Ah yes
The whole tragic socio-political edifice was currently hanging like a badly mounted stuffed elk on Gaffars family resemblance, terror, and the faultless cut of his Yves Saint Laurent.
Sergio?
Man
What am I on?!
He finally located a box of matches (tucked down the side of the sofa), lit his cigarette and returned his full attention back to the brown envelope. He inspected the seal
Not glued, just
He kept his smoke dangling loosely from his lip as he popped out the flap. He peered inside inhaled and saw a thickish sheath of photocopied papers. He exhaled
Hmmn
and gently removed them.
It was a very old book forty pages long badly reproduced and slightly blurry (although the frontispiece was in bolder type and so marginally more legible than the rest). It was written in Old English
Well, oldish
Some (but not all) of the ss were fs.
SCOGINS JESTS;
he read:
Full of witty Mirth and
pleafant Shifts;
done by him in FRANCE
and other places.
BEING
A Prefervative against Melancholy.
Then underneath that:
Gathered by Andrew Board, Doctor of Phyfick.
This was followed by a whole ream of publishing guff.
Kane casually opened to the first page. He stiffened. On the blank, inner leaf, in pencil, somebody had written:
So Beede
Theres a whole series of these things (one for each of the various monarchs funny-men, although I didnt get a chance to look at any of the others). Apparently there was quite a vogue for them in the 1600s (and for several hundred years after that I saw at least two editions of this one the earlier called Scoggins Jests by an Andrew Boord1626and this one, in which the spellings more familiar, from 1796thats a 170-year gap!), indicating how popular these guys actually were (plus: note the celebrity publisher)
Kane returned to the front page again:
Printed for W. Thackeray at the Angel in Duck Lane, near Weft-Smithfield, and J. Deason at the Angel in Gilt-Spur-Street.
He stared at this, blankly, for a while, removing his cigarette from his mouth (looking around for an ashtray, but not finding one, so tapping off the ash on to the knee of his jeans and patting it into the fabric), then turned back to the inside leaf and picked up where hed left off:
The information enclosed isnt considered especially reliable, though. This book was written years after John Scogins death. Much of it will be based on either legend or hearsay (wouldve been considered tabloid, even at the time of its publication).
The actual story of his life (and a critique of Andrew Board, this books compiler, who seems like a rather dodgy characterphysician to Henry VIII, apparently) features in R.H. Hills Tales of the Jesters, 1934 (and I wouldnt have a clue what his sources were), but believe it or not the text was registered unavailable (read as some miserable bastard stole it).
The librarian in the Antiquarian Books Section (who was actually quite chatty) sent me to go and see some journalist called Tom Benson who happened to be in the library on that day and in possession of an associated text called A Nest of Ninnies by Robert Armin (Hes writing a book about comedy and is very interested in jesters, she said).
I tracked him down to the Music Section. He was a little hostile at first (you know how territorial these people can be), but after a brief conversation he admitted that he actually had his very own copy of Tales of the Jesters at home which hed found in a second-hand bookshop in Rye (this mightve just been sheer bravura on his part that whole journalists v academics hornets nest. Or maybe not).
The last section (in brackets) had been hurriedly crossed out.
Anyhow,
Kane continued reading:
I asked if I might borrow it some time (or even just make a copy of the relevant chapters) but he got a little prickly at this point and said he was still in the middle of using it, but that he would definitely call me when he was done (I gave him my number, although I wont be holding my breath). Then he told me some stuff over coffee (I bought the Madeira cake it was a little dry) which you might find interesting. Will inform you in person.
The quality of the copy is poor (at best). This is because it was reproduced from a microfile. But I think youll get the basic gist
W.
PS If you need anything else anything at all you know you can always reach me on my mobile
A number followed.
Kane cocked his head for a while as if deep in thought his eye returning, repeatedly, to the phrase I bought the Madeira cake it was a little dry, and then to the signature (W).
Eventually but somewhat hesitantly he moved on to the text, proper. W was right: the quality of the copy was very poor. And it was written in an ornate typescript (real migraine territory), which made the letters look like so many black ants dancing a woozy conga. After several minutes he succeeded in battling his way through The Prologue (his eye lingering, for a while, on a small rhyme at the bottom of the page):
I Have heard fay that Scogin did come of an honeft ftock, no kindred, and his friends did fet him to fchool at Oxford, where he did continue until the time he was made Mafter of Art,
where he made this jeft,
A Master of Art is not worth a fart,
Except he be in Schools,
A Batchelour of Law, is not worth a Straw,
Except he be among fools.
