Almost Insentient, Almost Divine Read online

  “May we find this wish heard higher. These hands are for doing, for making and learning,” she began, as though reciting an old childhood nursery rhyme. She had turned his palms upright and traced a line down each with her thumbs.

  “These hands are for nursing, for nurturing and yearning,” she sang, tracing his forefingers down each of her palms.

  “And between them they cradle a world full of knowing,” she gripped his fingers tightly. He could feel every line worn into them, every blemish and callus—pressing harder and harder on his own fingers and then palms. “And none has yet turned the tide of that flowing, for age is a rift and youth such a gift. But the bridge o’er the chasm is built with desire.”

  The room had become hot and airless, and a dull yellow light seemed to have brightened the place, although its source was unclear.

  Agnes sank back into her chair, her eyes flaring and her arms shaking. Bogdan made to get up and help her but his legs felt weak, his eyes heavy with sleep and his vision blurred. His hands felt hot and painful. The tiredness was overwhelming and he too fell back into his chair and sank into sleep. The last thing he saw was Agnes rise up, suddenly and swiftly, with a strength he had not seen in her before. She stretched her arms high above her head, a body in the throes of being born again.

  *

  Rising from his slumber Bogdan felt his limbs creak slowly into usefulness. His hip ached and his feet were sore and numb. He looked down at his fingers; gnarled and crooked, the nails cracked and dirty. Between a swollen thumb and bent forefinger he held a thin white thread. He traced it back—its fibres further twining together as it trailed through his fingertips—to a delicate bone bobbin that he deftly tucked beneath its partner on a faded blue mat edged in frayed gold braiding that was propped on his lap. His hazy vision could see well enough this close at hand but as he peered around the room he could just make out the forms of ornaments and pictures, each of which sparked half memories of a long life, filled with loves and losses. “Pora na herbatę,” he thought.

  In the narrow street outside a young girl played hopscotch on a hastily chalked grid—as though the late Twentieth century had never happened; her stiff ivory dress was dated; her hair plaited and unfashionably long; her delicate laughter, eternal.

  Shallabalah

  It has taken me some time to understand who I’m writing this for. It’s clear to me now though. I’m writing it for you, Sarah; for the day you finally chance upon it, if ever you do. I’m writing it for Dad too—sorry, for Grandpa—and, of course, I’m writing it for me. I hope, amid the confusion and the nonsense you are able to make some sense of it all. Know also how much I love you—remember that, above all else.

  You’ll have already opened the folder (intrigued enough, I hope, by the odd word “Shallabalah” scribbled on the cover) and found all these bundled sheets within. Please read them in the order they appear. It is my best effort at bringing meaning to it all.

  *

  When Grandpa died I didn’t do anything with his things for many years. Mum—sorry, Granny—was too upset to go through any of it. The house had to be sold so quickly that we just had to move it all out into our shed and sort through it later. Well, that “later” became ten years, just before you moved up to Newcastle. Do you remember, we used some of the boxes from his things to pack yours into?

  Anyway, I didn’t really know where to start with it all. You know what a dabbler he was. I’ve never known anyone so fascinated by such a variety of subjects, interests and hobbies. It got worse after he retired, of course. Then he really had the time to devote to it all. The problem was exactly that—the “all”. Nothing seemed to come together in any intelligible order—that’s not to say it was a mess, far from it; everything was neatly catalogued, filed in various lever arch or box files. But what can you do when one minute you’re leafing through notes on seventeenth century artillery designs and then in the next file you’ve got clippings of Romanian folk costumes and a stack of correspondence with a dressmaker from Bucharest in the early 1990s? That’s why my first encounter with the Punch and Judy file was quickly forgotten—it was task enough just to get an overview of all the material he’d amassed. Why he didn’t write some books is beyond me. The royalties would have helped Mum manage a bit better once he’d gone. Sorry, I don’t want to run down your Grandpa, it’s just so clear how gifted he was at getting people to share their professional secrets, it might have been nice if he’d applied some of it with a view to more worldly matters; the knackered boiler, and that bloody car of his—do you remember how much it used to scare you and Charlie when it would backfire?

