I said I was happy where I was. He shut his notebook and bowed saying, “You are a true master. You have subdued your wishes to your surroundings.”
This angered me but I did not show it. There are better ways of living than being happy but they require strength and sanity. The poor and weak are as incapable of sanity as the rich and powerful. Sanity in this country would drive the weak to suicide and make the rich distinctly uncomfortable. We are better without it.
TALES DROLL & PLAUSIBLE
EUSTACE
FOR THE TORY AND LABOUR CREATORS OF MODERN BRITAIN
EDINBURGH 2012
YOUR ROYAL MAJESTIES AND HIGHNESSES; your Holinesses, Eminences, Graces and Reverences; distinguished Prime Ministers, Presidents and Premiers of these our United Nations; my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen! Never before in the history of Great Britain, and (here I repeat with peculiar emphasis) the history of Great Britain, have so many owed so much to one man, the modest individual at my side. Two weeks ago the whole population of our planet was threatened by the horror of an overwhelming social collapse. At the last moment his timely words and decisive action made that crisis seem less than the shadow of a cloud passing over a sunlit field. United in his genius we found the diplomatic skill of Knatchbull Hugeson, the hard smoothness of Scipio Todalini and the valorous marksmanship of Second Flight Lieutenant Wulfstan Tempest. I now call upon us all to drink a toast to our saviour and our friend, Eustace MacNulty.”
“Eustace MacNulty!” cry the vast assembly and the toast is drunk, followed by a storm of hand-clapping and foot-stamping. The guest of honour silences them by jumping up and saying eagerly, “Comrades, how can I follow that introduction with anything that will please or entertain you? It cannot be done. I am very ignorant! So ignorant that I have never before heard the names of the three national heroes just mentioned…”
These words provoke sympathetic laughter which is prolonged with many cries of “Hear! Hear!” when the Queen of England calls out, “Neither have I!”
“Worse still,” says the speaker desperately, “I cannot remember my own name, but it is certainly not Eustace MacNulty. And where are my trousers? Why am I naked? I have never appeared in public before without wearing at least a necktie.”
The speaker pauses, relieved to find he is clothed again and part of a queue in a familiar bank. At the counter he writes out a cheque to himself and places it in front of a teller who asks for proof of his identity.
“I have been coming to this bank for over thirty years,” the declares the customer, “and have never before been asked such a question. Surely the signature on my cheque proves my identity.”
Says the teller, “Not nowadays sir. We now need something to confirm it. Your driving license will do.”
“I have no driving licence. I have no car.”
“Then I need to see your passport or else two official documents addressed to you.”
“That is absurd! I do not normally walk about with such documents in my pockets. Do you? Does anyone?”
Someone behind him in the queue says, “Excuse me for butting in but perhaps I can help. I can vouch for this man. I know him well. Everyone should know him well because he is Scotland’s greatest living author, actor and architect. He is Eustace MacNulty.”
“ I am not! Not at all! This is my name — read it!” cries the writer of the cheque, holding it out for inspection. Then he notices that both his signature and the printed name beside it are Eustace MacNulty.
Again he finds himself naked, but in bed beside his quietly snoring wife. Switching on the bedside light he shakes her nearest shoulder until she opens her eyes and drowsily murmurs, “What’s wrong?”
“Margaret!” he pleads, “Margaret who am I? Please tell me my name.”
She says, “Shut up Eustace and let me sleep.”
“If you think I’m Eustace I must still be dreaming,” he whimpers.
“Then go on doing it,” she advises, turning her back to him.
WORKING WITH GIANTS
IN THAT WEEK WHEN ONE Scottish prime minister replaced another three people shared a table on an early morning train to London. A man and woman in the window seats were slightly younger than their companion reading The Financial Times. This so engrossed him that he gave no sign of hearing a word when, after nearly half an hour of silence, the younger man glimpsed machines digging a huge foundation pit and wondered aloud what the building would be.
“Probably another private hospital!” the woman across the table said bitterly.
“You disapprove of them?” he asked, smiling, and she replied with a torrent of words telling him, among other things, that she worked in a public hospital as a state-registered nurse. His sympathetic nods and murmured agreement encouraged her speech until it faltered, when he began supporting her main argument with so much detailed information about hospital funding that she asked if he too worked for the National Health Service.
“For nothing so useful,” he said with a sigh. “I’m afraid I only work with giants.”
She stared at him. He added apologetically, “I mean the big boys — the not very nice people in charge of British industry, or what remains of it.”
“Politicians?” she suggested.
“God no! Politicians thrive on T.V. and newspaper coverage and all the publicity they can get. Most folk in Britain don’t know the names of the big boys,”
“Why not?”
“Because they don’t read the…”
He nodded sideways to the paper in the hands of their companion. The nurse brooded on that till the man facing her said, “ You see, England is different from the USA. The Yanks know they’ve been ruled by billionaires for centuries. A lot of folk here won’t face the fact, hence the popularity of the Royal family.”
“So how do you work with your giants? What do they pay you to do?”
“They don’t pay me. I am usually paid (though not always) by companies or local politicians who want their support for some scheme or other. I’m what is called an entrepreneur — a middleman.”
“Why do they need you to ask for their support? Can the people who want support not just write or phone to ask for it?”
“They would get no useful answers that way. Business is too competitive nowadays. The giants avoid putting anything in writing, and phone calls can be bugged and recorded. Most are nowadays, I believe. Surveillance technology has made tremendous strides.”
“You make it sound very shady, very underhand.”
“It is. Getting a straight yes or no from a big man (I never meet more than one at a time) is almost impossible. If he smiles after I’ve explained my client’s proposition and says ‘That would be risky,’ the answer is probably no. If he frowns and says, “Of course it’s not for me to decide, but say they can try it if they think it will work,’ that probably means, Go ahead! Only if it goes pear-shaped will we leave you to the sharks.”
“Sharks?”
“Investigation committees, journalists, those kind of sharks.”
A loud speaker announced that the train was about to enter Euston station. The nurse said flatly, “And that’s how you earn your living?”
“Yes, quite a good living, I always please those I work with, but not always those I work for. It’s a balancing act.”