MEN OF GOOD VALUE
Christopher Priest
The writer and angle character of this story, although sharing the same name, are not the same, and ‘Men of Good Value’ should not be regarded as a first person story told in the third person. One is tempted to envisage academics of the future studiously engaged in literary research coming to conclusions about the writer Chris Priest based on evidence contained in this story on the character Chris Priest. The charm of this conceit would be well appreciated in a society where the media laboured so impartially with partial attitudes.
I stood near the edge of the cliff, adopting what I hoped would appear to a casual onlooker to be a literary posture. I had one foot braced against a low rock protruding from the turf, and the other leg straight behind me. My arms were folded and I frowned down intensely, watching the sea breaking white against the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. There was, as far as I knew, no one around, but in solitude one often imagines an unseen watcher and hopes to project an image of oneself for that person. I was intending by my stance to surround myself with an aura of profundity and creativity, dreaming unimaginable dreams while communing with nature. In fact, my feet were damp and I was feeling cold, and I was about to return to the village for a beer or two before lunch.
The coastline at this point was not spectacular in its beauty, but it had for me the merits of wildness and ruggedness. The only sign of habitation, provided I did not look back towards the village, was the coastguard’s look-out post, still flying its warning flag for the storm of the day before.
The loneliness suited me; I had come on an impulse to this village for a week’s winter holiday, responding to an overwhelming desire to get away from London long enough to remind myself that there were still parts of England that weren’t overcrowded. The summer tourist season was still several weeks away, and as far as I knew I was the only visitor at the moment.
The village was one I had discovered the previous summer. It was situated at the southernmost end of a rea—one of those uniquely Cornish river-mouths that are half-way between inlet and estuary—and was sheltered from the south-westerly winds by the bulk of cliff that lay between it and the sea.
On the opposite bank of the river was a small town; both communities were supported by a china-clay port a mile or two up-river. In London we would have referred to the village as a dormitory suburb of the town, for there was virtually nothing there apart from the houses, two pubs and a tiny hotel. All the usual services—banks, shops, post-office, a cinema—were in the town across the water. The only means of transport between the two was a small passenger-ferry which, weather permitting, crossed at twenty-minute intervals all through the day. Further up the river, near the china-clay depot, there was a car-ferry, but to reach it from the village entailed, because of the many inlets and hills around, a drive across-country of some four or five miles.
I enjoyed living in the village, if only temporarily. It was genuinely isolated, and although it was in no way picturesque or Cornish-cute, it had a distinctly amenable atmosphere. Furthermore, unlike other parts of the West Country it was a thriving community in its own right; the port was always busy, and people lived and worked here.
Done with my literary posturing for the day, I walked back over the crest of the hill, and went down through the narrow streets towards the pub by the quay.
As I reached the bottom of the hill, where there is a steep, curving approach to the quayside, a man of about my own age came down the hill from the opposite direction. I guessed immediately that he was not a local man; his clothes and his hair were as out of place as mine. As he walked towards me our glances met briefly, and for a moment there was that indefinable sense of recognition that occasionally passes between strangers. We both turned towards the quay, and I surmized that we had seen in each other’s appearance the ineradicable mark of London living, and only that.
However, after a few more seconds he came over to me.
‘I know you,’ he said. ‘We’ve met before.’
I stared at him for a moment. His face was not unfamiliar.
‘You’re... in television, aren’t you?’ I said.
‘That’s it. Frank. Frank Mattinson.’ He extended his hand, and we shook warmly. His name still meant nothing to me, and clearly he did not know mine. ‘You’re ... let me see. Don’t tell me. Science fiction ... something to do with that?’
That’s right. I’m a writer.’
‘Clive! Clive ...’
‘Chris Priest,’ I said.
‘Chris! Of course. What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Just a holiday,’ I said.
‘Perfect!’
We walked on down towards the quay.
As we spoke, my memory had placed him. About three years before, Frank Mattinson had telephoned me. He had obtained my phone number from my publishers, and was trying to put together an item about SF for one of the late-night current-affairs programmes. As I was the only person he could locate, he wanted me to ring round to everyone I could think of and muster support and provide him with a studioful of SF-writers debating something or other. This I’d done—there’d been a small research-fee offered—and eventually an interview had been taped. It was never broadcast as far as I know, and that had been an end to it. I’d met Frank just once at that time, and the only thing I could now remember about him was that he had bought me a salad in the studio canteen at Hammersmith.
‘I was just going for a drink,’ I said, nodding towards The Lugger.
‘Let me get you one.’
Inside it was warm and stuffy. I found an empty table near the fire, and in a moment Frank came over with two pints of bitter and two pasties.
‘Stroke of luck meeting you here,’ he said. ‘You’re just the man we want.’
‘How’s that?’I said.
‘Never forgotten that science fiction programme. Good value. One of the best we ever did. Like to do some more of that. Listen, I read one of your books recently.’
‘Oh yes?’ I said, having followed the cause-and-effect of his words with considerable interest. Dramatization offer coming up?
‘Always have been a sci-fi fan myself. Can’t get enough of it. You say you’re on holiday down here?’
‘Just a short break,’ I said, disappointed with the way the conversation had suddenly changed direction again. ‘I needed some fresh air.’
‘You wouldn’t give us a few minutes of your time, and let us film you?’
‘Doing what?’ I said.
‘Just answering a few questions. We’re filming in the town. Stroke of luck meeting you.’
‘I’ve never been on television,’ I said uncertainly. ‘I’m not sure I’d have anything to say. Is the programme about SF?’
‘About what?’
‘Science fiction.’
‘Oh ... of course not. It’s a documentary about tourism.’
I said: ‘I can’t honestly think I’d have anything to say about that...’
‘You’ll think of something. You’ve got opinions, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘You’re ideal. Lots of personality, a solid reputation, local figure.’
‘Frank, I don’t live here.’
‘Never mind. You’re here and we can use you. Good value, sci-fi. All bloody locals down here, don’t speak a word of English. Drink up. We’re shooting this afternoon.’
My pasty was going cold, so I diverted my attention to this instead. Meanwhile, Frank continued with his appraisal of my abilities.
‘We need someone articulate,’ he said. ‘Can’t do much with the locals. Anyway, they all live here. We want the opinion of someone who can see the place objectively. A typical tourist, if you like. We were planning to stop one of the grockle cars coming off the car-ferry, but you’re much better. Famous sci-fi writer, and all that.’