After I rendezvous with Gerald in Agde, he takes me to a small house where I am introduced to an elegant man in his eighties called John. Before talking business, I am invited to sit in the kitchen where Gerald is instructed to serve us all a glass of chilled red wine. It is a good antidote to the heat of an Agde summer. John is proud of, and keen to share, his recent discovery of keeping red wine in the fridge. He seems on friendly terms with Gerald who is enjoying his drink. They both enjoy each other’s company.
Too frail to accompany me to the garage, John leaves me alone to gauge his library, which consists, in the main, of the crime, thriller and spy genres. At a rough count, there are more than a thousand.
I return to the kitchen where he is more than happy to accept an offer of 3000 francs. ‘Is that too much?’ he asks. I find myself shaking my head. ‘No. No. It’s fair.’ What’s happening to my negotiating skills? Am I being hypnotised by a diplomat’s charm?
Gerald kindly helps me load this massive library of paperbacks into the Renault 5. It takes an age. John is amazed when we fit all the books in. Some spill over the gear stick and into the drivers’ footwell. Among the books is a sprinkling of classics, some being novels by Dickens whom, I am informed by John, the Russians revered. While based in Moscow, John learned that the Russians considered Charles Dickens to be a chronicler of the evils of capitalism. John is ready to reminisce further but I need to be making tracks.
Driving back to Montpellier I’m feeling good. Surrounded by so many books, it reminds me of the Ales’ haul; a sea of Deightons and Le Carres rising up from the seats to obscure the view out of the back window. I find it difficult to focus. Poetry can be a dangerous thing too, it’s distracting me from the business of driving. Out of the corner of my eye, I can make out early editions of Auden and T. S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets in pamphlet form. At the traffic lights, a quick rummage turns up The Poetics of Rilke, an early translation. I catch the bemused expressions on the faces of nearby motorists.
Fighting the urge to look further, I arrive home safely. After an hour of heavy labour, the books form a jumbled pile on the sitting room floor. I love the business of rooting through them; looking out for good reads (a subjective choice, obviously) and the rarities to be sold for a handsome profit.
Catching the eye is The Fantastiks, W. S. Scott’s selection of writers (Donne, Herbert, Crashaw, Vaughan) of metaphysical verse. Highlighted is the poem: ‘To his Mistris going to bed’.
It is a guilt-tinged pleasure to go through someone’s collection of books; a kind of invasion of privacy. There are dedications to, and from, wives and lovers and friends. School prizes for promising compositions. Going by the books’ contents and inscriptions within, a person’s life and their interests can be loosely pieced together.
John’s copy of The Scottish Songbook was presented to him at Harrow. There are references in other books to time spent in Cambridge as a student. His profile wouldn’t be out of place in the milieu of Kim Philby et al. Is this why Gerald had talked of spooks?
Pink Floyd at Domaine De Grammont, Montpellier, August 1994
We are on the outskirts of a park at dusk on the eastern side of Montpellier. Pink Floyd will be taking to the stage in about an hour. The crowd is making its way to the entrance of an open-air leisure centre.
Mum has come along to give moral support. Mixing with the ticket touts, we are attempting to shift ten copies of a book on Pink Floyd. A Penguin rep. has palmed off them on me as sure sellers, exploiting my enthusiasm for the band.
The books, published to coincide with the group’s The Division Bell Tour, have failed to sell in my shop; and the concert-goers are showing a singular lack of interest in them despite of my best efforts at impersonating a cockney wide boy. We slash our prices as my desperation shows but this seems to repel any potential buyers. The English touts aren’t having any more luck. The consensus among them is that the French find their activities an alien concept, that of fly by night transactions.
It’s a relief to give up upon hearing the strains of ‘Astronomy Domine’ that signal the concert’s start. ‘Lime and limpid green, a second scene. A fight between the blue you once knew. Floating down, the sound resounds…’
Going to our car, I make out the tune ‘Money’ from The Dark Side of the Moon, which was one the first albums I bought. The irony is not lost on me.
Teddington Lock, 1974
It writhes in agony and I let it take the line out towards the pillar in the middle of the river. It disappears from sight. Nobody would have known that beneath that placid surface a creature is swimming in great pain. We have been unable to extricate the hook from its throat.
Eddy calls for its execution. I agree, reeling in the eel. I have Eddy’s French flick knife at the ready. The sun is shining, but the blade doesn’t glisten. Eddy wedges the eel tight against a rock with his trainer. Then I take the knife and without hesitation shove the blade into the eel’s gill opening. The flesh is soft and cuts easily. But then the knife meets more resistance. By vigorously sawing, the eel’s throat is sliced apart. My hand slips off the knife’s handle, which remains projecting out from the eel. The rock turns crimson. Eddy watches on in morbid curiosity as I pull the knife free. The eel is still now. The wind has dropped. ‘Bloody hell,’ says Eddy. We take it to show Mike.
Out it flops with a heavy thud. The head of an eel bearing prominent blood orange eyes with coal black pupils. Rigor mortis has set in, jamming shut the beak-like mouth. The body of the eel is slow to emerge but its hugeness is quickly apparent. The stratification of colour became more distinct towards its tail; a greenish brown top which contrasts with an anaemic yellow underbelly.
We think the creature alien; an atavistic vision sliding out from a bag before our very eyes. Impeding a smooth exit are the eel’s pectoral fins which catch around the edges of the bag. Then it is fully exposed, more than three feet in length. The thickest part of its girth is the size of a man’s clenched fist.
Eddy is irritated to see me with a book in hand. It’s the Observer’s Book of Coarse Fishing. I soon find the eel in question. The common eel (Anguilla anguilla), but ours is uncommonly large.
Years later, I will buy other editions in considerably better condition. My edition as a boy would have tempted few buyers: Wheat, Peter. Illustrated by East, Baz. Frederick Warne. 1977. Observer book no. 59. 8 colour plates, 18 b/w photos. Damp marks to bottom edge of boards and badly torn wrapper missing pieces. Muddy fingerprints on most pages.
* The Observer books are collectible, especially those with high numbers. I recently sold the Observer’s Book on Paris (1st Edition 1982, Book is in v. good con., no inscriptions, marks or tears. Front and rear boards are bright and white and corners are sharp and square, spine is unfaded) for £70.