It is the ending she wants to hear. How Ahab raises his hand from the flank of the whale, beckoning his crew to carry on with the kill.
‘I saw it,’ she tells them. ‘I saw the whale disappear into the mist, with the famous actor tied to its side. He waved at me, so I said, “Goodbye.”’
‘No,’ the girl who is reading to her that day tells her, a girl who pays attention to the words on the page. ‘Ahab gets pulled into the water. It’s the Parsee who is caught on the whale. And he doesn’t wave. They changed it for the film. They changed the whole ending. It’s what they do, for dramatic effect.’
After the girl has gone, she puts the book in the bin.
And the whale turns towards the open sea, and the man raises his hand to her.
‘Goodbye.’
DAVID ROSEGREETINGS FROM THE FAT MAN IN POSTCARDS
This could be, if Bognor had a cathedral, a tale of two cities, twin poles in the life of Wilson Thomas.
– I’m going as far as Guildford. Any good to you?
The shortest distance between two points, there being no motorway, is a meander, in this case the A285, A283 and A3100. It is on these procrastinating curves that Wilson Thomas has come to rely for his mental health, his life.
– You can put that nightie on the back seat.
There is another, identical, locked in the boot.
– Little gift for my wife. Well, I say my wife. Always take them something when I go home. Was it a holiday in Bognor, or business? Personally I live there. Not easy to own up to. I mean, what does anyone know about Bognor except George the whatsit’s dying words? Bugger Bognor. (Map of Britain. Bognor marked in red. Caption: Welcome to Bognor, Backdoor of Britain.) Its only claim to fame. Almost Joycean. Irishman goes for a job on a building site. Foreman asks him, sort of proficiency test, ‘What’s the difference between a joist and a girder?’ Quick as a flash on a frosty night he comes back, ‘One wrote Ulysses, the other wrote Faust.’ Not a literary man, then? Visit the pier? (Two explorers silhouetted in a tent. Night time. Caption: ‘Where’s my pith helmet?’) Met my wife on the pier. Donald McGill exhibition. Working visit for me. Professional card-man. I like to say that. Shades of green shades, sleazy glamour. Actually more prosaic. Belle Vue Cards. I rep for them. Plus a little creative work. My wife helps me with that. Amateur cartoonist.
It was love at first sight. They were both peering at the same framed card. He noticed the dimple in her cheek matching the one between her shoulders. She looked up. Eyes of postcard-sky blue. He raised his cap. Her dimples deepened. The sea glittered, like the glass beads on his mother’s throat, his earliest recollection, tickling his eyes.
‘I’ve an original McGill of my own if you’d care to see it?’
He drove her to his digs.
‘Not many on the market these days. Difficult to come by unless you have contacts. Gives you a little frisson knowing it’s the actual paper he worked on. Speaking of frissons, I’ve another McGill in here.’ He dropped his trousers. Embroidered mothers-in-law all over his shorts.
He had the McGill framed and gave it to her. The un-nuanced figures of Curate and Vamp, secure in their ink outline against the washes of colour, brought afresh the first rapture of childhood as they opened it together.
Her first present to him was a pair of musical shorts. They played ‘I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside’ at the touch of a microchip. He put them on to propose. ‘I don’t know your name yet.’ ‘Er, Thomas, Wilson.’ ‘Yes, Thomas Wilson, I will.’
– She did a little sketch of me. Caricature. At least, I hope it’s a caricature. I had it copied, printed up. Send them to her on my longer tours of duty, captioned ‘Greetings from the Fat Man in Postcards’. Funny, women go for the fuller figure. Thin men don’t realise. Look at HG Wells. Never short of female admirers. Used to call him Treacle Wells. One of his women was asked why she found him so attractive. Said, Because his skin smelt of honey. Extraordinary. ‘Stands the Clock at Ten to Three?’ I told my wife about that once. She said, Sounds fun, let’s try. Anointed me with a pot of Gales. Every so often, one of us will say, Let’s have an HG Wells night. Only we moved on to Lemon Curd. Did a Midlands tour a few months ago, sent her a jar, with a boxed chipolata and a note, ‘The shape of things to come.’ Duncton. Making good time. Another trip, I phoned her anonymously, did the old heavy breathing. She just said, cool as you like, ‘If you want the asthma clinic you’ve got the wrong number,’ and hung up. You’d like my wife. Ever been to America?
This will peter out beyond Petworth.
– Petworth Park. Sounds like a municipal tryst for lovers. As I was saying, we do all right, we larger men. Takes women unawares. I grant you a novel called The Fat Man wouldn’t have the same ring, but that’s only prejudice. I usually stop about here, have a breather, stretch my legs.
At exactly here. Mid-point of his journey, zenith of his weekly trajectory. Marked on the Ordnance Survey as Ball’s Cross. Here he is poised between two worlds. He will drive into a lane, walk up and down, lean on a gate. His tongue searches his teeth, seeks out the small molar cavity. Into its rough protective burr his soul nestles. He will be here for several minutes while the magnetic field reverses.
He will drive up the narrow road, turn left, then on to join
