Gonzo answers the disaster by approaching the white ice-cream truck at the far gate, purchasing there a red, rocket-shaped ice with a sticky centre, and this he hands me with great solemnity. Ten minutes later, by the alchemy of sugar and artificial flavours and the security they represent, I have joined Gonzo’s incomprehensible game and am winning—though perhaps he is going easy on me—and my tears are dry and crusty on my smock. During a momentary ceasefire, Gonzo informs me that this afternoon I may come to his house and meet his father, who is wise beyond measure, and partake of his mother’s cooking, which is unequalled among mortal men, and even feed biscuits to the Lubitsch donkeys, whose coats are more glossy and whose eyes are more lambent than any other donkeys in all the wide world of donkey-kind. Ma Lubitsch, watching from a small distance, recognises by the instinctual knowledges of an expat Polish mother that her family has grown by one, and is not perturbed.
In her oven gloves and enveloping apron, Ma Lubitsch gazes through the French windows a bit longer, but Gonzo’s father is now chasing a single errant bee around the hives with the smoke gun. Political dissent among the bee houses is not permitted. Ma Lubitsch makes a seesaw turn, stepping from one foot to the other once, twice, three times to bring herself back to the table to dish up, swearing the while in muttered Polish. The infant Gonzo, mighty with filial affront, dashes out to rebuke and retrieve the Old Man; I follow more slowly, five years of age and cautious with brief experience; appearances deceive. Honest faces lie and big boats sink where small ones ride out the gale. But ask me how I know, and I will not be able to tell you.
“Ma says lunch,” Kid Gonzo says firmly. Old Man Lubitsch holds up a single gloved hand, a sinner lost to apiarism, requesting indulgence. The bee is on the flagstone in front of him, presumably coughing. It appears for a moment that Gonzo will stamp on it, rid himself of this impediment to family harmony, but his father is fast for all that his face looks like faded wool, or maybe it is just that Old Man Lubitsch understands the value of strategic positioning: he swoops, his body blocking Gonzo’s line of attack, and, lifting the bee in gentle fingers, he pops it into hive number three.
“Lunch,” Old Man Lubitsch agrees, and for a moment I believe he smiles at me.
We return to the house, but Gonzo’s mother is not mollified. Things are strained. They have been strained since before I arrived, since Gonzo’s older brother Marcus went to soldier, and neglected to duck on some forgotten corner of a foreign field that is forever Cricklewood Cove. Lunch is Ma Lubitsch’s small white witchery, her article of faith—if she can provide Gonzo with hearty nutrition and a solid, dependable centre, he will be well-fitted to the world. He will conquer, he will survive, he will feel no need to seek adventure. He will not leave her. For Ma Lubitsch, lunch defies death. Old Man Lubitsch, however, knows that sometimes, for reasons which are obscure even to bees, the hive must disgorge its children and see them set upon the wind. And so he prepares for the moment when this son either finds a queen and starts a family, or flies and flies until he cannot continue and falls to the dirt to become once again a part of the mossy meadow carpet all around.
Ma Lubitsch doesn’t speak to her husband during the meal. She doesn’t speak from the first potato to the last flake of chocolate icing, and she doesn’t speak over coffee, and she doesn’t speak as Gonzo removes himself to the creek to fish. It seems that she will never speak to him again, but when I return unannounced for a forgotten tackle box, I glimpse her, the enormous body racked with sobs, cradled in the arms of her tiny mate. Old Man Lubitsch is singing to her in the language of the old country, and his shadowed, sharp little eyes lay omertà upon me, dark and deep; these are secrets between men, boy, between the true men of the heart. I know it. I understand.
It is this image which comes to mind later whenever Gonzo is about to embark on some act of unconsidered heroism: a bird-like man in white overalls lending his strength to a shattered mountain.
Gonzo fishes. He catches two tiddlers of uncertain species, and throws them back when they appear unhappy. I never tell him what I have seen, and when I turn around, five years have passed.
