The Brightfount Diaries. Brian Aldiss

her, ‘provided we sell the books.’

      ‘That’s the spirit!’ said Mr B., overhearing. He called down the cellar to Rexine, who was helping old Mr Parsons unpack parcels, ‘You’d better order some more of those space books.’

      Mrs Callow suggested – but sotto voce – that by the trend of things we might be wiser to stock up on the ‘County Books’ and guide books in case some Venusians materialize. Could not help visualizing what a revolution in the book trade, as in other spheres, a peaceful interplanetary invasion would cause. We should have a spate of Venus in Pictures, and there would be Teach Yourself Venusian, Masterpieces of Venusian Art, and as for travel books … The imagination – what’s the exact word? – boggles.

      Despite this excitement, I still sat in the back of the shop cataloguing Bohns. Emergency or not, what Mr B. says goes. Our dumb office wench, Edith, came downstairs about four to collect Rexine’s post and said, ‘Cheer up, things aren’t as bad as you look.’

      Several American tourists about; most of them are interested in buying prints – to compare with the photos they take, I suppose. Last year we had a Baltimore man in who told us what a lovely old town we had; Gudgeon, flattered beneath a stolid exterior, embarked on a description of the local antiquities.

      ‘And one wall of St Mary’s church dates back to about 1570,’ he said proudly.

      ‘Gosh, is that really so?’ the visitor exclaimed. ‘A.D. or B.C.?’

      SATURDAY

      Swim before breakfast. Very cold.

      Always get odd people in shop on Saturday. Our ‘thief’ came in to-day – at least, we’ve suspected him for weeks but have never actually caught him. Everyone brightens up perceptibly when he comes in!

      Dave very cheerful, last day at work and his saucer books going briskly. As we closed, Rexine said to him, ‘You know I’ve ordered some more saucer books, don’t you?’

      ‘I know,’ Dave said, ‘but don’t forget I shall be away next week. You’ll have to carry on the job of writing fake letters to the Press or the sales may fall off.’

      Takes his job seriously, does Dave – when it suits him.

      SUNDAY

      Found self quite looking forward to seeing Cousin Derek and wife. Odd of me really, because relations are never very exciting.

      Got over to Graves St Giles earlier than usual. Derek and Myra were out in the car with Uncle Leo; apparently they are looking out for a house hereabouts, and Derek wants to motor to London every day.

      Asked what Myra’s sister was like.

      ‘I thought you’d ask that!’ says Aunt Anne coyly. ‘Sheila is a very charming girl, and about your age. She left here on Friday to stay with some friends in Kent, but she may be back here next Sunday when you come.’

      Inquired, not that I wanted to change the subject, after Uncle Leo.

      ‘He seems to have been a little steadier since Derek arrived. But I fear he is undergoing a very odd phase just at present, very odd. You know my dear, I’m forced to say it, your uncle’s not at all an easy person to live with.’

      She looked rather tearful, so I hurriedly asked what effect Lawrence had had on him.

      ‘Lawrence met your uncle when he was still at a very impressionable age. I’m sure he had a very profound effect on your uncle’s ego. Now I am very far from being anything in the nature of a psychoanalyst, and heaven knows I could hardly be said to be even connected with the world of literature – not as much, even, as you are, Peter. The only thing I have ever had published – and this detail may amuse you (even if you have heard it before) – was a knitting pattern. There used in my young days to be a monthly magazine called Lady and Domicile, defunct now, and they had this competition one Christmas … However, that was not what I was going to tell you.’

      Aunt Anne has great strength of mind. She looks searchingly over the rose garden, as if to collect the lost thread of her narrative, and says, ‘Lawrence had certain definite ideas about the human character, some of which were – and I say it without wishing to appear a prude – very unorthodox. He believed that every man should be an individual, and this deeply impressed your uncle. He is now trying to be an individual in the only way he knows: by being an eccentric.’

      Had curious sensation of revelation listening to this. Aunt is quiet little woman, rather like one of Smollett’s women, efficient, lively enough and without much depth. Now, sitting on the rustic seat listening to her, suddenly realized that all these years she had been watching Uncle Leo with acumen. Began, in fact, to feel nervous for Uncle, particularly if she had diagnosed wrongly.

      At this point the car came up the drive. Uncle introduced me to Derek and Myra. Myra was very elegant and pleasant; Derek seemed a bit hearty. I can just remember him as very small boy running round pretending he had swallowed a balloon, to the consternation of Aunt Anne.

      They drove me back here after tea.

      MONDAY

      Continued clearing out the Slaughterhouse. Miss Ellis and Gudgeon looked after the shop, but trade pretty slack; according to Gudgeon, only customer before eleven o’clock was a woman whose little girl required the nearest lavatory.

      Main object of attack in the Slaughterh. to-day was Mr B.’s so-called ‘reserve’ desk – so-called because its drawers are so crammed with rubbish it is no longer usable; he abandoned it long ago for the one upstairs. He had to supervise the turning out; we filled a sack with waste. Every drawer bung-full with old correspondence and catalogues. No system, of course. One drawer contained nothing but empty envelopes, addressed to ‘Gaspin’s’ or ‘Gaspin and Brightfount’, which dates them a bit!

      Other contents included loose chocolates, sealing-wax, a bottle of Vapex, early copies of Criterion, Blast and London Opinion, a mêlée of pencil stubs, two crushed cigars, an old pair of spectacles, some lino patterns, a photo of the shop, endless prospectusses and a box of pre-war cheese.

      ‘We really ought to present this lot to the museum,’ Mr B. said. ‘Ah well, fling it out.’

      The only things he did keep were some old rubber stamps and a faded photograph of Mrs Brightfount in a large, floppy hat.

      Was laughing about the collection later to Mrs Callow. Gudgeon overheard and said, ‘What’s funny about it? A collection of miscellaneous articles is man’s only defence against time.’

      He makes some odd remarks occasionally.

      TUESDAY

      After last week’s intensive campaign, interplanetary books are still selling well. The Green and Red Planet doing particularly nicely. Mrs Callow, leaning nonchalantly against the counter, informed me that she’d seen an announcement of the first book by a Martian pilot, entitled One of Our Saucers is Missing. Almost swallowed it.

      Supposing these beings from another world arrived. Imagine them as dry, detached intellects in a sponge-like body; they casually present man with the secret of anti-gravity. In the succeeding outburst of space travel and planetary exploration, what an orgy of – not adventure, as the rocket-writers predict – but learning would follow! The barriers of every science would be broken down: geology, physiology, astronomy, chemistry, biochemistry, agriculture … What oddities of planetary architecture, to take geology, Mercury might yield, its airless plains eroded by lead streams and undermined by lava seas.

      And biochemistry … in the great, gravity-less stations wheeling round the earth, white-coated men peer at their captive rats, rats conceived and born free of weight – rats the size of spaniels with brains accordingly enlarged.

      There would be work for the publishers then, and of making many books less end than ever. Some Unclassified Ganymedan Trypanosomes,