I write this foreword, not because I was asked
to, or after accepting payment, or promises of
such, but because this novel - still unwritten -
fills me with an excitement and anticipation
that far exceeds any book I have just read.
The author has however, told me, and me
only, the opening lines of this decidedly
brave - if slightly inscrutible - opus.
He has sworn me, Ms Beemad, to
quivering silence, on pain of
punishments almost too
exquisitely dreadful
to be legal.
I have -- however -- been been given a
slightly soiled promise.... that I shall
be allowed to stimulate the readers
in the post script, which will finish
the book... with its deserved end.
The Boy Who Lived Up A Tree
Chapter One: A Matter of Form
It was the best of times..... and the worst of times -
for plagiarists. He had recently won first prize in a
poetry competition, by copying a romantic poet.
He was 12, and lived in a tall elm tree. His name
was Graham.
He loved his tree, and felt uncomfortable about the English
ivy which hugged its length, stole its sap and... for all he
knew, might suffocate it entirely.. yet hid him now,
from prying eyes.
This was Summer -- a school holiday that lasted 24 weeks,
an eternity. Enough time for the older boys to go feral -
and exercise their secondary school bullying powers.
Graham didn't think or dream up here. He watched.
Saw bullies hammer nails into the smaller trees to
impress the girls as they skimmed up to attach a
rope to hold a stiff branch at its base --- to swing
the girls over a stream and gauge their screams.
When evenings came he would take up his seat
on the branch and swoop over the stream.
Nothing could harm him then.
Yet today - was different. A bully who had chased
him across the surrounding hillside twmps - had
come too close. Started peering up his tree, as
if to climb. Graham decided to scotch this.. as
fast as possible. He let loose a steady stream
of piss. The bully ran. Graham..... exalted.
Ten minutes later the walls of his safety
crashed in. The bully ...had snivelled.
Gone and complained to Graham's
father. So here they were.
''Come down'' his father said loudly.
A command. Graham descended.
He stood facing his father, the
bully boy to one side.
''This boy says you peed on him.
Is that true?''
Graham looked straight at his father.
This, was no time to lose. He lifted
his face and stared into his father
into his soul.
''Remember, dad, how you told me a
couple of weeks ago, how I could
never lie to you ------ because you
could always tell if I was lying?''
''I did not pee on this boy.''
His father turned.
''You heard what my boy said,
go away - and don't let me
catch you ever again!''
The bully boy's defeat was total.
Graham didn't loosen his grip by
crowing. Just walked with his
dad up to their house.
The year? 1963.
________________________________
Chapter Two: You rang, My Lady?
In the words of a song yet to be born, there was
no country, religion, possessions --- or heaven
and hell. Only imagining. Up, up in his tree,
Graham paused life itself.
These were a solution fit only for Graham. No
more punches in the face, just the soft rustle
of leaves. No nightmares or planned escape,
but peace.
In coed y melin, or in English, honey wood
--- now called Jews' wood by the locals ---
Graham sighed and stretched.
Above... summer clouds. Then --- a voice:
his mother calling. Time to eat.
No no no !
Bed after. Shared in a room with three of
his siblings. All snoring, wetting the bed.
Making his mother hate them. All boys.
His sister next door, mendacious.
His nightmares continuing.
The next day --- out down and free ---
then scrambling up to safety. And
so it went on.
Then there were books. Instead of
Sunday school - Tolstoy. Margaret
Mead, his mothers choice.. with
Greek smutty fables. Graham
cared only... to stretch.
Soft dark olive ivy leaves gave birth
to fruit clumps, small, dark, juicy.
Graham knew they were poison.
The elm tree was his guardian.
Finally.... junior school climaxed.
Exams loomed. Graham sent to
mug up. With a private tutor....
and a new friend, also there.
His mother, had pulled strings.
She saw Graham as a genius.
Not yet. But she would make
him one. Ambition grew in
her like the ivy's berries.
As her net closed, Graham's
nightmares warned him off.
A recurring, screaming dream
where a voice behind a bush,
called softly.. coaxed. Again
and again.. Graham neared
the bush - only to find not
his mother - but a hag.
He would - over and over -
run away for dear life.....
and wake up in his bed
drowning in urine and
tears of sweat.
Each word of sharp reproach
from his mother ----- cutting
his soul away.
''More of this - and I'll put
you in a baby's nappy!''
Next Chapter, folks,
on January 22nd.