GONZO LUBITSCH at ten: a ringmaster and a daredevil, he leads with the chin, gets back on the horse, hates rules and is the object of a thousand crushes. Lydia Copsen holds hands with him in public, making Gonzo the most envied boy in the region, though none of us is able to source our bitter disappointment, and collectively we put it down to the fact that Lydia’s mother is free with her sweet jar. Lydia is a tiny, imperious girl, proud owner of a selection of dresses with fruit patterns on them. She is also, it is clear to me from this distance, the daughter of Satan and the Wife of Bath. By turns haughty and adoring, Lydia dishes out featherlight kisses with an instinctive political acumen, and she deploys her ready access to confectionery to create a powerful and loyal clique of girls who yield secrets and obeisance to their mistress of the watermelon frock. At nine years of age, Lydia Copsen is somewhere between a tabloid editor and a Beverly Hills madam. Her admiration for Gonzo is matched only by her scorn for me, but Gonzo, loyal friend, will not ditch me, and thus I am gooseberry on their daily walks around the playground, and chaperone as he escorts her home. At Lydia’s insistence, I walk ten paces behind them, but here she scores her own goal, because my only wish is to be as far from the loving couple as possible.
It is around this time that I lose, absolutely, my faith in a merciful deity, through the agency of the headmistress of our school. Her real name is the Evangelist, and it is thus that God and his angels and Yahweh and his angels and Allah and his angels and all the other gods of the world and their angels, demons, avatars, servitors, minions and mugwumps know her, and it is thus that she is inscribed in the hundred lists of the living and the dead that they all carry around like so many celestial bookkeepers. She masquerades, however, as Mrs. Assumption Soames, of the Warren, Cricklewood Cove, where she is headmistress of the eponymous Soames School for the Children of Townsfolk. She is small and slim at an age which has never been disclosed, but any child with access to a Bible (and all children at the Soames School have plentiful, even overwhelming, access to Bibles) would confidently date her from the tenth chapter of the Book of Genesis as coming somewhere between Aram and Lud. It is rumoured among the brave and foolish who speculate on such matters that she may be as old as fifty. Mr. Soames, whose father’s father’s father founded the school, died sometime back of a marsh fever, and the tacit consensus among the parents is that it was with a considerable sense of relief. Mr. Brabasen even suggested that Mr. Soames’s sole intention in his frequent and prolonged fishing trips to the darkest and most pungent area of the Cricklewood Fens was to infect himself with said disease, a virulent virus which in 80 per cent of cases claimed either the victim’s hearing or his life, either sad outcome being, in Mr. Brabasen’s opinion, reason enough for Mr. Soames to seek it out.
If Assumption Soames’s nickname sounds sophisticated for our infant wit, the reason is that it originates among the teachers, a flea-bitten and secular motley of brilliant minds culled from institutions too prissy to put up with their foibles. To the Evangelist, these weaknesses are burdens given by Providence along with their gifts to test their metal. In accordance with the perfect wisdom of the divine plan, failure in these trials serves only to bring them into her healing and censorious arms so that they can teach her charges and atone and learn restraint. More than one of them has a nervous collapse during my time at school, and at least one of those surviving is heavily medicated purely as a result of Gonzo’s inventive deployment of a thirty-foot spool of number seven line, a plastic skull and a ragged horse blanket. For all this, they’re a solid lot, and despite the Evangelist they push the educational boat out further than they otherwise might. Mr. Clisp the gambler teaches us not only mathematics but also materialist ethics, setting logic puzzles on the board which appear to be value-neutral but which, when resolved, condemn the vituperative harridan in ringing tones. He also explains the rudiments of poker and t
he business of making book. Ms. Poynter (whose precise sin is whispered to involve negotiated services of a physical nature) includes in her biology classes a smattering of first aid and natural history, and also sexual education of increasing sophistication as the years pass, so that by the age of ten we can recite a list of erogenous zones and appreciate the difference between primary and secondary sexual characteristics in humans, and by the onset of puberty no one is in fear about the inevitable swellings and expulsions. Later, Ms. Poynter is temporarily relieved of duty by the Evangelist before the Board of Governors can object to her decision to teach a class on sexual technique to the girls and impart a stern lecture on mores and self-restraint to the boys (spiced with a brief but memorable digression on the theory and practice of cunnilingus). Mary Jane Poynter takes two weeks in Hawaii with Addison McTiegh, the PE teacher, and both of them return quieter and less twitchy and when the exam results come in with a near-perfect pass rate, the Evangelist elects not to fire her on the condition that no more parents are given cause to complain. The Board, who would for the most part have liked to see Ms. Poynter burned at some form of wooden upright, are too busy battling the Evangelist’s blazing determination to ban on religious grounds several of the texts students are required to study that year. Gulliver’s Travels survives the scissors, as does A Christmas Carol, but Modern Short Stories in English is consigned for ever to the forbidden zone. Sadly, it is so dull that not even this recommendation can make any of us read it more than once.