  When Granny died I moved all of her things into the shed too and, although there wasn’t that much of her stuff compared to his it made it almost impossible to move in there. So, I set about sorting through his things again to see if any might usefully be passed on to places that would be interested in those things; museums, libraries and universities. That’s how I came back to the Punch and Judy stuff. It was in a box file, quite battered and crushed after having sat under a heap of gardening magazines for years. There were all sorts of things inside, copies of scripts, letters and postcards from punch professors across the country, various bits of memorabilia, and, most intriguingly, a cassette tape. They’re before your time, my darling, but they were dear to me when I was young and I was susceptible to a little nostalgia.

  There, on the inside of the cassette box was a description of its contents: Interview with Albert Kodlin, P&J Man, conducted at The King’s Arms, Bicester, 4th June 1976, by Richard Greaves.

  My first thoughts weren’t about Punch and Judy. It was exciting to think that I’d be able to hear Dad’s voice again, after all the years. I tried to play it on my old tape deck, but that hadn’t be used in about twenty years and packed up two minutes in. I had it transferred onto a file you can play on one of those little pod gadgets and listed to it all—three hours! I’ve had it transcribed too, Sarah—professionally, I might add; it would have taken me forever! Listen to it if you’d like (I’ve kept the original tape in this folder, along with a disk you can play on the computer [if they still have such things by the time you find this]). Albert Kodlin can be difficult to understand, as he talks in a thick accent that I’ve been unable to place. But your Grandpa is clear as a bell. The full transcript appears in a separate folder, marked as such. For the purpose of this folder though I’ve just selected the bits that are appropriate to the “Shallabalah.” It starts with about an hour’s discussion of the various pitchs that Kodlin’s family had and when they played them, and there is much reminiscing about the life of the children in the family, and then later what it was like for Albert and his wife (or, as he terms her, his mozzy) Ethel. This section appears as Albert discusses taking up the show from his father.

  AK: Oh, I’d been workin’ years on the pitchs afore pa went on. Sometimes we’d run two booths together in nearby towns, so as we could cover more ground in a season—‘specially when me sister, Nancy, hadn’t got fixed up—and I hadn’t met me own mozzy yet. Then one summer, ’46 I think it were, pa got ‘it by a lorry deliv’rin’ coal, down near Weymouth. His legs were done for, and ‘is left arm weren’t much better, but ‘e still said ‘e’d run the show until his time were right. And it were, soon enough. In four months ‘e were gone, ‘aving seen ‘is straight-faced man comin’ back for ‘im.

  That’s when you sees ‘im… when yer time is near. ‘e’s got his own booth, of a sort. It was ol’ Codders what said, ‘a swatchel don’t never go on, not proper, ‘e just swaps one box for t’other.’ And that’s what the bag-man’s there for, to show ye when yer box is fit for changin’.

  I stopped the recording there. I remembered the little “friend” you used to have as a child. Yes, I know that “friend” isn’t quite the right word, but that’s what they say, isn’t it—a childhood friend. You weren’t scared of him, but then, you weren’t that keen on him either. You never said anything about what he said to you, or why he
came to visit you. Your Mother never liked you talking about him and, I must confess, I never really paid too much attention to the occasional mentions you made of him. It just seemed normal, in its strangeness—if you follow my meaning. Childhood is always strange, and that’s what I took him for—a strange friend for strange times. You said he lived in your cupboard for a while, and then under the bed, and then in the hallway, and so on; over the years he migrated through the house, out into the garden, down the street, and by the time you were eight or nine years old he was gone. It was about that time I asked you what he had looked like and I can still recall your words and expression—very serious, very matter-of-fact, “Oh, he never had a face.”

  Do you remember him? You called him “Baggy.”

  That’s what brought it all back, you see. The bag-man—Baggy.

  The recording continued:

  RG: Your “bag-man”, who’s that?

  AK: Oh, it ain’t no secret no more, ‘nough’s knowed of the Swatchel Omis now, I ain’t breaking no sworn silences. ‘e’s the sign that it’s time to be moving on—not yer pitch, like, but… well… [laughs] I s’pose it is your pitch ain’t it? It’s ‘im what comes for everyone… everyone’s got a ‘bag-man’, of a kind. Others ‘ave ‘im what looks more dev’lish and black but swatchels got ‘em that are plain and simple, like the ghost, ye know?

