Episode 6: Ellah Wakatama and John Self
Our guests this week are Ellah Wakatama, chair of the Caine Prize for African writing and Editor-at-large for Canongate Books and the critic John Self, who writes about books on his own blog Asylum, as well a broad variety of newspapers and radio programmes.
If you would like the read the extracts discussed in this episode go to linebyline.substack.com.
Comments and feedback to @tds153 on Twitter. Line by Line is produced by Ben Tulloh with readings by Deli Segal. Music by Dee Yan-Key.
Extract One
Pear tree in garden pruned to look like fountain, sunshade perhaps. Graceful tent of leaves. Under this she sat. Bodice unbuttoned. Camisole unlaced. Child at breast.
Fretful crying, Did not speak; she and me. Eyes only. No explanations, names even. Child sucking, but crying also. A little rain began to fall; but not on us. Pear tree served as adequate shelter. Baby fell asleep. How long we sat there I don’t know. Half hour perhaps. Watched oyster-shell road darken in rain. Still no drops touched us. “I have more tears than milk,” she said. “I have more tears than milk. I’ve cried my breasts dry.” Carried sleeping baby, sheltered by head, shoulders from rain, back to soapbox in kitchen near stove. Took livery to station.
Have no wish to dwell on sordid matters, sorrows, etc. Bestiality of grief. Times in life when we can count only on brute will to live. Forget. Forget. (By this Leander meant to say that Clarissa was drowned in the Charles River that night.) Took cars to St. Botolphs next morning with old mother and poor Clarissa.
Overcast day. Not cold. Variable winds. South, southwest. Hearse at station. Few rubbernecks watching. Father Frisbee said the words. Old man then; old friend. Purple face. Skirts blowing in wind. Showed old-fashioned congress boots. Thick stockings. Family lot on hill above river. Water, hills, fields restore first taste of sense. Never marry again. Roof of old house visible in distance. Abode of rats, squirrels, porcupines. Haunted house for children. Wind slacked off in middle of prayer. Distant, electrical smell of rain. Sound amongst leaves; stubble. Hath but a short span, says Father Frisbee. Full of misery is he. Rain more eloquent, heartening and merciful. Oldest sound to reach porches of man’s ear.
Extract Two
Miss Wardle,’ said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, ‘forgive intrusion—short acquaintance—no time for ceremony—all discovered.’
‘Sir!’ said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle’s sanity.
‘Hush!’ said Mr. Jingle, in a stage-whisper—‘Large boy—dumpling face—round eyes—rascal!’ Here he shook his head expressively, and the spinster aunt trembled with agitation.
‘I presume you allude to Joseph, Sir?’ said the lady, making an effort to appear composed.
‘Yes, ma’am—damn that Joe!—treacherous dog, Joe—told the old lady—old lady furious—wild—raving—arbour—Tupman—kissing and hugging—all that sort of thing—eh, ma’am—eh?’
‘Mr. Jingle,’ said the spinster aunt, ‘if you come here, Sir, to insult me—’
‘Not at all—by no means,’ replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle—‘overheard the tale—came to warn you of your danger—tender my services—prevent the hubbub. Never mind—think it an insult—leave the room’—and he turned, as if to carry the threat into execution.
‘What shall I do!’ said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. ‘My brother will be furious.’
‘Of course he will,’ said Mr. Jingle pausing—‘outrageous.’
Oh, Mr. Jingle, what can I say!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt, in another flood of despair.
‘Say he dreamt it,’ replied Mr. Jingle coolly.
A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.
‘Pooh, pooh!—nothing more easy—blackguard boy—lovely woman—fat boy horsewhipped—you believed—end of the matter—all comfortable.’
Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill-timed discovery was delightful to the spinster’s feelings, or whether the hearing herself described as a ‘lovely woman’ softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle.
That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster aunt’s face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically, and suddenly withdrew them.
‘You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,’ said the lady, in a plaintive voice. ‘May I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into the cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start—‘removal! remove my unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing—who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the niece of the creature who—but no; he is my friend; I will not expose his vices. Miss Wardle—farewell!’ At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned towards the door.
Extract Three
Under the oleanders…I watched the hidden mountains and the mists drawn over their faces. It’s cool today; cool, calm and cloudy as an English summer. But a lovely place in any weather, however far I’ll travel I’ll never see a lovelier. The hurrican months are not so far away, I thought, and saw that tree strike its roots deeper, making it ready to fight the wind. Useless. If and when it comes they'll all go. Some of the royal palms stand (she told me). Stripped of their branches, like tall brown pillars, still they stand—defiant. Not for nothing are they called royal. The bamboos take an easier way, they bend to the earth and lie there, creaking, groaning, crying for mercy. The contemptuous wind passes, not caring for these abject things. (Let them live.) Howling, shrieking, laughing the wild blast passes.
But all that’s some months away. It’s an English summer now, so cool, so grey. Yet I think of my revenge and hurricanes. Words rush through my head (deeds too). Words. Pity is one of them. It gives me no rest.
Pity like a naked new-born babe striding the blast.
I read that long ago when I was young—I hate poets now and poetry. As I hate music which I loved once. Sing your songs, Rupert the Rine, but I'll not listen, though they tell me you've a sweet voice....
Pity. Is there none for me? Tied to a lunatic for life —a drunken lying lunatic—gone her mother's way.
‘She love you so much, so much. She thirsty for you. Love her a little like she say. It’s all that you can love— a little.’
Sneer to the last, Devil. Do you think that I don’t know? She thirsts for anyone—not for me... ‘
She'll loosen her black hair, and laugh and coax and flatter (a mad girl. She'll not care who she’s loving).
She'll moan and cry and give herself as no sane woman would—or could. Or could. Then lie so still, still as this cloudy day. A lunatic who always knows the time. But never does.