My loss of faith is sudden, and it’s not so much a conversion as a reappraisal. Children are still modelling the world, still understanding how it works; their convictions are malleable, like their bones. Thus, I experience no sudden horrible wrench as my belief is uprooted, but rather a feeling like the right pair of glasses being put in front of my face after some time wearing someone else’s. The Evangelist brings me to her study to tell me off for one of Gonzo’s outrages, and I sit waiting for a higher power to intervene and tell her that it isn’t my fault. I look upward, naturally, to the place above my hairline where adults come from, the place where, broadly speaking, heads can be found and persons in authority exert their will in the name of justice. There is no one there. It is unclear in my mind whether I am looking for God in person or a more earthly parent as his instrument, but neither appears. The Evangelist adds a charge of “rolling your eyes at me” to the sheet, and I spend a week in detention after school. Gonzo is mysteriously unwell for the period, with a vile sore throat which is probably infectious but doesn’t stifle his ability to loaf, and which Lydia Copsen also develops. They convalesce a great deal together, feet touching under the blanket as they sit at opposite ends of the sofa and choke abominably.
Spring becomes summer, summer becomes autumn, and Gonzo and his beloved part company over her inability to comprehend the importance of muddy walks and frantic leaf-kicking. She takes the opportunity to inform him that she went with him only to gain access to his parents’ donkeys, to which Gonzo responds that the donkeys loathe her, despise her silly hair and stupid upturned nose, and they have asked him, by means of sign language, to convey to her their deepest and most unalterable disdain for her opinions in all matters of consequence. Thus avenged, the wretched girl departing in a frozen fury, Gonzo retires to the riverbank and we fish in silence, and this time Gonzo catches a decent-sized trout with his new rod, although it is left to me to kill the creature and present it to Ma Lubitsch, who dutifully guts and cooks it for dinner. Though fortunately it is served alongside a more enjoyable dish of meatloaf.
Gonzo is not the only person with relationship issues. At Old Man Lubitsch’s insistence, we sit in Ma Lubitsch’s parlour one night in lone-some October, watching the world have something of a tizzy. Ma Lubitsch’s television is very much a curiosity—a wood-panelled thing with chunky buttons which whines and gutters alarmingly and occasionally overheats and has to have a rest. But on the screen, all the same, are more people than I have ever seen in one place, and half of them appear to be very pleased about something and the other half extremely cross, and neither side has a great deal of patience about it. Old Man Lubitsch explains that this is normal in what is called politics, which is essentially the business of countries and big groups of people trying to make everyone see things their way. Since no one ever does, very little is achieved and practitioners are voted out and others voted in who reverse the process, so government (as Old Man Lubitsch explains it) is not so much a journey as a series of emergency stops and arguments over which way up to hold the map.
What has happened today is therefore something of a shocker. An actual decision has been taken, in the face of all the odds, and it is one which absolutely no one saw coming. It is also, to use a technical term deployed by a chortling analyst, something of a corker. The island of Cuba, which is a long way away, has thrown off its communist rulers (who were in fact not communists but totalitarians—and here Old Man Lubitsch looks as if he may spit, but Ma Lubitsch gives him a totalitarian look of her own and he subsides) and has chosen a somewhat improbable route to enter the modern world. The people of Cuba have petitioned the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (which is not really a kingdom—that would be another form of totalitarianism) for admittance, and been accepted. The resulting entity is the United Island Kingdoms of Britain, Northern Ireland & Cuba Libré, and is already being referred to by the wits as Cubritannia.