Kanes brows rose slightly. He closed the manuscript and reopened the envelope. He peered inside, then smiled and shoved in his hand, pulling out another (smaller) sheet of paper which he hadnt noticed there before. This was a receipt from The British Library, and detailed the costs of the photocopying. At the bottom of the receipt he observed with a small start the credit card details of one Winifred Shilling
I knew it
The fucking Madeira cake
Damn her
Why?
Kane jerked out of his reverie. Gaffar had twisted around on his chair and was now staring at him, quizzically.
Sorry?
Kane hurriedly shoved the manuscript and the receipt back into the envelope, licking the seal this time and pressing it shut.
A look of thunder, Gaffar exclaimed, helpfully providing both vocal (and visual) dramatisation of his words.
Oh Kanes face rapidly showcased a disparate mish-mash of emotions (Picassos cubist masterpiece Woman Crying seemed like traditional portraiture by comparison). He struggled to get a handle on the play of his features. Itsuhnothing, he almost ticked.
Okay. Gaffar nodded (registering Kanes inner turmoil, but taking it all with a pinch of salt: I mean, how hard could life be for this spoiled, flabby, Western pup?).
I lost something, Kane muttered, suddenly pulling himself to his feet (his hair falling across his face), thats all. He glanced around him (through the lank mop of his fringe), not entirely certain what he was searching for
Beede?
Is lid? Gaffar asked patiently, a small chipolata suspended delicately between his mouth and his bowl.
Pardon?
Lid? Gaffar indicated towards the Tupperware beaker on Beedes reading table.
Lid? Kane stared at the beaker, frowning.
Ah, fuck itEnglish, Gaffar murmured, turning back resignedly to his meal.
Kane placed the brown envelope onto Beedes reading table (next to the contentious item of Tupperware), carefully balanced his cigarette there its smouldering tip suspended over the carpet and then kneeled down to inspect his pile of books. If there was one thing he could be certain of: Beedes books would speak (a-hem) volumes
On top of the pile (and it was a large pile) was what Kane smilingly took to be a real Beede classic: Derek Johnsons Essex Curiosities; Hardback. 1973. He picked it up and opened to the front flap
Ah yes
A representative collection of the old, curious and interesting objects that abound in Essexfor all those who cherish the heritage of the past and wish to preserve it for the future.
Lovely
Kane put the book aside, with a grin.
Next up
Ha!
Victor Papaneks Design for the Real World.
Brilliant!
Inside flap:
Ta-dah!
A startling and constructive blueprint for human survival by a professional designer who accuses the Industrial design establishment of mass negligence.
(Oh God. The word establishment stuck into those two, accusing little inverted commasHow right! How po-faced! How deliciously sanctimonious! How typically fucking Beede.) Kane sniggered, furtively, then laid the volume down, almost fondly, turning for a brief moment to take a quick puff on his cigarette
Okay, okay
He deftly returned his cigarette to its former position
Soooo
Third in the pile, a very new-looking paperback called
What?!
The Yoga of Breath: A Step-by-step Guide to Pranayama by Richard Rosen.
No
Kane picked up the book and stared at it, scowling (as if the mere force of his disapproval and incomprehension might make it disappear. But it didnt. It remained a steady weight in his hand; a neat 3lb tome of ridiculously incongruous NewAge hokum).
He slowly shook his head as he flipped it over and speed-read the sales pitch
Blah blahlife energy
Blah blahself-transformation
Blah blahbreath and body awareness
Nuh-uh!
Beede? Reading a book about yoga? It made absolutely no sense (this strangely fashioned block simply wouldnt fit inside the box of traditional shapes Kane had painstakingly carved out for his father). He cast the book aside, hissing under his breath. It was a red herring. A blip. Some ditsy woman at work had loaned it to him or that damn chiropodist with her stupid verrucas
Hysterical?
Yeah
Ha bloody ha
The next book in the pile was larger and more traditional. Kane grabbed it
Oh yes
That was better: a thick, smart paperback (with illustrations) called A History of Private Life: Revelations of the Medieval World. He opened it, randomly, to a black and white reproduction of a small painting of a hairy youth (naked) from the fifteenth century, under which was written: The bear showed great affection for the child and suckled it for an entire year. Because of this feeding the child became as hairy as a wild beast and ate raw meat: Valentin et Orson.
For some arcane reason Kane felt strangely comforted by this caption (something however weird translated from Latin. That was him, that was Beede: obscure, marginal, bookish, inaccessible).
He sneered (feeling the comforting re-emergence of all his former prejudices), and turned back a few pages, his eye randomly settling on a small sub-heading entitled, The Frantic Search for the Father. He started, slapped the book shut, and threw it down.