Open Writing

The first part of this tale is true, the second fictional. These two parts have little in common, the only link being about circumstances causing people to “snap”.

Many years ago a case was tried at the Old Bailey involving a middle aged man who was a chronic depressive, and a carer for his mother who was also a depressive. The mother had a rough edge to her tongue and made her son’s life a misery with years of constant nagging, not easy for a normal person to sustain, let alone one who was mentally ill himself. One day during a particularly vicious tirade from his mother, something in him snapped and burst out, and when he came to he had a knife in his hand and his mother lay dead and bloodstained on the floor.

Of course he had to be prosecuted, he had been deemed fit to live in the community and responsible for his own actions. The court sat silent, apart from the odd murmur, whilst the charge was read out and an account given of the circumstances. Not surprisingly the prosecution had little to say, and the defence enlarged on the day to day circumstances of the unfortunate man. The accused then had the opportunity to speak, he was a mild man who talked in a quiet, gentle voice with a London accent, and presented the appearance of one who would not harm a fly. He did not say much apart from that he was very sorry and it would never happen again. How humiliating for him and the whole court that he felt he had to apologise for something that was plainly not his fault!

It transpired that he had already agreed to go for treatment to an asylum, as they were then called, prison being entirely inappropriate. Then the judge spoke. As he did so one could almost see the waves of sympathy from lawyers, officials, jury, and the reserve jurors at the back of the court waiting for a case of their own. No doubt the judge could if necessary be scathing, irascible, cutting and all the other things normally associated with his like, but not now. In gentle and even tones the judge said a few things then expressed a wish that his treatment would have a good result and that one day he might return to the outside world and have a happier life than the one he had before.

On leaving the courtroom, the reserve jurors were asking each other why Governments begrudged the money to do more for people in his situation and possibly make their lives a little more comfortable and bearable. But no, governments lay burdens on the backs of the people and do not move a finger to lighten them.

Switching completely to the fiction, we find Nick, living in a country village as many do these days, not as an agricultural worker but one of those who convert villages into dormitory towns by working a long drive away and living in a small country community. As he changed from day clothes to casual clothes for his evening walk to the pub, he heard the words “Right-o” and within a tenth of a second realised that it was the door squeaking. “I must oil that sometime,” he mused, as he did every time it happened. He never seemed to have the time to go for the oilcan, but this was nonsense, it would have taken twenty seconds, if that.

His mind was dwelling on two interconnected problems. The first was his story for this evening, for a change he did have one but he wondered if it would work. Nick and three others would meet every Wednesday evening to have a pint or two, and to pursue their joint hobby of finding out about country customs, cheese rolling, the Dunmow Flitch, that sort of thing. Initially he had found it easy to come up with a new story each Wednesday as his contribution. The others did likewise. However, of recent weeks his performance had waned, he was finding it more and more difficult to discover a new custom, library, word of mouth, Internet, all were failing him. Remarks were made by his companions, some of them rather unkind and rude, and he was becoming tired of it. He had received a job offer in another town and would be leaving the area shortly, so it would no longer matter, but he had to survive until the move and brave the put-downs.

This brings us to his second problem. Although Nick did not fully subscribe to the gospel according to Desmond Morris, the Naked Ape, pecking orders and that sort of thing, there was more than an element of truth in the claims. Occasionally he would step outside himself and observe groups, sometimes the one he was in, sometimes others on which he would eavesdrop, to see exactly how people really treated each other. He was horrified to observe that some people did indeed have chimp-like roles, Alpha male, Omega male and so on. His own belief was that Man is a rational being and should strive to get away from Ape-like behaviour in social matters. As far as he could tell, the chief obstacles were, the reluctance of Alpha males to relinquish their assumed superiority, and the fear in the Omega males to resist the humiliation assumed to be the lot of that group. The sheep-like acceptance of the status quo and the desire for a quiet, non-controversial life by the silent middle ranks exasperated him most of all. He had once, during a discussion about keeping order, listened to a schoolteacher saying that during an unruly bout in a classroom when the pupils were making rather a lot of noise and perhaps resisting the attempts of the teacher to quieten them, there was only one answer. You did not pounce on the ringleader, but on the quietest, least offensive boy present to give him a dressing down.

Nick, frequently an Omega male himself, had exploded. “So that’s what you altruistic schoolteachers do, punish the innocent and hope some rubs off on the guilty! This is what you do to young minds to fit them for civilised life? Shame on you! And what if your quiet boy grows up to become a Communist, planting bombs and blowing up innocent women and children, like so many modern heroes and martyrs? You are not fit to teach sparrows!” Nick had lost several friends that day, because it is the Omega male’s job to take what is dished out to him, not to promote heresies such as equality or the brotherhood of man. Oddly enough, he did not miss the former friends for long.

In the little group at the pub, the Alpha male was a bluff, hail-fellow-well-met extrovert named Clive who could sometimes be unkind without apparent reason, unless it were the mortification of another for the sheer hell of it. From day one Clive had acted as if he were the natural leader of the other three. It was disconcerting that this normally cheery fellow could slip from friend to humiliator in one second. Nick always felt that he should be on his guard against him.

