xv
VEDA glared from eyes red-rimmed with lack of sleep as the train ground its way through the darkened sidings and junctions of various Northern stations - the low-ceilinged draughtiness of Leeds, the glorious vaulting of York, the spectacular Durham gorge with its towering cathedral and river ravine - until they pulled into
J A R R O W
which was old-fashioned in that couple-of-stained-steel-milk-churns-beside-an-old-wooden-push-cart-(or "barrow") with-long-handles kind of way. A weighing machine, all chrome and flaking maroon paint, stood by the entrance to the grimed-brick "Waiting Room", wherein no-one was waiting and probably had not waited since 1956. She peered at the glass and noticed, just over the legend
I SPEAK YOUR WEIGHT (6d.)
the reflection of a young boy, eleven, twelve years old, long-toothed and long-legged, scanty brown hair blowing in the slight breeze, brown cords, a brown satchel strap bisecting his royal blue quilted anorak from shoulder to hip. She turned sharply. The boy was writing carefully in a notebook. Oh God, she thought. A trainspotter.
"That's the 2305 logged in," said the boy, flipping the notebook shut. "We were told to expect you, Veda."
Her heart leapt. Who the hell knew she was here?
"We have arranged a room for you at the Junction Hotel." The boy scooped up her bag. "I shall take you to it." He squinted at her. "I'm Jerry. Jerry Jenneting."
She shook the ink-stained hand limply. "Jerry? Short for Jeremy?"
"God no!" he snorted. "Short for Jerboa, of course. What kind of idiotic, half-arsed name is Jeremy?"
Jerboa Jenneting, schoolboy,
is a mathematician of prodigious ability, an expert at eleven years old on Knot Theory and an avid collector of statistics. One of the aspects of this interest is his variation on the trainspotting theme. Jerboa Jenneting is not concerned merely with the acquisition of train numbers, but with matching train numbers against times of arrival and departure, points of destination and lengths of train by both conventional measurement and numbers of carriage. The purpose of this exercise is not wholly clear, but Jerboa himself has suggested that if he can establish an accurate and statistically cogent analytical basis for a study of Britain's railways in the early twenty-first century, much will become clear concerning the pattern of movement and migration and explain several of the darker undertones of knot theory. It might, of course, be equally likely that Jerboa likes trains.
Jerboa is a musician who plays clavicle, harpsichord and Javanese pipes, and is currently composing his grand opera on mathematical and metamathematical themes, "The Knot Theory Garden" for chamber orchestra, soloists and tam-tam.
Jerboa is the current Northern Intermediate Velcro Jumping Champion. He was a major force in the introduction and development within the region of Velcro-jumping, an exercise in which the participant covers him or herself with velcro strips and jumps at a wall, points being awarded for duration of stick and height of leap, and, because of his long legs, made a significant impact in the first challenge cup, earning the respect of many older and more experienced competitors, and several trophies.
Jerboa Jenneting has assisted in a number of research projects, often lending his mathematical and statistical abilities to the members of the team. One such project required Jerboa to hang suspended in his velcro suit for forty-two seconds and name as many of the French ships at the Battle of Trafalgar (1805) as he could.
(Pluton, Indomptable, Redoutable, Bucentaure, Achille, Intrépide, Formidable, Mont-Blanc, Duguay, Trouain, Scipion, Argonaute, Aigle, Algésiras, Fougeuxohohohhhh ... splat.
He omitted Héros, Berwick and Swiftsure. Mais c'est magnifique. It was suggested that, had he been asked to name the German ships at the Battle of Jutland of 1917 Jerboa Jenneting might have fared better.)
It is believed that Jerboa developed his extraordinary powers through his baptism in the River Juruá (a river 1900 km (1200 miles) in length which rises in East Central Peru and flows North East across NW Brazil to join the Amazon) in the rainforest, wherein his parents, keen botanists searching for the rare and wonderful Juru flower, (a large fern-like plant with vivid maroon and orange flowers), were killed and eaten by marauding jaguars.
Jerboa and Veda crossed a road glistening darkly with rain-water, dodged the fine and occasionally not so fine spray sent over them by the cars splashing past and ducked into the fire-warmed lobby of the C T
N I
U O
J N
H L
O E
T
ROOMS TO LET
PROP. MR AND MRS J. JAMBRES, LICENSED TO SELL INTOXICATING LIQUORS......