As an introduction to politics, this is pretty much in at the deep end, but Old Man Lubitsch is well-informed and patient, and by the end of the night I understand that I have seen a historic thing and that the people of Cuba have opted to join a nation of shopkeepers because they want infrastructure (roads and sewers), freedom (not being beaten up for pulling faces at politicians) and a decent injection of cash and junk food (this is called standard of living). The people of Britain have accepted them because they relish the notion of an influx of well-trained, educated people of pleasing physical appearance who have rhythm, and because their national psyche needs somewhere to replace another island called Hong Kong which they apparently lost somehow and are still sulking about. Mostly, however, it seems they have accepted this arrangement because it has put the wind up the rest of the world, and that pleases them greatly. The people who seem most upset are elements of the global business community based in distant places like Johannesburg and New York and Toronto and Paris, who basically assumed that Cuba belonged to them, and was on lease to the communist totalitarians all this time.
This intelligence means very little to me, but Old Man Lubitsch insists that the time will come when I am glad to have seen it, and proud to remember it. And while Gonzo finds this unlikely, and sees in his mother’s eyes a deep patience with her husband’s folly, I believe it. The silent bristling heat of conviction is in Gonzo’s father, and it passes in some small measure to me. I carefully store Cubritannia away in my mind’s attic, and throw a blanket over it for good measure, and the next day is a Wednesday and our first lesson is history and the Evangelist puts her head around the door to tell Mr. Cremmel specifically not to talk about it, and she sits in to make sure. Mr. Cremmel dutifully teaches us about the Industrial Revolution instead, but he makes some kind of innocent error when it comes to homework, and the page references he gives us are for Cuba after all.
SNOW comes to Cricklewood Cove that winter. It is early December, and the temperature rises from below zero to a comfy one or two. There is a strange, crisp smell of pine and woodsmoke and something clear and different. A wide, low cloud settles over the cove and over the Lubitsch house and (thanks be to the God I no longer believe in) over the school. The cloud does not loom, nor does it threaten. It is warmer and deeper than a rain cloud and has a definitely benign feeling, and when it is finally ready it unburdens itself of a vast quantity of white flakes, which fall straight down. They are not the thick wet flakes of spring snow, which are sort of misplaced, like confused geese. They fall in an endless flow, small and dry and floating eve
nly and covering everything, and when they go down the back of your neck and chill your spine, they are still solid when they reach the waistband of your trousers. This is real, bona fide snow, come down from the high mountains and stabling the sheep and visiting the saloons, and raising a ruckus over a girl in little frilly trousers (the blizzards strand me inside and I discover the Western, and John Wayne is my hero for evermore, although a hero of admiration rather than emulation because he always ends up dead—Gonzo plays at being the Duke and lies dramatically and probably auto-erotically splayed upon the hall carpet, gasping out his last).
When the clouds clear, it does not get warmer. It gets much, much colder—cold to cause glaciation and kill mammoths and drive migrations in the Neanderthal men whose existence the Evangelist denies, thus inspiring a brief but frantic exploration of the library for malprinted or heretical Bibles and fierce debate about the nature of Esau. Children, bored and opinionated, are scholars of the most dogmatic stripe.
The alcohol thermometer in Gonzo’s garden cracks, and Old Man Lubitsch has to arrange a curious external heating system to preserve his bees, which he does using piles of compost which are in the grip of an exothermic reaction (although Gonzo’s father calls it an eczozermic ree-ekchon), which means that the process of decomposition is generating heat. Old Man Lubitsch carefully creates piles of warm rotting garden goo around his bee houses, and the smell is curiously pleasant and grassy rather than rotting and deliquescent, but Ma Lubitsch does not approve and mutters darkly about dratted bugs and how much honey can one eat in a lifetime anyway? But Old Man Lubitsch takes this in good part and hugs her—he actually gets his arms around her and lifts her off her feet—and she swats at him and demands to be put down before he does himself a harm. The Lubitsch house retains its unorthodox external heating arrangements (although Ma Lubitsch extracts a promise that they will be gone when the spring comes, so as to avoid any possibility of explosions). On the following Sunday, and for the first time ever, Megg Lake freezes over.