to buy his stuff any more.  “I can't give you a loan,” he says, “but I will tell you this.  Five of the world's most expensive whiskies come from one distillery.  And it closed down years ago.”  The artist thinks about this as he walks home.  He's desperate so he concocts a plan based on the idea that his paintings will be worth more when he's dead.  He stretches every inch of canvas in his studio and uses every last bit of paint he has to fill them.  It's an extraordinary flowering of creativity.  Then he borrows a car from an old friend, a fellow user who owes him a favour, and drives it into a concrete pillar at seventy miles an hour.

He doesn't die.  Somehow his drug-addled body survives the impact, but only just.  He's paralysed from the neck downwards.  He has no insurance and someone has to pay for his care.  Reluctantly his family come to his aid.  They try to sell the paintings in his studio.  He's as good as dead, after all, he can never work again.  But his reputation is further blighted by what looks like a cynical attempt to cash in on his own mortality and with all the new pieces  suddenly available his existing work starts to depreciate and his new stuff is basically unsellable.  He lives out the rest of his days crippled, and along with his wives and children, impoverished.  
 
At this point the Professor would look at his audience and savour their confusion.  If they were expecting to be amused or uplifted they'd come to the wrong man.  He'd pause for as long as he thought he could get away with it before delivering his punchline.
“So the moral of the story is: you can cheat death but you can't cheat the market.”