  RG: The ghost?

  AK: From the slum… ye know… Oh, I means the show, like… the slum’s the show. I keep fallin’ back on the old parlary, Mr Greaves. On account of the drink no doubt… [laughs] but also you seems a gud omi to me… a gud fellow, like.

  The ghost ain’t in ev’ry show, but for my clod it’s alays in the good uns. He was alays in my show and that’s for sure. Alays in the show from my pa’s pa, and a good time by then, I’d ‘av said an all.

  RG: Oh, I see, the ghost character in the performance. But you just said it was a he. I thought it was the ghost of Judy?

  AK: Ah, yeah! That’s what most of the folks in the hedge… the aud’yance… reckon. See, that makes right sense when ye don’t know the true and proper meanin’ of the show. The ghost is alays—or should alays be—in the styling of the swatchel’s bag-man. It ain’t for cheapness that they’re a simple figure, without the nose and mouth—many I’ve seen are the same lookin’; coal dust smudge for eyes, sackin’ stretched on wood or wire—easy frames to give yer arms a rest! [laughs] But alays a slight difference in their manner, their move, their turn. ‘Cause the swatchels ‘av alays seen ‘em, see! So he’s workin’ from ‘is own eyes. ‘e’ll have seen ‘im in the distance—you catches ‘im first in yer dreams, and then ‘e appears in the distance somewhere when ye’re searchin’ for a pitch. My pa saw ‘is bag-man first at Scarbr’a, runnin’ at ‘im from the castle. But ‘e stood ‘is ground and watched ‘ow close ‘e come. It’s then ye learn the true and proper script see—what it means to us folk, and not to you.

  RG: And what does it mean to you, if that’s not a secret?

  AK: Ah! Now it is and it ain’t… But seein’ as I ain’t got no bairns, and me mozzy’s met her own bag-man already, and mine gets closer by the week, I don’t reckon there’s no ‘arm in sharin’ the truth of old Punch and ‘is friends.

  RG: Shall I get another drink for us, and maybe a menu for some lunch?

  AK: A drink’ll be grand for me… I’ll get summit to sustain later on, ta.

  [Extended silence. Background noise from the public house.]

  RG: There you go. Now, back to the show… the meaning of the show.

  AK: I’ll give you a few ‘ints, seeing as ye’re such a kind gent… and a curious one. Think about the talkin’ characters, and the quiet uns, and ye’ll begin to catch the drift. The ghost dun’t say nothin’. The blackman gives ‘im a secret word. Why is it that the devil don’t say nothin’ to Mr Punch, neither, and takes a good beatin’? That’s yer bag-man’s challenge that is. Can ye beat the devil? Can anyone beat the devil? See, death’s easy; it’s a game of words, see? When ol’ Ketch comes on to ‘ang ‘im, the ol’ swatchel slips ‘im the banter; so Ketch asks ‘im, “You ready to suffer”, swatchel says, “Yes, I’d like some supper”; Ketch says, “It’s time to die”, ‘e says “Of course, I’ll ‘av’ some pie” and so on, all through the slanging.

  RG: The slanging?

  AK: The performin’! The performin’ is doing the slanging. But never you mind my parlary, I’ll keep it smart, just for the likes of you and your machine. Think about it a while. Ye’ve got the words a jumpin’ and jitterin’ about all through it. They slips and slides around yer mouth while ye’re ‘iding them be’ind the voice of ol’ swatchel, even as ye sing it through the call—but don’t try it ye’sen, if ye swallow it your bag-man’ll be ‘ere in a moment, you’s what ain’t swatchel omi can’t learn it easy, see.

  The kids know what’s goin’ on, the young ‘uns any’ow. They know all about the bag-man, ‘cause he ain’t quite left ‘em, to go on ‘is travels. And that’s why ye’ve got to show ‘em what they’re already forgettin’—that it’s the devil what needs a whallop, whatever bad ye dun in your life, give ‘im a crack before the bag-man comes. And if time ain’t on yer side ye use the word to give ‘im the slip, finds a new pitch and tarry a while—‘e’ll always catch up in the end. Go listen to a show—a good un, mind! One of the ol’ shows. Listen for the words what’s used, and them what’s not used—if ye’re listening proper ye’ll maybe catch a thing or two. Some calls it magic, some the “gift”. I calls it natural sense, mysel’, and I learned it from me pa, and ‘is pa too.