Veda signed her name in the register whilst Jerboa hovered at her elbow and Mrs Jambres, a colourless woman with broken ochre teeth and armpits stained with week-old sweat, reached up for a key and mumbled something about not having had a journalist here since the famous march was covered by the Daily Herald.
Jarrow, a port in NE England, Tyne and Wear: ruined monastery where the Venerable Bede lived and died; its unemployed marched on London in the 1930s; shipyards, oil installations, iron and steel works.
The bedroom was old-fashioned. The double bed was draped in a maroon candlewick bedspread with threadbare patches caused by years of rubbing, picking, washing and fraying. A white basin under the window was supported on spindly iron legs. A thin white towel hung from one of the connecting struts. Spider-web grey lines ran from the murky mysterious bluey-black of the plughole with its solid brassy grid to the black overflow gashed into the enamel. The mirror above it was pitted and pocked. A battered old wardrobe leaned against the wall on feet shaped into dragon's (or jabberwock's) claws. Veneer was peeling from the door. The key was missing, presumed lost, so the door swung open, revealing another mirror, the silvering dying from underexposure to light, and shelves labelled in black letters:
S O C K S
U N D E R G A R M E N T S
G E N T L E M E N ' S R E Q U I S I T E S
and allowing that familiar 'old wardrobe' odour to leak into the room.
A somewhat scabby sheepskin rug lay on the floor whilst over the bed was a cheap reproduction of a painting. It showed a group of people enjoying a feast. In the centre, an elderly man with a white beard and a crown was raising his glass over the head of a small child. She'd seen it before. Jacob Jordaens' The Bean King.
She removed a few things from her bag, a comb, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a mid-thigh length nightie, a relic of her student days, white with images of Winnie the Pooh sharing his honey with Christopher Robin and Eeyore the Donkey, Vitriol and Jealousy: Theatre, Writing and Rivalry in the English Renaissance and Giles Jankyn's plays, and returned to the lobby.
Dinner, Mrs Jambres informed her, was over but she was welcome to enjoy a plate of sandwiches. Ham? Cheese? Rosbif? Veda sensed that exotic foodstuffs here at the Junction would include such wild treats as piccalilli and mayonnaise and that consequently to ask for ciabatta with coronation chicken or a granary cob with avocado, tuna and sweetcorn or a pitta stuffed with spinach and ricotta might merely invite a drop of the jaw and a closer inspection of the Jambresian teeth. She settled for beef and was proudly presented with a quartet of limp white triangles from which spindles of green and white cress dangled. She peeled back a corner and peered inside. Wafer-thin meat pasted with horseradish and marge, the substances mixed in a creamy grey mush. Hnnh. She asked for a bottle of Golden Fleece and went to sit at a little round table next to the fire.
"So what brings you here?" asked Mrs Jambres.
"A little research," Veda replied, pulling a strand of washed out brown hair from under a beef leaf.
"Oh, well," said Mrs Jambres, as though that explained everything.
A glossy blue and white leaflet lay on the table.
JARROW FILM SOCIETY
Welcome to the new season of the Jarrow Film Society and a fascinating set of films for you to enjoy in the authentic surroundings o
f the Junction Cinema close to the railway station. The society meets on alternate Mondays at 8 p.m. Each film will be followed by a brief discussion. This season's programme will include the following films:
Le Jour Se Lève
France 1939 95m bw
Superbly atmospheric French thriller, written by Prevert, directed by Marcel Carné and starring Jean Gabin and Arletty, this film shows a murderer besieged by police in an attic room recalling his past life before shooting himself. aka Daybreak.
Jamaica Inn
GB 1939 107m bw
Directed by Alfred Hitchcock and based on Daphne Du Maurier's novel, this film stars Charles Laughton and Maureen O'Hara and is about smugglers in old Cornwall.
Jeux Interdites
France 1952 84m bw
Fascinating anti-war film which was hailed as a masterpiece in its time. A girl witnesses the killing of her refugee parents and goes to live with a peasant family. Directed by René Clement, it features Brigitte Fossey, Georges Poujouly and Amédée and won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film.
