Imago Bird (24 page)

He said ‘Like Sextus Empiricus.'

I thought—Is that clever?

I said ‘—and so stay healthy.'

I thought—That bird behind Uncle Bill's eyes after all has not died?

When I had mended my model, Uncle Bill played with it for a time delicately.

He said ‘As a matter of fact, I've been offered a job at a university.'

I said ‘Really?'

I thought—Not my university!

I said ‘Are you going to take it?'

He said ‘Ah, if I were younger—'

The disc flipped round. He watched it.

I thought—Put your hand on Aunt Mavis' forehead and say—Get it out, get it out —

He said ‘There's this area above the disc in which when you move the end of the elastic the disc stays the same; then when you move it out of the area it flips.'

I said ‘Yes, that's right.'

He said ‘The interesting thing mathematically, would be, wouldn't it, the description of this area.'

I said ‘Yes, that really is right!'

He left my model and walked round the room.

I wondered—But what on earth was it that made him for so long interested in things like politics, banging about inside his pin-table?

I said ‘What shall I say to Aunt Mavis?'

He said ‘She has this terrible sense of shame.'

I said ‘But that's ridiculous!'

He said ‘One of the points of a model would be, wouldn't it,
that you often can't talk directly about life, but you can demonstrate how things work, and so help things change for the better.'

I said ‘I'll tell her that.'

He said ‘Ah, you're no Sceptic!'

I thought—What is that other image that has been coming into my mind recently: that of a grub that hibernates through a long summer and then bursts out into a butterfly —

Uncle Bill said ‘You should talk to a friend of mine.'

I said ‘Who?'

He said ‘He writes plays.'

I thought—I'm not jealous?

Then—That is another example of catastrophe: when an insect, or a person, starts to become an imago —

Uncle Bill said ‘What his plays are about, if I understand them, is that old forms of dramatics are cracking up; and some new sort of head is emerging.'

I thought—O world outside, are there any other signs of life in this experiment?

I had a letter from Tammy Burns. It said —

Dear Bert,

It was good to hear from you. I'm just off on a walking trip along the Great Wall of China. But I'd like to send you, through my agent, some cinematic equipment I've recently ordered, but now have no use for. This consists of a 1237XL Bell and Howell camera, and a Sankyo 700 projector with f1 .4 lens. I'm not sure if this will quite do what you have in mind, but it will be a start anyway. I look forward to seeing you when I get back.

I tried to call on you the other day, but there seemed to be quite a crowd outside the stage door.

Take care.

Best
         Tammy

I thought—Imago: Im-a-go: how do you pronounce it?

Once during these days before I went to the university I went to see Sheila and Brian Alick They now lived openly together in Sheila's room. Brian had moved the squatters out of the house; the bedsprings were raised respectably on wooden blocks.

Brian Alick sat with his arm round Sheila. They looked as if they were about to be photographed for a Sunday newspaper.

Brian Alick said —

‘I'm not saying it was deliberate, no. I'm not saying that But in fifteen years of political work the one time I've thrown over political principles for personal considerations has been, well—I'm not saying this against you, Bert. I'm satisfied it was not.
It's significant, though, that the one time one has found oneself in a position of— I won't say obligation—I'm saying there are two fundamental attitudes: two quite different basic options: and you've got to choose: you can't mix oil and water: if you think you can, then God watch out!'

Sheila said ‘Nowadays they simply have you committed, you know?'

I wanted to ask—Whatever happened to that man in white overalls?

I said ‘Well, I'm glad it's turned out all right.'

Brian Alick said ‘It hasn't turned out all right!'

Sheila said ‘It hasn't turned out all right at all!'

I thought—And in this room I once hung in my small nest that was like a breast.

I went round to see Sally Rogers.

Sally said —

‘But the whole thing's coming out inch by inch, you know. What a salmagundi! If it wasn't just so, you'd have to invent it. Connie Washbourne had this husband, people didn't know about. They were in the Lebanon in the nineteen-fifties. Well, he turned up the other day; or someone did: and God knows what they'd got on Connie! There are supposed to be some photographs. This was just at the time of that party for Perhaia. No wonder Connie got the wind up! And fell into the fire. And there was a shot: do you know about a shot? by a security man; someone trying to break in; through a window; to get at Connie. I suppose your uncle just wanted to scare them off.'

I thought—I will try to make love properly with Sally Rogers.

She did not seem to want to at first. She said ‘You'll be looking down your nose at me.'

I said ‘What else might you want me to do with it?'

Then some time in the middle of the night when we were lying side by side in the dark Sally said ‘What are you thinking?'