  RG: I’m not really sure that I follow what you mean, Albert.

  [Silence.]

  AK: I’ll say no more on the words. Ye’ll find their natural sense if ye listen to ‘em long enough. But, for an easy start, why not make your researchin’ into the black man and ‘is Shallabalah, that’s all the word ye’ll need to go figure it.

  And he clearly researched it in great detail. The rest of the box contains detailed histories of all the characters in the shows but most particularly into the “black man” that says “Shallabalah”. He gets reconfigured into characters that can be recognised by changing audiences, and gradually takes on more speech—an aspect that seems to be frowned upon by the more traditionalist professors that Dad corresponded with on the matter. And then, in a note in the margin of a page torn from a book, with a picture of an old ghost puppet from the 1840s, Dad had written, “It looks just like the sad thing that used to watch me from the orchard when I was a child—who’d have thought my bag-man would look the same as this fellow’s…”

  I suppose it’s my age but I’ve been thinking back to my own early days. I had someone too—a “baggy”. I don’t think I ever had a name for him though, and can only really bring back one memory of what he looked like. He’d always whisper to me from beneath the bed, but one night, when I was nine or ten—around the time that Dad was making that recording with Albert—my friend crawled out into the patch of moonlight that came in from the windows. He didn’t seem to have any legs and used his arms to drag himself along. Long, matted hair hung around his head as he pulled himself towards the door, and then he turned, slowly. There were no features, nothing but a smooth, shiny, white surface, which rippled slightly, like the skin of a drum. That vibration was his voice. It said—and I must assert that I have not invented this, based on the things I have recounted here—it said, “Shallabalah.” And I remember now, that’s all he’d ever said to me, over and over and over—during all my childhood years; Shallabalah, Shallabalah, Shallabalah…

  That was the last time I’d seen him. But I tried so hard to recall how it had been before he left. Do you see what I’m getting at? The more I looked, the more I found. But, more importantly, the more I remembered—of what it was to be a child. There were dreams I’d had, where he’d shown me places—magical green places that opened out for miles after he’d pulled back a little red curtain behind a booth painted with blue and white stripes. Everything
was vivid colour. There were all sorts of people there, talking in all sorts of strange voices, and I’d just wander between with them, listening. And then I’d be back in my little bed and hear him whispering that word.

  I’ve found records of other people having these dreams—with faceless guides that show them other places—heavens, hells, I don’t know what they are. I’ve found reference to it in supposedly fictional works too, as though people are trying to tell others about it, but can’t quite find the words—or don’t want to be taken for crackpots. Oh, that’s another thing, have you heard of glossolalia? It’s religious—speaking in tongues. Well you can find “Shallabalah” there too—there’s masses of transcriptions of the words they say (across cultures and over generations). But always you’ll find, in some form or other—Shallabalah. You can find all the website printouts, letters, photocopies of stories and other things at the back of this file.

  I’m sure you remember the Christmas your Mother and I split up. Maybe she’s spoken to you about it all already—mothers and daughters have a special thing don’t they, or am I being old fashioned? Well, that summer I’d been on a little seaside tour—without her (she thought it was a mad idea, but I had to do it). I wanted to see the Punch and Judy performers at their work in the high season and see how many of them still had the old character that Albert had mentioned—the foreigner who said only Shallabalah. Not many, that’s for certain. The few that did hadn’t got big crowds, and seemed more destitute than the others that had revamped their shows for a modern audience. Confirming what Dad had already discovered, the character was now considered outdated and racist. Many people felt uncomfortable watching the violence of the show anyway without another moral barrier to overcome. But those that still kept it in the slanging had a look in their eyes, a passion for the old show that was difficult to describe. And when I talked to them about the Shallabalah they seemed to smile and nod to me, although they kept quieter about the words than Albert Kodlin had. I felt as though I belonged with them for some reason, and they accepted me in a way nobody else has ever done.