The Jungle Book
US 1967 78m Technicolor
Walt Disney's timeless cartoon version has some cracking songs
John Jay
US 1951 142m bw
Overlong Hollywood biopic of the eighteenth century American statesman who negotiated the 1794 treaty with Britain. Solid performances by James Stewart, Joan Crawford and S.Z. "Cuddles" Sakall.
Journey's End
GB/US 1930 120m bw
Based on Sherriff's play, this film shows personal tension and anxiety in the trenches in 1917. It is almost painfully English, with emotions strangled and probably meaningless to the wider world. Stiff upper lippery as the mud and blood fly.
Jezebel
US 1938 104m bw
Superb melodrama set before the US Civil War and featuring a southern belle stirring up trouble for the menfolk with her spiteful nature. Directed by William Wyler and featuring music by Max Steiner, the movie stars Henry Fonda and the incomparable Bette Davis, who won the Best Actress Oscar for her performance in spite of being given the role as compensation for failing to land the part of Scarlett O' Hara in Gone With The Wind.
"You won't have far to travel," said Mrs Jambres. "The cinema's in our basement. It's my husband's hobby. He's the Club President and senior projectionist." She bared her gums. "Though Jerboa helps when he feels inclined. He wanted to put Jabberwocky on the programme. You know? By Terry Gilliam?"
"But we couldn't organize the subtitles in time." Jerboa was back and settling himself into the threadbare cushioned seat opposite.
"Subtitles?" Veda swirled the foam round the inside of her beer glass.
"Eins, zwei! Eins, zwei! Und durch und durch
Sein vorpals Schwert zerschnifer-schnück!"
Jerboa quoted with a toothy grin.
Veda finished her drink and looked at the boy. "Did Jason send you to meet me?"
"Did you know there are 43, 756 sheepdogs in Wales?" said Jerboa. "28.5% of them are owned by farmers called Jones." He examined the grime beneath his fingernails. "A study is currently being undertaken by the Department of Statistical Studies at the University College Aberystwyth into the number of farmers called Jones whose first language and first name is Welsh."
A bluff, shiny-faced, square-shouldered man clad in a green cardigan bore down on them. A brown pipe was stuck in the centre of his letter box mouth, grey fumes curling ceilingwards past his Brylcreemed, black (and probably dyed) hair.
"Such a listing of typical Welsh names," Jerboa was saying, "Might include Aled, Arwel, Ieuan, Iestyn..."
"Jarrah Jambres," the man announced, extending a vice disguised as a hand.
"Owen, Gawain, Gareth"
"Delighted to have a journalist staying."
"Daffyd, Dewi, Roddy, Alwyn"
"Is it not time," Mr Jambres turned his pipe on the boy, "That you were in bed?"
"I was telling Veda about the Welsh name research project," Jerboa explained. "A recent survey conducted by St David's University College, Lampeter, revealed that some four and a half million daffodils were sold on St David's Day last year. This means that, per head of population..."
"You have a busy day tomorrow," Mr Jambres stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe. "Another competition."
Jerboa stood up and smiled toothily at Veda. "You will come to see me jump, won't you? At the Sports Centre."
"Sure." Veda felt a sudden wave of weariness washing over her. "Sure."
"G'night," chirped the child, and scampered upstairs.
Mr Jambres replaced Jerboa in the chair. "Jerry does well," the pipe chuffed. "It isn't easy growing up in a hotel - the transience of trade, the ebb and flow of people." A chuttering noise came from the pipe. "Still, he meets a lot of different people, and variety, as we know, is the spice and all that." This time the pipe gave a winnowing whimper. "Will you come to the Choral Society in the morning?"
Oh, God. The worst thing in the world. Amateur musicians pounding their way through Handel's Messiah. "I'd love to," she said, "But I promised Jerboa I'd go to his competition. I can't disappoint him."
"Oh, that's all right," said Mr Jambres, squeezing her thigh. "He's in the choir too. The rehearsal's in the morning, the competition in the afternoon. We can do both."
"I have my research," Veda said lamely. "PO Box 42..."
"Ah." The pipe gave a puff of triumph. "I know where that is. I'll drop you off on the way home."
Veda gave in and said goodnight.