Len and Andy were the other two members, and were like middle-ranking herd animals. Anything Clive did or said was reasonable, they would never dream of arguing with him. On the rare occasions when Nick saw fit to differ with Clive, the two henchman invariably took the part of the self-appointed big cheese. Toadying up to the leader would guarantee that the peace was kept, but Clive would pick on either of them from time to time also for a little humiliation.

Clive had recently taken a long, hard look at himself and faced up to some unpleasant facts. He was really no better than the other two in that he troubled to keep in with the group and seek the favour of Clive. That had to change. The famous mice of the fable had never put the bell on the neck of the cat, ingenuity and courage were not their strong points, the wish for change was not enough. This must be addressed. Last though not least, his country custom contribution must improve. When he stepped out to go to the pub, he had addressed and planned for all these issues, including a plan B if necessary, all he needed was to have the brass neck to carry it through. In particular, his new country custom for the evening was a complete fabrication that would never be discredited.

He strolled into the pub a little late, ordered a pint at the bar, took it and sat down with the others at their usual table. “Don’t you like starting on time?” said Clive in that unpleasant tone that left people uncertain whether he was joking or not. ”Sorry, the bus was late” was Nick’s reply. They all knew that he walked two hundred yards to the pub and there was no bus route on his journey, although there was a bigger road half a mile away which was a bus route. The two middle-monkeys laughed, then hesitantly and with some apprehension glanced at Clive. So did Nick, who was inwardly fearful in his newly assumed persona. Nevertheless, he stuck to his guns. “The bus service up this road is disgraceful, it’s practically non-existent!” With some gratification he saw that Clive looked a little put out as if disconcerted by this new behaviour. Was the worm turning perhaps, was a dog trying to have his day? Clive felt he had to re-assert himself.

“Right, Nick, your turn to start. Have you got anything new, or is it some stupid second-hand thing like pinch and a punch, first of the month. I suppose it’ll be up to your usual boring standard! After all, they say a leopard can’t change its spots”. “Have you ever met a leopard, Clive?” queried Nick, and continued, “I have, on two days in succession. The second day, it had stripes”. Nick felt a warm glow of new confidence within himself as he saw the expression on Clive’s face. The clan leader could not credit the new Nick who was not cowering inwardly under Clive’s withering, cruel comments. “Well, perhaps we shall see when you say your piece. The proof of the pudding is in the eating”.

“Well then, eat this one” said Nick, covertly observing that the other two were agog with anticipation and Clive stony faced as a death-mask. “It was hard work, but I followed up a chance lead and found what I was looking for. The evidence turned out to be in a remarkable private library belonging to an elderly gentleman in need of some folding cash, which I gave him. The library was his pride and joy, but some years previously a confidence trickster had wormed his way into his confidence, then disappeared with some valuable and practically irreplaceable books, and they were never recovered or traced. Once bitten, twice shy. He tried to keep the library on a low profile, shunned publicity, ex-directory number, all that sort of thing. If asked, he rarely admitted to the library’s existence. He deliberately left some avenues of enquiry open, but bona fides had to be established in a complex way, and he has asked me not to reveal how. Same goes for his address. And I must not publish, but am free to discuss by word of mouth”.

“Where is all this leading” demanded Clive.

“I’m coming to that. It is an extinct custom, or a story about an extinct profession, or even about extinct culinary dishes, but “country” it definitely was. It concerns mole catchers”.

”Mole catchers!” chorused the other three, incredulously.

“Mole catchers indeed,” continued Nick. “Furthermore, it is confined to three counties, in one of which lies the library. A book on country customs is to be found in that library, and it is the source of this story. Because of my promise, I cannot even name the counties in question”.

“So what about these mole catchers?” asked Alan.

“In the old days, moles were a country pest, their digging activities interfered with crop production, made holes which could cause injuries to unwary cattle, and what they couldn’t do to smart lawns was nobody’s business.'' Nick was warming to his well rehearsed theme. “Have you heard of moleskin trousers?”

“Yes” from Len. “Do they exist?”

“Nowadays they are made from finest brushed cotton, coloured pale blue-grey, and they’re very expensive. But in those days they were made quite literally from moleskin”.

Clive was unusually silent. It was Alan who spoke next. “A lot of trouble making a pair of trousers from so many skins!”

“Think about it,” answered Nick. “Molecatchers were for hire, they were valued professionals. Sometimes there was a fair amount of competition. To get work, molecatchers had to find ways of convincing prospective clients that they were good at their job, could catch many moles. A pair of moleskin trousers was like a billboard, an ad in the paper, a website. This man can catch many moles! Plurality was the key to success.''

“Here’s a question,” said Len. “After they had skinned the moles, what did they do with the rest of the mole?”

“At that time all the lower classes ate anything that swam, walked, flew or grew, nothing was sacred, sparrows, songbirds, vermin, saltmarsh plants, gudgeon, you name it, they ate it. The mole was no exception and it was the obvious choice of mole catchers for a meal.”