I said ‘What was the name of Mrs Washbourne's husband?'

She said ‘I suppose, Washbourne.'

Then in the morning she said ‘You won't leave for a day or two, will you?'

One day I rang up Judith Ponsonby. I thought—Remember, remember—like Guy Fawkes, or St Augustine, was it?—you may want the pain some time, but not now.

‘Judith?'

Yes?'

‘This is Bert.'

Oh Bert!'

That voice like boiling oil; like tinkling cymbals.

‘I wondered if I could see you.'

‘Oh Bert, I'd adore to, but I'm going away.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘To India, I think.'

I thought for some reason—Well, that's all right.

I said ‘I want to return your five-pound note.'

She said ‘Keep it for me, will you, till I get back.'

I said ‘Yes.'

She said ‘I hear you're going to a university.'

I said ‘How did you hear that?'

‘Ah, I have my spies you see!'

I said ‘Why don't you come too?'

‘Perhaps I will'

Then I said—‘I'm wondering what I can do to make you want to see me now.'

I thought—I'm doing this wrong: or am I?

— In order to see what happens, I say what is true —

She said ‘But promise, promise, to see me when I get back.'

I said ‘“I promise” is not being true—'

She said ‘But you do?'

I thought—Can I now spend the five-pound note?

Then when I was walking through streets again I thought—But I am happy: I am happy! You do not get to Shakespeare's recognition scenes except through forests and over mountains —

— And I might have asked her to marry me!

One day I rang up my sister. I said —

‘How's the baby?'

‘Very well thank you.'

‘I want to see it being born.'

‘Of course you can't see it being born!'

I said ‘Why not?' Then—‘How are the fathers?'

‘Very well thank you.'

I said ‘Well, aren't I sort of its father too?'

— In these imagining days; floating slightly above rooftops —

She said ‘Anyway, he says he's met you.'

‘Who?'

‘The father.'

I thought—Oh God, and just when I was thinking I was getting a bit of immunity —

I said ‘Where?'

She said ‘At some sort of reception. Of Uncle Bill's.'

I thought—Oh but I knew! I knew!

She said ‘You don't seem very interested.'

I said ‘I am!' I thought—That man who laughed when I stammered!

She said ‘He seemed to think you were very nice.'

I said ‘Well I seemed to think he was very nice too.'

I stood with my head against the glass wall of a call-box. There seemed to be fingers tapping and clinking to get in from outside.

I said ‘I mean, it's just that it's difficult—'

She said ‘What's difficult?'

I thought I might say—This recognition scene.

I said ‘Tall, with spectacles.'

She said ‘Yes.' Then—‘He writes plays.'

How could I explain—This happiness —

Then I thought—Will the baby be able to bear it? This break-up of our old genes; the head like a butterfly emerging from what we have made of ourselves, from our fathers and our mothers —

My sister said ‘And how's Aunt Mavis?'

I said ‘She's better.'

‘Is she in a home?'

‘No.g'

I thought—All these miracles.

My sister said ‘Well, will you be the baby's godfather then?'

I said ‘Yes!'

I thought—My life will be with these people then.

There was a day when I was standing in one of my favourite places by the river and I was watching the water going past to the sea and a wind was blowing and I thought I could go in any way that I liked since life was like a flower from which I could pluck off the petals—She loves me, she loves me not—and what I was talking to was not now myself but life; and by counting the petals I could ensure that the petal I wanted was the one carried by the wind—She loves me—and by turning this way or that I could determine which way the wind came in since life was also inside me; and then the petal I had chosen might return in future days as the bird or imago with the petal in its mouth.

Born in London, Mosley was educated at Eton and Balliol College, Oxford and served in Italy during the Second World War, winning the Military Cross for bravery. He succeeded as 3rd Baron Ravensdale in 1966 and, in 1980, he also succeeded to the Baronetcy.
He is the author of twelve novels.
Hopeful Monsters
won The Whitbread Book of The Year Award in 1990. Mosley is also the author of several works of nonfiction, most notably the autobiography
Efforts at Truth
and a biography of his father, Sir Oswald Mosley.

Discover books by Nicholas Mosleypublished by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/NicholasMosley
Efforts at Truth: An Autobiography
Hopeful Monsters
Imago Bird
Judith
Time at War

This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1980 by Martin Secker & Warburg Limited
Copyright © 1980 Nicholas Mosley
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448209903
Visit
www.bloomsburyreader.com
to find out more about our authors and their books
You will find extracts, author interviews, author events and you can
sign up for
newsletters
to be the first to hear about our latest releases and special offers.