Clive stirred himself at last. “How did they cook it?”

It was working, they were swallowing it hook, line and sinker. “They would gut them, but leave the skinned head on. They were surrounded by a suet pastry, and boiled in a bag, but before tying the bag, they made sure the nose was left projecting from the pastry.'' Nick could not suppress an involuntary smile, because during his planning stage, a song would drift through his mind, as it did now, the tune Moon River, the words “Moles puddings, the noses sticking out, they make the people shout with glee.''

“And did they eat many at a sitting?''

“I told you, plurality was all with mole catchers, they ate many.''

“So they never ate one mole pudding?”

“Not only that, but had there been just one, it would have been a moles pudding”.

“With just one mole in it, a moles pudding?”

“I told you, plurality was all. Indeed, a moles pudding!”

“Did anybody ever eat just one.''

“All mole catchers were hearty trenchermen, but their clients might have eaten just one.”

Incredulity spread over the faces of the listeners. “Why their clients?”

“The mole catchers publicity efforts grew and grew. At first, the odd squire might be invited to the mole catchers humble abode, then it grew to being invited by the landed gentry and the peerage to their mansions and palaces to give moles puddings banquets. It became the fashion.''

“When did it all stop, and how come we’ve never heard of it?”

“Simple. Agricultural patterns changed, methods of dealing with moles altered, the profession was no longer viable, mole catchers became a thing of the past. It has been a country practice, and when it all stopped people eventually stopped talking about it. The memory was lost to the three counties, where it was once widespread but isolated from the rest of the country”.

“We still don’t know how you heard about it!”

“Listen again. I heard a rumour, began to wonder about mole catchers and moleskin trousers, and asked around a bit. In one particular country inn, I met a chap who was part of the 'Trail', and when he saw my interest was deep and genuine, he told me about the library. As you already know, I am sworn to secrecy about the trail and the library’s location. But for me, the most fascinating thing was the moles puddings, I never even suspected their existence.''

Silence reigned supreme for fully two minutes, and the expressions on the faces of Clive, Len and Alan were something to behold. Suddenly, Clive came to and attempted to re-assert himself with the old ill-concealed nastiness. “Ah well, Nick, glasses are empty, get ‘em in. Don’t want you missing your turn again!”

“I never miss my turn.’’

“What are you talking about? You’re always missing your turn.”

“Always?”

“Yes, always!”

“No convictions without evidence,” said Nick. He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper. “On our first meeting this month, I paid for two rounds. The next two meetings I and the other two all took our turns. Tonight I was late and bought beer for myself and I am still owed a round. You, Clive, have missed your round twice this month.’’

Being placed in the wrong so publicly was a new experience for Clive. “What a sad, pathetic little man you are, keeping a record of rounds like that.’’

Victory was almost complete, vengeance, for such it was, tasted sweet. “Not nearly as pathetic as someone who says he is a friend, and then tells lies to my face and in front of others. In case you don’t know it, a lie is something untrue, and wilfully to lie about another person is called libel. If I were wealthy and litiginous, you would have had a lawsuit on your hands long ago. But you’re not worth it.’’

It was beyond the wit of Clive to come up with a riposte. “Be damned to you,” he said.

The grand finale was imminent. “Damned means unable to escape. I have just escaped. Can you give up your nastiness and escape what you are?”

The humiliator of others had as much spirit left in him as a screwed up ball of newspaper. The raging bull was defeated. Time to plunge the sword home.

“I won’t be here next week, I’ll be busy packing for my move. I will not have a farewell drink with you, and I’ll never drink with you again. Indeed, I will be very choosy about who I drink with in future.’’

I might as well finish the job completely thought Nick. To the other two, he said, “I suggest you also should pick your drinking companions more carefully. Can’t you see, he’s only using you to boost his own selfish, arrogant ego. You don’t need his approval to survive. Get another drinking companion who treats you as an equal.”

As he looked at the now demolished Clive he felt almost sorry for him. His world had collapsed, given way under him. But when he thought of all the hurt he had inflicted on himself and the other two over the years, all regrets vanished. He walked out of the pub and never saw any of them again.

It is strange how when one does something right which requires great courage, one feels one has done wrong. Nick used to wonder if having slain Goliath, the diminutive David thought, what have I done? When faced with a moral quandary, the Persians open at random a book by one of their poets, and read the words where the book falls open. These are taken as an omen or guide. Clive was as uneasy as if he had shaken the pillars of the universe, flown in the face of the natural order of things. He was neither superstitious nor particularly religious, but he did have a Bible at home. After entering his house, on impulse he walked to the bookcase, took out the Bible and opened it at the first page his fingers touched. There were the words.

“I am Alpha and Omega.’’

That night, Nick slept the sleep of an innocent child.

**

In memory of Ollie Johnston, 1912 – 2008, who rolled all the school bullies into one, animated him, and got paid to do it. Rest easy, Ollie, part of all our childhoods.

David Marsh